“The stars were lined up just right.” Benton strokes my arm. “And you’re going to be fine, good as new.”
“It doesn’t feel like it.” I chug more water.
“I don’t know when I’ve ever felt so helpless,” he admits. “If the Narcan hadn’t worked . . . ? Well, there was nothing more we could have done.”
“Is everyone else okay? Lucy, Dorothy?” For an instant I’m seized by searing panic, remembering their shocked faces.
“Everyone is safe and sound. I made sure no one else touched the wine,” he says, and there wasn’t enough of the antidote to go around.
I had only the two doses in my home scene case, and whatever I was exposed to was potent enough to require both. In fact, it was barely enough, and I have no recollection of Benton administering the nasal spray but know he did because that’s what he’s telling me. I also don’t remember Marino bringing extra doses to the house, and Benton giving me another one later.
He checked my vital signs throughout the night, all per my instructions, and it’s a blank in my memory. How unbearable to imagine what would have happened had I poured a taste of the poisoned wine for him, Lucy, Dorothy. When Marino finally showed up, he would have found all of us dead. Depending on what he did, he might have been next.
“I don’t remember the last time I felt this bad.” My head hurts like it’s clamped in a vise.
My pulse races, moods in flux, and my thinking is stream of consciousness at times. It’s as if I’m tripping, my hands shaky, my stomach lurching like a boat on rough seas.
“How about some Advil? Do you think you could hold it down?” Benton helps arrange more pillows behind me.
“Not this minute.” Massaging my temples, I take deep slow breaths, exhausted in a way that won’t be cured by sleep.
“What if I bring you toast?” He holds my hand, and I force myself to sit up straighter.
“I CAN’T,” I REPLY, not ready for food.
“A hot shower would be good. But one thing at a time,” Benton says as scenes flash behind my eyes like a psychedelic movie.
I remember setting down the wineglass with a loud clack, almost knocking it over . . . suddenly unsteady on my feet . . . Saying I felt strange, there was something wrong with the wine . . . as the room began to spin . . . I told Benton to get my scene case from the closet . . . but it was Lucy who did . . .
While he lowered me to the floor . . . and everything went black . . . Then Marino was there taking charge, gloved and masked, collecting my glass, the wine and all that went with it. Talking in his big voice with his strong New Jersey accent. Getting on the phone, waking up Rex Bonetta, exclaiming that someone just tried to poison the chief medical examiner of Virginia.
Marino was barking orders, throwing around his new title of forensic operations specialist. He paced the kitchen while I watched from where I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, overhearing every word. He would stop by my chief toxicologist’s house to drop off the evidence personally, and Marino warned not a peep about this to anyone.
What’s happened is extremely confidential, and there will be an international investigation, he promised, rather much threatened. Gathering up his brown paper bags sealed with red evidence tape, he reprimanded me again for being foolish. Next, Dorothy jumped in, the two of them quite the interrogators.
Why would I accept a gift that’s consumable and could be tampered with? How could I think for a moment it was okay in this day and age? It doesn’t matter if the bottle was from the president or the pope, how could I be that na?ve? As if it’s my fault I was exposed to a deadly opioid likely intended for the secretary general of Interpol.
At least I’m assuming it was an opioid since the antidote was successful. Two hits, and the effects were reversed. But I don’t know what we’re dealing with yet, and most of all if it’s an isolated incident.
“What if the bottle I was given isn’t the only one?” I fight back another wave of nausea.
“You can rest assured it’s being followed up on,” Benton says.
I was in Lyon the end of October, and a month is a long time when there could be other deadly vintages waiting to be uncorked. There could be deaths we don’t know about in other parts of the world.
“More important at the moment is getting you back up to speed,” he replies kindly, gently. “You need to eat. That will be the best remedy. We’re going to get to the bottom of who’s responsible, I promise. Assuming anyone’s to blame, that it was deliberate.”