Code Blue

by Richard MD Mabry

  "Funny man."

  Will reached into his jacket pocket. "I brought you something.Mom thought you might like one of her special chocolate chip cookies."

  "I notice there are two, so I guess you expect me to share.Let me get you something to drink. Diet Coke okay?"

  With Will settled beside her at the desk, Cathy ran her finger down the column of figures Jane had prepared. On paper, her practice had started to turn a profit. But it would take at least another month before she received sufficient insurance payments for those paper profits to show up in her bank account.

  "It will be a stretch just to come up with the money for the interest on the loan. There's no way I can meet the bank's new terms."

  Will popped the last bite of cookie into his mouth and licked his fingers. "See what tomorrow brings. Don't forget what Dad said in his sermon today."

  Cathy nodded uneasily. She could agree in principal with leaning on God to supply her needs, but in practice? Not so easy.

  "What's that?" Will pointed to two sheets of paper peeking out from under the list of accounts receivable.

  "Those are the names of everyone in the county who owns a black Ford Expedition. The sheriffthought I might recognize the name of a person who would want to run me out of town. Or kill me."

  "Let me see one sheet; you take the other. Then we'll switch."

  Cathy had the top of the alphabet. She put down the remains of her cookie and started down the list. Abernathy.Archer. Bascomb. Bell. Clawson. Conroy.

  "Whoa," she said. "Look at this." She handed the list to Will and pointed out a name.

  "Marcus Bell," he said. "You think he might be behind this?"

  Cathy shook her head. "I don't know. At first, Marcus seemed supportive of me professionally. Then he asked me out a couple of times and I said no. After that, he's been a bit less friendly. But, surely, he wouldn't try to hurt me just because I turned him down for a date." She gnawed at a fingernail. "Besides, the incident with the SUV happened before he ever asked me out."

  "Maybe we're looking at it backward," Will said. "Maybe Marcus was out to get you even before he asked you out.Remember how something always stopped you from getting privileges? Marcus was in a perfect position to pull that off."

  "I can't believe he'd do that."

  "When he saw you in the emergency room after the accident, how long had he been there?"

  "I'm not sure," Cathy said. "The nurse said he'd come in to look at a patient with possible appendicitis, but that wouldn't take long. The work-up had been done already. And it was a while between the time of the accident and my arrival at the ER."

  Will tapped his fingers against his front teeth. "Could he have been in that SUV on his way to the hospital when he saw you and decided to run you offthe road? Or might it have been an accident, and afterward he was afraid to admit it?"

  "I don't know." Cathy wanted to scream. "I just want my life back."

  Will took Cathy's hand and squeezed it. "Okay. I didn't mean to upset you. Let's finish checking this list so you can talk to SheriffDunaway in the morning. In the meantime, be careful around Marcus Bell."

  Cathy chewed the last bite of her cookie, but it seemed to turn to dust in her mouth.

  "Sheriff, I want to make it clear that I'm not accusing anyone whose name I've marked. These are just people who seem to be the most likely suspects."

  Dunaway inclined his head. "I understand, Dr. Sewell.We'll be very discreet in our questions. I'll have one of my deputies make a few calls to see if these folks can verify where they were at the times you encountered that black SUV. Your name won't be mentioned."

  Cathy came out from behind her desk and offered her hand. "Thank you. I appreciate everything you're doing."

  "Not at all. Not only is it my job, I . . . I don't guess you'd remember. You were only about eight or nine at the time.My son, Jerry, fell out of a tree and hit his head. By the time we got him to the hospital, he had what they called an acute subdural hematoma—bleeding over the outside of the brain.The nearest neurosurgeon was an hour away, and your daddy said that by then Jerry would be dead. He told us he hadn't seen one of these kind of injuries since he was a resident, but he asked our permission to do an emergency operation to relieve the pressure. He called it 'burr holes.' After he did it, he rode in the ambulance to Dallas with Jerry. The neurosurgeon said Dr. Sewell saved our son's life."

  Cathy had a faint memory of her father mentioning the episode, but he never made much of it. "Just another day at the office" was his usual comment.

  "Your father was a fine man and a good doctor," Dunaway said. "And he took wonderful care of your mother when she got sick. I think you'll find there are lots of folks around here who still feel grateful to him."

  "How is Jerry?" Cathy asked.

  "Killed in Afghanistan. Threw himself on a grenade to save his buddies." Dunaway blinked rapidly. "But we were blessed to have him as long as we did, thanks to your daddy's work. God was really good to us."

  Cathy found herself touched by the attitude of this man and confused by the picture everyone had painted of her father. Maybe she'd been wrong—about lots of things.

  Cathy blew a stray wisp of hair out of her eyes and shrugged her shoulders to ease the tension. It had been a busy morning, and the balance of the day promised to be more of the same. She didn't really have time to make this call, but Jane had said it was important.

  "Marcus, Jane said that you called."

  "Yes. Thanks for calling back." He hesitated so long Cathy thought she'd lost the connection.

  "Marcus, are you there?"

  "Cathy, this is hard for me. I know you've been angry with me, perhaps with good reason. I don't know. But I'd still like to invite you out—if not for dinner, then just for coffee.What do you say?"

  "I'm sorry I got angry with you for not taking my side," Cathy said. "I realize that perhaps you really do think you should stay neutral in staffmatters. And I hope you will believe me when I say that the reason I keep turning your invitations down isn't because I don't like you. I do . . . but as a friend and colleague."

  "Just what every man wants to hear. So, things are serious between you and Will Kennedy?"

  Were they? Maybe they were. She didn't need to ask how Marcus knew about their relationship. People always knew one another's business in a small town. "I guess they are."

  "I'm happy for you. When my wife died, I didn't think I'd ever want to be with anyone else again. Although time dulls the pain, it doesn't take away the loneliness. I guess I thought you might be the answer."

  "God has someone out there for you, I'm sure. It just isn't me." Cathy's words shocked her. She had no idea where they had come from. She hadn't said anything like that since God killed her parents.

  But now she knew that God hadn't killed them. A senseless combination of speed and a rain-slick road had caused the accident. And maybe God had given her Will to take away her own loneliness.

  Late Monday afternoon, Cathy looked over Jane's shoulders and read the numbers on the bank deposit—a few checks from patients, but no large insurance payments. She would need to call Will tonight and give him the bad news: no way could she come up with the five thousand dollars plus more than fourteen hundred dollars in interest that the bank had demanded. She could only hope Nix would change his mind, but that seemed unlikely.

  Before sinking into her chair, Cathy shed her white coat and tossed it into the hamper. She tipped her chair forward and reached toward the bottom desk drawer to retrieve her purse when she saw the envelope centered on her blotter— a plain white envelope, no return address, postmarked last Thursday. A Post-it note stuck to the front that read "Elams brought this by" obscured the address. She removed the yellow sticky and noticed the envelope was addressed to her apartment.

  The only mail she ever got at that address consisted of circulars, catalogs, and junk pieces addressed to "Occupant." All her bills and important correspondence came to the office.

  Quickly, she sli
t the envelope open and pulled out a computer-generated letter on a single sheet of white paper.Her eyes were drawn immediately to the signature—Ella Mae Mercer. The missing suicide note.

  Dear Cathy,

  Forgive the familiarity. I know so much about you from my relationship with your father. When you read this I'll be dead. I know that sounds melodramatic, but it happens to be true. I'm guilty of a terrible wrong, and I need to put it right before I die. Then when I stand before my Maker perhaps He won't judge me too harshly.

  Cathy looked away, steeling her emotions. Here it comes— her confession that she had an affair with my father. Ella Mae felt so guilty that he prescribed a tranquilizer for her. Or maybe he broke it off, and she needed the medicine to get through that time.

  Years ago, I forged your father's signature to a check to pay for my mother's burial. The cost of care during her last days took every cent I had. I'd hoped to cover the shortage before your father found out, but I couldn't.He came to the bank to ask about it. It didn't take long before I broke down and confessed, begging him not to press charges. Instead, he pulled his checkbook from his coat pocket, turned to the check register, and wrote in the amount of the check I'd forged. Then he looked at me with nothing but pity in those gray eyes of his. "It's over. Now I'll pray for you."

  I know he needed the money himself, because I saw his account records and knew how much he spent every month for your mother's care. But he never said another word about it. That's when he wrote me a prescription to help me through my depression.

  My crime has eaten at me all these years. I thought I could ease my conscience by helping you out with the insurance company, but it wasn't enough. That's when I decided I had to make amends before I die.

  I hope that, like your father, you'll pray for me.

  Ella Mae Mercer

  Could it be true that she had misjudged her father so badly? He didn't have an affair with Ella Mae. He'd helped out the poor woman. And he'd probably talked with his pastor and asked him to pray for Ella Mae as he had promised.

  What about the difficult times her parents had gone through? Cathy could picture her father and Matthew Kennedy kneeling in the pastor's study, asking God for help in keeping that marriage together. Pastors keep a lot of secrets—so do doctors—but Cathy knew that husbands had no secrets from their wives. That must be the reason Dora could say with such certainty that Nolan Sewell had been faithful to his wife.

  "Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry I thought those horrible things about you. I'm sorry I let this come between us."

  When she folded the letter to replace it in the envelope, her fingers touched something else. She pulled out a stiff piece of paper just small enough to fit into the envelope. A note was clipped to it: "Principal and interest for my loan from your father. Paid in full."

  She removed the note and looked at the cashier's check for six thousand, five hundred dollars. She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and whispered, "And here's the manna!" She could hardly choke out her next words. "Thank you, God."

  18

  CATHY LOOKED DOWN AT THE WOMAN LYING STOCK-STILL IN THE ICU bed. "How are you feeling this morning?"

  Ella Mae's only response was a slight shift of the head, turning her face toward the wall.

  "I asked them to offer you a liquid diet. Did you drink anything?"

  A nod of yes this time. Good.

  "I got the letter . . . and the check."

  Now Ella Mae turned her head toward Cathy. Her eyes were empty. There was the faintest movement of her lips, and then she compressed them tightly together.

  "I appreciate that you tried to make amends, but I don't think attempting suicide was such a good idea. Not for you.Not for anybody."

  "Sorry." The words came out as a croak.

  "Did you talk with the psychiatrist when he came by yesterday?" Cathy had read the consultation note, but she wanted to hear Ella Mae's version.

  Ella Mae shook her head. "No need. It's all in the letter."

  "No, the letter unlocks a lot of mysteries for me, but you've got some work to do to get yourself straightened out." Cathy pulled a chair to the bedside and sat. "If I let you out of the hospital, will you promise not to try to kill yourself again?"

  A nod.

  "I hope you realize I can't give you any more tranquilizers right now. Can you do without them?"

  "I'll try my best," Ella Mae whispered.

  "And if I discharge you, what will you do?"

  "I guess I'll go back to work."

  "Some of the people there probably know about what you did. Can you handle that?"

  Ella Mae nodded weakly. "It's no secret I've been under stress. That's what my job is all about. I can handle that." She fluttered a hand on top of the blanket. "But no one knows about the money I took."

  "And I won't tell them, either," Cathy said. "But you need some help getting your head together. Will you see a psychiatrist if I refer you to someone? How did you like the doctor who visited with you yesterday?"

  Ella Mae pointed to the carafe of water on her bedside table. Cathy poured a glass and handed it to her. Ella Mae finished the water and handed the glass back. "I didn't like him. He made me feel . . . small. Like, by attempting suicide, I'd forfeited the right to be human."

  "Would you drive to Fort Worth to see a psychiatrist? Someone I can recommend from personal experience?"

  Cathy could tell she had surprised Ella Mae. Most people thought doctors led a perfect life.

  "Would you?" Cathy asked again.

  Ella Mae managed a weak smile. "If you give him your personal seal of approval, that's good enough for me."

  Despite Will's desire to accompany her to the bank, Cathy insisted on going alone, especially since she no longer needed to negotiate with Milton Nix. She promised Will she'd bring him up to date that evening while they worked on her case.

  "I'd like to speak with Mr. Nix, please," Cathy told the teller.

  Apparently, the bank employees—along with everyone else in Dainger—knew about the malpractice suit. The woman stammered, "Do you think . . . ? I mean . . . can someone else help you?"

  "No, this is bank business. I need to talk with Mr. Nix."

  Cathy took perverse pleasure in watching the drama unfold. The teller went to the desk of Nix's secretary and held a whispered consultation. Then the two of them looked back at Cathy, quickly turning away when she returned their stare. After a few more words, the secretary scuttled to the door of Nix's office and tapped lightly. In a moment she eased the door open and ducked inside like someone slipping into an air-conditioned room without letting the cool air escape. The teller waited nervously outside the office, obviously unsure whether she should return to her station or stay put. Finally, the door to the inner sanctum opened, and Nix appeared.

  Milton Nix was dressed as a bank president should be—or, more likely, as the wife of a bank president thought he should be. The way his three-piece gray pinstripe suit hung on him demonstrated that, no matter how much you spend on the clothes, the final image depends on the person wearing them.

  He beckoned to Cathy, who chose to ignore the gesture.Let him come to her. Finally, he ambled over to her. "How can I help you?"

  "May we speak in private?"

  "Of course." He gestured toward his office.

  Once they were seated, Nix said, "I'm not sure of the protocol of the situation, but should we be talking like this? With the suit pending and all? Shouldn't our lawyers be handling all the communication?"

  Cathy smiled as she recalled Will's comments to Sam Lawton. "The malpractice suit? Yes, my lawyer is handling that, including preparing the countersuit against you."

  Apparently, Sam Lawton hadn't shared this message with his client. Nix's face flushed. He tugged at his collar, and Cathy feared he would go into cardiac arrest again.

  "This is about the note I have with this bank. The note, I might add, that you assured me could be handled by paying only the interest when it came up f
or renewal, giving me a chance to establish my practice." She reached into her purse and pulled out the bank's letter. "May I ask what caused this change of heart?"

  "I . . . well, that is . . . the loan committee decided that recent developments called into question your ability to repay the money in a timely fashion. They thought that a five thousand dollar reduction in principal would serve as a good faith measure, allowing us to continue the loan."

  "If I pay that amount, will you draft a new note, maturing two years from now?"

  "I'm not sure the committee—"

  Cathy had a flash of insight. This wasn't about making her close her practice. This was all about Nix saving his own skin.

  "You know as well as I do," she said, "that you make these decisions, and the committee rubber-stamps your recommendations.I'll tell you what's going on. You figured the malpractice suit was the last straw for my practice, and you decided to pull the plug on the note to avoid criticism for making it. You could claim you saw how the situation had changed, so you acted to protect the bank's interest. Isn't that right?"

  "Well . . . uh," Nix stuttered. "We expect the bank examiners here next month, and we have some notes that aren't well-secured. I was afraid of what they'd say. Requiring you to reduce the principal would show that we were aware of the risk and had acted to lessen it." He pulled the tiny blue silk handkerchief from his suit breast pocket and wiped his brow. "Actually, we've done the same thing with several other notes. It's not just you, Dr. Sewell."

  Cathy leaned forward and thought she saw Nix shrink back in his chair. "I'll make you a deal. You renew the note for two years—at one point below prime this time—and I'll pay down the principal by five thousand dollars."

  "Why would I do that?"