Stress Test

by Richard Mabry

  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 . . .”

  “I know what you meant. But now that we’re clear about where we stand, I don’t anticipate any further problems. If there are, though, remember one thing. The sleigh.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Matt was at his kitchen table, reading the paper and working on his second cup of coffee of the morning, when the ring of his cell phone interrupted his perusal of the sports page.

  “Good morning, Sandra.”

  “I take it caller ID gave me away?”

  Matt didn’t want to tell her he’d already assigned her number a special ring tone, the theme from Law and Order. “Uh, yeah, sort of. What’s up?”

  Although Matt’s short night had left him feeling groggy, Sandra sounded positively chipper this morning. “I wanted to see how you’re feeling this morning. In case you’ve forgotten, you were hit by a car less than twenty-four hours ago.”

  Matt moved in his chair, trying without success to find a more comfortable position. He felt as though he’d just finished two-a-day workouts with the Dallas Cowboys. “I’m a little sore, but nothing I can’t get through.” He went for the quick change of subject. “Anything new from the DA’s office?”

  “Haven’t tapped my sources yet this morning, but I doubt it. For now, don’t worry.”

  Words jumped to Matt’s tongue. Words like, “Easy for you to say,” and “You’re not the one facing a life sentence . . . or execution.” But he choked them back. He truly believed Sandra was totally on his side, and he had to trust her judgment. Instead he said, “I’ll try not to.”

  “Are you working tonight?”

  “Yes. Same shift as yesterday,” Matt said. “Do we need to get together sometime? I could meet you for lunch.”

  She hesitated, and he wondered if he’d crossed a line. Then he heard pages turning. She was checking her appointment calendar.

  “Sorry. I have court appearances later this morning, a luncheon meeting with another lawyer, and clients all afternoon.”

  “Oh, right. Maybe another time.” Matt tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Get over it. You’re not her only client. And your interest in lunch wasn’t really professional either. “So, I guess we’ll talk if either of us learns something about the case.”

  He ended the conversation but didn’t return immediately to the story he’d been reading. Regardless of the season, the sports news didn’t change much—some teams won, some teams lost, and somebody wanted more money. Come to think of it, life was sort of like that. And right now, he felt as though he was losing—big time.

  Matt spent the morning at his desk, surfing the web about petit mal seizures. He’d had no more “absence spells” since starting the medicine, but he knew that two doses probably wouldn’t be effective this quickly. Maybe his spells had been isolated instances. On the other hand, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that perhaps his head trauma and the surgery afterward had left him with brain damage that would cause long-term symptoms.

  Matt had a definite advantage over a lay Internet user—he knew to restrict his search to authoritative sites, such as those from medical institutions. The worldwide web was filled with posts from people with a personal or economic ax to grind. “Follow this diet . . .” “Take this naturopathic medication . . .” “Let our specialists evaluate your need for counseling and therapy.” No, he skimmed past those in a hurry.

  He looked at the textbooks filling the bookcase in the corner of his living room. They contained a great deal of information about general surgery: situations where surgery was indicated, the techniques of the various procedures, critical aspects of follow-up care. On top of the bookcase was an uneven pile of medical journals, some with dog-eared pages and yellow sticky notes marking papers Matt wanted to study further. But since his accident, his focus had shifted to neurology, a subject sorely lacking in his medical education and surgical training.

  An hour after he started, Matt leaned back and rubbed his eyes. It was time to come face-to-face with reality. Either his “absence spells” represented petit mal seizures caused by permanent damage to his brain, or they were transient late consequences of what was called “minimal brain injury” or MBI syndrome, although “minimal” was hardly appropriate in his case. He was hoping for the latter, because that problem might be a temporary one. The proper diagnosis would hinge on an EEG—what a layman would call a “brain wave” test. Presence of an abnormal focus in the brain would confirm petit mal seizures. If that happened, Matt would need to be on medication for an indefinite period. He would be restricted from driving. He’d have to alter his practice of medicine significantly—perhaps retrain in something like radiology or pathology, where a spell wouldn’t pose a risk to patients.

  Matt knew he ought to call Ken Gordon and report what was happening, but he knew where that would lead. Ken would order tests—an EEG, probably some others. That would settle the matter, but might also change Matt’s life forever. He reached for the phone but stopped with his hand in midair. He’d only had two spells. He was on the right kind of medicine to prevent further episodes. And he didn’t want to compromise the plan that had taken shape in his mind over the past few days.

  He felt sure that the people who framed him for the murder of Cara Mendiola were the ones responsible for his kidnapping and the home invasion that followed. Matt had no doubt they’d try again. He could never feel safe until his attackers were behind bars. And, since the police didn’t seem interested in taking his story seriously, Matt figured it was up to him. If they came after him—and, perversely, he hoped they would—he’d be ready. />
  Was this the result of watching too many John Wayne movies? Matt hoped not. But deep down he knew there’d be something very satisfying in bringing these men to justice while clearing his own name. His decision made, he logged off his computer and moved to the kitchen, where his medicine stood on the counter. Matt half-filled a glass with water and swallowed one of the capsules. God, if You’ll keep me healthy until I can do this, I’ll have the EEG and accept the consequences. He wasn’t sure God would be particularly pleased with the bargain he was trying to make, but it was the best Matt could do.

  If the way to catch the men who wanted to kill him involved his being bait in a trap, so be it. But this time he was going to be prepared when that trap sprang. Back in the living room, he picked up a gym bag he’d pulled from the attic and started packing it with things necessary to put his scheme into action.

  The best place to catch him would be after work, in the dark parking garage. His schedule put him in that location on a regular basis. They’d tried once to get him there. He found himself hoping they’d try again.

  He’d be vulnerable to a bullet during the walk to his car. It had been surprisingly easy to buy a Kevlar vest at a supply store near police headquarters. It would be hot and uncomfortable, it wouldn’t protect against a head shot, and Matt realized he’d be tempted to stop wearing it after a few times. But he hated to leave any loopholes for a would-be attacker. He shoved the vest into the bag.

  Matt intended to be careful, to not let anyone sneak up on him again, but if they did, the pepper spray from this small cylinder could reach up to ten feet and immobilize an attacker long enough for Matt to subdue him. For that he had plastic handcuffs, the type used by police when making mass arrests. They didn’t clink like metal cuffs, took up very little room in his pocket, but would secure a man for as long as necessary.

  If the attacker got the upper hand and Matt was bound with duct tape, he was ready to free himself this time. To the contents of the bag, he added a disposable scalpel, the blade protected by a plastic shield. Not only would the scalpel cut through tape, the surgical knife would be an effective weapon in close quarters. He’d tape it to his ankle each night.

  Finally Matt planned to wear cargo pants, buttoning his cell phone into one of the outer pockets so he couldn’t lose it.

  There it all was, the equipment Matt hoped to use to catch his attacker. It reminded him of that passage in the Bible that talked about putting on the armor of God. Well, he planned to be armed—armed and dangerous. Now all he had to do was wait for his attacker to take the bait.

  The little deli on Commerce Street was packed. It was a favorite place for lawyers and staff from the nearby court building to snatch a quick lunch. Patrons were crowded in like a New York subway car during rush hour, but the roar of a hundred voices was as effective as white noise, providing privacy for conversations like the one Sandra was concluding with another lawyer.

  “So it’s settled. We’ll see if the DA will try both cases jointly,” Sandra said.

  “And you’ll take the lead.”

  Sandra dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a paper napkin. “Make sure it’s okay with your client.”

  Larry Vanover smiled at her from across the table. “It’ll be okay. I don’t mind being second chair when both our clients are facing twenty to life. Not if the best defense attorney in the state is working with me.” He reached for the check. “Guess this is an expense I can bill to my client . . . unless you have one you’d rather charge for it.”

  That sent Sandra’s mind scanning over the case files currently on her desk. Certainly, the most important one was Matt’s. She hoped Elaine would have some news for her tonight about the DA’s plan to take the case to the grand jury.

  “Uh, earth to Sandra,” Larry said. “You just went somewhere. Want to share the journey?”

  Sandra shook her head. “Sorry. I was thinking about a particular case.”

  “Want to bounce anything off me? You know I’d keep the information in confidence, sort of a lawyer-to-lawyer consultation. I wouldn’t even bill for it, if you’ll have dinner with me.”

  “Sorry, Larry. I can’t discuss it. And thanks for the invitation, but I’m going to pass.”

  Larry dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then tucked it under the edge of his plate. “Okay, but I’m going to keep asking.”

  This was probably the third time Larry Vanover had asked her out. The first time, she’d been seriously involved with Ken Gordon. The second invitation had come shortly after her breakup with Ken, and at that point she wasn’t ready to date again. But why didn’t she accept this bid? Larry was a successful attorney, handsome, witty, and unmarried. He was obviously interested in her. What kept her from going out with him?

  Matt.

  They rose from the table, which was occupied by two more lawyers before the busboy could finish cleaning it. Sandra thanked Larry for lunch, assured him she’d call soon, and headed back to her office, navigating the six blocks on automatic pilot as she tried to sort out her feelings for her client.

  Lou leaned against the wall in Edgar’s little hole-in-the-wall apartment, preferring not to risk his bulk on the room’s one spindly chair. “We’ll do it tonight. I’ll come by for you at ten.”

  “What’s up?” Edgar asked.

  “We’re gonna pay a visit to our old friend Dr. Newman.”

  “We tried that once,” Edgar half-whined. “Lucky to get away. Why are we going in there again?”

  “Because the boss said so.” Seeing Edgar’s expression, Lou decided some reassurance was in order. “It’s different this time. Here’s the deal. We park a couple of blocks away. We do our thing to get us past his locks. When he comes home we’re waiting for him. He opens the door, we’re ready, he’s not.”

  Edgar nodded and licked his lips. “Yeah, and odds are he won’t have a gun in his hand this time.”

  “But I will,” Lou said. “I’ll put a couple of bullets into him. Stuff some hundreds in his pocket, break open a baggie of something and spill it near him. Then we split and let the police take it from there.” He smiled and spread his palms. “The police write it off as a drug deal gone bad. He’s dead, so they hang Mendiola’s murder on him and close the case. No more heat around Metropolitan Hospital, and everything’s back to normal.”

  Edgar chewed on that for a minute. “Sounds perfect. Real genius.”

  “That’s why he’s the boss,” Lou said. “Do you have that handgun lined up? Revolver, automatic—doesn’t matter.”

  “Uh. Sure.”

  Lou handed him a hundred. He was betting Edgar would bring one of his own guns and pocket the money. Even better. “Bring it tonight. We’ll put it by Newman’s hand, make it look like he was going to shoot.” Lou handed Edgar more bills. “I need you to pick up a bag of crank and one of H. We’ll use those tonight.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I said so,” Lou said, effectively ending the conversation. “I’ll see you at ten.”

  “Dr. Newman, this is Randy Harrison. He’s a second-year medical student. He’d like to shadow you on your shift tonight, if that’s okay.”

  The nurse apparently took Matt’s nod as confirmation. She turned away, her white Reeboks squeaking on the polished floor.

  The young man wore a hospital scrub suit partially covered by a short white coat of the style favored by pharmacists and students in some medical schools. “I appreciate this,” he said. “I’ll know more after I get into my clinical years, but I’m interested in emergency medicine as a career. And I figured I’d like to get a taste of it now.”

  Matt looked him up and down. Light brown hair, cut short and neatly combed. Metal-rimmed glasses, functional rather than some of the designer frames that were so popular. Squared-away was the phrase that came to Matt’s mind. “Okay, here are the rules. I’ll tell patients you’re a med student, observing unless they have an objection. They almost never do. Then—”

  “I know. Keep my eyes op
en, my mouth shut, and we’ll talk later.”

  Maybe this wouldn’t be as much trouble as Matt feared. “Exactly. Let’s get started.”

  After a bit Matt and Randy had seen a representative sample of patients for a Friday late evening in a large city emergency room: injuries from sprains and bruises to broken bones, belly pains caused by everything from indigestion to appendicitis, and all manner of respiratory infections. So far there’d been no motor vehicle accidents, and only one heart attack victim, an elderly man obviously dead on arrival.

  “Learn anything?” Matt asked as they grabbed a cup of coffee in the break room.

  Randy made a face. “Well, I know that the coffee in this ER is as bad as what we get back at Parkland Hospital. Other than that, it’s been good to see—”

  “Dr. Newman.” The nurse stuck her head through the doorway. “Young male with severe flank and groin pain. Says he’s had kidney stones before and thinks he’s having an attack now.”

  Matt pulled aside the curtain to the cubicle where the patient lay still and was greeted with moans, curses, and imprecations. “I’m Dr. Newman.” He nodded toward Randy. “He’s a medical student who’s—”

  “I don’t need your life histories!” the man almost screamed, now writhing on the gurney so hard that Matt thought he might fall off despite the safety rails. “I need something for this pain! I’ve had it before. I can probably recognize renal colic better than either of you. Just give me some Demerol. Please, something for the pain!”

  Matt leaned closer so he could keep his voice low. “Mr.—” He consulted the clipboard the nurse had handed him. “Mr. Glover, we need to find out what’s going on. The sooner we make the diagnosis, the sooner we can give you something to help. We’ll start an IV to give you some fluids, and then they’ll take you around the corner to radiology for a special X-ray called a CAT scan. If you have a kidney stone, we’ll see it there.”

  By now the nurse was standing behind Matt. He turned to her. “Start an IV with Ringer’s, and get him to radiology for a CT of the abdomen. Rule out kidney stone.”