Black Friday

by Tim LaHaye

  “Relax, honey.” He glanced under the sheet. She felt the touch of his frosty hands and fought the urge to vomit. She fully expected him to say, “There’s nothing in here.”

  Instead, Dr. Graham straightened and approached her side. “You’re an easy nine weeks along. So, you’ve been a bad little girl? No problem. We’ll get you cleaned out in no time, baby doll.”

  Bad little girl? Baby doll?

  She was repulsed by his arrogant, godlike attitude. It was as if all the awful things she had ever heard from Gus about this man collided together in a single moment. Maybe it was a lack of sleep. Maybe a case of nerves. Probably both. In any event, she felt mad enough to kick Dr. Graham with both feet.

  He turned to his assistant and said, “Catheter.”

  The worker readied the machine.

  Jodi’s heart was about to burst. This guy wasn’t kidding around. He was really going ahead with the procedure. Her head felt light and she thought she would pass out. Under no circumstances could she afford to faint. He’d be done before she’d awaken. Dizzy, as if she had stepped off a roller coaster, she propped herself up on an elbow.

  “You sure, Doctor? I . . . I don’t have any morning sickness and, like, I’m not tired or anything like that—”

  “Lay down, sweet cakes,” Dr. Graham said. “You’re just one fertile little turtle.” He took the suction catheter, its three-quarter-inch, sharp, snakelike head ready to bite, from an assistant. The machine moaned and howled like a hungry dog waiting for its next meal.

  Jodi’s chest heaved as she tried to catch her breath. “Listen, I . . . I just can’t go through with this—”

  “Relax, missy,” Dr. Graham said, his eyebrows narrowing. “You’ll hardly feel a thing.” He was positioning the vacuum tube when Jodi shot upright.

  “Stop it! Stop it! I’m not pregnant!” She even shocked herself with the outburst. The words seemed to bounce around the walls for five full seconds.

  Dr. Graham peered over his face mask, motionless. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, but somehow she knew it wasn’t very flattering.

  “I’m a reporter for the Montgomery Times, and you, Dr. Graham, just blew it big time.”

  Dr. Graham lowered the suction catheter, turned off the machine, and then raised his right forefinger. “Does anybody in here know what this kid is saying?”

  No one spoke.

  He turned to the first assistant. “What just happened?”

  “Sir, nothing. You just gave her a pelvic exam and informed her that she wasn’t pregnant.”

  Jodi said, “What in the world?”

  “And you?” Dr. Graham said to the second assistant. “What did you see?”

  The nervous-looking woman rocked in place. “Like she said, you did the pelvic and found nothing. That’s it.”

  “Well, then,” he said, consulting the chart, “Jodi Adams. Looks like I have two witnesses who disagree with your fabrication of events.”

  Jodi was about to scream. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and started to say something, but Dr. Graham cut her off.

  “Now, missy, I’d suggest you gather your things, dress quietly, and go back to your trailer park.” When Jodi didn’t immediately move, he added, “Get out of my place of business before I call the cops. And, if I hear so much as another word out of your lying mouth, I will sue you.”

  Jodi found the air in the room too thick to breathe. She struggled to fill her lungs. Her heart hammered so hard her chest ached. Moving in slow motion, she slid off the examination table, still draped in her gown. She reached for her things, watching Dr. Graham out of the corner of her eye as she gathered her valuables.

  “Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, Mister Graham,” Jodi said, pushing her way past the two assistants. “Way wrong. Gus was right— you’re nothing more than a fraud, and I can prove it.”

  “Get out!” Dr. Graham said, his eyes blazing.

  Jodi stood in the doorway. She tapped her purse. “I have it all recorded on tape. Every last word.”

  Dr. Graham’s face turned white and then red.

  Jodi had never seen such rage pour out of a man’s eyes before. Like a refugee fleeing the long arm of a militant dictator, she darted down the hall. Juggling her clothes, purse, and shoes in her arms, she saw a door at the very end of the fifty-foot hall marked “Emergency Exit Only.” She raced to it as if her life depended on it.

  Her ankles felt like an invisible set of hands had reached up from the floor and grabbed them, holding her back, keeping her from leaving the belly of the beast. Behind her, she heard Dr. Graham barking commands to his minions.

  In her haste, she dropped her purse.

  Jodi backtracked five steps, scrambled to pick it up, dropped a shoe, grabbed it, and, looking up, saw the two assistants starting toward her. She turned and galloped toward the door. She shoved an elbow against the crash bar, almost losing her balance in the process. An earsplitting alarm sounded as the door opened to freedom.

  Barefoot and scared, Jodi bolted to her car. The loose driveway gravel, like coarse sandpaper, grated the bottoms of her feet. She jumped to avoid a patch of shattered glass but managed to stub a toe when she landed. A moment later, she reached her car.

  She fumbled inside the purse for her keys, found them, beeped and unlocked the door, tossed her things across the front seat, and jumped in, whacking her shin against the threshold. She slammed and locked the door, jammed the key in the ignition, and prayed the car would start.

  With a roar, the engine sprang to life. Thankful for small miracles, she slammed it into gear and pulled away.

  In the distance, Jodi heard a police siren. She wasn’t sure whether or not they were coming for her.

  She wasn’t about to stick around and find out.

  Dr. Graham raced to his office and closed the door. He didn’t stop to pour a drink. Time was of the essence. Using the preset speed dial on his cell phone, he placed the call.

  A young man answered. “Yo.”

  Dr. Graham said, “Change of plans.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Got another fish that needs to go swimming tonight.”

  “Details?”

  “The name’s Jodi Adams. Blonde. About five-five. Maybe seventeen.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “Shut up and listen. Drives a white Mazda. Works at the Montgomery Times.”

  “When?”

  Dr. Graham reached for a bottle of bourbon and a glass. “Pick her up this afternoon.”

  “No problem.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Name it.”

  “She has an audiotape you must—I repeat, must—find and bring to me.”

  “Done.”

  Chapter 27 Thursday, 10:45 a.m.

  Stan hiked three f lights of stairs, two steps at a time. This whole thing of going to Jenna’s apartment was weird. Maybe Jenna was tired of Dr. Graham’s tantrums. Maybe she needed a break from his rudeness and the constant barking of commands. The fact that he had major control issues was clear to Stan after just one day.

  Imagine working for the tyrant for years!

  And that was the strange part. Why did she put up with him for so long? She seemed nice enough, even approachable. Unlike Dr. Graham, she was soft-spoken and her eyes brimmed with a surprising warmth. Her working at the clinic made no sense as far as Stan could tell.

  Although yesterday he didn’t mind being Dr. Graham’s gofer, he resented the fact that he had been thrown into the middle of things with Jenna today. If she didn’t want to come to work, that was her choice, right? Then again, as unlikely as it seemed, maybe Dr. Graham was just concerned about her welfare.

  Stan reached the third floor. Four apartment doors faced each other in a quad-shaped courtyard. He checked the apartment number inked on his palm and then scanned the doors. He found the winning number. He took a second to catch his breath. Even in the heart of football season, dashing up that many stairs would be a workou
t.

  Pausing by her front door, he noticed a black-and-red welcome mat. To the left, a three-foot-tall frilly, plantlike thing with small f lowers was growing in a ceramic pot. Definitely something a girl would get, he thought.

  Miniblinds hung in a window to the right of the door. Although drawn tight, a space at the bottom permitted him a partial view of the stainless steel kitchen sink. It was empty. Maybe she wasn’t home. There was one way to find out. Stan looked for the doorbell. Finding none, he tapped out a friendly rhythm with a knuckle.

  No answer. He put an eyeball to the security peephole as if somehow he could look in. No such luck. He knocked again and then put his hands in his front pockets. What if she didn’t answer? He could leave a note but didn’t have pen and paper. He knocked a third time.

  Stan turned to go. Behind him and through the closed door he heard a voice.

  “Who is it?”

  Stan faced the door. “It’s me, Stan . . . Stan Taylor, from work.” It felt odd to admit the clinic was where he worked.

  Jenna cracked the door open three inches. The brass security chain prevented the door from opening farther. She spoke in hushed tones as if medicated. “Oh, hi, Stan. What a surprise.”

  Jenna looked a mess. She wore no makeup. Her hair looked tangled and unkempt. She wore a wrinkled sweatshirt and shorts. But her eyelids, puffy and red, told the real story. She had been crying.

  “Gosh, Jenna, you okay?”

  He thought she nodded.

  “I’m sorry to hassle you at home . . .”

  She pushed a stray hair from her face. “It’s okay, really. I take it the big, bad boss sent you?” She smirked.

  “How’d you guess?” Stan smiled back then shifted his feet. “Look, Jenna, Dr. Graham was, uh, concerned.”

  “Guess there’s a first time for everything,” she said dryly.

  “Yeah, well, he really needs you at work today. He tried calling, but your phone—”

  “The answering machine isn’t working, and I’m not answering it.”

  “Oh. What should I tell him?”

  “Tell him . . . ,” she started to say. Her features seemed to drift into the distance. “Tell him I’m not coming back.”

  “Today?”

  “Ever.”

  Stan put his hands back in his pockets.

  “Listen, Stan, this has been a long time coming. And yesterday . . . when you asked about shredding the files—”

  “The ones that hadn’t expired?”

  “Right. I guess . . . that was the last straw for me. I’m done working for that man.”

  Stan cleared his throat. “Okay. So, I’ll tell him you quit. But he won’t be happy.”

  “Is he ever?”

  Chapter 28 Thursday, 12:15 p.m.

  Jodi arrived at the newspaper fifteen minutes late. She would have been on time had it not been for the thirty minutes she had spent in the shower after racing home from the clinic. She had hoped the scorching stream of water would scrub away the memory of her encounter with Dr. Graham. No such luck.

  During her shower, she remembered something else from Gus’s letter. He had claimed that on more than one occasion, Dr. Graham had suffocated an infant who survived a procedure. When Jodi first read his accusation, she thought it was the most ludicrous thing she had ever heard. After this morning, she could believe Gus.

  While she didn’t have proof he was guilty of infanticide, she had no doubt Dr. Graham was capable of doing anything. After all, he was willing to perform an abortion procedure on a girl who wasn’t even pregnant.

  What else would he do for money?

  If only she could convince Joey to let her do the story. She had the facts. She had the proof. She had two credible witnesses. What more could he want?

  Jodi breezed through the front doors as if propelled by a gust of wind. Her adrenaline was maxed out from the morning, and she was itching to tell Joey about her undercover work.

  “Where’s the fire, Jodi?” Marge said, her glasses hanging on the tip of her nose. She was juggling a stack of files and mail.

  Jodi was so preoccupied with the goal of reaching her desk, she almost bowled Marge over. Jodi slowed, turned around, but kept walking backward to her cubicle. “Oops. Sorry, Marge. Things are just a little crazy—”

  “I heard that,” Marge said. “Hate to slow you down, but you’ve got some fan mail.”

  Jodi stopped in her tracks.

  “Me?”

  “You are Jodi Adams, right?” Marge shuffled through the stack of mail and picked out a one-inch-thick, padded yellow envelope.

  “Wow. Who’s it from?” Jodi walked toward Marge.

  “Loverboy—”

  “Huh?” Jodi said, her face intense.

  “Relax. It’s from your pal Gus.”

  Jodi’s heart jumped as if shocked by a blast of electricity. Marge handed her the package with a smirk.

  “Heavy, too. Maybe it’s chocolate.”

  “Thanks, Marge. I’ll save you some.” With that, Jodi darted to her desk.

  Marge called after her, “Joey’s been looking for you . . . he wanted to see you the second you got in.”

  Jodi called over her shoulder, “I’m on my way.”

  At her desk, Jodi dumped Gus’s package and her purse in the bottom desk drawer. She snatched her cassette recorder and promptly plopped down in her chair. Everything was happening way too fast. She’d been running since the crack of dawn and needed two seconds to pull herself together.

  It was then she noticed that two items had been placed in her in box. An envelope and a copy of their morning paper. Who had time to read the paper? She reached for the letter. Her first name was typed on the outside. Beneath her name appeared the words: PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL.

  Upon opening the letter, the distinct smell of cigarette smoke floated out. The brief, four-line message had been typed in all caps:

  FOLLOW THE MONEY

  SEE BACK PAGE OF PAPER

  THINK PER INQUIRY

  CONNECT THE DOTS

  The note was unsigned, and yet the smell of smoke was all the signature Jodi needed. It had to be from Roxanne. Roxanne handled the books. So, “follow the money” probably had to do with their finances.

  Jodi then reached for the newspaper, unfolded it, and shuffled to the back page. Her face f lushed. There, in living color, was a full-page ad for the Total Choice Medi-Center. No wonder Joey didn’t want to do a story on health violations at women’s clinics. A story like that could offend an advertiser—especially this one.

  It made perfect sense. Still, she thought it stunk.

  But what did Roxanne mean about “per inquiry”? She remembered hearing the phrase before—recently, in fact. Come to think of it, Joey had used the term two days ago. She strained to recall the meaning. It came to her.

  The newspaper was paid a minimum fee to run the full-page ad. They also received a bonus for each person who responded to the ad. The better the response, the more money the newspaper stood to make. These kinds of advertising partnerships were perfectly legal. Joey had said so himself. But—connecting the dots—in this case it formed an added conflict of interest.

  Suppress the news—make a buck. Their editorial content was being driven by the advertising dollars.

  So much for freedom of the press.

  Like a puzzle, the pieces were falling into place, and Jodi didn’t like the picture they created. Armed with this new revelation, Jodi marched over to see her boss.

  “Marge said you wanted to see me?” Jodi said, standing in the doorway to Joey’s office. A copy of that morning’s Montgomery Times was tucked under her arm. She held the cassette tape in her hand.

  “Have a seat,” Joey said, waving to the chair with his pen.

  Jodi moved to the chair. She thought he seemed formal, yet polite— which was precisely what concerned her. Joey was usually warm. At the moment, like a highly charged energy field, his body language was giving off major negative energy. Come to thin
k of it, she had felt the unnerving vibes the moment she approached his door.

  She tried to sound upbeat. “So, what’s up?”

  “I just got a call from an irate client.”

  Jodi’s heart skipped a beat. It had to be Dr. Graham.

  “He says you made quite a scene this morning at his place of business.”

  “Well, see, I—”

  Joey held a finger to his mouth. “Shh. I assured him you were not on an assignment from this paper and that you would be relieved of your duties.”

  “Huh?”

  “Plain English? As much as I hate to do this, you’re fired, Jodi.”

  She felt like she’d been smacked in the face with a wet rag. “For what?”

  “Insubordination, for starters.”

  “I . . . I don’t get it. Aren’t you going to even hear my side of the story?”

  He folded his arms together. “Who owns this paper?”

  “You do.”

  “Who is the editor in chief ?”

  “That would be you, but—”

  “But what? I decide the stories we pursue—not you. End of story. If I were you, maybe in the future I’d be more careful to follow directives. Now I’d like for you to clear out your desk. Roxanne will mail your final paycheck. I wish things didn’t have to end this way.”

  Jodi felt as if hot f lames were blazing around the edges of her ears. Her face, like a solar flare, sizzled. Jodi stood and walked to the front of his desk.

  “What are you so afraid of, Mr. Stephano?”

  He formed a tepee with his hands, tapping his fingertips together. “In this case, I’m primarily concerned about the legal action Dr. Graham has threatened—”

  “Really?” she said, unfolding the paper. She dropped the paper facedown on the center of his desk, showing the clinic’s ad on the back page. “Remember your advice to follow my nose? Well, I say this stinks like a real conflict of interest.”

  “You have no right to—”

  “And another thing,” Jodi said, barely able to contain the pent-up fire erupting from inside. “Your buddy, Dr. Graham, the very one Gus has been warning us about, was about to give me the full treatment this morning—and I’m not even pregnant.”