“Like what?”
“Freaked out about everything. Listen, in ten years you and your old man might be best friends, so just grin and bear it for one more Christmas. Aren’t you heading down to Florida, anyway? To hang with Gail?”
“Yeah, maybe. Let’s get a beer before I leave.”
“You’re not drinking beer before you drive a hundred miles.”
“Fine. Let’s get a burger.”
“What’s up with you? Your old man is a pain in the ass, but I’ve never seen you so messed up. Is it about Morton’s final?”
“I’ve gotta tell you something, and it’s gonna screw everything up.” Jack stared into the car and checked his watch. “Okay, let’s get lunch.”
They drove to McFadden’s and found a booth in the back. Boise State was playing Utah in a college bowl game, and several flat-screen televisions displayed the action. They ordered burgers and Cokes and stared at each other for a while, half watching the game until their food arrived.
“You’re weirding me out, man,” Jack finally said. “Spit it out, what’s on your mind?”
Brad took a swallow of Coke and washed down his burger. “Okay, here’s the deal. I think I’m in love with Becca.”
Jack’s forehead wrinkled and his eyebrows slowly elevated. “What?”
Brad nodded. “It’s totally screwed up, I know. But I needed to tell you. I want your advice.”
“On what?” Jack shook his head. “Say it again.”
“I love her. I’m . . . in love with her.”
“Okay, slow down, Brad. You’re not in love with Becca.”
“Don’t say that to me, Jack. You don’t know what’s been going on between us. I’m telling you. I’ve had these feelings for a long time.”
“How can you be in love with someone you’ve never dated or kissed or slept with? Maybe infatuated, but not in love.”
“Whatever. It’s complicated. We’re really close. She stays over all the time, and we talk until the sun comes up. I never told you about it because it’s a private thing between us. We went through a strange period where we stopped the sleepovers, whatever you want to call them. But lately, the last couple of weeks, we’re back at it. You know, we just talk all night. Last night we had this thing, I don’t know. Like a moment. Like we were about to tell each other how we felt. I know she feels the same way about me, but it’d be too complicated if we got together, you know? Neither of us knows where we’ll be next year. We’re friends, and she doesn’t want to screw that up.” Brad stirred his Coke with a straw. “I just wanted to give you a heads-up. My mind is spinning right now.”
Jack shook his head. “Give me a heads-up on what?”
“You know, with the four of us all being friends I think we both feel like it would screw things up, Becca and me. If we got together. But I don’t really care about that anymore. I hope it doesn’t bother you if Becca and I become . . . you know, start dating.”
“Slow down for a second.” Jack looked at his friend. “Did Becca tell you she felt the same way? That she wants to get together with you? Or date you. Or that she loves you?”
“No, I mean, not exactly. She tells me she loves me all the time, but she says that to everyone. I think she’s worried about the dynamics of our little group if she and I get together.”
Jack thought for a second. “You’ve got a lot going on, okay? You’re emotional about going home and dealing with your asshole father. You’re waiting to find out about law school. Maybe a little freaked out about next year. You just got done with finals and the whole Professor Morton thing. It all piles up.”
“None of that matters.” Brad shook his head. “I can stay up until dawn talking to her, and she totally understands what I’m going through with my father. She just, I don’t know, she just listens to me and understands me. She’s perfect for me and I know we’d be perfect together.”
“What if Becca doesn’t feel the same way?”
“I don’t know. It’s hard to explain, but I know she does. I guess I’m going to find out, anyway.”
“How?”
Brad shrugged. “I’m gonna tell her. Wait until we get back from break and then tell her how I feel.”
They finished their burgers and pretended to watch the bowl game.
“Okay,” Jack said. “Let things simmer for a couple weeks. We’ll talk after Christmas.”
“Yeah,” Brad said. “What time’s your flight?”
Jack checked his watch. “Soon. I’ve gotta run.”
They drove back to their apartment and Brad stopped in the parking lot. “I better hit the road. Have a good flight, and say hi to your parents.”
“I will,” Jack said. “Be nice to your old man, maybe he’s mellowed since Thanksgiving.” Jack stepped out of the car and held the door open.
“See you in a couple weeks,” Brad said.
“All right.” Jack closed the door and Brad backed into the street. The driver’s side window was open. “Hey, Brad,” Jack yelled from parking lot. “Don’t sweat it. This stuff has a way of working out.”
Brad waved and rolled the window up as he drove away.
Jack watched his roommate cruise down H Street, past the Cathedral buildings the campus was famous for, and then onto the boulevard that would take him to I-95 and eventually Maryland. Jack looked at his watch and scrambled up the steps to his apartment. He grabbed his stuffed duffle bag off the bed, threw it over his shoulder, flicked off the lights, and locked the door in a panic. He took the stairs two at a time and tossed his duffle into the back of his hubcap-less Volvo, then raced to the airport. His unexpected lunch with Brad put him an hour behind schedule and very late for his flight. His cell phone had buzzed five times in the last hour. He didn’t dare answer it, not with his mind running so fast.
He found a spot in the closest lot, which would cost him three times as much as the economy lot, but he had no time to catch the tram back to the terminal. A line of Christmas travelers zigzagged back and forth four times in front of the United desk. It was an easy thirty-minute wait to check in and Jack didn’t have that much time. He walked straight for the front of the line. A gray-haired man waited for the next clerk with his identification in hand and his roller suitcase stacked next to him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Jack said. His duffle bag was over his shoulder, his oxford shirt untucked and hanging below his jacket, and his finals week scruff trying to become a beard. An athlete his entire life, he had always managed to use his tall frame and broad shoulders as tools for comfort rather than intimidation. Today, he’d use his charm and good looks and physique in any way necessary to get on the plane. “My flight leaves in twenty minutes, can I please cut in front of you?”
The man looked annoyed, stared at the line behind him, and then motioned for Jack to head to the open counter.
“They’re already boarding,” the ticket agent said. “You might not make it through security and to the gate in time.”
Jack rolled his finger in a loop to hurry things along. “I’ll tr y.”
“Are you checking bags?”
“Not anymore.”
She tapped the keyboard with proficiency and printed the boarding pass. “B-6. Terminal two. I suggest you hurry.”
Jack grabbed his boarding pass and snaked his way to the front of the security line, raising insults from those he passed. “My flight’s boarding,” he told the people who confronted him. He threw his duffle and shoes onto the conveyor belt, dropped his shaving kit—containing razors, fingernail clippers, and other essential toiletries that would prevent him from making it through security—into the garbage. He made it through the metal detector on the first try, strapped his duffle bag over his shoulder, and ran in his socks to gate B-6. The seats outside the gate were empty.
“Here he is,” the gate agent said to her supervisor, who stood with a passenger list in her hand.
“Sorry,” he said, raising his shoes as he jogged to the counter.
“Thirty more s
econds and the doors were closing.”
“Thank you for waiting.”
They checked his ID and scanned the boarding pass. “15-E. It’s a full flight.”
“Thanks.” Jack trotted down the skyway, hopping as he pulled on his shoes, and smiled at the flight attendants who waited for him. He pulled his duffle bag from his shoulder and carried it in front of him as he walked down the narrow center aisle of the 737. He ignored the faces of the hundred people who stared at him, concentrating only on the person seated in seat 15-D. He saw her and smiled, and finally sat down with his duffle bag on his lap.
“What the hell?” Becca said. “They were about to close the door.”
“Sir, your bag will have to be stowed under the seat in front of you,” the flight attendant told him.
“Sorry.” He shoved the bag under the seat, taking deep breaths.
“And you’ll need to fasten your seatbelt.”
Jack smiled at the flight attendant and avoided eye contact with the surrounding passengers who stared at him. He buckled his belt.
“What happened?” Becca asked.
Jack pointed at his fastened seat belt and gave a thumbs-up to the flight attendant who was presiding over him. “Tell you later. But I’m gonna need to stop and get a toothbrush before we get to your house.”
“Are you that nervous to meet my parents?”
“Ah, a little nervous. Yes. And I need to shave when we land.”
Becca took his hand. “They’re going to love you.”
“They are?” Jack tried to catch his breath. “How do you know?”
She kissed his unresponsive lips. “Because I do. Now tell me why you’re late.”
PART II
SELF-HELP
CHAPTER 12
Kelsey Castle
Summit Lake
March 8, 2012
Day 4
Her conversation with Millie Mays was the first glimmer of light shed on the dark mystery of Becca Eckersley. Being married opened up a motive and created at least one suspect. That Becca eloped was another avenue she would need to pursue. But first, Kelsey wanted to figure out who this guy was, and if he had any reason to kill his new wife. With her mind racing around the fresh developments, Kelsey headed to the Water’s Edge restaurant to meet Peter Ambrose and see if he came through with the medical records and autopsy report.
She turned down a side street off Maple and found the restaurant on the corner. Peter was already seated at a table by the window and waved when she entered.
“Hi,” Kelsey said as she walked over.
“Hi,” Peter said, pointing to the chair across from him. Out of his scrubs now, he wore a blue sport coat over a Ralph Lauren button-down.
Kelsey, too, had changed for this dinner meeting into slacks and high heels. She wore a white blouse under a gray blazer, and had swiped her eyelashes with mascara and pulled her hair back before leaving the Winchester.
“Thanks again for doing this for me, Dr. Ambrose,” she said.
Peter waved as he sat down. “Call me Peter. And don’t thank me yet.”
Had they not been about to discuss a young girl’s death, they looked very much like two young professionals on a dinner date. With a sharp angled jaw and crisp, hazel eyes, Peter Ambrose was attractive. And if Kelsey didn’t want to admit that she noticed his good looks, she would have to find another reason to explain why she’d applied bronzer and lipstick for the first time in over a month.
“What’s wrong? Couldn’t find anything?”
“No, I found quite a bit. But it wasn’t easy. Someone’s trying to keep the details of the case quiet.”
“Yeah? That’s what the police chief told me.” Kelsey draped her purse over the back of the chair. “The District Attorney’s office thinks the Summit Lake police force is without the resources and know-how to handle a homicide, so the state detectives took over up here.” She pulled her chair in. “What did you find with the medical records?”
“Getting my hands on this information was not easy, and I wasn’t able to get everything you asked for.”
“Why was it so hard?”
“The medical records should be easily accessible through our electronic medical records system, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t have to jump through hoops to find out about the night Becca Eckersley was brought to the ER. Her file was elevated, which means very few people have access to it. No nurses—or any paramedical staff—are able to pull up her file, and very few physicians. I had to dig for a password before I could get to her records.”
“Sorry to put you out, I thought you’d just pull a file. I hope I’m not getting you in any trouble.”
Peter shook his head. “Everything’s electronic now. Pulling a file anymore means looking it up on a computer. And I have the clearance, I’ve just never had to use it before.”
The waitress came over. “Can I start you with a drink?”
“Sure.” Kelsey looked at the table and saw Peter had a glass of wine in front of him. “I’ll have a glass of wine.”
“Sauvignon blanc,” Peter said.
The waitress smiled and left.
“You’re a surgeon, right?” Kelsey asked. “I did a little background on you.”
“Trained as a surgeon, yes. General surgery. But since taking this job, I feel like I do more administrative work than surgery.”
“Are there many surgical cases up here in the mountains? I’d think with that specialty you’d want to be in an urban location.”
“I was. For a few years I ran the surgery department at St. Luke’s in New York.”
“So why are you up here pushing papers?” Kelsey asked.
Peter smiled.
“Sorry,” Kelsey said. “I’m used to interviewing people, so I sometimes have trouble conversing without drilling for information.”
“No, it’s a good question. But there are cases up here. People have a way of finding you. I was getting burned out in New York. Too many cases, too many hours, too much stress. We’re a much smaller operation up here, but the cases we handle are still complicated and challenging. I can concentrate on each patient more closely, without delegating so much off to residents and fellows.”
“You have a family?”
“No. Well, a wife.”
“How is she adjusting to the move up here?”
Peter pursed his lips in a reluctant smile. “Sorry. Ex-wife.” Peter broke eye contact and stared at his wine, grabbed the stem, and swirled it. He took a sip. “Still piecing things together.”
The waitress delivered Kelsey’s wine and took their dinner orders.
“I was offered this job and decided it would be good for me to get out of New York for a while. I know people say otherwise, but no marriage ends well.”
“Sorry, Peter.”
He smiled again. “I’m not the first divorced surgeon the world has ever seen. I’ll be okay. Here, let me show you what I found.” Peter pulled a thin manila folder from his leather bag. “These are the notes from the night the girl was brought to the ER. I printed them out.” Peter handed the pages to Kelsey. “You can’t keep these, but you’re welcome to look at them here.”
Kelsey took the packet and read through the emergency room physician’s notes.
“Help me out here,” Kelsey said. “Some of it’s medical jargon I don’t understand.”
“I looked through the records this afternoon,” Peter said. “The Eckersley girl was brought by ambulance to the ER and arrived at about 10:00 p.m. Really bad shape. Her biggest problem being a fractured trachea.”
“Her neck was broken?”
“Windpipe was crushed. She was strangled.”
Kelsey blinked several times as she processed this. Peter continued. “Most deaths from strangulation are caused from asphyxiation. The assailant clamps their hands around a victim’s neck hard enough to stop airflow through the windpipe—the trachea—and if this is done long enough it causes a lack of oxygen to the brain and organs, and eventual d
eath. In Becca Eckersley’s case, the assailant did this in such a ruthless manner that her trachea collapsed.”
Kelsey made an ugly face. “That’s terrible.”
“Terribly brutal, yes. And when she arrived at the hospital that night there was very little the doctors could do. The EMTs had started a tracheotomy, which was the correct measure to take, just too late.”
“What’s that?”
“A trach? They put a hole in her throat. When they realized her windpipe was fractured, and they weren’t able to push air into her lungs through her mouth as they normally would do, the EMTs attempted to intubate—insert a tube into her throat to deliver oxygen to the lungs—but were unable to accomplish this because of the fracture. Instead, they made an incision in her throat below the fracture to gain access to the undamaged segment of the trachea. They administered oxygen through a pump bag. When they arrived at the hospital, she had only a faint pulse. The ER staff continued working on her. Had her stabilized for a while, but she was just too far gone. They managed to keep her alive until her parents arrived. She died the next morning.”
The waitress delivered their salads and Kelsey pushed hers aside. “Sorry,” she smiled at Peter. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Probably a bad idea to do this over dinner.”
Kelsey shook her head. “I didn’t know it was this brutal.”
“Let’s take our drinks to the bar. Sound better?”
Kelsey crinkled her nose. “Much.”
Peter talked to the waitress and paid for their uneaten dinners. At the bar they sat on corner stools so they could face each other. Kelsey pulled out her notes again and laid them on the bar.
“Were you able to talk to any of the medical staff? The ER docs?”
Peter shook his head. “No. This wasn’t my case and there’s no reason for me to get involved, so I don’t feel comfortable asking questions. . . yet. I need to figure out how to approach my problem.”
“What problem?”
Peter took a sip of wine. “The old days of fudging medical records are over,” he said. “A physician can no longer simply open a patient’s file and change a diagnosis or insert a pertinent finding or delete something that shouldn’t be there the way he used to, sometimes weeks later, by jotting it down in ink or crossing it out. Now everything’s electronic, and once the record is signed, it’s final. In order to change the medical record after it’s been officially signed, you need to unsign it, make your changes and then sign it again. And when this is done, it leaves a trail.”
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