He named his friend Tony Dalton who was preparing to undergo an experimental corneal transplant to regain his vision after being attacked with an ammonia booby trap in the middle of the drug wars. Tony’s wife, Caryn, suffered alongside him.
The image of Mitchell Caine rose up in his mind—another victim of the meth influence in Dogwood Springs.
Archer wasn’t having very kind thoughts toward the man who had apparently caused the accident in the first place.
Was Mitchell caught out in the storm with an injured back, unable to get to help? Had he been rammed from the road and left for dead?
And yet, Archer knew the man was injured in other ways.
“Help him to realize that just because I might die you haven’t let me down.”
He heard the tone of sarcasm in his own voice.
The wind screamed through the forest like a living thing.
The impulse to pray for Mitchell became even stronger.
“Lord, I don’t know what else to say. Only you know. Touch his heart and open it to your love, your strength. Deliver him from his broken life. Heal him, Lord.”
How ironic that Mitchell Caine would probably be offended if he knew someone was praying for him.
The wind grew louder; the water surged, chilling Archer as it drenched his clothing.
Another wave struck. More dirt crumbled down into his face. He might soon be buried here. Another wave splashed in, filling the space where he lay, trying to drag him from his place of safety into the dark Black Oak. With a cry of pain, he tried to brace himself in the cave, but water rushed over him, pulling him like an ocean tide.
He had to let go.
Whitecaps smacked his arms and legs, tossing him up then submerging him, moving too swiftly for him to catch a breath.
He choked and gasped, splashing ineffectually at the water with his arms. Knives of torture threatened to sever his spine. The river submerged him, rolling him sideways, twisting his body until he lost all sense of direction.
His hand smacked against a piece of debris. He grabbed it and pulled himself toward it until his face broke the surface, but he lost the debris. He gulped in huge breaths of air, unable to see anything through the blackness. No light struck the water as he battled the waves. He couldn’t see either shore, couldn’t even see the cliff.
He paddled toward his right and his arm struck something solid. As he reached out to anchor himself, he discovered it was a floating log.
Something long and cold slithered across his hand. He gasped and cringed away from it.
A snake? A lizard?
He swallowed hard and tried not to move. He couldn’t waste his time fearing something that probably wouldn’t hurt him. Probably. Unless it was a cottonmouth or a copperhead.
Could venom be any more deadly than this river?
Though the air temperature was warm he wouldn’t last long in the frigid water. Whatever that slithery thing was, tonight it would have to share this makeshift lifeboat with him. He swallowed his panic and with only the faltering strength of his arms dragged his resistant body to a precarious position on the log.
Still praying for himself, for Jessica, and for others, he wrapped his arms around the log and held on as the current carried him with flood-gorged speed down the river.
***
“As you said,” Grant told Mitchell, “it’s a rare condition. You can’t fault yourself for not picking up on it.”
“I don’t.” Mitchell’s voice held no animosity but it wasn’t exactly chummy. “It’s a good diagnosis. We’ll begin treatment as soon as possible.”
Grant leaned back in his chair and intentionally relaxed his posture. “Remember the baby we delivered the night of the tornado?”
Mitchell raised a cautious eyebrow. Nodded.
“His name is Clayton Grant Bonus.”
No response, although Grant thought he saw a very slight softening of the man’s features.
“I thought I remembered that your middle name was Clayton.”
“I feel sorry for any baby named after me.”
And yet Grant heard a faint note of tenderness in that controlled voice.
Grant stood up and stepped over to the highly polished credenza, on which rested a framed photograph of a man and woman, probably husband and wife. The man had many of Mitchell’s features.
“Your parents?” he guessed.
“Yes. They died in a boating accident soon after that photograph was taken. I was in my residency at the time.”
“I’m sorry. It must have been difficult for you.”
“It was a surprise,” Mitchell admitted. “My father had planned to have me join him in his practice when I completed my residency.”
“I’d heard your father was a doctor.”
“I wanted to be a basketball coach.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Father’s footsteps, all that. Financially responsible.” Mitchell shifted in his chair and cleared his throat, as if realizing he’d revealed too much. “You didn’t come here to commiserate about something that happened nearly a generation ago.”
“One more thing and I’ll be on my way. You know about the automobile accident that killed my wife and injured Beau...”
“Yes?” Was that a hint of compassion in that voice?
“You also are aware, I believe, that I was injured, as well. So badly that I could not attend my own wife’s funeral.” Grant didn’t wait for a reply but continued. “Until that time I’d thought I had recovered completely from the drug dependency that caught me in my youth. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. I developed a dependency on my pain medication.”
“Dr. Sheldon, this isn’t a confessional and I’m not a priest.”
“I know the signs and I see them in you.”
Mitchell stood up. “I don’t think taking a sleep aid at night constitutes a drug addiction and I don’t have time for this conversa—”
“Why don’t I tell you what I see.” Grant knew he was taking a great risk confronting Mitchell without strong proof. This wasn’t the way the intervention process was ordinarily done. “The first thing I’ve noticed was a change in the quality of your handwriting. Sometimes I have trouble reading patient charts when you’ve worked late at night; when I first came to Dogwood Springs I was jealous of your precise penmanship.”
“You’re basing this accusation on handwrit—”
“Mimi Peterson wasn’t the first patient you kept waiting an inordinate amount of time after you said you would come in. We’ve had several complaints. You and I have discussed this problem.”
Mitchell stalked to the window. “Complaints.” He spat the word over his shoulder. “Since when do physicians get anything but complaints these days?”
“How often do we have babies named after us?” Grant asked softly.
No reply.
“I’m wondering if you’ve been having some difficulty keeping up with your busy schedule lately,” Grant said.
“Maybe I should devote myself to my patients at all hours of the day and night, through every weekend, until I drop dead from exhaustion.” He swung around and returned to his desk. “I shouldn’t take time to sleep. That would be selfish of me. I should come running in here like a good little doctor every single time one of my patients speaks my name because anything less and I wouldn’t be meeting standard of care.”
Grant waited for a few seconds as the harshness of those words hovered in the atmosphere of the office. “Mitchell, your anger has gotten out of control on several occasions, according to patients and staff.”
“You’ve been collecting evidence against me?”
“No, I haven’t. After nearly a year of working with me you should know better. I’ve tried several times to help you. I know about the difficulties you’ve been having in your personal life, and—”
“As I said, my personal life is not your busi—”
“It is my business when it affects patient care and when it reflects on our hos
pital.”
“My clinical skills are as good as—”
“No, they aren’t as good as they ever were,” Grant heard his own voice rising to match Mitchell’s and he lowered it. “Did you even read the review I left in your box? I’ve tried time after time to contact you by telephone. I want to help.”
“What makes you think you can help me?”
“I think I already explained that. I’ve been in a similar situation.”
Mitchell gave no response.
“When I was struggling, I never noticed my own clinical skills slipping until afterward. If I had allowed myself to continue as I was until I made a serious error in judgment, it might have been too late for one of my patients. I’m sure you don’t want that to happen.” He paused and then used the argument he knew would most grab Mitchell’s attention. “You wouldn’t want to be sued.”
“I am being sued. For divorce.”
“Mitchell, you have been observed, from time to time, taking medication while you were on duty in the ER.”
“And who would tell you such a thing?”
“More than one person has expressed concern.”
“They saw me taking a pill? Come on, Grant, you can see through that pitiful attempt to incriminate me. I could have been taking an aspirin or a vitamin. Last I read on the subject, aspirin is not—”
“Do you keep your aspirin in a prescription bottle?”
Mitchell’s winged brows lowered and his face darkened with anger. “You’re intruding on my privacy. I am not a drug addict. Have you ever heard of antibiotics or any multitude of other types of prescription pharmaceuticals?”
“I’m sorry, Mitchell, but until further notice I’m going to have to remove your name from the schedules. Both of them.”
The anger drained suddenly from Mitchell’s face and was replaced by surprised shock. “Have you spoken with the administrator about—”
“Mr. Butler wanted to spare you the pain of a confrontation with both of us or with the medical staff if at all possible. Please, Mitchell, don’t fight me on this.”
Mitchell’s mouth worked silently and then, “I’m telling you I’m not an addict. I take a sleep aid and that’s all.”
“But do you take it before you go home in the evening?”
“Only on rare...only on occasion, when I know I’ll be home before the drug takes effect.”
“But you have been observed—”
“Yes, I know, but there have been times lately when I was inordinately delayed after taking the medication.”
Grant leaned forward. “Tell me why you would even want to take a sleep aid before you get home at night.”
“If you had the trouble sleeping that I—”
“Nothing takes that long to take effect and I have had trouble sleeping. Unless you’re using the drug for something besides sleep there would be no need to use it here or at the hospital.”
Mitchell said nothing.
“I’m sorry to have to do this,” Grant said as he stood up. “Believe me, I want to help you break the cycle before it affects your practice.”
“So now you’re a psychologist?”
“No, just a fellow sufferer. If you decide to talk with me about it you know how to reach me. The change in schedule will take place tomorrow.”
***
Grant arrived home to find Brooke, Beau, and Evan Webster congregated around his computer arguing about an article Evan had written for The Dogwood.
Evan had recently won a nationwide competition for high school students in journalism. Grant couldn’t help wondering how well Evan would do if he didn’t have Brooke and Beau editing him to pieces, correcting his punctuation, cutting his purple prose. It was a moot point, however, since the three of them were inseparable.
“Heads up, you three, we have a dinner guest coming.”
Brooke looked up from her post at the keyboard. “Who’s that?” she asked warily.
“Guess.”
“When’s she going to be here?”
He could tell from the tone of his daughter’s voice she still hadn’t forgiven Lauren for Saturday but he didn’t want to get into it when Evan was within range or their little disagreement might find its way into the town paper—or maybe the school paper.
“Okay, editing session’s over,” Beau said, pushing his chair back from the worktable. “Can Evan stay for dinner?”
“Of course,” Grant said. “Evan, you know you’re always welcome here.”
“Thanks, Grant, but Dad’s still feeling a little cranky now that he’s healing. And Jade’s coming to dinner tonight. Dad wants me to help cook.” Evan stacked his papers and stood. “Know what I think?”
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Brooke said. “You’ve told us at least sixteen times in the past week.”
“You haven’t told me,” Grant said.
“He thinks Jade’s going to pop the question tonight,” Brooke said.
“I didn’t say that, Brooke, I said Dad was going to—”
“Well, it’ll have to be Jade, because your dad’ll never do it. When it comes to women, Norville Webster is as backward as Beau.”
“Which goes to show you really don’t know everything, Brooke,” Evan said, winking at Beau. “Want to work on this more tomorrow, guys?”
“What don’t I know?” Brooke asked.
Ignoring her, Evan stacked his papers and stuffed them into the new leather book bag his stepdad had given him. He grinned at Beau and hurried out the front door.
“Evan Webster!” Brooke called after him.
“Let him go,” Beau said. “How about barbecue tonight?”
“Lauren likes your apple-honey sauce on chicken, Beau,” Brooke said grudgingly, arms crossed over her chest as she strolled to a barstool and perched on it. “But don’t make the chocolate cake like you did last time. Chocolate keeps her awake.”
Grant and Beau looked at each other. Beau nodded and whispered, “I think she’s getting over it, Dad.”
“Beau, what was Evan talking about?” Brooke asked.
“Might as well tell her,” Grant told his son. “She’ll make life miserable for all of us until you do.”
“I have a date for the prom,” Beau said. “With Dru Stanton.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Am not.”
“You’re going to the prom with her? Do you know how many guys have asked her?”
Beau leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head, looking smug. “She asked me.”
“Does her grandmother know? She thinks you’re a masher.”
Grant smiled to himself as his children continued their good-natured insults. Maybe there really was something about springtime inspiring romance. He just hoped everything went well with Lauren tonight, because he was ready for the next step.
So were his kids.
Chapter Twenty-five
Jessica squirmed in the recliner. Before she could shift her weight Mom Pierce was at her right side. “Honey, do you need something? Can I get you a drink of water?”
“I’m fine, Mom. Thanks.” Jessica couldn’t imagine the heartache Eileen was going through herself. Her kindness and hospitality put Jessica to shame.
“How about a bite to eat? Can’t have you getting sick on us again.”
“Thanks, maybe after a while.”
“Just let us know. We want you up to snuff when Archer gets here.” Mom turned back to her conversation with Mrs. Boucher.
Jessica was grateful for her mother-in-law’s graciousness. As if to attest to her merits, the living room held some of her closest friends from her many years of service beside her husband in the ministry of Dogwood Springs Baptist Church.
How did she do it?
Each of the visitors had brought food and then stayed for a visit, and Jessica knew it was her mother-in-law’s presence that made them feel so welcome. It made Jessica feel that much worse because she wanted to be alone.
To her left sat Helen Netz, ostensibl
y visiting to make sure Jessica was feeling better, but in reality everyone knew she wanted a nice long visit with Eileen. She seemed frustrated that others were taking so much of Eileen’s attention.
Earlier that afternoon, when Mom and Dad Pierce brought Jessica home from the hospital, she had felt faint at the sight of so many cars parked in the driveway and along the street. She’d recognized those cars—most belonged to church members. One pickup truck belonged to Roger McCaffrey, Lauren’s brother, who had been good friends with Archer. The one vehicle she’d been relieved to see was her father’s old farm truck.
At this moment, it seemed about half the congregation was either crowded into the parsonage or out combing the riverbanks in search of Archer. Charles Lane had elected to mow the yard for her—an obvious sign of his discomfort around so many strangers in spite of his need to be there for his daughter.
As Jessica sat listening to bits and pieces of at least three sets of conversations around her she felt overwhelmed.
“...can’t think what’s going to happen if the mayor does marry that Webster fella. She’s a bit headstrong, if you ask me...”
“...that little redhead who works in the respiratory department at the hospital? I’m thinkin’ about settin’ her up with my nephew...”
“...don’t know why the major hasn’t put that uncle of hers in a home. He’ll get himself killed one day...”
“... things seem to’ve cooled off between Dr. Sheldon and Lauren after she turned up missing all day Saturday. You don’t suppose...” Several sets of gazes turned in Jessica’s direction.
Jessica pretended not to hear. She wished she hadn’t. She also wished they would take their gossipy minds out of this house.
Home had always been her haven, where she didn’t have to be “Jessica Lane Pierce, Branson entertainer,” or “Jessica Pierce, pastor’s wife,” but just plain Jess, who was far from perfect, who still struggled to have enough faith to get her through this crisis, and who was tired of smiling for the public.
“So Jessica.” Helen Netz scooted closer to the recliner and lowered her voice. “We missed you at church yesterday morning.” Her birdlike eyes studied Jessica from behind bifocal lenses. “We held a prayer meeting instead of a regular service.”
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