Marcus: The M Series, Book Three

by Ryanne Anthony

  Common cold, pinkeye, strep throat, stomach flu, and ear infection. - Mark Bishop

  “Mark Bishop.” I looked up at him. “Are you trying to be a doctor or a hen, Mr. Bishop? What's with these lay words?”

  “Sorry, sir.” He shifted off and the other interns groaned and balled up their papers. We laughed at all of them.

  “They keep riding that one,” Rob says, quietly. “He's smart as hell and keeps throwing the curve. These idiots won't even let him in a study group. Too fucking shy is his main problem.”

  “What's his specialty?”

  “Hasn't declared it, at least not to me.”

  Mark Bishop returned and shakily handed me his revised list.

  Rhinopharyngitis, conjunctivitis, Streptococcal pharyngitis, gastroenteritis & Otitis Media -Mark Bishop

  I looked at him. “Have you declared your specialty, Dr. Bishop?”

  He smiled at my calling him 'doctor.' “Internal medicine, sir.”

  “You ever hear of Stephen Cannon?”

  “Yes, sir. He's the go-to in California. He's awesome.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Are you set on this specialty?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call your father, Joshua. Tell him Dr. Alexander is sending him an intern to shadow him.”

  The interns behind him gasped and began to write furiously as Joshua talked to Dad.

  “Are you willing to work outside of your intern hours and weekends,” Joshua asked Bishop.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Cannon. I have no life right now.”

  We chuckled as Joshua spoke into the phone.

  “My father says he'll see you at five, Bishop. He'll meet you in the hospital lobby.”

  “Our father is old fashioned. He doesn’t like tablets so if I were you, Bishop,” Matthew murmured. “I'd have the evening paper, a couple of blueberry muffins and a hot cup of English tea in your hands when you meet up with him.”

  Bishop nodded, clearly appreciating the advice.

  “Are you going to write that down,” I asked.

  “Don't need to, sir.” He tapped his temple. “Eidetic, as well.”

  “No way,” Rob laughed. “Both of you, quick! What's ninety-three on the periodic table?”

  “Neptunium,” Bishop and I said, together.

  “One-fifteen.”

  “Ununpentium”

  “Fifteen!”

  “Phosphorus.”

  “Forty!”

  “Zirconium.”

  “Are they right,” Joshua frowned.

  “Fuck if I know,” Rob chuckled. “Knowing Frank, I’m betting they are.”

  “What are those things you're getting my father, Bishop,” Matthew asked.

  “Evening paper in print, hot English tea and two blueberry muffins.”

  “Very good,” Rob murmured. “Now go join the line.”

  The other interns gave me their papers and stood around. I looked at their answers.

  “Evans, Jackson, Bell, Jalecki, Walmsley and Yang to the right of Bishop.” They moved.

  “Congratulations, you get to write a five-hundred-word essay on the five most common childhood diseases. The other three of you are doing twenty-five hundred words. Tell the one in the library she's doing twenty-five hundred, as well.”

  A tall guy, with short black hair cut close to his scalp said, “I thought if we got it right, we wouldn't have to do that assignment.”

  I tilted my head. “Which one are you,” I snarled as I walked toward him.

  “I'm, uh, Walmsley, sir.”

  “Walmsley,” I repeated and narrowed my eyes. He cringed. “Mr. Uh, Walmsley, do you remember me saying you wouldn't have to do the assignment?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked slowly, glaring.

  He paused. “Not anymore, sir.”

  Still glaring, I asked, “What exactly did I say, Dr. Bishop?”

  Bishop cleared his throat. “I heard, quote, 'I want a twenty-five-hundred-word essay from every one of you on the five most common childhood illnesses. If you can tell me what they are right now, I'll ease up on that. Write them down with your names and pass it to me.' End quote.”

  “Where in there did I say you wouldn't have to do the assignment, Uh, Walmsley?”

  “You didn't, sir.”

  “That's right. I didn't.” I looked at the interns. “I expect your papers in your hands, on the first day of your rotation with me, typed and double spaced.” I looked back to Walmsley. “Mr. Uh, Walmsley, if you want to be a great doctor, one who patients respect, you’ll need to learn to listen carefully. No one wants to repeat themselves, unnecessarily. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” he mumbled with disdain.

  I scowled at Walmsley. “Surgery. Cardio-Thoracic, right?”

  “Yes, sir,” he answered, stunned.

  “Figures. Get your arrogance in check now. You don't need an eidetic memory to remember the only invincible being is God.” I shook my head and sat.

  “Go and eat,” Rob murmured, disgusted, shaking his head. “Be at the clinic at two.”

  “How did you know his specialty,” Joshua asked after the interns crossed the room.

  “He's arrogant and impatient, for starters. Classic signs.”

  “Okay, but what about the tickets,” Matthew asked.

  “Of course you guys get the tickets,” I grinned. “I like fucking with your heads. But...”

  “What,” they asked together.

  “Mariah goes when the Bulls play the Lakers.”

  “Sure... I'd love a date with Mariah.”

  “Geez, Toad,” Joshua groaned. “So who’s out on those games?”

  I stood, picking up my lunch. “You three can work that out. I'm going to go call my woman.”

  Chapter SEVEN

  The Wexler Connection

  July 8, 2018

  “I want a report on William Wexler, a New York plastic surgeon, in thirty seconds,” Matthew yells at Parker.

  “You think Wexler's behind this,” Thomas asks me, trembling with rage.

  “Maybe. Possibly Adina, too.”

  “How,” Joshua asks. “She didn't know that Vince ass. How in the hell could they have hooked up and come after Mariah? And why? Adina was pregnant by Wexler when you and Mariah got your shit together. Why now?”

  “That's what I intend to find out,” I mutter.

  Parker walks in, holding a sheet of paper, and pauses.

  “Matthew,” he calls. My brother walks over to him. They talk quietly with Richards. Frustrated, I go over to them.

  “What?”

  Matthew sighs. “Parker doesn't think this should be done in front of everyone. He has Wexler's numbers, but it's Sunday so he's not in his office. We'll have to call him at home or his cell and he's bound to be bitter, resistant even. It could get nasty, and we don't want to insult the women or slow any progress.”

  I think a moment. “No, he's right.” I turn back in the room. “Joshua, Nathan, Tom.”

  They walk, damn near run over.

  “Go to my office with Parker. I'll be along in a minute.” The six of them walk off, and I walk over to my father and Thomas, then signal Ethan over.

  “We're going to call Wexler, see if he knows anything. I'd like you to stay out here and keep an eye on the ladies, especially the mothers and Alissa. I don't want her stressed. You should call Rob, Ethan, just in case. He'd want to be here, anyway.”

  “Sure, Marcus,” Ethan nods. “No problem. Just don't keep anything from us.”

  “I won't. I just don't know how... brash and unyielding he's going to be.”

  Ethan pulls out his cell and walks away. “Rob, it’s Ethan. I'm afraid...”

  My dad pats my shoulder. “It's fine, son. Go.” I nod then turn and run to the office.

  Parker hands me a sheet a paper with Wexler's address and phone numbers. I pick up the handset.

  “Speaker,” Matthew says. “Try to stay controlled.”

  I
replace the handset and press the speaker button and a dial tone sounds. I hear a click and frown.

  “Daniels' team is recording; this line and your cell,” Richards says.

  “Fine,” I mutter as I dial.

  “Dr. and Mrs. Wexler's residence,” a female voice answers. “How may I help you?”

  “Dr. Marcus Cannon here. Is Dr. Wexler available?”

  “He’s not, Dr. Cannon. Dr. Wexler is at football practice with his son. Perhaps you can try his cell.”

  “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  I dial the cell number. He answers on the third ring.

  “Dr. Wexler,” he snaps. I hear whistles and children in the background.

  “Wexler. Marcus Cannon.”

  He pauses. “What the fuck do you want, Cannon?”

  I blow out a breath, trying to remain calm. “Where's your wife, Wexler?”

  “Why? You want to run her away from me? Or maybe you want to have her get the ball rolling to have me banished from New York, too,” he sneers.

  My jaw clenches. “Wexler... is Adina still in New York or not?”

  He snorts. “Adina is not my wife.”

  Parker types furiously on his laptop.

  “Didn't you marry her five years ago,” I ask, completely confused.

  “What's this about, Cannon? Mariah finally come to her senses and left your ass?”

  My fists ball up and I’m about to tell him to go fuck himself. Matthew picks up the handset while Joshua and Nathan grip my shoulders.

  “Wexler, Matthew Cannon ... Yes, I did, but this is urgent and I need you and Marcus to try to be civilized. All that other shit from years ago is not important ... Can you hold your comments, at least for twenty minutes, while we attempt to figure some things out? You can give Marcus and me a good tongue lashing sometime in the future, all right?” Matthew signals Wexler's silence. “Very important, possibly lifesaving ... Fine. I'm going to put you back on speaker.”

  Matthew presses the speaker button and replaces the handset.

  “What is it, Cannon,” Wexler snaps.

  I inhaled, hating to say the next words.

  “My wife… Mariah was kidnapped last night,” I quietly tell him.

  Wexler pauses. “Are you serious? That's not fucking funny,” he murmurs, thawing.

  “Very serious. We have an idea of what happened and we're trying to figure who has her. Mariah called and implied your wife was involved.”

  A deep breath. “Again, Cannon, Adina is not my wife. Never has been. My wife’s name is Anna and she is the niece of Michael Caulfield, the governor of New York, and she's at home, resting with our new baby.”

  Parker turns the laptop around and points to a picture of Wexler smiling with a woman who looks a lot like Mariah. I nod, confirming that's him.

  “Okay, so where is she? Adina.”

  “I don't know. She dropped our son off and I haven't seen or heard from her since.”

  “How long ago,” Matthew asks.

  “Um... the twenty-third, I believe.”

  “Does she make a habit of doing that?”

  “No, we have a schedule and she's rigid with it.”

  “How often is she in California and where? Has she been here recently?”

  “She took Christopher there for Thanksgiving, last year. As far as I know, she was with her parents then. Why do you suspect Adina? What did Mariah say in the call?”

  I take a deep breath. “She was reading from a script and said I failed to keep a promise; she couldn't live with it anymore. Mariah requested I tell everybody she loves them, kiss her children, and she loves them despite who their father is.”

  “Despite...” he mutters, then goes silent. “FUCK,” he yells. “Time! William Christopher Wexler II! Get over here! Excuse my language, ladies.” Wexler's breathing has gotten ragged. “I need to move out of earshot from the other parents. Hang on. Follow me, son.”

  “Did I do something wrong,” a frightened, small voice asks.

  Wexler takes a deep breath. “No, son. I'm sorry; an old friend is in trouble and I think you may be able to help. Walk away to the car with me.”

  “Okay, Dad.”

  There is silence, then a car door opens and closes.

  “Fuck! What did she do,” Wexler mumbles. Another car door opens and closes.

  “Chris, there are some people on the phone calling from California. Do you remember when you and your mother went to see your grandparents there, at Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “What was it your mother said to you, the day you came back?”

  Chris pauses then quietly says, “You mean at the airport, what made you angry?”

  “Yes, son.”

  Another pause, then, “I don't want you to be angry at Mommy, again.”

  “I won't, Chris, say it. This is very important. There is a woman that needs your help.”

  Another pause... then Chris speaks in a reluctant tone. “Mommy saw a man and woman kissing. She stopped and stared and said, 'that should have been me.'”

  We all inhale and my knuckles whiten. I know of the day his son was speaking. I was on my way to Tokyo again, as a favor for Joshua, who couldn't get away as Mandy was due to give birth any day. Mariah and the twins had driven me to the airport.

  “Keep going, son. What else?”

  “That man picked up one of the copy boys –”

  “Copy boys, son?”

  “Yeah, Dad. They had the same face.”

  I snicker and so does Wexler.

  “They're called twins, son.”

  “Twins, okay. He picked up a twins and hugged him, and Mommy cried and fell. She said she fucked up bad when she sent her back to him.”

  “Good job, son, but you know you shouldn't use that word, right?”

  “Yes, but you asked me what Mommy said.”

  “I know, Chris. What else?”

  “She said the woman was gone and she should’ve tried to go back, but he didn't want her. Then she held my hand and said that man should've been my father, but she loves me anyway despike who my father is and that she was going to have to fix it.”

  “Did you get that,” Wexler asks.

  I look at Parker. He nods and Richards speaks.

  “Dr. Wexler, I'm Chris Richards. I'm investigating Mrs. Cannon's disappearance. I'd like to ask young Chris there a few questions. Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t. Chris, I want you to answer Mr. Richards, okay?”

  “Okay, Dad. Yes, sir?”

  “Chris, does your Mommy have any new friends?”

  Daniels walks in and hands Matthew a piece of paper. Matthew reads it, nods then Daniels leaves us. I frown at Matthew. ‘Rob,’ he mouths.

  “Just Bobby, but he's not new to Mommy. Mr. Parker found him for her.”

  We look at Parker. He frowns and shakes his head.

  “What does Mr. Parker look like, Chris,” Richards asks.

  “He's tall like my dad and has red hair and green eyes.”

  This Parker has brown hair and green eyes.

  Richards looks at Parker and scowls. “Get that report,” he mutters.

  Parker grabs his cell then goes to the far corner and makes a call. “Ross! You son of a bitch! Email me the report on the case you did for Adina –”

  “Elliott,” I mumble.

  “Elliott! Fuck, Ross, the woman you scouted is missing! ... Didn't you notice something amiss? ... He wasn't her brother, he's her ex! Damn it, hang up and email it now! Shit. I'm sorry, Dr. Cannon, Ross is my brother, and he's based in New York.”

  Richards clears his throat. “What about Bobby, Chris? What does he look like?”

  “He's big and has black hair. He and Mommy were fighting when she took me to my Dad's.”

  “Chris,” Wexler calls. “When? This last time your mommy brought you to me?”

  “Yes. He got a job in California, and Mommy got mad and said he was gonna, um... I'm sorry, Dad she said fucked again.”
<
br />   “Okay, son, I'll let it slide. Tell me what she said.”

  “She said he was gonna fucked everything up again, getting close to her.”

  “Who is 'her', Chris?”

  “I don't know, Dad. Should I call Mommy and ask her?”

  “I tried, son, but she doesn't answer. Maybe later.”

  “You have to use this funny phone that doesn't move, Dad.”

  Wexler inhales sharply. “Where did you get that cell, Chris?”

  “Mommy gave it to me. She told me to keep it on me and to answer when it buzzes but only if I'm not with you. If I am, I'm s'pose to leave the room first.”

  “When did she last call you, son?”

  “This morning. She was watching a movie about a woman screaming why and a man tell her she shouldn't have thrown him in hell when he loved her.”

  “Then what?”

  “The movie man said Nathan was next since that son of a bitch can't keep his hands to himself and how he wished he could have shoved the knife in the back of his nosey head. I told her I couldn't hear her and she told goose man to tune it down.”

  Nathan scoffs. “Try it, fucking bastard,” he whispers.

  “Goose man,” Matthew mutters. “Parker. See if someone called goose man is in the system.”

  “And then, Chris?”

  “The woman screamed that she was bleeding and Mommy said she would call me later.”

  My hands tightened again as I think of Mariah losing our baby. Anger fills me; there’s nothing I can do to help her.

  “Check the ID, Wexler,” Matthew says, his eyes welling. “See what time that call came in and give us the number. Does anyone else call him?”

  “All the calls are blocked, last one came in at 9:04 a.m.,” Wexler sighs. “Answer him, Chris.”

  “Just Mommy, sir.”

  “The phone is vibrating. Chris talk to your Mom... don't tell her you're with me, son, okay?”

  “Speaker, Wexler,” Matthew orders.

  “Of course.”

  Matthew hits the mute button and we quiet, listening intently. Daniels runs in, listening.

  “Hi, Mommy!”

  “Hi, honey! I'm sorry I had to hang up. Mommy had to take care of a friend.”

  Richards fingers snaps at Daniels, gesturing something.

  “Okay, Mommy. Are you coming back today?”