by Lyle Howard
Gabe was panting like a pack mule. “I’m not letting you off that easy,” he said, gently lifting the doctor’s head off the floor. “You’re telling me what I want to know, or I’m calling for help, and you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail receiving rectal exams from an inmate named Butch.”
Sanborn’s head flopped to one side, and Gabe knew all of his harsh threats were futile. The doctor would never live to see the inside of a prison cell.
“Come on, Doc. Talk to me,” Gabe urged as he cradled Sanborn’s head in his hands. “What did you mean when you said not like me?”
The doctor gurgled; his teeth were coated with blood. “My wife … killed by a drunk driver. The bastard who did it … set free. I had to do something…” He clutched in vain at Gabe’s arm. “Had … to do something.”
Gabe wiped away a stream of blood that was dripping down the side of the doctor’s face. “And that’s how you met up with August Bock?”
One of Sanborn’s eyes flickered open. It was so filled with blood, Gabe could no longer tell what color it was. “A woman.”
“Shayla Rand.”
Sanborn nodded ever so slightly. “Made a deal. I’d do anything…”
Gabe leaned down and placed his mouth right next to Sanborn’s ear. “And in exchange for murdering the man who killed your wife, you gave them…”
Doctor Kenneth Sanborn looked up bleary eyed at Gabe and said one last blood-curdling word before he died: “You.”
42
In moments, the cleaning crew would discover Sanborn’s body. Gabe had to think quick. There was no time to ponder over the doctor’s cryptic confession, or to wonder how he would get his hands on more medication. Gabe’s mind was such a jumble, he wasn’t even sure what kind or dosage of medication he was taking.
Lining the far wall of the office was a row of filing cabinets. If there was a folder in there with his name on it, perhaps it held some answers. If he could just get the name of his pills, maybe he could find another way to get a prescription filled.
The cabinets were all alphabetized, making it a snap to locate his folder. But, in his haste, Gabe was getting careless and didn’t realize he was leaving a trail of blood every time he touched a fresh surface. Gingerly, his fingers danced over the file tabs in the cabinet marked “Mc – Mo.” Mickens … Miller … Mintzer … Miranda … Gabe, Gabe. But, to his surprise, there were two folders with his name on them. He pulled them both out.
Gabe walked over to the doorway and held open the files in the light. Giving the contents of each folder a quick going over, nothing appeared peculiar. Not that he would have been able to spot anything out of the ordinary—it all looked like medical mumbo-jumbo to him. Except … one word that was repeated highlighted in yellow marker in the second folder: Digitoxin. Gabe might not have been able to remember the name of the medicine he was taking, but he was sure that Digitoxin wasn’t it. And something else he found puzzling—in the same folder, there was a business card stapled inside the back cover. It was a simple beige card containing the rendering of an 18-wheeler, the name of what appeared to be a freight company, and its toll-free phone number embossed in gold filigree. It read:
Worldwide Dispatch Incorporated
(800) 555-7700
Why would his doctor have the business card from some cargo hauler attached to his medical records? Gabe looked down at the Sanborn’s lifeless body and shook his head regretfully. Another victim who’d fallen prey to Bock’s heinous plot. So many answers had died with him. He was probably a good husband who was blinded by the love for his wife, and one of the most powerful aphrodisiacs known to man: revenge.
Gabe studied the card again for a long moment, but, in his mind’s disoriented state, he never deciphered the play on words. He wouldn’t have the time to make the connection either, because more trouble was on the way—the faint chatter of voices coming down the corridor. Once they found the body, all hell would surely break loose.
Tucking the two manila folders into his waistband behind his back, Gabe hustled into the outer office and hid behind the opened door to the hallway. His heart was thumping a mile a minute as he heard them standing just outside the office. There were two of them, and they spoke to each other in broken English with thick Spanish accents.
“Ay Dios,” Gabe overheard one say. “Did you hear about that football player, J.R. Jackson?”
Seconds later, a vacuum cleaner was turned on and their conversation turned into a shouting match as the men tried to be heard over the droning machine. “He got what was coming to him,” the one pushing the vacuum yelled. “The Lord … he works in mysterious ways!”
“Ay Dios,” the first one shuddered, “no one deserves to die like that.”
There was two ways Gabe could handle this: wait here for something to happen, or take matters into his own hands. The decision was an easy one; time was no longer a commodity to be wasted.
Gabe pulled the files out of his trousers and took a deep breath. There was blood all over his clothes, but if he moved fast enough and looked official enough, he might just get away with it. He tucked the folders under his arm, grabbed hold of the doorknob and stepped out into the corridor, closing the office door behind him. “Good evening, gentlemen,” Gabe said to them, as he brusquely shoved his way between them.
* * * * * *
The worker pushing the vacuum paid no attention to the stranger—he just gave a wave of his hand and continued humming a song to himself. But the janitor doing the dusting was another matter. He only glimpsed the stranger from behind, and probably wouldn’t have thought twice about him, until he wiped down the doorknob and his dust rag came away smeared with blood.
“Orlando. ORLANDO,” he shouted. “Apaga la maquina (shut off the machine)! Mira esto (look at this),” he said franticly in his native tongue, and waving the discolored rag in his co-worker’s face.
Both men looked at each other unsure of how to handle the situation. “Look inside the office,” Manny said.
Manny shook his head. “You look, Orlando.”
Orlando held out his hand. “Give me the rag. I do not want to touch anything. I learned that on the television.”
“Sí, es muy astuto (Yes, that’s very smart).”
Like he was wrapping the cloth around an eggshell, Orlando slipped the rag around the doorknob and turned it. Apprehensively, he peeked inside the outer office with his co-worker bobbing and weaving behind him, trying to get his own glimpse through the doorway.
43
Gabe was rounding the landing between the fifth and fourth floors when the chimes began to toll like a slot machine paying off a jackpot. There was no doubt in his mind—the cleaning crew had found the corpse. Far below, down the coil of concrete stairs, he could hear the echoes of metal doors opening and slamming shut, and the rapid clattering of running feet. He wasn’t going to make it.
Upon reaching the fourth floor exit, Gabe pushed ever so slightly on the bar that released the door. He could only see down the corridor in one direction, but at least there was no sign of security … yet. Unfortunately, the direction Gabe was looking was the opposite way of the parking garage. All he could see were numbered patient rooms and one door marked “linen storage.” At the far end of the hallway, he spotted the same young blond nurse who had hassled him at the elevator, but she appeared to be preoccupied with helping an elderly patient back into her room. Gabe let the door close again.
The footsteps in the stairwell were growing louder, and now they were accompanied by heavy, commanding voices barking out instructions. He couldn’t just stand here and let himself be captured. It was at this critical moment of decision that Gabe noticed the blood on the outside of the file folders. Then, for the first time, he glanced down at his soiled clothes and scowled forlornly. He may as well have been wearing a neon sign that flashed “Here I am, boys. Come and get me.”
There was nowhere to run. Going back up to the fifth floor was crazy, and it would only be a matter of minutes
before the police arrived and sealed off every exit … time to improvise.
Gabe cracked the door again and got his bearing on the door labeled “linen storage.” He prayed it housed more than just neatly folded bed sheets and dinner napkins. Shoving open the heavy metal door, he made a beeline across the hallway for the storage room. Head down and hunched over, it was the quickest 50 feet Gabe had ever traversed.
Gabe burst inside the room, which was more like a closet, and felt around for the light switch. When he finally found it and flipped it on, he realized he had struck the mother lode. First aid kits, lab coats, operating greenies—everything he would need. He spun around and locked the door behind him. He had to work quick.
His clothes were the first to go. He removed the few dollars he had brought with him for parking from his pocket, and then balled up the clothes and shoved them into a red garbage bag labeled “Medical Waste.” He quickly found a set of teal green operating scrubs and put them on. No sooner had he tightened the pants’ drawstring than he moved on to the first aid kits. He popped open several of them before he found one with a mirror attached to the inside lid. The face that stared back at him in the glass was too pathetic for words, but there was still a glimmer flickering in those eyes … maybe it was from the excitement of one last chase, but that flicker of fire was definitely still in there.
Gabe leaned his head back and swabbed clean the gash below his chin. The combination of denatured alcohol meeting raw flesh was enough to make a tear come to the eyes of even the most rugged of men. Gabe had to bite down hard on his lower lip to quell the urge to scream. He used five more alcohol drenched swabs to remove the blood from his neck and hands. By the time Gabe was done, the red garbage bag was nearly filled to bursting. Rummaging one last time through the shelves of clothing, he came across boxes of paper bonnets, face masks and booties. They would be perfect to complete his disguise. He tucked his hair under the paper cap and slipped the booties over his sneakers. Actually wearing the face mask might draw too much attention, so he just tied it loosely around his neck and let it dangle there, in case he needed it. Before he switched off the light, Gabe jammed the loaded garbage bag behind one of the metal shelves and covered it up with a stack of bed sheets. There was no doubt that someone would eventually find it, but he made sure it would take them quite a while.
Gabe emerged from the storage room looking like a surgeon who had just stepped out of the operating theater. He switched the order of the medical folders so that the bloody covers were a little less obvious. Now all he had to do was make it less than 100 yards to the doors the led out to the parking garage.
He walked quickly, but not so much as to look like he was rushing. Walking in paper boots was obviously an acquired skill, one that Gabe had yet to refine. He nearly slipped twice as his feet fumbled for traction. What Gabe didn’t know was, the paper boots were usually the first thing a surgeon removed after his gloves and mask when he left the operating room. They were designed for hygienic purposes only, not for quick getaways.
Gabe was just passing the nurses’ station when two uniformed patrolmen stepped out of the elevator. They stood in the corridor directly blocking Gabe’s exit. Gabe came to a grinding halt and, turning his back to them, began studiously flipping through his folders as though he was searching for something important. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the two patrolmen talking amongst themselves. One pointed in one direction, the other pointed toward Gabe. This wasn’t good.
“Excuse me, doctor,” the one walking toward Gabe called out. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
Gabe tried not to panic. Holding up the clean side of the folders to block his face, Gabe stepped toward the closest room he could find. “Not now officer,” he said, trying to sound as harried as most doctors usually were. “I’m busy with a patient.”
Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Gabe found himself in the midst of a quorum of young interns huddled around the bed of an old woman. Everyone turned to look at Gabe as he burst through the door—even the old woman.
“Good evening, doctor,” they all said in unison.
Gabe nodded seriously as the door opened behind him and the patrolman popped his head in. “I said I was with a patient!” Gabe snarled, kicking the door closed, almost decapitating the meddlesome officer. “There’s some big emergency up on five,” Gabe said, with an indifferent shrug.
One of the interns, a young Asian girl, handed Gabe a metal clipboard containing the patient’s medical chart. “Here is Mrs. Applebaum’s chart, Doctor…”
“Uh … Bennett,” Gabe came up with. “But I’m not here to assist you on your rounds.” He said, looking down at his own files. He had a brainstorm. “Your attending physician will be here momentarily I’m sure.” Gabe hoped to God it wouldn’t be too momentarily. “I’m just here to see which of you bright young doctors has the sharpest diagnostic skills.”
They all looked at each other curiously. An overweight young man standing at the head of the bed was the first to break the skeptical silence. “But we’re with a patient, Doctor. Don’t you think we should address Mrs. Applebaum’s prognosis first?”
Cop, doctor—it didn’t matter. The skill of intimidation was all the same. “What’s your name, doctor?” Gabe growled.
The chubby intern swallowed hard. “Caputo, sir. Ellis Caputo.”
Gabe tore a ball point pen from the pocket of the young Asian doctor and pretended to write down the name. “Anyone else agree with Doctor Caputo?”
It was like he was staring at the statues on Easter Island. No one budged, no one inhaled. “I didn’t think so,” Gabe said, walking up to the foot of the bed and patting the old woman on the ankle. “You don’t mind if I borrow these young doctors for a minute, do you Mrs. Applebaum?” Gabe didn’t wait for an answer. He turned and walked toward the door, pushed it open and ushered the small group of interns out into the hall. “We can talk and walk at the same time, okay?”
Stepping into the corridor, they all looked at each other and then back at the door to Mrs. Applebaum’s room. The hallway was jammed with hospital security and patrolmen. Gabe huddled the young doctors around him and began making his way toward the exit leading to the garage. “How’s your knowledge of medicines, Caputo?” Gabe asked.
The overweight intern was anxious to have his name erased from wherever Gabe had written it. “Give me your best shot, Doctor Bennett.”
“Digitoxin. What is it? What does it do?”
Caputo never hesitated. “Digitoxin. Used for congestive heart failure to regulate the heart rhythm.”
Congestive heart failure? That made no sense. “Anybody else?” Gabe asked.
The Asian girl spoke up. “An overdose can cause nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, blurred vision and cardiac disturbances, such as tachycardia and premature contractions.”
Gabe didn’t realize it, but he had stopped moving. Sanborn’s words came racing back to him in a flood of thoughts. When he asked the doctor about the recruitment of terminal patients like himself, Sanborn had said “not like you.”
“Let me ask you another question,” he said, glancing from one young attentive face to the next. “I’m going to throw a hypothetical at you, and tell me what you think…”
They hung on each of his words.
“If you wanted to make someone think they were dying, would Digitoxin do the trick?”
“But why would anyone want to do that?” Caputo asked.
“Hypothetically, Ellis,” Gabe snarled. “Would Digitoxin be your drug of choice?”
The Asian woman interrupted. “There are others that might work better, but yes, I guess Digitoxin would do the job … as long as you regulated the absorption rate. I mean, you give the person too much at one time,” she said, snapping her fingers, “and it’s all over.”
“What’s your name?” Gabe asked.
“Hayashi. Nancy Hayashi.”
“Okay then Doctor Hayashi. How would you administer the drug?”
&n
bsp; Hayashi looked over a Caputo and the others. “I’d grind a pill into their food, I guess.”
“Or use the liquid form and mix it in a drink,” Caputo chimed in.
“But it would have to be a sweet drink, like a sweet soda to mask the bitterness,” Hayashi added.
Gabe’s mind was working like a Rubik’s Cube. Suddenly, all of the colors were clicking into perfect alignment…
Creme soda … his favorite! How many of them had he downed over the last month? How many times had that waitress at Strofsky’s plied him with sodas free of charge… Oh, dear God! Could it be? The Irish accent … of course it was her! Shayla Rand was the old waitress working at Strofsky’s! Didn’t old man Strofsky say that she had quit right after he went into the hospital? It all made perfect sense now.
This whole thing had been a set up from the get-go. He was never dying of a brain tumor—they were systematically poisoning him so that he’d believe he was dying of a brain tumor! But wait … I thought they only use terminal patients for their operations? Maybe they couldn’t find someone that was actually dying that met all of their requirements. Of course, that had to be it! If you can’t get someone who’s actually dying, do the next best thing: find someone who’s just lost most of his family and has no reason to live. They had done their research well … in that respect, he was the perfect candidate!
Gabe didn’t know whether to do a back flip or fall to his knees and thank the Almighty for this reprieve. All that mattered now was that he was going to see his son grow up after all. There were no words that could do justice to the delirium that enveloped his heart. It filled every fiber of his being with a newfound energy that seemed to reinvigorate him.
