by CJ Lyons
"It's all right, Virginia." Sterling moved to guide her to a chair. Virginia kept hold of his hand even after she sat down.
"It's just that I was trying so hard to start a new life here. I wanted to put all that behind me. And I had," she looked up at him, "until now. Now, they've come to take Charlie away from me." The last came in a mournful wail.
"What? That's nonsense!" Sterling thundered.
"Dr. Sterling, can't you tell them that it's all a mistake? I would never hurt my own child!"
Cassie watched the theatrics, amazed at just how convincing Virginia was. If she didn't know better, she would start to doubt also. Sterling looked up at her from where he was comforting the distraught mother.
"I'm certain that you're behind this, Dr. Hart," he snapped. "You'd better pack your belongings and be prepared to leave this hospital permanently, because I guarantee you'll never practice medicine here again!"
Cassie gathered her papers and started out. Virginia Ulrich looked up, taking a break from her sobbing. Cassie searched her face for any trace of a smirk or smile. If she'd seen one, she probably would have been unable to resist the temptation to slap it off. But instead all the mother did was to wipe her tears and grip Sterling's arm.
"What are we going to do about Charlie?"
"I'll tell you what we're going to do," Sterling said, his eyes still on Cassie. "We're going to call the media and inform them that you've been the victim of persecution by CYS and one misguided physician. We'll rally so much support for you, Virginia, that they'll have to return Charlie to your custody."
Cassie left without a word. She'd heard more than enough already. And the worse thing was if a man like Karl Sterling was convinced of Virginia Ulrich's innocence, then she was certain most of the uninformed public would be as well.
She wouldn't be able to tell her side of it, not without violating patient confidentiality–which Virginia knew damned well Cassie would never do.
It seemed that Cassie had just attended the preview to her own public lynching as orchestrated by Virginia Ulrich.
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Drake pulled into the Trevasian driveway for the second time in eight hours. As he approached the front door, he glanced past the boxwoods and was relieved to see that the dog was gone. There was no way he could justify the complete forensic exam he wanted, but he'd called in a favor and convinced one of the crime scene investigators to join the patrolmen. At least the scene was documented, any evidence preserved.
Hopefully it would be a long time before Miller saw the bill for that, he thought, as he rang the doorbell. Especially as this technically wasn't even a case yet.
A case that didn't exist, investigated by a cop who wasn't one right now, because he thought it might tie into murders going back eleven years? He shook his head, hoping he wasn't making a fool out of himself.
Sometimes you just gotta go with your gut, Hart always said. Usually when he was arguing with her to think a problem through logically instead of jumping into action.
Maybe she had a point. When had Drake started following rules and procedure anyway? Must be getting old–or finally growing up, like Jimmy and Andy kept telling him to.
The door opened, and the sounds of Bugs Bunny filled the air. "Mom!" Katie Jean yelled back into the house. "Mr. Detective is here! The one who's helping us find Snickers!"
She didn't wait for any parental approval but grabbed his arm and tugged him over the threshold. She poked her head out the door, looking past him to his car.
"No Snickers?" she asked, her voice mournful, making him want nothing more than to run out and find another dog identical to the lost Snickers.
"I'm sorry, Katie Jean."
She bit her lip, and Drake knew why he found her so endearing–she was a miniature Hart done over in freckles and blonde hair. The same impulsive, reckless energy, the same worry about her responsibilities.
Now those worries bowed her skinny shoulders with their weight. Her eyes cut down the hallway. "Are you going to tell Nate? I've got to be there if you are–he may cry."
Drake restrained his impulse to lift her into a bear hug and instead merely tousled her hair, earning a stern look of disapproval from Katie Jean. "All right. Let's get your mother too."
"She's in the kitchen with Nate."
Katie Jean led Drake on a roundabout path through a family room, the source of the TV sounds, past an empty dog bed surrounded by brand new chew toys and bones that were destined never to be enjoyed, and into a well lit eat in kitchen.
Still in his Rescue Hero PJ's, Nate sat at a breakfast bar, his head bent over a sketch book, a bowl of soggy Cap'n Crunch ignored beside him. Mrs. Trevasian was on the phone, obviously to the kids' school.
"So you understand why they won't be in today? Oh yes, they'll be fine. Why thank you. Yes, I'll tell him. Thanks, you too."
She hung up and turned to Drake, outstretching her arm. "Detective Drake, I'm Marcia Trevasian. John has told me how helpful you've been."
He took her hand, a firm grip, he noted. Marcia Trevasian was in her mid-thirties, thin but in a healthy way, her reddish-blonde hair cut in a well-mannered bob that swept to her shoulders. She was wearing a Southwest Air T-shirt and black jeans that mirrored the circles of fatigue her faded make up revealed. Her lipstick had feathered into fine lines around her mouth. Drake doubted that she'd been to bed at all–probably just arrived home a few hours ago.
What a thing to come home to. He hoped the guys had removed the dog's remains before she got there.
"You're all Katie Jean's been talking about the last two days," Mrs Trevasian continued as Katie Jean tugged Drake over to the bar and pulled out the stool beside Nate for him to perch on. "Nate." She scooped up the untouched cereal bowl. "I wish you wouldn't ask for food you're not going to eat." She emptied the bowl into the sink. "Mr. Mendelsohn says he hopes you feel better. Coffee, Detective?"
Drake felt the boy go rigid at his mother's words. Sensitive, he thought, watching Nate's pencil bore into the paper until the point snapped.
Katie Jean immediately slipped the broken pencil from Nate's clenched fist and whispered something into the boy's ear that relaxed him. She scampered over to a pencil sharpener mounted on the wall beside the refrigerator and returned with a freshly sharpened pencil, climbing onto the stool on the other side of Nate.
"Thank you," Drake told their mother. "Black, please."
Drake examined Nate's work in progress. A series of sketches, a boy and his dog. Fluid, lacking in some detail, but an advanced sense of perspective and proportion. The kid definitely had something.
Now if he could only get him to talk.
"You're pretty talented," Drake told Nate. "I like your drawings."
He accepted the coffee with a smile. Marcia Trevasian stepped back to lean on the counter, cradling her own cup with a worried expression as she watched Drake with her children.
Drake felt beads of sweat pool at the base of his spine and wished it was Jimmy here. Jimmy knew how to talk to kids. He decided to take the easy way out and just tell the truth.
"We found Snickers last night," he began.
Katie Jean looked up at that, but her smile faded when she caught Drake's eyes. Her arm immediately went around her brother's thin body. Nate dropped his pencil but didn't look at Drake, his body slumped, hands falling into his lap.
"Snickers died," Drake continued. "I know how much you both loved him, so I wanted you to know right away."
"He was a good puppy," Katie Jean said, her voice breaking as tears overwhelmed her. Her mother grabbed a box of tissues and joined them.
Nate said nothing, only flinched as his mother tried to embrace him. He shrugged away from Katie Jean's touch and stared down at his drawing pad, an island remote from any human contact.
And breaking Drake's heart. Tears he could understand–but this? It was as if Nate was afraid to take comfort from his family. Why? Did he blame himself for Snickers' death? Or was he afraid that if something bad happe
ned to his beloved dog, then something bad could also take someone else he loved away from him?
"Nate," Drake continued in a low voice. "Has anything scary happened to you? Besides Snickers getting lost?"
The boy was silent, biting his lip, not in worry, Drake thought, but to prevent him from opening his mouth.
"I'm a policeman–you can tell me. Then maybe I can find out who hurt Snickers. Make it so he doesn't hurt anyone else. Would that be a good idea?"
A quick, infinitesimal nod of the head was all the response he got. Progress. Drake slid the drawing pad and turned to a fresh page. "Do you think you could draw the scary thing for me?"
Nothing.
"Are you afraid?" Another quick jerk of the head. "Is it something here, something around your house?" A vigorous shaking in the negative. "Something at school?" Nothing. "Did someone at school scare you?" Nothing.
Drake lifted his head to find Marcia Trevasian staring at him, her gaze intense with worry. He shrugged, wishing he knew how to get a response from her silent son. Then he saw that Nate had taken his pencil up and was slowly sketching something. His grip on the Ticonderoga was white knuckled, and his face was screwed tight with intent.
John Trevasian shuffled into the kitchen, running his hands over sleep deprived eyes. "Drake? You back already? Sorry, I fell asleep. Any news?" He looked over at the tableau in confusion. Katie Jean, tears now spent, was whispering encouragement to her brother as Nate continued to move the pencil across the page. "What's going on?" he asked, accepting a mug of coffee from his wife.
"Nate's trying to tell us something," his wife whispered, as if she was afraid to break the spell.
"Nate's talking?"
Drake shook his head, quickly quelling the look of relief that filled Trevasian's face.
Then Nate straightened, revealing his masterpiece to the adults. The blank sheet of paper was now filled with the outline of a giant hand, palm up, fingers spilling over the edges of the paper as if the hand belonged to an alien creature. Nate looked from one adult to another in anticipation and expectation at his disclosure. His parents nodded encouragement.
"That's really good work, Nate."
"You even filled in the tiny lines that cross the palm."
Nate's eyebrows drew together in a scowl and he turned to Drake, his last hope, the one adult who seemed to appreciate his work for what it was.
But Drake looked at the over-scaled palm print with confusion. What the hell did it mean? Why wouldn't the kid just talk, for chrissake?
He lifted blank eyes to meet Nate's and felt crushed by the eight year old's face as it filled with disappointment. He didn't know what to do or say.
Katie Jean did though. She slid off her stool and tugged at Nate's arm. "C'mon, Nate. Road Runner's on next."
Nate nodded. Hand in hand, the two abandoned the adults for the technicolor world of cartoon land. Where dogs and people alike could fall off a cliff or be hit by an anvil and still shake it off, coming back to life.
CHAPTER 25
"My name is Dr. Richard King. I'm an alcoholic," he said turning his face full onto the Executive Committee.
Cassie sat on her hands and wrapped her foot around the base of her chair to keep from jumping up. She'd already protested Richard's presence here with no success. Of course, it didn't hurt that Richard's father was the Chief of Orthopedic Surgery and Vice-chair of the committee.
"And recovering from an addiction to pain relievers," he added, lifting a hand to dab at a small spray of spittle.
Pain relievers, Ecstasy, methamphetamine–whatever happy pill he could get his hands on. What the hell was Richard doing here, talking about his past problems? They had nothing to do with the charges against her.
"I received the treatment I needed. And with the grace of God and the help of my friends and family, I've been sober for a long time now." Meaning that it was a long time since breakfast, Cassie translated. "But I have a confession to make." He paused and looked away as if needing to compose himself. Jesus, he was good. He even had her half-believing him.
"While I was addicted, I was married to another physician, Dr. Cassandra Hart. She was aware of my addiction, in fact she shared in it."
What the hell? Cassie leapt to her feet. Richard's pronouncement had an equally energizing effect on the other physicians who as one turned to glare at Cassie. "That's a lie! I never–"
"Sit down, Dr. Hart," the chairman told her, banging his fist on the table when the others began to talk at once. "You'll have your turn. Go ahead, Dr. King."
"Cassandra never received the help she needed for her drug use. She refused my pleas to attend therapy, to go into rehab. Like many addicts, especially impaired physicians, she felt that she could handle it, that she was above human frailties.
"Last month Cassandra was involved in the investigation of a narcotics ring that operated out of Three Rivers. She was on the scene of several homicides and even admitted to killing a man."
"How dare you!" Cassie raged. One of the deaths he mentioned was her best friend, who had died in her arms. The other received his injuries while he was trying to kill Cassie and Drake.
"The police filed no charges against her. Maybe in part because Cassandra was having an affair with the lead detective on the case."
More uproar from the others on the committee.
"What does this have to do with Dr. Hart accusing Mrs. Ulrich of child abuse?" a lone voice was heard over the melee.
Ed Castro. Cassie appreciated his help, but hoped that he didn't bring the wrath of the others down on him in the process.
"I now believe that my ex-wife is suffering from paranoid delusions, possibly brought on by past drug use, and that her illness has caused her to falsely accuse Mrs. Ulrich. It is with a heavy heart that I make these feelings known. Only the possibility of an extreme miscarriage of justice could make me do it." He turned to Cassie. "Cassandra, I beg of you, please, get the help you need."
Cassie raged with impotence as her anger surged through her. The bastard. And he'd done it without the slightest hint of a smile. But she knew that someone else had written the script for him–in his current condition, she doubted that Richard could concentrate long enough to compose such a statement. Probably his brother, Alan. Or maybe even the Senator himself.
Richard slumped back in his wheelchair, apparently exhausted from his recital. His father left his seat to join him.
"I hope you all realize how much this has cost my son to come here today and speak to you," the orthopedic surgeon said in his careful, precise speech.
"We do," the chairman said. "Thank you for your time, Dr. King. The committee appreciates your efforts."
Richard's father wheeled his son from the room, then returned to his seat. The chairman consulted his notes.
"I think we should now address the matter of Ms. Rachel Lloyd's complaint against Dr. Hart," he intoned. "Apparently Dr. Hart took matters into her own hands when a patient became violent and threatened harm to a staff member. Dr. Hart refused police intervention and arranged for the patient to be injected with a potentially lethal dose of succinylcholine."
"Why did you assume you were better equipped to deal with the situation than the police officers on the scene?" the head of internal medicine fired at Cassie.
Cassie didn't answer at first, still preoccupied by Richard's litany of lies. She could tell the committee about his own bias, about the affair with Virginia, but it would only make her look jealous and desperate. She felt the others staring at her and tried to focus. "The police weren't doing anything and I had a plan–"
"Yes, the famous succinylcholine switch. Just what made you so certain that you weren't sending that man out onto the street with a lethal drug? How do you know he wouldn't have injected someone else with the succinylcholine?"
"Morris was coming down from a crack binge," she tried to keep the frustration from her voice. Why couldn't they see that she'd done the only thing possible? "I knew he'd want to take the e
dge off, shoot up with something right away."
"You knew? Based on what your personal experience?" Richard's father flung the last at her.
She snapped her head up. "I assumed," she emphasized the last word, "based on Morris' past history."
"So you risked lives based on the predictability of a homeless drug addict high on crack cocaine?" Cassie remained silent as the internist continued. "Tell us, Dr. Hart. What evidence do we have that your husband's allegations aren't correct? That you haven't abused drugs."
"I'll take any test–"
"Ah, but what good would a negative test do us now? What proof can you offer us besides your word?" This last came from Sterling, the first he'd spoken since the meeting began.
Cassie stared at him. "What proof do we have that you're not a drug user–besides your word, Dr. Sterling?"
Silence settled over the room as all eyes turned on Cassie. She knew immediately that she'd gone too far.
"Dr. Hart," the chairman snapped, "please try to conduct yourself in some semblance of a professional manner."
She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. What I meant is, there is nothing beyond our word, our honor to prove any of this."
"So you're saying we should simply believe you and leave it at that?"
"Why is this suddenly a trial of my morals?" she demanded. "What about Charlie Ulrich? Aren't we supposed to be discussing the facts of his case instead of listening to a known drug addict?"
"Tell us. What would Dr. King have to gain by lying to us about such a thing? What could possibly motivate such actions?"
She floundered. How could she explain that the shrunken man in the wheelchair still harbored a deceitful, willful purpose when it came to Cassie? How to explain that when Richard King had lost everything valuable to him he was driven to decimate her to similar circumstances?
She looked around at their closed faces. They wouldn't believe her even if she tried. They'd already made up their minds about her. This whole thing was a sham.
Sterling was the only one at the table who met her eyes. At least he didn't smile as he nodded to her, accepting her silent surrender.