Miracle Drug

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  “Why would Chavez do that? Money?” Josh asked.

  “Partly for money, partly because Chavez was part of Moreno’s drug network and thus under the man’s control. When it looked like he wasn’t going to be able to murder me with his original plan, Chavez decided to come to the U.S. and—excuse the expression—kill two birds with one stone. He could ingratiate himself with me if I lived, and he could get further away from Moreno in case he failed at his assignment.”

  “When did you figure this out?” Derek asked.

  “Once it became apparent that someone was trying to kill me, I looked around at all the people who’d like me dead.” Madison smiled without mirth. “You’d be amazed how long that list is. Then I asked the director of the Secret Service to put two agents—just two—to work investigating all these people. He and I, together with those two men, were the only ones who knew what was going on.”

  “Were you worried about your safety?” Rachel asked.

  “I depended on my Secret Service detail and the local police to keep me safe, but I wasn’t counting on them to find the person behind the attacks—although they were getting close.”

  “Why the insistence on secrecy?” Josh asked.

  “So that whoever was behind this would have no idea how close they’d come to succeeding, or whether their scheme was still going forward.”

  “Why are you telling us this now?” Derek asked.

  “Because I received a phone call about an hour ago. Moreno is in police custody in Bogotá. I’ve been assured he’ll be extradited to the U.S. to stand trial, no matter how hard his lawyers try to avoid it.”

  “Is there enough evidence to convict him?” Rachel asked.

  “Once we got Chavez in custody, he gave up Moreno and agreed to testify against him,” Madison said. “The authorities have him closely guarded, and they’re going to videotape his deposition just in case something happens to their prize witness. No, I think this affair is finally coming to an end.”

  There were a few more questions, but eventually Madison looked at his watch. He rose and said, “Thank you all. Now I’ve got to go. One of the things I have to do is reach a decision about a new personal physician.” He scanned the room. “Any volunteers?” Madison let the silence build for a few seconds. Then he smiled. “I thought not.”

  He shook hands all around and left.

  ***

  Rachel stood in Josh’s office chatting with the others until Allison and Derek left to grab a quick sandwich before returning to see patients. After she was alone with Josh, she said, “How much of what Madison told us was a surprise to you, and how much had you figured out?”

  Josh waved Rachel to one of the chairs in front of his desk. He took the one beside it, turning it until he was facing her. “I didn’t know the exact identity of the person or his reason, but I knew there had to be someone behind this. You may recall there at the end that Chavez told us he was carrying out orders.”

  “That’s right. I guess I was so worried that he was going to shoot one of us that I forgot that.”

  “Then I had a hard time believing someone wanted to murder the ex-president to affect the location his foundation would choose for a clinic,” Josh said. “Of course, when someone is trying to kill you, knowing his motivation becomes pretty academic. What you’re interested in is surviving.”

  “Do you think this is really over?” Rachel found herself unconsciously running her finger over the slightly thickened scar at the base of her neck where the tracheotomy once had been. She quickly moved her hand to join the other in her lap.

  “I think David Madison is no longer in danger from that particular man. However, I believe Madison and men like him will always have enemies. Anyone in the public eye, anyone who consistently tries to do the right thing, will. The good thing is that he doesn’t worry about the opinion of others. He has his Secret Service detail to protect him, and Mrs. Madison will help him make the right decisions.”

  Rachel reached out and took Josh’s hand. “I’m having lunch tomorrow with Allison Neeves,” she said.

  “You and she have sort of bonded, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I guess you could say that.”

  “That’s good,” Josh said. “She needs a friend.”

  “I invited her to go to church with us this Sunday,” Rachel said. “Is that okay with you?”

  Josh smiled. “Of course.”

  Rachel twisted the diamond she now wore on the third finger of her left hand. She hadn’t yet gotten used to feeling it there, but she didn’t want to take it off—ever. “Are you still certain about where we’re going with our lives?” she said. “You didn’t let circumstances influence your decision?”

  Josh looked up at the ceiling as though the answer lay there. “I’d known I loved you for a while before I ever said it. I came close to telling you when I met your plane that day at Love Field. I wanted to say it several times after that, but the time never seemed right.”

  “So it wasn’t just the possibility I might die that made you say you loved me?”

  “The danger might have been a catalyst, but the emotion was already there. And in case you have any doubts, I still love you.”

  Rachel wondered about that moment when Josh appeared to her in the middle of the night to say, “I love you.” Was it real? Was it a product of her fevered imagination? Was it a dream? She could ask him, but she preferred to leave the question unanswered. Whatever the case, she knew how he felt. When he’d first said it was immaterial.

  Josh took Rachel’s hand and squeezed it gently. “We’ve both been through a lot in a fairly short time. I’ve watched how you acted through it all, and it was impressive. You were always so calm, never railing at God or cursing fate or blaming others for the bad things you went through. I’ve learned things from you—patience, the power of prayer, a belief that the ultimate outcome of every situation is in the hands of Someone much stronger than I. Thank you for showing me.”

  Rachel looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get ready for my shift at the hospital. Call me when you leave work this evening?”

  After Rachel left, Josh sat quietly at his desk. Yes, they’d been through a lot in a short time, but they’d both grown from the experience. He’d meant what he told Rachel about learning from her. And he hoped he could continue to do so.

  A voice on his intercom interrupted his reverie. “Dr. Pearson?”

  “Yes?”

  “One of Dr. Molina’s patients is here for a post-op check, and he’s complaining of severe chest pain. Could you have a look at him?”

  “Get an EKG on him. I’ll be right there.” Josh rose from his desk, checked to make sure his stethoscope was in the pocket of his white coat, and headed out the door. It was good to be back.

  Group Discussion Guide

  1. At what point in the first chapter did you begin to sense how the story was going to develop? What would you have changed?

  2. Before reading Miracle Drug, what did you know about the Secret Service protection of a former president? Do you agree with providing it? How long should such protection be furnished?

  3. Prior to reading this book, have you given much thought to the steps through which a new drug must go for approval? Are you aware that the Food and Drug Administration must review new drug applications? In what ways do you think the process should change?

  4. When did you first notice any evidence of the factors influencing Dr. Allison Neeves’s behavior? How did you feel about these when they were fully revealed? Are there people in your circle of acquaintances whose past it might be helpful to know, but you just didn’t ask?

  5. What was your opinion of Dr. Derek Johnson when he was first introduced into the plot? How did your opinion change over the course of the story?

  6. What about your impression of Dr. Andres Chavez? Do you tend to let race or background enter into your first assessment of people?

  7. After reading the book, what do you think the takeaway message should b
e? How can a book be “Christian fiction,” even though it contains no conversion scene or Scripture quotation?

  Want to learn more about Richard L. Mabry, MD,

  and check out other great fiction from

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  to read interviews with your favorite authors,

  find tips for starting a reading group,

  and stay posted on what new titles are on the horizon.

  Be sure to visit Richard online!

  www.rmabry.com

  www.rmabry.blogspot.com

  We hope you enjoyed Richard Mabry’s Miracle Drug and will look for his other books from Abingdon Press. Here’s a sample of his upcoming novel, Medical Judgment.

  ***

  1

  The smell of smoke gradually nudged Dr. Sarah Gordon from a troubled sleep into a state of semi-wakefulness. Hours earlier she’d finally given in and taken a sleeping pill. Now it made her feel fuzzy and uncertain, as though she were moving through cobwebs. At first, she couldn’t separate the odor of smoke from the dream in which she’d been mired. Sarah struggled to bring herself more fully awake. Had she really smelled smoke? Or was it a nightmare? She eased up in bed, resting on one elbow, and sniffed the air around her. There it was again. The smoke was real.

  Her brain, still numbed by sleep and Ambien, took a few seconds to make the connection. Smoke meant fire. Something in her house was burning—perhaps the whole house was about to go up in flames. She had to wake Harry. He’d take charge. After she aroused him, they’d hurry down the hall together and get Jenny. Then Harry would lead them to safety.

  Sarah reached to her left across the king-size bed, but when her hand touched a bare pillow, the reality hit her, forcing her fully awake more effectively than a bucket of ice water. Her husband wasn’t there. He’d never be there again. He was dead. He’d been dead for eight months now. So had Jenny, their two-year-old daughter. Sarah was alone . . . in a burning house.

  But was she alone? She had a vague recollection of hearing a noise about the same time she became aware of the smoke smell. Was someone out there, waiting for her? Or was that part of a dream as well? Should she stay here in the bedroom until she was sure? No, she needed to get to safety. The “someone” might or might not be real, but the fire wasn’t the product of her imagination. She had to get out, and quickly.

  She threw on her robe and shoved her feet into slippers. Sarah dropped her cell phone and keys into the pocket of the robe. She took two steps away from the bed before turning back to pick up the flashlight from the bedside table. Sarah flicked it on and checked the beam. It was dim—the batteries probably hadn’t been changed since before Jenny died—but it gave off enough illumination to let her see a few feet in front of her. She hoped that would be enough. In several strides that displayed more confidence than she felt, Sarah covered the distance to the door leading to the hall. Feel the door. If it’s hot, find some other way out.

  Cautiously, she pressed her palm against the door. When she felt no heat, Sarah let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She opened the door and looked around. No flames. Then she sniffed, and there it was again—a faint aroma of smoke wafting up the stairway—not enough to choke her, not an amount capable of blocking her vision, but sufficient nonetheless to send her hurrying toward what she hoped was a safe exit.

  Guided by the faint glow from the flashlight, she descended to the first floor. As she got lower, she coughed a little, her eyes watered a bit, but she could breathe, could see through the tears. The smoke still wasn’t bad. Maybe that was a good sign.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to listen. Was that a noise? She strained her ears, but heard nothing more. Maybe there was no intruder. Maybe that was all in her imagination. Maybe.

  But the smoke wasn’t something she’d imagined. It was real, and where there was smoke, there was fire. But where was it? She heard no crackle of flames. She felt no pulse of heat on her face. She blinked away a few tears and sniffed again. The smoke was still there, and now it seemed to be increasing.

  The light from the flashlight had become so dim as to be almost useless. I need to see. Why haven’t I tried to turn on lights? Wasn’t there something about electricity failing if the fire got too near the supply line? Sarah flipped the switch at the foot of the stairs and the overhead fixtures blazed into light. The power was still on—good. She turned off the flashlight but held onto it. It might be a useful weapon.

  Sarah started to exit the house the way she habitually did, through the kitchen and into the garage. She turned to her right to go that way, but stopped when she saw tendrils of dark smoke drifting under the door from the garage and into the kitchen. The garage. That’s where the fire was. She couldn’t get out this way.

  She turned back and scanned the area straight ahead of her, the living room. No smoke. No heat. No noise of flames. Best of all, there was no movement or sound that signaled someone there . . . at least, no one she could see. She could hurry through to the front door and make her escape.

  Should she stop and call the fire department now? Was there any reason to further delay that call? Wasn’t it important to call them immediately? Get out of the house first. Call for help when you’re safe.

  Sarah hurried to the front door, threw it open, and felt the fresh night breeze on her face. Her instinct was to run, to get out of the house as quickly as possible, but she stopped as yet another rule heard long ago surfaced in her mind. Keep doors and windows closed. Air can feed the flames and make the fire grow. She shut the door behind her.

  Sarah hurried to the end of the sidewalk, her slippers making a soft shushing on the concrete. When she got there, she paused and turned back toward her house. At first she saw no one there. Wait! Had there been a flicker of movement in the shadows at the corner of the house? Or was it her imagination, fueled by the adrenaline of the situation, turning wisps of smoke into the shape of a prowler?

  She watched for perhaps half a minute more, trying not to blink, looking with unfocused eyes into the middle distance. Let your peripheral vision pick up faint images. She saw no figures, no movement.

  Enough. Get help. She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her robe and stabbed out 9-1-1 before hitting “send.”

  “911. What is your emergency?”

  “This is Dr. Sarah Gordon. My house is on fire. The address is 5613 Maple Shade Drive.”

  There was the briefest of pauses, during which Sarah heard keys tapping. “I’ve dispatched first responders. Is anyone injured? Are you in the house?”

  “No injuries. And I’m outside, on the lawn.”

  “Is anyone else there? Or are you alone?”

  Sarah hesitated before she answered.

  “I’m alone.” At least, I hope so.

  ***

  The call awakened Detective Bill Larson. He brought his wrist close to his face and squinted at his watch. Two fifteen a.m. The phone had interrupted a dream—not a pleasant one, but that wasn’t unusual. Sleep that was troubled and dreams that were disturbing were part of the pattern his life had taken on during his struggle for lasting sobriety.

  “We’ve got a fire at a private dwelling,” the dispatcher said. “The fire chief on the scene thinks it might be arson, so I wanted to notify you. If you like, I’ll send a patrol car by there now to do a preliminary. Then you can hook up with the fire marshal tomorrow. Would you like me to do that?”

  Larson yawned. “Probably. Where’s the fire?”

  “The location is 5613 Maple Shade, the residence of Dr. Sarah Gordon.”

  The name brought him awake. Larson had met Sarah Gordon and her husband shortly after the detective moved to town. He’d been introduced to them at church. Realizing that being part of a church family would be important as he tried to get his life back together, he’d joined the First Community Church shortly after moving to Jameson. It was one of the larger churches in town, and
Larson figured he could lose himself in a congregation that size. He needed to be just a taker for a while. Maybe after he had a few more months of sobriety under his belt he could find a place to serve. Maybe.

  Larson called up his mental picture of Harry Gordon: a nice-looking man in his 30s, his blond hair always a bit tousled, a perpetual grin on his face. But the person his memory could more easily recall was Sarah. She had dark hair cut short, flawless olive skin, and always seemed to be laughing. Each time he saw the two of them together with their two-year-old daughter, Larson realized again what he’d lost when his own family was torn asunder.

  After his initial meeting, he’d seen Sarah a few times at church, always at a distance and generally with her husband. Then she’d suffered the tragic loss of both husband and daughter, a loss that seemed to devastate Sarah. After that happened, Larson figured he should express his sympathy to her, but the time never seemed right. Then it wasn’t long before she stopped coming to church altogether. He hadn’t seen her since.

  “Larson, are you there?”

  “Sorry. Just thinking,” Larson replied.

  “So what do you want me to do?” the dispatcher asked.

  “Tell you what,” Larson said. “I know her from church. I think I’ll head over there now.” He ended the call and began to dress.

  ***

  Sarah sat huddled under a Mylar blanket in the fire chief’s SUV, her teeth occasionally chattering despite the warmth of the summer evening. One hand held an empty china mug, courtesy of her neighbor who’d brought coffee and offered to let Sarah spend the night—what remained of it—at her house. Sarah had declined with thanks. She wanted to be in her own home.

  Her home. The phrase resonated in her mind. It was the house she and Harry bought when they were married. It was the home into which they brought Jenny over two years ago. It was full of memories. And now, although both Harry and Jenny were gone, she wasn’t going to turn loose of those memories—or the house.