"Beth told me that once. She said that when God said it was time for one of us to go, there was a reason, but we wouldn't have the chance to find out what it was until we got to heaven. I never paid a lot of attention to that. I just figured I'd go first, so I made all these plans to make sure she was cared for after I was gone. But now—"
Lillian looked at her watch. "I have patients, and you do, too. But I think it would do you good to talk some of this out. What say I buy you dinner? If not tonight, sometime soon. As I told you, I've been down this same road, and I remember how it helped to have someone to talk with about what I was feeling." She saw the look in his eyes and hastened to add, "Not a date. You're not ready, and if you were, it probably wouldn't be me. Just let me be a friend."
"Well, guess it would help to talk. And dinner tonight sounds fine. Why don't we touch base after our last patients?" John turned away, then looked back over his shoulder, to add, "Thanks for the offer. I could use a friend right now."
Jack Ingersoll closed the last suitcase. Six days in Germany, presenting his paper at a prestigious international meeting, speaking at lunches and dinners where physicians would hang on his every word, all of it first class and paid for by Jandra. His allotted two pieces of luggage bulged, and he'd already thought of a few other things he might need. No matter. He'd buy it there in Europe. If Jandramycin did well, he need never worry about money again.
His cell phone startled him out of his thoughts. As he pulled it from his pocket, he ran through the short list of people who had the number. Who could be calling? Resnick? No, Ingersoll was sure the detailed instructions for projects he'd left would keep Resnick safely tucked away in the lab for the duration of this trip. Pearson? Just the opposite of Resnick, who'd probably never had an original thought in his life, Pearson was competent to handle any question or problem that might come up.
He looked at the caller ID. "Private Number." No help there. He punched the button to answer. "Dr. Ingersoll."
"Jack, this is Bob Wolfe. All packed for Germany?"
"Just finishing, Bob. My flight leaves in the morning. I assume you're about to be on your way as well."
"I'll have to pack tonight—my duties keep me pretty busy around here, you know—but I look forward to seeing you and hearing your presentation."
Your duties keep you busy. Sure they do. You cull through a mound of data your researchers accumulate and cherry-pick the best projects so you can take credit for them. Oh, well . . . "What can I do for you, Bob?"
"It's what I can do for you," Wolfe said. "I can warn you that a Dr. Sara Miles from your institution called Jandra trying to get information about alleged late effects from Jandramycin. I tried to reassure her, suggested she talk with you, but she was quite persistent. She even called Dr. Patel's office."
Jack felt his intestines knotting. "I trust she didn't get through to Patel."
"No, but the news got to him anyway, and I got called in for a rap on the knuckles by Patel, Lindberg, and the head corporate attorney, a guy named Berman."
"Sorry to hear that. Let me assure you that I—"
"No assurances necessary, Jack, because we all know how important it is that Jandramycin move forward and do well, with no hint of any adverse effects to our miracle drug. And we all know the consequences of any information to the contrary being circulated."
"Of course, and—"
"That's why I wanted to call you and—oh, by the way, I'm recording this conversation. I know you won't mind. I called to ask you the same question Berman asked me in Patel's office. Just for the record, you understand."
"Uh, sure. What's the question?"
"Are you prepared to state that you are unaware of any side effects from Jandramycin such as the ones mentioned by Dr. Miles?"
There was a long moment of silence.
"I need a yes or no answer," Wolfe said. "Please respond, Dr. Ingersoll. Do you understand the question?"
A recorded conversation, a loaded question, and his name tagged to his response. Ingersoll knew he was trapped. "I understand the question."
"And your answer, Dr. Ingersoll?"
"Yes, I'm prepared to state that I know of no such effects."
The chuckle on the other end of the line must have been similar to the serpent's response when Eve took a bite from the apple. "That's all I need, Jack. See you in Frankfurt."
Ingersoll hung up the phone and slumped onto his bed, almost knocking a suitcase onto the floor. He loosened his tie and tugged at his collar, but still couldn't get enough air. His good mood of ten minutes ago was gone. Right now, he needed time to think. That, and a stiffdrink.
"I'm sorry it took so long to get the rental car," Sara said. "That's going to make us late for dinner."
"No problem." Mark Wilcox wheeled his BMW into the parking lot of the restaurant and hurried around to open Sara's door. The parking valet hustled up, and Mark tossed him the keys.
Inside the restaurant, the maitre d' greeted Mark as though he were a long-lost cousin. "Dr. Wilcox, so glad to have you with us this evening."
"Thanks, Hugo. I hope you have a nice table for us."
"Of course. Right this way."
As they wove through the crowded room, Mark watched Sara out of the corner of his eye. Even though this restaurant had only been open for a few weeks, it had already become an "in" spot. He was glad he'd come by here earlier and introduced himself to the maitre d, slipping the man a twenty-dollar bill instead of a calling card. Yes, Hugo, the table had better be good and the service fantastic. After that, Mark figured it was up to him.
The spot to which Hugo showed them was perfect, a halfround booth toward the rear, where they could see everything and everyone without sacrificing their own privacy. The maitre d' presented menus with the flourish of a magician producing a silver dollar out of midair and padded away.
"Mark, this is so nice. Do you come here often?"
"First time," Mark said.
"But the maitre d'—"
"When I was practicing law, I defended his brother." Mark had spent some time trying to come up with an explanation other than "I came by earlier and greased his palm." He hoped this one would suffice.
The waiter eased up to the table, introduced himself, and asked what they'd like to drink.
Mark picked up the wine list and looked at Sara. "Would you like a bottle of wine?"
"Just water for me, please," she said.
"San Pellegrino okay?" he asked. When she nodded her assent, Mark ordered and the waiter hurried away.
"You could have had some wine if you wanted," Sara said. "I just . . . I just don't drink."
"No, no. That's fine."
"Aren't you going to ask why?"
He'd wanted to, but Mark figured she'd tell him if she wanted him to know. Apparently she did. "I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by a drunk driver when I was in college. When I got the message, I was at a party and I'd just taken a sip of the margarita my date brought me."
"And you swore that was your last drink. Right?"
"I know. Sounds silly, I guess."
"Not at all. Not too many years ago, there were still people who wouldn't drive a German car because they had bad memories from World War II."
The waiter arrived and poured their water as though it were Châteauneuf-du-Pape or some other high-priced wine. "Would you care to hear the specials?" he intoned.
"Give us a moment," Mark said. He turned back to Sara. "I respect your decision. And I appreciate you not lecturing me about the evils of alcohol."
"I've made my decision, but that doesn't give me the right to make yours." She lifted her glass. "Now how about that relaxing evening you promised me? How many years did you practice law before you gave it up to go into medicine? I'll bet there's quite a story there."
Mark dredged up stories from his law practice, his medical training, and his current situation as a primary care physician. Sara proved to be a great listener, and as the evening progressed he found himself doi
ng most of the talking. "Sara, I wanted to get to know you. Instead, you know almost everything about me and I know next to nothing about you. Help me, here."
"Not much to say, really. Graduated from Southwestern Medical, did my residency here, then went onto the faculty. Got married while I was a resident, but that's over."
"Would I know your husband?"
She took another sip of San Pellegrino water. "Jack Ingersoll."
Wow. He hadn't seen that coming. Drop that hot potato right now. "Any children?"
Sara shivered, and Mark wondered what he'd said. "I'm sorry. Is that a touchy subject?"
"Our infant son, Jack Jr., died of SIDS. It wasn't long afterward that Jack divorced me." She reached for her coffee cup and found it empty. "But that's enough about me. Let's talk about more pleasant things."
Mark beckoned to the waiter, who refilled their cups. Sara lifted hers to her lips and in the action her sleeve fell away from her watch. "Oh, my gracious. I had no idea it was this late. I'd better be getting home."
"I wish we could stretch this out a bit, but I suppose we both have a full day tomorrow." He called for the check and covered it with a credit card, managing not to flinch at the total. No matter. The evening had been worth it, and he would have paid double the tab if it could stretch the night out longer.
At her door, Sara said, "Thanks for a wonderful evening. The meal was wonderful, and I enjoyed getting to know you."
Mark put on his most hangdog look. "Would you take pity on a poor guy and give him one more cup of coffee for the road? You wouldn't want me to fall asleep at the wheel, would you?"
Sara laughed. "Oh, come on in. I'll make us both some coffee. I think caffeine addiction is a universal consequence of medical school."
One cup turned into two as the conversation picked up where they'd left off. The pot was empty when Sara yawned and shook her head. "That's it. I'm kicking you out. I have to go to work in the morning."
"I guess you're right. Thanks for the coffee." Mark followed Sara's lead and rose from the sofa. "I'll give you a—"
"Mark. Did you hear that?"
"What?"
"Listen."
Mark strained his ears. At first he heard nothing. Then he did. Faint at first, gaining in intensity and volume before dying away in a mournful decrescendo. The cry of an infant.
13
IT'S GREAT TO FIND SOMEONE WHO'S AS FOND OF GOOD TEX-MEX FOOD as I am," Lillian Goodman said. "I've never been to this restaurant before, but you can bet I'll be coming back."
John shrugged offthe compliment. "Finding a good Tex-Mex restaurant in Dallas is as easy as finding a Starbucks in Seattle."
"Yes, but the hard part is knowing which one of them serves the best food. And you get credit for this one." Lillian looked around the room. "I don't know how they stay in business, though. Only about a third of the tables are occupied. And I can't believe they can serve so much food for such low prices."
"You should see it on weekends. Then the waiting line stretches out the door. As for the price, it's a family business. Dad is the host, Mom is the cook, and the oldest kids are the servers and help in the kitchen."
A teenage girl hurried over with a coffee pot. "Dr. Ramsey, would you and your lady like some more coffee? Perhaps some flan?"
Lillian was about to say no when John said, "You really should try the flan. It's ambrosia."
Oh, well. Another fifteen minutes on the elliptical tomorrow. "Sure. Why don't we split one?"
When the waitress had left, Lillian said, "You seem to be known here."
"I used to be, but I haven't been here since—" He blinked several times.
"John, it's okay to cry. Men can show their emotions the same way women can. And it's a way to heal." She sipped her coffee to give him time to recover. "So you and Beth used to come here."
He nodded. "You might say this was 'our place.' I haven't been back here since she died. And truthfully, maybe it was a mistake to bring you here. I feel sort of guilty."
Lillian chose her words carefully. "It is guilt, John. It's called survivor guilt, and it's the toughest part of the grieving process. You feel guilty because Beth isn't here to enjoy it. And you feel like you're cheating on her by bringing me here." She opened her purse, rummaged in it, and put a credit card on the table. "You know, I invited you to have dinner tonight. Maybe this will help you accept that this isn't a date."
The flan came, and Lillian found it to be worth the calories. She and John ate carefully from either side of the cylinder of custard, their spoons finally meeting in the middle. "That last bite is yours," Lillian said, laying aside her spoon.
"That's what Beth used to do." The words came out almost as a croak. John brought his napkin to his face and blotted tears. "Sorry."
"No, that's good. You can't keep it bottled up. It's not healthy." Lillian decided to plunge ahead. "John, until the dessert came, you hardly touched your food. How much weight have you lost since Beth died?"
"I really don't know." He shrugged. "I know that I probably should get some new shirts. The collars on these are pretty loose."
"But you don't feel like buying clothes. Right?"
"How did you know?"
"I've been down that road. Remember." Time to take the plunge. "Have you thought about antidepressants?"
"No. I want to—"
"You want to experience your grief fully, because it would be disrespectful to Beth not to do so. And, like a typical man, you think that grieving harder will get it over sooner."
His expression told her she'd hit the nail on the head. "You're not eating. You're not sleeping. You're distracted. You descend into self-pity. John, that's clinical depression. It's normal under the circumstances. And I think you should see your own doctor and ask him about taking an antidepressant."
John shook his head. "It's not that simple. I'd also have to see if an antidepressant would react adversely with the medications I'm on."
"What kind— No, I shouldn't pry. Talk with your doctor."
"My doctor is Rip Pearson, and the meds are antiretroviral. I got stuck by a needle that someone left in a waste receptacle." He held out his hand.
Without hesitation, she reached forward and took the hand he held out. "Hmm, puncture wound at the base of the thumb. And it looks pretty red." She pressed and felt the tissue give beneath her fingers. "John, there's some fluctuance here. I think you may be forming an abscess. Are you on any antibiotic prophylaxis?"
"No, just post-exposure prophylaxis against HIV."
"Well, we should needle that area and see if there's pus there." She decided that only a couple of doctors could talk like this while still at the dinner table.
Lillian could see his male ego struggling with his training as a physician. Fortunately, the medical science won. "You're right. I'll ask Rip to look at it tomorrow. He can aspirate it and culture the pus." John dropped his napkin on the table and held up Lillian's credit card to get the waitress's attention. "I guess it's time I began to take care of myself. Beth used to tell me that if I don't, no one else will."
Sara's first reaction to the infant cry was an instinctive tightening in her gut, followed almost immediately by a wave of relief—the cry was real. Mark heard it. This time it wasn't just a product of her tortured mind.
"Where's that coming from?" Mark asked.
"I don't know. It sounded like it came from . . . from—" Her throat seemed to close off. She dabbed at her eyes.
Mark appeared bewildered. "Sara, why don't you sit down? Can I get you some water?"
She shook her head. "I'll be okay. It's just that—" Again, she couldn't finish.
Sara felt Mark's hand guiding her toward the sofa. When she was seated, he hurried from the room, returning with a glass of water. "Drink this. Take some deep breaths. Then start at the beginning and tell me what's going on."
In a few moments, the roaring in her ears had subsided and her breathing was under control. "It's sort of a long story."
"I've got as long as it takes." He eased onto the sofa beside her. "What's this about?"
"I told you Jack and I had a baby, a son. He was three months old when I found him dead in his crib, probably SIDS. After Jack left me, I began having nightmares about our son. Once or twice a month I'd hear an infant crying in the middle of the night, but when I rushed to the nursery there was nothing there. No baby furniture—I'd long since gotten rid of that— and nothing else. Just a bare room, one that I never entered."
"And now . . . ?"
"Now you've heard the cries, too. It's not my imagination." She shivered. "But I still can't explain it."
"Where's the room?"
She pointed to a door. "Down the hall, last door on the right."
Mark patted her shoulder. "Stay here. I'm going to check it out."
He hurried away, and Sara felt a cold wind on the back of her neck. She'd never believed in ghosts before, but now she halfway wondered if the ghost of her son inhabited the nursery. What would Mark find in there?
Mark was back in five minutes. "Just an empty room."
She tried to hide her sigh of relief. "I told you."
"Do you have a flashlight?"
"In the middle drawer under the kitchen counter," Sara said.
He rummaged until he found the flashlight. "And where's your attic access?" He turned in a circle. "Never mind. I think I saw it a minute ago."
He disappeared into the hall, and soon she heard the attic stairs unfold. Then a series of creaks and groans announced his movement overhead. Just as she was about to venture into the hall and shout up to him, she heard him coming back down the stairs.
"I don't think you're going to find a baby up there," she called.
He poked his head through the door and gestured with the flashlight in his hand. "No, but I found something even more interesting. Come see."
Sara eased offthe couch and followed Mark on feet that seemed to be made of lead. He led her up the attic stairs, directing her to stand in the small space where plywood bridged the rafters. "Stay here. Don't step out into the attic. I don't want you to fall through the sheet rock."
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