* * *
It had been a fairly average Monday so far in the ER of Centennial Hospital, meaning that it was possible to keep up with the patient flow, although sometimes just barely. When it came time for their supper break, Sarah and Connie retreated to the break room to eat the sandwiches they’d brought from home.
“Would you like some hot tea?” Connie asked as she pressed the tap to fill her mug with hot water.
“No, I think I’d like a Dr Pepper,” Sarah replied. She pulled one out of the refrigerator, popped the tab, and took a long swallow.
“Anything more from the person who is . . . I started to say harassing you, but since he’s set a fire, then shot at both you and your dog, I guess it’s gone beyond harassment. Anything more about whoever’s behind the attacks on you?”
Sarah took a small bite of her cheese and tomato sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “Not since he shot my dog, Prince, in my backyard.”
“How’s your dog doing?”
“He’s recovering well. I’ll probably go see him tomorrow. He should be ready to leave the vet’s soon.” As Sarah took another bite of sandwich, thoughts came unbidden into her mind, thoughts not of Prince but of Brad Selleck. There was no doubt the veterinary surgeon was handsome. She kept picturing that one curl of dark hair hanging over his blue eyes. And she figured, from what she’d seen so far, that he’d be fun to be with. That was one of the things she always enjoyed about Harry. If she went to see Prince . . .
“Earth to Sarah. Come in Sarah,” Connie said.
“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming,” Sarah said. She drank more Dr Pepper. “Connie, do you think I’ll ever get over losing Harry and Jennifer?”
Connie chewed on her own sandwich for a moment before answering. “I don’t think you get over a loss like that. You get through it, but things are never the same. But eventually you get used to the new normal. Why do you ask?”
“No reason, I guess.”
“Well, I have one bit of advice for you. Harry and Jennifer are gone from your life. The good memories will crowd out any bad ones, and that’s as it should be. But remember that although they’re dead, you’re still alive. There’s no need for you to remain in mourning forever.”
“I thought I was supposed to . . . I don’t know. ‘Mourn’ isn’t really the word I want, but I thought I should observe at least a year of widowhood before thinking about moving on.”
Connie wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “I have one question for you—one you should ask yourself. The answer will dictate what you ought to do.”
Sarah looked at her friend with raised eyebrows. “Yes?”
“Would Harry want you to mourn for a year, or two years, or whatever arbitrary length of time you choose? Or would he want you to be happy?”
“I think—”
Connie held up a hand. “You don’t have to answer to me. Ask yourself that question. Answer it in your heart. Then you’ll know what you should do next.”
20
Judge Atkins’s clerk called Kyle while he was skimming Darrell Kline’s file. Could the attorney come to the courthouse? The judge wanted Kyle and the opposing lawyer to sit down and try to hammer out a compromise in a civil suit set for trial in his court. The other attorney had indicated he’d be willing to do this, and the judge hoped Kyle would likewise be amenable to it. If they could come up with an agreeable compromise, the judge could clear the trial off his calendar, always desirable in this day of crowded dockets.
The two lawyers worked for several hours, butted heads on a few points, agreed on some others, and eventually reached a settlement they thought their clients would accept. The men retreated with their cell phones to opposite ends of the conference room where they’d been working. When Kyle ended his call, he looked at the other lawyer, who also appeared to be on the tail end of a prolonged conversation. Kyle gave him a thumbs-up, and he, in turn, nodded to signify that his client was willing to agree to the terms they’d hammered out.
They moved back to their positions next to each other at the conference table. “I’ll call the judge’s clerk in the morning to let him know we succeeded,” Kyle said. “Want to check your schedule to find a time when our clients can sign the agreement?”
“I’ll have my secretary type up the settlement agreement tomorrow. Then we can play dueling datebooks and get this thing signed.” The other attorney pulled back his sleeve and consulted his watch. “I need to get going. My wife expects me not only to go hear the symphony in Dallas tonight, I’m supposed to act like I enjoy it.” He smiled ruefully. “Too bad this couldn’t have run about an hour longer.”
The two men shook hands and left the courthouse. Kyle climbed into his car and pulled out into the street. The clock on his dashboard said six p.m. He considered going back to the office and studying Darrell Kline’s file, still lying on his desk. Then again . . .
He put on his signal and made an abrupt turn. He’d look at the file in the morning, then call Detective Larson if he found anything of significance. Actually, there was only one phone call he wanted to make tonight. Kyle wheeled into a half-full mall parking lot, pulled out his cell phone, and used the speed dial function.
He almost never called her at work. If he waited until she got off, it might be too late in the evening. Well, if she were too busy to answer right now, maybe she’d call him back. Besides—
“Hello?”
“Sarah, I’m sorry to call you at work. Do you have a moment?” Kyle asked.
“Actually, I do. I’m just finishing my supper. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. I just wanted to see if I could get together with you some time tomorrow—maybe for lunch. We really need to catch up.”
“I . . . I’m going to the vet’s tomorrow to see Prince,” Sarah said.
“Prince . . . Oh, yeah. Your dog. How is he?”
“Improving. Anyway, I thought I’d go tomorrow morning late, so I imagine lunch is out. But thanks for asking.”
Kyle didn’t miss a beat. “Why don’t I drive you there? We can both see Prince, then have some time afterward to visit. I know a great little restaurant not too far from the veterinary hospital.”
The response came so quickly he wondered if she’d even thought about it. “No, no. There are some other things I may have to do. But we’ll get together another time. Look, I have to go now. Thanks for the invitation.”
Kyle ended the call and sat slapping the phone into his palm, thinking. Sarah hadn’t just declined his invitation to lunch. She’d almost run to get away from it, even when he’d made it pretty open-ended. He could think of two explanations. Come to think of it, both were variants of the same thing: either she had plans she didn’t want him to know about or she simply didn’t want to see him.
He checked his calendar and found that it was open from mid-morning until mid-afternoon. It wouldn’t be difficult to wait outside the veterinary clinic and see where Sarah went when she left. Kyle rose from his chair and was reaching for his coat before he stopped. What am I thinking? I’m about to stalk Sarah. Wouldn’t that be great? Sarah’s friend and lawyer arrested for stalking.
But it was eating at Kyle that Sarah might be meeting another person. He wondered who it might be. And why.
He returned to his desk and tried to concentrate on some papers there, but his mind wouldn’t turn loose of the question—what was Sarah doing? And why didn’t it involve him?
* * *
When Sarah arrived home, the lamp in the living room was lit, courtesy of the timer she’d set, but the rest of the house was dark. The usual vehicles were parked in front of her neighbors’ houses, with none in front of hers. There was nothing to arouse her suspicion, but the exercise of caution was becoming second nature to her. She went through what was by now a familiar ritual—disarm the security system, raise the garage door, lower it, open the door from the garage into the kitchen, rearm the system. Sarah was surprised to find that she already missed being greeted by Prince. Maybe after t
his was all over she’d talk with Hunter about the German shepherd coming to live with her once more.
Sarah tossed her backpack onto a chair in the living room and began what had become her nightly routine. She went from room to room, checking doors and windows. She looked in closets and—even though it made her feel silly—she knelt beside each bed in her house, lifted the bedspread, and checked to make sure no one was hiding there.
Just when she was certain she was alone and safe, Sarah noticed the blinking light on her phone. There was a message waiting for her. It had to be a telephone solicitor. No one ever called her land line. She only had it because hospital regulations required that she have one, so they could contact her in case her cell was for some reason inoperative.
Well, better see what this was. She hit the button to play back the message, but when she heard the message Sarah dropped into a chair, deflated like a balloon that was losing air. The voice was soft, with a mechanical quality as though it were being sent through a filter of some kind. The message was brief, but was enough to send chills up her spine. “What happened to your dog could happen to you, too.”
Sarah replayed the message twice, each time feeling the pit of her stomach clench a bit more. Her first thought was to call Bill Larson, but before she could dial the number she doubled over, then ran to the bathroom, where she fell to her knees and clutched the toilet bowl as she retched. She didn’t know how long she knelt there, at first bringing up the sandwich and soft drink, then just dry heaving. When she finally was able to get back to her feet, she thought again about calling the detective. Then the roiling in her stomach started all over again.
Part of her wanted to call Bill Larson, if only to get some reassurance that he’d be able to catch the person behind these episodes. But the rest of her wanted to put the whole thing aside for at least a few hours. After all, what could Larson do tonight that would make any difference? She’d call him first thing in the morning. He’d probably fuss at her about the delay, but she couldn’t stand any more of this tonight.
Sarah prepared for bed, walking through the motions with her mind on the person who continued to make her life miserable. As she sat on the edge of the bed, her prayer was brief but fervent. Please protect me. And let this be over. . . soon.
* * *
“You should have called me last night,” Bill Larson said as soon as Sarah opened her front door to him.
“And good morning to you, too,” she said. “How am I? As well as can be expected. And thanks for asking.”
The sarcasm in her voice didn’t escape Larson, and he regretted his actions. “I’m sorry,” Larson said as he stepped into her living room. “It’s just that . . . This guy has really gotten under my skin.”
“Well, join the club,” Sarah said. “And for your information, I thought about calling you last night. Then I asked myself what you could do at that time that you couldn’t do eight or ten hours later. So I went to bed. Didn’t sleep well, but at least I tried.”
Larson held up his hands in surrender. “I apologize. Let me get right to it. Which phone did he call?”
“My land line,” she said, pointing to a phone sitting on an end table in her living room.
“Do you use this for outgoing calls?”
“No.”
“Get many calls on this line?”
“It’s listed in the phone book, but the only time it rings is a call from a telephone solicitor. My friends use my cell number.”
“Then why do you—”
“Hospital regulations require me to have a land line as well. But I’ll probably have the number changed and make sure the new one isn’t in the phone directory. I probably should have done it when I got those calls after Harry died.”
Larson picked up the receiver but didn’t dial. “Do you have caller ID on this?”
“No,” she said. “I never saw the need to spend the money, since I never get calls on that line.”
Larson nodded. He checked to make sure there was a dial tone, then punched in star sixty-nine. He heard a series of clicks, then the buzzes indicating the number was ringing. It rang a dozen times with no answer and no indication of a voicemail box. He hung up the phone. “I’ll check to see what number called you last night, but dollars to donuts it was a disposable cell phone—what we call a burner.”
Sarah turned away from him and dropped onto the sofa. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” she said. “Do you think there’ll be more of these calls? Can you trace them? Should you have a recorder on this line?”
“I don’t know,” Larson said. “I’ll talk to the tech people at the department about putting in a recorder, but that would only help if he calls again. And tracing is probably going to be impossible. So all we can do—”
“I know,” she said. “All we can do is wait.”
* * *
Sarah parked her car in front of the Ashton Veterinary Clinic, but didn’t get out. She wanted to see Prince again, but three fears were holding her back. The first was that the dog’s recovery had progressed to the point that it was time to return him to her father-in-law, a visit that, despite Hunter’s reassurance, she dreaded because it would make her feel sad. The second was akin to the first. Would Prince know in some dog-instinctive way that she’d put him in harm’s way, was actually responsible for his being shot? And her third fear, the one she didn’t want to recognize even existed, was that when she saw Brad Selleck, the veterinary surgeon, she’d feel the same attraction to him, the same feeling that hit her on the previous visit.
She was an intelligent woman, a professional, a physician. Maybe she could figure out why she was attracted to Brad. Was there a physical similarity to her late husband? Their build was about the same, but any resemblance stopped there. Brad had dark hair, Harry’s had been blonde. Their features were nothing alike. Actually, Kyle looked more like Harry than Brad did, and despite what she figured were his best efforts, Kyle hadn’t stirred any romantic feelings in her.
But Brad was like Harry in an important way. He always seemed to be smiling, if not with his lips then with his eyes. His whole attitude seemed to be, “Let’s find the best in all this and enjoy it.” She’d felt comfortable with Harry. She’d relaxed in his presence. She’d felt a similar vibe from Brad, and maybe that was responsible in large part for the attraction she felt.
Enough of this dithering. She wanted to see Prince. And she needed to see Selleck, if for no other reason than to find out if the feeling she’d experienced at their first meeting was still there. What was the worst that could happen?
Ignoring that last question, Sarah emerged from her car and walked with rapid footsteps down the sidewalk to the front door of the veterinary hospital. She opened the door and was greeted by a cacophony of barks, from high-pitched yips to basso profundo growls. There was also a smell, one she hadn’t paid much attention to on her last visit, but which now was quite evident—the smell of animals. She was pleased to realize she didn’t find it off-putting at all.
The receptionist recognized her name and reacted positively to it. “Doctor Gordon, I’ll bet you want to visit Prince.” She smiled as she pulled a folder from a stack sitting on her desk, glanced inside, and said, “He’s doing quite well. Dr. Selleck says here he could be discharged in another day or two. If you want to see him—”
“I’ll take Dr. Gordon back,” came a voice from the doorway to Sarah’s left.
She turned and saw Brad Selleck standing there. Today his crisp white coat covered a clean pair of jeans, topped by a bright red polo shirt. Just as it had the last time she saw him, a curl of dark, almost jet-black hair hung over his forehead. And, just as before, she felt a sensation she hadn’t experienced for a long time. Sarah couldn’t put a name to it, couldn’t describe it, but there was no doubt in her mind about the feeling.
Connie had asked Sarah to consider whether Harry would want her to be happy. She’d thought about it and was pretty sure she knew the answer, but it wasn’t until she first met Brad
Selleck that it became clear to her. The answer was yes. And this encounter underscored it.
* * *
Kyle Andrews balanced his phone between his left ear and shoulder while he paged through the file that was open on his desk. His call continued to ring, and just as he was about to hang up he heard, “Larson.”
He reached up to take the phone with one hand just before it slipped and fell. “Detective, this is Kyle Andrews. I finally got around to studying the file we have on Darrell Kline.”
“What took you so long?”
“Hey, as surprising as it may be to you, I work. That work involves a number of clients, and when I get a call from one of them, it’s often a matter that requires my immediate attention. Anyway, I scanned the file yesterday, but had to go into a conference before I could study it carefully.” Kyle took a deep breath. “I think I may have found something that would help you.”
“Good. And I’m sorry if I came down on you. It’s just that—”
“I know. We’re all doing our best to find the person who has his sights set on Sarah Gordon. Anyway, as you’ve discovered already if you looked into it, Darrell Kline was released after six years, his sentence having been reduced for good behavior.”
“Yeah. I found that out,” Larson said.
“Parole wasn’t required—he was a free man. That meant there was no need to report to a parole officer, not even a requirement that he give an address when he left prison.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Larson.
“I’m getting there. I looked for next of kin, but he didn’t show any. Then I thought of looking in another place on our forms.”
“Where?”
“When clients fill out papers in this office, we ask for next of kin. Kline left that blank. But the line after that asks for the name of someone to notify in case of emergency. Of course, that’s really someone who can help us locate him if he tries to disappear.”
“And—”
“And he listed a friend. Do you want the name and address?”
Medical Judgment Page 20
