A Heartbeat Away

by Harry Kraus

  “Not yet.”

  “You know he’s coming?”

  “Bugged his office. We know he’s coming.”

  Tori looked at Phin and held his hand. “I feel better every day.”

  Gene readjusted the camera view to show the doorway. “My boys busted the lock off that metal box. Emily Greene knew how to do her homework. Everything is dated and timed. She’s got palliative-care records, scanned prescriptions, photographs, and even Ellis’s private financials.”

  “All that in there?”

  “Most of it’s on a flash drive.”

  “Wow.”

  Thirty minutes later, a late-model Honda Civic pulled into the parking lot. “That’s him.”

  The FBI agent nodded and keyed his radio. “Start the IV drip.”

  Tori reached for the window control but was stopped by Gene’s hand on hers. “Keep the window closed,” he cautioned. “I do want to see his reaction when he realizes you’re alive, but not just yet.”

  Tori nodded.

  Gene communicated with the agents inside. “Ellis has arrived. He should be in the building in a few minutes.”

  Ellis was dressed in a blue blazer, a white shirt, and a dark tie. They watched from the truck as he entered the building.

  “Ellis is inside,” Gene said.

  “Okay, we’re watching,” Chang responded on the radio.

  Tori watched the video feed on the flat-screen. Ellis’s silhouette filled the doorway. He looked at Emily, who lay with eyes open but unfocused. Her blonde hair had started to grow out, making her roots stand out in contrast to the brunette she had become undercover.

  Ellis wasted no time. He shut the door and moved a chair to block it so that if someone entered, the sound of the door bumping the chair would warn him. He glanced at the IV and smiled. He pulled something from his coat pocket.

  “He’s got a syringe,” Tori said.

  “Keep watching.”

  Ellis took the cap from the syringe and shoved it into a side port on the IV. He pushed the plunger of the syringe forward, emptying the clear contents.

  Instead of watching, he quickly moved the chair and exited. He didn’t want to be anywhere close when Emily’s respirations ceased.

  The radio sounded. “We’re coming out behind him.”

  “Good. I’ve got the front door covered.”

  Gene let Tori step outside the truck so that she could have a full view of the front door.

  When Ellis stepped outside the hospital, he picked up speed—until two agents approached from the front with weapons drawn. His face paled as he slowed and stopped. Agents Chang and Wilson slipped up behind him, cuffing him with minimal effort.

  A minute later, when the agents escorted Ellis through the parking lot, Tori stepped from behind the truck and called his name. “Oh, Captain,” she said. “I wanted to thank you for hosting me at your wonderful island home.”

  “You!” He wrenched his arms free from the grip of the agents and rushed forward.

  Tori jumped away, but the furious Ellis was still able to graze her with his shoulder, throwing her off-balance to the pavement, before he ended up facedown on the parking lot beneath two burly FBI agents. Tori twisted her ankle in her fall, and she felt the fresh wound on her back strain against the sutures.

  Phin helped her to her feet. “Are you okay?”

  She smiled. “I haven’t felt this good in a long time.”

  43

  Two hours later, after a long wait in the Nassawadox General Hospital ER waiting room, a physician finally evaluated Tori for her swollen left ankle.

  The physician held the X-ray up to the light. “I’d guess you’ve had trouble with this ankle for some time.”

  “It has hurt a bit in the last few weeks. Nothing serious—just an aggravation.”

  The ER doctor smiled. “Well, the good news is that there is no fracture.”

  “And the bad news?”

  “Did I say there was bad news?”

  “When a doctor starts like that, there’s always bad news coming.”

  He chuckled. “That old screw seems to be working its way out,” he said. “I’m not surprised it’s been bothering you.”

  “Old screw?” Tori didn’t understand.

  “It’s nothing urgent,” he said, reaching for her ankle and turning it to palpate along her medial malleolus, the bony prominence of the inside of the ankle.

  Tori shook her head. “I’ve never had any surgery on that ankle before.”

  He laughed. “Oh, you jest. Looks like you had a pretty nasty break here at one time.” He looked at her and squinted. “Years ago, perhaps.”

  She looked at Phin, who shrugged.

  The doctor continued. “Just call your orthopedic surgeon when you get back home. I suspect they’ll want to take that screw back out.”

  “You must have mixed up the X-rays,” she said. “I’ve never had any surgery on that ankle.”

  While the doctor moved closer to read the name on the X-ray, an image flashed through Tori’s mind. An evil man. Bad teeth. “You little witch!”

  “Tori?” Phin touched her arm.

  “Lay her down,” the doctor said, turning back toward her. “I think she’s having a vagal response. She’s fainting.”

  The man slapped her, sending her backward against the wall. She stumbled into the stairwell. She reached for the banister and missed, rolling, tumbling, bouncing to the landing below.

  “Tori.” Phin’s voice.

  She took a deep breath. “Oh, wow,” she said.

  The doctor put his hand on her wrist. “You almost fainted.” He leaned over her foot and adjusted a gooseneck lamp into position. He twisted the switch and illuminated her ankle. “See,” he said, tracing a small scar on her ankle. “You’ve just forgotten. Here’s your surgical scar.”

  She nodded. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “The dreams were mine after all.”

  Two days later, Tori lay on the leather couch in her suburban Richmond home with her sprained ankle propped on a large rust-colored pillow. Phin, sitting in a chair next to Tori’s old friend Charlotte Rains, opened a folder.

  Tori felt her jaw slacken. She let her mouth open, all the while knowing how incredulous she would appear. But she didn’t care. In fact, she was incredulous. “Why didn’t you tell me I was adopted?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath. “Your parents tried to tell you, but any time they initiated the discussion, they said it upset you. Then, after you started that fire at Disney World, your counselor suggested they wait until you were more mature. They were afraid. Then, the longer they waited, and you finally adjusted, they feared how the news might affect you. Your mom still wanted to tell you, but then your father died, and after that, your mother got ill.” Charlotte held out her hand, palms up. Surrender. “When she gave me your birth certificate, she told me that she didn’t know how it could ever help you. You’d obviously blocked out your former life.”

  Phin leaned forward. “They were protecting you.” He took her hand. “You suppressed some pretty rough stuff so you could function.” He paused. “But when the memories started to resurface, it was easier and less threatening to let them come out because you thought they were someone else’s.”

  Tori sighed. “This is so unbelievable. Some of the memories were Christian’s.”

  Charlotte nodded. “And some were those of a little girl from Richmond, Virginia.”

  Phin handed her a copy of an old news article. “Gus did some research,” he said.

  She read the old news article. A fire in a downtown apartment high-rise took the lives of Nadine Benson and Clive Stiller. Tori looked up. “Nadine? Manny’s wife?”

  Charlotte nodded. “Manny told me you guys were neighbors.”

 
Tori kept reading. Arson was suspected. A third body was found in the burned apartment, the body of an Eva Trexler. Trexler had been dead before the fire started.

  Phin handed her a copy of a birth certificate for Victoria Anne Trexler.

  She looked up. “Me?”

  Charlotte nodded again.

  “So Eva Trexler was my mother?”

  “And Clive Stiller?”

  Phin paged through several documents. “Gus was able to get some old documents from social services. The evidence pointed to arson, and you were their prime suspect.” He paused. “The article says you were found hiding outside the burning apartment inside an enclosed playground slide.”

  Tori understood. I remember the slide.

  Phin continued. “Clive was an abusive drunk. He abused you and your mother. They think you started the fire to stop him but not before he killed your mother. The district attorney looked at your case but never wanted to prosecute because of your situation.”

  “I guess I didn’t burn my arm on a motorcycle muffler either.”

  Phin shook his head. “I’m not sure how you came up with that idea. Maybe your adoptive mother suggested it as a way to answer other curious children.”

  “This means I started the fire that killed Manny’s wife.” She hesitated with her hand covering her mouth. She began to cry. “That’s what he meant when he said he knew what I’d done, but he forgave me.”

  Tori struggled to her feet and lifted a pair of crutches that leaned against the couch.

  “Where are you going?” Charlotte asked.

  “Nowhere. I just need to pace.” She limped over to stand in front of a glass sliding door that opened to her backyard, shaking her head slowly. “I can’t believe Manny knew this all the time. He even put his trust in me and let me operate on his cancer.”

  Tori felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see Charlotte. “Manny loved you. He knew you were only a young child.”

  Tori took a deep breath. “So much of my life has been a lie.”

  Phin stood up. “Not a lie, Tori. A misunderstanding. You closed up to protect yourself.”

  She moved away from her friends, trying to process the new information. I escaped a fire.

  A fire that I started.

  She didn’t know what to feel. Guilt? Sorrow? Relief? But she hadn’t lived with guilt, because she’d locked away the pain. It was difficult to feel immediate sorrow because she’d lived in ignorance of the suffering she’d caused. And although she wanted to know she was forgiven, she hadn’t yet processed the guilt.

  Mostly, Tori just felt numb.

  Phin walked over and put his arms around her. “Are you okay?”

  “Time,” she said. “I’m just going to need some time.”

  44

  Two weeks later, Tori answered the phone in her study. “Hello.”

  She recognized the voice as he said her name. “Tori, it’s me, Dr. Evans.”

  “Yes.”

  She listened as he sighed. “The Board of Visitors met this week. I need you back at work.”

  “Really?” She paced around her desk. “So soon? Why did they change their minds?”

  “I convinced them.”

  “And what convinced you?”

  “Phin MacGrath. His report is rather remarkable. He assures me that you are a different woman.”

  “You have your doubts.”

  “We’ve worked together a long time.”

  “So what gives? Something must be different. I know you, Dr. Samuel,” she said, daring to use the chairman’s first name. “Tell me the truth.”

  “The truth? I need you back. Your patients are asking for you.”

  “My patients?”

  “Well, one in particular. A woman named Kesha has called my office a dozen times this week alone.” He imitated her voice. “When is Dr. Taylor coming back? My son won’t see anyone else.”

  Kesha! I should have known.

  “Can you start in the morning?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “We have a new group of third-year medical students coming in. I need you to give them the orientation lecture.”

  “Now I see. You hate giving that lecture.” Tori tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle. “Okay, Dr. Evans, I’ll come back.”

  “Oh, Tori—you should know that Steve Brown isn’t working out. The man’s got an ego the size of Texas. Our nursing staff is actually asking for you.”

  She smiled. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “The lecture is at eight. Don’t be late.”

  She hung up the phone and sat at her computer. She brought up her lecture notes for the introduction to surgery. She read her opening aloud. “Between the gods and men … are surgeons.”

  She set the cursor and hit the delete key. I know better now. The only mediator between God and man is Jesus.

  God, I was arrogant. Help me.

  She wrote another opening line. “Surgery can be the most rewarding career in the world.”

  Sappy. But true.

  Her computer emitted a soft note to indicate the presence of a new email.

  Happy for the diversion, she clicked on the new letter and began to read.

  Dear Dr. Taylor,

  I was given your email address by the transplant coordinator at VCU Medical Center. You see, beating within your chest is the heart of a real champion. I should know. It once beat within the chest of a man I loved with all my heart, my son, Christian.

  Tori leaned forward and slowly read every word. Inside, she felt her heart quicken.

  From the time he was a teen, he possessed a real gift. Christian could sense pain, fear, joy, and sorrow from the subtlest clues. But more than that, he had a remarkable ability to respond with compassion.

  Tori lifted her hand to her lips. She let a sob escape her lips. My heart!

  She continued reading, anxious for a glimpse into the life of her donor.

  More than anything, Christian had a love for Jesus. My prayer is that his heart would beat long enough within you until you know the meaning of my words.

  She felt her heart thrill. Jesus.

  Christian Mitchell loved you. Tori laid her hand across her chest as she prayed. Now I do too.

  I loved him so much and my sorrow is a well that I think will never be quenched.

  Sincerely,

  Dan Mitchell, MD

  Tori wept for the Mitchell family, knowing that their loss was her only chance at life. She wept with tears spilling over and dropping onto her computer keyboard. But her tears were not only those of sorrow. Her tears carried a message of hope, the knowledge that her new heart beat a rhythm of love and joy. A smile interrupted a sob as she brushed the tears from the keyboard.

  Tori whispered toward the computer screen, lifting her head so that her tears fell onto her shirt over her heart. “Thank you, Christian.”

  She paused. The moment seemed alive.

  She sat in silence for a minute or two before whispering again. “Thank you, Christian, for your heart of flesh.”

  … a little more …

  When a delightful concert comes to an end,

  the orchestra might offer an encore.

  When a fine meal comes to an end,

  it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.

  When a great story comes to an end,

  we think you may want to linger.

  And so, we offer ...

  AfterWords—just a little something more after you

  have finished a David C Cook novel.

  We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

  Thanks for reading!

  Turn the page for ...

  • Getting to Know Harry
r />   • More from Harry

  Getting to Know Harry

  If we could sit down together, I’d want to hear your story. Everyone has one.

  If you think I get up each morning, fill up my drip coffeemaker, and settle in with my laptop to play with my imaginary friends (my characters, okay? I’m not really crazy), then think again. Oh, I’ve had days when I wonder what that kind of life would be like, sitting in a wood-paneled office with my fingers busy on the keyboard, uncovering the great American novel, stopping in the afternoon to read email correspondence from adoring readers. But my life is far from the typical novelist: I’ve spent most of the last decade slugging it out day in and day out with the enemies of surgery in equatorial Africa. Enemies, you ask? Sure. HIV, cancer, bizarre tropical infections, trauma, and tuberculosis, just to name a few. Just this week, I’ve had to repair a femoral artery severed during a bone-splintering car accident, removed a huge (yes, that’s a common word we use to describe the cancers here) abdominal tumor in an elderly woman (I had to remove a portion of her stomach and colon just to get around it), stent open an esophageal cancer, help an old man urinate by removing the bulging prostate gland that had shut off his stream, and carefully excise an overactive thyroid that had caused a young woman’s heart to race without an external cause.

  The writing part of my life comes at the bookends of days filled with sweat and blood. The sweat is mine; the blood, my patients’. My clinics are filled with people who have long ignored their cancers and have often visited “traditional healers” who only worsened their situations. There is little time during the day to turn my thoughts to the craft of fiction, so that comes when the lights in the clinic are off and the last patient has either been admitted or found a ride up the rutted road toward the highway.

  I’ve been doing more and more work outside Kenya these days, because medicine opens the way into places of political turmoil and trouble, places where Christian missionaries are unwelcome. And surgery provides a practical way to love people desperate with physical needs and hopefully provide a small glimpse into who Christ was and is.

  What is it that motivates me, that makes me tick? Why sacrifice my comfortable life in America for this? And why, for that matter, do I spend the hundreds of extra hours it takes to write novels?