Bad Doctor

by John Locke

  “I did.” I look at the car. “Can you guys fit in the back seat?”

  Charlie says, “I don’t think there’s enough room for everyone. How about if I go with you and Carlos stays here?”

  Carlos says, “You’re not funny, you know.”

  The twins spend five minutes trying to climb in the back seat of the Mercedes, but it’s not working.

  “Wait a minute,” Charlie says.

  The brothers move out of our hearing and talk to each other a minute, then shuffle back.

  “We’ve chosen to trust you,” Charlie says.

  “How so?”

  “You can take Cameron to the hospital. On the way, when you get a signal, call the phone number I’m going to give you. That’s our mom. Tell her where we are. She’ll come here, change our tire, and get our van started.”

  “Your mom can do all that?”

  “All that and more!” Charlie says.

  “Sorry guys, but I can’t see well enough to drive.”

  “Good point,” Charlie says.

  Willow walks up and stands beside me.

  “We need to get going,” she says.

  Carlos says, “the Doc stays with us.”

  “I can live with that,” Willow says, with far more enthusiasm than necessary.

  “No,” I say. “I can’t trust Willow to go to the hospital or talk to the police, for reasons that would take too long to explain. Plus, I’m a doctor. It’s safer for Cameron if I’m with her, in case she goes into shock or starts convulsing.”

  “He can’t drive, and I’m not staying here with you guys,” Willow says.

  “Then I’m afraid we’re at an impasse,” Charlie says, pointing the gun at me.

  “Just a minute,” I say.

  I motion for Willow to follow me a short distance. Then say, “I don’t suppose there’s a working phone in Maggie’s house.”

  “I’m sure she canceled the phone service before moving out.”

  “Can you get inside?”

  “If the key’s where used to be.” She looks at Maggie’s house, then back at me. “Why?”

  “If I slice the tissue beneath my eyes I’ll be able to see well enough to make it to the nearest hospital. These guys seem relatively harmless. I think I can talk them into letting you stay in the house with the door locked until their mom shows up.”

  “How do you expect me to get home?”

  “I’ll come back to get you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I swear I will.”

  “I can’t even trust you to take Cameron to the hospital,” she says.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a gunshot victim. As soon as she’s admitted, the police will start asking questions. They’ll want to investigate the crime scene. Bobby’s here, I’m here—you’ll be in the hospital getting patched up, or in the interrogation room at the police station.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t like it.”

  We look at each other a minute. Finally I say, “How did you and Cameron wind up with Chris Fowler’s bedspread?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Breaking and entering’s a felony.”

  “As you should know.”

  “True. But when you add theft?”

  “Yeah?”

  “All I’m saying, you might need to come up with a good explanation.”

  “If I do, it’ll be better than your explanation of how Bobby died from a flesh wound.”

  “Are you serious? The guy was on heroin, coke, and Black Stone powder. He beat me up, shot Cameron, and shot himself in the leg. That’s a lot of trauma to the system.”

  “The coroner might wonder about the nutmeg.”

  “Bobby must’ve done that on his own, to stop the bleeding.”

  “That’s your story?”

  “It is.”

  “Then you’ve got problems,” Willow says.

  “Why?”

  “That theory won’t match my testimony. Or Cameron’s.”

  “What are you, a lawyer?”

  “No, but my father is.”

  “What you’re saying, we’re at an impasse.”

  “Looks like it,” Willow says.

  “In that case I’ve got another idea,” I say.

  “Tell me after I pee!”

  With that, she walks to the porch of Maggie’s house, reaches behind one of the steps for the key, and uses it to gain entry. Moments later, she comes out, locks the door, replaces the key, and I tell her my plan for getting us all where we need to go at the same time.

  “I like it,” she says.

  24

  WILLOW’S GOT THE flashers on as she drives the back roads to Dayton at five miles an hour. The twins are sitting on the hood of the Mercedes. Charlie’s gun is pointed at Willow. If she tries any “funny stuff” he’ll put six bullets through the windshield.

  Every few minutes, a car passes. One guy slows to match our speed and says, “Nice hood ornament!” But takes off when Charlie turns the gun on him.

  Twenty minutes later Charlie motions Willow to stop.

  “What now?” she says.

  “We’ve got phone service,” he says. “Turn into the next driveway and drop us off. We can call mom from here.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Cameron needs to get to the hospital, and we’ve detained you long enough.”

  “Thank you Charles,” Willow says.

  We drop them off, say our goodbyes.

  Willow looks at me and says, “Does she really need to go to the hospital?”

  “No. Cameron needs medical care, but she’s eminently safer with me.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  “Were you ever planning to take her?”

  “Yeah, but I worry about leaving her in the hospital. And you’re right. The police will want the details.”

  “Any chance we could take Cameron somewhere and you could care for her till she heals?”

  I think about that. We could drive to New York and I could keep a swollen eye on her when I’m not working. But if she wound up dying I’d have a problem with the authorities. Not to mention her parents.

  “No,” I say. “Too many people are involved.”

  “If you mean the twins, I expect they’ll keep quiet.”

  “What about Gary, from the Firefly?”

  “What about him?”

  “He pinned my arms while Bobby beat me up.”

  “That brings up a good point. Why did Bobby beat you up?”

  “He caught me at the club, trying to leave money for you and Cameron.”

  “Money?”

  I nod. “In envelopes.”

  “How much?”

  “Six thousand each.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  She says, “Bobby didn’t spend twelve thousand on drugs.”

  “I don’t know how much he spent. But he and Chuckie were in my car. And some other guy drove Bobby’s motorcycle back to your place.”

  “Mark Boner,” she says. “Boner the Stoner. You’re right. Too many people.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, then,” Willow says. “We need to do three things. Third, get our story straight.”

  “What’s first and second?”

  “First, we drive back to the farm and fish through Bobby’s clothes for the rest of the money.”

  “That’s first?”

  “Cameron and I earned that money in the most disgusting way imaginable,” she says. Then adds, “No offense.”

  “You can’t mean having sex with me was worse than living with Bobby and getting the shit beat out of you all the time.”

  Willow says nothing.

  “Be honest,” I say. “It can’t have been that bad, could it?”

  “You really want me to answer that?”

  I sigh. “I guess not. What’s the second thing we need to do
?”

  “Dump the bedding and vacuum cleaner in dumpsters in Dayton.”

  “Okay. And then we take Cameron to the hospital?”

  “Yup.”

  25.

  THE BIGGEST SURPRISE is the Dayton cops buy our story, even the bogus part, with few questions asked.

  A quick call to the Cincinnati police tells them what kind of person Bobby was.

  They totally believe I tried to leave two thousand dollars at the Firefly Lounge for the girls in hopes of getting in their pants tonight, after getting lap dances last night, and totally believe Bobby caught me there, beat me up, tossed me in the trunk, and stole my car.

  They believe Bobby’s friend, Mark Boner, met him at the club and drove his motorcycle home. Mark confirmed it, though he denied knowledge of my being in the trunk.

  They believe Bobby bought heroin, cocaine, and Black Stone powder from Chuckie the dealer, who’s well-known to both police departments.

  They believe Bobby drove to Cameron’s house and forced his way into Willow’s car, and expect that to be corroborated by neighborhood witnesses.

  They believe Bobby forced Willow and Cameron to go to Maggie’s Farm with him, and have no problem with our story of how he shot Cameron when she tried to get away to avoid being raped.

  They believe Bobby accidentally shot himself and tried to stop the bleeding by pressing nutmeg into his wounds.

  And they believe after Bobby died, Willow opened the trunk of the Mercedes and let me out so I could save Cameron’s life. Side note: hospital surgery personnel tell police they’ve never seen such a remarkable surgery performed under field conditions at dusk, not even counting the fact my eyes were so swollen I could barely see.

  After getting my broken nose set and bandaged and my cuts cleaned and stitched, I camp out in Cameron’s hospital room to ensure her safety. She’s groggy, mumbling incoherently. Thinks she’s going to die.

  “You’ll be fine,” I say.

  “Need to…change my life around,” she says.

  “That’s probably true.”

  “God’s punishing me…for what I did. Need to…confess…before I die.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong, Cameron. And you’re not going to die as long as you don’t eat anything here, and make sure everyone washes their hands before touching you.”

  Dayton police take a quick trip with Willow to Maggie’s farm, recover Bobby’s gun, ask a few more questions, and shoot some photos, including two of the gun in the grass, two of Bobby’s face, four of his leg wound, and a hundred forty-seven photos of his penis. Then they bring Willow back to the hospital, where she spends the night with Cameron and me.

  Cameron’s pissed because I won’t allow her to eat anything. She’s lucid enough to ask me to step out of the room so she and Willow can talk in private. I oblige them, but when I return I ask, “Did you eat anything?”

  “You’re so paranoid!” Willow says.

  “I work in a hospital, remember?”

  “You’re a nut!” Cameron says.

  “Just don’t eat anything.”

  “Do I look like I eat much?”

  No, she doesn’t.

  By noon the next day the cops say we’re free from suspicion. The swelling around my eyes has reduced enough to permit limited vision, so I take the opportunity to drive Willow back to Ream’s Park in Cincinnati to get her car. When I try to hug her goodbye she slaps my face.

  I don’t blame her. If I hadn’t come into her life Thursday night none of this would have happened.

  I drive to the nearest phone store, buy a new cell phone, drop my rental car off at the airport, and fly back to New York City.

  The next morning our hospital administrator, Bruce Luce, tells me what a joy it was to hear from the Dayton police that I paid for lap dances at a night club and attempted to solicit two strippers for prostitution.

  “Are we still on for tomorrow?” I ask

  “Can you even operate with those eyes?” he says.

  “It doesn’t matter. The kid’s a goner either way.”

  “Have I told you lately how uplifting it is to talk to you?”

  “Many times. Are we on for tomorrow?”

  “Eight a.m., subject to Lilly being cleared for surgery.”

  “What you mean is, subject to our doctors giving up all hope by midnight.”

  “You’re an arrogant prick,” Bruce says. “And you want to know something? You’re not half as good as you think you are.”

  “If that’s true, Mr. and Mrs. Devereaux can save a ton of money.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Caskets are cheaper than hospital wings.”

  “You’re a disgrace to your profession,” he says.

  “Except when I’m saving the kids you gave up on.”

  “Even then.”

  “Thank you. May I go now?”

  “After you meet the nurses who’ll assist you.”

  “My regulars refused?”

  “They not only refused, we had to pay them a settlement to keep them from suing you in open court.”

  “They were bluffing.”

  “Listen up, doctor. I wouldn’t say this to anyone else on earth, but one of the new nurses is a rare beauty.”

  “Am I supposed to thank you?”

  “You’re supposed to behave. We can’t afford a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  “Whatever you think of me, I’ve never touched a nurse in this hospital, and never will.”

  “You can no longer speak to them the way you have in the past.”

  “I’m trying to save lives here, not spare feelings.”

  “You’re on the verge of losing your career.”

  “Not if I keep winning.”

  “Winning?” he says.

  He gives me a long look. “You’re one dead patient away from losing your job.”

  “What if it’s the nurses’ fault? I’ve never worked with them before. What if they suck?”

  “That’s pretty much on you, isn’t it?”

  “I’m telling you right now, I don’t trust a pretty nurse.”

  “This nurse isn’t pretty, she’s drop-dead gorgeous, and has stronger credentials than anyone we’ve ever employed. You will not insult her.”

  26.

  OLDER PEOPLE KNOW exactly where they were and what they were doing the moment they heard President Kennedy was shot. Younger ones remember the terrorist attacks of 9/11. And everyone remembers their first love.

  I’m in the cafeteria, eating a cup of vanilla pudding, when the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen walks over to my table, sits down, and extends her hand.

  “Hello, Dr. Box,” she says in a voice I’m certain will haunt me the rest of my life.

  I take her hand, and a current of energy flows through my body.

  “You’re my new assistant?” I ask.

  “One of them,” she says.

  “Your name?”

  “Rose.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rose.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Box.”

  “Have the gods seen fit to give you a last name?”

  “Stout.”

  “Rose Stout?”

  She nods.

  “A misnomer if ever I heard one,” I say. “What’s that you’re holding?”

  “Birch bark tea,” she says.

  “Is it good?”

  “It’s ghastly.”

  I laugh. “Then why drink it?”

  “It’s not for me, it’s for you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, “but I’m not a tea drinker.”

  She places the cup on the table in front of me. “Drink this now, while I watch. I’ll brew you some more every four hours. By morning you’ll feel like a new man.”

  “Are you serious?” I say.

  “Quite.”

  “Three things,” I say. “First, I don’t believe in homeopathic remedies. Second, it concerns me greatly that a nurse I’m relying on does believe in something the enti
re scientific community has disproved time and again. And third, you won’t be brewing tea for me every four hours because I’m heading home soon and you have no idea where I live.”

  She pats my hand, stands, and takes the empty cup away.

  “See you soon, Dr. Box,” she says.

  Empty cup?

  27.

  ROSE AND MELBA are CVOR registered nurses, trained to assist surgeons, perfusionists, and anesthesiologists in a cardiovascular operating room.

  “Rose,” I say.

  “Yes sir?”

  “Let’s hear your background.”

  “Two years CVOR, first assist, two years CVICU.”

  “Where?”

  “Cleveland Clinic.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s on my resume.”

  “Why would you switch from intensive care to operating room?”

  “Better pay, better hours.”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “Apparently they’re having problems finding CVOR nurses to work with you.”

  “You’re first assist?”

  “I am.”

  “You can’t possibly be more than thirty.”

  “I can be as old as I like.”

  That strikes me as an odd thing to say.

  “Tell me more about your training.”

  “I’m a three-category APRN with four years CNOR and CVOR experience.”

  “Which three categories?”

  “CNM, NP and CNS. As a nurse leader.”

  “And you received your MSN from?”

  “Johns Hopkins.”

  What she’s saying, she’s an advanced practice registered nurse certified to assist in cardio-vascular operating rooms and intensive care units. She’s also a certified nurse midwife, a nurse practitioner, and a clinical nurse specialist, who happened to receive her master of science in nursing from Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. Oh, and she did four years at the Cleveland Clinic, arguably the finest heart care facility on the planet earth. If her credentials are to be believed, she is, quite possibly, the most highly-trained nurse in the world.

  Did I mention she’s breathtakingly beautiful?

  I absorb all this without so much as raising an eyebrow, as if all my nurses share her credentials. Then say, “Do you happen to have any experience with children?”