The Enforcer

by Marliss Melton

  Given the man’s contempt for Dylan, it was possible, right?

  Except that would be too easy, and Toby knew it. He doubted he’d find Secretary Nolan’s killer tonight. The most that he could do was remove Hendrix from Dylan’s private hit list, making her seem a little less crazy, even though he liked her just the way she was.

  ***

  Dylan returned to her office from the restroom and found a cup of steaming coffee sitting on her desk. The sticky note under it read, A pick-me-up from the nightshift nurses. Enjoy!

  She bit her lip as she regarded the offering. She had all but kicked her caffeine habit, limiting herself to just one cup a day, in the morning. But how could she let a tall cup of coffee go to waste? And when she picked it up, savoring the warmth in her hand, the aroma of a mocha latte wafted from the sip hole, undermining her intention to march back into the hall and give it away.

  What the heck. She’d probably get more done if she jolted her system with a little caffeine. If she ended up not being able to sleep as s result, she’d pop another of her prescription sleeping pills. Having only ever taken one, it wasn’t like she’d be abusing medication.

  Taking her first sip, she found the coffee just the way she liked it—sweet and chocolaty. With a sigh of contentment, she sat down at her desk and logged into her computer. As she accessed her patients’ records, she tried not to think of Tobias and Sheriff Fallon holding Hendrix up at gunpoint. A part of her wished she was there to manage the operation.

  Focus, she told herself, peering at her screen. Her patients’ treatment and recovery reports had been typed up by a medical transcriptionist. She made a point of reviewing them monthly in order to spot any developing trends. Reviewing treatment was tedious work, but the well-being of her patients mattered more than the time required.

  Twenty minutes later, the screen began to blur. Dylan sat back, rubbed her eyes, and opened them again. It wasn’t just the print on her monitor that was blurry, she realized. With a stab of concern, she cast her eyes about the office and realized her eyes were failing, in general. Suddenly, the walls of her office began to ripple like the surface of disturbed water. What on earth? Had she forgotten to eat? Was she having some kind of physiological reaction linked to her PTSD?

  Perhaps she just needed fresh air. She tried to stand up, but the floor seemed to swallow her feet like quicksand. She couldn’t move them. Frightened, she collapsed back in her chair and clutched the arms. What do I do?

  Call for help. As she reached for her desk phone, her hand caught the side of her half-empty coffee cup, knocking it over. Lukewarm liquid seeped across her desk in a murky rivulet. A sudden suspicion trickled through her consciousness just like the coffee sliding over the edge of the desk and dripping onto the carpet.

  I’ve been poisoned.

  That was her last thought before her body pitched forward and her temple struck the corner of the desk with a thud she didn’t feel. The room tunneled to black.

  ***

  “Scoot over.”

  “W-what?” Wesley Hendrix cried. One minute, he’d slowed to a stop behind what looked like a roadblock on Route 20. The next, two masked giants had materialized out of the dark, startling him out of his skin as they ripped open his car doors and jumped inside, one in the seat beside him, the other behind. The snout of a pistol gouged the back of his skull, making his heart jump into his throat. In the same instant, cold metal closed around his right wrist, shackling him to his steering wheel.

  “You heard me,” growled the man in the passenger seat. “Back the fuck up, now, and drive the other way.” He jammed the automatic shifter into reverse, saving Wesley the trouble.

  “Okay, okay.” An unmistakable rush of warmth informed Wesley that he’d lost control of his bladder. His coordination appeared equally impaired as he depressed the accelerator and the car lurched backward. I could crash in the ditch, he thought, attracting the attention of the officer at the roadblock.

  “Don’t even think about it,” grated the man beside him. Clamping a powerful hand on the steering wheel, he overcame Wesley’s half-hearted intention, tugged the shifter into drive, and in a voice that raised every hair on Wesley’s body, grated, “Drive.”

  Wesley took off in the direction he’d just come from. “What do you want?” he squeaked, accelerating reluctantly. A glance in the rearview mirror didn’t show any cops coming to his rescue. “If it’s money, you can have whatever’s in my wallet. Just don’t hurt me.” His voice broke on a fearful note.

  “Shut up,” both assailants said at once, in identical tones of disgust.

  “Turn right up here,” said the one next to him.

  Wesley read the sign for Rigby Road and swallowed hard. There were hardly any houses down Rigby Road, just the local dump. Why would they direct him this way?

  They drove another mile without a soul in sight, not even a hint of light from a window.

  “Slow down,” ordered the man up front. “Turn left here.”

  Wesley slowed. As he turned onto a rutted track, he recognized it as the spot where his Uncle Dan had taken him hunting when he was just a kid. Dan had gutted a deer right in front of him, amazing Wesley with the quantity of intestines crammed into one animal. A chill of foreboding swept over him, as he guided his Lexus down the bumpy track. He wasn’t going to end up like the deer, was he?

  “Stop,” said the man beside him.

  Wesley braked to a stop and that man jammed it into park. At the same time, the assailant prodding Wesley’s skull with a pistol banded a thick arm around his neck.

  “Oh, God!” Wesley sobbed, clawing ineffectually at the arm that constricted his airway.

  The man next to him held up a spray can and shook it. “You know what this is? It’s spray paint. We’re going to paint your car for you.”

  “No!” Wesley had bought his Lexus just last year.

  “Your protests won’t do you any good, asshole,” the stranger retorted, shaking the can menacingly. “What words would you like us to write on the side? How about crazy bastard?”

  Comprehension flooded Wesley, bringing with it a wave of relief. These were men from Dylan’s militia. They were avenging her for what he’d done to her Suburban, nothing more. That conniving bitch! When they were finished with their mischief, he’d accuse her publicly and have her arrested.

  “But before we defile your car, how about we give you a taste of your own medicine?”

  The man shook what sounded like a full pill bottle and set it on his dashboard.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard of Elypsia, since you prescribe it all the time, even though it hasn’t been adequately tested. Why is that, Hendrix? Are you enjoying the kickbacks from the drug companies pushing you to prescribe it, even though it hasn’t been thoroughly tested?”

  Uncertainty threatened Wesley’s returning confidence. Apparently, this wasn’t just about Dylan’s car. “So what?” he wheezed. The drug earned him the equivalent of a hundred bucks per prescription, but he wasn’t paid in cash, making it perfectly legal to accept the drug companies’ incentives.

  “So maybe you should familiarize yourself with the side effects,” the stranger countered, picking up the bottle again and unscrewing the cap. “I’m sure you’re aware that Elypsia causes vomiting and disorientation and sometimes even hallucination and death.”

  Wesley’s blood ran cold. “Don’t,” he croaked, suddenly certain that they planned to overdose him.

  Leaning closer, the stranger skewered him with a stare that made Wesley’s bowels churn. “Is there anything else you’ve done that you’d like to confess to? The truth could save you an awful lot of suffering.”

  Wesley cast his thoughts wildly about. “I don’t…know what you mean. I did that to Dylan’s car, but that’s it. I swear.”

  “Have you put her name on anything you’ve written?”

  “Like what?” Wesley stammered, not understanding.

  “Essays protesting our involvement in Syria.”

/>   “I don’t give a shit about Syria,” he insisted.

  The man’s eyes resembled dark blue marbles. “Hold his head back,” he said to the man in the back.

  “No!” Wesley cried. A gloved hand landed on his forehead, slamming his head back against the seat. The pressure around his throat disappeared as his jaw was pried open. With his free hand, he tried to pull away the hands that controlled him but he lacked the strength.

  Pills tumbled into his mouth, one after another. Gloved fingers pushed them down his throat, making him gag. Wesley tried coughing them up, only to find a water bottle jammed between his teeth. He had to swallow to keep from breathing water and the remaining pills slid down his esophagus. How many all together—six, seven, eight?

  God, he could feel the initial effects already. His head began to swim. The sounds outside the car became magnified.

  The cuffs disappeared from his wrists. His car doors opened and closed, and suddenly the assailants were gone. They didn’t even spray paint his car the way they’d threatened. But instead of feeling relived, Wesley felt strangely abandoned. Here he was, alone in the woods and helpless to save himself.

  Any moment now, the full effects of the pills would hit him, predisposing him to frightening hallucinations. Fear burbled in his stomach and his mouth watered, warning him that he was about to vomit in his Lexus if he didn’t get the door open, only his muscles refused to respond.

  Oh, God, how could this have happened to him? He was the doctor, not the guinea pig.

  ***

  Cal Fallon circled the lit parking lot at the VA Medical Center in the police cruiser that they’d hidden close to the spot where they’d abandoned Hendrix.

  “Where the hell is her Suburban?” Toby asked, not seeing it in any of the three sparsely occupied parking lots.

  “Maybe she already left,” the sheriff suggested.

  “She said she’d stay until she heard from us.” And since they hadn’t had any luck reaching her on her office phone, they’d decided to come tell her in person.

  A tingle of apprehension feathered Toby’s spine. “I’d like to run inside and ask if someone saw her leave. You mind waiting for me?”

  “I’ll park and come in with you,” Fallon replied. As he pulled into a spot beside the entrance, his radio crackled with the announcement that a white male had been found in his vehicle, overdosing on drugs.

  Toby and the sheriff shared a quick smirk and got out. As they cruised into the lobby shoulder to shoulder, they caught the startled eye of the receptionist. She laid her pen down on the counter and divided an anxious look between them. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

  Toby put her at ease with his most charming smile. “Busy evening?” he inquired.

  “Not too bad, actually.” She spared a glance at Fallon’s hard face before looking back at Toby.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Connelly,” he divulged. “I didn’t see her car outside. Do you know if she’s still here?”

  “Let me check for you.” She reached for her phone and pressed a number. “Hi, Leigh. Did Dr. Connelly leave for the evening, do you know?” She listened for several seconds. “Oh, great. Thank you.” She looked up at Toby. “The specialty care nurse says she’s still in her office.”

  He smiled his thanks. “How do we get there?”

  Following the woman’s directions, he and Cal cruised a long hallway, accompanied by the smell of antiseptic and the faint pulse of heart monitors. They arrived at a nurse’s station, where a chubby blonde nurse pointed them down a shorter hall with plaques on all the doors.

  Toby located the closed door marked Dr. Connelly. Silence followed his brisk knock.

  “See if it’s locked,” Fallon suggested.

  Toby turned the doorknob and the door swung open, revealing a lit but empty office.

  Sharing a puzzled look, they went back to the nurse’s station.

  “She’s not there, Leigh,” Toby said, glancing at the woman’s name tag. “Are you sure she didn’t leave? We didn’t see her car outside.”

  “She wouldn’t have left without checking out first,” the cherubic looking woman assured him. “Let me see if she’s in the restroom.”

  “Thank you.” Toby’s temple started to throb.

  When Leigh returned with a baffled look, he asked her, “You mind if we search her office?”

  With a glance at the sheriff, she said, “I suppose that’s okay.”

  Toby and Cal returned to Dylan’s office and stood a moment looking around. Her computer hummed beneath the desk. Toby clicked her keyboard and the screen saver popped up on her monitor.

  Fallon ran a finger over the desk’s laminate surface. “This was just cleaned,” he noted. “Not a speck of dust or even a fingerprint in sight.”

  “Maybe the cleaning service does that.” If so, they’d missed a wet spot on the carpet, under one of the chair’s wheels. Toby knelt to touch the stain, carrying the scent to his nose. “Coffee,” he said with relief. “She must have spilled some on herself and gone home to change her clothes.”

  “Without checking out?” Fallon looked dubious. “I’ll call her at home,” he offered, snatching his cell phone off his hip. “Maybe she’s there already.”

  As the sheriff placed his call, Toby crossed to Dylan’s closet door and opened it. His gaze froze over the coat she’d worn to work that morning, still hanging inside. Recalling what she’d told him about leaving her purse, with the .357 Magnum inside it, locked in her desk, he went to look for it. Every drawer of her desk slid open, and not one of them contained her purse, or the revolver.

  Over the quickening thud of his heart, Toby listened to Fallon telling whichever NCO had answered that they were looking for Dylan.

  “She’s not there yet,” Cal relayed, putting his phone away.

  Toby directed the man’s attention to the coat hanging in the closet. “Her coat’s still here. Why wouldn’t she have worn if it she took off?”

  Cal shrugged. “Maybe she just forgot.”

  “I don’t think so.” Something didn’t feel right.

  The sheriff apparently agreed. “I’ll put out a BOLO on her car,” he offered, snatching up his phone again.

  Toby swallowed hard. What the hell was going on? Dylan wasn’t supposed to get into trouble while he was still around to protect her.

  ***

  Dylan resisted the familiar dream. Not again. She couldn’t move her arms at all. They felt like they were pinned against the sides of her body, too heavy to lift. It’s just a dream, she told herself. If she could just wake up, it would be over.

  Hearing voices spoken not too far away, she focused on the sound, using it to pull her out of the well of lethargy. One voice in particular made her heart clutch with a desperate need to make contact.

  She surfaced, gasping for air to clear her thoughts. I’m awake. Then why couldn’t she move? It was only supposed to be a dream, yet her arms were still too heavy to lift, her body scrunched into what felt like a dark, narrow space.

  The last time she’d roused to an environment like this, she’d been sleeping in her little play house in the backyard, and Tobias had rescued her from near hypothermia, tossing his coat over her. Tobias! With a burst of adrenaline, she realized that was the voice she’d just recognized.

  Working her jaw and her irresponsive tongue, she fought to articulate a cry for help. Save me. Only the feat proved impossible. She couldn’t get her voice box to vibrate. All she could manage was a whimper. Where am I?

  Her head hung heavily from her neck. Her eyes felt as if they’d been sewn shut. The only appendages on her body that she could move at all were the tips of her fingers. She curled them, feeling carpet under her hands. Something crinkled against her palm—a candy wrapper, she decided.

  If her woolly senses could be trusted, she was sitting in a container of sorts, so severely medicated that she couldn’t move. But that made no sense. And the weight pulling her down into unconsciousness was too great to overcome. In
despair, she gave up, letting lassitude pull her back down into a deep, dark void.

  ***

  Toby sat up straighter in the passenger seat of Cal Fallon’s cruiser. Did the mailbox up ahead of them look just like Dylan’s or was he losing his mind? “Wait, what are we doing?” he demanded as Cal began to slow down.

  “I’m dropping you off.” That fact became evident as Cal turned down Dylan’s driveway.

  “What?” Toby glanced at the digital display on Cal’s dashboard. It read 1:30 A.M. “Granted it’s late, but we can’t just give up now. Dylan’s still out there, somewhere. I’m not going to sit on my ass at home when she’s possibly hurt or injured—”

  “Son,” Cal interrupted him with a tired but patronizing air, “we’ve driven down every road in the county looking for her. I’ve got five patrol cars out doing the same thing. Best thing you can do right now is get some rest while you wait for a phone call.”

  Toby’s ears burned. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Look,” Cal growled, “if you want to borrow Sergeant Lee’s car and continue your search, then you go right ahead. But my advice to you is to leave this matter up to the Sheriff’s Office. If she’s out there, we’ll find her. In the meantime, she needs you to be where she can reach you.”

  The sheriff had a point, but it chafed Toby to give up so soon. Light blazed out of every window in Dylan’s farmhouse, a beacon in the dark night. The silhouette of Lt. Ashby’s head and shoulders filled the pane of his bedroom window. With a mutter of thanks to the sheriff, Toby jumped out of the cruiser and sprinted for the front door, running into Ivan Ackerman who paced restlessly up and down the hall.