As if that weren’t enough, the news about her dad had taken away any chance at peaceful sleep. In a way, she admired his desire not to worry his daughters about his health problem, at least not until the details were settled. Although every fiber of her being wanted to pick up the phone, find out which hematologist-oncologist her dad was going to see, and make a call to grease the wheels, Shannon knew she shouldn’t get involved in his case, certainly not without his knowledge and permission. Nevertheless, the waiting made her feel helpless. After all, she was a doctor. Surely she could do something to help her dad.
Shannon finished her coffee and tossed away the paper cup. That thought had triggered another. She’d been so engrossed in the interview with the detectives that she’d forgotten to pass on the information Lee Kai had given her about what Radick said before he died. Shannon figured she could be forgiven, since after learning that Lee remembered the information, she’d had to face being told she was exposed to HIV-positive blood, following which she learned that her dad had leukemia. It was a wonder she’d been able to get out of bed and dress herself this morning.
“Dr. Frasier?” The tinny voice reverberated through the intercom speaker.
“Yes.” Shannon rose, figuring the nurse was calling to say they were ready in the operating room.
“I’m afraid we’re going to have to delay your case. There’s a patient in the ER with a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, and this is the only free OR either here or in OB. It’ll be about an hour, maybe a bit more. Shall I page you when we’re ready?”
“Please. And would you have someone explain the delay to the patient and his family?” Shannon had been sitting on the most comfortable sofa in the surgeon’s lounge, the one whose springs hadn’t yet surrendered to pressure from thousands of surgeons doing the same thing she was—waiting. She rose, drew another cup of coffee, sat back down, and pulled the phone toward her.
Although she probably should know the number by heart, she dug into her pocket and pulled out the card she’d transferred from her wallet as she dressed in scrubs. Shannon stabbed in the numbers and waited through four rings. What if he had his cell phone turned off? What if it was still in his car, while he— “Alston.” Shannon almost jumped when the word interrupted her thoughts.
“Detective, this is Shannon Frasier. Can you talk right now?”
Now she could make out the noise in the background, the murmur of several voices, the random ringing of phones, an occasional shout. “Sure. I’m at my desk. Did you think of something you forgot to tell us last night? Or are you calling to ask me out?”
Either Alston was joking, or she’d been right about the vibe she thought she’d picked up. No matter. Shannon decided to ignore the remark. She needed to get this information out and go on with her life. “I have some information about Barry Radick and what he said before he died.”
“Did you get another call from our harsh-voiced friend? I think the paperwork to record your incoming phone calls is hung up somewhere.”
“No, there hasn’t been another call, but my former resident, Dr. Lee Kai, was with me when Radick was shot, and he tells me he remembers what was said.”
“Do I need to record this? If so, I need you to call back on my landline.”
“No, all you’ll need is a pen and paper to write down what I’m going to give you.” She went on to explain about Lee’s eidetic memory, and to apologize for not mentioning the material last night, saying that she was preoccupied with other things.
“I’m ready. What did he say?”
Surgical staff and residents alike always seemed to have blank three-by-five cards in their pockets for jotting down notes and recording patient information. Apparently Lee had continued the practice. In the faculty club, he had pulled such a card from his pocket and written down Radick’s last words. Now Shannon extracted the card from the pocket of her scrub pants and read, “324 8160 964 7900.”
The puzzlement in Alston’s voice was obvious. “Numbers? A string of numbers?”
“That’s right.”
“And there’s no chance that Dr. Kai could be mistaken?”
“Lee can read a page in a textbook and recite it back, word for word, a month later. No, I’m pretty sure that’s what Radick said.”
There was silence on the line. Even the background noise seemed to have abated. At last Alston heaved a sigh that made it sound like the phone had been placed in a wind tunnel. “Well, thanks for giving us this information. Now we have to figure out what it means.”
MARK FLEXED HIS SHOULDERS AND ROLLED HIS HEAD FROM SIDE to side. He’d just finished his review of the tissue slides from the previous day’s surgery. Although he loved his work as a pathologist, he often felt chained to his desk. Some of that time was spent looking into a binocular microscope, and that was what he’d done for much of the morning. He made it a habit to take frequent breaks, walking around the room, stretching, but today that hadn’t been enough. He yearned to get out of the office and into the open air. Despite the July heat, he decided to go for a noontime walk.
He was moving toward the door when Shannon stuck her head into his office. She was wearing scrubs covered by a white coat, and he could see the imprint made by the pressure of her surgical head cover and mask on her forehead and cheeks.
“Got a minute?” she asked.
“Always.”
She stepped inside the office, looked behind her, and closed the door. As soon as the door was shut, Mark hugged and kissed her. “I hope you closed that to keep prying eyes from seeing us kiss, but something tells me you want to have a private conversation.”
“The hug and kiss were great, and I needed them, but—yes—I need to talk with you.”
Mark gestured toward one of the side chairs across from his desk. He took the other chair and turned it to face her. “Give,” he said.
“First, I heard last night that my dad might have leukemia.”
As he was sure Shannon had done when she heard the news, Mark’s “doctor brain” kicked into high gear. He wanted to ask who made the diagnosis, which doctor would be treating Pastor Frasier, and a thousand other questions. Instead, he simply asked, “How can I help?”
He listened patiently as Shannon related what she’d learned the night before. “He has an appointment for next week here at the medical center, so he’ll get good care. And, before you ask, Mom tells me I’m not to get involved. Dad doesn’t want special consideration just because he’s part of a doctor’s family.”
Mark turned that over in his mind. “And once he’s in the system, HIPAA will clamp down on access to his information.” The law, designed to protect privacy, prohibited physicians from revealing any information about patients without specific authorization. “Knowing your dad, he’d be pretty stingy with allowing such access, even to his own family.” He shook his head. “I guess we have to leave it in God’s hands.”
Shannon looked down at her feet. “Mark, I’ve been at odds with God for a decade or more, ever since I knelt beside my boyfriend and watched him die. I prayed then, prayed hard, and it didn’t help. I guess that’s when I decided it wasn’t worthwhile to try it again.”
“I’m sorry for your experience,” Mark said. “I’d like to help you get back on speaking terms with Him, though.”
“That’s so like you,” Shannon said. “Sometimes I think there’s no way I could be a good wife for you, because I don’t have your unwavering faith.” She looked up at him, and tears made her blue eyes sparkle even more. “But I want it. Would you help me?”
Mark wasn’t sure what to say. Sure, he knew the platitudes he could mouth, but he sensed that Shannon needed more. He took a moment before he replied. “Of course. Why don’t we start by praying together for your dad?”
SHANNON LOOKED AT THE MAN IN THE HOSPITAL BED. “WE’LL GET a repeat CAT scan tomorrow. If it looks good and your blood count is stable, I think you can go home.”
“Good. And how about going back to work?”
In h
er mind, Shannon had named the man “the gentle giant.” He was probably six four or five, over 250 pounds, with muscles that bulged against the abbreviated sleeves of his hospital gown. His light brown hair was almost bleached to blond by what Shannon figured was sun exposure. His cheeks were ruddy in a complexion already tanned. She could picture him doing some type of outdoor work, lifting heavy loads, sweating in the Texas heat. “You probably shouldn’t be exerting yourself until we’re sure that lacerated spleen has fully healed.”
“How long?” He was a man of few words, spoken quietly, but the intensity behind his question was obvious.
Shannon thought about it. The man had been admitted to the hospital two days ago after blunt trauma to his abdomen in an industrial accident. A CAT scan confirmed a splenic laceration, but his blood count and follow-up X-rays remained unchanged during his hospital course. He apparently wouldn’t need surgery right now, but there was always a risk of recurrent bleeding. “We’ll get you back on an outpatient basis for repeat CAT scans and blood counts. If you’re stable, you can resume light activity in three weeks, but no heavy lifting or significant pressure on the abdomen for three months or more.”
“But that Dallas Cowboy—”
“I know,” Shannon said. She’d followed the story, the same as every sports fan in the community, and held her breath when a player on the local team had gone back to playing football just a few weeks after an injury similar to this. He’d been lucky. This man might not be. “No, I’m sorry. It’s too risky.”
She left the man’s room, knowing he’d been fortunate to avoid surgery, but recognizing that he was disappointed. Like so many patients, this one wanted to be well retroactively, preferably with no pain or downtime. It would be nice if it worked that way, but it didn’t. All she and her fellow surgeons could do was their best. After that . . . The words rattled around in her mind, and finally she allowed them out. After that it was in God’s hands.
That was what Mark was trying to tell her when he’d said, “You’re a doctor. But you’re not God.” Once more her thoughts flashed back to that September night a decade ago. That doctor had done everything he could. He’d been frustrated, but he seemed to recognize that there were times when it wouldn’t be enough. That was what Shannon was having so much trouble accepting. All she had to give was her best effort, in every situation, for every patient. After that, the result was out of her hands.
Shannon had thought more than once about seeking counseling. Try as she might, she had trouble coming to grips with her human limitations. She always gave her best. But when she lost, it still left her feeling empty and impotent. Maybe this time she’d follow through and see a therapist. Maybe.
STEVE ALSTON SAT AT HIS DESK, A CARDBOARD CUP OF COLD COFFEE at his elbow, a stack of reports in front of him. Two homicides, and the only factor tying them together was Megan Frasier. She’d been in rehab with the man shot Friday night in front of her sister’s house. She’d lived with the man shot Saturday, and she had admitted striking him with a bottle earlier in the day.
As with any suspect, Alston thought about the triad of means, motive, and opportunity. That would take some more detective work, but he probably could pin down those factors in both cases. He needed to dig deeper, maybe interview some more people. But right now, Megan Frasier seemed a decent suspect in both killings. Alston wasn’t sure what that might mean for his relationship with her sister, but he supposed he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
He moved his computer mouse, clicked and scrolled, and reviewed what he already knew about Megan. She came from a stable home background, graduated from college with less than spectacular grades, and had a couple of arrests during that time for public intoxication, though the charges were dropped through a bit of manipulation by her attorneys. She’d had two different jobs, interspersed with two stints in rehab for addiction to alcohol and prescription painkillers. She’d lost her latest position after medication samples repeatedly disappeared from her care.
Alston swiveled around to face Jesse Callaway, sitting at the desk behind him. Although he and his partner played the good cop–bad cop duo effortlessly, for some reason Jesse always took the bad cop role. Not only that, he delighted in it. And it seemed to Alston that his partner had come down particularly hard on the two Frasier women. “Jesse, in these two homicides, what’s your take on Megan Frasier?”
Callaway didn’t hesitate. “I think she’s dirty. Some way or another, she’s tied into both those murders we caught. I don’t know yet how we’re going to do it, but I’m pretty sure we’ll be able to nail her for something pretty soon.” He clicked his mouse. “Meanwhile, I guess we keep hunting.”
Callaway stopped and looked up as a patrolman eased up to his desk. Alston couldn’t make out all the conversation, but whatever it was, it brought a smile to his partner’s face.
As the policeman walked away, Callaway stood and retrieved his coat from the back of his chair. He shrugged it on and readjusted his shoulder holster. “We’re getting closer. They recovered a gun from a storm drain two blocks from Tony Lester’s house. Ballistics is checking it against the bullets they took out of Lester’s skull at autopsy. Meanwhile, Forensics ran the prints they pulled up on the gun. And guess whose they found?”
SHANNON WAS GLAD TO SEE THE DAY END. IN HER CAR ON THE way out of the faculty parking lot, she retrieved her cell phone from her purse and dialed Mark’s office. When the office number rang several times with no answer, Shannon punched the button to end the call. She hesitated a moment, then called his cell.
“Hi, Shannon.” Mark’s voice was upbeat, in contrast with the way Shannon felt.
“I see you managed to get away, too.”
“Yep. I was in early, so after slaving all day over a hot microscope I decided enough was enough. Want me to pick you and Megan up for that dinner we had to postpone the other night?”
“Let me see what’s going on when I get home,” she said. “I mainly called to thank you for the time we spent together today. What you said, what you did, helped.”
“Shannon, I’m here for you, anytime, in any circumstance. Scripture says . . . Never mind. You don’t need me to quote Bible verses to you. Just know that I’ll always be around.”
“That’s what I love about you, Mark.” She hesitated, wondering if this was the time to extend the dialogue, and decided it wasn’t. Not quite yet. “I do love you. And after all this has blown over, I think we need to talk about our future.”
“Sounds wonderful to me. I love you, too.”
As she thumbed the remote to open her garage door, Shannon noticed that Megan’s dusty Ford Focus wasn’t parked in front of the house. She wondered why her sister would be late getting home today. Sure, she was going to be job hunting, but most of the people to whom she’d talk would have left their offices an hour or more ago. Shannon hoped Megan hadn’t stopped at a bar. She could picture her, laughing and drinking, throwing away months of sobriety.
Shannon picked up her cell phone and checked to make sure there wasn’t a missed call or text. Nothing. She exited the car and hurried inside the house. Maybe Megan had left her a note.
Ten minutes later, she was certain there was no note, no indication of where her sister had gone. I should have called her cell. Shannon quickly punched in Megan’s number. After five rings, the call rolled over to voice mail.
Shannon chastised herself for being this worried. After all, she wasn’t really her sister’s keeper. But the more she thought of it, the more she realized she really was. When Megan fouled up, it had been Shannon who came to her rescue. Sure, Mom and Dad paid for her last stint in rehab, but it was Shannon who’d driven her there, who’d visited her.
If Megan slipped again, might it be more than their parents could take, especially now with her dad about to begin a fight with cancer? Or could Shannon be worried because she didn’t want to have to bail her sister out of yet another jam? She’d thought more than once that she’d reached the end of her pat
ience with her sister, but with each scrape, whether minor or major, Shannon had gathered her resolve and stepped up to help once more. Stop worrying. Megan’s a grown-up. If she weren’t living here, you’d never even wonder where she was.
The front doorbell rang. Maybe Megan had forgotten her key. Shannon hurried to the door, but when she opened it, it wasn’t the face of her sister she saw, but rather the slightly offputting countenance of Detective Jesse Callaway. Steve Alston was beside him, but Shannon’s gaze fixed on Callaway’s dark, almost black, eyes. Were they here to bring her bad news about Megan?
“May we come in?” Alston said, his hat already in his hand.
“Certainly,” she said.
Alston came through the door first, followed by Callaway. In the living room, Alston took up his usual station, leaning against the doorframe. Shannon gestured Callaway to a chair, but before he sat, he chilled her with his words. “Dr. Frasier, we came about your sister, Megan.”
TEN
STEVE ALSTON STUDIED SHANNON’S REACTION TO THE STATEMENT, and what he saw wasn’t what he expected. He was sure Jesse had chosen his words carefully. “We came about your sister, Megan.” But instead of responding with “Why?” or perhaps “She’s not here,” or even “I’ll call her,” Shannon remained silent and turned so pale that Steve moved a step closer, preparing to catch her if she fainted.
The moment passed, though, and after Shannon regained her composure she said, “Please, sit down.” She lowered herself into an overstuffed chair and waited until Callaway was seated before proceeding. “What’s wrong? Has she been in an accident? Something worse?” Shannon was obviously fighting for self-control. “What did you come to tell me?”
Steve decided it was time to step in. He moved from his post in the doorway to take a seat on the couch next to Jesse. “Nothing bad has happened to Megan, at least not so far as we know. We need to ask her some questions, that’s all.”
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