Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  “But you’re sure he had one?”

  “I know he had it when Edgar and I were there. I saw it. He shot at us with it. He—”

  “I asked you a simple question.” The boss’s voice was quiet, but his tone was unmistakable.

  “Yessir. I didn’t find a pistol.”

  The big man was silent for a few moments. The blinds were closed today. It added to the trapped sensation Lou always felt in this office—trapped with an unpredictable man who might at any time dispatch Lou with no thought other than how to replace a bloody throw rug afterward.

  After what seemed like forever, the boss swiveled back. “Can you get an untraceable handgun?”

  Lou didn’t even have to think about that one. He knew a dozen places where he could get a Saturday night special. If nothing else, he could get one of Edgar’s. “Sure.”

  The man opened his center desk drawer. His hand disappeared for a moment, and Lou shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to dodge whatever was coming. But the hand emerged holding two hundred-dollar bills. “Get one and come back here tomorrow.”

  Lou pocketed the money. “Alone?” Again, no Edgar. Maybe it was that sleigh thing the boss talked about. Well, better him than me.

  “Alone.” The boss leaned back. “Do you see where this is going?”

  Lou nodded. The big man turned his attention to a pile of papers on his desk, and Lou took his cue to leave. He only relaxed when he closed the office door behind him. Lou had a lot to do, but he was still alive to do it. And if he understood the man correctly, in the near future that might not be true for at least one of the other players in this scenario. He had to make sure that person wasn’t him.

  In his car Lou dialed Edgar’s number.

  “I need an untraceable handgun,” Lou said when his partner answered.

  “Why?”

  “You don’t need to know. Just get one and bring it with you when I tell you.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “That’s gonna cost. How much you willing to spend?”

  Lou felt the two bills in his pocket. Might as well make a profit while he was at it. “A hundred bucks.”

  “You got it.”

  Lou ended the call. No, Edgar. You got it. Or at least, you’re gonna get it.

  Jennifer hit Print, leaned back in her secretarial chair, and stretched. Although some typists might suffer from carpal tunnel syndrome, her primary problem at the end of the day was a set of neck muscles that were tense as violin strings. She needed a massage, but her budget didn’t run to such an extravagance.

  She shoved the papers on her desk into a drawer and locked it. Closed down her computer and turned it off. Time to get out of here. She’d pick up the letter she’d just printed out, put it in Mr. Tanner’s inbox, and be through the door before one of the assistant DAs could catch her and try to guilt her into doing “just one more thing.”

  She had taken only a few steps when she heard, “Jennifer, got a minute?”

  She recognized the speaker’s voice even before she could turn around to confirm his identity. “Sure, Frank. What’s up?”

  He stood right behind her, suit coat over one arm, holding his briefcase with the other hand. “Relax. I’m not going to ask you to stay late and work. Matter of fact, I wanted to ask if you’d like to have dinner, then maybe hit one of the clubs—have a few drinks, dance, let our hair down.”

  I have a lot more hair to let down than you do. “Um, I’d need to go home and change. Freshen up a bit. Would that work?”

  Everett consulted a wristwatch that appeared to be a Rolex. She’d seen it up close and knew it was a knockoff. So like Frank Everett—all about appearances. Do I really want to hook up with somebody like that?

  “Why don’t I pick you up about seven?” he asked.

  Jennifer did a quick inventory of her options, but they all seemed to begin and end with Frank. Matt had called, but must’ve lost his nerve when he heard her voice. If that was the best he could do . . . “Sure, Frank. About seven?”

  “Perfect,” Frank beamed.

  They shared an elevator, then went their separate ways. As Jennifer climbed into her car, she tried to ignore the faint gnawing of her conscience. Why had she said yes to Frank? He was nice enough, but . . . Thoughts of Matt crowded into her head. Should she try once more to call him? No. When she left the voicemail on his cell, it sort of put the ball in his court. She pushed thoughts of Matt aside and headed home to get ready to meet Frank. After all, a bird in the hand . . .

  SIXTEEN

  Sandra was parked in Metropolitan Hospital’s ER lot by eleven thirty p.m. Nurses and other employees emerged, some in groups, some singly, all hurrying to their cars. She watched a couple of ambulances roll in and discharge their cargo. Still no Matt. Should she call his cell? No, he must be busy—probably too busy to take her call.

  It was half past midnight when Matt walked through the automatic doors, looking at his watch and shaking his head. By that time the area was almost deserted again.

  “Sorry.” Matt dropped into the passenger seat and buckled in. “I should have warned you that sometimes it’s a struggle for a doctor to break away.”

  Sandra eased out of the parking lot and set a course for her office, where Matt had left his car. “I understand.” She started to say more, but closed her lips firmly to stop the words from coming out. No need to go into my past history with Ken. Not now, at least.

  “I really appreciate this, Sandra. I hate it that I’ve kept you up so late.”

  “No worries. Now how did your shift go? Any problems after the accident this afternoon?”

  Matt shifted in the seat and rubbed his hip. “About what you’d expect. Nothing major.”

  They rode in silence for a while, absorbed in their own thoughts. Sandra was grateful not to have to hold up her end of a conversation while she tried to sort out her emotions. Despite her assurances to the contrary, Grimes’s statement about new evidence against Matt worried her. Even more worrisome was the knowledge that someone was trying to kill her client, someone whose identity and reason were a total mystery both to her and to Matt. And tucked into one small corner of her brain, surfacing from time to time, were her feelings about the man sitting next to her. Attorneys fought to avoid emotional involvement with a client. And she’d vowed never to have another relationship with a doctor. Now here she was, digging in her heels as she felt herself dragged toward both.

  “Penny for your thoughts.” Matt’s voice from the darkness beside her brought Sandra back to reality with a start.

  “Just thinking about your case,” she said.

  “Which part? My problems with the police or the likelihood that there’s someone out there aiming at the bull’s-eye on my back?”

  “Actually, both,” Susan said. “I think Grimes is bluffing, but just in case there’s something there, I plan to tap into my resources at the DA’s office to see if I can find out more.”

  Matt’s laugh had no humor in it. “Interesting. I used to have a source at the DA’s office, but she pretty much abandoned me as soon as she heard I was in trouble.” He dug his cell phone from his pocket and scanned the display. “No missed calls, so I guess she’s—”

  Matt fell silent, and Sandra wondered where his thoughts had taken him.

  After about fifteen seconds, he took up where he’d left off. “I guess she’s decided not to try getting back together with me.”

  Sandra flicked a glance sideways at Matt. The poor guy had lost his future job, lost his girlfriend, and someone had tried to kill him—was still trying. He had every reason to be deep in thought.

  Matt shook his head like a football player who’d had his bell rung. This was the second time it had occurred—a momentary lapse, a few seconds when it seemed someone had hit the Pause button on his ability to speak, or move, or think. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. When he got home, he’d find an all-night pharmacy and fill a prescription. If he was right, medication should take care of the
problem, at least control it. He couldn’t afford to go through a full workup and all that entailed. Not right now.

  He turned to his left and summoned a smile, although he wasn’t sure Sandra could see it in the darkness. “Sorry about that. I guess I got lost in my thoughts.”

  Her laugh carried relief. “No problem. Been there myself.” She slowed the car and turned into the parking garage by her office building. “Are you sure you’re okay to drive?”

  Matt held up both hands in surrender. “Please, Mom. I’m a big boy. That car didn’t hurt me that badly, I seem to be recovering pretty well from my head injury, and I can find my way home just fine.”

  There were only three cars left on that level of the garage. Either the drivers of the other two encountered mechanical problems that made them abandon their vehicles or, on a happier note, they’d ridden with friends to a dinner or a party or . . . whatever. Matt climbed out of Sandra’s car, then leaned back in through the open window. “Thanks for picking me up—and for caring about me. I’ll talk with you tomorrow.”

  “No, you’ll talk with me tonight,” Sandra said. “Or rather, this morning, since it’s well after midnight. Call my cell when you get home. And I’m going to sit here until I’m sure your car will start.”

  Matt decided not to argue. It was nice that someone cared. And that began a stream of thoughts he’d been trying for several days to suppress. It seemed to him his attorney cared for him more than legal obligations dictated. That was okay with him, since he’d found himself drawn to Sandra, wondering what might have happened if he’d met her under better circumstances. Would she have abandoned him in his time of need, as Jennifer apparently had?

  Matt’s car started on the first try. He waved to Sandra, backed out of the parking space, and headed down the ramp and toward home, navigating on autopilot while he thought. He had some things to figure out, and the first was how to make sure he stayed alive.

  Matt kicked off his shoes, stretched, and booted up his computer. A cup of coffee sat on the desk to his right, a safe distance away from the keyboard. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. The clock on his desk showed it was a quarter to two, but he wasn’t sleepy. Chances were that once he had a hot shower and hit the bed, he’d sleep like a rock, but this was more important than sleep.

  He had the site for the National Library of Medicine book-marked. A couple of clicks, entry of a search term, and he was looking at a confirmation of his self-diagnosis. Petit mal seizure, sometimes known as “absence seizures,” was characterized by brief bouts such as stopping in the middle of a sentence or freezing without movement for fifteen seconds or more. Caused by lots of things, one of which was a head injury. It was sometimes associated with a number of other signs and symptoms, all thankfully absent in his case.

  The implications were numerous, all too bad to contemplate. What if he had a petit mal seizure while caring for a patient? If one happened while he was driving down Central Expressway, would he crash and kill himself and innocent bystanders? Or what if his mysterious kidnappers returned, and he had a seizure, an absence spell, while trying to fight them off? As a physician, he knew he should seek medical help. And he would . . . eventually. For now, he was prepared to undertake one of the worst things a doctor could do—self-medicate.

  He scrolled down the page, then checked a couple of other sites and wrote down the name and dosage of the drug he wanted. He leaned back until he was staring at the ceiling and, with his eyes still open, uttered a prayer that was no less fervent for its simplicity: Please, God, let the medicine work.

  Twenty minutes later he was in a 24-hour Walgreen’s, presenting the pharmacist with a prescription written on a pad from his now-defunct private practice. Matt knew it was perfectly legal for him to self-prescribe, especially since this was neither a narcotic nor a habit-forming drug. And if the script had been written on a sheet torn from a Big Chief tablet, it would still be valid. But he didn’t want to have to go through a long explanation.

  Matt had his hand on his wallet, ready to pull out his proof of Texas licensure, but the pharmacist, an older man with nicotine-stained fingers, simply glanced at the prescription and said, “Hang on. Won’t take a minute to get this ready.”

  Apparently the man was glad of the company, because he talked incessantly during the time it took him to fill the prescription. “What’d you do, run out of medicine? Lose the bottle? I get that a lot. People come in here late at night, wanting a pill or two just to tide them over until their doctor’s office opens. Handy to be a doctor yourself, isn’t it?”

  Matt opened his mouth, but the pharmacist’s questions appeared to be rhetorical. He prattled on, and soon Matt was letting the words roll past him without really considering their meaning. In a moment, the pharmacist plunked a white plastic bottle onto the counter in front of Matt. “Ethosuximide, 250 milligram caps. One BID. Right?”

  “That’s right. I appreciate your getting right to it.” Matt slid a credit card across the counter and signed for the transaction.

  “Don’t guess I need to give you instructions on how to take it, side effects, things like that.” The pharmacist stuck out his hand. “Thanks for coming in. Hope you’ll send your patients to us, especially when they need something in the middle of the night. That’s why we’re here. I’ve been divorced for ten years, and the other pharmacist I share this duty with is a widower. No reason to be home, so we might as well be working.”

  The man was still talking as Matt eased away from the counter and hurried to the front of the store. He stopped there long enough to buy a cold can of Coke. In his car, he used it to wash down one of the red capsules. He was tempted to take a second dose, but he’d encountered too many patients who’d fallen prey to that misconception. If one’s good, two’s better, and maybe I’d better take three just to be sure. Overdoses were a common occurrence in the emergency room. He’d already encountered two cases in the short time he’d been working there. No, he’d stick to the normal dose—one capsule twice a day. And pray they worked.

  Matt lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d expected to fall asleep immediately, but it was as though his eyelids were spring-loaded, designed to pop open the minute he closed them. Nothing helped. Not the hot shower. Not the warm milk. Not the half a chapter of the boring novel from his bedside table. Nothing.

  Finally he rolled out of bed and slid his feet into slippers. He’d cranked the thermostat down, hoping the cold air would help him sleep. Matt slipped on a robe and padded to the living room. He flipped on the TV and surfed through the channels. As he did, an old Bruce Springsteen song ran through his head. Nowadays he could get a lot more than fifty-seven channels, but there was still nothing on. He punched a button on the remote and watched a muscled pitchman with six-pack abs fade away in midsentence, still extolling the virtues of his exercise device.

  There was a Bible on the coffee table in his living room, left behind by his brother. “This is too big for me to carry around on the mission field,” Joe had said. “Hang on to it for me until I get back. You might even read some of it. I’ve marked a few of my favorite passages.”

  Matt hefted the thick, leather-covered book and felt a wave of shame because he hadn’t opened it since Joe left. He paid no more attention to it than the magazines that occupied the space beside it. No, that wasn’t true. He changed out the magazines every month. But he could see the place where the Bible sat, outlined by the dust that had gathered around it since he put it there.

  He held the Bible on his lap and tugged at the thin purple ribbon that hung from the binding. On the page that opened, sure enough, Matt saw a passage marked in yellow highlighter. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea.”

  Matt could identify with those sentiments. Sometimes he felt as though the earth were crumbling beneath his feet and there was nothing left for him to hold on to. I�
�m hanging on to a new job by a thread, the police suspect I’m a murderer, someone—I have no idea who—kidnapped me and still wants to kill me, my girlfriend’s gone, and I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a neurologic complication from a head injury. What do You say to that?

  Matt sat for a moment with his head bowed. He didn’t know what he expected—perhaps some thunderous voice from heaven, some kind of a sign in reply. But there was only silence. Maybe this is all nonsense . . . But as he read through those words a second and yet a third time, peace stole across Matt’s heart. He hadn’t taken a tranquilizer, but he felt as though one were circulating through his veins. He wouldn’t fear, even if things seemed to be crumbling around him.

  He nodded slowly. Okay, God. I get it. I’ll take You at Your word.

  The summons to the boss’s office had included the admonition to come without Edgar, so Lou stood alone before the big man.

  “We need to make Dr. Newman’s protestations of innocence totally unbelievable and let the justice system neutralize him.” The smile that spread slowly across the boss’s face held no mirth. “And to do that, we’re going to throw Edgar off the sleigh.”

  Lou shook his head. “Throw him off . . . ?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute. Now, here are your instructions.”

  The plan was simplicity itself, although it rocked Lou back on his heels. He started to ask the boss if he was sure, but clamped his lips shut instead. The boss was always sure. And if not, it didn’t make any difference. He was the boss. Instead, Lou said, “I can do that.”

  “Then do it, the sooner the better.”

  “Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow night. But can we talk about one more thing?” Lou took a deep breath. He wanted to sit down, but there were no chairs in front of the desk—probably on purpose. “Money.”