Foreign Body

Prologue

October 15, 2007

Monday, 7:00 p.m.

Delhi, India

Only those long-term residents of Delhi who were extraordinarily sensitive to the vicissitudes of the city’s traffic patterns could tell that rush hour had peaked and was now on the downward slope. The cacophony of horns, sirens, and screeches seemed undiminished to the tortured, untrained ear. The crush appeared unabated. There were gaudily painted trucks; buses with as many riders clinging precariously to the outside and on the roof as were inside; autos, ranging from hulking Mercedes to diminutive Marutis; throngs of black-and-yellow taxis; auto rickshaws; various motorcycles and scooters, many carrying entire families; and swarms of black, aged bicycles. Thousands of pedestrians wove in and out of the stop-and-go traffic, while hordes of dirty children dressed in rags thrust soiled hands into open windows in search of a few coins. Cows, dogs, and packs of wild monkeys wandered through the streets. Over all hung a smothering blanket of dust, smog, and general haze.

For Basant Chandra, it was a typically frustrating evening commute in the city that he had lived in for his entire forty-seven years. With a population of more than fourteen million, traffic had to be tolerated, and Basant, like everyone else, had learned to cope. On this particular night he was even more tolerant than usual since he was relaxed and content from having stopped for a visit with his favorite call girl, Kaumudi.

In general, Basant was a lazy, angry, and violent man who felt cheated in this life. Growing up in an upper-caste Kshatriya family, he felt his parents had married him down with a Vaishya woman, despite his father’s obtaining a management position at the in-laws’ pharmaceutical firm as part of the union, while he was afforded a particularly well-paying sales manager position in place of his previous job selling Tata-brand trucks. The final blow to Basant’s self-esteem came with his children, five girls, aged twenty-two, sixteen, twelve, nine, and six. There had been one boy, but his wife had miscarried at five months, for which Basant openly blamed her. In his mind, she’d done it on purpose by overworking as a harried medical doctor, practicing internal medicine at a public hospital. He could remember the day as if it were yesterday. He could have killed her.

With such thoughts in mind, Basant pounded his steering wheel in frustration as he glided into the reserved parking slot in front of his parents’ house, where he and his family lived. It was a soiled three-story concrete structure that had been painted white at some indeterminate time in the past. The roof was flat and the window frames metal. On the first floor was a small office where his wife, Meeta, occasionally saw her few private patients. The rest of the first floor housed his aging parents. Basant and his family occupied the second floor, and his younger brother, Tapasbrati, and his family were on the third.

As Basant was critically eyeing his house, which was hardly the style that he expected to be living in at this stage of his life, he became aware of a car pulling up behind him, blocking him in. Gazing in the rearview mirror, he had to squint against the car’s headlights. All he could make out through the hazy glare was a Mercedes emblem.

“What the hell?” Basant spat. No one was supposed to park behind him.

He opened his door and climbed from the car with full intention of walking back and giving the Mercedes’s driver a piece of his mind. But he didn’t have to. The driver and his two passengers had already alighted and were approaching ominously.

“Basant Chandra?” the passenger in the lead questioned. He wasn’t a big man, but he conveyed an indisputable aura of malevolent authority with his dark complexion, spiked hair, a bad-boy black leather motorcycle jacket over a tight white T-shirt, exposing a powerful, athletic body. Almost as intimidating was the driver. He was huge.

Basant took a reflexive step back as alarm bells began to sound inside his head. This was no chance meeting. “This is private property,” Basant said, trying to sound confident, which he clearly wasn’t.

“That’s not the question,” the man in the motorcycle jacket said. “The question is: Are you the piece of donkey crap called Basant Chandra?”

Basant swallowed with some difficulty. His internal alarms were now clanging with the utmost urgency. Maybe he shouldn’t have hit the hooker quite so hard. He looked from the Sikh driver to the second passenger, who’d proceeded to pull a gun from his jacket pocket. “I’m Basant Chandra,” Basant managed. His voice squeaked, almost unrecognizable to himself. “What’s the problem?”

“You’re the problem,” the man in the motorcycle jacket said. He pointed over his shoulder. “Get in the car. We’ve been hired to talk some sense into you. We’re going for a little ride.”

“I... I... I can’t go anyplace. My family is waiting for me.”

“Oh, sure!” the apparent leader of the group said with a short, cynical laugh. “That’s exactly what we have to talk about. Get in the car before Subrata here loses control and shoots you, which I know he’d prefer to do.”

Basant was now visibly trembling. He desperately looked from one threatening face to the other, then down to the gun in Subrata’s hand.

“Should I shoot him, Sachin?” Subrata asked, raising his silenced automatic pistol.

“See what I mean?” Sachin questioned, spreading his hands palms up. “Are you going to get into the car or what?”

Wanting to flee off into the darkness but terrified to do so lest he be shot in the back, Basant forced himself forward, wondering if he should run out into the middle of the congested street. Unable to make up his near-paralyzed mind, he found himself at the black Mercedes, where Subrata opened the passenger-side rear door with his free hand. Subrata forced Basant’s head down and his torso into the car before walking around and climbing in on the other side. He was still holding on to his gun and made certain Basant saw that he was.

Without another word, Sachin and the driver climbed into the front seat. The car pulled out into the street as fast as the congested traffic would allow.

“To the dump?” the driver asked.

“To the dump, Suresh,” Sachin agreed.

Acutely aware of the firearm, Basant at first was too terrified to say anything at all, but after ten minutes he was more afraid of not saying anything. His voice wavered at first but then gained some semblance of strength. “What is this all about?” he questioned. “Where are you taking me and why?”

“We’re taking you to the dump,” Sachin said, turning around. “It’s where we all agreed you belonged.”

“I don’t understand,” Basant blurted. “I don’t know you people.”

“That’s going to change, starting tonight.”

Basant felt a modicum of hope. Not that he was happy about the prospect, but Sachin was suggesting a long-term relationship, meaning they weren’t going to shoot him. As a drug-sales manager, it crossed his mind that these people might be interested in some kind of drugs. The problem was that Basant had access only to drugs his in-laws’ firm made, which were mostly antibiotics, and this kind of shakedown for antibiotics seemed extreme.

“Is there some way I can help you people?” Basant asked hopefully.

“Oh, yeah! For sure!” Sachin responded without elaborating.

They drove in silence for a while. Finally, Basant spoke up. “If you would just tell me, I’ll be happy to help in any way I can.”

Sachin swung around and glared at Basant for a beat but didn’t speak. Any slight diminution of Basant’s encompassing panic evaporated. His trembling returned with a vengeance. His intuition assured him this was not going to end well. When the driver braked to a crawl behind one bullock cart passing another, Basant considered opening the car door, leaping out, and sprinting off into the dark, dusty haze. A glance into Subrata’s lap at the nestled gun resulted in a quick response.

“Don’t even think about it,” Subrata said, as if reading Basant’s mind.

They turned off the main road after another fifteen minutes and headed into the enormous landfill.Through the windows they could see small fires with flames licking up through the mounds of trash, sending spirals of smoke up into the sky. Children could be seen scampering over the debris, looking for food or anything of even questionable value. Rats the size of large rabbits were caught in the headlights as they scurried across the roadway.

Pulling up between several story-high piles of garbage, the driver made a three-point turn to direct the car back toward the way they’d come. He left the motor running. All three of the toughs climbed out. The driver opened the door for Basant. When Basant didn’t respond, the driver reached in and, grabbing a handful of his kurta, dragged him stumbling from the car. Basant couldn’t help choking from the smoke and stench. Without letting him go, the driver continued to drag him into the illumination provided by the headlights, where he released him roughly. Basant did all he could do to stay on his feet.

Sachin, who was pulling a heavy glove on his right hand, walked up to Basant and, before Basant could react, punched him viciously in the face, sending him stumbling backward, losing his balance, and falling into the fetid garbage. With his ears ringing and blood dripping from his nose, he rolled over onto his stomach and tried to get up, but his hands sank into the loose trash. At the same time he felt broken glass cut into the flesh of his left arm. He was yanked by the ankle from the soft garbage out onto the firmly packed truck track. He was then forcibly kicked in the stomach, causing him to lose his wind in the process.

It took Basant several minutes to catch his breath. When he had, Sachin reached down and grabbed the front of his kurta and yanked him to a sitting position. Basant raised his arms in an attempt to try to shield his face from another blow, but the blow didn’t materialize. Hesitantly, he opened his eyes, looking up into the cruel face of his attacker.

“Now that I have your attention,” Sachin snarled, “I want to tell you a few things. We know about you and what kind of piece of shit you are. We know what you’ve been doing to your oldest daughter, Veena, since she was six. We know you’ve been keeping her in line by threatening to do the same to her four younger sisters. And we know what you’ve been doing to her mother.”

“I’ve never—” Basant began but was interrupted by a vicious slap to the face.

“Don’t even try to deny it, you bastard, or I’ll beat you to a pulp and leave you here for the rats and the wild dogs to eat.”

Sachin glared down at the cowering Basant before continuing. “This isn’t some kind of trial. We know what I’m saying is the truth, you slimy bastard. And I’m going to tell you something. This is a warning! If you ever touch one of your daughters inappropriately or your wife in anger, we will kill you. It’s that simple. We’ve been hired to do it, and knowing what I do about you, I’d just as soon do it and get it over with. So I actually hope you give me the excuse. But that’s the message. Any questions? I want to be certain you understand.”

Basant nodded. A glimmer of hope appeared in his terrified mind. This current nightmare was only a warning.

Sachin unexpectedly slapped Basant once more, sending the man onto his back, his ears ringing and his nose rebleeding.

Without another word, Sachin took off his leather glove, glared down at Basant for a beat, waved for his companions to follow, and returned to the black Mercedes.

Sitting up with a sense of utter relief when he realized he was being left, Basant proceeded to get to his feet. A moment later he had to leap back into the loose trash and out of the way as the large sedan surged toward him, missing him by inches. Basant stared after the goons’ car while the red taillights receded into the smoke and haze. Only then did he become truly aware of the darkness and stench surrounding him, and the facts that his nose and arm were bleeding, that he’d gathered a small audience of silent, staring landfill urchins, and that the rats were inching closer. With sudden new fear and revulsion, Basant struggled back onto his feet, extricated himself from the soft trash and regained the firmness of the track, all the while grimacing from the pain in his side from the kick he’d suffered. Although it was very difficult to see, because of the moonless night, he hurried forward, hands outstretched like a blind man. He had a long way to walk before reaching a road that would have transportation. It wasn’t pleasant and was definitely scary, but at least he was alive.

On a busy business street, wedged between typical, three-storied, reinforced-concrete commercial buildings whose façades were almost completely covered by signs in both Hindi and English, stood the starkly modern five-story Queen Victoria Hospital. In sharp contrast to its neighbors, it was constructed of amber-mirrored glass and green marble. Named after the beloved nineteenth-century British monarch to appeal to the modern medical tourist as well as the rapidly expanding Indian upper middle class, the hospital was a beacon of modernity thrust into the center of India’s timelessness. Also in contrast to its neighboring plethora of small businesses, which were, for the most part, still open, busy, and casting harsh blue-white fluorescent light into the street, the hospital looked bedded down for the night, with little of its soft, interior illumination penetrating the tinted glass.

Except for two tall, traditionally costumed Sikh doormen standing at either side of the entrance, the hospital could have been closed. Inside the day was clearly winding down. As a tertiary hospital with no real emergency department, the Queen Victoria handled only scheduled elective surgery, not emergencies. The soiled dinner dishes had long since been picked up, washed, and hidden away in their cupboards, and most of the visitors were gone. Nurses were handing out evening medications, dealing with drains and dressings from the day’s surgeries, or sitting within bright cones of light at nurses’ stations to finish up their computerized charting duties.

After a hectic day involving thirty-seven major surgeries, it was a relaxed and quiet time for everyone, including the one hundred and seventeen patients: everyone, that is, except Veena Chandra. While her father was trudging out of the rank, loathsome landfill, Veena was struggling in the half-light of an anesthesia room in the empty operating-room suite, where the only light was filtering in from the dimmed central corridor. Veena was attempting with trembling fingers to stick the needle of a 10cc syringe into the rubber top of a vial of succinylcholine, a rapidly paralyzing drug related to the curare of Amazonian poison dart fame. Normally, she could fill such a syringe with ease. Veena was a nurse, having graduated from the famous public hospital the All India Institute of Health Sciences almost three months ago. Following graduation she’d been hired by an American firm called Nurses International, which had, in turn, hired her out to the Queen Victoria Hospital after providing her with some specialized training.

Not wishing to stick herself with the needle, which could prove deadly, Veena lowered her arms for a moment and tried to relax. She was a ball of nerves. She truly didn’t know if she was going to be able to do what she’d been tasked with and had agreed to do. It seemed incredible that she’d been talked into it. She was supposed to fill the syringe, take it down to Maria Hernandez’s room, where the woman was hoped to be sleeping off the anesthesia from the hip-replacement surgery she’d had that morning, inject it into her IV, and then beat a rapid retreat, all without being seen by anyone. Veena knew that not being seen by anyone on a nearly full hospital floor was highly unlikely, which was why she was still dressed in her traditional white nursing uniform she’d had on all day. The hope was that if someone did see her, they wouldn’t think it odd she was in the hospital even though she worked days, not evenings.

To help her calm down, Veena closed her eyes, and the moment she did so she was instantly transported back four months to the last time her father threatened her. They were at home, his parents in the living room, her mom at the hospital, and her sisters out indulging in Saturday-afternoon activities with friends. Totally unexpectedly, he had cornered her in the bathroom. While the television blared in the next room, he began shouting, then cursing at her. He was very clever in how he hit her, never leaving a mark on her face. His rage was unexpectedly volcanic, and it was all Veena could do not to cry out. Since it hadn’t happened for more than a year, Veena had assumed that the problem was over. But now she knew for sure it would never be over. The only way to escape her father’s clutches was for her to leave India. Yet she feared for her sisters. She knew he was unable to control his urges. If she left, he would undoubtedly single out one of her sisters and start anew, and that she could not abide.

The sudden crash of metal against the composite floor brought Veena back to the present, her heart skipping a beat. Feverishly, she stashed the vial and syringe in a drawer packed with IV needles. Suddenly, the bright lights came on in the main corridor of the OR. With her pulse pounding, Veena went to the small wired-glass window and glanced out. Within the darkened anesthesia room, she was confident she would not be visible. To the right she saw that the main doors to the outer hall were momentarily propped open. A second later two members of the janitorial crew appeared, wearing hospital scrubs. Both men carried mops. They picked up the empty buckets they’d dropped moments before and started down the corridor, passing within feet of Veena.

Relieved to a degree that it was only a cleaning crew, Veena turned back into the room and retrieved the vial and syringe. She was now more nervous than she’d been just moments earlier. The unexpected arrival of the janitors reminded her how easy it would be for her to be caught in the OR, and if she was caught, how hard it would be to come up with an explanation of what she was doing there. With her trembling even worse, she persisted and managed to guide the needle into the vial. Exerting negative pressure, she filled the syringe to the level she’d predetermined. She wanted a good dose, but not too big.

Veena’s short, unpleasant reverie had reminded her with painful clarity why she had to do what she’d been tasked with. She’d agreed to put to sleep an aged American woman with a history of heart problems in return for a guarantee from her employer that her mother and her sisters would be protected into the foreseeable future from her abusing father. It had been a difficult choice for Veena, made impulsively with the idea that it would be the only opportunity she would have to obtain any kind of freedom, not only for herself but also for eleven of her friends, who had all joined Nurses International at the same time.

Putting away the vial and throwing away the packaging from the syringe, Veena walked toward the door. If she was going to go through with the plan, she had to concentrate and be careful. Above all, she had to try to avoid being seen, especially near her victim’s room. If she happened to be confronted in any other part of the hospital, she would explain that she’d returned that evening to use the library facility to study Maria Hernandez’s condition.

Veena cracked the door and slowly eased it open to get her head out to see up and down the corridor. Presently, several of the cleaning people could be seen chatting and mopping. As they had started at the very end and were working toward the doors, their backs were conveniently turned in Veena’s direction. Stepping into the corridor, Veena let the door close gently before silently heading out of the OR area. Just before she let the main entrance doors swing shut, she glanced back at the cleaning crew. She felt palpable relief. They were oblivious to her presence.

Forgoing the elevator lest she not only run into someone but be forced to converse, Veena used the stairwell to descend to the fourth floor. There she again cracked the door before gazing the length of the dimmed corridor in both directions. No one was in view, even at the nurses’ station, which was by contrast an oasis of bright light in the center of the floor. Apparently, the nurses were out in the rooms attending to their charges. Veena hoped no one would be in Maria Hernandez’s room, which was in the opposite direction. From where she was in the stairwell, it was on the right, three doors down. All she could hear were muted sounds from multiple TVs and distant beeping from the nearby monitors.

To gather her resolve, Veena let the door slip shut while she closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the concrete block of the stairwell. Step by step, she went over what she was about to do to avoid any possible errors, thinking back to how she had reached this unimaginable point in her life. Everything had fallen into place this afternoon, as she returned to the bungalow after work. She and the other eleven nurses hired by Nurses International were required to live at what sounded like a small cabin in American English but was in reality an enormous British Raj-era mansion. They lived there in luxury along with the Nurses International four-person administration. Yet coming through the front door she had felt her pulse quicken and her muscles tense just like she always did. Veena had to be constantly on guard.

As an acculturated Hindu woman, Veena recognized she had a powerful inclination to bow to male authority. When she joined Nurses International, mainly for their promised help in her goal of emigrating to America, she naturally treated Cal Morgan, the head of the organization, as she was expected to treat her own father. Unfortunately, this natural response was not without problems. As a typical thirty-two-year-old American male, Cal interpreted Veena’s culturally motivated attention and respect as a come-on, which created numerous episodes of misunderstanding. The situation was difficult for both of them and persisted because of a continued lack of communication. Veena feared compromising her chances of Nurses International giving her her freedom by helping her emigrate, and Cal feared losing her because she was their best employee and the leader among the others.

That afternoon, like all workday afternoons, once inside the mansion and despite the tension between them, Veena sought out Cal in the paneled library, which he had commandeered as his office. At the end of each shift the nurses were required to report to one of the four principals of the firm, President Cal Morgan, Vice President Petra Danderoff, Computer Head Durell Williams, or Psychologist Santana Ramos, whichever individual had hired the nurse in question. Veena had to report to Cal because she had been his hireling some two months earlier, when the company was being formed. Each day Veena and the others were tasked, in addition to their normal nursing duties, to surreptitiously download reams of patient data from the central computers of the six private hospitals where they’d been hired out and bring it back and report it to their assigned administrator. During their month of U.S. training, they had been specifically instructed in this activity. As an explanation, they had been told that one of the primary functions of Nurses International was to obtain surgical outcome data. Why the company was interested in such data had not been explained, and no one particularly cared. The complicated, clandestine effort seemed a small price to pay to be already compensated with American nurse salaries, which were ten times what their Indian coworkers were being paid, and, more important, to be given the promise of being relocated to America after six months.

Already tense as usual, when Veena had walked into Cal’s office that afternoon, he had magnified her anxiety by ordering her to close the door behind her and sit down on the couch. Fearful of another seduction scene, she’d done as she was asked, but he shocked her with something else entirely. He had told her that he’d learned that day the whole story about her father and how he was extorting her. Stunned and humiliated, Veena was also furious at her best friend, Samira Patel, because she knew instantly it had to have been she who’d revealed Veena’s darkest secret. Samira was a nurse who’d trained with Veena and who’d joined Nurses International along with her. She too wanted to emigrate to the United States, but for a more generic reason. Familiar with the freedoms of the West from images on the Internet, she despised what she considered the restrictions life in India placed on her. She was what she liked to describe as a free spirit.

After Cal had revealed what he knew, Veena had stood up with the idea of fleeing without even thinking of where she would go, but Cal had grabbed her arm and urged her to sit back down. To her surprise, in lieu of blaming her and condemning her as she had always feared, he’d convincingly sympathized with her, and had been angry that she thought she was somehow responsible for her father’s behavior. He’d then gone on to persuade her that he could help her if she’d help him. He’d guaranteed that her father would never again lay a hand on her, her sisters, or her mother. And if he did, he would disappear.

Convinced Cal was being deadly serious, Veena had asked what she was to do for him. Cal had then gone on to explain that the surgical-outcome data they were amassing was proving to be disappointing. The data was too good, and they had come to realize they needed to create some of their own bad data, and he’d told her how they envisioned doing it using succinylcholine. At first Veena had been shocked by the plan, especially since she had no idea why they needed this “bad data,” but the more Cal talked, saying that she would have to do it only once, and that she would be free from her father and able to emigrate without the guilt of putting her sisters and mother at risk, and the more she recognized she would never get such an offer again, she had impulsively decided to cooperate. And not only did she agree to cooperate, she wanted to do it immediately, that very night, lest she think too much about what she was actually doing.

With a renewed sense of determination to get the business over with and a clear idea of the sequence of events she needed to follow, Veena took a deep breath. She then straightened up from where she was leaning against the stairwell wall, opened her eyes, and checked again to be sure the corridor beyond was empty. With tension quickening the pulses in her temples, she started toward the Hernandez room at a brisk walk. No sooner had she taken several steps when one of the evening nurses emerged from the room directly opposite Hernandez’s, bringing Veena to a sudden halt. Luckily for Veena, the nurse was unaware of her presence. Concentrating on the medication tray in her hands, she headed farther down the corridor, away from the nurses’ station. As suddenly as she had appeared, she disappeared into another patient room.

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Veena checked in the direction of the nurses’ station. All was quiet. She hurried on, reaching Hernandez’s door in seconds. Pushing it open, she stepped in and returned the door to its near-shut position. Although the TV was on, the volume was low. The overhead lights were dimmed, causing the corners of the room to be lost in shadow. Veena had no trouble seeing Mrs. Hernandez. The woman was fast asleep, with the head of her bed elevated about forty-five degrees. The fluorescent-like light emanating from the TV dimly illuminated her facial features while leaving her orbits in deep shadow, giving her a ghastly appearance, as if she were already dead.

Thankful the woman was asleep, and wanting the anxiety-producing affair over with as soon as possible, Veena rushed to the bedside, pulling the syringe from her pocket. She was careful not to nudge the noisy, metal bed rails as she reached for the IV line. She was also careful not to pull on it for fear of attracting the patient’s attention and waking her. Holding the IV port in one hand, she used her teeth to remove the needle cover. Then, holding her breath, she inserted the needle. When she could see the needle tip within the lumen of the IV line, she prepared to slowly depress the plunger. Instead, she almost leaped out of her shoes. For no discernible reason, Mrs. Hernandez rolled her head in Veena’s direction and looked up into Veena’s face. A slight smile played across her lips.

“Thank you, dearie,” she said.

Veena felt her blood run cold. Knowing she had to act that instant or she’d never be able to do it, she forcibly depressed the plunger of the syringe, shooting the bolus of succinylcholine into the patient’s bloodstream. What had pushed her over the edge was sudden, inappropriate defensive anger that the woman had the insensitivity not only to wake up but to thank her, apparently thinking Veena was giving her medication to help her.

Although Veena hadn’t seriously thought about what she’d be forced to witness after injecting the paralyzing drug, she was horrified by what she did see. Contrary to a peaceful, cinema-like passing, which had been her general assumption and what Cal had intimated, it was anything but. Within seconds Mrs. Hernandez’s body reacted to the large dose of succinylcholine with rapid fasciculation of her musculature. It started with her facial muscles giving her waves of grotesque facial contortions. Adding to the unexpected horror was the intense fear that clouded her eyes. As her hand lifted in a vain attempt to reach out to Veena for help, it too started to jerk about uncontrollably. And then came a sudden ominous, purple darkness that spread over her face like the shadow that seeps across the face of the moon during a lunar eclipse. Unable to breathe yet fully conscious, Mrs. Hernandez was being rapidly suffocated and turning deeply cyanotic.

Horrified at what she had wrought and wanting nothing more than to flee, Veena was forced by her guilt to remain rooted to her spot and watch her patient’s death throes. Luckily for both it was soon over, and Mrs. Hernandez’s eyes gazed blankly out at eternity.

“What have I done?” Veena whispered. “Why did she have to wake up?”

At last breaking free from her psychologically induced paralysis, Veena turned and raced from the room. Without even thinking of the consequences, she ran headlong down the hall, only vaguely aware that the nurses’ station was still empty. During the day there was always at least a ward clerk, but not in the evening and not at night.

In the elevator Veena was only dimly aware that she was alone. She kept seeing Mrs. Hernandez’s face in all its twitching horror. There were people in the hospital lobby, even a few ambulating patients and their family members, but no one gave Veena a second look. She knew what she had to do, and that was to get away from the hospital as soon as she possibly could.

Outside, the doormen opened the glass doors for her when they saw her coming. They said good evening as she rushed out, but she didn’t respond. Originally, she had planned on leaving through the staff-and-delivery entrance, but now, in her mind, it didn’t matter. As far as she was concerned, whether people saw her or not did not make any difference.

Out in the street Veena hailed one of the yellow-and-green auto rickshaws, which were nothing more than three-wheeled covered scooters with bench backseats and open sides. Veena gave the bungalow’s address in the swank Chanakyapuri section of the city and climbed in. With a sudden jerk the driver took off as if he were joining a race, sounding his horn intermittently, despite the lack of need. Since the traffic had now lessened considerably, they made good time, especially when they reached the residential area of Chanakyapuri. Staring straight ahead during the journey, Veena tried not to think, yet she couldn’t get the violent contortions of Mrs. Hernandez’s face out of her mind’s eye.

At the mansion, Veena was unable to convince the driver to enter the driveway to take her to the porte cochere. He argued that he didn’t believe she lived there and didn’t want to get in trouble with the police. Since a similar episode with an auto rickshaw driver had happened twice before in the little less than a month she’d lived there, Veena didn’t try to argue. She paid the man and hustled through the gate into the walled and fenced property. Reaching the front door, she didn’t go immediately to the room she shared with Samira, but rather went directly to the library in the hope of finding Cal still there. When she didn’t find him there, she looked for him in the formal living room, where Nurses International had added a large flat-screen TV. She found Cal and Durell absorbed in a rebroadcast of one of the previous day’s American football games. Both were draped across respective formal sofas with bottles of Kingfisher beer in their hands.

“Ah!” Cal exclaimed, catching sight of Veena. He let his legs fall from the sofa’s arms. “That was fast! Is it done?”

Veena didn’t talk. With a somber expression, she merely waved for Cal to follow her and started back toward his library office.

When Cal walked into the library, Veena was standing just inside the door. She closed it behind him, which he found curious. “What’s going on?” he asked. For the first time he sensed something was decidedly wrong. He looked at her more closely. From his perspective and most everyone else’s, Veena was an extraordinarily beautiful combination of both angular Aryan and rounded Hindu features, with exotically shaped, strikingly blue-green eyes, blacker-than-night hair, and golden bronze skin. Normally, she appeared quite peaceful. But not now. Her usually full, dark lips were pressed together and pale. Cal couldn’t tell if it reflected anger, determination, or some combination. “Is it done?” he questioned again.

“It’s done,” Veena said handing him a keychain with a USB storage device containing Maria Hernandez’s medical record. “But there was a problem.”

“Oh?” Cal questioned, eyeing the storage device, wondering if it was the problem. “Was there trouble getting the data?”

“No! Getting the woman’s medical record was easy.”

“Okay,” Cal said, extending the word. “So, what’s the problem?”

“Hernandez woke up and spoke to me.”

“So?” Cal questioned. He could tell Veena was highly upset but didn’t think the fact that the woman spoke with her was so unusual. “What did she say?”

“She thanked me,” Veena said, as tears welled up in her eyes. She took a deep breath and looked off, trying to keep her emotions in check.

“Well, that was nice,” Cal said in an attempt to lighten the conversation.

“She thanked me just before I injected her,” Veena added angrily. Her eyes blazed as she turned back to Cal.

“Calm down!” he half urged and half ordered.

“It’s easy for you to say. You didn’t have to look into her eyes or watch her face contort. You didn’t tell me she was going to twitch grotesquely and turn purple as she suffocated in front of my eyes.”

“I didn’t know.”

Veena glared at Cal and shook her head in apparent disgust.

“The people who told me how to do it implied the patient would just die peacefully because they would be completely paralyzed.”

“Well, they lied.”

“I’m sorry,” Cal said with a shrug. “I’m proud of you anyway. And like I promised, I heard just a few minutes ago that the conversation my colleagues had with your father went very well. They are very, very confident he will follow their advice to the letter. So from now on, you don’t have to worry about him misbehaving with you, your sisters, or your mom. The men I sent are utterly convinced, but they’re still going to check in every month or so to remind him he’d best behave. You’re free.”

For several beats Cal returned Veena’s glare. He had expected some positive reaction from her, but it wasn’t forthcoming. Just when he was about to question why she wasn’t more pleased to be free, she shocked him by hurling herself at him. Before he knew what was happening, she grabbed his shirt at the collar with both hands and proceeded to tear it open. Buttons popped off with explosive force.

Reflexively, Cal grasped her forearms but not before she’d peeled his shirt back from his shoulders and yanked it down. At that point, in utter confusion, Cal let her pull his shirt completely off, ball it up in a tight bundle, and toss it to the side. He tried to catch her eyes in hope of some explanation, but she was too preoccupied. Without a second’s hesitation, she put both her palms on his bare chest and pushed him stumbling backward until his heels slammed up against the foot of the couch. At that point his knees buckled, and he ended up in a sitting position. Still without hesitation or any explanation, she grabbed one foot, lifted it, and pulled off his shoe, tossing it in the direction of the abandoned shirt. Next came the second shoe. Once the shoes were history, she attacked his belt and zipper, and after grabbing both cuffs, the pants went in the direction of the shoes and shirt.

“What the hell?” Cal questioned as she unabashedly slipped her thumbs inside the waistband of his briefs. Cal’s athletic body in all its glory was in full view. This was beyond even his most lascivious fantasy. It was true that Cal Morgan had been attracted to Veena Chandra from the moment he’d interviewed her nine weeks earlier and had pursued her sexually but with no luck. Cal had been perplexed. Having been voted sexiest man in his Beverly Hills high school graduating class as well as valedictorian, and with similar accolades at UCLA, Cal had never lacked for female companionship and sex, which he thought of as a sport. But he’d never made any headway with Veena, which was confusing, since she always acted as if she truly cared for him, with small favors and special consideration.

“Why are you doing this?” Cal questioned with uncamouflaged bewilderment, although he wasn’t about to tell her to stop. At the moment, Veena was rapidly unbuttoning her nurse’s uniform. She had now locked eyes with Cal, and her expression was one of angry determination. For the first time since he’d met her, the thought went through Cal’s mind that she might be truly emotionally unbalanced. The fact that he’d learned just that day that she’d been victimized by her father for sixteen years was not lost on him.

Veena did not speak as she stepped out of her uniform. Nor did she take her eyes from Cal’s as she undid her bra and set her shapely breasts free. In contrast, Cal let his eyes drop to take in the full glory of Veena’s nakedness. Cal had known she had a knockout body from seeing her in a modest bikini when they’d brought the nurses to California for their month of computer and cultural training, but this was infinitely more captivating.

Still, Veena did not speak, nor did she slow down. The second she was out of her clothes, she advanced on Cal, straddled him, and directed him inside. She then proceeded to put her hands on his shoulders and to rock rhythmically.

Cal raised his eyes to hers. She was still glaring at him with the same determined expression. If it hadn’t been so pleasurable, he would have thought she was punishing him for her experience that night at the hospital. Without any letup on Veena’s part, Cal lost voluntary control and climaxed. When Veena still didn’t stop, Cal had to urge her to do so. “You have to give me a rest,” he managed.

Veena responded immediately by climbing off, and without even a moment’s hesitation began dressing. Her facial expression still had not changed.

In a postcoital fog of physical pleasure, Cal watched her and progressively became even more confused. He sat up straight. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting dressed, obviously,” she said, speaking for the first time since she’d launched her aggressive lovemaking. Her tone was challenging, as if she thought Cal’s question idiotic.

“Are you leaving?”

“I am,” Veena said, while hooking her bra.

Cal watched her pick up her dress. “Did you enjoy this experience?” he questioned. It was obvious she’d not had an orgasm. It had been so mechanical on her part that Cal likened her behavior to that of a motorized mannequin.

“Why, am I supposed to?”

“Well, yes, of course,” Cal said, a little hurt but also perplexed. “Why don’t you stay. I need to file the story about Mrs. Hernandez, but then we can talk about your experience tonight at the hospital. I sense you need to talk about it.”

“How would we talk about it?”

“Well, discuss the details.”

“The details were that she woke up, thanked me, and she didn’t go quietly.”

“I’m sure there’s more than that.”

“I’ve got to go,” Veena said with emphasis. She glanced around to make sure she had everything and started for the door.

“Wait! Why did you make love to me tonight, and why did you do it the way you did?”

“How did I do it?”

“Well, aggressively. That’s the best way to describe it.”

“I wanted once in my life to prove my father wrong.”

“What can you possibly mean?” Cal questioned, with a short, cynical laugh. He was beginning to feel totally used, not that it had been unpleasant physically.

“My father always told me that no man would want me if he knew my secret. You knew my secret, and you still were willing to make love. My father was wrong.”

Oh, for crissake, Cal thought irritably but didn’t utter. He said with a fake smile, “Wonderful, now you know. See you around the mansion.” He got up and began dressing. He was aware Veena was watching him, but he avoided her eyes. A moment later she was gone.

Cal let out a slew of expletives under his breath as he pulled on the rest of his clothes. At age thirty-two, he had no intention of getting serious romantically, and experiences like he’d just had made him wonder if he’d ever feel like getting serious. Women truly were mysterious and even crazy as far as he was concerned.

With the USB device in hand he left the library and sought out Santana Ramos, who was their psychologist-in-residence and also their media guru. Although Cal had had significant media experience running SuperiorCare Hospital Corporation’s PR department, where he worked prior to Nurses International, along with Petra Danderoff, he didn’t have inside network connections, but Santana did. She’d worked at CNN for almost five years. He found Santana in her room reading one of her beloved psychology journals, and without the gory details Veena had related, he told her that the first patient had been taken care of. He handed over the USB device for the patient’s history. He didn’t mention a word about the aggressive lovemaking.

“Call your friends at CNN,” Cal said. “It’s about ten a.m. there. Get the story to them, puff it up as a big inside scoop, saying the Indian government is trying to keep such stories under wraps. Tell them there will be more because there are now moles in place, and encourage them to get it on the air ASAP.”

“Perfect,” Santana said, hefting the USB device. “I think this is going to really work,” she added, as she stood.

“I do too,” Cal said. “Get right on it.”

“Consider it done.”

Confident she would be true to her word, Cal gave Santana an encouraging couple of taps on the shoulder. Leaving her room, he headed in the direction of the formal living room with full intention of getting back to the NFL game he’d been watching with Durell. But while he walked, his mind went back to his disturbing episode with Veena. Despite her being their best employee, he wondered if he should bring up with the others her obvious emotional instability. What gave him pause was that he knew Petra, who was against any dalliance between Cal or Durell and any of the nurses, would end up gloating and torture him with her invariable “I told you so” routine. On top of that, it was also downright embarrassing to have been used so flagrantly. Suddenly, Cal stopped. His mind had replayed Veena’s last comment that she “wanted once in her life to prove her father wrong.”

Why once? Cal questioned. He raised a knuckle to his mouth and absently chewed on it. “Oh my God!” he voiced suddenly. Turning from the direction of the formal living room, he raced toward the guest wing, where the nurses were housed. Arriving at Veena and Samira’s room, he pounded on the door as he yelled Veena’s name. When she didn’t answer immediately, he tried the door, all the while hoping that his fears would prove groundless. Unfortunately, they didn’t. He found Veena peacefully sprawled on her bed, her eyes closed. In her hand she clutched an empty plastic container of Ambien.

Grabbing Veena’s shoulders, Cal rudely sat her up. Her head lolled, but her eyes opened with heavy lids.

“God, Veena!” Cal shouted. “Why? Why did you do this?” He knew that if she died, the whole enterprise he had so carefully set up would be over.

“It’s appropriate,” Veena murmured. “A life for a life.”

Veena tried to lean back, and Cal let her flop back onto the bed. He pulled out his cell phone and speed-dialed Durell. When Durell answered, complaining about being interrupted while watching the game, Cal blurted out for him to get an ambulance ASAP as Veena had just ODed and would need to be pumped out.

Tossing the phone aside on the bed, Cal dragged Veena’s limp body to the edge, allowing her head to hang down, he used his index finger to get her to vomit. It wasn’t pretty. The good part was that more than a dozen intact Ambien tablets as well as a few broken ones appeared on the doomed carpet. The bad part was that he ended up puking himself.