Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  Shannon paused with a knife in her hand. “I’d shoved a lot of those memories into a corner of my mind. Ann helped me get them back.”

  “She hypnotized you?”

  “Actually, she taught me what amounts to self-hypnosis. It’s not difficult. And with that I was able to go back to the shooting scene, picture it in detail, reproduce every action, every word.”

  “Every word? You never mentioned Todd saying anything after he was shot.”

  “I’d repressed it, but today I saw and heard it again. The bullets struck him, and he sprawled on the walk with his head turned toward me. As I knelt beside him, he whispered something to me. They were the last words I heard him speak.”

  Mark started to reply, but decided he’d keep his mouth shut. She’d tell him in her own good time.

  Shannon shuddered a bit. “He whispered, ‘Help me.’ And I couldn’t.”

  SHANNON CLOSED HER EYES AS THE PHRASE ECHOED IN HER MIND. “Help me.” She’d managed to push the voice and the words deep into her subconscious for ten years.

  She looked up at Mark. “I know. You probably think that one incident so long ago shouldn’t be affecting me right now, and maybe you’re right. I thought I’d begun to get past it, and then the shooting on my lawn brought it all back.”

  Shannon didn’t remember putting the salad together, but she looked down and the bowl before her was filled. She checked the spaghetti, found it acceptable now, and poured the contents of the pot into a colander. From there she dumped the spaghetti into a bowl, added the sauce, and set it all on the table beside the salad and breadsticks. “Would you get the dressing? And get yourself something to drink.”

  Mark complied. When they were seated, she asked Mark to say grace. He probably did a good job, but while he prayed her mind continued to stray. She’d given him only half the story. He deserved to hear the rest.

  She realized Mark was silent. He was finished, and she hadn’t even noticed the amen. Shannon looked up at him and said, “There’s more, if you want to hear it.”

  Mark paused with his hand halfway to the bowl of spaghetti. He relaxed back into his chair. “I want to hear all of it. I love you, and you’re important to me.” He sipped from the Diet Coke he’d retrieved from the refrigerator. “Tell me.”

  “Ann helped me see that those words—help me—from Todd were the reflexive expression of a dying man. But my mind interpreted them as being a command to use my medical training in the future to help every victim of a gunshot wound. And that’s why I’ve felt so nervous, had panic attacks, when confronted with such a scenario. It was as though God had spoken to me, making it clear that my duty was to save every one of those people. And if I should fail, I would have failed Him.”

  Mark frowned. She could tell he was trying to choose his words carefully. “And this was the reason for your panic attacks? Every time you were faced with that situation, you had that unconscious feeling you were being tested?”

  “More or less,” Shannon said. “But there’s more.” She started to reach for the salad, then pulled back her hand. Her appetite, if she’d ever had one, was gone now. “Barry Radick’s shooting reinforced the feelings I’d almost managed to put behind me.”

  “You mean bending over a man who’d been shot, getting his blood on your hands, not being able to help?”

  “All that and one more thing.” She took a long swallow from her Diet Dr Pepper. “When I used self-hypnosis to go back to Radick’s shooting, I could remember the string of numbers he said, just as well as Lee did.”

  “And were they the same ones he recalled?”

  “Yes. I checked afterward. But there was something else.”

  Mark frowned. “What?”

  “Right before the numbers, Radick whispered two more words. He said, ‘Help me.’ ”

  NINETEEN

  DETECTIVE STEVE ALSTON SAT AT HIS DESK IN THE SQUAD ROOM ON TUESDAY morning, surrounded by files and notes, oblivious to the activity around him. He tapped keys on his computer, shook his head, made another entry, uttered a few uncomplimentary words, and was trying again when he heard his partner’s voice behind him.

  “What in the world are you doing?” Jesse Callaway said.

  Steve swiveled around. “I’m presuming the GPS coordinates the doctor with the perfect memory gave Dr. Frasier are accurate. They pointed to Greenwood Cemetery, but we didn’t find anything there. So I’m wondering what we missed.”

  Jesse perched one haunch on the desk behind him. He started to pull a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket, thought better of it, and dropped his hands to his sides. “I hate this no smoking in public buildings policy.”

  Steve had learned to ignore these asides from his partner. He held up his hand and began ticking off points. “If we assume Greenwood’s where Radick hid the money, where did he put it? And what form would it be in? His share of the money would be about a quarter of a million dollars. If the robbers got away with a mixture of bills—hundreds, fifties, twenties—then a third of it, two rows of bills stacked beside each other, would be a foot high and weigh about twelve pounds. That’s easy enough for one man to carry and hide.”

  “Great. So you’ve done some research. But what does that mean?”

  “We had men search the cemetery, not just the location the coordinates pointed to, but all around there. There was no evidence of fresh digging anywhere. No convenient hollow trees or hiding places. We’ve even looked in the mausoleums. There’s absolutely no place where a bundle that size could be hidden. Except . . .”

  Jesse leaned forward, obviously interested. “Except what?”

  “A bundle like that would fit in a coffin.”

  “So . . .”

  “We know Greenwood isn’t an active cemetery, but suppose there was evidence of vandalism—fresh digging around a grave, a mausoleum left open—in the time period between the bank robbery and when Radick was shot. We should check with the cemetery authorities. If there were any incidents like that, we can get a court order to exhume the bodies involved.”

  “Man, I don’t like the sound of that,” Jesse said.

  “Neither do I, and I’ll admit it’s a long shot, but that’s exactly the kind of thing a reasonably smart crook like Radick might do.” Alston swiveled back to his desk. “I’ll get hold of the people at Greenwood and start asking questions.”

  Jesse pushed off from the desk. “And I’m going out in the parking lot for a smoke.”

  SHANNON FELT MORE ALIVE THAN SHE HAD IN MONTHS, MAYBE even years. She had an appointment to see Ann Kershaw again next week. She had no idea how fast or slow her recovery would be, or whether it would eventually be complete. But at least she was headed in the right direction.

  Her first surgical case was delayed, giving her the opportunity to check messages and return calls. Before she could completely sort through the call slips, her secretary buzzed. “Dr. Jay Sanders is on the line for you.”

  Shannon lifted the receiver and punched the blinking button. “Jay, what can I do for you?”

  “Actually, it’s the other way around. Did Mark ask you about side effects from your antiretroviral therapy?”

  “No,” Shannon said. If Mark was supposed to explore that subject, it obviously had fled his mind when they began talking about her session with Ann Kershaw. “I saw him last night, but we were busy with something else. I’m not having any side effects as far as I can tell, if that’s what you’re after.” She paused to think. “No nausea or GI symptoms, no unusual weakness. Are there other things I should watch for?”

  “Not really. Most of the problems with side effects from antiretrovirals come with longer courses of treatment. You only have three more weeks—and I’ll be checking on you frequently.”

  As she hung up, Shannon pulled her calendar toward her. She’d marked a red asterisk on the date she started treatment, with smaller ones noting the next twenty-eight days. At six weeks, there was a note, “Follow-up lab.” She’d have her first HIV test then, with m
ore tests at three and six months. If they were all negative, she could relax. Of course, it was possible that at that moment the virus was multiplying in her bloodstream. And she wouldn’t know about it for more than a month.

  She lowered her head until it rested on her desk. If this were happening to Mark, he’d undoubtedly draw on his faith for strength, turning the problem over to God. She wished she could do the same, but there remained a tiny bit of her that refused to accept that, even though she was a physician, she was powerless to affect the course of this particular disease. Shannon had heard this referred to by colleagues in the healthcare professions as the Jehovah complex. It was often said in jest, but she was coming to realize that it was all too real—and she was infected with it, just as certainly as she might be with the retrovirus from Barry Radick’s blood.

  MEGAN HAD ONE FINAL LOOK AROUND THE APARTMENT. “IT’S perfect.” She leaned over the table, scribbled her signature on the lease, and dropped the pen into her purse. “I’ll start moving in tonight. I should be sleeping here by tomorrow night.”

  “I think we’re going to get along well together.”

  “I think so, too,” Megan said. “It’s funny. Ten days ago, in the middle of the night, I essentially fled the place where I lived. I had no job, no place to go. I wound up living with my sister. Now I have a new job and a fantastic apartment with a great roommate. Who’d have thought things could turn around so fast?”

  “Well, it helps that we’re working together, so one thing sort of led to the other.”

  “I guess I’ll see you tonight,” Megan said. “I’ll be here about seven with some of my stuff.

  “Sounds great.”

  They hugged, and Megan left the apartment. She could hardly wait to tell Shannon. Her sister would be so surprised.

  MARK DROPPED HIS GLOVES AND HIS SURGICAL MASK INTO THE trash container. “I’m going to shower and change, then head for my office. Call if there’s another autopsy for me.”

  This was the first postmortem exam Mark had performed in a couple of years, maybe longer. But when a violent bout of food poisoning had incapacitated the pathologist scheduled for autopsy duty today, Mark volunteered to step in. After all, it was something he knew how to do. And the whole idea didn’t particularly gross him out—if it did, he wouldn’t have chosen pathology as his specialty in the first place. Nevertheless, he’d be glad when today was over and he could get back to his regular activities.

  The clock in the locker room showed noon. He wondered if Shannon was free for lunch. He dialed her office. No answer. His next call was to her secretary, who told him Dr. Frasier would be in surgery for most of the day. Would he like to get a message to her? He would not—lunch wasn’t an urgent matter. “No, thanks. I’ll call her at home this evening.”

  He was almost dressed when the intercom called, “Dr. Gilbert? Are you still in there?”

  “Yes,” Mark answered, resisting the temptation he always had to raise his voice when replying to the metallic voice issuing from the wall right behind him. “What is it? Another autopsy already?”

  “No, sir. Looks like we’re going to be quiet for a while. But would you call your office? They said it’s urgent.”

  Mark frowned at this news. He picked up the phone and punched in his office number.

  “Ellie, it’s me. What’s going on?”

  “You had a call from a . . .” Mark heard the sound of rustling paper. Ellie could never find the message slip she wanted, and this time was apparently no exception. “From Mrs. Sarah Frasier. She and her husband are at the Simmons Cancer Center. He received his first chemotherapy today, and he had a problem. They’re observing him right now, but she wondered—”

  “Call her back and tell her I’m on my way.”

  Mark wondered if he should call the center where Robert Frasier was receiving treatment, but he decided against it. The staff there was good. Undoubtedly they’d handled hundreds of patients who had reactions during chemotherapy. Mark suspected that what the Frasiers needed most of all was someone to lean on. Since Shannon was in surgery, he was elected. Glad they called. Makes me feel more like one of the family.

  In a few moments, Sarah Frasier hugged Mark and pointed to her husband, who was as pale as the white curtains that had been closed around his cubicle. “Thank you for coming. They were about to disconnect his IV, when—”

  “I fainted. That’s all,” Pastor Frasier said. Despite his pallor, his voice was strong.

  “It’s not uncommon for patients to almost pass out when they’re getting their first chemo treatment.” The female voice behind him was unfamiliar to Mark. He turned to see a petite woman whose white lab coat bore the embroidered name “Liu Kim, MD.” Her complexion was fair. Her black hair framed delicate features with high cheekbones and sparkling dark eyes.

  Mark extended his hand. “Dr. Kim, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Mark Gilbert. The Frasiers’ daughter and I . . . I’m a close family friend.”

  Dr. Kim took the proffered hand. “Liu Kim.” She pronounced the first name almost like Leo, with the emphasis on the last syllable. “Reverend Frasier seems to be fine right now. We just wanted to keep him around for a bit to make sure he’s stable. I don’t think it’s anything to worry about, and it probably won’t affect his next treatment.”

  “What is his treatment schedule?” Mark asked.

  “He’s getting the FCR regimen.” Dr. Kim looked at Mark to see if he needed further explanation. When he remained silent, she said, “He’ll get another dose by IV tomorrow and the final one the day after that. Then there’s a twenty-eight-day rest period before we repeat the cycle.” She looked down at her patient. “We’ll watch you closely with the next two, but I think you’ll do fine.”

  “I feel okay now. Think I can go home?”

  “Pretty soon,” Dr. Kim said. “Any questions?” The Frasiers shook their heads. “I’ll check you again before you leave, and my nurse will confirm your appointments for Wednesday and Thursday.”

  She nodded at Mark. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. What department are you in?”

  “Pathology,” Mark said.

  “So our paths may cross again. I’ll watch for you.” She pulled aside the curtains surrounding the cubicle.

  As Mark made his way back to his office, he found himself thinking of Dr. Kim. He was certain that if he’d ever encountered her on campus, he’d have remembered it. Her beauty was stunning. There seemed no question of her professional competence. And he’d noticed that her left hand was bare. He couldn’t believe she was unattached.

  Like Dr. Kim, Shannon was beautiful, although she’d never admit it. Also like Dr. Kim, Shannon was an accomplished professional. So why had he even given Dr. Kim a second look, when for the past year the only woman in his life was Shannon? He decided to shove that question to the back of his mind.

  Today Shannon’s parents had called on him when she was unavailable, and that made him feel good. Although they apparently considered him one of the family, he couldn’t help wondering if their daughter would ever come around to accepting his offer of a lifetime commitment.

  STEVE ALSTON FROWNED. HE PUT ONE HAND OVER HIS EAR TO shut out the ringing phones and raised voices of the squad room, pushing the phone closer to his other ear. He wanted to be certain he was hearing correctly.

  “And this is Greenwood Cemetery we’re talking about?”

  “Yes, sir.” The voice on the other end of the phone was that of an elderly male, and it bore no hint of uncertainty. “Happened over the weekend, I guess. I found out late yesterday. When you called, I was reaching for the phone to line up some manpower to repair the damage.”

  “Would you please leave everything as it is for now?” Steve said. “This may give us a clue to a case we’re working.”

  The man sounded a bit dubious when he said, “I guess I can wait a bit.”

  “Great. My partner and I will be there in half an hour.”

  Steve hung up the phone and called across t
he squad room to his partner, who was discussing baseball with a couple of detectives from narcotics. “Jesse, let’s roll.”

  “Got a new case?”

  “Nope.” Steve shrugged into his shoulder harness and took his gun from his desk drawer. “But maybe a break in one we’re working.”

  WHEN SHANNON PULLED INTO HER DRIVEWAY, SHE SAW MEGAN’S car at the curb, with her sister loading boxes into the trunk.

  This was Tuesday. It had been eleven days since Megan called looking for a place to stay. No, change that. Since the call came after midnight, technically it was ten days. What had Megan said? In a week or so—ten days tops—she’d have a job and an apartment. Maybe her sister truly had straightened out her life.

  Shannon pulled into the garage and entered the house where she found Megan lugging a suitcase toward the front door. “What’s going on?” Shannon asked.

  “Well, not only do I have a job now, but today I signed on to share an apartment with one of the people at work.” She set down the luggage and brushed a stray lock of blond hair from her forehead. “I’m moving some of my stuff tonight, then I’m having dinner with Parker. Don’t wait up.”

  Dinner with Parker? Here we go again. “Who is this Parker? You say it’s someone you met at work? You’ve only been working there two days. How well could you get to know him in that time?” Shannon dropped onto the sofa, leaned back, and closed her eyes. “Megan, please don’t repeat what’s become a pattern for you, moving in with first one then another man who turns out to be a loser.”

  Megan stood in front of her sister with her hands on her hips. “I work with Parker, but we’ve known each other for over a year. Parker came to R&R Medical Supply at the same time I did, from the same pharmaceutical company where I used to work. We knew each other there and became good friends.”

  “So you’ve known him for a while. But do you want to move in with yet another man?” Shannon opened her eyes and looked up at her sister. “Believe me, I just want what’s best for you.”