Without Consent

Copyright © 2003 by J. P. Cardone.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Acknowledgements

Whenever a person undertakes the writing of a book, there are always people to thank. In my case there are many. There are family members and special friends who provided the push when I needed a push and the smile when I needed a smile.

One cannot underestimate the value of support during the creation of a story. Sometimes, support came in the form of listening, which is a very difficult thing to do. And other times, support came in the form of a sounding board, trying out ideas and getting feedback. I feel very fortunate to have had the kind of support I needed: it has been a long road, I’m glad I did not travel it alone.

Special thanks to my long time friend, Rosa A. Patterson who had the vision and the creativity to design the cover art.

Where has time gone?

Once it was so plentiful,

Now it is but a feeble promise

Barely made

Barely heard

And I am terribly afraid . . .

—James Kavanaugh

CHAPTER ONE

At eighty-two, Muriel Wiggins wasn’t surprised to discover herself confined to a bed. Not especially surprised, since she had suffered a second stroke three months ago, but to be dealt such a blow, to be confined, motionless, with her mental facilities intact. Muriel was totally aware—aware of everything around her. The beautiful surroundings, found only in the best of homes. She remembered, oh yes, she remembered just about everything, even at eighty-two. What she remembered most was Dr. Maher’s words.

I’m sorry, Mrs. Wiggins. There is nothing we can do for you here. We’ve tried everything. The best place for you would be a good nursing home.

So here she was in the Golden Shores Nursing Home, remembering. Muriel certainly wasn’t going anywhere. Take a trip, Muriel, a walk in the garden. Muriel, going to see a show tonight? Going places was what Muriel had liked to do best. Now, she went places only in her mind. Old age did her in—old age was the disease without a cure. That’s what her Marvin always said.

Muriel remembered traipsing with Marvin in New York City’s Central Park so many years before. They went past the Alice in Wonderland statue, where children played as the mostly tarnished and weathered bronze characters stood in silent watch. They strolled past the old folks lining the wooden benches, clutching their bags as if they contained the secrets of life. On the path, some of the seniors were struggling with metal walkers. Other seniors were being pushed in wheelchairs by their private-duty nurses. Marvin, at times like these, would snicker,

My, my, we do have a lot to look forward to, don’t we, Muriel?

But the Golden Shores wasn’t bad, not bad at all—considering. It had comfortable rooms, each with a pleasant enough decor. The food, well, the food she used to eat, was prepared by retired chefs who still liked to fuss over the preparation. Supplies, both medical and housekeeping, were well stored. While many nursing homes across the country were scandalized for poor resident care and conditions, the Golden Shores had a quality reputation. It was among the most exclusive, and its reputation developed an extensive waiting list. It was located forty miles east of New York City, on Long Island’s north shore. Within walking distance to the beaches of the Sound, the Golden Shores offered its residents a refreshing breath during their last years of life.

Muriel was acutely aware of the footfalls coming from the hallway. It was the kind of thing that happened when all you had to do was lie there all day, thinking and listening. Every sound meant something—whether it was the whirl from the air vent, or the long humming of the pump feeding her. She even believed she heard the constant drip of the dual I.V.s attached to her arm. She knew what each sound meant and when each sound occurred, so she was startled when the door to her room opened. In the shadows, Muriel recognized a lab coat, the physician’s symbol of healing, worn by a young man who was moving to her side.

He opened a small black container and removed a glistening chrome injector. From the case, he took a vial of bluish-green fluid and expertly screwed the vial into the injector. In rapid succession, the I.V. drip was shut off, the tube removed, and the injector fitted to the needle. Her arm, numb from having an I.V. feeding her for so long, felt nothing. She didn’t feel the fluid moving into her veins, mixing with her blood. When the vial was emptied, her visitor reattached the I.V., returned the injector and vial to its container, and left quietly.

Forty-five seconds later, the man in the lab coat was visiting Mr. Monroe. Unlike Muriel, Fred Monroe was a heavy sleeper and rarely awoke till morning. Tangled among his bedcovers were the day’s racing sheets. As a gambler, Fred liked to bet every horse race he could find. Monticello and Hialeah were his favorite tracks, but he bet heaviest on the three races of the Triple Crown.

Fred’s luck after the first two jewels was uncanny. He picked the winners of the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness. If his luck held at the Belmont Stakes, the money he let ride would bring in a hefty prize of over thirty-five thousand dollars.

Maybe he was dreaming about collecting his winnings when, unnoticed, his visitor stole into his room. Although he did not mention it often, Fred knew his gambling made him quite a conversation piece. Most of the old-timers at the Golden Shores knew about his losses. This time was different though. This time, he would show them, prove to them that he could pick a winner.

Fred didn’t sense the chloroform mist supplied by his visitor. His breathing was uninterrupted as the gas was absorbed and his sleep deepened. Fred just went right on dreaming about how he would show them, when his left ear was pierced.

Slowly, the injector was emptied. Yes, he’ll show them all. The bluish-green fluid entered a small vein and traveled to the right chamber of his heart, mixing with his blood.

2

Before breakfast each morning, Patti McClafferty would see her twelve patients. It took about ten minutes each to take and record the temps and pressures. It took forever to beg off their conversation. Even though Patti tried to be cheery, hearing about their aches and pains drove her up the wall.

This morning, Patti was very happy. Well, maybe very satisfied was a better way of putting it. While she gathered her patient’s charts, her thoughts wandered to the night before. Doug had dropped by and stayed quite late. With the memory of his touch still fresh in her mind, she placed her hands on her breasts and slowly moved them lower, increasing the pressure, as only Doug knew how. Sure, he was married, but God, she thought, he could make her feel so good. At nineteen, most of the boys she dated thought they had to do it fast so you didn’t have a chance to say no. They called it passion. Patti called it screwing like dogs in heat.

Doug liked to begin their lovemaking while she is still dressed. His favorite outfit was a soft, silk, button-down blouse, tucked into a tight-fitting pair of cords. You know how some men are breast men or leg men. Well, Doug is a pelvis man. He is immediately aroused when he spots a woman in slacks which fit tightly around her pelvic bones.

When he took Patti to bed and gently caressed her stomach, her hips, and her thighs, he felt the beginning of the ecstasy that enveloped him. Their lovemaking was slow and purposeful, and with Doug, Patti orgasmed for the first time, and every time after that. During their sex act, he gave her feelings of warmth and security which she never felt before. As she released the pressure of her hands, her thoughts returned with switch-like action to the Golden Shores and her patients. It was time for morning rounds.

Carol Jackson’s supervisor arrived on the floor before her.

Oh shit, Carol thought as she glanced over at the desk clock. Seven-ten, please don’t lay it on me again.

Carol, we’ve discussed this before . . . That’s the way her supervisor started the usual speech. Ten minutes might not seem like much to you, but you know how much our patients rely on us . . .

Carol Jackson tuned it out, the way you tune out other noises when listening to your Walkman. She didn’t want to hear the noise about her lateness again. Carol tried to explain her problems more times than she cared to. Mrs. Timmer knew she had to wait for the sitter before leaving for work. Maybe, she just liked to make a person feel small. Listening to her drone on about responsibility gave Carol the same sore feeling in her stomach. The soreness would end up staying with her at least one day, perhaps even two. Carol knew the best thing to do was to just take it and not offer any excuses.

Okay, Carol, you’ve been warned. No more lateness. Go on now, take care of your patients.

Yes, Mrs. Timmer. Carol said as she lowered her head and grabbed for her chart pad.

Carol took her sore stomach and her chart pad down the hall to Room 21B. Entering, she quipped a good morning to Mrs. Taub. Mrs. Taub had been at the Golden Shores for three years now and knew the procedure. As Carol approached, she rolled up the sleeve to her nightgown. Carol tried to force a How are you feeling? but it didn’t come. She placed the probe under Mrs. Taub’s tongue and the stethoscope’s center on her arm. Listening to the pulses of her pressure, Carol could feel the throbbing of her own stomach, as if in sync. The thermometer started its electronic beeping as she recorded the blood pressure. Noting the temperature, Carol said,

Everything’s fine today, but make sure you eat your breakfast. We do want to gain back some of that lost weight, don’t we?

Mrs. Taub ignored the breakfast comment and said, Carol, you know it’s time to speak up to her. Why do you let her push you around?

Shit, Carol thought, isn’t anything a secret around here? Yes, yes, Mrs. Taub, Carol responded as her left hand went to her stomach. I will next time.

It was always next time, Carol thought. She made a final note and stood to leave. Carol pushed the door open, then turned back to Mrs. Taub. Summoning up her most authoritative voice, she said,

A good breakfast now, and left, thinking about Taub’s weight loss and what it might mean. It was unusual. No symptoms, normal blood pressure, no fever, and yet, an unexplained weight loss. It was one of those things a nurse was trained to observe. She would talk it over with Mrs. Timmer later.

There are all kinds of coincidences in the world. You know, two people meet at a convention and find out they were born at the same time on the same day. or you find out the guy you’re working with grew up in the same neighborhood you did. or you’re thinking about some friend when your phone rings, and it’s him.

Well, while Carol Jackson was getting a late start, Patti McClafferty was almost finishing her rounds. Carol opened the door to Muriel Wiggins’ room the same time Patti opened Fred Monroe’s. The screams weren’t loud. No one heard them in the other rooms. They didn’t come in harmony either; they were more like echoes—one following the other. They were the startled screams that happen when you find something you don’t expect.

Why, heck, you can go to a funeral parlor and look at the deceased without screaming, because that’s what you expected. However, when you walk into a person’s room as you have day after day, expecting them to be sitting up in bed, smiling and instead, find them staring out to nowhere, cold to the touch, and pale as a ghost, it triggers that reflex along your spine, which causes your shoulders to go up, your arms to flail out, and the only release is a scream.

The scream brings you back from who knows where so your motor skills respond as your brain is sending the message, Hurry! Get help! Hurry! Get help! So Patti and Carol, composing themselves, reacted in the identical professional manner. They checked for a pulse and not finding any, headed on to inform Mrs. Timmer. Carol in particular was looking forward to seeing the reaction on her face. Have a nice day, eh.

Unmoved, the stern, all-business look on Mrs. Timmer’s face was not altered when Patti informed her about Fred Monroe. A disappointed Carol Jackson observed no reaction on her face with the added information on Muriel Wiggins. The surprised faces were on Patti and Carol.

Wow, Patti said. Two dead patients on the same morning.

Carol asked Patti, What did he die from?

Patti shrugged her shoulders and said, Who knows? He was doing okay.

Carol told Patti, Muriel was strong as an ox, even though she was paralyzed and couldn’t move. She had an unbelievable will to keep going, no matter what.

Mrs. Timmer listened; saw nothing special about two old people dying.

Happens all the time, she interrupted their dialogue like a dropped tray of dishes in a crowded restaurant.

Come on, girls, finish up, it is getting late, you know. Nodding to each other, Patti and Carol went back to their patients. Patti was wondering to herself if there would be any other surprises. Carol was troubled. Something strange here, she thought as her stomach reminded her about her nagging pain.

Mrs. Timmer lifted the charts for Muriel and Fred and headed for her office. After twenty-six years in health care,