Stress Test (23 page)

Matt decided not to argue. It was nice that someone cared. And that began a stream of thoughts he’d been trying for several days to suppress. It seemed to him his attorney cared for him more than legal obligations dictated. That was okay with him, since he’d found himself drawn to Sandra, wondering what might have happened if he’d met her under better circumstances. Would she have abandoned him in his time of need, as Jennifer apparently had?

Matt’s car started on the first try. He waved to Sandra, backed out of the parking space, and headed down the ramp and toward home, navigating on autopilot while he thought. He had some things to figure out, and the first was how to make sure he stayed alive.

Matt kicked off his shoes, stretched, and booted up his computer. A cup of coffee sat on the desk to his right, a safe distance away from the keyboard. He’d learned that lesson the hard way. The clock on his desk showed it was a quarter to two, but he wasn’t sleepy. Chances were that once he had a hot shower and hit the bed, he’d sleep like a rock, but this was more important than sleep.

He had the site for the National Library of Medicine book-marked. A couple of clicks, entry of a search term, and he was looking at a confirmation of his self-diagnosis. Petit mal seizure, sometimes known as “absence seizures,” was characterized by brief bouts such as stopping in the middle of a sentence or freezing without movement for fifteen seconds or more. Caused by lots of things, one of which
was a head injury. It was sometimes associated with a number of other signs and symptoms, all thankfully absent in his case.

The implications were numerous, all too bad to contemplate. What if he had a petit mal seizure while caring for a patient? If one happened while he was driving down Central Expressway, would he crash and kill himself and innocent bystanders? Or what if his mysterious kidnappers returned, and he had a seizure, an absence spell, while trying to fight them off? As a physician, he knew he should seek medical help. And he would . . . eventually. For now, he was prepared to undertake one of the worst things a doctor could do—self-medicate.

He scrolled down the page, then checked a couple of other sites and wrote down the name and dosage of the drug he wanted. He leaned back until he was staring at the ceiling and, with his eyes still open, uttered a prayer that was no less fervent for its simplicity:
Please,
God, let the medicine work
.

Twenty minutes later he was in a 24-hour Walgreen’s, presenting the pharmacist with a prescription written on a pad from his now-defunct private practice. Matt knew it was perfectly legal for him to self-prescribe, especially since this was neither a narcotic nor a habit-forming drug. And if the script had been written on a sheet torn from a Big Chief tablet, it would still be valid. But he didn’t want to have to go through a long explanation.

Matt had his hand on his wallet, ready to pull out his proof of Texas licensure, but the pharmacist, an older man with nicotine-stained fingers, simply glanced at the prescription and said, “Hang on. Won’t take a minute to get this ready.”

Apparently the man was glad of the company, because he talked incessantly during the time it took him to fill the prescription. “What’d you do, run out of medicine? Lose the bottle? I get that a lot. People
come in here late at night, wanting a pill or two just to tide them over until their doctor’s office opens. Handy to be a doctor yourself, isn’t it?”

Matt opened his mouth, but the pharmacist’s questions appeared to be rhetorical. He prattled on, and soon Matt was letting the words roll past him without really considering their meaning. In a moment, the pharmacist plunked a white plastic bottle onto the counter in front of Matt. “Ethosuximide, 250 milligram caps. One BID. Right?”

“That’s right. I appreciate your getting right to it.” Matt slid a credit card across the counter and signed for the transaction.

“Don’t guess I need to give you instructions on how to take it, side effects, things like that.” The pharmacist stuck out his hand. “Thanks for coming in. Hope you’ll send your patients to us, especially when they need something in the middle of the night. That’s why we’re here. I’ve been divorced for ten years, and the other pharmacist I share this duty with is a widower. No reason to be home, so we might as well be working.”

The man was still talking as Matt eased away from the counter and hurried to the front of the store. He stopped there long enough to buy a cold can of Coke. In his car, he used it to wash down one of the red capsules. He was tempted to take a second dose, but he’d encountered too many patients who’d fallen prey to that misconception. If one’s good, two’s better, and maybe I’d better take three just to be sure. Overdoses were a common occurrence in the emergency room. He’d already encountered two cases in the short time he’d been working there. No, he’d stick to the normal dose—one capsule twice a day. And pray they worked.

Matt lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. He’d expected to fall asleep immediately, but it was as though his eyelids were spring-loaded,
designed to pop open the minute he closed them. Nothing helped. Not the hot shower. Not the warm milk. Not the half a chapter of the boring novel from his bedside table. Nothing.

Finally he rolled out of bed and slid his feet into slippers. He’d cranked the thermostat down, hoping the cold air would help him sleep. Matt slipped on a robe and padded to the living room. He flipped on the TV and surfed through the channels. As he did, an old Bruce Springsteen song ran through his head. Nowadays he could get a lot more than fifty-seven channels, but there was still nothing on. He punched a button on the remote and watched a muscled pitchman with six-pack abs fade away in midsentence, still extolling the virtues of his exercise device.

There was a Bible on the coffee table in his living room, left behind by his brother. “This is too big for me to carry around on the mission field,” Joe had said. “Hang on to it for me until I get back. You might even read some of it. I’ve marked a few of my favorite passages.”

Matt hefted the thick, leather-covered book and felt a wave of shame because he hadn’t opened it since Joe left. He paid no more attention to it than the magazines that occupied the space beside it. No, that wasn’t true. He changed out the magazines every month. But he could see the place where the Bible sat, outlined by the dust that had gathered around it since he put it there.

He held the Bible on his lap and tugged at the thin purple ribbon that hung from the binding. On the page that opened, sure enough, Matt saw a passage marked in yellow highlighter. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change, and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea.”

Matt could identify with those sentiments. Sometimes he felt as though the earth were crumbling beneath his feet and there was
nothing left for him to hold on to
. I’m hanging on to a new job by
a thread, the police suspect I’m a murderer, someone—I have no idea
who—kidnapped me and still wants to kill me, my girlfriend’s gone,
and I’m pretty sure I’ve developed a neurologic complication from a head
injury. What do You say to that?

Matt sat for a moment with his head bowed. He didn’t know what he expected—perhaps some thunderous voice from heaven, some kind of a sign in reply. But there was only silence.
Maybe this is
all nonsense .
. . But as he read through those words a second and yet a third time, peace stole across Matt’s heart. He hadn’t taken a tranquilizer, but he felt as though one were circulating through his veins. He wouldn’t fear, even if things seemed to be crumbling around him.

He nodded slowly.
Okay, God. I get it. I’ll take You at Your word
.

The summons to the boss’s office had included the admonition to come without Edgar, so Lou stood alone before the big man.

“We need to make Dr. Newman’s protestations of innocence totally unbelievable and let the justice system neutralize him.” The smile that spread slowly across the boss’s face held no mirth. “And to do that, we’re going to throw Edgar off the sleigh.”

Lou shook his head. “Throw him off . . . ?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Now, here are your instructions.”

The plan was simplicity itself, although it rocked Lou back on his heels. He started to ask the boss if he was sure, but clamped his lips shut instead. The boss was always sure. And if not, it didn’t make any difference. He was the boss. Instead, Lou said, “I can do that.”

“Then do it, the sooner the better.”

“Okay. I’ll do it tomorrow night. But can we talk about one more thing?” Lou took a deep breath. He wanted to sit down, but
there were no chairs in front of the desk—probably on purpose. “Money.”

The big man raised one eyebrow. “Money?”

Lou swallowed hard. Too late to turn back now. “I’ve worked for you for a couple of years. You pay me well enough, but this stuff lately is a lot more risky. And now you want me to . . . Well, I wonder if I don’t deserve more money. Sort of like combat pay.”

The big man’s hand moved toward the center drawer of his desk, and Lou smiled as he recalled the crisp $100 bills that source had previously yielded. But instead, the pudgy hand emerged holding a pistol. Almost automatically, Lou catalogued it: Ruger, semi-automatic, long barrel, probably a .22 caliber. Not just a pistol for close work such as the one Edgar carried, but the tool of a serious marksman.

“Hey,” Lou said, raising his hands. “No need for that.”

“I didn’t get where I am now by sitting behind this desk. I’ve done what you’re doing and a lot worse. And I can do it again.” The big man rested his hand, still holding the gun, on the desk. “To put your mind at rest, my current enterprises are growing rapidly—and profitably. In addition, I have a couple of other ventures that are almost ready to go into operation. When that happens, your share of the money will more than satisfy you. And, of course, you’ll be getting a larger share once we toss Edgar to the wolves.”

Glad for a chance to change the subject, Lou asked, “I don’t understand this talk about sleighs and wolves.”

The big man seemed to have forgotten the pistol, but it remained centered on the desk, the barrel pointing at Lou. “It’s an old Russian tale. A rich man and his wife are riding across the snow in a sleigh with their driver and a servant. They’re pursued by a pack of wolves. The rich man orders the driver to throw the servant out of the sleigh, and while the wolves devour him, they make their escape.”

“So you’re saying we might need to give up Edgar to take attention away from ourselves? But if the police get hold of him, he’ll spill his guts inside of ten minutes.”

“No one said that the person who’s thrown to the wolves has to be alive.”

Lou felt a grin starting, but that expression was wiped off his face when the boss raised the gun and gestured with it. “If I were you, I’d stop pushing for money. Because no one said that the person who gets thrown off the sleigh has to be Edgar either.”

Lou’s stomach churned as though he were on an elevator in a free fall. “Er . . . I didn’t . . . I wasn’t trying to . . . to push. I just meant . . .”