He stared down at the phone in his hand. How did the man know so much about SystemSource’s business? Again, the worry that the man was someone from work nipped at him like a yappy little dog. He shook his head, there was no one with an accent like that at the company—at least no one he’d ever met. And, in the end, what difference did it make who he was? The man owned him, and that was all that really mattered now.
He opened the contracts database to perform the search the man wanted and ignored the fact that his fingers were shaking. He scanned the list of clients. His mother’s kidnapper would be pleased to know that, as an affiliate of Suburban Hospital, Aroostine Higgins’s oral surgeon did, in fact, use SystemSource’s medical equipment monitoring system.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Monday morning
Franklin took a steadying breath to fight the nausea that had been coming over him in waves all morning.
When he’d called the man back to tell him that Suburban Dental Surgery Associates did use RemoteControl both to run its office network and to monitor the medical equipment in the surgical suites, the man had been elated. He ordered Franklin to interrupt the supplemental oxygen supply being delivered nasally and to cut power to the vital signs monitoring equipment once the lawyer’s procedure was well underway. Then, he’d disconnected the call.
And Franklin had lain awake trying to rationalize what he’d be doing the next day. He’d argued with himself as he tossed, turned, and twisted in his bed.
It’s just dental surgery—she won’t be under general anesthesia. It’s not like she’s going to die. Is it?
He thought he’d stared at the ceiling all night, but he must have fallen asleep at some point, because he awoke to the sun streaming through his window with his face wet from the tears he’d shed during one of his dreams.
He called into the office to report that he was feeling ill (true enough) and planned to work from home for the next day or two. Then he brewed a pot of coffee and sat with a mug and stared at the clock on the kitchen wall.
At seven fifty, he imagined the lawyer arriving, dressed in a suit and eager to get her appointment out of the way and get on with her full day at the office. Although the dental office’s notes indicated the recommended recovery time after a wisdom tooth extraction was at least twenty-four to thirty-six hours at home, Aroostine’s Outlook calendar was packed with meetings on both Monday afternoon and all day Tuesday—all of them listed under the caption of her upcoming trial. He would have bet that she insisted on the first appointment of the day to accommodate her pretrial schedule. She probably thought there was no way she could spare the entire day—which was probably especially true now that her home computer had been destroyed in the fire.
At eight o’clock, he imagined her settling into the vinyl dental chair, possibly a touch nervous, to await the arrival of Dr. Davis. Franklin tried to distract himself by checking his e-mail, but he was too antsy to focus on the messages, so he closed the program and just sat, staring blankly at the screen until it went black, and waited.
At ten minutes after eight, his computer screen blinked to life; the program tracking the use of the medical equipment was active.
This is it. He stared at the information scrolling across the screen. Her vital signs were being monitored. And the cocktail of sedatives and painkillers was being delivered into her veins. He watched the display show that her heart rate and breathing had settled into a slow, steady rhythm, and the supplemental oxygen had begun to flow.
The procedure was underway. He’d give the oral surgeon time to make his first cuts.
He lifted his mug to his mouth and took a swig of coffee. Cold. Disgusting.
He stood to spit it into the sink. When he raised his head from the basin, his heart stopped. A black and white patrol car was parked in the alley directly at the end of his small yard.
His stomach seized. He grasped the edge of the counter to steady himself.
It was over. The police were coming for him. There was probably another car stationed out front. They were going to crash through his door and throw him to the floor.
He focused on breathing, which suddenly seemed like an almost impossibly difficult task.
A knock sounded on the kitchen door.
He swallowed but couldn’t seem to convince his legs to move to the door.
His mother was going to die because, somehow, somewhere, he’d slipped up.
Another knock, more insistent this time.
He craned his neck to look through the window and see how many of them were out there.
What he saw was Tyrone Johnson in his patrolman’s uniform, raising a hand to knock on his kitchen door a third time, a deep frown of irritation creasing his mouth.
What had Tyrone learned? Did he know?
Tyrone rapped loudly against the door.
Franklin forced his numb legs to move in the direction of the sound.
He stood in front of the door and worked up some saliva to wet his throat. Then he pulled it open.
Tyrone was pulling his radio from his belt.
“Oh, good. You’re alive.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Franklin croaked.
“I dunno, man. It’s been quiet over here. No one’s seen your ma in days. And your lights have been on twenty-four/seven. I thought maybe you bought it. Didn’t want her to come back from her trip to visit your great-aunt and find your decomposing corpse, you know?”
Tyrone flashed him a smile, but Franklin got the distinct feeling that his neighbor didn’t completely buy the great-aunt story.
“Heh,” he chuckled weakly. “I’ve been working from home. I caught some kind of bug. Flu maybe? Anyway, that’s the benefit of working in IT. I can do it in my pajamas from my kitchen table.”
Tyrone’s eyes flitted from Franklin’s face and swept through the visible portion of the house.
Franklin moved into the doorway to block the cop’s ingress and continued, “So, uh, not to be rude, but I don’t want to give you whatever I’ve got. It’s nasty.”
“You working ’round the clock?”
“What?”
“The lights? Your lights are on all night long.”
“Oh. Uh, actually, it’s this stomach flu. I’ve running back and forth to the bathroom all night. It’s bad, man. Sorry if the lights are bothering you and Gloria. I can turn them off tonight.”
“No, don’t sweat it.” Tyrone’s mouth curled into a sneer of disgust at the thought of his neighbor’s stomach problems. “Just glad to know you didn’t kick the bucket.”
“Ha, yeah. Well, thanks for checking on me,” Franklin said.
Tyrone was already backing away, like he was worried Franklin might projectile vomit on him or crap his pants right there in the doorway.
Franklin half-thought he might, too. But Tyrone left, and he swung the door shut and bolted it. Then he leaned against it and caught his breath.
It had been stupid to leave the lights on. It was an empty security gesture, anyway—a lame attempt to make himself feel better. But it had been reckless. He couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to himself. The man had said if he talked to the police, his mother was as good as dead. He had to assume that he was being watched.
God, you’re an idiot, he berated himself.
He stayed there, leaning against the door, until his pulse rate returned to normal. Then he remembered his assignment, and his pulse spiked again.
He whipped his head around and looked at the clock. It was almost eight thirty.
He had no idea how long the surgery would take, but the dental practice’s schedule had the surgeon’s next patient booked for nine o’clock.
He had to interrupt the oxygen flow and disrupt the vital signs monitoring before the dentist finished up. He didn’t want to imagine what might happen to his mother if he didn’t.
He ran across the kitchen to the table, sliding across the slick tile in his socks, and clicked his computer mouse frantically until the screen came to life. His eyes scanned the information as to which pieces of equipment were in use. With shaking fingers, he typed a line of code and hit “Enter.”
Then, drained, he slumped into his chair and prayed he’d been quick enough.
Dr. Davis blinked and pulled back. His blue eyes widened with concern above the paper mask covering the lower part of his face. He wrinkled his brow and turned toward the instrument panel.
In her not-awake, not-asleep state, Aroostine could hear him whispering back and forth with a nurse she couldn’t see. Whatever they were consulting about, she wished they’d hurry up. She didn’t have time to sit here while these two chitchatted. She had work to do.
The whispering continued.
Her jaw was beginning to ache from hanging open.
Should she be able to feel her jaw?
The nurse floated across Aroostine’s field of vision, a blur of colorful, patterned scrubs. Warm fingers on her pulse.
“How are you doing, honey?”
The nurse’s face, calm but intent, swam into view.
Aroostine couldn’t answer, what with her mouth cranked open like the hood of a car. So she tried to nod. Wasn’t sure she succeeded.
She swallowed. She suddenly felt hot. And breathless.
Oh my God, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!
The nurse must have seen the panic in her eyes.
“It’s okay,” she soothed. “There’s been a little . . . blip . . . with the machines. Just a hiccup. We’ll get that oxygen flowing in a jiffy. You just stay calm and take deep, slow breaths. You hear me now?”
Aroostine nodded.
The nurse’s face disappeared.
A cold metal stethoscope slipped under the paper sheet and settled on Aroostine’s chest. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore the feeling that her throat was closing.
The beaver looked at her over its glossy shoulder and then turned back to the water, thumping its hind leg. It wanted her to follow it. It slipped into the cold stream and surged forward. She did the same. They darted through the water, twin sleek animals.
The beaver stopped in the long grass and looked up the bank to the woods. Beyond the trees, there it was: that small log house with the yellow square of light in the window.
She crouched in the shallow stream, water dripping off her hair and onto her shoulders and watched the house for what felt like hours. No one came. No one left. At some point, the beaver glided away. But Aroostine sat and watched. Waiting for something, but she didn’t know what.
Bright, hot light seeped under her eyelids, and she jerked her head to the side, away from the assault.
“Aroostine? Can you hear me?”
She tried to swallow. Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. Her head ached. Her face hurt.
She forced her eyes open, wincing at the light.
Dr. Davis hovered over her.
The surgery, she remembered. It must be over.
Time to go to work.
She struggled to sit up and shivered in the cold room.
“Are we done? I have a meeting,” she asked thickly, trying to push herself out of the chair and onto her feet.
He put a gentle hand on her chest and pressed her back into the chair.
“Slow down. You aren’t going anywhere just yet.”
She wet her lips and tried to find her voice to protest.
“Listen to me, Ms. Higgins. Please. There was an . . . event . . . during your procedure.”
An event?
She stared at him and waited for clarification.
He cleared his throat and continued. “It appears that the supplemental oxygen delivery system failed. It’s unprecedented, actually. And to compound the problem, the system that monitors your vital signs went dark, too.”
“Wha—?”
He held up a hand to cut her off. “Please stay calm. You’re fine. Nurse Loomis monitored your heart rate and breathing manually while I finished off your stitches. Fortunately, we were nearly done when the equipment failed.”
Aroostine relaxed against the chair. Everything was fine.
A wrinkle creased Dr. Davis’s brow, and he straightened the tie under his white lab coat.
“I do need to tell you, however, that you did go into shock briefly.”
Or not so fine.
“Now, that may not have been related to the equipment failure,” he said, the cadence of his voice morphing from reassuring doctor talking to his patient to robotic litigation avoider.
She raised an eyebrow—or thought she did. It was impossible to know, seeing as how she couldn’t really feel her face.
“Some people react negatively to the sedative. Your blood pressure may have plummeted as a result of some complex reaction you had, which we couldn’t have predicted or planned for.”
She concentrated on forming the words and managed to croak them out. “It seems pretty clear that the simplest explanation is whatever happened to me was a result of your equipment failure.”
Although she kept her raspy voice even, he stiffened as though she’d threatened him.
“I don’t think that’s a fair statement. Your procedure was successful, and you can be sure the office will be investigating the cause of the equipment failure. Now, I suggest you follow Nurse Loomis to the front desk and get your painkiller prescription and discharge papers, so you can go home and get some rest.”
He walked out of the room so quickly Aroostine half-expected him to break into a jog.
The nurse hovered awkwardly by the door, clutching a plastic bag that appeared to hold Aroostine’s clothes.
“Here are your things. Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll walk you out. I’ll wait for you in the hall, unless you think you’ll need help.”
Aroostine wet her cracked lips. “I can manage on my own, thanks.”
She waited until the door clicked shut and then pulled on her pantsuit and jammed her feet into her shoes. Despite the oral surgeon’s advice, she had no intention of going home. She had too much work to do to spend the day curled up in bed feeling sorry for herself. By rights, she should have rescheduled the appointment when Judge Hernandez moved up the trial, but it had taken six weeks to get on Dr. Davis’s schedule in the first place, and the teeth had been bothering her for months. Having decided to go through with the surgery, she couldn’t burn an entire workday recovering. She’d just have to power through the pain.
She combed her fingers through her thick hair and slung her purse over her shoulder.
“All set?” the nurse chirped as Aroostine stepped out into the hall.
Aroostine nodded mutely and trailed the nurse along the thickly carpeted hallway to the front of the office. Speaking was too much effort.
The nurse caught the receptionist’s eye and nodded toward Aroostine. “Okay, Lindsay, Ms. Higgins here is ready to check out.”
She disappeared around the corner before the receptionist could ask any questions.
Lindsay looked up from her computer monitor and smiled brightly at Aroostine. Her fingers flew over the keys, and she scanned the screen. The smile vanished.
“Do you have someone coming to pick you up?” she asked in a tone that suggested she already knew the answer.
“No.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you leave on your own.”
Aroostine dug through the fog that had settled over her brain and pulled out a memory. “We worked this out beforehand. I’m alone here. I don’t have anyone who can come get me. Especially with no notice.”
Lindsay gave her a pitying look, but her voice was officious and firm. “I see here in the notes that you did ask us to make an exception to that policy.”
&n
bsp; Aroostine nodded.
The receptionist continued. “Dr. Davis has decided that, in light of today’s . . . situation, we can’t waive that requirement, after all.”
Interesting that Dr. Davis hadn’t bothered to tell her that.
She tried to summon her inner attorney. She knew she should be able to unleash a stream of well-chosen fifty-cent words intended to intimidate the woman behind the counter into letting her go. But suddenly, her will to argue evaporated; she didn’t have the energy to whip herself into a frenzy. Instead, she mumbled Rosie’s office number and sank into the nearest chair. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes to wait.
She started awake. A gentle hand was shaking her shoulder.
She blinked up, expecting to see Rosie. Instead, she met Mitch’s worried eyes.
“Hey, sleepyhead, let’s get out of here,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
She tried to clear her head and get her bearings.
“Where’s Rosie?” she asked, pushing herself out of the chair and reaching for her bag.
He was too quick for her. He slung the bag over his shoulder with one hand and steered her toward the door with the other.
“When the receptionist told Rosie what happened, I volunteered to get you. I have my car today, and you’re in no shape to be taking the Metro.”
He guided her along the hallway and pressed the elevator button.
She blinked painfully at the bright overhead lights.
“I’m fine,” she protested.
“You’re not fine. You almost died.”
Her mouth was cottony. God, she was parched. She’d give anything for a glass of water.
“I don’t think it was quite that dramatic,” she managed.
He shot her a look and reached into his overcoat pocket. As if by magic, he produced a miniature bottle of Evian that he’d clearly snagged from the office kitchen.
“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said as she snatched the bottle from his outstretched hand and took a greedy swallow.
The elevator bell rang, and the doors parted.
“Thank you so much. You have no idea,” she said, finishing the bottle as he followed her into the empty elevator.”
Critical Vulnerability (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 1) Page 6
