Body of Evidence

by Debra Webb

  Lacon held his breath, prayed she hadn’t just signed her death warrant.

  The thug in front of him pressed the fingers of his free hand to his ear, touching the earpiece he wore. The boss was listening, and he had made a decision.

  Let it be the one we need.

  “Let’s go,” the man in charge announced. He stepped aside and gestured for Lacon and Frasier to precede him.

  Lacon was able to breathe again. He leaned toward her. “Do not do that again.”

  She ignored him the same way she had the other guy. Maybe the doctor was a lot tougher than she looked.

  Thug number two walked beside Lacon, and the others walked behind them. The procession continued into a corridor behind the large space they had entered. Three doors down on the left another man, dressed all in black like his friends, opened a door and stepped aside for them to enter.

  Frasier was ushered into the room first. Lacon stayed right behind her. In the center of the room, beneath the fluorescent light that flickered incessantly, a man lay on a white sheet that looked much like a drop cloth used for painting. His hands were tied in front of him and his feet were secured at the ankles. Blood soaked his shirt. The gag in his mouth prevented him from speaking, but he made frantic sounds as they approached.

  Next to the man on the floor was an open box loaded with what looked like medical supplies. Lacon didn’t need a map or a block of instruction to see where this was going. Along with the medical supplies, spread out on the floor were a number of torture devices. A battery and jumper cables for delivering shocks. Dental forceps for extracting teeth. And an array of other nasty tools for generating pain.

  The thug in charge answered a call on his cell. He made a couple of agreeable sounds and then set the phone to speaker.

  “Dr. Frasier, I need this man alive,” the voice of their caller—the one they suspected was Vito Anastasia—announced. “Your survival depends completely on his. Do not let me down, or this is where the police will find your body.”

  Frasier charged forward and dropped onto her knees next to the man. She surveyed his injuries. Lacon moved closer to her, but the Top Thug pulled him back. Lacon stared him dead in the eyes. Hoped like hell he got the chance to kick his ass.

  “I may need his assistance,” Frasier said.

  Top Thug pushed Lacon toward her. “He’s all yours.”

  Lacon crouched next to Frasier. “What can I do?”

  She poked around in the box, surveying the supplies. “First, I need to sedate him.” She picked up a bottle and a syringe.

  “No!” Top Thug snarled. “We need him conscious.”

  “I cannot remove the bullet while he is conscious,” Frasier snapped. She gestured to another drug bottle. “We’ll wake him up when I’m done.”

  Top Thug stepped back.

  Damn, Lacon was impressed. The doc was holding her own with these dirtbags.

  Frasier cleaned her hands and forearms with an antibacterial solution before donning a pair of gloves. Lacon removed his jacket and did the same. When she had everything she needed spread on a white towel that the instruments had been wrapped in, she moved closer to the injured man and began her work. She checked his vitals and then ripped open his shirt to get a closer look at the injury.

  Tears ran from the guy’s eyes. He’d wet himself. Frasier spoke quietly to him as she worked. “I’m going to give you morphine. You won’t feel any of this.”

  While she attended to the man, Lacon committed his face and physical features to memory. Whoever he was, he’d pissed off Anastasia or had information he wanted. Lacon considered how they might be able to help him, but not a single idea came to mind that wouldn’t get one or both of them killed.

  When the man had lost consciousness, she removed the rag stuffed in his mouth. To Lacon she said, “I want you to keep an eye on his blood pressure.”

  He grabbed the blood pressure cuff she had removed from his left arm and moved to the other side so he wouldn’t be in her way. He strapped the cuff into place and pressed the button to start the process. Luckily for him, this particular monitor did all the work.

  “About the same, one-ten over seventy.”

  Frasier nodded and continued cleaning the area around the injury. Her moves were so precise and so rhythmic, Lacon found himself mesmerized by the steady, quick steps. She opened the entrance wound a little wider, had the bullet out in a few precise moves and began closing the wound in a matter of minutes. Lacon checked the guy’s blood pressure periodically. Thankfully it stayed fairly consistent.

  When she had dressed the wound and peeled off her gloves, the top thug said, “Wake him up.”

  Frasier pushed to her feet and turned to him. “First, I didn’t see any additional bleeding, but I can’t be certain there isn’t damage I couldn’t see. He needs an ultrasound and other tests to determine if there are additional internal injuries. This is not a sterile environment. He’ll need an antibiotic, and I still can’t say that he’ll get through this without a serious infection.”

  Top Thug shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just wake him up and then you can go.”

  Lacon removed the cuff and slowly stood, careful not to make any sudden moves. These guys wanted the man awake and patched up so they could continue torturing him for information. The last thing they wanted was for him to die without divulging his secrets. Damn.

  “He should be in a hospital,” Frasier argued.

  “Wake him up,” the thug ordered, the muzzle of his weapon nudging her in the chest.

  When she didn’t make a move to do so, his cohort stuck his weapon in Lacon’s face. He didn’t flinch, but his gut sure as hell clenched.

  “Wake him up or your bodyguard dies,” Top Thug warned.

  Frasier trembled visibly. She glared at the piece of shit a moment longer before crouching next to the box of supplies and preparing a shot of Narcan. Seconds after she administered the injection, the man’s eyes opened.

  Top Thug yanked her to her feet. “Now go, or watch your friend die.”

  She started to argue, but Lacon took her by the arm and ushered her out of the room. Two of the thugs followed them out of the building; one returned Traynor’s weapon. She kept looking back, and he kept pushing her forward. They had to get out of here or they could end up dead, too.

  Damn. Damn. Damn.

  He ushered her into the car, fastened her seat belt and then closed her door. When he dropped behind the wheel, he started the car and drove away immediately, his pulse throbbing. Son of a bitch!

  They were leaving that guy to die.

  And if they warned the police, Anastasia would know.

  There had to be something he could do to stop this travesty.

  Then the answer hit him square between the eyes. He called 911.

  Frasier stared at him, her eyes wide with fear. “What’re you doing?”

  When the dispatcher had finished his spiel, Lacon said, “Man, you gotta get the fire department to 1735 West Hubbard. Smoke is boiling outta that old warehouse. I think some homeless people are living in there. Hurry!” He ended the call.

  He glanced at Frasier. Her green eyes filled with tears, and a barely perceptible smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you.”

  And then she broke down and cried.

  Lacon reached across the console and took her hand in his.

  Chapter Five

  Colby Safe House, 7:30 p.m.

  Marissa pulled on her pj’s. The lavender bottoms and white tank top with its matching lavender phrase, Doctors Are People Too, were badly wrinkled from being stuffed carelessly into the bag. Didn’t matter. She stared at her reflection, images of the gunshot victim she’d patched up—the man whose name she didn’t know—flashing over and over in her head.

  She hoped the fire department had arrived before the bastards in the masks could f
inish him off. No matter that she understood doing anything further to help him was impossible given the situation, she still ached at the idea that she and Traynor had walked out of that damned warehouse and left the wounded man there. She had taken an oath to heal...not to walk away and leave someone injured on the floor.

  Despite thinking she was all cried out, more tears flowed down her cheeks as she thought of the call she’d had to make to William’s parents. Though they had stopped speaking to her after the trial, she still felt their anguish. William’s death was such an immense waste. He was still so young. Eventually he might very well have been able to pull his life back together. William had obviously been desperate; otherwise he would never have resorted to such unexpected criminal behavior.

  But the decision had been his alone. Some part of her felt the weight of guilt, but it was not her fault. Intellectually, she understood that irrefutable fact. On an emotional level, it was a different story. She had loved him. They had lived as husband and wife for five years. She had wanted to see the good in him even when he’d stood outside the ER and told her he intended to kill her. She hadn’t wanted to believe he’d meant it.

  Had that been his warped way of warning her something bad was about to happen? Had he thought such a threat would prompt her to go to the police? She would likely never know.

  Men like Vito Anastasia cared nothing for human life—only about what they could take. She wasn’t naive. She watched the news, but she had never been forced to bear witness to that cold, harsh reality until today. The sick and injured came to her, inside the safety of the ER. She wasn’t out there witnessing the atrocities that occurred far too often on the streets of most cities. She’d certainly never walked away knowing somebody she’d provided care for would surely be murdered in the hours to follow.

  Was what she’d done any different from treating a gunshot victim in the ER who ended up right back on the street hours or days later to dive into the same life of crime that had put a bullet in him in the first place? Where did her obligation end and that of the police begin? Or the patient, for that matter?

  Her arms went around her body and attempted to stop the trembling. Had Traynor not hauled her out of that warehouse and she’d stayed, what could she have done to stop four armed thugs? Nothing.

  There was no going back. At this point, she just needed to know the fire department had arrived in time.

  Her damp curls tucked into a hair clip, she emerged from her room and went in search of Traynor. Some errant brain cell reminded her that she needed to eat. It had been many hours since she’d forced herself to swallow a few bites of the omelet. But her stomach didn’t feel capable of accepting food. Her throat felt so dry and constricted, she wasn’t sure she could swallow even a tiny bite.

  You need the energy to keep going. That much was true.

  Downstairs she found Traynor making sandwiches. “I was just about to come find you.” He set a plate on the counter in front of her. “Ham and cheese. I didn’t know if you wanted mayo or mustard.”

  Her stomach rumbled and knotted at the same time. She pushed into place what she hoped passed for a smile. “Thank you.”

  “Whatever you want to drink, you’ll probably find in the fridge.” He placed the second piece of bread atop his own sandwich. “They keep this place stocked like a five-star resort. Make yourself at home.”

  She put a hand to her mouth, then allowed it to slide down her throat. “I’m not sure I can eat.”

  He lifted his sandwich. “Try it. You’ll probably be surprised how hungry you are after you get down the first couple of bites.”

  Maybe he was right. Before she dared try, she wandered to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of cold water. She downed a long swallow, her throat immediately feeling better. He picked up her plate as well as his own and moved to the table. She followed, too tired and too overwhelmed to do much else.

  Hoping she could actually swallow something more than water, she took a bite of the sandwich.

  “This is hard for you,” he said. “You’re accustomed to a clinical environment where the variables, though at times outside your control, are a different kind of battle. Everyone in the room is generally attempting to help the patient, not cause harm. It doesn’t work that way in the environment set up by a guy like Anastasia.”

  She closed her eyes for a moment and tried her best not to sound as angry and bitter as she felt. “I watch the news, Mr. Traynor. I’m well aware how the world works.”

  “But you don’t usually find yourself caught in the middle of the lead story. This is a whole different world. The people who end up in front of you want help, and there’s rarely anyone trying to prevent you from providing the necessary help.”

  “True,” she said wearily, “unless you count insurance companies.”

  He laughed and she couldn’t help smiling, even if it hurt her face to do so.

  “Have you heard if the man in the warehouse made it?” She held her breath as she waited for his answer. Whatever the man was guilty of, she wanted him to be alive. Deep down, she understood that she was likely kidding herself. Men like Anastasia wouldn’t leave those sorts of loose ends.

  Why in the world would William have risked working for a man like Anastasia?

  Guilt heaped onto her shoulders. Because she pressed charges against him for what he did to her. Because he went to prison and lost his license to practice medicine. Because he was desperate, and she could no longer deal with the mood swings and the drama...she had only wanted out of the marriage.

  What kind of person did that make her?

  The single bite of bread, ham and cheese she had swallowed sat like a rock in her stomach.

  “Unfortunately he was dead when the firemen arrived on the scene.”

  The words pummeled her like stones. She really had left the poor man to die.

  “You did not put him in the situation he found himself in, Doc. The man you pulled that bullet out of was Brent Underwood. According to what Bella could find on him, he was one of Anastasia’s long-time accountants. Rumor on the street is that he was skimming the books. That doesn’t make what happened to him right, but it damned sure tells you he chose his own path.”

  She forced down another bite. Told herself he was right. This was not her fault any more than William’s death was. “So what do we do now?”

  “We wait and we rest while we can.”

  “What if he calls again?” This time when the bite lodged in her throat, she forced it down with a long swig of water.

  “We’ll deal with that issue when the time comes.”

  She stared at her plate. Pushed it away. “You make it sound so easy.”

  “This ain’t my first rodeo, Doc.” He stacked her plate on top of his. “Most of the cases I investigate involve people who do very bad things. The best I can hope for is to protect the innocent and to help make sure the bad guys don’t get away with it.”

  She couldn’t think about this anymore. It was time for a change of subject. “Do you get back to see your family often?”

  He glanced at her as he cleaned up the remains of their dinner. If he was surprised by the abrupt change of topics, he showed no indication. “Every Christmas and every Father’s Day.”

  Father’s Day was barely two weeks ago, so he must have just seen him. “So you said your father’s still involved with running the ranch despite being retired?” she asked.

  He nodded, tucked the plates into the dishwasher. “More than my older brother would prefer, I think.”

  “What about your mother?” She leaned against the counter, forced her mind away from that warehouse and the man who had died there.

  Her bodyguard dried his hands and tossed the towel aside. “She was injured in a horseback riding accident when I was twelve. She died a few hours later. She was a damned good rider, but, as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized tha
t even the best swimmer can drown. Just one of those freak accidents you hope will never happen. But it happened to her.”

  “That must have been very difficult.” She couldn’t imagine being twelve and losing her mother. It was bad enough at thirty.

  “What about you?”

  She looked up at him. “My brother and I grew up in southern Illinois. My mother was a substitute teacher. Dad managed a supermarket. It was a small town so everyone knew everyone else. My parents were determined that both their children would be doctors. I suppose like most, they wanted better for us than they had.”

  “Your brother’s a doctor, too.”

  “He is. Steven’s three years younger than me and still finding himself.” She laughed, picturing her brother, the free spirit who felt completely comfortable grabbing his passport and taking off at the drop of a hat. “He spends all his free time traveling, but his travels usually involve volunteering in support of those in areas where there isn’t adequate medical care available.”

  “You lost both your parents.” He walked to the coffee maker and started a fresh pot.

  “A few years ago. Mother died of cancer, and Dad had a heart attack a couple of years later. It was a tough time.” She’d longed for the comfort of simply talking with them when her marriage disintegrated. She hadn’t shared the dirty details with her brother until after William was in prison. Her little brother might be younger than her, but he was very protective. She only wished she could see him more often. The once-a-year thing was not nearly enough.

  “Sit,” he suggested. “I’ll serve the coffee. Cream, no sugar, right?”

  “Right.” She weaved her way around the island and climbed onto one of the stools. “Is this what you do most of the time? I mean, are your cases typically like this one?”

  “Sometimes providing protection is involved, sometimes not. Depends on the situation.”