ADVANCE ACCLAIM FOR STRESS TEST
“Packed with thrills, Stress Test is a lightning-paced read that you’ll read in one breath.”
— TESS GERRITSEN
New York Times best-selling
author of Last to Die
“Original and profound. I found the Christian message engaging and fascinating, and the story a thrill-a-minute.”
— MICHAEL PALMER
New York Times best-selling
author of Oath of Office
“Sirens, scalpels, and the business end of a revolver—Stress Test offers Code 3 action and a prescription for hope.”
— CANDACE CALVERT
best-selling author of Code
Triage and Trauma Plan
“Stress Test comes with a warning: Prepare to stop life until you finish the last page.”
— DIANN MILLS
author of The Chase
and The Survivor
“Recurring legal, medical and romantic thrills. Diagnosis: Pure entertainment.”
— JAMES SCOTT BELL
award-winning suspense author
STRESS TEST
© 2013 by Richard Mabry
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.
Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].
Scripture quotations are taken from NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, © The Lockman Foundation 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995. Used by permission.
Published in association with the literary agency of WordServe Literary Group, Ltd., 10152 S. Knoll Circle, Highlands Ranch, CO 80130. www.wordserveliterary.com.
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Page design: Walter Petrie
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013931020
ISBN 978-1-4016-8708-3
Printed in the United States of America
13 14 15 16 17 18 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1
For all the writers who light up a dark world.
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWEVLE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
READING GROUP GUIDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ONE
Dr. Matt Newman knew all about the high. He’d experienced it many times. The high was intoxicating, even when the low inevitably followed. Of course, sometimes there was no high at all, no pleasure, only the sadness, the melancholy. How many times had Matt asked himself if it was worth it?
It began tonight, as it frequently did, with a phone call that rolled Matt out of bed after less than an hour’s sleep and sent him speeding to the hospital. A teenager lay bleeding to death from internal injuries, the victim of a car crash that killed the girl riding with him.
Tonight Matt’s efforts were rewarded with a high unmatched by anything from a glass, a bottle, a syringe. Tonight there would be no heartbreak of telling a grieving family your best hadn’t been enough to save their loved one. Tonight Matt could savor the high—at least for a little while. This case was a good way to go out, to leave private practice behind.
But already Matt’s exhilaration was giving way to fatigue. His eyes burned. His shoulders ached. His mouth was foul with the acid taste of coffee left too long on the hot plate. He was running on fumes.
The pneumatic doors closed behind him with a hiss like an auditory exclamation point. As Matt moved from the brilliance of Metropolitan Hospital’s emergency room into the mottled semi-darkness of the parking garage, he imagined the weight of responsibility slipping from his shoulders. Tomorrow Tom Wilson would take over his patients and his practice. Tomorrow Matt would assume his new position as assistant professor of surgery at Southwestern Medical Center here in Dallas. He’d teach medical students at Southwestern and instruct residents at Parkland Hospital, always emphasizing not only the science but the art of medicine. Matt knew he had a lot to give. He could hardly wait.
One of the benefits of the new job was supposed to be a more structured life: less on-call time, responsibilities shared with other faculty members, assistance from residents in patient care. Matt was looking forward to the change, not just for himself, but for the way it might benefit his relationship with Jennifer.
Matt couldn’t give up medicine entirely—he’d invested too much of his life in it, and it remained a passion with him—but he also felt a passion for Jennifer, perhaps even loved her. She was beautiful, witty, and fun to be around. She might be “the one.”
It wasn’t hard for Matt to spot his silver Chevy Impala in the darkest corner of the deserted garage. There weren’t many cars still there at two a.m., and soon there would be one fewer. He fished his keys from the pocket of his white lab coat and thumbed the unlock button on his remote. His hand was on the door handle when something yanked him backward and cut off his air in mid-breath. Matt dropped the keys and reached up with both hands to pry at the arm that encircled his neck.
In an instant Matt was slammed facedown to the cement floor. He heard a crack and felt the knife-like agony of breaking ribs. The searing pain in his chest made each labored breath more difficult. A weight pinned him to the ground like a butterfly on a specimen board.
Matt struggled, but his assailant held him fast. Fire shot through his shoulders as his arms were yanked together. There was a quick rip of tape, and in seconds his wrists were bound tightly behind him. Rough hands encircled his ankles with more tape, leaving him helpless and immobile. At the same time, someone else grabbed his hair and lifted his head. Matt gave a shrill cry before three quick turns of tape muffled his voice and turned the world black.
He tried to lift his head, but stopped abruptly when something hard and cold pressed against the back of his neck. Matt lowered his face onto the garage floor and went limp. He felt hope escape like air from a punctured tire.
There were murmurs above him, questions in a high-pitched singsong, answers from a harsh rasp like grinding gears. At first the words were indistinguishable. Then they became louder as the exchange heated.
“Why not here?” Was there a faint Hispanic accent to the whining tenor?
“The boss said not at the hospital.” The growling bass flung out the words, and spittle dotted the back of Matt’s neck. “I know just the place to get rid of him. Let’s get him into the trunk of his car.”
In the darkness that now enveloped him, Matt struggled in vain to move, to speak. He strained to hear what was said. He could only make out a few words, but they were enough to drive his heart into h
is shoes. “Get rid of him.”
He angled his head to catch the sounds around him: a jingle of keys, the sharp click of the trunk lock. Hinges squeaked. Matt had a momentary sensation of floating as he was lifted, carried, dropped. His head struck something hard. Splashes of red flashed behind his closed eyelids, then vanished into nothingness.
Matt floated back to consciousness like a swimmer emerging from the depths. How long had he been out? Hours? Minutes? A few seconds? At first he had no idea where he was or what was happening. Little by little, his senses cleared. He tried to open his eyes but there was no light. He tried to speak, but his lips were sealed. He cried out, but the result was only a strained grunt. Finally he heard the faint sound of voices from inside the car, a menacing rumble and a high-pitched whine. The voices brought it all back to him.
He was on the way to his death. And the trunk of his car would be his coffin.
TWO
Sandra Murray watched the red numerals on her bedside clock roll from 2:32 to 2:33. Usually when she crawled into bed, sleep was never far behind, but not tonight. Her analytical legal mind scrolled through the possible reasons why she lay wide-eyed rather than sleeping peacefully.
Was it her profession? No, she’d long since come to grips with the dichotomy between being a criminal defense attorney and a practicing Christian. Despite the fact that her days were spent defending criminals, some of whom undoubtedly belonged in prison, she believed that everyone—even someone charged with rape or murder—deserved the best possible defense. Jesus ate with sinners; why couldn’t Sandra give them the protection and defense the law promised?
Was it because she had no family to speak of? The distance between her and her divorced parents was more than physical. True, her mother was in Costa Rica trying to “find herself,” and her father was in Alaska with his new wife. But even if they lived across the street from her Dallas home, Sandra’s contact with them would be limited. That’s the way it had always been, and she’d come to accept it. She had no siblings, few close friends, and no—
There it was again—the same problem that kept cropping up in her mind to keep her from sleeping. She had no mate, no significant other with whom to share. She knew somewhere God had a husband for her, and when she met him and moved forward, she trusted that her life would finally be full.
Unfortunately, that longed-for fiancé apparently wasn’t Dr. Ken Gordon. She’d gone out with the handsome neurosurgeon for almost a year, and although The Question hadn’t been popped and her ring finger remained bare, they seemed to have reached a tacit understanding that marriage was around the corner. But that changed last night when the problem about Ken, the one that kept bouncing around in the back of her mind, resurfaced. So, during a beautiful dinner that neither of them tasted, with a view of the skyline of Dallas that neither of them saw, they finally admitted they weren’t meant for each other.
As Sandra stared into the dark, she wondered if she’d done the right thing, breaking it off with Ken. Well, it was done, and all she could do was wait for God to fill the void in her life. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt the tears forming. God, if there’s a husband out there for me, please show me.
Satisfied with this final effort at a bedtime prayer, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the covers, then pulled them to her chin and once more tried to sleep.
“Let’s get out of here.”
Lou slammed the trunk closed, clambered behind the wheel, and started the engine. He had the car in motion by the time his companion scrambled in. Lou reversed out of the parking slot, stopping with a screech of brakes. Then he slammed the gearshift into drive, stomped on the gas, and the car screamed down the ramp. His rearview mirror gave a glimpse of parallel stripes of black rubber on the cement.
Beads of sweat stung Lou’s eyes. He blinked them away and peered into the night. He slowed the car to navigate the narrow streets behind the hospital, but his mind was working full-speed.
Edgar’s voice interrupted Lou’s thoughts. “Where are we going now?”
Lou steered the car through a stop sign with only the slightest tap on the brakes. “A quiet place where we can put a bullet into this guy.”
Beside him Edgar fidgeted but kept silent. Edgar didn’t look like much, but he was good with a gun and knife. Lou knew Edgar was anxious to do his thing, but Lou planned to do the honors himself on the man in the trunk. He’d let Edgar take care of the next one. This one was too important.
Lou clutched the wheel and leaned forward to follow the headlight beams through the warren of dark streets. The lights of downtown Dallas rose up ahead of them, bright in the inky sky. Lou took a sharp left, away from that glare.
The neighborhood’s few functioning streetlights only accentuated the gloom that lay beyond their dim glow. Lou drove by bars, strip clubs, and hole-in-the-wall stores peddling XXX-rated videos, all of them silent at this hour, and most secured by burglar bars or steel shutters. Nobody in his right mind would be here at this hour of the morning—at least, not without a weapon of some sort.
Lou saw the pothole too late to steer around it. The car bounced crazily before settling down on protesting springs.
“Hey, watch it.”
Lou heard a click as Edgar fastened his seat belt. His reply was a growled, “Sorry.” Lou slowed and scanned ahead for more holes in the pavement.
“You sure you know where we’re going?”
“Yeah, but whoever laid out these streets must have been drunk. Let me concentrate.” Lou squinted to read the street signs in the faint light. Finally he found the one he wanted and steered the car in a sharp turn. It lurched as one wheel bumped the curb.
“Did you hear something back there?” Edgar asked.
“Relax. He’s not going anywhere.” No, for the guy in the trunk, this would be his last ride ever.
Matt lay curled in a fetal position. Not even the faintest glimmer of light penetrated the tape over his eyes. All feeling was gone from his bound hands, and his feet tingled with a thousand needles. He tumbled about as the car swerved, slowed, accelerated, stopped, started. At times, what must have been huge potholes sent him bouncing against the trunk lid. The muscles in his back cried out with every bump and jolt. His injured ribs made each breath torture. Although he knew there was enough air in the trunk, he felt as though he was suffocating.
Matt summoned all his strength and strained at his bonds. He figured he’d been immobilized with duct tape, the modern equivalent of baling wire. For all the good his struggles did him, his restraints could have been welded steel bands. There was no way he could part them with brute force.
Sometime in the distant past Matt had read about Houdini’s escapes from handcuffs. Now he tried to recall the tricks the master illusionist used. First, get the hands in front. If Matt could do that, maybe he could use his teeth to tear through the tape.
He bent his back, trying to ignore the pain it caused. He tucked his legs up behind him and strained every muscle, but without success. He took a deep breath and paid the price for it as pain coursed through his chest. He tried rolling over onto his stomach, but that was worse. He returned to his side.
He struggled and strained to no avail. Despite regular exercise and an athletic body, Matt was unable to duplicate Houdini’s maneuver. Apparently what worked with handcuffs didn’t translate so well when your wrists were bound together with tape that left no slack for movement.
Matt’s mind churned. Was there something in the trunk he could use to free himself? Maybe he could saw through the tape with the slotted end of the jack handle. No, the jack was stowed, along with the spare tire, under a cover screwed down with a wing nut, forming the floor of the trunk.
As he kicked about in his efforts to escape, Matt’s feet hit a blanket stuffed into the corner of the trunk. He heard a dull clunk and remembered the sack of emergency tools. He’d bought them after one of Jennifer’s faultfinding comments, this one about him being unprepared for a road emergency. He pictured the cont
ents in his mind’s eye. A pair of jumper cables, a fire extinguisher, a can of Fix-a-Flat, a roll of duct tape, and two road flares. Not much to work with and not a sharp edge in the bunch. Except . . . The only flares he’d found in the store were a version favored by police and highway patrol, flares with a spike on one end to be stuck into asphalt. If he could get one of those flares out, he might scratch through the tape on his wrists.
Matt squirmed and turned his body with agonizing slowness until his bound hands reached the bundle. His shoulders ached, his back muscles cried out, and every breath brought fresh pain in his ribs. He strained against his bonds, cutting off the last bit of circulation to hands already numb. When the car hit a bump, he was thrown back and had to start the process again. As he reached the point of total exhaustion, Matt got one hand inside the folds of the blanket. He flexed his fingers in a vain effort to restore feeling, then explored the contents of the sack.
Jumper cables. Duct tape—like he needed more duct tape. Where were the flares? There! There’s one! His hand closed down on a spike, puncturing his palm in the process. He felt blood coursing down his fingertips. His slippery fingers lost their grip twice before he could grasp the sharp end of the flare.
Matt sawed at the tape on his wrists. Time after time, the point of the spike went beyond the tape and gashed his wrists, adding more blood to the flow from his palm. Soon the work became mindless repetition, leaving Matt to ponder whether he might eventually free himself, only to bleed to death from his self-inflicted slashes.
As he labored, Matt wondered if praying would help. He was a little out of practice. A lot out of practice, if he was honest about it. But he figured if there was ever a good time to pray, it was now. They say there are no atheists in foxholes. He was pretty sure the same thing went for persons bound hand and foot, locked in a car trunk, on their way to death. There was nothing to lose. God, I don’t know how to ask this, so I’ ll just say it. Please help me. Was there something else he was supposed to say? Oh yes. Amen.
Stress Test Page 1
