Having performed work for this particular client several times before, she knew they were good for the money. And she knew the payment was considerable.
For the past three years, Casey had employed her remarkable skill set—gleaned from her double degree in mathematics and computer science—and directed it into a career in which she operated on the edge.
On one hand, she contracted herself out to big businesses, providing her expertise in constructing and maintaining security systems and network infrastructure that was considered second to none. On the other, Casey performed work for various underground groups who would be considered an enemy of the legitimate corporate interests from which she earned her considerable living.
She was a “grey hat” in every sense.
A grey hat who was, finally, in between jobs.
This latest contract—the construction of a particularly complex security system for a prominent investment firm—had consumed her life for the past three months. It had involved writing a state-of-the-art encryption language from scratch, deploying it across a vast network, then testing it for weaknesses and flaws which she then had to eliminate one by one, before testing the system again. She put in long hours, had rarely left her apartment and had thought of little else other than the contract. Now, with the exchange of her signature gold-plated USB key with the company’s representative, she had nothing left to apply herself to—at least for now. Casey could finally relax.
But therein lay a unique and difficult dilemma.
Casey turned from the desk and faced the exposed brick wall that separated the living area from the en suite bathroom. Hanging from the bricks there, bathed now in a soft orange hue from a street lamp outside, was a painting by the impressionist master Modigliani.
The woman in the painting looked down on Casey with overtly large, expressive eyes and lips that curled upward ever so slightly in a smile that could, for all the world, have been meant for Casey herself. Auburn hair hung down on either side of her elongated features. There was a beauty about the woman in the painting, who Casey knew to be Jeanne Hebuterne, Modigliani’s lover and muse.
Though not an original, the painting was Casey’s favourite possession: a gift from her grandparents on her twenty-first birthday. Her grandfather often said that she reminded him of a Modigliani painting. Casey smiled at the recollection, then absently clutched at the back of her head, feeling the short, sharp bristles of her dark hair. It had once been as long and as beautiful as Modigliani’s muse.
It seemed like a lifetime ago.
Touching a hand to the glass that protected the print inside, Casey went to the fridge in the kitchen and plucked out a bottle of wine. A long-stemmed glass was already waiting for her on the adjacent countertop and she poured a generous lug of the sauvignon blanc into it.
Time to celebrate, she thought wryly.
Walking past the workstation, bottle and glass in hand, Casey looked over to the entertainment centre, locking her eyes onto a familiar looking object there: a voice activated R2-D2 toy from the Star Wars saga. It was one of Casey’s little indulgences.
“Hey, R2,” she commanded.
The little droid’s flashing red and blue light winked to life and its domed head swivelled in the direction of her voice.
“Play music.”
A door on the barrel chest of the droid flipped opened and an extendible arm appeared from inside.
This was not an accessory that came “out of the box” when Casey purchased it. Rather, its presence was a result of some considerable tweaking and customising by Casey herself.
The little droid rolled over to the front of the entertainment centre and aimed its arm at the infrared pick-up of the sound system.
In an instant, the frenetic rock music of the Foo Fighters filled the room. Casey allowed herself a satisfied smile.
Setting her glass on the edge of the work bench, she peeled her gym top off and tossed it at her treadmill in the corner of the room where it landed on one of the handles of the machine. The cool air of the apartment caressed her skin, causing her nipples to stand erect and she shivered, invigorated by the sensation. Reaching up, she massaged a knot of tension from her left shoulder. An intricate tattoo of a Japanese cherry blossom adorned her left shoulder blade, its pink flowers catching the light from the street.
For a moment, Casey considered remaining topless, but she opted instead to take a linen shirt that was hanging on the corner of her wardrobe. She quickly threw it on.
Collecting her glass and the bottle and opening the glass sliding door, Casey stepped out onto the balcony of her apartment. Immediately she felt the balmy summer evening air on her skin and she sighed.
She set the wine bottle on a table and sipped from her glass as she surveyed the bustling scene below her from the balcony railing.
This was the Esplanade, the main thoroughfare of the beachside suburb of St. Kilda. The street was thick with Saturday night traffic, both pedestrian and automotive, as people made their way to and from the myriad eateries and entertainment venues that lined the strip. To the north, Casey could see the lights from the iconic Luna Park fun fair, as well as the equally famous Palais Theatre, where large groups of people were milling about its entrance, waiting to be admitted to whatever gig was playing tonight. Further on, she could just see the famous Espy Hotel, another St. Kilda landmark that routinely drew large crowds most nights of the week.
The sight of so many people below caused Casey to shiver. She could feel an unpleasant knot of tension in the pit of her stomach.
She hated crowds as much as she hated being outdoors. The very thought of being trapped down there in the throng of Saturday night revellers filled her with dread.
Taking a larger gulp from her glass, Casey pulled her eyes from below and cast them out across the inky waters of Port Phillip Bay. A collection of flickering lights emanating from various ships and boats captured her focus, taking it away from the chaotic throng below. Her anxiety abated. Her breathing relaxed, the heartbeat slowed.
The heart, she thought darkly as she retreated from the balcony edge and sat down on a lounge chair.
Balancing her glass on her knee, Casey closed her eyes and closed out the sounds of the street until there was nothing but the sound of the beating heart inside her chest. Its thump was vital and strong.
Casey reclined on the chair, lifting her feet and laying her head back on the cushion. She placed her glass on the table beside her and reached towards the buttons of her shirt, undoing a couple of them, allowing the balmy summer breeze to caress her chest, her almost perfect skin. A single blemish resided there, dark red in the half-light. A thick, raised scar that ran down her sternum, perfectly centred on her chest.
She hated that scar more than anything.
Though it was from a life-giving surgeon’s cut made in order to deliver the heart she now carried, it served as a permanent physical reminder of the journey she had taken from the edge of death, an abyss from which she thought she would never escape.
She was alive.
Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
She was alive but she was imprisoned by the realities of a life post-transplant. The ongoing medical support and treatment and medications were an omnipresent, oppressive fixture in her daily existence. The regular visits to her doctors, the constant tweaking of her medications, the continual tests to ensure that her new heart remained functional and optimal. The medical team had inserted themselves into every aspect of her life, observing how she ate, how she drank, how she slept, how she worked. They were constantly advising her and counselling her.
She hated it.
Casey felt like some bizarre human experiment, destined for an eternity of analysis and scrutiny.
But there were also the other unanticipated things that no one, least of all she, could have predicted. Her insomnia was foremost. There were frequent periods where Casey could be trapped awake for days at a time, unable to calm her mind. It was a phenomenon that only existed
since the surgery and it had not abated.
In order to function, Casey developed inventive strategies.
Work was one method. By taking on the most complex jobs she could find, jobs that would occupy as much time as possible, she would render sleep a luxury. So long as she was working, constructing, testing and problem-solving she could avoid dealing with the negatives of her insomnia. Medications helped too—and not the type that were sanctioned by her medical team. Casey had done enough research on the myriad of available stimulants and depressants to know what she could take safely, and in what combinations, if there was such a thing.
Despite this, Casey knew there was a limit to staving off sleep. Her body eventually called time-out and she had to succumb.
Then she dreamed. It was the thing she hated most of all.
With the completion of the contract and no new work on the horizon, she had run out of excuses to avoid sleep.
She drew the glass up to her lips again and sipped. Alcohol would numb her, but only partially.
Looking down, Casey spied a small wooden box on the table. Setting her glass down, she reached for it and balanced it on her knees as she opened it. Inside was a small metallic pipe and a Zippo lighter, both of which were surrounded by balled-up wads of green. She plucked up the pipe and pressed one of those wads into the conical spout, then lit the marijuana, taking a long drag. As the effects of the drug worked almost immediately, she reclined and smiled. Her muscles relaxed, the tornado of her thoughts dissipated.
If her physician knew what she was doing right now, he would have a shit-fit.
His drug-addled heart transplant recipient.
Fuck him and his rules, she thought acidly. This is what changing my life gets you.
Her life had indeed changed. It had shifted tectonically. No longer was Casey Schillinge the wide-eyed, optimistic young woman. The goody-two-shoes suburban daughter. The high achieving, straight-A university student.
The heart had changed everything. It had taken as much away from her as it had given her.
For now, the wine would anaesthetise her, but the weed would knock out her subconscious and give her what she so desperately craved: long, dreamless sleep.
CHAPTER 3.
The sharpened bevel of the needle touched down onto the skin and pressed inward, puckering the surface until it punctured it. A small bead of red blossomed, clinging to the shaft of the needle. The nurse winced at the sight of the blood; fearing she had missed her target, but she opted to persevere. Angling the needle downward slightly, she flattened its trajectory as she searched for the invisible target beneath the skin.
Casey watched as the nurse shifted on her stool. Telltale beads of sweat formed on the nurse’s brow as she squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again, refocusing to try once more.
Must be a newbie, Casey thought darkly, doing all she could to hold back a scowl. Instead, she kept her expression flat, watching the nurse like a hawk.
The nurse drew back with the most delicate of pressure, and her eyes brightened as a flashback of blood appeared inside the clear tubing that was attached to the needle. Reaching for a nearby vial, the nurse attached it to a barrel at the opposite end, and watched as a thin jet of Casey’s blood flowed into the vial under pressure. She repeated the process with a second and third vial.
Withdrawing the needle, she pressed a ball of cotton wool to the entry site and Casey lifted her arm up, compressing the cotton wool against her skin.
“All done,” the nurse said, her voice filled with relief.
Casey slipped her feet into her shoes, then grabbed a nearby pen and scrawled her signature on the form that lay on the bench.
“Thank you,” she said quickly, leaving the room before the nurse could say goodbye.
___
The gentle whir of motors vibrated underneath her as the platform on which she lay slid backwards, entering into the circular tunnel of the Magnetic Resonance Imager.
Adjusting her head on the pillow, Casey closed her eyes and tried to focus on her breathing, rather than the intensely claustrophobic environment. An ominous thrum surrounded her and she bit the inside of her lip. For a moment, she felt a faint niggle of pain in her arm from where the nurse had taken blood earlier, and she focused her attention on that in an effort to quell her anxiety. Casey supposed she had the inexperienced nurse to thank now for providing her with a means of distraction while she was temporarily imprisoned in this technological monstrosity and she smiled inwardly, if a little bitterly, at the irony.
The earbud headphones Casey wore crackled with static, then a male voice sounded in her head. “We’re about to begin,” it announced with cold detachment.
Casey nodded without responding, knowing that the source of that voice could see her via the camera situated inside the tunnel.
The shrill sound of classical music filtered into her headphones while, all around her, the hulking innards of the MR Imager rumbled to life. Its huge magnets began to spin, creating a bizarre, hammering cacophony that drowned out the music.
Casey couldn’t decide which sound was worse.
She reflexively tried to put her hand to her head but stopped when the male voice crackled in her earphones. “Please keep still!” It ordered harshly.
In a booth outside the MRI unit, detailed images of Casey’s internal anatomy began to appear on a screen in front of the radiographer. His thin fingers danced over a keyboard, tapping a series of commands as the front-on images became a series of transverse, top-down slices of Casey’s chest. He regarded them blankly, behind impossibly thick glasses and scratched his neatly clipped beard thoughtfully.
Inside the tunnel, Casey grimaced, trying to close out the unnerving racket as well as the tinny classical music. She drifted into her thoughts, using an exercise that she employed whenever she was outdoors.
Casey touched a distant silence beyond the cacophony and rode on it for the final few minutes of the test. Then, suddenly, she felt the bed slide out from inside the machine. She blinked, looking up to see the radiographer and his assistant.
“We’re finished, miss,” he said flatly. “You can get dressed.”
He turned on his heel as his assistant, who flashed a disapproving glare at him, took her hand and helped her into a sitting position. Scowling at the back of the man’s head, she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“He was different,” Casey remarked dourly.
“New guy,” the assistant replied. “Not really a people person.”
Hopping down from the bed, Casey slipped her feet into her shoes and retrieved her bag from a nearby chair.
The radiographer appeared in the doorway of the MRI suite armed with a large envelope. “Here are your hard copies. Your consultant will have electronic ones in a few moments. The images aren’t bad but you shouldn’t have moved inside the imager.”
Handing Casey the envelope with about as much emotion as if he were handing her a drive-through hamburger, the radiographer left the room without another word.
___
Casey lay on an examination bed in a darkened room, waiting impatiently.
An ECG machine sat beside her, its leads connected to adhesive pads strategically placed across her bare chest. She lay there now, covered only by a paper sheet, grinding her teeth. The machine was switched on and an annoying fault alarm was issuing from it.
The technician who had been attending to her had been trying to rectify whatever error the machine was experiencing, but she had failed miserably and had gone to seek help. That was nearly five minutes ago. No one had come back and the stubborn alarm continued to beep.
Looking across at the machine, Casey grasped an orange power cable that protruded from its rear and yanked it.
The machine’s display went dark. The alarm silenced.
She sighed with relief and lifted her wrist to look at her watch.
Where are these people?
“Come on,” she snarled.
As the words left
her lips, the door to the room clicked open and Casey snapped her head up. Her eyes grew wide as Francis Arlo entered.
“Hello, Casey,” he greeted warmly. “How are you?”
Blinking in surprise, she nodded at the young surgeon, offering him an awkward smile. “I’m okay.”
Her frown was obvious, but Arlo ignored it as he sat down on a stool beside the bed.
Though it wasn’t unusual to encounter the members of her original transplant team here in the clinic, she didn’t expect to see Arlo—one half of the surgical team who had saved her life—performing duties that would usually be carried out by nursing or technical staff.
On reflection, however, she realised it wasn’t that much of a surprise.
Francis Arlo was undeniably attractive. His Mediterranean ruggedness combined with his soft-spoken, friendly manner made him a popular figure in the transplant clinic among both staff and patients. Casey had to admit to having something of a crush on him. While he was first and foremost a surgeon, Arlo—like his superior, Fedele—often consulted at the clinic so that he could remain up-to-date and connected with the progress of their various patients.
Turning his attention to the recalcitrant machine, Arlo began pressing buttons on its control pad.
“The girls seem to be having all sorts of problems with this unit today,” Arlo said.
“Apparently,” Casey replied bashfully, reflexively lifting a hand up underneath the sheet to cover her breasts. “I ahhh, had to take matters into my own hands.”
She gestured with her eyes at the cable on the floor. Arlo grinned knowingly and picked it up, plugging its end back into the socket. Powering it up, he waited for a moment then turned towards Casey.
Seemingly unaware of her embarrassment, Arlo leaned in and gently drew down the sheet so that he could examine the cables. In the process, he inadvertently brushed his forearm over her breast.
She shivered and blushed.
Oh God, please hurry up!
“Sorry,” he apologized, examining the cables underneath her breast. “I better take a look at the cables. These machines never do what you want them to do.”