by Cate Beauman
Two mostly sleepless nights were starting to take their toll. By the time the police made it to the clinic, snapped their photos of the destruction, took Shane’s statement, and helped him secure plywood over the clinic’s damaged doorway, it had been after two. Convincing Jenny it was safe to go back to bed had been another feat until Shane offered up his room to the entire crew. An hour after Kentucky State Troopers left the cabin, they finally went to bed. For the sake of Jenny’s comfort, three adults and one infant roughed it on a queen-sized mattress with her and Shane squished, almost falling off their prospective edges, while Jenny and Faith slept deeply until sunrise.
Her gaze met Shane’s more than once throughout the wee hours of the morning as she listened to the creaks and cracks of the settling cabin and occasional rush of wind among the trees. His bold green eyes held hers, unreadable in the shadowy light shining in from the hallway, while tension hung thick in the room.
Their argument earlier in the day had been overshadowed by the events of the evening, but not forgotten. He’d hurt her with his callous words and indifference. He’d shrugged off her problems as if they were nothing, as if potentially misdiagnosing not one but four patients was no big deal. Shane expected her to turn her head and look the other way, but that wasn’t who she was or how she worked. Shane was worried there might be more to the entire situation than what they were seeing, but that mattered little to her. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d stepped on toes or pushed back to get the right results. She was a healer. She couldn’t and wouldn’t let the matter go until she knew for sure Henry and the others were getting the best course of treatment for a proper diagnosis.
Doctor Jacobson had hinted her concerns were nothing more than egocentric; Shane had basically done the same, but it wasn’t true. If she was honest with herself—and there was no other way to be—she could admit that this entire situation shook her to her core, fueling her self-doubt further and making her question everything about herself professionally. But at the end of the day, this was about four men—probably more—in need of help.
Shortly after she’d kicked Shane out of her room yesterday, she got back to work, losing herself in her research. Instead of focusing on black lung itself, she moved to the cause—coal dust. After hours of digging, she’d come across several of Corpus Mining’s older safety records, noting the facility did indeed have an excellent track record—impeccable even. So where did her patients contract their disease?
“In one mile, arrive at destination on left,” the GPS told her as she guided the Pajero around another sharp curve, sighing when she passed a neighborhood and gas station. “Civilization.” Twice in two days she had the opportunity to be out and about. Yesterday she’d been too focused on her meeting with Doctor Jacobson to enjoy her proximity to an actual store, but today was a different story.
She glanced left and right, smiling when she spotted a full-sized grocer, then the strip mall. She peeked at her watch, tempted to stop in and find something special to bring home for everyone, but it was twelve thirty and she had no idea where Doctor Schlibenburg’s home was.
“Later,” she promised herself as she pulled into the gas station and parked, dialing the number she called yesterday. The line rang four times, then five, and she nibbled her lip. What if he’d changed his mind and didn’t answer?
“Hello?”
She sighed a quiet breath of relief. “Dr. Schlibenburg, this is Reagan Rosner. I’ve made it to Berea.”
“You’re early.”
“Yes. I didn’t want to be late. I’m not exactly sure where you live. If you give me your address, I can punch it into my GPS. I’m at the Gas-n-Go on Third Street.”
“Are you alone?”
She frowned as she tried to ignore the wave of discomfort, remembering Jenny’s fears about the mystery man she was meeting being some sort of nut job. “Yes.”
“Did you tell anyone you were coming?”
Her brows drew further together in the uncomfortable silence, debating whether or not to be truthful. Saying yes might prompt him to cancel their appointment, but if he was a whacko, she wanted him to be aware that someone knew where she was. “Yes. The man in charge of security for The Appalachia Project knows I’m here. He’s a former US Marshal—Fugitive Task Force. He hunted and apprehended criminals for several years,” she added for good measure. “He won’t tell anyone, Doctor Schlibenburg,” she said when the line stayed quiet.
“Follow Route Twenty-One west for seven miles. Turn left on Corville Road.”
“I have a GPS,” she reminded him.
“I will give you the directions myself.”
Reagan scrambled for a pen and grabbed the gas receipt Shane left in the console, scribbling down the directions. “Route Twenty-One, seven miles. Left on Corville.”
“Travel one mile,” he continued. “Take another left on Dean’s Pike and the next immediate left for three miles, where I will wait for you.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Dr. Schlibenburg hung up, and she pulled the phone away from her ear, blowing out a long breath at the abrupt end to their call. If this man wasn’t well respected and known for his brilliant research, she might have listened to Jenny’s pleadings to stay home and paid more attention to Shane’s long, disapproving looks at the breakfast table.
Dismissing Jenny and Shane’s concerns as paranoia, she eased back into traffic, following the directions she’d been given. Minutes later she turned on the road that had to be Doctor Shlibenburg’s driveway, seeing that the dirt path twisted off into the trees far beyond. Glancing around, she realized there wasn’t another house anywhere to be seen. She put her hand on the gearshift knob, half intending to reverse, when the laptop case full of charts in need of answers caught her attention. “Stop being a baby,” she murmured and picked up her phone, dialing the cabin.
“Hello?” Shane’s deep voice answered.
“Hey. I just wanted to let you know I made it. I thought you might want the directions.”
“If you’re calling to give them to me I should probably write them down.”
She pressed her lips together, reading his snarky tone loud and clear. They hadn’t said much to each other since their quick conversation in the dark by the vandalized clinic. “Never mind.” She moved to end their call.
“Wait. Doc.”
She put the phone back to her ear. “What?”
“Give me the directions.”
“Route Twenty-One to Berea. West for seven miles after the Gas-n-Go. Take a left on Corville. After a mile, take another left on Dean’s Pike, then the immediate right and travel three miles.”
“Got it. He gave you an hour?”
“Yes.”
“I want to hear from you by two-fifteen or I’m calling the cops and sending them your way.”
Knowing Shane would be watching the clock comforted her. “I’m sure I won’t need them, but thanks. I should go.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” She ended the call and took her foot off the brake, more relaxed now that Shane knew where she would be. Her phone rang again, and she stopped. “Hello?”
“You’re out in the middle of nowhere.”
She looked around at the wall of trees as thick here as they were at the clinic. “Tell me about it.”
“This isn’t a good idea, Doc.”
She didn’t want to argue again. “I have to do this. It’s only an hour.”
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you to keep your keys in easy reach. And a solid knee to the balls would give you plenty of time to run.”
She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind, but Dr. Schlibenburg is in his sixties, and I’m running late.”
“There’s always time for general safety tips.”
Faith cooed in the background.
“Oh, Faith says an elbow to the nose works well too.”
Helpless to his charm, she grinned, despite wanting to hold on to her hurt feelings. “Tell her I said thanks.”<
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“Take care of yourself, Doc.”
“I’ll call you in an hour and fifteen—okay, probably a little longer than that, but sometime in that ballpark.”
“See ya.”
“Bye.” She started on her way, shaking her head and chuckling, well aware that it was getting harder to resist the man handing out tidbits of self-defense advice. Shane’s easy humor had once again defused a touchy situation. Her smile disappeared, knowing his time here in Kentucky was quickly coming to an end. In just a couple weeks he would be heading back to LA. But now wasn’t the time to worry about that.
She pulled around the circular drive and stopped in front of the large two-story house painted a dark chocolate brown with black shutters. Interesting color choice.
Leaning over to the floor of the passenger’s seat, she gathered her bag and purse, sliding her phone in the front pocket where she could easily grab it should the need arise. She righted herself, gasping and jumping when the tall, thin man with short, spiky white hair and wire-rimmed glasses appeared by the driver’s side door. Smiling, she stepped out in another professional outfit—tailored navy blue slacks, matching heels, and a white spaghetti-strap top. “Doctor Schlibenburg, I’m Reagan Rosner.”
He took her hand for a quick shake. “Doctor Rosner. Please come.”
Her smiled dimmed as he turned and started toward the front door.
“Your home is lovely—very secluded, peaceful.” She followed him up the steps and through the door where he proceeded to twist three locks into place. “And secure.” She swallowed, trying to smile again.
He glanced at his watch. “Time is wasting.”
“Yes.”
He moved to the spacious living room where the curtains were drawn. “Sit, please. Tell me what it is you need exactly.”
She studied the man who had been revered as one of the best pulmonologists in the US as he sat on the cushion next to her, his discomfort apparent with each shove of his hand through his hair while his eyes darted from one concealed window to the next. “I um—I brought along the files I’m hoping you might be able to look at.” She pulled out the films.
Dr. Schlibenburg snatched the first image from her, holding it up to the lamp as he turned it on. “Progressive massive fibrosis.”
She blinked at his rapid-fire answer. “What?”
“This patient has an advanced case of progressive massive fibrosis.”
Her eyes watered with his confirmation. She wasn’t wrong. Coming here and seeking answers had been exactly right. “Are you—are you sure?”
“Yes. The right lung is full of fibroids. The left is quite bad as well. The diagnosis is unmistakable. Your patient will soon suffer the effects of heart failure if he hasn’t already.”
“Okay.” She pulled out the next x-ray. “What about this one?”
He held it up. “Yes. Not as severe, but it will be in time.”
“Yes,” she repeated, closing her eyes. Finally. After all the research and time, she would get the help she needed.
“The more white we see the more fibroids.” He pointed to the thick circles among the cobweb-like structures filling the lung cavity. “He also has classic tissue shrinkage, indicating a worsening condition.”
“That x-ray belongs to a twenty-two-year-old man.”
Doctor Schlibenburg’s gaze whipped to hers before he gave his attention back to the film. “Give me the next.”
She presented Doctor Schlibenburg with another film and another until all four patients’ images had been studied and discussed.
“Definitive black lung, different extremes, but progressive massive fibrosis all the same.” He turned off the lamp, sending the room into shadows as he handed back the last film. “Your findings are correct, Doctor Rosner.”
“So what should I do? The pulmonologist I’ve referred all four of these men to has diagnosed that first patient—the only one of the four he’s seen so far—with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”
“Yes.”
“But he has complicated black lung.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. Why wasn’t he surprised? Why wasn’t he concerned? “Dr. Schlibenburg, I don’t understand.”
“Is your patient a smoker?”
“Yes. He was,” she corrected. “Until a few weeks ago. All of the men are—two packs a day, a couple even three.”
“For how long?”
She looked at her notes. “Henry started smoking when he was twelve, so forty years. The other patients vary from five to twenty years.”
“Forty years of smoking. Twenty years underground in the mines.”
“A recipe for bad lungs,” she said.
“Smoking is the primary risk factor of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease.”
“Yes. Eighty percent of COPD deaths are due to smoking.”
“These are high numbers.”
“They are,” she agreed.
He nodded.
She waited for him to expand on his statements. “Doctor Schlibenburg, I feel like we’re speaking in riddles. These men have black lung, not COPD. I’ve been doing research into the mine—”
He made a loud, strangling sound in his throat as he stood.
She stared at him as he paced around. Perhaps she’d solved the mystery to the doctor’s sudden retirement. He’d clearly lost his mind. “Doctor Schlibenburg—”
“These days the mines are more rock than coal.”
She nodded. “Coal is growing scarcer. Machines are grinding into the rock to get to the coal seams and are releasing silica into the air.”
“Silica dust is more dangerous than coal dust. It’s an accelerative factor when lung disease is already present.” He picked up a glass vase on the side table and set it back down with a snap, moved to the bookshelf and did the same with an angel knickknack. “It exacerbates poor conditions.”
“Which doesn’t make any sense. All four patients have spent their entire career with this one mine. Corpus Mining has an exemplary record, and has for years.”
He hurried to the picture on the wall, straightening the already straight frame.
She tucked the hair that escaped her updo behind her ear, struggling to concentrate on their odd conversation while he scurried about the room. “I uh, I discovered the name of the physician on staff at the mine while Mr. McPhee Senior ran the company and for the next few months after his death—Doctor Paul Pattel—”
He puffed out a loud breath, making her jump.
“Do you know him?”
“I did.”
“Doctor Hargus, the mine’s current doctor, won’t return my calls. I was thinking of reaching out to Doctor Pattel—”
The mantel clock struck two. He whirled, facing her. “Time is up.”
“But I still need answers.”
“I’ve given them to you. Your patients have advanced black lung.”
“That’s only a small part of my problem. None of the pulmonologists I’ve spoken to will look at the x-rays.”
“Black lung is not a popular diagnosis.”
“But it is their diagnosis. These men need care. Their families are entitled to compensation.”
Dr. Schlibenburg looked from the mantle clock to his watch. “Time is up, Doctor Rosner.”
“I’m asking for your help. You can help me, Doctor Schlibenburg. You’re well versed in pneumoconiosis. There are rumors you were going to publish some sort of article—”
“Not everyone wants to hear what I have to say.”
“I do.”
“It’s time for your departure.” His voice sharpened.
She gathered her items as he became more agitated, leaving the x-rays behind, hoping he might reconsider. “I need your help. These men need your help.”
“There is nothing I can do.”
She stood and walked hurriedly to the door as he dragged her forward by the arm. “Please.” She yanked away from his hold. “The article you were going to release, it was about
progressive massive fibrosis.”
“It’s after two.” He unlocked the door.
“Can I get a copy? Maybe the information would—”
“No,” his voice rose again in a quick bark.
“It would stay between us. Your knowledge—”
“I can do nothing more for you, Doctor Rosner. I’ve already done too much.”
“You’ve given me nothing. I have valid diagnoses but can’t do anything with them.”
“Goodbye, Doctor Rosner.” He twisted the locks, grabbed her by the elbow, and shoved her outside.
She stumbled forward, catching herself on the railing before she fell. Staring at the closed door, she glared as her heart pounded, more shaken than she cared to admit. Her cell phone rang on the way down the steps, and she stifled a small scream. Walking to the SUV, she pressed “talk.” “Hello.”
“You’re still in one piece.”
She started the vehicle and followed the circular drive, spotting Doctor Schlibenburg watching her from the corner of one of his drawn curtains. “I am. I’m on my way back now.”
“How’d it go?”
She shook her head, trying to make sense of whatever that was. “Not well.”
“Doctor Jacobson was right.”
Shane’s assumptions irritated her. “No, he wasn’t.”
“So it is black lung?”
“Yes.” She accelerated, a good ten miles per hour over the speed limit when she hit the main road, wanting to distance herself from the odd man.
“But your meeting didn’t go well?”
“Not particularly.”
“You lost me, Doc.”
She huffed out a breath. “It’s complicated. I should go. I’ll be home in an hour.” She passed the stores she no longer cared to stop at and picked up speed even more as she left the center of town.
“See you when you get here.”
“Bye.” She hung up and tossed the phone in the front seat, following the road mindlessly for miles as she attempted to understand what she couldn’t explain to Shane. Her patients had progressive massive fibrosis, but there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Doctor Jacobson refused to acknowledge the findings, and no one else would touch it, including the biggest name in pulmonology. Her patients had worked or currently worked in a mine with an exemplary health and safety record, yet a twenty-two-year-old had a disease that shouldn’t have showed up in his lungs for years to come, if at all.