Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  Callaway answered with a brusque nod and an indifferent wave of his hand. Daley ducked back through the door as quickly as she had appeared.

  At first Shannon fixed her gaze on the table, refusing to add to the images she was sure would fill her dreams for weeks ahead. But finally, in response to the same reflex that makes people slow and gawk at the carnage after a car crash, she stood. “Excuse me. I think I need to see this. Maybe it will help me get some closure.” She walked slowly from the dining room, through the living room, to the open front door.

  Mark stood waiting in the living room. He edged up beside her and put his arm around her waist. Shannon gave him a wry smile and focused on the scene in front of her. There, in the glare of portable floodlights, two men lifted a black body bag onto a gurney. They covered it with a deep-maroon-colored cloth and wheeled their burden to a van parked at the curb. Shannon shuddered as she saw the wheels bump with the drop to street level. Her mind knew it made no difference to the passenger on the litter, but her heart cringed at the thought.

  Shannon looked for a moment longer before turning away. She took Mark’s hand and squeezed it, then dropped it and walked slowly back to the dining room. She stopped behind her chair but didn’t sit. Maybe the detectives would get the hint. “Aren’t we about through?”

  Callaway hadn’t bothered to look at the work of the coroner’s crew. Shannon decided he’d seen enough of that to last a lifetime. With one last scan of his notes, he said, “Yeah, I guess that does it for now.”

  Alston moved away from the doorframe to stand next to his partner. He looked at Shannon with eyes that were more sympathetic than she expected. “Why don’t you come down to the station tomorrow? We’ll get your statement typed up, and you can sign it. If you’ve thought of something else by then, we can add it at that time.”

  “But this is the start of the July Fourth weekend,” Shannon said.

  Callaway stood and shrugged. “If you think about it, I don’t imagine you believe crime will stop so the police can take the day off. That would be like you guys closing all the emergency rooms on a holiday.”

  “The homicide bureau will be operational tomorrow,” Alston said. “How about ten in the morning?”

  Callaway tossed a card on the table in front of Shannon like a Las Vegas dealer at the blackjack table. “And if you think of anything important before then, give me a call.”

  Alston moved closer to Shannon. He took a card from his shirt pocket with two fingers, then lifted her left hand and gently pressed the card into her palm. “Or call me, if you’d prefer. My cell number is on the back.”

  Shannon continued to stand at the dining room table, leaning on the back of a chair, her eyes closed. For a fleeting instant she wondered if she should usher the detectives out. Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t a party. Soon she heard the slamming of doors, the sound of a car driving away.

  In a moment, the house was quiet. Quiet as a tomb. Shannon shuddered as the phrase brought back images she knew would fill her nightmares for days to come. She tried to brush away the pictures as she might deal with a pesky fly.

  “They’re gone.” Mark stood in the doorway and gestured to the empty living room. “Lee and Ann left as soon as the police finished interviewing them. I’m pretty wrung out by all this, and I suspect you feel the same.”

  Normally the very epitome of the phrase put together, Mark now showed evidence of the ordeal. His sports coat was off, his tie was askew, and the cuffs of his blue oxford dress shirt were turned back. His dark, wavy hair lay tousled over his forehead, threatening to cover his brown eyes. A sheen of perspiration shone on his face. Shannon decided that he looked the way she felt.

  Shannon pulled out the chair and dropped into it. Mark moved to a spot behind her and gently kneaded her shoulders. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll be okay. This just hit me hard.”

  “Of course it did.” He stopped the massage for a moment. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

  Shannon wasn’t sure tea would help, but she knew Mark well enough to realize he needed to do something, so she nodded. “Who do you think the man was?” she asked.

  Mark filled a cup with water and put it in the microwave. “No idea,” he said. “I never got a good look at him. Did you recognize him?”

  “Never saw him before. Why do you think he was shot in my yard?”

  Mark leaned on the counter, his arms folded. “Again, I have no idea. I’d guess it was some kind of gang-related drive-by shooting, but not in this neighborhood.”

  The microwave beeped. Mark busied himself at the counter for a moment, then eased into a chair beside Shannon and set a steaming cup in front of her. “Here you go—green tea with honey. Just the way you like it.” He slid his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Shannon, I want to help. You know I love you.”

  “And I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I know you do, but I need to be alone.” She looked down at the mug, trying to avoid the hurt look she knew would be on Mark’s face.

  Shannon and Mark had been together for over a year, but their relationship was stuck just short of an engagement. She recognized that it wasn’t Mark’s fault. He loved her. He’d said it often enough. And she’d used the L word as well. When she did, it seemed natural. Yet she’d generally managed to deflect the conversation away from marriage. Mark, although at times seemingly frustrated by her indecision, had respected her feelings. So here they were—in a sort of relationship limbo.

  Mark rose and pushed back his chair. “If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do, I’ll head for home. Call if you need me. Otherwise, we’ll talk tomorrow.” He kissed her lightly and left the room. At the door, he called, “Lock up after me.”

  “Push the button. I’ll throw the dead bolt after I finish my tea.”

  After she heard the door close behind him, Shannon took one sip of the tea, then left the cup on the table. She went through the house, assuring herself all the doors and windows were secure before shuffling off to shower. Maybe the hot water would relax her. She was certain that no amount of soap and water could wash away what she felt.

  MARK, FRESH FROM HIS SHOWER AND NOW WEARING THE SCRUBS he preferred over pajamas, climbed into bed, retrieved the Bible from the table beside his bed, opened it to the place he’d marked the night before, and began to read.

  Right now he was in Psalms, and the one to be read next, Psalm 50, seemed appropriate, given the events of the evening. He stopped when he reached one particular sentence and repeated it aloud. “Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I shall rescue you, and you will honor Me.”

  Mark reached for his phone, wondering if those words might help Shannon. Then he drew back his arm. No, Shannon wasn’t there yet. He doubted that she’d take much comfort from God’s Word right now. Outwardly, she might talk the talk, but she still didn’t walk the walk . . . not consistently, not yet.

  Since their first meeting, when they shared a table in the medical center’s food court, he’d fallen more deeply in love with Shannon each day. He wasn’t sure why, couldn’t put his finger on the reason, but there it was. She was an intelligent, talented professional, and they shared many common interests. She was attractive, although he’d met other women who were as beautiful. Whatever the attraction, he was ready to move forward, but for some reason Shannon seemed unwilling to take the final step of commitment.

  Mark didn’t think religion was a roadblock. Although her faith seemed more superficial than his, he was certain that their beliefs coincided. They even attended the same church, the one where her father served as pastor.

  Did she love Mark? She’d said so many times, and he thought she was sincere. Maybe Shannon was still hung up on the shooting death of her boyfriend. Was she clinging to what might have been with Todd to the degree that she couldn’t yet fully accept Mark’s love?

  How long ago had that been? Almost ten years? If she hadn’t yet gotten past her loss, would she ever be able to move forw
ard with him?

  Well, for now he’d continue to do what he’d always done—walk beside her and love her. He marked his place, replaced the Bible on the bedside table, and closed his eyes to pray. When Mark turned out the light, he wondered how Shannon would sleep that night. He doubted that it would be soundly, if at all.

  SHANNON STOOD UNDER THE SHOWER UNTIL THE WATER RAN cold. Yet when she stepped out and swathed herself in a robe, she didn’t feel clean. She looked at her hands, scrubbed until they were almost raw—not a trace of blood there, not even under the nails, yet in her mind’s eye they were clothed in scarlet gloves.

  She stopped in front of her dresser and opened her jewelry box. Mark had been wonderful tonight: kind, supportive, always there. She knew his love was unconditional. Why couldn’t she accept it and move forward?

  Shannon knew one reason why. She took the tray from the top of the jewelry box and removed a small velvet-covered box. With trembling fingers, she opened it and looked once more at the brilliant emerald-cut diamond solitaire set in the center of a white gold ring. It had come to her a month after Todd’s funeral. The accompanying note said, “We found this in his room. He was going to give it to you. We think you should have it.”

  She squeezed her eyes to hold back the tears. Would the specter of Todd and what might have been always haunt her? Was it because no one could compare with the image she’d built up of him . . . an image that time had probably polished beyond reality? Or did she somehow think she was unworthy of happiness? Shannon knew all about survivor’s guilt. She’d directed dozens of families for counseling after the death of a loved one. Why couldn’t she get past her own?

  She slipped into pajamas and eased beneath the covers. She tried to read, but the evening’s events played in a continuous loop on the screen of her mind. Shannon laid the book aside and stared at the ceiling.

  Maybe she should pray aloud. Perhaps the act of venting her frustration would help. Shannon recalled someone saying, “Tell God everything, even if you’re angry with Him. He’s big enough to take it.”

  She tried to voice her thoughts but found the words sticking in her throat. If God was just and kind and loving, as she’d heard her dad preach time and again, why did deaths like Todd’s happen? She knew it was foolish to continue to blame God, but she couldn’t help it. Maybe someday she could get past it—but not tonight.

  She turned out the light, buried her head in her pillow, and tried to find sleep.

  The ring of the phone at her bedside brought Shannon awake with a start. She didn’t bother to look at the caller ID. Whoever the caller was, they provided a welcome interruption from her nightmarish dreams. “Hello.”

  “Shannon, this is Megan.”

  Shannon tried to analyze the voice speaking those few words. Were they slurred? Was there panic in them? Were tears forming behind the six syllables? As best Shannon could tell, and she’d gotten very good at it over the years, Megan sounded sober, subdued but in control. A glance at the bedside clock told Shannon it was well after midnight. Calls at this hour rarely, if ever, brought good news . . . especially if they came from her sister.

  “Megan, you’re up awfully late. What’s going on?” Shannon tried to keep her voice neutral, her tone bright. There was no need to introduce tonight’s shooting into the conversation. Generally, Megan had enough problems in her life. Shannon didn’t want to give her more—not now, at least.

  Megan’s voice sounded as though she was struggling for calm. “I . . . I need a place to stay.”

  Shannon’s first inclination was to ask questions like why and when. But she knew she’d get the answers soon enough. And she’d been down this road before. She realized she had only one option, and she exercised it. “You’re welcome to stay here.” She took a deep breath. “Do you want to come over now?”

  A sniffle came across the line. Then Megan, in a tiny voice that told Shannon her sister was hanging on by a thread, said, “I’m okay for tonight. I’ll be there in the morning. And thank you so much.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “No, I’ll make it tonight. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be at . . . I have to go out in the morning. Do you still have your key?”

  “Yes. I’ll see you then. And thanks.”

  Shannon hung up the phone. She’d hear what was going on soon enough, and whatever the problem, she’d be the one to fix it. She always had.

  SHANNON HADN’T KNOWN WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN SHE ARRIVED AT THE police station the next morning. As it turned out, she talked only with Steve Alston. He asked a few questions, showed her several printed pages restating what she’d told the detectives the night before, and asked her to read them and make any needed corrections or additions before signing. In less than an hour, she was out the door, relieved to have this part of her ordeal over.

  As soon as she stepped out of the police station, Shannon felt heat wash over her like a fiery wave. Downtown Dallas was a furnace during the summer, and on this second day of July the sidewalks and streets radiated the stored heat from a halfdozen consecutive 100-degree days. Shannon thought about ducking into one of the hole-in-the-wall cafes and delis in the area for a cold Coke, but she checked her watch and decided she really didn’t have time. There was somewhere she needed to be. It wasn’t really an appointment—more of an obligation.

  Yesterday had been July first, a date she’d heard called the most dangerous day of the year for patients in a medical center hospital where resident physicians provided much of the care. These doctors, although certified MDs, were now learning the ins and outs of their specialty, performing surgery, and ordering treatments under the watchful eye of staff physicians. July first was the day when residents moved up a notch—first year to second, second to third, and so on. And that meant the first-year residents were fresh out of medical school.

  This wasn’t the new graduates’ first experience with patient care. They’d received instruction during their clinical rotations, with staff and senior residents supervising them, but now they had more responsibility, more independence. Shannon was certain that most of the first-years would do well. A few would need help beyond what the senior residents could offer, though. And that was why Shannon was headed for the medical center’s primary teaching hospital, Parkland.

  Shannon wasn’t on call, but she knew most faculty members in the Department of Surgery would drop by Parkland Hospital during the weekend to help and to observe. Despite the circumstances in which she found herself, Shannon felt compelled to do her part.

  As she walked into the emergency room, Shannon saw Dr. Will Foster. Now advancing to his second year of specialty training in surgery, the ER was his first rotation. She waited to approach him until he finished with one patient and was moving to the next. “Will, how’s it going?”

  He pushed a tangled lock of blond hair away from his eyes and gave her a smile. Even in the controlled chaos of the ER, he seemed calm. Will not only had the dexterity that marked a good surgeon, but he possessed a sharp analytical mind that rivaled that of the recently graduated Lee Kai. There’d be no problems here in the ER with Will in charge.

  “Pretty routine so far,” Will said. “But you might want to look in over there.” He pointed to one curtained cubicle. “I called the team down to see the victim of a motorcycle accident. Both the senior and second-year residents on trauma call were scrubbed in on an emergency. They sent Andy Zisk, a first-year, to check the patient.”

  Shannon recalled Andy’s interview when he applied for residency training here. He came from a mid-level medical school, graduating with adequate grades and decent recommendations. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have had a chance at this prestigious surgery residency, but because of a confluence of events—the sudden withdrawal of one of the accepted candidates, a glowing letter of recommendation from a former Parkland resident, and a few other pieces falling into place—here he was.

  She pulled aside the curtain and entered the cubicle where Andy stood ove
r a middle-aged man wearing motorcycle leathers. The patient’s face was contorted in a rictus of pain. “What do we have, Andy?” Shannon said.

  Andy turned so sharply he almost hit Shannon with the clipboard he held. “Uh, this is . . .” He looked down. “This is Mr. Davidson. Thirty-four-year-old white male. He was involved . . .”

  If Andy needed to hone his skills at doing a quick evaluation and reporting it, there was no better time or place than the present. She held out her hand, and he passed her the clipboard with obvious relief. Five minutes later, Shannon gave concise orders to the nurse standing on the other side of the patient’s gurney. She and Andy stepped outside the curtain, where she gently explained a few steps that would help him handle emergencies such as this quickly and efficiently, without missing something obvious . . . something like the probable fractured fibula Davidson had sustained. “Get the big picture. If you focus on ruling out a ruptured spleen, you could miss a broken leg. Be thorough, be fast, and have confidence in your diagnosis,” she said.

  “Thanks, Dr. Frasier,” Andy said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “No problem. If you have questions, ask your senior resident. Or you can check with Will, here in the ER. You’ll learn. It takes time.”

  Shannon wondered if she’d ever be as competent in handling her personal life as she had become professionally. She guessed what she told Andy could apply to her own situation—it takes time.

  Satisfied that she’d done enough at the hospital, Shannon headed for her car, first stopping for the cold Coke she’d passed up earlier. She drove on automatic pilot, while her mind wrestled with something that was always there but that she managed to ignore most of the time. Where were things going with Mark?

  She wondered about the problem of their faith—Mark’s was deep, and hers was . . . well, it wasn’t what it used to be. She wasn’t sure she could live up to Mark’s expectations.