by Lyle, D. P.
“Sounds like it’s been successful.”
Rachel nodded. “Amazingly so. We’ve been doing it for a year and at last count we’d sold twenty-three units.”
“Maybe you’ll sell some more at the health fair,” Evan said.
“That’s the hope.”
Rachel led us back into the parking lot, where Divya and I climbed into the HankMed van. Evan stood at the open driver’s-side door.
“We still on for lunch later this week?” Rachel asked.
“Absolutely. Any day better than another for you?”
“My dance card is fairly open.”
Evan climbed into the van.
“Call me later and we’ll decide,” Rachel said.
“Cool.”
Rachel pushed the door shut, turned, and headed back inside.
“Hmmm,” I said as Evan pulled out of the lot and merged with traffic.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“We’re just friends.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“No, really.”
Chapter 3
“He’s in his room,” Rosemary Moxley said. “Where he always is.”
Rosemary had been a HankMed patient for at least a year. She had called, saying that her son, Kevin, was acting odd. Odd how? Moody, isolated, angry. Sounded like a typical teenager to me, but the worry in her voice was real. Rosemary was not the worrying type, so if she had concerns about her son so did I.
After leaving Fleming’s Custom Shop, we had swung by Shadow Pond and dropped Evan off so he could head to his sponsor appointments. We then picked up coffee at Jill’s favorite spot and detoured by the high school to take it to her. “Grateful” doesn’t do her reaction justice. Rosemary’s call came while we were talking with Jill.
We now sat at a rectangular wooden table in Rosemary’s breakfast nook, a spacious and open area adjacent to the kitchen. Through the windows I saw a tree-shaded pool, a half dozen leaves floating on its surface. Slanted rays of morning sunlight dappled the surrounding deck.
“What exactly has been going on?” I asked.
She dabbed her tear-reddened eyes with a napkin that she then wadded in her hand. “It all started last year. I know you remember when my husband died.”
I did. Rosemary took it hard. Depression mixed with anxiety and the sleep deprivation that invariably accompanies that combination. It had been rocky, but she’d weathered it with the help of the right medication and a good psychiatrist.
“Of course.”
“Kev never really recovered from losing him. I almost didn’t either.” She offered a weak smile and then sniffed back tears. “His schoolwork suffered. He quit baseball and basketball. Started using marijuana.”
She took a deep breath and stared beyond me toward the wall for a minute. I waited, giving her time to get the story out at her own pace.
“He became withdrawn,” Rosemary continued. “Moody and sullen. Didn’t often go out with his friends. Still doesn’t. And that used to be a constant problem. Really the only thing we argued over. He wanted to be with his friends all the time, but we wouldn’t allow him to be out every night like he wanted. Now he stays locked up in his room. He rarely eats and has lost . . . I don’t know . . . I’d guess twenty pounds. He certainly didn’t need to.” She fell silent and stared at her hands, now folded on the table before her.
“What happened today that prompted you to call us?” Divya asked.
“He’s different.”
“How?” I asked.
“He’s hyped up. Jittery. He seems confused and doesn’t make much sense when he talks.”
“Confused?” Divya asked. “In what way?”
“I made breakfast this morning. He didn’t really eat any. Maybe a few bites. The whole time he talked about all sorts of stuff. Jumping from one topic to another. Like a runaway train. Kept tapping on the table and bouncing his leg.” She looked at me. “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “Could be. How old is Kevin now?”
“Sixteen.”
“Can I go talk with him?”
“Please.” She stood.
“I mean alone.”
She hesitated.
“It might be best. He’s more likely to tell me the truth.”
She collapsed into her chair again. “I suppose that’s true. Lord knows he won’t talk to me.” She nodded toward a hall across the dining room from where we sat. “His room is the last door on the right.”
I grabbed my medical bag and walked that way. The hallway was lined with family photos. Some were of Rosemary and her late husband. Others were older. Black and white and grainy. Probably the grandparents. But most were of Kevin. As a baby, in a crib, butt bare, head up with a wide toothless grin. As a very young boy in a cowboy outfit, cap pistol aimed at the photographer, black hat pulled low over his eyes, a snarl on his face. Trying to look like an outlaw, no doubt. Others were school and sports photos, several of baseball and basketball teams.
I rapped on the door. “Kevin?” No response. I rapped harder. “Kevin?” I called, a little louder this time. Still no answer. I pushed the door open.
Kevin sat at a desk, his back to me, earbuds jammed in his ears, a music video on his laptop, head bobbing, hands playing air drums.
“Kevin?”
Still no response.
I walked over and tapped his shoulder. He jumped and whirled around, tugging the buds from his ears.
“Who are you?”
His face was sweat-slicked, pupils dilated. His gaze bounced around the room.
“You don’t remember me?” I asked.
He stared blankly.
“I’m Dr. Lawson. Your mother’s doctor.”
“Oh. Yeah?” His knee bounced to an internal rhythm now.
“She wanted me to talk with you.”
“About what?”
“May I?” I motioned toward the bed next to his desk.
“Sure.”
I sat.
He wiped his palms on his jeans and eyed me suspiciously.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Fine. What’s this about? I mean, I have things to do so I don’t have much time.”
“What things?”
That seemed to confuse him.
“You know. Things.” He looked around the room. “Lots of things.”
“Kevin,” I said. His gaze snapped back to me. “What did you take?”
“Nothing, dude. Why would you ask that?” Another swipe of his palms on his jeans, this time leaving behind moist streaks.
“Is it okay if I examine you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just listen to your heart and lungs. That sort of thing.”
“Why?”
“To humor your mom. She’s worried. If I find you’re okay I can reassure her.”
The little white lies we tell to get patients to do the right thing. The truth was that I was as worried as she was. Maybe more so, if that was possible. Just looking at Kevin told me he was on speed. Or meth or some other upper. Didn’t take a genius to see that.
“Only take a minute,” I continued.
“Okay, I guess.”
I checked his blood pressure. Elevated at one-eighty over one hundred. Heart rate one-ten. I then lifted his shirt and placed my stethoscope on his chest. I could feel his heart through my fingers as much as I could hear it. Hard and rapid. Almost leaping against his chest. I moved to his back. “A couple of deep breaths.” He did. Clear. I folded my stethoscope and dropped it into my bag.
“I’m okay. Right?”
I smiled. “I need to check a couple more things. Hold your hands out flat. Palms down
.”
“Why?”
“Kevin, this’ll only take a minute. Let’s just get it over with. Okay?”
He extended his hands toward me. His fingers trembled. I then used my rubber reflex hammer to test his elbow and knee reflexes. Both exaggerated. I then aimed a penlight at his eyes. His pupils were widely dilated and only partially reacted to the light.
“I’d like to draw some blood.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“What for?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Look, Kevin. I know you’re using something.” He started to say something, but I stopped him with a raised hand. “It’s got you all hyped up. Whatever it is, it’s dangerous. Potentially deadly.”
“No, it’s not.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Kevin?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Show me.”
He hesitated, then stood and walked to his dresser. He removed a baggie from deep toward the back of the bottom drawer and handed it to me. Inside were three small pink pills.
“What are these?”
“They’re called Strawberry Quick. They’re feel-good pills. They make you feel happy.”
“You don’t look happy to me. You look frazzled. Worn-out.”
He sat down again, his leg resuming its dance. “I’m fine.”
“Really?” I saw a camera on his desk. “Let me see that.”
He handed the digital camera to me. I examined it, quickly locating the ON/OFF button and the shutter release.
“Look at me,” I said. He did and I snapped his picture, the flash causing him to recoil slightly. I handed him the camera. “Upload this to your computer.”
He did and then opened the picture. I walked over and grabbed the photo of him that sat on his dresser. Looked like it had been taken maybe a year ago. He was smiling, a baseball cap slightly tilted on his head. I returned to where he sat and held it next to the laptop screen.
“What do you see?”
“Me.”
“And?”
He studied them for a minute.
“See how handsome you were? When was this picture taken?”
“Last year.”
“See the difference?”
It was stark. A year ago Kevin looked healthy, with full cheeks and bright eyes. Now his cheeks were sunken, dark bags hung beneath his eyes, and his dilated pupils gave him a cornered-animal look.
“Let me show you something else.”
I opened up his Web browser and typed methamphetamine into the search window. A list of links popped up. I selected the one titled “Meth User Photos.” An array of thumbnails appeared. I enlarged one of a young man about Kevin’s age and moved it until that photo and the one I had just taken were side by side.
“See this?” I indicated the framed photo. “This is where you were a year ago.” I then pointed to the computer screen and the picture I had just taken of him. “This is where you are now. And this—” I now pointed out the meth user’s photo. “This is where you’re headed.”
He stared at the user’s photo. The young man had deeply sunken cheeks, recessed, dark eyes, and sores and scabs over his face. His teeth were yellowed and deformed.
Kevin’s eyes widened further.
“This stuff will kill you.” I held up the baggie. “It’s methamphetamine.”
His knee bounced higher, faster, but his gaze dropped and held the floor.
“You know what that is?”
He shrugged. “They told me it was harmless.”
“It’s packaged to look that way. Why do you think it’s pretty and pink and called by such a harmless name? How could something called Strawberry Quick be harmful? It sounds so fresh and clean. Like a new Kool-Aid flavor.” I wiggled the bag. “It’s all marketing, Kevin. Just to get you hooked. Then they’ll own you.”
He gave me a brief glance and then dropped his gaze back toward the floor.
“Let me ask you this.” His gaze rose again. “Is this how you saw your life back then?” I pointed to his year-old picture. “When you were playing sports and had friends? When you actually laughed?”
Tears collected in his eyes. “No.” He sniffed and swiped the back of one hand over his nose.
“Don’t you think it’s time to turn back the clock?”
“Maybe.” The knee started again. “I don’t know.”
“Who sold this to you?”
“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
“Whoever sells this stuff is not your friend.”
“I know.”
“Then who did you get these from?” I held up the bag.
“I don’t know.”
I sighed and then stood.
“What are you going to do?”
“Talk with your mom.”
He reached for the baggie, but I moved it out of reach.
“Those are mine,” he said.
“Not anymore.” I walked to the door and turned back. “Sorry, but I can’t stand by and let you kill yourself.” I waved the bag. “And these will do exactly that.” I nodded toward his computer. “Study those pictures. Really look at them. That could be you.”
Chapter 4
“I’ve been hearing good things about the health fair,” George Shanahan said. “It seems like everybody I know is going.”
George Shanahan was everything Evan admired. Wealthy, cool, well dressed, and president of Hamptons Savings and Loan. He brokered deals for some of the most expensive property in the Hamptons and therefore the world. He helped some of the world’s wealthiest families manage their real estate investments and their sizable portfolios. He rubbed elbows with presidents and heads of states, never mind senators and congressmen and Fortune 500 CEOs.
Shanahan sat behind his expansive desk with his perfectly manicured hands folded before him. He wore an expensive gray suit that highlighted the slight graying at his temples. His pale blue eyes were alive and his smile almost electric.
“It’s going to be big,” Evan said. “There’ll be events for kids of all ages. Even a charity walk on Sunday.”
“Count us in for that. My wife, Betsy, is already psyched up for it. She’s been training.”
“We already have over two hundred walkers signed up.”
“That many?”
“It’ll be bigger. I’d bet even more people will sign up at the event.”
Shanahan nodded. “What about your fund-raising? Has that been going well, too?”
“It’s so cool. We’ve passed our goal. Thanks to people like you.”
Evan considered George Shanahan a real coup. Not that Shanahan didn’t give generously and often to charity, but getting an appointment with him was no easy task. His daily schedule seemed always filled with buyers, sellers, big-dollar investors, and other bankers. The kind of people who wore suits to work. Expensive suits. Custom-tailored suits. Evan tried for weeks to get a sit-down but had no luck. He even showed up in a suit one day. Not all that expensive a suit, but a suit nonetheless. Nothing. No way past the gatekeeper—Claire, Shanahan’s stern, all-business, middle-aged secretary.
Until he softened her up with the old Evan R. Lawson charm, that is. And a box of chocolates. And flowers. Finally, she gave in. Said she’d never seen anyone try so hard. She even smiled as she looked at him over the half-glasses she wore roped around her neck. That was last week. And once Evan had made it inside the inner sanctum, Shanahan didn’t hesitate to offer a very generous donation.
Shanahan shrugged. “Hamptons Savings and Loan has been part of this community for a long time. Since my father started the business. I feel a personal obligation to support worthy causes, and I can’t think
of one better than a health and fitness fair that supports our hospital, school, and Jill Casey’s community clinic. I’ve been hearing very good things about it.”
“She is ferocious about it,” Evan said. “It’s her baby and she takes it very seriously.”
Shanahan pulled open a drawer and removed a check. He gave it a wrist snap and then handed it to Evan. “I know it’s a little more than I had promised. I hope you don’t mind.” He smiled.
Evan looked at the amount. “Mind? Dude, this is so generous. Thanks.”
“As I said, this is my community, too.”
The intercom on his phone buzzed and he punched a button.
“Mr. Shanahan, your appointment is here.”
“Thanks, Claire.” He stood and walked Evan to the door. “I ran into Nathan Zimmer the other day. HankMed came up.”
“Oh?”
“He said he’s very impressed with you and Hank. Divya, too, of course.”
“I’m impressed with him, too,” Evan said.
“He said you were all coming to his big party.”
“Yes, we are.”
His hand rested on the door handle, but he hesitated. “Nathan’s parties are always over the top.”
“I know. That’s why we’re having trouble deciding what to wear.”
Shanahan laughed. “Join the crowd. My wife can’t either. And until she does, I can’t.”
“I’m thinking maybe a spy would be cool. What do you think?”
Shanahan studied him for a minute. “Maybe the town crier. Or a newspaper publisher.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. A bookkeeper. You’d make a great bookkeeper.”
Why did everyone keep saying that?
Two police officers arrived at the Moxley home ten minutes after Rosemary called. And she called as soon as I showed her the baggie of pink pills.
Sergeant Willard McCutcheon appeared to be a grizzled veteran. Thick-chested, massive forearms hanging from his uniform sleeves, crew-cut pewter hair—he looked like a Marine Corps drill instructor. Ex-military for sure. He oozed no-nonsense. His partner, Officer Tommy Griffin, was young. In fact, he looked too young to be a police officer. More like one of Kevin’s classmates. Dirty blond hair, clear blue eyes, and a square jaw that I wasn’t sure had ever needed shaving.