Dead Wrong

by Allen Wyler

  TEN MINUTES LATER, he turned onto the residential street they were searching for, slowed, and began checking for suspicious cars. Paranoid, maybe, but in the unlikely event Sikes had somehow anticipated this, he didn’t want to walk into a trap.

  “There it is,” Sarah said, pointing at a house on the right.

  He dropped the speed even more and continued looking for surveillance. He drove past the house to the end of the block and turned around so the car headed back in the direction they had just come. With such winding irregular streets, the only sure way of finding their way out would be to retrace their path. Especially if they needed to do so in a hurry.

  Young’s home was nestled in a housing development of suspiciously similar structures painted shades of earth tones, beauty bark flower beds, and Weed-and-Feed yards. A waist-high fence encircled a modest single-level house with a black Ford pickup in the driveway. There were no toys in the yard, McCarthy noticed—which surprised him. He thumbed the doorbell, triggering Big Ben to ring inside.

  A moment later the door was opened by a muscular man, about six foot one, wearing a bright blue tank top and denim cutoffs. McCarthy pegged him for mid-thirties.

  “Mr. Young?”

  “Yes, sir. You the doc called a while back?” Young leaned forward, one hand on the jamb, the other on the door.

  “I’m Dr. Rush and this is Dr. Hamilton,” Tom said, with a nod toward Sarah. McCarthy offered his hand. Young’s hand was rough with journeyman’s calluses.

  “What can I do for you? You mentioned you wanted to ask some questions? About Nora?” He remained in the doorway.

  “Mind if we come in to talk?”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry.” Young stepped aside and yelled over his shoulder, “Nora, that doc’s here, wants to see you,” then extended a hand to Sarah. “Don Young.”

  Don? McCarthy looked at Sarah to see if she picked up on the name. She glanced at him, eyebrows raised slightly. She caught it. According to Bobbie, Don was the name of Jordan’s father. Bobbie’s husband’s name was Trent.

  McCarthy followed Sarah into a living room with oversized brown corduroy sectionals and a glass-top coffee table littered with outdoor magazines. Again, there were no toys in sight. In particular, no red fire engine like the one Bobbie had described. A large-screen television occupied one corner, and a matching corduroy recliner was within easy remote control range. The salty smell of fried bacon remained in the air.

  Young asked, “So, what’s up? You guys work with Dr. Wyse?”

  The question caught McCarthy by surprise. “No, why?”

  Young looked confused. “He called maybe an hour ago. Said that Dr. Hamilton,” looking at Sarah, “might come by with that guy the cops are looking for. The doctor who shot those people?” Then to McCarthy, “But you’re not that guy, right?”

  Without missing a beat, Sarah asked, “Did you mention we called?”

  A thin pale woman, about late twenties, in a short-sleeve cotton blouse, denim cutoffs, and flip-flops entered from another room, wiping her hands with a paper towel.

  AT AN EXXON station in the city of Monroe, Wyse continued filling his e-series Mercedes, wondering where else to search for McCarthy. Or was that really necessary? Could McCarthy really put the story together with what fragmentary information he had? Being away from the office gave him more objectivity and lessened his fear. Slightly. Realistically, McCarthy wouldn’t be able to put together the memory transfer without knowing Nora Young’s intimate history. And if by some fluke of fate he did learn it, it would be a stretch to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. And when he checked with Don Young, he claimed they hadn’t heard from McCarthy. Or Hamilton, for that matter. So, when it came right down to it, what did he really have to worry about?

  Still, a gnawing doubt ate away at him. There was something in the way Don Young reacted when he’d mentioned McCarthy’s name … What? Hmm.

  Unless Young was lying.

  Then again, why would a husband lie to the doctor whose unparalleled skills saved his wife’s life? A reasonable man would move mountains to help him. Young owed him at least that much.

  As unlikely as it seemed, Wyse couldn’t shake the suspicion that Young had lied to him.

  Wait a minute. What if McCarthy had contacted Young before he did? What if McCarthy paid Young to lie to him? Would Young do such a thing?

  For enough money, absolutely. A bit of Judas lived in everyone.

  Something was definitely wrong with the way Young reacted. And goddamn it, he’d get to the bottom of it. He slammed the nozzle back on the pump and capped the tank. He’d drive back and confront the ungrateful bastard face-to-face.

  TOM MCCARTHY ASKED Don, “Did you mention to Dr. Wyse that I called?”

  “No.” Don Young thought about what he’d just said, and added, “He sounded so upset and in such a hurry. That man was always in a hurry. Hell, when Nora was in the hospital he was always in too much of a hurry to answer my questions. Pissed me off, if you really want to know. So I figured, unless he flat-out asked, I wasn’t going to offer anything. Did I do wrong?”

  Relieved, Tom said, “No. You did fine.”

  Nora Young asked Tom, “What’s this about? Don said you wanted to know about Jordan?” She was tearing up.

  Don Young began studying the tips of his shoes.

  McCarthy thought oh shit as a chunk of ice began crystallizing in his stomach. He said, “May we sit down?” and gave a subtle nod for Sarah to continue the interview. As a psychiatrist, she’d have better interviewing skills for handling such an obviously emotionally loaded topic.

  “Okay.” Nora Young sniffled and lowered herself on the corner of the couch and began absentmindedly smoothing the fabric next to her thigh.

  Sarah said, “This is only partially about Jordan, Mrs. Young. It’s more about a patient of mine. How long have you known Bobbie Baker?”

  Nora Young picked at fingernail. “I don’t know a Bobbie Baker.” She turned to her husband. “Do I, honey?”

  Sarah shot McCarthy a questioning glance.

  Don Young shook his head. “I don’t recognize the name.”

  Sarah asked Nora, “You don’t seem all that sure. Are you certain you don’t know her?”

  Again, Nora Young thought about it. “Yes, I’m sure.” She started picking lint from the sofa.

  The husband offered, “Her memory’s not been so good since the accident. But I don’t recognize the name either.”

  The statement surprised McCarthy. “Accident?”

  Young’s face pinked. “You don’t know?” He sipped his coffee and glanced away.

  The hollowness in McCarthy’s gut grew worse. “No, we don’t. What accident?” The moment he said it, another realization fell into place.

  Don Young glanced at Nora as if asking permission to speak. She was staring at her fingernails and didn’t notice. Don Young said, “Well, see Nora had this car accident …” He tilted the recliner back to face the ceiling and ran out of words.

  Nora’s face dissolved in anguish. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I killed my baby,” she wailed. “I killed my poor little Jordan.” Sobbing, she bolted from the couch into the kitchen wailing, “Mommy’s sorry, Jordan. Mommy’s so sorry.”

  Sickened at his own stupidity, McCarthy turned to Don Young. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” And after a beat, “Want to go see if she’s all right?”

  Young didn’t move. “Won’t do any good. She’s been this way ever since. I’ve tried everything. Counseling, self-help books, you name it, I tried it. She blames herself. Guess you might say I’ve sort of given up on it, bad as that sounds.” He paused before adding, “Hey, you got any suggestions, I’d be happy to hear them.”

  McCarthy’s heart ached with each sob from the other room. He searched for words to express his sorrow for tearing open a festering wound.

  Sarah asked, “Do you mind if I ask you about the accident? About what happened?”

  Young gave a resigned s
igh. “No. I’ve been through it a thousand times,” and pushed the chair back up, his eyes distant. “She was driving to Costco, had Jordan in his infant chair up front.” He shook his head in frustration. “Damn! Don’t know how many times I told her, ‘Nora, don’t keep putting him up front like that,’ but it didn’t do any good. She wanted him right there, next to her. There’re things that if I tell her she just won’t pay attention to. It’s just me ragging on her. But if you was to tell her the same damned thing, it’d be gospel. Well, guess it doesn’t make any difference now. What’s past is past.” He paused to sip coffee, resigned.

  “Witnesses say a dog ran out on the road,” he continued. “She swerved, hit a utility pole. Not all that hard, but hard enough the airbags deployed. Killed my little boy.” With the back of his wrist he brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. “Sorry. Breaks me up just thinking about it.”

  McCarthy said, “I wanted to ask your wife about Jordan’s delivery but under the circumstances we’ll skip it.” She denied knowing Bobbie Baker, so that was a dead end. But it left unanswered the question of how Baker ended up with Nora’s memories.

  Young set his coffee on the end table next to the recliner, shook his head. “Nora doesn’t remember a damn thing about the delivery anymore.”

  “Really?” McCarthy found this hard to believe.

  “Not a thing. Used to, but ever since that accident her memory for that is gone. Weird too, because before then, she could recite every detail of that day. Since then, nothing.”

  “This accident, did she injure her head?” From the corner of his eye he watched Sarah’s reaction.

  Don Young nodded. “She did. A skull fracture. They had to operate to fix it.”

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. McCarthy asked, “Was she unconscious for a long time after the accident?”

  “Nope, not at all.”

  Not the answer he expected and it confused things. “Maybe I missed something. This skull fracture, was this her only injury?”

  “Yep.”

  There had to be a misunderstanding here. Simple skull fractures without loss of consciousness didn’t produce the type of memory loss Don Young described. “This took place at Lakeview, right?” Most simple skull fractures required no surgery at all.

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Wyse operated on her?”

  Young looked a bit confused at the question. “Yes. Why?”

  “What are some of the details of Jordan’s delivery she used to talk about?”

  Don Young rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling. “She described the nurses as her cheering section. Those were her exact words, cheering section. I was right there in the room so I knew what she was talking about. One of the nurses held up a mirror so she could watch the little tyke’s head come out. She remembered his first cry and exactly what he looked like when the doc placed him on her belly. I was feeling sort of swimmy-headed at the time but can remember her wanting to hold him and never let him go.”

  A chill snaked down Tom’s spine. Sarah stared open-mouthed at Young. His words matched Bobbie’s description exactly. Then again, how much real variation exists between routine deliveries? Not much. So, maybe this was all coincidence. But McCarthy doubted it. This had to be part of the link to Wyse he’d been looking for.

  McCarthy said, “Does she forget where she put things?”

  “Nope. She’s good at remembering everything else.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I’ve done some reading on the Internet about Alzheimer’s and memory loss. They say people with Alzheimer’s might not remember what they had for breakfast but can remember small little things like who won the sixty-four World Series. But that’s not like her. It’s just a couple things from years ago that’s gone now.”

  “Anything else of significance she can’t she remember?”

  “Only one other thing. Her brother got killed in a stickup. She had to identify the body for the medical examiner.”

  McCarthy shot another glance at Sarah before asking, “Do you know what posttraumatic stress disorder is?”

  “Hell yes. I was a Marine. Too many combat vets have it.”

  Good, that saved him explaining. “Did Nora ever show any signs of it?”

  “No. Why?”

  The sobs from the other room were less frequent now, but each one still tore at Tom’s heart. McCarthy said, “Sorry to have upset her so much.”

  Don Young shook his head. “Don’t feel guilty. Just about anything sets her off, Doc. There’s nothing I can do to help. Guess I just got to let things run their course.”

  McCarthy and Sarah stood, ready to say good-bye. But the nagging suspicion would not let him leave without following up on one detail, no matter how outrageous it might seem. “May I ask you one more question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did Nora have any other surgery after the accident other than the one to fix the skull fracture?”

  Young looked puzzled. “No. Just the one. Why?”

  McCarthy felt a strange brew of relief and disappointment. Disappointment at hitting another dead end. Relief that his suspicion about Wyse might be wrong. “Nothing. Just a thought is all.”

  48

  10:50 AM, STARBUCKS

  SIKES HAD THE overstuffed easy chair turned so he could watch the front of Sarah Hamilton’s building while using his laptop. His phone rang. The number was Sergeant Wong’s, the officer with the Port of Seattle Police. “Sikes.”

  “Cliff Wong. We have a hit for you.”

  “Excellent. What?”

  “A compact was rented by Hamilton. The clerk says she came into the office alone, but he thought that when she left she had another person in the car.”

  Sikes wrote down the identifying information for the vehicle, thanked Wong for playing such an important role in the investigation, and signed off. Another piece to fit into the puzzle. Apparently, Hamilton helped McCarthy escape the medical center, then drove him to Gas Works Park where her car was found. Fuck! The two of them must’ve been within feet of the police and still weren’t apprehended. Considering the time the vehicle was rented, they must have gone straight from the park to the rental agency then to McCarthy’s house.

  Who did he meet with at Gas Works Park? His shyster lawyer? Probably.

  Fuck!

  Sikes phoned DeLeon Franklin, his official liaison with the Seattle Police, with the news. He let Franklin busy himself with the task of notifying the myriad surrounding municipal law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for the rental while he did the same with Homeland Security so they could then run it back down through the system.

  On the bright side, McCarthy was still out there instead of in a holding cell being watched over by a cadre of ACLU supporters. Meaning he still had a shot at him.

  10:54 AM, MONROE, WASHINGTON

  ON THE FRONT porch of the Youngs’ home, McCarthy, unable to shake an increasing dread that something bad was about to happen, paused to scan the neighboring vehicles. Mostly there were SUVs, trucks, a few muscle cars. Fewer than expected. Probably because people had already staked claims at one of the many nearby beaches or lakes, or were readying backyard barbeques for later this afternoon. Yet something seemed out of place. Then it dawned on him: the navy Benz at the end of the block. Without a word, he hurried Sarah across the street to the rental, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb.

  Sarah said, “Boy oh boy, talk about creeping me out …” and began rubbing her arms as if chilled. “You didn’t warn me her husband’s name was Don.” She glanced over at him.

  “It wasn’t intentional, I assure you. I didn’t put it together until we were inside and I blundered into it.” With a glance at the rearview mirror, he flipped the turn signal, saw the Benz moving now, following him.

  She asked, “How in the world can you explain what we just heard? Especially the part about not knowing Bobbie Baker.”

  Rounding the corner, he accelerated, heading for Highway 2, using the route they h
ad taken to come here. He vaguely knew a more direct route from Monroe to Seattle existed but wasn’t about to waste time searching for it.

  “Tom?”

  “Huh?” He was alternating between the road and the rearview mirror, the Benz on their tail, only one other car separating them. The person following him certainly wasn’t skilled in covert surveillance, making it unlikely it was one of Sikes’s men. Still, the person could be alerting Sikes or the cops to his location, which was bad news either way

  Sarah said, “I asked a question.”

  “Don’t turn around, but a car’s following us.”

  “You kidding me?” She turned around to look out the back window. “Oh crap, you’re serious!”

  They were on Highway 2 now, McCarthy observing the speed limit, doing everything possible to not attract attention. Being pulled over by a cop was the last thing he needed. He said, “The navy Mercedes. See it?”

  “I know, I know, and it looks like the driver’s on a cell.”

  McCarthy’s mind was spinning, trying to think of who it might be. A Benz limited possibilities, leaving one prime suspect: Wyse. Okay, so Wyse maybe was driving. So now what to do about it? He thought about the gun in the glove box and figured he had to do something now because sure as hell, Wyse was giving Sikes their location. He asked, “See anyone else in there other than the driver?”

  She leaned over the seat for a better look. “From here, it looks like he’s alone.”

  Up ahead, the traffic light changed to yellow. McCarthy glanced right and left, and saw the stopped cars at the cross street ready to accelerate on green. He didn’t want to chance running the light and get involved in an accident. He stopped, slammed the transmission into park, leaned over to the glove box, and came away with one of the guns.

  “Jesus, Tom, what are you doing!”

  Then he was out the door running toward the Benz, the guy in the car directly behind them laying on the horn. Through lightly tinted windows he saw Wyse talking on a cell. Wyse must have seen him coming because he started yelling into the phone, both eyes wide and fixed on the gun in his hand. Tom aimed. Wyse dove for the floor.