To my utter shock, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. I’d never ever seen Kyle hug anyone—or even give so much as a pat on the back. He was the absolute last person I would have ever described as affectionate or soothing or remotely cuddly.
But, damn, he had hug superpowers. The tension and anxiety flowed away. It only lasted a few seconds, but when he released me, I felt less as if the world was about to crumble.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
Connor moaned long and low then lay motionless, cloudy eyes fixed on me. I edged closer to the bed. “This is the first time he’s been still?”
“Since I’ve been here,” Kyle said.
Allen gestured toward the IV pump. “Might be the antibiotic affecting him.”
“Dr. Nikas was convinced it wouldn’t,” I said. “But it sure fits the timing.”
Kyle frowned at the monitor. “His heart rate’s dropping.”
Before I could ask what that might indicate, Connor wailed in what could only be agony. He went rigid, back arched and hands curled into claws by his sides.
Dr. Renley burst in followed by Patricia.
Kyle snapped out a status report as if he’d been born to his PCA role. Renley shouted an order for IV lora-something, but called it off as Connor went limp, head lolling to the side.
“Angel?” Connor’s voice barely had breath—thin, weak, and . . . scared.
A chill swept over me. That was no mindless babble. “I’m right here, Connor.”
His eyes met mine, milkiness diminished to a mere haze. “Ange . . .” He let out a long sigh, and his body went so limp it seemed to sink into the mattress.
“Asystole!” Kyle barked.
Dr. Renley cursed. “Call a code.”
Allen rushed out of the room with his messenger bag that contained the covertly obtained samples. Four more staff hurried in, and a flurry of activity commenced under the direction of Dr. Renley. Intubate. Compressions. Ventilate.
I backed into the corner by the door and watched in helpless anguish. For that brief moment, Connor had been himself. And now he was dying.
Maybe death was inevitable if the mutated parasite affected a living person? But Connor had seemed so stable earlier—in a shambler sort of way.
Earlier. Before the antibiotic. If the treatment itself wouldn’t hurt the mutated parasite, what was up with the timing? I trusted Dr. Nikas’s judgment. I did not trust Saberton. What if Baldy or Dr. Garrison had tainted the bag of Paxibiotic? They’d still been in the building when Dr. Renley ordered it.
I eased toward the IV pump where it had been shoved out of the way. Kyle flicked a glance toward me as I reached it then gave me a micro-nod, as if gleaning my purpose. Everyone else’s attention was fixed on Connor, and with a smooth and super casual move, I disconnected the tubing, slipped the bag from the hook, and stuffed it under my shirt.
I quietly left the room, arms crossed over my chest to hide the lump, and found Allen by the nurse’s station.
“Unzip your messenger bag,” I murmured while trying to look worried rather than guilty. He obliged, and I tugged the Paxibiotic from beneath my shirt and shoved it in.
“What’s that for?” he asked.
“Just a hunch. Might be tainted.” I broke off as the sound of activity from Connor’s room ebbed away. Dr. Renley’s voice carried clearly. “Time of death . . .”
Numbness crept over my face and hands. No. This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t right. “I need to make a call,” I gasped and lurched off down the corridor without waiting for a response.
The cops were still in the waiting room. Feeling like a coward, I exited through the ambulance doorway. I didn’t want to be around when they got the word Connor had died. Couldn’t.
I leaned against the wall, cool brick mildly soothing against my back. Stared at my phone.
“Angel?” Dr. Nikas’s voice. I must have called him.
I swallowed past the knot in my throat and lifted the phone to my ear. “Connor died. I think the Saberton people might have poisoned him with something in the antibiotic. That’s when he started going downhill.” I took a shuddering breath. “Connor was there, Dr. Nikas.”