by Allen Wyler
“What?”
“What has he told you about the problems he’s having at work?”
She hesitated. “That’s a leading question, Mr. Ferguson. What did you have in mind specifically?”
“He tell you we—the FBI—suspect there’s a problem with their computerized record system? That it may be responsible for a recent death of one of his patients?”
She frowned. “He mentioned something about a problem, but we’ve not seen that much of each other. We’re separated.”
Ferguson nodded. “Yes. That’s part of the problem. You see we were notified of the complication through the NIH. For reasons I won’t bore you with, we’re investigating any leads that suggest a software bug in the system. Because it involved your husband’s patient I contacted him but because of his past encounter with the Bureau, he has been unwilling to assist us.”
“What does this have to do with me?’
“I’m hoping you’ll help me convince him to help us.”
“I don’t know if I can. We’re not seeing each other right now.”
Ferguson studied her a moment, wondering if she too blamed the FBI for the disastrous outcome of Tyler’s last encounter with federal law enforcement. “I understand the feeling you and Tyler have about how the California debacle ended up, but if it’s any consolation, I know Tyler didn’t steal those drugs.”
She stared back at him. “What did you just say? He didn’t make up that story … the drug thing, it wasn’t true?”
He wasn’t sure if she just referred to the forged prescriptions or not. “I’m not sure I follow. What drug thing?”
She flashed a look of confused relief. “He didn’t tell you about the drugs in his locker?”
“No. Tell me about them.”
SOON AS FERGUSON was out the door, Nancy went straight to the wall phone, a mixture of guilt and anger tugging at her heart. Anger at herself for not believing Tyler. She dialed his number and listened to it ring. By the tenth ring she thought it strange his answering machine hadn’t picked up.
Too upset to work now, she decided to go home and continue unpacking. She’d try again later.
CHRISTINE DIKMAN CLOSED the door to the Charge Nurse’s office and said to Tyler, “Thanks for coming, Dr. Mathews. I know you didn’t have to.” She wore purple scrubs, a stethoscope draped around her neck, and chestnut hair ponytailed with a rubber band. She was tall and skinny with a thin, attractive face he estimated had at least 15 years of nursing stress etched into it. She folded herself into a black task chair behind a utilitarian desk with a glowing LCD monitor. He took the only other chair, a simple maple one.
She looked at him. “Here’s the rest of the story I didn’t tell you over the phone. As I mentioned before, the parents don’t buy into the diagnosis. And after I finish telling you the whole story I want you to take a look at Toby.”
“But I’m not a hematologist.”
“You don’t have to be. Just take a look at him. You’ll see what I’m concerned about. I’ve taken care of a ton of leukemia kids and I know what the ones with their marrow shot to hell look like. He’s not one of them.” She glanced at the fingers of her right hand with a hint of regret he’d seen in nurses who scrub to often. “The parents rejected Sprague’s push for a bone marrow transplant and asked for a second opinion. Sprague felt the risk to Toby of leaving protective isolation was too great to have him obtain that from outside the hospital so another hematologist was brought in. Of course, all she did was look at the lab studies and agree with Sprague.” She opened a desk drawer, removed a plastic tube and squirted a dollop of white lotion on her palm.
“When it turned into a standoff Sprague contacted our in-house attorney who’s gotten a judge to issue an order for the transplant.”
“Oh Jesus. When is it going to take place?”
“Soon as Toby’s strep throat clears up. At least that’s the plan as it now stands.”
26
6:05 PM, SATURDAY
TYLER STOOD IN the entrance to his apartment building, and swiped the key fob over the security sensor. The front door lock responded with a metallic snap. He pulled open the glass door and entered the deserted lobby. The rain had picked up since leaving the funeral and the run from the parking lot across Third Avenue to his apartment building had drenched him, washing clumped strands of brown hair over his forehead. With a brisk swipe he pushed them straight back then headed to the wall of mailboxes.
“You should invest in a piece of property. A small house or condominium. Otherwise you are throwing away good money. Build up some equity,” his father had advised when hearing he’d rented an apartment in Seattle. The senior Mathews fancied himself Tyler’s personal financial advisor based on his status as department Chairman.
“But I don’t plan on staying there more than two years, Dad. You know that.” They’d discussed that particular strategy too. Numerous times. The MMC job would be Tyler’s ticket back into academic medicine. Or so he hoped. Now that hung in the balance.
Ignoring the elevators, he headed for the paneled exit door to the stairwell. Only four flights up to his floor and he needed the exercise. Starting up the bare concrete stairs he thought of Nancy again. Could Ferguson somehow help salvage the situation? He still hadn’t been able to reach him to negotiate a deal.
As usual, the hallway to his unit was deserted. Rarely did he see other tenants. He pushed open his apartment door, stepped inside and stopped, his hand frozen on the key still in the lock. Something felt wrong, out of place.
After folding the key back into the wallet, he slowly closed the door and stood very still searching his senses for what seemed odd. A deep sense of foreboding mushroomed beneath his diaphragm making it difficult to suck in a full breath. His heart accelerated.
“Trust no one.” “Sergio Vericelli was found dead in bed. We’re looking into a needle mark on his arm.”
A chill tickled the spine between his shoulders.
Only paranoia? he asked himself.
No. Something was wrong and in the next instant he knew exactly what. A trace of stale nicotine floated in the air. The kind that clings to smokers’ clothes.
Did the manager come in for some reason?
Heart racing, nerves tingling, he stepped cautiously into the living room and surveyed his meager furnishing. Nothing looked disturbed. Then again, he wasn’t a Martha Stewart grade housekeeper.
A floorboard creaked. His head snapped around toward the bedroom. Two men shot forward, each grabbing one of Tyler’s wrists. They jerked his arms behind him and before he could react, kicked the back of his knee buckling his leg, dropping him to the floor. He screamed in pain and fear as a clear plastic bag—the kind used to sheath laundered shirts—slipped over his head. Lungs now empty, Tyler gasped for air but the thin plastic barrier snapped taut over his open mouth and flared nostrils. Another bolt of adrenaline shot into him. He would suffocate if they kept it on.
He struggled with the strength fear of impending death provokes, but both men outweighed him by at least 20 pounds and each one had an arm pinned to the floor. He bucked, swinging up his feet to kick at their heads and missed. One man moved over him, straddling his hips and twisting his wrist into a painful position.
Tyler tried to buck the man off, but his vision began dissolving into a pinhole as his consciousness ebbed away.
TYLER SURFACED FROM darkness, both lungs filled with precious air. A bad dream? Was that what it’d been? His eyes cracked, saw the familiar ceiling above his bed. He tried to move, to turn over, but was stuck spread-eagled, arms and legs held rigid. Another wave of panic surged through his arteries.
“What the hell …” Tyler turned his head, looked over his right shoulder. One of the men was filling a syringe from a glass vial.
A hoarse voice whispered in his ear, “Shut up or I stuff this pillow down your throat.”
Tyler tugged at the restraints then noticed the padded leather. Exactly the same tethers used by hospitals. The kind that leave no mark
s. He still wore suit pants, but the coat was off, his right shirtsleeve rolled up past his elbow exposing a bulging vein.
A wave of cold tingling raced through him. “Jesus Christ, what the hell you doing?” He flashed on Michelle. Was this exactly what happened to her?
Syringe man said, “He warned you. Shut up.”
“Fuck that noise. Help!” he yelled as loud as possible, hoping a neighbor would hear.
A pillow slammed over on his face, then pressure over his mouth. Tyler tried to rock back and forth, but couldn’t free his mouth. Something sharp pierced at the skin over the vein. He tried to wiggle and dislodge the needle, but a cool sensation rushed upwards under the skin into his shoulder and then vanished.
27
HE TRIED TO scream, “No, don’t!” but it came out as a muffled grunt.
The pillow vanished. The panic and fear began evaporating into a warm, delightful cocoon of well-being.
“Who are you guys?” If he could get them talking me might negotiate something. Maybe they just wanted information.
The big one looked at the smaller one, asked, “How long?”
The other one said, “Couple minutes, more or less.”
Tyler asked, “This have to do with the medical records?” Strange, he thought, he no longer feared them even though he knew they meant him grave harm.
The first one bent over Tyler and studied his eyes. “Maybe a bit quicker, way he looks.”
Tyler watched the restraints vanish from around his wrists, then tried to hold up his arm and study the area they’d wrapped around but found he couldn’t even focus on the hairs on his arm no matter how hard he tried. Strange.
Through his muddled mind it dawned on him. They’d injected him with a narcotics overdose, just as someone had done to Michelle and then Vericelli. The drug effects were quickly hammering his brain into submission. First he’d slip into unconsciousness. Then, unable to support his respirations his breathing would become more and more shallow until it would cease altogether. He’d be dead in a few minutes. He fought the funny tingling starting in his lips and tried to refocus on his hand but was amazed to see his fingers holding the syringe. He let go, letting it roll of the bed. Too bad. Pick it up later. Instead, he struggled to prop himself on one elbow. “Please, don’t do this to me … I’ll tell you whatever you wanna know.”
“Know?” The big one continued collecting the leather restraints. He snickered. “We don’t want to know shit.”
Tyler let his heavy head flop back onto the soft pillow. That felt good. “But then … why?” Strange, they wore latex gloves.
“Are you religious?”
“What?”
“Because you got maybe twenty seconds before you’re out. After that? Hey, you’re dead.” With another laugh, he turned and followed his partner from the room.
Unable to sit, no longer caring that he couldn’t, Tyler nestled back onto the mattress and took comfort in knowing that in a few moments he’d discover the answer to a question that had subliminally bugged him almost 38 years now.
FAMILIAR SOUNDS BEGAN seeping into warm weightlessness … then vanished … then appeared: the steady bleep of a cardiac monitor, distant murmurs … Was this surgery? Should I be scrubbing? He wrestled with the sounds, trying to make sense of them. He could perform the surgery if he knew what the case was. Or was this just another variation on the recurring dream of being on campus and realizing in one hour he was due to take the final exam for a course he signed up for but somehow never attended?
“Tyler.”
Slowly rotating his head toward the familiar female voice he realized he was flat on his back, eyes closed, drifting somewhere north of semi-consciousness.
“Tyler.”
He willed his eyelids open a crack. They reflexively scrunched tightly shut from blinding light. He tried again, this time more slowly. Jill’s blurry face floated inches away, her eyes searching his. “Jill?” he croaked. His dry tongue flicked over equally dry, cracked lips. “Water.”
A smile curled the corners of her mouth. “Welcome back, Tyler. You had me worried for there for a while.”
He realized she was sitting by him in what looked like a familiar room, then realized why it seemed familiar. It appeared to be the Maynard Intensive Care Unit. What happened? Was I in an accident? He felt no discomfort other than a desire to shift positions and wet his mouth.
“Water.”
“Here.” She guided a white plastic straw between his lips. The tepid water came with a hint of plastic, but was wet and that’s what mattered. He let it fill his mouth before swallowing and tonguing the residual moisture over parched gums.
“More.”
She replaced the straw. “Easy. Don’t drink too much until you know your stomach can handle it.”
The details of the apartment struggle trickled back to him. “They tried to kill me,” he croaked.
“What?”
He glanced around again, then looked at the back of his hand. An IV obscured the injection site.
“What time is it?”
“A little after midnight.”
“Midnight! What day?” His voice cracked again. He tried to clear his desert dry throat.
“Sunday morning.”
He thought about that a moment.
“How did I get here?”
“When I didn’t hear from you by six o’clock I started to worry. By the time six thirty rolled around I was getting really worried. I tried calling but no one answered. Not even your answering machine came on. That’s when I really started to worry. So I came over to your apartment and had the manager let me in. Good thing I did because otherwise you might have checked out for good.” She paused, seemingly searching for difficult words. “Maybe this will be a lesson to you, Tyler. Maybe you should consider a drug rehab program.”
He palm-wiped his face, removing unseen cobwebs. “What?”
“You OD’ed. The ER doc says you must’ve miscalculated your dose.”
“Bullshit. I was attacked. Two men. They tried to make it look like an OD. Probably the same thing happened with Michelle.”
She seemed to study him a moment. “And you fought these two men?”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “There wasn’t any sign of a fight,” in the objective tone of a therapist. “They didn’t find any cuts or bruises on you and the room looked normal.”
“Goddamnit, they straightened up the room.”
“Oh, Tyler …”
“I’m telling you …” Her expression said it all. “Shit, you think I’m making this up!”
She sighed. “All I know is that if I hadn’t found you, you’d probably be dead by now. I’d hate to see that happen.” She took hold of his hand.
He tried to push up on his elbow but the room spun and his brain felt coated with more cobwebs. They probably gave him Narcan to reverse any narcotic, but who knew what other medications had been in the syringe. “They tox screen me?”
“Yes.”
“Know what they found?”
She nodded. “Fentanyl and a benzodiazepine.”
He considered that a moment. Good news and bad. He probably had a fair amount of tolerance for the benzodiazepine considering all the Ambien he’d downed over the months. Fentanyl—that was another matter.
“If you think I’m lying, check with the police. I bet it’s the same drug combination they found in Michelle’s blood. They killed her too.”
He sensed something in her body language. “What is it you’re not telling me?”
She straightened up, her face taking back the ice maiden expression. “When they admitted you through the ER? The staff recognized you.” She wrung her hands nervously. “Being an overdose, they had no recourse, Tyler.”
“What exactly are you telling me.”
“The fact that you were admitted with a narcotics overdose had to be reported to the Chief of Staff.”
There it was. His third strike. He’d lose this job, his license, his care
er. He was totally screwed.
Or was there something he could do? What if Ferguson verified his story? Wouldn’t that exonerate him? “Can you get me a telephone?” He scanned the room for his wallet with Ferguson’s card in it.
She placed her hand against his chest, gently pushing him back down onto the bed. “Hey, take it easy. I’ll see if I can get you a phone. In the meantime, just lay back and take it easy. Be back in a few minutes.”
He settled in against the pillow thinking he could call the main FBI number and tell whoever answered he needed to reach Ferguson for an emergency. Wasn’t sure if last try he’d mentioned an emergency … He closed his eyes praying the room would stop spinning.
TYLER SNAPPED WIDE awake with the sudden realization time had passed. How much? No way of knowing, but instinctively it felt like more than just minutes. He squinted into the darkened room. The recessed overheads were dimmed and it was complete darkness outside the tinted windows. Still early morning, he figured. Jill was gone, the chair empty. He sensed movement and looked right. In a shadowy corner stood a male in pale blue scrubs.
“What time is it?” Tyler asked the nurse.
“Oh, you’re awake.” The nurse approached the bed.
He sensed something familiar. What? “What time is it?” It hit him—the odor of stale nicotine. He felt his heart accelerate in his chest, heard it on the monitor. The fear fed on itself, making him push up on one elbow for a closer look.
“A little after three.” The nurse picked up the clear plastic IV line connecting a half-full saline bag to a vein in the back of Tyler’s right hand.
He noticed a large syringe in the nurse’s other hand. “What is that?” The fear gripping his heart intensified.
“A little medicine to help you relax.”
Something familiar in the man’s voice jolted Tyler further toward panic. He yanked his arm away and sat up. “I don’t need anything to relax. I want up and out of here.” He started to reach for the lock to lower the bed rails.