He didn’t have to wait long. In a moment, a man took the seat opposite him, as furtive as someone sneaking into an X-rated movie. He waved the waitress away before she could get to the booth, and hunched as though by making himself smaller he could avoid being noticed. Grimes almost expected him to turn up the collar of his suit coat and burrow his head down into it.
“Relax,” Grimes said. “You’re acting like a spy selling government secrets. Nobody you know is going to come in. Let’s get this meeting over, then you can get back to being a respectable—”
“Never mind that. Just confirm it for me. I want to hear it from your own lips.”
“Yeah, the murder case against Newman is up in smoke. None of the evidence I thought we could use is going to hold up. Matter of fact, it probably supports his original story about—”
“Hold on!” The words were whispered, but the venom showed through.
The waitress returned and put a Miller Lite in front of Grimes. He nodded his thanks and waved her away. He centered the bottle on the coaster and focused on the drops of condensation that worked their way slowly downward.
Once the waitress was out of earshot, the man said, “So now there’s no case against Newman for drug possession or either of the two murders that involved him. There’ll be no arrest, no trial. Right?”
Grimes nodded.
“Okay, then here are your new orders. Eliminate him, and make him look dirty when you do it.”
Grimes held up both hands in a “stop” gesture. “Whoa. I was willing to bend some rules to arrest the man. But if I’m hearing you right, you don’t want a policeman anymore. You want a hit man. I don’t do that.”
The man took a thick envelope from his inside coat pocket and waved it. “You’ll do it if you don’t want this mailed. It’s already stamped and addressed.” He turned it so Grimes could see.
Grimes removed a rumpled handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped his forehead. “Can you promise me that if I get rid of Newman, the stuff in that envelope will never see the light of day?”
“If you eliminate the good doctor, this will end up in your mailbox. Then you can burn it, shred it, or read it on cold winter evenings. Whatever.”
Grimes shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. He moved his bottle off the coaster and began to make wet interlocking rings on the table. His eyes downcast, he said, “How long do I have?”
“A week. After that—”
“All right. I’ll do it. Now get out of here.”
He watched the man slip out the door. Then Grimes lifted the beer to his lips and drained the bottle in several swallows, regretting that he hadn’t ordered a double shot of bourbon instead.
The big man sat in his oversized leather swivel chair, an unlit cigar in his fingers. Lou was in his usual position in front of the desk, his eyes keeping careful watch on the man’s right hand. The boss could almost read Lou’s mind—If the hand goes into the desk drawer, will it come out with a roll of bills or a gun? The thought made him smile.
“I think it’s time to clean up this mess,” the boss said. “All I’ve wanted since you and Edgar botched the kidnapping was to make sure Newman didn’t point a finger at either of you and send the police looking for me. Now I guess this is the best way to do it.”
He eased the middle drawer of his desk open. Lou shifted nervously, flexing his fingers a bit like an old-time gunslinger about to slap leather. Ever so slowly, the big man moved his left hand into the open drawer. He smiled. “I think you’ll like this,” he said, and extracted a wad of cash. He laid it on the desk and waited for Lou’s reaction.
Lou relaxed visibly and let out the deep breath he’d been holding. “What do I have to do to earn that?”
Like a snake, the boss’s right hand darted into the desk drawer and emerged with a pistol. “Just die.” He pulled the trigger and felt the gun jump in his hand. It pleased him that the hole in Lou’s forehead was perfectly centered over the bridge of his nose. It was good to know he hadn’t gone soft or lost his touch despite all the years behind the desk.
Lou crumpled to the floor like a marionette after its strings were cut. Blood from the bullet hole soaked slowly into the area rug beneath him.
The sound of the shot still reverberated off the walls as the door to the boss’s left opened and a tall, powerful black man emerged. He wore a perfectly fitted dark suit and white shirt, accented by a conservative tie. His hair was short, his small Van Dyke beard neatly trimmed. He moved with the grace of a ballet dancer, but about him was an aura of barely contained strength, and his eyes signaled the heart of a stone killer.
The dark man didn’t look at Lou, but instead fixed a neutral expression on the man behind the desk. “Is this why you wanted me here?”
“Yes, Lester. Your job has two parts,” the boss said. He shoved the roll of bills forward. “First, roll him up in that rug and get rid of the body. Weight him down and toss him in a lake, dump him at a construction site and cover him with cement . . . I don’t care what you do. I just don’t want him to be found—ever.”
Lester pocketed the money without counting it. “Sure. What’s the other part?”
The boss drew two sheets of paper from an inside pocket and handed them to Lester. “Find this man, kill him, and make him disappear the same way.”
“Consider it done.” With no more apparent effort than a man shouldering a sleeping bag, Lester rolled Lou into the area rug and slung him over his shoulder. He exited via the same door he’d entered.
The boss leaned forward and touched a button on his phone. When his secretary answered, he said, “Get another rug for in front of my desk.” He didn’t wait for a reply.
TWENTY-SIX
Matt had worked so many nights in a row that he couldn’t believe he was somewhere other than the hospital at this time of day. Rick had readily agreed to switch shifts with him to free up his evening. Now Matt sat in one of the nicest restaurants in Dallas with a beautiful redhead whose good looks drew admiring glances from every man in the room.
Matt tried not to flinch when he saw the prices on the menu. He figured his credit card was good for the cost of the evening, and that was all that counted right now.
He was certain he could eventually dig himself out of his current financial hole, now that he didn’t have to plan for more legal fees. And there would be a steady income stream so long as he worked as an ER doctor. That train of thought reminded him—he’d have to talk with Brad Franklin at the medical center about the faculty position again.
“What are you thinking?” Sandra’s voice cut into Matt’s reflections.
He looked up at her over the menu. “Sorry. I guess my mind was wandering.”
“If you’re worried about paying these outrageous prices, we can go somewhere else. Or we can split the check.”
Matt knew that what his parents called “going Dutch” was common in the modern dating world, but somehow he couldn’t accept it. Even before he was old enough to date, Matt’s grandmother gave him some advice: “Show your respect for a woman by opening doors for her, pulling out her chair, and paying the check.” His mother repeated the admonitions when Matt reached his late teens. Matt knew those rules were hopelessly old-fashioned now, but the tapes still played in his head, and he couldn’t ignore them.
“We’re fine,” he said. “Order anything you like. We’re celebrating.”
“For good reason,” Sandra said. “But I have to tell you, Matt . . . I was surprised when you asked me to dinner. I figured that when my legal services were no longer required, seeing me would just remind you of painful times.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t think I’d be sitting here as a free man without your help.” Matt wondered how open he could be, and decided to spill it all. “Sandra, I don’t think what we have is just a lawyer-client relationship anymore. Sure, I’m grateful for all you’ve done, but I’m feeling a lot more than just gratitude. What I feel is . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“I like you, Sandra. A lot. And I’d like to build on our relationship, to get to know you better, now that things are returning to normal for me. How about you?”
The silence that followed was long enough for Matt to consider digging a hole and climbing in. Had he misspoken? Was this a major gaffe?
Sandra took in a lot of air, then breathed out slowly. “Matt, I almost didn’t agree to take you on as a client. When you called from the ICU and asked me to defend you, I’d just come off a tough breakup . . . with a doctor, Ken Gordon. Frankly, I never wanted to have anything to do with doctors again, except maybe to sue them.”
The words came out before Matt could stop them. “Why did you break up with Ken?”
“Not because of his hours—I mean, in my profession there are times that emergencies come up. And not because of any acrimony between lawyers and doctors, all the old jokes notwithstanding.” She gave him a half-smile, then drank from her glass of water. “Ken told me again and again that he was a scientist. He believed in what he could see, feel, prove. And that didn’t include God. I got the impression from him that most doctors were that way.”
“I’m—”
“I know. I shouldn’t make that generalization. Not all doctors feel the way he does. But a lot of them do, and God’s important to me. I could never consider spending the rest of my life with someone who doesn’t share my beliefs.”
Matt tried to organize his thoughts. He could tell her about his background: a brother who was a missionary, the devout Christianity of his late parents, a childhood of attending—well, sometimes being dragged to—church. But he realized that wasn’t what was needed here. This wasn’t about them, it was about him, and he had to admit he fell short in that department.
“I guess you could say I’m a nominal Christian. I said all the right things once, but after that I never moved very far up the ladder in my faith . . . at least, until recently. When all this came down—the kidnapping, the attempts on my life, being in jail—that gave me the shove I needed. As hard as all this has been, it’s taught me to lean on God.”
“You’re not one of those people who suddenly believes in God because it’s your only way out, are you?”
“No, I realize that God doesn’t play that game. What I’ve learned is that He’s in control, even when things seem darkest. I have to trust Him. I can’t fix everything single-handedly, much as the surgeon in me wants to try.” He cast her a rueful smile.
Sandra didn’t say anything, but she moved her hand across the table and covered Matt’s. “Thanks for being so honest.”
This seemed a good time to get something else off his mind. Matt shared a bit of Rick’s story with Sandra. “He wants me to attend church with him on Sunday, and I don’t have a clue where we could go. Do you have a suggestion?”
As it turned out, she did. She told him about the Bible church she attended. “I think you and Rick would like it, and you’d certainly be welcome. Would you like to meet me there?”
“Very much.” Matt fiddled with his silverware. “But I haven’t heard you answer my original question. I’ve told you how I feel about you. What do you think about me?”
She squeezed his hand. “Yes, I feel the attraction too. But . . .”
Matt felt his heart stop. “I was afraid there was a ‘but’ coming.”
Sandra ignored the comment. “But up to this point, neither of us has had the chance to look beyond getting you free from your legal problems. Since that’s out of the way, I think we should take our relationship forward a step at a time, see where it leads us.” Her smile told Matt there were more feelings there, feelings he hoped she’d express as time went along.
“Sure,” he said. Well, at least she didn’t say no.
“Looks like it’s going to be a light evening.” Nurse Rita Jaynes passed Matt a clipboard with the information for the next patient. “This is a three-year-old girl with a sore throat and fever. Probably another case of strep throat. We’re seeing a lot of it, especially out of that particular preschool.”
“I don’t know why we don’t let you treat these patients, Rita, instead of just triaging them. Let’s have a look.”
In about ten minutes, Matt had done a history and physical exam and confirmed Rita’s impression. He explained to the mother, ordered a strep rapid test, and was about to go on to the next patient when Rita tapped him on the shoulder. “Ambulance just brought in a man you probably need to see stat. I put him in treatment room 1.”
Matt recognized the EMT who met him at the door. Stan Ullom was more than an EMT. He’d completed full paramedic training, and Matt trusted his judgment. “Tell me about it.”
“Fifty-nine-year-old white male, developed severe abdominal pain about an hour ago. He told his wife it was just indigestion, but after it got worse despite antacids, she called us. Blood pressure’s down and pulse up a bit. He’s sweaty and pale, sort of shocky. I wonder about a perforated ulcer.”
“Meds? History?”
“Mild hypertension in the past, controlled with diuretics. High cholesterol, on Lipitor, but no history of heart disease. No GI problems in the past. Heavy smoker. Moderate alcohol intake, the wife says.”
Matt sensed, more than heard, someone behind him. He turned and saw Randy Harrison. “Okay if I watch?” the medical student asked.
“Sure.” Matt covered the distance to the gurney in three long steps and looked down at the patient, ignoring the beeps of monitors, the network of tubing already in place, seeing only the man under the thin sheet.
Stan had taken up station across from Matt. “His name is John Ferguson. His wife stopped at the desk to give them his information. I can get her when you’re ready to talk with her.”
Matt processed the words, but his attention was already on the patient. He was as Stan had described him—pale skin beaded with perspiration, rapid breathing, teeth gritted in obvious pain.
“Mr. Ferguson,” Matt said, bending down near the patient’s head, “Tell me about it. Where do you hurt?”
The man’s hand moved. Matt turned back the sheet to see the patient’s index finger pointing to the center of his abdomen. Diagnoses raced through Matt’s mind, most of them discarded as unlikely, some already helping him form his differential diagnosis.
“Acute abdomen of some kind?” Randy whispered behind him. “Appendix? Gall bladder? Perforated ulcer?”
Matt shook his head. “Not sure yet.” He touched his fingers to Ferguson’s abdomen and felt a slight pulsation despite the rigid muscles. Carefully, Matt probed a bit deeper, and frowned at what he felt. He applied his stethoscope to the belly, closed his eyes, and tried to block out the ambient noise of the emergency room. Then he heard it. Not the tinkling bowel sounds and rushes of intestinal obstruction. Not the deadly quiet of a ruptured appendix or perforated ulcer. The sound he heard was an intermittent whoosh. He touched two fingers to Ferguson’s wrist and confirmed that the noise was synchronous with the man’s pulse.
“I need to talk with his wife,” Matt said to Stan. As the paramedic exited the room, Matt turned to Rita, who had moved into position beside him, and said, “Get the vascular surgeon on call here stat. Cross-match for ten units of whole blood, and have them send down two unmatched pints of O negative right now. Call the OR and alert them to set up for an exploratory laparotomy and probable repair of a leaking abdominal aneurysm.”
“What about a CAT scan to confirm the diagnosis?” Randy whispered. “Maybe an ultrasound?”
“It would help to have a CT, even an MRI, but if that leak turns into a frank rupture, he could bleed out in a minute or two right there in radiology.” Matt shook his head. “I don’t think we should gamble. He needs to go directly to the OR.”
Rita returned with a woman in tow. She looked younger than her husband, although it was hard to tell. With some makeup and attention to her hair, she would probably have been beautiful. Right now she looked a wreck. “What is it, Doctor?” she asked.
Matt turned from the patient t
o the wife and back again. “Mr. Ferguson, you have an enlargement of the major blood vessel running through your body—the aorta. It’s bulging like the wall of a balloon, and the pressure of your pulse against it can eventually cause it to burst. We need to repair it before that happens.” He went on to explain the procedure and answer questions. “I need your permission for the surgery. We’ve called a specialist, and he’ll be here shortly.” He turned to Rita and said, “Who did you get?”
“Dr. Rawlings.”
“Excellent,” Matt said. “He’d be my first choice. Good surgeon, well trained.”
“What if he doesn’t get here in time?” Mrs. Ferguson asked.
“I’m a general surgeon. I’m going up to the operating room with your husband. If something happens before Dr. Rawlings gets here, I’ll step in.”
In a moment, with questions answered, forms signed, and two units of O negative blood in a container under the gurney, Matt and Rita wheeled Ferguson into the elevator, trailed by Randy, who insisted on coming along to help.
“Is the anesthesiologist in the OR?” Matt asked.
“He should be there by the time we get to the holding area,” Rita said. She checked Ferguson’s blood pressure and frowned.
“Dropping?” Matt asked.
“A little. And the pulse has gone up. I’d say he’s leaking a little more.”
The elevator was cool, but Matt felt sweat trickling down his spine. He’d assisted in repairs of aortic aneurysms during his training, but had never been the primary surgeon on one. What if this one broke before Rawlings arrived? If the big blood vessel blew, it would mean Matt had to quickly open the abdomen, clamp off the aorta, sew a graft into place, and do it rapidly enough that there was no damage to organs deprived of blood circulation. It was tricky under the best of circumstances. Matt wondered if he was up to the challenge.
“Check the vitals again, would you?” Matt asked.
Stress Test Page 24
