Diagnosis Death (20 page)

Brown considered that for a moment. "Most of my colleagues, and that includes Doctors Sewell and Gaines, have been very accepting. I've probably encountered the most resentment from our hospital administrator, Dr. Godwin."

Elena snorted. "Emmett, you're extremely well-trained—Emory for med school, residency at Montefiore—and you're getting grief from a nonpracticing doctor whose medical education was obtained in Grenada. How's that for the pot calling—? Sorry. Poor choice of words."

Brown smiled. "That's okay, Elena. I'm not sensitive. Please don't think you have to run everything you say to me through the filter of political correctness. We're all friends and colleagues here. And I look forward to working with both of you."

Dominique appeared in the doorway. "Dinner's ready. I hope you don't mind a bit of spice in your food. In Jamaica, we use Scotch bonnet peppers in our cooking."

David rose. "Dominique, I'm a Texas boy. I'm sure your food isn't any hotter than what I grew up on."

As they moved into the dining room, Emmett whispered in David's ear. "Don't be too sure of that."

Elena sat with her eyes closed, deep in thought as David navigated the car back through the streets of town.

"Earth to Elena."

David's voice shook her from her reverie. "Sorry. What did you say?"

"What was the stuff that Dominique served? I don't know how long it'll take for my stomach lining to recover."

Elena stifled a chuckle. "Jerk chicken. It's spicy, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but you know, I think I could get to like it. And the other dishes?"

Elena searched her memory. "Rice cooked with red beans and coconut milk. And fried plantain."

She saw David glance in the rearview mirror, an action he'd performed perhaps a dozen times since they'd been in the car. "Is there something wrong?"

"I'm trying to decide why that car has been following us since we pulled away from the Browns' home." He turned right at the next intersection. "You don't happen to have a jealous boyfriend, do you?"

Elena turned to look over her shoulder at the headlights turning the corner and settling in behind them. "I'm not sure what I have. Whoever it is, why don't you see if you can shake them? Then we'll talk."

D
avid rolled his car to a stop in the Kennedy driveway. "Good thing I paid attention during our get-acquainted-with-the-city tour today."

"Me too. Between all the turns you made and the way you never touched the brake, I thought I was riding with Mario Andretti tonight," Elena unbuckled her seatbelt and stretched. "I'm glad you finally managed to shake that car. You do agree it was following us?"

"Seemed that way to me."

"That was some pretty awesome driving," Elena said.

David shrugged off the compliment. "I probably watch way too many action movies. The main thing is you're home safely. Now tell me why someone would be following you."

He closed his eyes and leaned back in the seat as Elena shared her story. When she finished, he opened his eyes and turned toward her. "Any idea who could be stalking you, or why?"

"There are a couple of candidates, but I don't have any solid evidence. What would you suggest I do?"

"The usual, I guess. Lock your car. Park in a well-lighted area. Don't—"

"I mean, how do I find out who's following me?"

"Sorry. If you need a baby delivered, I'm your man. But playing Sam Spade, that's not really my strong suit. What do the police say?"

Elena turned toward the window. "I don't really have enough to justify making a complaint. What do I say? We saw headlights behind us? It's a creepy feeling, that's all." She opened her mouth and closed it again.

"What were you about to say?"

"It's like my midnight phone calls. And the notes. I don't have anything substantial. And I don't want to bring in the police until I have a bit more proof. Besides . . ."

"Yes?"

"This is silly. But it's possible the stalker is a deputy sheriff I met my first day in town. And if that's true, going to the police might warn him off. I don't want to do that. I want to catch him so he can be punished."

David took in a deep breath. "I had a patient who was the object of a stalker. They caught the guy red-handed. Do you want to know how that case came out?"

"It sounds like I don't want to know, but tell me."

"In Texas, stalking can be anything from a misdemeanor to a minor felony, depending on the circumstances. This guy got off with a fine and probation."

"What did your patient do?"

"She moved out of state."

"I'm not about to do that."

David turned to face Elena. He put his arm over the backseat and leaned in toward her. "I have to agree with you. The best thing to do is face this head-on. Besides, I can't see you running away from it."

"Will's investigator is trying to track down the phone calls. Maybe he can get a handle on whoever's following me as well."

"Sounds reasonable. In the meantime, don't forget that I'm here for you."
For as long as it takes.

"I hope you don't mind if I sit down for a few minutes before I fix lunch," Dora Kennedy said.

"Not at all," Elena said. "Just rest for a moment."
If you're cooking fried chicken, I'll wait as long as I have to.

"I'm sorry you didn't feel up to coming to church with us this morning." Dora carefully put her Bible on the coffee table in the living room, squaring it on top of the magazines there. "Matthew preached quite a good sermon."

Dora eased her ample bulk onto the sofa and patted the seat beside her. Elena joined her, wondering if a sermon, or at least a mini-sermon, was forthcoming. "I had to make rounds, then there was a patient in the emergency room."

"I thought Dr. Brown was on call this weekend," Dora said.

"He is, but I was walking through when the ambulance brought the man in, and . . . I don't know. I guess I hated to see Emmett called away from his Sunday morning when I was right there. As it turned out, it was pretty simple. This woman fainted at church. She'd been put on a new blood pressure medicine, and it dropped her pressure too much. She'll see her internist tomorrow and get the dose adjusted."

"Ever since you came here, Matthew and I have wondered why you've seemed so troubled," Dora said. "I guess you'll tell us about it when you're ready. But something he said this morning might help you."

Elena's guard went up. "Oh?"

Dora reached for the Bible and opened it in the middle. She thumbed through the pages until she found what she wanted. She pointed to a verse she'd highlighted with a yellow marker. "I don't have my glasses. Would you read that?"

Elena took the book, finding it surprisingly heavy. It had been a long time since she'd held a Bible. This one had large print—obviously a concession to Dora's failing eyesight—and ample margins that were filled with scribbled notes. She found the marked passage, cleared her throat, and read. "Where can I go from Your Spirit? Or where can I flee from Your presence?"

"That's from Psalm 139," Dora said. "It's one of my favorites. And what Matthew said was that, like David who wrote that, all of us face problems and trials. Running away does no good. But wherever we are, and whatever we do, God is always there. We don't even have to look very hard for Him. We simply have to open our eyes."

"Thank you," Elena said. "One of these days maybe I'll sit down with you and your husband and tell you all the problems I'm having. But I'm not ready to do that right now."

"You don't have to tell us about them until you're ready. And God already knows them, you know."

Almost unconsciously, Elena ran her eyes down the remainder of the column. She stopped at the bottom, and the words hit her as though they'd been written especially for her. "Search me, O God, and know my heart; Try me and know my anxious thoughts; And see if there be any hurtful way in me, and lead me in the everlasting way."

"
See if there be any hurtful way in me."
If she'd acted in a fugue state, she needed to know it—for the safety of her patients. For her own peace of mind. Finding out might mean a major change in the way she practiced medicine. It could even spell an end to her ability to care for some patients. But she needed to do it. She closed the Bible. "Excuse me. I need to call Cathy and get a name and address."

Elena paused in the doorway. "Thank you for sharing that, Dora. And thank Matthew for me too."

Elena's attention was focused on the message slips in her hand and the problems awaiting her on this Monday morning. She tapped absently on the door of Charlie Lambert's ICU room and was about to open the door when a voice inside the room said, "I don't care."

She backed away and listened as the speaker continued. "This hospital can't afford to give free care. I insist you make arrangements for a transfer to a charity facility immediately."

The door opened and Nathan Godwin almost knocked Elena down as he scurried from the room. Through the open door, she could see Mrs. Lambert standing at the foot of her husband's bed, crying. Dr. Shelmire stood beside her, looking daggers at the retreating administrator.

Elena hesitated in the doorway. This really wasn't her fight, and she couldn't add anything right now except maybe a shoulder for Mrs. Lambert to cry on. Then again, maybe that was what would help. She'd been here—sort of—and was more qualified than most to say "I understand."

Dr. Shelmire was the first to see her. "Dr. Gardner, come in. You should hear this too."

Elena eased into the room and took up station beside Mrs. Lambert. On the bed, the endotracheal tube was still in Charlie's throat, but the respirator was turned off, and he was breathing on his own. As Elena watched, Charlie thrashed around a bit and a few nondescript moans escaped around the tube that held his vocal cords apart. "Reacting a bit more, I see."

"Yes," Shelmire said. "He's beginning to react, although he's got a ways to go. I guess you heard what our hospital administrator said. He wants Mr. Lambert transferred to another hospital. Of course I've refused, at least until he's stable and more reactive."

Elena moved a bit so she was in Mrs. Lambert's line of sight. "Dr. Shelmire and I will handle this. Don't let it worry you."

Mrs. Lambert knuckled her eyes, spreading tears across her cheeks. "I slipped out to get some breakfast. When I came back Min, that Mr. Godwin was at Charlie's bedside. He started in on me, and then Dr. Shelmire came in." She looked at the neurosurgeon. "Thank you for standing up to that awful man. How can he be making these decisions? He's not even a doctor."

Shelmire and Elena exchanged looks. Elena said, "Actually, he is a—"

"You're right. He's only an administrator," Shelmire said. "Medical decisions are up to us. And rest assured that Charlie is going to get the care he needs."

Mrs. Lambert followed Dr. Shelmire into the hall to talk further while Elena moved to the head of the bed and did a quick exam on Charlie. He was definitely better, but he was a long way from "waking up."

As Elena turned to leave, her hip bumped the partially open drawer of the bedside table. She started to close it but stopped when she saw what it contained, in addition to a washcloth and a Gideon Bible. Nestled in the corner of the drawer was a syringe-needle unit, still in its plastic case. Beside it was a small vial of injectable material. Elena picked it up and read the label: Anectine. Her heart raced and a cold sweat dotted her forehead. Who had put it here? And why would they want to kill Charlie Lambert?

Elena studied the diplomas and certificates on Marcus Bell's office wall. Bachelor's degree from Princeton. Medical school at Columbia. Surgery residency at NYU. Certified by the medical boards of New York and Texas. Fellow in the American College of Surgeons. Master of Business Administration in Health Care Services from SMU.

She could imagine the history behind the displays. His education and training were in the New York/New Jersey area, so he was probably from that region. Marcus had told her he was widowed, and she could identify with a desire for a change of scenery after that event. She wasn't sure why he'd picked this mid-sized Texas town for relocation. Maybe, as with her, it was the only life raft available in an ocean of trouble.

He'd come here to practice surgery, but somewhere along the line there came an appointment as chief of staff. To be better prepared for that role, he'd done something Elena would never have tackled. He went back to school—probably part-time—to get that MBA. Then, for reasons that apparently had more to do with politics than capabilities, "Dr." Nathan Godwin had taken over most of the administrative duties at Summers County General. That couldn't have sat well with Marcus. Well, if that was the case, he would love what she had to tell him now.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Marcus sank into the chair behind his desk and handed her one of the two Diet Cokes he carried. "Don't drink it if you don't want it, but I sort of figured that if your day was like mine, you'd either want to rehydrate or use it as an icepack on your head." As if to illustrate, he held the frosty can first against one temple, then the other. He leaned back, put his feet on an open desk drawer. "What's up?"

Elena popped the top on the can and took a long swallow. "I was in Mr. Lambert's room this morning."

Marcus looked blank.

Elena went on to explain. "He's a patient in ICU who had an intracranial bleed six days ago. Mr. Lambert sort of fell through the cracks of the system and has no insurance coverage. He's recovering from surgery. He's off the vent, but he still has a ways to go. Godwin was in there this morning trying to browbeat Dr. Shelmire into sending Lambert to a charity hospital—I guess he meant Parkland."

"Unfortunately, that seems to be Nathan's motto. If it doesn't pay the bills, ship it out. I presume Shelmire stood firm."

"He did, but here's where it gets interesting. The drawer of the bedside table was partly open. On my way out, I started to close it when I saw a syringe and a vial of Anectine inside." She drank deeply from the can, then brushed a stray lock of hair from her eyes. "Someone—and, in my mind, everything points to Godwin—planned to inject Lambert with it."

"Wow!" Marcus chewed on his lower lip. "Clever. Anectine is easy to get in the hospital. Snatch a vial off any anesthesia cart. Inject it IV, just like they do when they put a patient to sleep. But this time, when it paralyzes the muscles, there's no ventilator to take over breathing. And in, what? A couple of minutes? Anyway, in short order, the patient is dead. And the beautiful part is that the drug is metabolized so fast that, by the time of an autopsy, there's no trace. That is, assuming they think to look for it at all."