GUILTY SECRETS

by Virginia Kantra

  A list of links appeared on his computer screen, with the name highlighted and the context suggested.

  He skimmed through the data. Most references cited Sir Francis Burdett, an eighteenth-century member of Parliament. Joe scrolled down the list. He didn't really associate Nell with British nobility. But the family got around. There was a Burdett high school in Kansas, a Burdett bed-and-breakfast in New York, a Burdett cemetery in West Virginia.

  None of it any use to him, unless Nell's ex was buried there.

  Joe added "Illinois" to his search criteria and scanned the results: an architect who'd designed a building on Wabash, a toastmaster, a teacher. A Burdett had graduated from Northwestern University Medical School in 1994 and was currently on the staff of Chicago Memorial. Joe's interest pricked. Nell's husband. Had to be.

  He glanced farther down the list. There was a student essay written about the original Francis Burdett. A Web site for a Burdett's Bookstore in Elgin. A news story from a couple of years ago citing a settlement conference between an Eleanor Burdett and the Illinois state licensing board.

  Whoa. Joe's pulse kicked. Rewind. Replay. What was that last one?

  He clicked on the link.

  And there it was, a headline from Chicago's other daily, the Examiner's rival paper: State Ignores Guilty Nurses: Inadequate Controls for Medical Misconduct.

  Joe sucked in his breath and started reading.

  The article was an account of the Illinois Department of Professional Regulation's lenient handling of nurses accused of negligence or incompetence. The state agency, in its attempts to keep pace with the nursing shortage and to provide troubled nurses with needed medical help, had a history of settling cases involving medication errors, petty theft, even abuse.

  Joe's head pounded. His mouth was as dry as if he was coming off a three-day bender. The reporter had done her homework. She cited instances of nurses who defaulted on their school loans, nurses who stole drugs from patients to feed their own addictions, nurses who made fatal mistakes on the job.

  Joe's mind, his heart, his stomach revolted. These stories had nothing to do with Nell. Not the Nell he knew.

  But buried three subheadings down, in a paragraph taking the DPR to task for failing to report nurses suspected of committing felonies to the state's attorney's office, was the case of Eleanor Burdett. Hell.

  My husband's name was Burdett, Nell had confided to his mother.

  Eleanor Burdett, the article stated, resigned from Chicago Memorial Hospital amid accusations of diverting prescription drugs.

  Could it possibly…?

  Could she possibly…?

  Joe set his jaw and reread the paragraph. Phrases leapt out at him. Superficial investigation. Token punishment. Burdett's case had been plea-bargained, her disciplinary file purged of incriminating details, and Burdett herself placed on a three-year probation and allowed to return to work.

  Our volunteer physicians are dedicated to our patients' care, Nell had said their first evening together.

  Is that the company line? Joe had teased.

  It's the truth.

  Maybe. Or maybe all you doctors stick together.

  Joe's gut churned. How had everybody missed this? How had he missed this?

  He checked the dateline. The story was two years old. Okay, two years ago, he was talking to hostile locals in the Hindu Kush mountains, his brother Mike was fresh out of academy, the features editor at the Examiner was working for some paper in Wisconsin, and Nell…

  More memories sliced through him. Everything she'd said, everything he'd believed her to be, was suddenly called into question.

  What did you do before? he'd asked her that night at Flynn's.

  I was a trauma nurse.

  Where?

  Her hands tightened around her beer mug. Does it matter?

  I don't know. Why did you leave? It can't have been the money.

  The shaking in his stomach stopped, replaced by a cold, sick certainty. Two years ago, Nell Dolan had been working at Chicago Memorial Hospital, where her husband was on staff.

  The Eleanor Burdett in the article was her. Had to be her.

  She'd left in disgrace and buried herself at a hole-in-the-wall clinic on the North Side because no reputable hospital would have her.

  Her wide, clear eyes met his in appeal.

  Can't you accept that some people are motivated by a simple desire to help?

  Nope.

  He'd been right about her all along. The thought should have made him happy. Nobody fooled Joe Reilly. Big, bad cynical reporter believes the worst and is proven right again.

  Only he didn't want to be right.

  Joe read the paragraph again. Eleanor Burdett had resigned from her hospital job after she was accused of diverting drugs.

  For her own use? Or to sell?

  Joe scowled. Nell sure as hell didn't act like a user. At least, he hadn't observed the signs, chronic lateness or difficulty concentrating, mood swings or deteriorating hygiene. She seemed genuinely responsible for her patients and competent at her job.

  But he knew better than anyone that a junkie could continue to function on a professional level even after his personal life had gone to hell.

  Of course, it was possible that in the past two years Nell had turned her life around. Wasn't that what he was supposed to believe? That a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity?

  So maybe she wasn't an addict. Maybe she was only a phony.

  And maybe she was a felon.

  Drugs were missing from the clinic pharmacy. His brother Mike claimed the number of prescription drugs on the street had spiked, and at least one fraudulent prescription had turned up with Nell's name on it.

  Mike's teasing voice came back to him. Maybe you'll write the big story—Nurse Dolan Does Drug Diversion on the North Side.

  Joe stared at the damning words on the screen, his eyes burning. How did he explain to his brother that his big story had already appeared in a rival paper two years ago? Nell Dolan's personal failure and professional misconduct were old news.

  But Joe still had a responsibility to share the story with the police. Didn't he? He still had to face Nell herself.

  His stomach balled.

  Sleep on that.

  Nell glanced out at the rain streaking the clinic's front windows. She had enough to do this morning without worrying about Joe Reilly.

  The waiting room steamed with wet shoes and drying umbrellas, stunk with sweat and misery, Betadine and pine cleaner. The doormat was saturated, the linoleum was slippery, the board by the nurses' station was already full, and Melody King was late.

  Joe was not her problem.

  He didn't want to be her problem.

  He'd told her flat-out he didn't want her help.

  And that, Nell admitted ruefully as she grabbed another chart, was her problem. She didn't see Joe as a patient, exactly; she just couldn't see herself as anything but a nurse. She didn't know how to have a relationship where she wasn't the one helping, giving, supporting. It was what she was good at. What she understood.

  By rejecting her help, Joe was rejecting her. What else did she have to offer him? Besides sex.

  She had a sudden memory of Joe's hot, hooded eyes and lean, hard body and flushed. She was not having sex with a man who put restrictions up front on their relationship. That didn't mean she didn't think about it.

  The waiting room was starting to resemble O'Hare airport, with patients jostling in line or circling like planes stacked up ready to land. Babies cried. Children ran between the chairs. Where the hell was Melody?

  "I've got to see a doctor now," a man with a grizzled ponytail and hands the size of suitcases was insisting to Lucy Morales at the front desk.

  Dark-haired Lucy was unimpressed. "We have to see our regularly scheduled appointments, Mr. Jones. But we will fit you in if you sit down."

  "I can't sit down," Nell heard him complaining as she headed down the hall. "Damn it, my back hu
rts."

  Nell ducked into the examining room, where an elderly woman blushed and whispered all the classic symptoms of urinary tract infection. Nell patted her shoulder and explained the need for a urine sample.

  "Just to be sure," she said with a smile. "And then we can get you some antibiotics for the infection and some Pyridium to make you feel better."

  She left the woman clutching a specimen cup and went to the board to check her next appointment. Stanley Vacek. Nell frowned. Did the elderly Czech need his blood pressure medication adjusted again? Or was he simply lonely?

  Somebody had tracked water in the work lane. Nell stooped to wipe it up. The last thing the clinic needed was for a patient to slip and break a hip.

  Straightening, she saw Melody at her desk. Her hair hung in damp strands around her face. Beneath her pale blue lids, her eyes were red and puffy.

  Nell frowned in concern. "Are you all right?"

  Melody sniffled. "I have a little cold. And Rose—" Rose was her three-year-old "—didn't want to put on her shoes, and it's raining, and the bus was late…"

  Nell nodded sympathetically, half listening to the familiar complaints, restraining herself from pointing out that illness, children and the vagaries of public transportation hadn't stopped most of their patients from showing up promptly at eight o'clock.

  The rain did make everything worse, she thought, making an extra effort to be understanding because she didn't feel particularly understanding. She was tired, too. A combination of sit-up-in-the-dark fears and twist-in-the-sheets frustration had kept her up most of the night.

  But Melody, poor Melody, looked awful. Despite the humid, overheated air, she was shivering. Her eyes were glassy and her nose was running. She looked like someone in the grip of a very bad cold. Or drug withdrawal.

  The thought hit Nell like a slap. Sudden. Hard. Unavoidable. She sucked in her breath.

  She didn't want to suspect Melody. She didn't want to suspect anybody. And of all the clinic's staff, the office manager had the least reason to go into the pharmacy and the best possible motivation for staying away.

  "The problem with the Velcro shoes is Rose can take them off herself," Melody said, ignoring the large man jockeying for her attention on the other side of the counter. Mr. Back Pain, Nell remembered. Obviously, Lucy hadn't convinced him to wait. "She's so smart. So I told her…"

  No, Nell couldn't bear to think of Rose's mommy doing or dealing drugs. It was just her own ghosts that made her see specters everywhere.

  But the doubt, once raised, haunted her.

  Melody's desk was right across from the pharmacy. She did have access to the clinic's patient list and to the locked drawer that held all the practitioners' prescription pads. She must have seen Nell's signature hundreds of times.

  "You got to help me," the man interrupted, leaning over the counter. "I understand if the doctors are too busy to see me. All I need is a prescription refill."

  Melody's blue eyelids fluttered. "Did you sign in, Mr., uh…?"

  "Jones. Roy Jones." His thick finger stabbed the clipboard on the counter. "Right there."

  "And do you have an appointment, Mr. Jones?"

  His face darkened. "I told you. I don't need an appointment. But you've got to give me something for this pain."

  His insistence made the hair stand up on the nape of Nell's neck.

  More ghosts, she told herself firmly. She had no reason—yet—to suspect his demand. And rain and pain could make anybody cranky.

  But instead of letting Melody handle it, she found herself moving forward. "Who's your doctor, Mr. Jones?"

  He swung his grizzled head toward her like a bull scenting the matador. Nell resisted the urge to step back.

  "I seen Dr. Graham before."

  That at least sounded right. Orthopedist Chuck Graham volunteered at the clinic one Wednesday a month, fall and winter, when his altruism didn't interfere with his golf game.

  Nell pasted on a smile. "I'm sorry, Dr. Graham isn't in today. But we should have your medical file. If you'd like to take a seat in the waiting room—"

  "I've had a seat." His voice was loud enough to attract attention. Several patients looked over, and one moved away. "I can't sit no more. My back is killing me."

  "All right," Nell said brightly. "One of the nurses will find your chart, and we'll try to get you into a room as soon as possible."

  Before he scared away every soul in the waiting room.

  Lucy Morales caught Nell's eye and mouthed a message.

  Nell's heart sank.

  "What is it?"

  "No chart," Lucy said. "He's not a patient here."

  Oh, God, she was tired. She so didn't want to have to deal with this. "Could he have seen Graham at his practice in Winnetka?"

  They both looked back at Roy Jones, the stubby ponytail, the steel-toed boots, the sweat-stained shirt.

  "He doesn't look like he could afford the bus fare to Winnetka," Lucy said frankly. "Let alone the specialist's fees when he got there."

  Nell sighed. "Let's call, just the same. Maybe he has workmen's comp or something…"

  But she wasn't surprised when Dr. Graham's receptionist insisted her office had no record of Roy Jones.

  "What am I supposed to tell him?" Melody asked, her thin face worried.

  Nell squeezed her shoulder in reassurance. "It's okay. I'll talk to him."

  Because maybe she could help. Not only Melody, who was so clearly reluctant to go another round with the belligerent Jones. No, Nell was fool enough to hope she could help Jones himself.

  Because he needed her help. Roy Jones exhibited the classic signs of a "doctor shopper," a drug seeker. And without her help, Roy Jones had no hope at all.

  Taking a deep breath, Nell pushed open the door to the crowded waiting room. She was aware of other patients, swirls of movement, eddies of sound, the flow around the front entrance. But her attention fixed on Roy Jones, his sweaty face, his darting eyes, the clenching and unclenching of his big hands. He was nervous.

  The observation bolstered her. The clinic was her turf, her place, the place where she was in control, where she had the tools to be effective and the authority to do some good. She couldn't always control the course of a disease, couldn't always win the battle against pain and suffering. But here, at least, she knew where the battle lines were drawn. Here she was allowed to fight.

  "Mr. Jones?" She smiled at him. "Would you come with me, please?"

  His head thrust forward. "Why?"

  "I'd like to do a physical examination. For your back problem."

  "I don't need a physical examination." He added a filthy epithet. "Especially from some woman. All I need is my medication."

  Something moved in the corner of Nell's vision, but she kept her gaze focused on Jones. Look away from the bull, and it trampled you.

  "I don't know what to prescribe for you until you've been seen," she said evenly.

  "I know. Dr. Graham always gives me Oxycontin. Or Percocet."

  Schedule Two narcotics. Well, that took care of any last doubts she might have had about what Jones wanted.

  "I'm not allowed to prescribe those drugs for you," Nell said. His eyes were wild. "But there are some nonnarcotic analgesics that might work for you." She took a step forward, willing him to let her reach him. To let her help him. "Why don't we go ahead with the examination to determine if there's a physical cause before we—"

  "Examine this, bitch!" Jones planted his big, meaty hand over her face and shoved.

  Nell's head snapped back. Her arms flailed. She stumbled. And then her foot slid on a wet patch of linoleum and shot out from under her.

  She went down like a stone. Hard, on her back. Her skull cracked against the floor with enough force to rattle her jaw and detonate stars.

  Oh, God, that hurt.

  "Nell!"

  "Senorita?"

  A babble of voices crashed over her, a tide of concern, a wave of activity. She struggled to surface, to force h
er heavy eyes to open, her weighted lips to move.

  "Jones?" she croaked.

  "Ran out through the front door." This voice was male, grim and reassuringly familiar. "Don't worry. I called the police."

  "No police," she tried to say. "Not his fault. Mine."

  But she wasn't sure anyone could hear her. The ringing in her ears was very loud.

  Someone was calling her name again, roughly, urgently. She was lying on the floor. She wanted to explain she would get up in a minute, in just a minute when she wasn't so tired.

  A warm hand touched her face, cupped her jaw. She turned her cheek into the palm, instinctively seeking comfort.

  "Don't move," the voice ordered. Joe's voice. The cuff of his shirt brushed her nose. He smelled of mints and tobacco. "Can somebody get a damn doctor?"

  Nell tried to remember who was on the schedule for today, but her mind refused to cooperate. Jim Fletcher? Susan Nguyen? No, Sue didn't come in until after lunch.

  "You're supposed to ask me my name," she said, forcing the words from her thick tongue. "And the name of the president."

  Joe swore. "I know your name. What I can't figure out is what the hell you thought you were doing taking on a junkie twice your size."

  She smiled, keeping her eyes closed. It was kind of restful here on the floor. If only her head didn't hurt. "Trying to help," she explained.

  "Yeah, that's a problem for you," Joe said dryly.

  "Nell, my God, girl." That was Billie's voice, sharp with anxiety.

  There was a rush behind her, a shift around her. The floor vibrated with running footsteps. Someone tugged on Nell's upper eyelid and shone a light in her eyes. She tried to pull back from the brightness and groaned as her head bumped the floor.

  "Easy," Joe said, and was ignored.

  Nell's friends, her co-workers, pressed around her.

  Don't leave me, Nell wanted to say.

  But of course he would.

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  "You don't have to stay." Nell sorted through the keys in her hand. "I'll be fine by myself."