“But you have to stay on top of this,” Mitchell said. “I want to see you back in here as soon as your x-ray is read. If I can’t treat it I’ll have to refer you to an orthopedist. You won’t be hauling more cattle if you’re permanently injured.”
“That orthopedist is the guy who treated me when I broke my arm?”
“That’s the one.”
Clyde looked disappointed but he didn’t complain. The crusty old farmer had as little to do with doctors as possible and the only reason he came to Mitchell was because he had been the elder Dr. Caine’s patient years ago. That was where half the patients in this practice had come from. Good old Dad.
Mitchell saw Clyde out the door and then reached into the pocket of his lab coat for the small vial of pills he had come to rely on lately. Tranquen—a benzodiazepine derivative with wonderfully soothing properties. The only drawback was the amnesia the drug caused. He snapped the kid-preventive lid and shook one of the small rectangular pills into his mouth. He swallowed the tiny piece of salvation, walked down the hallway to his office, and closed the door behind him. This was the second dose tonight but the first didn’t seem to be doing much good. Most likely his stomach acid had converted it before it even had a chance to take effect.
He unscrewed the cap from the ever-present bottle of Evian on his desk and emptied it. Before long he would be relaxed enough to drive home. Once he got there he could turn off the telephone ringer and let the machine fend for him the rest of the night.
He snatched a stack of files from the corner of his desk. He wanted to dump them in the trash. He wanted to light a match to the whole office and watch it flame. What would Darla say about that? She wouldn’t be able to milk any more support from him then, would she? Maybe he should just retire now and dip into the offshore account he’d managed to conceal from her and her expensive divorce attorney.
Hmm. Skip the country and let them play hide-and-seek.
As for his daughter, Trisha-the-junkie, he hadn’t heard from her in months, hadn’t actually laid eyes on her in years. If his soon-to-be-ex was still in contact with Trisha she certainly wouldn’t tell him about it. She would let him suffer in solitude. When he’d cut off Trisha’s drug money he’d known he would probably never hear from her again. What he hadn’t realized was that his wife would turn against him because of it.
For a few moments he stared out into the private garden, waiting for the initial effects of the drug to soothe the tight band of chronic anxiety that had overwhelmed his life for the past few months. If it continued he would have to check into other options—a vacation, perhaps, or another medication he could take that wouldn’t affect his medical judgment when treating patients.
At last the pills on board began to work their magic. He felt himself relax and the sharp edge of anger that seemed to stalk him every waking moment dissipated. He knew it would be back tomorrow but at least he could escape it for tonight. He’d better leave while he could still concentrate enough to drive home.
When he first started having trouble sleeping, soon after Darla left last December, he had resorted to the samples of Tranquen the drug rep left at the clinic. For the first few weeks he had divided the tiny 5-milligram tablets into four separate sections with a pill cutter—one little quarter of the potent pill had been enough.
Then Darla and her attorney became greedy. Darla claimed she needed psychiatric care for the pain and suffering she had endured throughout their marriage.
Mitchell shook his head and stood. Time to leave before the brooding thoughts dragged him back down. He was now taking twice the highest recommended dosage of the drug and still the memories haunted him. The baby. His grandchild, dead from his daughter’s drug habit.
He locked his office and left the clinic through the back entrance. He stepped toward the detached garage that was reserved for his personal use. He’d learned from experience that if he wanted to get out on time he had to move quickly and give no one occasion or encouragement to slow him down. After just one day of heavy patient volume, he desperately needed another weekend off.
He hesitated briefly as he climbed into the Envoy and pushed the garage door remote. Was there something else he’d intended to do before he went home? Patient rounds?
No, he could do them later tonight. He’d wake up at some point. He always did. Nights were always a series of torture-filled episodes of broken sleep.
He glanced in the rearview mirror and his vision blurred momentarily. Whatever niggled at his mind, it would have to wait until tomorrow. He needed to get home while he could still drive.
***
“Dr. Caine is unavailable at this time,” came a resonant female voice over the telephone receiver. “If you have a medical emergency, please visit the Dogwood Springs Hospital Emergency Department. Dr. Caine’s office hours are—”
Lauren hung up with a little more force than was necessary. “The man took off. I don’t believe it. Just left a patient waiting for him in the ER,” she muttered at the phone.
The secretary chuckled behind her. “You’re not the only one he’s stood up lately.”
Lauren glanced around the ER. It was ten till seven. Eight exam rooms were occupied. The night staff had come in and Lauren and Grant were tidying up so the takeover staff could get a jump on the situation.
“Our patient doesn’t appreciate being stood up,” Lauren said.
“Yeah?” Becky leaned toward Lauren and lowered her voice. “Well, I don’t like being reminded every fifteen minutes that she’s married to the president of the world and that her best buddy is mayor of this town and that if we don’t start treating her with some respect she’s going to write a letter to the editor of The Dogwood and we’ll all be in deep doo-doo.”
Lauren grinned. “Mimi’s just in pain.”
“Does she think she’s the only patient in this department?”
“She’s scared. I remember what it feels like to be a patient,” Lauren said. “In a hospital, lying in bed, at the mercy of strangers, you feel exposed and vulnerable. She’s just trying her best to regain some of the dignity she feels she’s lost by coming in here.”
“Lauren, you’re a dupe, too.” Becky chuckled to take the sting from her words as she turned back to her computer. “Every time you’ve walked past her door for the past hour and a half, she’s called out to you and you’ve run her errands, either to get her a cup of ice, or take her another pillow, or let her call a friend. Want to know what I think? I think it’s just gas. You know... as in full of hot air.”
Lauren gave Becky a playful tap on the shoulder and turned to give Muriel information about another patient. If Mimi Peterson hadn’t insisted on seeing Dr. Caine she’d be out of the hospital by now, or she would be upstairs in a room awaiting surgery in the morning—although that wasn’t likely. Her blood test results had been normal and for the past hour she hadn’t complained of pain.
After completing the shift-change report with Muriel, Lauren saw Grant walk once again into exam room four. She braced herself and followed him.
“We’ve called Dr. Caine, or attempted to call him, several times, Mimi,” Grant was saying as Lauren entered behind him.
“I just tried again,” Lauren added.
“Then I’m leaving,” Mimi said at last. “I have better things to do with my time than—”
“I wouldn’t advise you to leave before we’ve had an opportunity to do a more complete work-up to make sure there isn’t something serious going on,” Grant said.
“I’ve told you I’ve had those tests and they show nothing. I know what everyone in this hospital thinks of me and they’re wrong.” Mimi checked her watch, sat up on the bed, and gestured toward Lauren. “Where did you put my purse? I have an important meeting in forty-five minutes. I’ll see Dr. Caine tomorrow. I’ll also be talking to the mayor to see if something can be done to keep this from happening again.”
“That’s fine.” The ragged edges of Grant’s reply were faint. Lauren was probably
the only one who detected his irritation. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’ll have our secretary bring an AMA form for you to sign.”
Mimi resisted Lauren’s attempts to help her from the bed. “I’m not signing a thing.”
Grant sighed and shook his head and walked out of the room without another word. Lauren couldn’t tell if he was more irritated by the patient’s attitude or Mitchell Caine’s failure to show up as promised.
“Here’s your purse, Mrs. Peterson.”
Mimi took it and stalked to the doorway, obviously recovered from her malady. She paused in the threshold and turned back. “When I came into this hospital this evening I was in pain and that pain was real and it wasn’t just gas.” She scowled. “You people also must think I’m deaf. No more tests.” She draped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “All any of those tests have done for me so far is convince people it’s all in my mind. I know better.” She left the hospital without signing the AMA form and without receiving help.
Chapter Eight
On Tuesday evening, April 16—while accountants all over America dug out from under the madness created by tax deadline—Grant sat down with his family for a Sheldon white-hot chili dinner to celebrate Lauren’s thirty-sixth birthday. He and Lauren had spent the day in Branson but at her request they were spending the evening with Brooke and Beau.
The smoky aroma of the chili added some confusion to the atmosphere for Grant. How did the kids feel about sharing their mother’s special family recipe with the new love of their father’s life?
They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Brooke had been nagging him about making the relationship more permanent. She adored Lauren. For her sake as well as his, he hoped things worked out the way his daughter obviously hoped they would. Though Brooke exhibited a tough exterior, she had a heart like her mother’s, tender and easily broken.
Annette had been gone for nearly three years. They still missed her and always would but she would have wanted them to allow someone else into their lives. She would have approved of Lauren.
Grant basked in the presence of the people he loved most in the entire world. He suppressed a grin at his daughter’s unceasing chatter about her school day.
“ ...Evan’s impossible to hang out with anymore. I mean, Dad, did I tell you he got that commendation from the mayor in The Dogwood?”
“Yes.”
“What commendation?” Lauren asked. “I don’t get the paper.”
“Praising him for the series of articles during this past Christmas season.” She cast a long-suffering gaze toward the ceiling.
“You’re jealous,” Beau said.
“I’m not jealous.”
“Are too. He tried to share the by-line with you and you wouldn’t let him, so stop whining.”
“I’m not whin—”
“Why did he get the commendation for the articles?” Lauren interrupted.
Brooke waved her spoon in the air. “Because they ‘heightened public awareness about the blight of illegal drugs in our fair community.’ Brother. It’s like he saved the town with his purple prose. Everybody knows the mayor’s dating his dad. I’d be humiliated if I were him.”
“You are jealous.” Beau pushed his glasses back up his nose with a half-smile.
Grant would never grow tired of looking at that smile. Last year at this time he had been so sure he would never see that smile again—not after the damage that his facial nerves had received in the same wreck that had killed Annette. The regeneration of those nerves had been gradual over the past few months.
“So Lauren, what shows did you see in Branson?” Brooke pointedly ignored her twin.
Lauren didn’t appear fazed by Brooke’s sudden topic change. “None.”
Brooke gave a dramatic gasp. “You went to Branson and didn’t see a show? Isn’t that illegal or something?”
“Not if you’ve already seen most of them, and no, we didn’t go to Silver Dollar City.”
Brooke leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “If you two slipped off and got mar—”
“Dad, have you ever heard a death scream?” Beau asked suddenly.
Brooke dropped her fork in her plate with a hiss of disgust. “Beau! We’re trying to eat.”
“Sorry, but your line of questioning wasn’t much better,” Beau said. “They went shopping, okay?”
They nibbled in silence for a few moments. Grant watched Brooke give Beau a few curious glances, which Beau ignored.
Finally Brooke put her fork down. “Okay, what’s a death scream?”
“Hush,” Beau said. “Lauren’s trying to eat.”
“She has a strong stomach. She tortures worms with fishhooks for entertainment.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady,” Lauren said. “Fishing is a socially acceptable method of securing edible protein for a complete and healthy diet. I see nothing wrong—”
“Sure, fine, whatever.” Brooke fluttered her fingers at Lauren. “I just wish you wouldn’t do it in front of me.”
Lauren grinned at her and Grant felt a surge of satisfaction. In the past couple of months, Brooke had gone fishing with Lauren at least three times. According to Lauren’s reports, Brooke still refused to use live bait and would not clean the fish but she never turned down an invitation to go along. Even Beau had gone a couple of times, although he usually hung out in the emergency department when he wasn’t in school.
“So Beau, what’s a death scream?” Brooke asked again.
Beau took another bite of chili, ignoring her.
Brooke’s impatience flickered across the formerly serene atmosphere at the table, her dark gray eyes promising revenge. “Speaking of death...”
“It’s a scream.” Beau took a sip of his lemonade and swallowed, caught and held Grant’s gaze for a moment. “Have you heard it, Dad?”
“I’ve heard the urban legends. I think that’s all it is.”
Lauren straightened, cleared her throat.
“Would somebody please explain what a death scream is supposed to be?” Brooke demanded.
“Well.” Beau set his glass on the table. “Some people say that when a dying person’s spirit takes a step into the next world, she takes one—”
“What do you mean ‘she’?”
“Do you want to hear this or not?”
Brooke crossed her arms over her chest. “Go ahead.”
“Anyway,” he said, his voice a theatrical whisper, “that patient’s physical body shrieks out this unearthly sound. It isn’t loud and it rarely happens, but it is said that when someone hears that scream, she will never be the same.”
“Sounds like you’ve been talking to Evan again,” Brooke said.
“I heard about it at work.”
“Where at work?”
“One of the nurses at the hospital was talking about it during break one day. Remember they say Simon Royce gave a death scream the night he died.”
Brooke raised a shapely dark brow and looked at Lauren, who seemed to have developed an unusual amount of interest in the wood grain of the table. “Have you heard it, Lauren?”
There was a short pause, then, “Yep.” The reply was spoken a little too casually.
The whole family stopped eating.
Lauren didn’t smile. She didn’t even look up from her bowl of Sheldon white-hot chili.
Grant could tell from the slight flush that crept over her cheeks that she wasn’t kidding.
“It’s that bad?” Beau asked.
Lauren looked up and nodded. No glint of laughter danced in her clear green eyes.
“When did you hear it?” Grant asked softly.
“Several years ago.” She put down her spoon, pushed her bowl away, and leaned back in her chair, as if pushing away from an uncomfortable memory.
“And?” Brooke prompted.
“It was... pretty scary.”
“You don’t have to tell us about it,” Grant said.
“But you can if you want to,” Brooke urged.
“I have Beau for a brother. I can handle a nightmare or two.”
There was a thump beneath the table and Brooke grunted.
“I was working as an ER nurse at Knolls Community Hospital about six and a half years ago,” Lauren said. “The ambulance brought a man in with cirrhosis of the liver, terminally advanced. It especially upset us because our staff knew the man well. He was a physician.”
“An ER doc?” Beau asked.
“Family practice with a clinic in the hospital.”
“He had cirrhosis?” Grant asked. “He was an alcoholic?”
Lauren nodded. “For years. His wife had begun attending a small local church. He stormed into the church during a service one day reeking of booze and threatened to drag her out. When some of the men in the service challenged him he screamed curses at them and at the God they worshiped.”
“Why?” Brooke asked.
Lauren shrugged. “I’ve stopped trying to figure out why people do the things they do. When they brought him into the ER he’d filled out a DNR form and made sure everyone knew about it. He did not want resuscitation so we didn’t call a code when his vital signs deteriorated.”
“So you didn’t intubate,” Beau guessed. “Nothing to block his voice.”
Lauren nodded. “I was in the room when he died. So were his daughter and his wife and that was what made it so hard. He was on heavy doses of pain-killer and was unconscious most of the time. Just as his heart failed he opened his eyes and it seemed as if he was staring straight at me.” Her voice cracked. She swallowed and took a deep breath. “I’ve never seen such horror in a person’s gaze. His lips parted and he emitted the most haunting sound of anguish I’d ever heard. It wasn’t loud but it was as if it had the power to reach into a person’s soul.”
There was silence at the table for a moment.
“What did it sound like?” Brooke’s voice was hushed.
“Not a human scream.”
“Then what?”
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