“I honestly don’t know,” Sarah said. “I’m just taking it one day at a time, hoping that Detective Larson will find him soon.”
“Have you—”
“I’ll bet I know what you’re going to say. Yes, I’ve had a security system installed at my house. They put it in today, matter of fact. But I refuse to get a gun.”
“Good on both counts,” Connie said. “A security system for a woman alone is an appropriate precaution. But I don’t like the idea of having a pistol in the house.”
“Harry had one, but I made him get rid of it when . . . when Jenny . . . ” She stopped and fought the tears that, despite her efforts, started rolling down her cheeks.
Connie sat on the couch and put her arm around Sarah’s shoulder. “That’s okay. Your emotions are going to be pretty unstable for quite a while, going up and down at the slightest provocation. Take it from me. The best thing you can do is let the tears out when you feel them coming. Holding them in just makes the next time this happens even worse.”
“How would you know?” Sarah muttered softly.
“Because I’ve been where you are,” Connie answered. “I lost a child many years ago. She was four when she got sick. The pediatrician made the diagnosis quickly—meningitis. He got her transferred to Children’s Medical Center in Dallas, but despite everything they could do, she passed away. So I know about loss . . . and triggers . . . and . . . I won’t say healing, because I’m not sure you’re ever the same. However, I do know that you’ll reach a point where the good memories overcome the bad ones.”
Sarah looked up at her friend and marveled that they’d worked together for years, yet she’d never heard about this part of Connie’s life. “So what I’m going through is normal?”
“It’s different for everybody. For you, your loss is twice what most people experience because two of the most important people in your life are dead now. And piled on top of that, you have this unknown person attacking you. Sure, it’s normal for you to be on an emotional roller coaster.”
“I just feel . . . I feel like I’m different. I don’t know if I can get back to the person I once was.”
“You’re thinking of the doctor who could look at things unemotionally and make decisions. No, you may not ever be that person again. But that’s not all bad. Most people who’ve experienced the loss of a loved one find themselves more tender.” Connie handed Sarah a tissue from a box on the table in front of them.
“There’s . . . there’s another thing,” Sarah said. “Something I don’t talk about.”
“You mean being angry with Harry for leaving you alone?”
“How did you know?” Sarah asked.
“It happens to most people. They may not admit it. And logic tells them the person who died didn’t do it on purpose. But they still feel like they’ve been betrayed.”
“How can I get past this? Do you have any suggestions?” Sarah asked.
“This might be a good time for you to reacquaint yourself with God.”
“I’m—”
“I know,” Connie said. “You’re mad at God. Your first reaction is to ask why God would let something like all this happen. I did. And I’ve discovered that the answer is, ‘I don’t know.’ We can’t see what God can, so we have to trust Him.”
“How can I trust Him when my world has fallen apart? Why did He do this to me?”
“We live in an imperfect world. Bad things that happen are part of that. They’re not punishment. But God doesn’t make bad things happen. And no matter what we experience, God’s still in control.”
“It doesn’t seem like it,” Sarah said.
“You may not see it now, but you will. I don’t know how God will handle your situation,” Connie said. “What I can tell you from my own experience is that things will get better. You will survive. You may even come out of this stronger . . . or you may not. But either way, you can trust God.”
“That’s hard for me to believe,” Sarah said.
“Believe it. Right now, you’re angry with God,” Connie said. “That’s not unusual. Look in the book of Psalms and think about David, who wrote that book. There were times he believed God had deserted him. But he never stopped trying to talk with God.”
“And . . . ”
“And you might consider doing the same thing.”
* * *
Sarah drove home with the same care and caution she’d used to navigate her way from her house to the hospital. She was careful to scan both sides of the street near her home for suspicious vehicles, but all she saw were the SUVs and sedans her neighbors parked there on a regular basis.
She pulled into her driveway and thought her way through the process ahead of her. Confident that she knew what came next, she thumbed the button on her key chain that disarmed her security system. Then she reached to the remote clipped to the sun visor of her car and punched the button to raise her garage door. When she was safely inside the garage, she reversed the process. Thank goodness she no longer had to manually lock and unlock that door.
Was this what she was going to do at least twice a day for who knew how long? Well, if it would keep her safe—no, if it would keep her alive—she was willing to put up with any amount of nuisance. Besides, as her friend Connie had said, a security system was a good idea for a woman living alone. Still, she wondered what progress, if any, Bill Larson was making with his investigation.
As she sometimes did when coming home from a particularly stressful shift at the hospital, Sarah made a cup of hot tea, put a few cookies on a plate, and sat down in the living room to watch a recorded sitcom. She’d seen this particular program so many times she found herself mouthing the lines along with the actors, but it didn’t matter. For Sarah, the ritual was more important than the elements of the experience.
When Harry was alive, she’d worked the day shift and a nanny had taken care of Jenny. In those days, after their evening meal, after Jenny was fed and bathed and asleep in her bed, Sarah and Harry would go through this same routine, sharing the events of their day, sipping hot tea, while ignoring the program that played out before them.
Without Harry to share the experience, Sarah didn’t find the same comfort she had in those days. Nevertheless, tonight she felt a need to draw a dividing line between the stress and excitement of her work and the shelter of her home. It was the equivalent of what castle owners must have felt when they raised the drawbridge and flooded the moat.
When the program was over, she turned off the set. The dishes could wait until morning. Sarah yawned, but she knew she was fooling herself. She wasn’t sleepy. Despite locked doors and windows, despite a security system that would sound an alarm and send a message for help at the first breach of the fortress her home had become, she wondered if he was out there. He—the man whose face she couldn’t see but whose outline was there each time she closed her eyes. He—the man who had broken into her home, set a fire in her garage, sent a bullet into the door frame above her head.
A warm shower and climbing between clean, crisp sheets did nothing to make Sarah think she’d get some sleep tonight. Then she thought about the time she’d spent with Connie earlier in the evening. Her friend’s words came back to her—“God doesn’t make bad things happen.” If that was true, Sarah had wasted lots of hours being angry with God. Now was she supposed to just reverse her course? Was God really interested in her, even when she’d turned her back on Him after the loss of her family?
Sarah lay in the dark, tossing in the loneliness of the king-sized bed. Finally, she gazed into the blackness that surrounded her, and without editing them, not caring how they sounded, she spoke aloud the words that were in her head. “God . . . please help me.” She took a breath that was almost a hiccup. “I miss Harry and Jenny. I’m scared of the things happening to me right now. I don’t know where to turn.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away. “God, I need help. Please.”
* * *
On Wednesday morning, Sarah had just r
insed the plate that had held her English muffin and was about to pour her second cup of coffee when her cell phone rang.
“Dr. Gordon, this is Tom Oliver. Am I calling too early?”
“No, I’ve been up for a while.” She trapped the phone against her shoulder and lifted the coffee pot off the warming plate, grabbing her cup with the other hand.
“I wanted to follow up on that security system I installed. Any problems?”
“So far, so good. But I appreciate you checking.” She poured coffee into the cup, then added sweetener as she continued to talk.
“And the restoration? The carpet we ordered should be in soon. Shall I call you to set up a time to install that? Shouldn’t take long.”
“Fine. Let me know when it comes in,” Sarah said. She rolled her head left to right and back again, but the tension in her neck and shoulders didn’t abate. Perhaps it wouldn’t until all this was over.
After a few more minutes, Tom ended the call. Sarah sat down at the kitchen table and sipped her coffee. She appreciated Tom’s following up, but his last words to her yesterday had been, “Just call if there are problems with the system.” Since she’d had none, she hadn’t really expected a follow-up this morning. In addition, she thought they’d already arranged that he’d set up a time for installation of the carpet when it came in. Although the reasons he cited were probably valid, it seemed to Sarah that Tom’s call was really unnecessary—unless there was some other motive behind it.
Was he checking up on her? Did he want to know if she was home? After all, he could probably circumvent the alarm system that he’d installed, which meant he could get into the house easily enough. Had he seen her program in the alarm code? She’d been in such a hurry to get to work that Sarah paid little attention to shielding Tom from the keypad when she entered the numbers. Could he have programmed in a “back door” code that would allow him to disarm the system?
Sarah started to head for her computer to check this notion on the Internet before she forced herself to stop. That’s paranoid thinking. Tom has been nothing but helpful. Stop being suspicious of everyone around you. Sarah wondered what it would take to stop this mindset of hers, the tendency to suspect everyone, trust no one. Would it end when her stalker was found and brought to justice? Or when he finally decided to stop toying with her and snuff out her life? No, she would take normal precautions to avoid making herself vulnerable, but this business of seeing attackers behind every bush and ulterior motives in the attentiveness of others had to stop.
Sarah remembered that she had errands to run, and it would probably be best to do them in broad daylight. She opened cabinets, checked her refrigerator, and came up with a list of groceries that should get her through the next several days. Most of her clothes were washable, but she had a couple of dresses that should go to the dry cleaners, so she gathered these and put them by the kitchen door that led to her garage. Sarah started washing a load of clothes, and made sure the dishwasher was going. By the time she headed out the door she felt almost as though things were back to normal.
It seemed to Sarah that she’d slept reasonably well last night. Perhaps the change had something to do with her conversation with Connie, followed by her attempt at prayer before she dropped off to sleep. But, whatever the cause, it seemed the day was starting out on a better note.
Sarah backed out of her driveway, went through the routine of lowering the garage door, then arming the alarm system, and started driving down the street. She’d only gone a block before she realized she hadn’t picked up the clothes she’d wanted to drop off at the cleaners. Since she’d worn one of the dresses to church a few days ago and she’d likely choose the other if she went back this Sunday, she needed to get this done today. Sarah made a couple of left turns and headed back toward her house.
As she drew near, Sarah saw an unfamiliar black sedan at the curb directly across from her house. She knew most of the cars that were usually parked on that street, and this wasn’t one of them. As best she could tell, the car was empty. Was someone at that moment trying to get into her home, preparing to lie in wait for her return? The security system should stop an intruder, but what if this was Tom Oliver, circumventing the alarm system to gain entry? Or maybe he’d given the code to someone else, perhaps sold it? Even if the alarm system were working, could someone be at the side or back of the house, waiting for her to disarm the system so he could open a window or jimmy a door lock and get in?
Sarah stopped short of her house and edged her car to the curb, making sure she had a good view of the black sedan. She got out her phone, entered 9-1-1, and sat poised with her fingers over the keyboard to hit “send.” Then she saw someone open the door of the house across the street from hers. A middle-aged woman with dark hair, carrying a large purse, emerged and started down the walk. Sarah pressed the button to roll down the passenger-side window of her Subaru just in time to hear the woman call back toward the house she’d just left, “Your Avon order will be here in about a week. I’ll give you a call when it comes in.”
“Just let me know,” replied a woman’s voice.
“And when I deliver it I’ll expect some more of those delicious cookies,” the woman said. She opened the door of the black sedan, tossed her purse onto the passenger seat, and climbed behind the wheel.
As the car pulled away, Sarah cleared the numbers from her phone, then leaned back and drew her arm over her forehead, wiping away perspiration that wasn’t due to today’s Texas heat. Well, better to make a mistake like this than to walk into a trap. Sarah took some deep breaths in an attempt to slow her racing pulse. It didn’t work. Even after she heard the garage door close behind her, she still felt the effects of her adrenaline rush.
* * *
Bill Larson reached for the coffee cup at his elbow and found it empty. He shoved it aside, deciding he’d had enough for now. His desk was awash in papers, but this was nothing unusual. He knew where to find each sheet and what it represented. The papers in this particular pile were notes he’d taken when—sometimes by phone, sometimes in person—he’d interviewed the list of potential suspects gleaned from the ER records of patients Sarah Gordon had seen. He’d put in the time and effort, but so far he hadn’t come up with a viable suspect.
“Hey, partner. Any progress on your case?” Cal Johnson leaned on the edge of Bill’s desk. His Styrofoam cup was almost hidden in hands large enough to palm a basketball. Today, in contrast with his weekend attire, Cal was dressed in a suit, dress shirt, and tie.
“Not really.” Larson looked up at the detective. “Got a court appearance today?”
“Yep. And I’ll bet that after I sit in the hallway outside the courtroom for half a day, the defense lawyer and the DA will get their heads together and work out a plea deal.”
“That happens sometimes,” Larson said. “Just be glad if they agree on an outcome that will get another criminal off the street, even if it’s not for as long as we might wish.”
“Yeah,” Cal said. “We just catch them. It’s up to the legal system to decide what to do next.”
Larson leaned back and tugged at the tie hanging below his open collar. “I just wish I had a lead on the Gordon case.”
“No luck on the ER patients?”
“There are a few who seem to have a motive to carry out the fire or shooting, but excluding those who’ve moved or died, the others were sound asleep next to a spouse who was willing to testify they never left the house.”
“What’s your next move? Wait until our perp does something during daylight hours, when it will be harder for him to establish an alibi?” Cal said.
“Actually, when you’re through in court I’d like you to begin looking into the doctor’s personal life. Maybe that will point us toward whoever’s doing this.”
“Think there’s anything there?” Cal asked.
“Not really, but you know as well as I do, it’s part of the process.”
“And then again, maybe we’ll catch whoever it is
in the act,” Cal said.
“That would be nice, so long as it’s not an act that’s fatal for Dr. Gordon.”
* * *
Kyle Andrews leaned back in his office chair and put one foot on an open desk drawer. His tie was at half-mast, the sleeves of his dress shirt were turned back two folds, and his coat was on a hanger dangling from a hook on the back of his closed office door. He picked up his phone, dialed a number he knew by memory, and when the call was answered, said, “How are you holding up?”
“About like you’d expect, I suppose.” Sarah’s voice was hesitant, as though she were trying to avoid awakening someone in the room with her.
“Are you okay? You don’t quite sound yourself.”
“I’m not myself, Kyle,” she said. “I haven’t been myself for quite a few months. And just about the time I feel like it’s coming together for me, someone sets my house on fire. Then, just to keep me on my toes, they shoot at me as I’m hurrying into my house.”
“I’m sorry—”
“I’m not finished,” Sarah said. “I’ve had a security system installed and felt a little more secure. But then I started out to run some errands, had to turn back to my house to get something I’d forgotten, and almost had a heart attack when I saw an unfamiliar black sedan parked in front of my home—a car belonging to an Avon lady.”
Kyle started to grin at the image, but stopped when he realized the emotions Sarah must be feeling right now. “I’m glad you have a security system now,” he said.
“And that’s fine, except part of me wonders if I can trust the man who installed it. Maybe he sneaked a peak at the code I chose and now can get into my house anytime he wants.”
“Sarah, Tom Oliver is a straight arrow. He’d never do anything like that.”
“But you had to defend his son,” Sarah said.
“Don’t hold Tommy’s mistake against his father,” Kyle said. “Besides, you have to trust someone. I hope you trust me, and I’ll vouch for Tom Oliver.”
Medical Judgment Page 8
