Ben jeered at me. “They can’t track me. I’m not the one who ordered it.”
I glanced at Gabe, but he shook his head.
“Who did?”
“None of your damn business.”
“People could die!”
“So?”
I stared at him, stunned. What had happened to my brother to make him like this?
Research has shown that opioid use literally reshapes every part of the brain, even after drugs aren’t being used anymore. As addiction progresses, the structures in the brain lose the ability to communicate with one another, leading to trouble reasoning and thinking, and sometimes hijacking emotions, obliterating any sense of loyalty, morality, or duty.
But still, I was shocked by his level of apathy. My brother had truly lost the plot.
“Don’t act like you have a moral high horse to sit on, Dr. Sweeney,” Ben sneered. “You’ve already written all those prescriptions. We’ve sold the drugs. You want to save your son, right? All we’re doing is making the product stretch further.”
I shook my head. This was a very dangerous plan. Fentanyl was one hundred times stronger than morphine. Small doses could be fatal.
But then I remembered what Dr. Palmer had said: Josh might not live to see the new year if we didn’t get him that treatment.
Ben had given me the $30,000 we’d agreed on for the first batch of prescriptions, which meant I had a grand total of $35,000 in my newly set up checking account. It wasn’t enough. At this rate, I wouldn’t be able to pay the remaining $63,000 to get Josh’s reprogrammed CAR T-cells injected in just over a week, let alone cover the copays, the deductible, and any new hospital bills, which were quickly piling up.
This was the only way.
“If you mess up, if you get even one grain wrong—” I began.
“I won’t.”
“You have to swear you’re clean. That you’re not going to use this stuff or mess up the dosing. If you aren’t clean, you won’t be able to do it right.”
“I’ve been clean since I got out of prison. I was in a drug program inside and haven’t touched anything since I got out.”
I studied my brother’s face. “Won’t this be harder? You’ll be closer to it.”
“Nawww, I’ll be fine. Besides, this way the urge can’t sneak up and surprise me. I’m staring the beast down.”
“Look.” Gabe tapped the red notebook in Ben’s hands. “Here are some of the people Violeta was distributing to. These are people who’ve been cut off by their doctor. If it weren’t for her, they’d have already turned to heroin. They’d probably be dead.”
I reached for the notebook, but Ben snatched it away.
“Why don’t you come with us on Thursday?” he said. “I’ll show you the people you’ll help.”
That word—help—caught me.
“Just stop arguing, sweetheart,” Gabe said, exasperated. I glared at him, wanting him to stop calling me sweetheart, but then he smiled slowly, those dimples flashing, and said, “We’ll get more money faster, and then we’ll be done with it. It’s what you want. Right?”
I nodded, relenting. Just a few more weeks, and I’d be out of this. “Okay. You’re right. But I can’t lose my license. Nobody can find out about my involvement.”
“Obviously,” Ben said. “This way we’ll need fewer pills. Just keep giving me your signed prescriptions. Gabe will take the girls out to get them filled. He’ll bring the pills back to me. I’ll cut them, and Gabe will deliver them to our customers.”
“You have to be careful. It’s a myth that you can die from touching fentanyl, but in a room this small, particles can be released into the air. You’ll need a—”
Ben held up a gas mask and goggles.
“Okay, good.” I turned to Gabe. “Are you all right with this? I thought you said you were out?”
Gabe shrugged. “It’s for a good cause.”
A gentle thrill pulsed through my core. It was stupid. Juvenile. I was a grown woman. But I liked the sense that we were bound together. Not just by our past, but by what we were doing now. Gabe and Ben and me. No matter what happened now, we couldn’t unstitch the fabric of what we’d become.
“Let’s do it,” I said.
CHAPTER 29
I STARED OUT THE clinic window, my gaze on the rain falling in sheets onto the parking lot below. The snow had melted, the pavement filled with shimmering puddles. Gray light, the color of old socks, slanted through leafless tree branches.
A steady stream of water was falling from an overhang somewhere above the window. A spider did a sad little back-float through a puddle on the ledge, its legs waving frantically in the air. I thought about opening the window, to set the spider free, but I didn’t move. Eventually a cascade of water gushed onto the ledge, washing the spider away.
I pulled my burner phone out of my lab coat pocket and checked WhatsApp.
There was a text message from Gabe.
We need to get out of this. I think Ben’s using again, and it’s too dangerous. If you get caught you lose everything. If I get caught, I go straight to prison. It just isn’t worth it.
My heart sank. Ben was using again?
I sipped my coffee, thinking. Gabe had never cared before when Ben was using. His cowardice was becoming a liability. Ben had given me another $30,000, bringing my total to $65,000 hidden in my secret checking account. We were so close; we couldn’t stop now.
I thought for a minute before tapping out a reply.
Come meet Josh on Wednesday before his infusion. Hospital café, 10:30 a.m.
He didn’t reply for so long that unexpected tears of fury and frustration filled my eyes. I wiped at them angrily. I needed to get it together. But sheer exhaustion made it feel like my body had become detached from my brain. Too many sleepless nights were wearing on me.
Last night I’d woken from another dream about my father. I was holding his head on my lap and he was begging me to put an end to his pain. He wept and trembled and moaned, his cries reaching a fever pitch. The sound filled my ears, making my head feel swollen, every breath a bruise. It was so loud I thought my skull would explode.
I held my hands over my ears but the sound continued, a brutal wailing that filled my chest and throbbed in every fiber of my muscles. I finally shrugged out of my coat and held the fabric over my dad’s nose and mouth until it was quiet. Peacefully, finally, quiet.
I’d woken with a jerk, the tears falling sideways down my cheeks and filling up my ears. I hadn’t smothered my dad, and the fact that my subconscious suggested it disturbed me. What kind of person was I?
The dream played vividly behind my eyes for hours as I tried to sort it from reality, only falling into a restless sleep shortly before the alarm went off.
I finished jotting notes in a folder and was just putting it away when the burner buzzed.
It was a message from Gabe.
See you tomorrow.
The sound of a commotion came from the front of the office—muted shouts, a high-pitched scream, a thud. I hurried out to reception.
A man I vaguely recognized had been tackled by security and now stood slumped between two guards. He was small but burly-chested, gray hair hanging in oily strands. His red cheeks were shiny, wet with tears.
It was Alice Jones’s husband. My patient with back pain who hadn’t shown up for her appointment last week.
“Mr. Jones?” I came around the side of the reception desk and approached him. The other patients in the room were staring. A palpable tension filled the air. One mother was clutching her child to her chest, her eyes filled with fear.
“Let this man go,” I demanded of the security guards.
“Dr. Sweeney—” Brittany shook her head at me in warning.
I turned toward her as Mr. Jones lunged. I saw him in my peripheral vision, a dark shadow hurtling toward me. Adrenaline kicked in my veins as I turned my body sideways, expecting the impact. But the security guards caught him just in time, hauling him
back and wrestling him to his knees.
“You!” His eyes glittered, and spittle flew from his mouth. “She’s dead, and it’s your fault!”
The blood drained from my face. “Who’s dead?”
“My Alice. She was in pain, and you wouldn’t help her! You wouldn’t give her anything. She went to the streets to get pain relief and now she’s dead!”
He tried again to lunge for me. “Let me go!”
Nausea burned in my belly, my whole body shaking.
“You’re done!” he shouted as the security guards heaved him out into the hall.
Or had he said You’re dead?
* * *
I STUMBLED on wooden legs back to the medical office.
Alice Jones was dead.
I hadn’t helped her when she’d needed it, so she’d turned to illegal drugs. And where had she gotten those?
The thought was as fleeting as a hummingbird, there and then gone.
I should’ve prescribed her something to help the pain when I had the chance.
I had to get out of here. I grabbed my coat and purse and hurried out of the clinic, down the stairs, and outside. People rushed past, huddled under umbrellas to escape the pelting rain. The wind blew my hair, cutting straight through my wool coat to my bones. My hands and ears went raw with cold.
I was pulling an umbrella from my bag when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I let out a little shriek.
“I’m so sorry!” Dr. Palmer looked surprised.
“No, I’m sorry!” I forced a smile, letting myself slide back into my other persona: Dr. Sweeney, calm and capable. “I’m just overtired.”
“It’s understandable.” Dr. Palmer hunched his shoulders against the cold. The small blood vessels across his nose and cheeks were starker than ever. I wanted to suggest a topical vasoconstrictor like oxymetazoline, but it seemed inappropriate.
“I’m so sorry you’re going through this. It’s incredibly unfair. I wish—”
I held up a hand. “You’ve done so much for me my whole life. And I know you’ve helped Ben too. I heard you helped him get a place to live after he got out of prison.”
“I met him one day while visiting you. He seemed so broken up. So when he called me after he got out… I just wanted to help.”
“We—I—owe you everything.” I put a tentative hand on his arm. “And now I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I didn’t stay in touch. I was really messed up for a long time. I’m sorry.”
Dr. Palmer pulled me into a tight hug. At first I stiffened, unused to public displays of affection and a little worried that a colleague might see. But it was nice to be hugged by someone who reminded me of my father. He even smelled the same, like Old Spice and well-worn leather and just faintly of cigarettes.
We pulled apart and laughed a little awkwardly.
“I better…” I motioned to my car.
“Yes, off course.”
I dashed across the parking lot and was just opening my car door when the sound of sudden revving jerked my attention to my right. The now-familiar black truck accelerated past me, sending rainwater arcing into the air. I jumped out of the way, avoiding most of the splash as the truck drove away.
But not before I’d seen who was driving.
Prickly adrenaline crawled along my skin.
The guy with a ponytail and a gun at Costco. Carlos Martinez. Santiago Martinez’s brother.
* * *
I TEXTED Moira that I had to work late, then drove to an address out near Crescent Lake. Finding a private gun seller had been easier than I expected. A plethora of websites allowed you to purchase a gun with no questions asked. Like Craigslist for gun sales. I’d told the man on the phone I wanted a weapon for protection, as I often worked late.
The rain had stopped by the time I pulled onto the gravel road. My car bumped through water-filled potholes. The road was lined with thick brush, the wind hustling through the naked branches.
I parked next to a neat chalet-style farmhouse with a brick chimney belching smoke into the gunmetal-gray sky. A man came out and stood on the front porch. He was older with a small potbelly, floppy white hair, and a casual but alert wide-armed stance. Even from here, I could see he was armed.
Breathe, I reminded myself. Smile. Be normal.
“You Dr. Sweeney?” he called as I got out of my car.
I nodded. I’d told him my real name because I wanted him to look me up and see that I was a reputable doctor, not some scuzzy drug dealer looking for an illegal murder weapon.
He hopped off the porch and shook my hand. “I’m Harry Donohue.”
“I’m Emma.”
“Nice to meet you, Emma.” He pulled a small gun from his back pocket. “This here is the Glock forty-two from the listing. You know much about weapons?”
“A little.”
“This girl is a hair over four inches tall and just under six inches long. It holds six rounds of three-eighty ammo and weighs less than eighteen ounces. It’s perfect for deep conceal, but you gotta get yourself that conceal permit like I said on the phone.”
I nodded and smiled. “My husband’s a detective. He already explained it to me. I’ll head over to the sheriff’s office and do that next.”
“You know how to shoot?”
“Yep.” Nate had insisted I learn to use a gun when we first moved in together. He’d said that because he was a cop, there would always be weapons wherever he lived, and he wouldn’t feel comfortable until I learned how to handle one. He’d given me lessons at the shooting range until he’d declared me “competent.”
“Good, good.” A gust of wind blew hair into Harry’s eyes and he pushed it back. “Now, normally I don’t sell unless you already have a permit, but since your husband’s a cop, I’m sure he’ll make sure you get it.”
I gritted my teeth at his patronizing tone.
Harry handed me the gun, an ankle holster, and a small box of ammunition. I handed him an envelope with cash, and he counted it quickly.
“Make sure you apply for that permit,” he reminded me as I got in my car.
“I will,” I lied.
I slammed my door and started the engine, blocking out any more conversation. I pulled away too fast, the wheels of my car spinning on the wet gravel. I tapped the brakes, slowing to a crawl as I made my way down the road.
Just before I rounded the last corner, I glanced in my rearview mirror. I swallowed hard, my lungs suddenly feeling as if a vise were squeezing them.
Harry was still standing there staring after me, as if he was memorizing my face.
Or maybe just my license plate.
CHAPTER 30
“WELCOME TO YOUR PILLHEAD TOUR,” Ben said the next day.
He turned his van onto the eastbound highway, into the rural stretches along the foothills. The old van clunked and rattled as he shifted gears. I was in the middle, Gabe in the passenger’s seat.
The rugged, white-tipped Cascades soared above us. Soft streaks of sunlight slanted low across the horizon; a simmering excitement bounced between my shoulders. Oxy abuse had initially exploded in these remote communities only a few years ago. While it had spread to cities like Seattle, Tacoma, and Spokane, we didn’t have to go far to see its effects.
I checked my phone, aware that coverage out here could be spotty. I’d lied to the clinic and said I was staying home with Josh, then lied to Moira and said I was going to work, and if I was honest, it worried me a little. The trouble with lies is they breed like mice. You start with one, then you suddenly have a dozen, then two dozen. You tell lies to cover those lies, and more lies to cover them. Before you know it, the infestation has taken over.
Ben turned off the highway and wound along the hidden dirt roads that traversed the terrain of cool blue lakes, rushing rivers, and gullies carved into the mountain foothills.
“A guy named Paul lives there.” Ben pointed at a rusty single-wide trailer across the river. “He used to work in the tech industry. His company was about to go publ
ic when the dot-com bubble burst. He lost everything. He started working with a roofing company and fell off the third story of a building. Broke his back. He’s in chronic pain but can’t afford health insurance.”
“That’s so sad,” I murmured.
One of the most important things you learn in medical school is “do no harm.” But what should doctors do when our patients need something we know could potentially be harmful? It was a quandary for doctors: chronic pain versus addiction. If we prescribed the medicine that could help, our patients could become dependent. In trying to solve one problem, we simply created another.
We crossed a bridge and headed north, parallel to the river. Ben pointed at a tired-looking log cabin. “An Iraqi vet named James lives there. End-stage prostate cancer. Sometimes his insurance has problems authorizing his oxy. We help him when he needs it. Oh, and see that tent there? That’s where Kelly Anne lives.” He shivered as a private memory rolled over him. “She’s a skank. Stay away from her, or she’ll knife you in the back. We don’t deliver to her anymore.”
“How long have you been doing this?” I asked.
“Years. I had some suppliers a few years ago.” He snorted a laugh. “Before I went to prison, I mean. You wouldn’t believe, one of them was a grandma. She’d never done drugs, so she sold all her OxyContin to me, just to pay for all her other medication. But now we’ve got a doctor on board. And with the fentanyl, we can sell even more.” He smiled faintly, looking a little haunted for a minute. “Vi always said we were a boutique pill shop on wheels.”
Ben crossed a tall bridge and turned down an incline to a dirt road that held about a dozen trailers. He parked next to a neat single-wide with white and gray siding and a tiny brown porch and turned to me. “I want you to meet somebody.”
“No! Ben, I’m not meeting anybody!” I hissed, startled.
“Give it up, Emma. Nobody cares who you are.” He unbuckled and got out.
“Come on.” Gabe nudged me and got out the other side. “It doesn’t look too bad.”
Do No Harm Page 19