Stress Test (14 page)

Sandra’s initial inclination was to accept the invitation. After all, she and Ken had parted as friends, and maybe they’d been hasty in their breakup. They’d seemed so right for each other, at least at first. But before she could get the response out, something made her stop—the memory of the first incident that planted a seed of doubt in her mind. Over the next few weeks, the seed had bloomed into full-blown conviction that she and Ken weren’t a match.

“I . . . I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she said.

“I know why you said that, and I won’t try to change your mind right now,” Ken said, “but I seem to remember that one of the tenets of that faith you talk about is forgiveness. And that’s what I’m asking you to do. Let’s put our differences aside and move forward.”

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, but it was obvious both of them were uncomfortable thinking back to what had separated them. After she’d ended the call, Sandra closed her eyes and let the film from that episode play out behind her eyelids.

She’d given Ken a copy of a novel she’d enjoyed, thinking since it was medical fiction, he might like it. A couple of weeks passed, and finally she asked him if he’d read it.

“Frankly, I quit about a third of the way in,” Ken admitted.

“Didn’t like the writing?”

“No, it was well written. I couldn’t even find fault with the medical details. But what turned me off was the way the doctor in it always came back to his Christian beliefs. I mean, everything was falling
apart for him, but he still prayed and believed God was going to make it come out all right.”

Sandra felt a vague uneasiness, but she could no more let the conversation die than she could keep her tongue out of a fresh cavity in a tooth. “And if you’d kept reading, you’d have seen why he felt that way.”

“Sorry, but religion has never been a part of my life. Matter of fact, I’m sort of uncomfortable around folks who keep bringing it into the conversation.”

“Like me?”

“No, no. I just hate people who are always preaching to me about my relationship with God.”

“So you don’t believe in God?” Sandra asked.

Ken paused and seemed to gather his thoughts. “I believe in science, in what I can see, what I can prove. I’m not much for that faith stuff.”

“And when you operate on a brain, you don’t marvel at how a Creator could make such a marvelous operating system for the human body?”

“I don’t think much about how we got here. I’m more interested in what I do with what I’ve been given.”

The conversation continued for a while before Ken rather clumsily redirected it to a safer subject. But the warning bells were already going off in Sandra’s brain. And a verse kept running through her head, one she’d learned in Sunday school. She hadn’t thought much about it at the time, but memorizing it had gotten her brownie points with the teacher. Now she understood it better, or at least she thought she did.
“Do not be bound together with unbelievers.”
And that’s where she appeared to be headed if she didn’t steer clear of Ken Gordon.

Sandra placed Elaine’s coffee on the center of her desk in their usual morning ritual. “Ken Gordon called me last night.”

The secretary looked up sharply. The sudden move made her half-glasses fall off the end of her nose and left them dangling at the end of their chain. “I thought you two weren’t seeing each other anymore.” She removed the plastic cover and sipped her hot coffee.

Sandra shrugged. “We’re not. At first, since Ken’s the neurosurgeon who took care of his injury, I thought he was calling to tell me something had happened to Matt . . . to Dr. Newman.”

“But I’ll bet that wasn’t his reason. Am I right?”

“As always. No, he wanted us to have dinner—maybe talk about getting back together.”

“And I’m guessing you told him no?”

Sandra bought herself some time by blowing across the surface of her cup. “Right. At one time, I thought I could get past Ken’s unbelief, but now I don’t think it would work.”

Elaine looked up and smiled. “Have you ever considered that maybe God wants to touch Dr. Gordon through you?”

Sandra wasn’t sure she had an answer for that. Was she hesitant to try getting back together with Ken because she was developing feelings for Matt? She thought about that for a minute. Then she took a swallow of coffee and turned away. “I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

As they had several nights before, Lou and Edgar sat in Lou’s car, parked about half a block from Matt Newman’s house. At midnight, when they’d arrived, one light showed in an upstairs window. In a
few minutes, the light went out, leaving the home in darkness. Lou looked at his watch. “We’ll give him some time to get to sleep before we go in.”

Lou patted the pockets of his black jacket, making sure he had what he needed. His Beretta was tucked into the waistband of his pants, but he didn’t plan on using it. If force was necessary, he’d depend on Edgar and the lead-weighted sap he always carried on forays like this. A tap from that on the back of the good doctor’s head would put him to sleep faster than the chloroform Lou planned to use. But if they could do this without leaving any evidence of trauma, it would help the police buy the suicide-by-slitting-his-wrists scenario.

Edgar had his cigarettes out and a match in his hand when Lou stopped him. “Put that away. In the dark, this car looks empty. Strike a match, and you might as well light a Roman candle and yell, ‘Look at me.’”

Edgar shrugged, but complied. “How much longer?”

Lou consulted his watch. “Give it another half hour.”

Finally it was time. Lou checked to make sure the bulb was still gone from the car’s interior light. He took the keys from the ignition and placed them behind the sun visor. If they had to leave in a hurry, he didn’t want to have to hunt for them.

Both men opened their doors and closed them without engaging the latches. They proceeded on rubber-sole-shod feet across the street, through the shadows, to the rear of Matt’s house. Lou extracted thin latex gloves from his pocket and passed a pair to Edgar before pulling on his own. They weren’t going to leave any trace of their presence.

Lou eased a can of WD-40 from his hip pocket and sprayed it freely along the edge of the door where the hinges would be. He returned the can to his pocket and exchanged a glance and nod with Edgar.
Showtime
. He produced a key from his jacket, and the lock
yielded silently. Once inside he stood in the darkness for a full minute, listening. The only sounds he heard were the hum of the refrigerator and the muted
whoosh
of air moving through the vents.

Lou knew the location of Matt’s bedroom from his previous reconnaissance. He nodded toward the stairs, and he and Edgar mounted them single file. At the top they turned left toward an open door. A sliver of light from a distant streetlamp came through the window, casting shadows across Matt’s bedroom. Lou reached into the side pocket of his black cargo pants and unscrewed the top of a plastic bottle. He doused a cheesecloth pad and was almost sickened by the sweet smell of the anesthetic. He took a tentative step toward the figure on the bed. A board creaked and Lou froze, holding his breath. Before he could stop him, Edgar moved up beside Lou, producing an even louder creak.

In a single motion, the man in the bed threw the covers aside, grabbed something from the bedside table, and pointed it at the two intruders. “Stop right there. Put your hands up or I’ll shoot.”

It took only a split second for Lou to take in the situation and react.
When someone already has the drop on you, don’t go for your gun.
Beat it
. And that’s what he did. He dropped what he was holding and made for the door at full speed, almost trampling Edgar, who was a step ahead of him. The unmistakable sound of a shot quickened his feet and the adrenaline dumped into his veins accelerated his heart rate. Both men took the stairs in three quick bounds and bolted out the front door, leaving it wide open in their wake.

Lou had the car moving before Edgar had both feet inside.

ELEVEN

Elaine wasn’t at her desk to receive her morning coffee in person, but Sandra didn’t think much about it. In her office, she flipped the lid off her own paper cup, shed her shoes, and settled into her swivel chair. She picked up the pile of pink message slips centered on her blotter, but before Sandra could read the first one, her secretary appeared in the doorway. “The top message in the stack is from Matt Newman. Call him right away.”

Sandra frowned. Could the police or the DA have contacted her client? She didn’t think there’d be any movement from them for a few days. And why was Matt calling her office? Her home phone was unlisted, but she always gave her clients her cell phone number. Why didn’t he—? Sandra pulled her phone from her purse, pushed a button, and felt her heart sink when the screen remained dark. She’d neglected to charge the battery last night.

She lifted the phone from her desk, punched in the number, and waited through four rings. Anxiety progressed to apprehension as she
pictured Matt being hauled off to jail in the middle of the night, unable to contact her. During the fifth ring, he picked up. “Hello?”

When she heard his voice, Sandra exhaled, then took in what seemed like half the air in the room. “Matt. Sandra Murray. Elaine said your call was urgent. What—”

“I tried to call you when this happened, but you didn’t answer. Don’t you—”

“Let’s not spend the next five minutes on recriminations. I let my cell phone battery die. I’m sorry. Now, what’s going on?”

She heard Matt’s deep inhalation, a mirror of the breath she’d just taken. “Someone broke into my house during the night and tried to kill me.”

Sandra stood and began pacing back and forth behind her desk, tethered by the phone cord. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You say they broke in. Did they break the lock, or what?”

“No, they must have had a key.”

Sandra found herself going into take-charge mode. “Your keys are in the police evidence room. No telling who has access to them. Call a locksmith as soon as we hang up. I want those locks changed before you leave the house again.”

“I can’t afford—”

“You can’t afford not to do it,” Sandra said. “Now tell me the rest of the story.”

“They got into the house and were in my bedroom when I scared them off. But this proves I wasn’t lying. I really was kidnapped. Someone did try to kill me. And they tried again last night. Now maybe the police will believe me. I’m the victim here.”

Sandra leaned forward and pulled a legal pad toward her. “Did you call the police when this happened?”

When he answered, Matt’s voice was quieter, more measured. “No. I started to, but then I realized it might cause me some trouble. That’s when I tried to call you.”

“I sense there’s something you haven’t told me yet. What is it?”

“I said I scared them off. I didn’t tell you how.” There was a long pause. “I shot at one of them.”

“I didn’t know you had a gun,” Sandra said.

“Uh, well, that may be part of the problem.”

Sandra dropped into her chair, slipped her feet into shoes, and grabbed her purse from the desk drawer. “Stay there. I’m on my way.” She started to hang up, but said into the phone before it hit the cradle, “Call a locksmith! And put on some coffee!”