Miracle Drug

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  The jet rocked to a stop and the engine noise died. Rachel looked out the window and saw that the plane was probably a hundred yards from the terminal building. The male steward unfastened his seat belt and made his way back toward her. “Miss Moore, we’re here. Are you ready to deplane?”

  Rachel rose from her seat, took her carry-on bag from the steward, and moved toward the forward door, which had already been folded downward to form a short staircase. She grasped the wet handrail and descended the steps, which were already slippery from the rain. She avoided looking to her left as the airplane’s cargo door opened. Dr. Lambert’s coffin would be off-loaded soon, and she knew that seeing it would tear at her heart.

  Then she saw Josh hurrying toward her, oblivious of the rain. His raincoat flapped behind him, the rain on his bare head turned his sandy hair to a helmet from which water streamed down a handsome face. Josh opened his arms toward her, and for the first time in what seemed like days, Rachel felt the clenched muscles in her shoulders relax.

  ***

  As Josh had prepared for his trip to the airport to meet Rachel, he once again took a personal inventory and realized how blessed he was to find love once again. When Carol died two years ago, Josh felt as though his world ended. He was certain he’d never love again. But Rachel changed that. She’d brought sunshine into what had been, to that point, a dark world. Josh was determined not to let her go.

  In his vehicle, he tried to imagine how she must feel. Josh knew it was up to him to comfort her and guide her through the next few hours and days. He just hoped he could do it.

  He snagged a parking place in the short-term garage at Love Field. Despite a few wrong turns and false starts, Josh managed to navigate the route to where the private jet bearing Rachel would land. He planted himself where he had a good view of the tarmac outside, then stood peering through the large, rain-streaked plate glass window, as though by his actions he could make the plane arrive more quickly. Finally, he saw the small private jet land, traverse a couple of runways, and come to a stop. As soon as the plane door opened and the steps unfolded, he hurried across the tarmac to Rachel, ignoring the rain. He kissed her, then pulled her close to him and clasped her tightly, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. He nestled his face in her soft brown hair and whispered, “I’ve missed you so.”

  “And I’ve missed you.” He held her as though he’d never let go. Eventually Rachel pushed back and said, “I . . . I guess I should see about—”

  A middle-aged man in a black trench coat and dark felt hat approached them. He opened a black umbrella and held it over Rachel to shield her from the spring shower as he talked. “Excuse me,” he said, in a voice as somber as his attire. “Miss Moore? I’m Bill Smith. President Madison’s office arranged for us to meet the plane and take the body of Dr. Lambert.”

  “Oh. We . . . we hadn’t talked about the details.” She looked uncertainly at Josh. “I guess it’s okay.”

  “Could we see some identification?” Josh asked.

  “Of course.” Smith pulled out a wallet, which he opened to show a Texas driver’s license bearing his name and photo. Then he brought out a card identifying him as a member of the National Funeral Directors Association.

  “Thank you,” Josh said. He turned to Rachel and gave a small nod.

  Smith raised a clipboard in the hand not holding the umbrella. “If you’ll just sign this form, we’ll do the rest.”

  Rachel took the pen from under the clip and signed the paper. “And that’s all?”

  “Do I need to call someone to pick you up? Anything else we can do?” the man asked.

  “I’ll take care of her,” Josh said.

  As the hearse pulled away, Josh took Rachel’s arm. “Let’s get in out of the rain. What about your luggage?”

  “I only have this carry-on. Mr. Madison said not to worry about the rest of my things—someone would pack them and send them back. I guess all I have to do right now is clear customs.” She took Josh’s hand. “I thought that once someone else took charge of Dr. Lambert’s body, I’d feel some relief, but I don’t . . . I . . .

  I . . .”

  “Later. We’ll talk about it all you want, but right now let’s get you home.”

  As they arrived at the glass door into the terminal, it slid back to reveal an older man wearing a black suit and a somber expression. “Miss Moore?”

  “Yes. Did President Madison arrange for you to meet me?”

  The man nodded and stepped back so Josh and Rachel could enter. “I apologize for being a few minutes late. There was an accident on Mockingbird Lane that held us up.” He handed her a business card, then reached into the breast pocket of his coat and produced a three-page document. “I’m Vernon Wells with Sparkman Hillcrest Funeral Directors. The coach will be pulling around next to the plane in a moment. If you’ll sign this, we’ll take possession of Dr. Lambert’s body.”

  2

  Josh looked at Rachel, who stood in stunned silence, her mouth forming a tiny O. At this point, he figured the less said, the better. “Mr. Wells, there’s been a mix-up.” He gestured with the business card Wells had given him. “Someone will be in touch.”

  Wells said something about “mistakes happen, I guess.” He left, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.

  Rachel looked as though she might throw up right there. “Oh, Josh. What have I done?”

  Josh put his hand on her elbow and urged her further inside the terminal. “Obviously you hadn’t been briefed on the hand-off of Lambert’s body. Smith, if that’s what his name was, showed proper identification. There was no reason to suspect the encounter was anything but routine. I don’t think you could have handled it any differently.”

  An official waited for her a dozen steps further into the terminal. “Miss Moore? Mr. Madison asked me to meet you.” He nodded toward Rachel’s carry-on bag. “Do you have anything to declare?”

  “What? No. No,” Rachel said, in a distracted voice.

  “Then you’re free to go.”

  “I . . . I have to make a call first,” Rachel said.

  The official said, “Follow me. There’s a meeting room down here you can use.”

  Once they were inside the room, Josh thanked the man and closed the door behind them. Rachel took one of the swivel chairs arranged around an oval table and pulled out her cell phone. “I have the number of the satellite phone Jerry Lang carries.”

  As she punched in the numbers, Josh asked, “Who’s Jerry Lang?”

  “The head of the Secret Service detail assigned to guard the former president,” Rachel said. “He’s—” She cocked her head. “Jerry, this is Rachel Moore. I need to speak to Mr. Madison.”

  She listened for a moment. “I see. Well, please ask him to call me back at this number ASAP. It’s urgent.” She read off her cell number and ended the conversation. “He’ll get back to me in a few minutes.”

  After a moment’s silence, Rachel asked, “Should we notify the police?”

  “I suppose,” Josh said. “I guess stealing a body is a crime. Probably Agent Lang or someone on Mr. Madison’s staff will know. I suggest you let them take care of that.” He motioned her to take a seat. “In the meantime, I know you’re concerned about what just happened, but it’s not your fault.”

  “That’s what Mr. Madison said about Dr. Lambert’s death, but I still felt bad that none of the medical workers on the trip could save him,” Rachel said.

  The ring of her cell phone interrupted her. “Mr. Madison? This is Rachel. Something terrible has happened. It looks as though someone has stolen Dr. Lambert’s body.”

  Rachel sketched the details of the bogus mortuary pickup, then listened for a moment. “I see. Thank you. I’m really sorry—”

  Josh couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation, but obviously it was designed to help settle Rachel. Finally, she said, “I see. Yes, I’ll be here. And I’ll give Josh the message.”

  “So?” Josh asked.

&nbs
p; “Agent Lang will contact the Dallas Police. I’m to wait here for them. And I have a message for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Yes. When I left, Mr. Madison told me he wanted to meet with you as soon as he got back.” Rachel frowned. “Now he’s changed his plans. The rest of the group will be returning to the U.S. in a few more days, but he’s arriving tomorrow. And he said it’s extremely important that you meet his plane.”

  ***

  “Are you okay this morning,” Josh asked when Rachel answered her phone.

  “I didn’t get much rest, but it’s good to be home. I haven’t heard from the police yet about Dr. Lambert’s body.”

  “I’m afraid that may take a while,” Josh said. “I need to meet Mr. Madison’s plane this afternoon, but I can come over this morning if you’d like. I don’t have to go into the clinic.”

  The silence stretched far too long. Finally, Rachel said, “Josh, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m still processing all that’s happened. Why don’t you call me after your meeting with Mr. Madison?”

  Josh spent the morning catching up on reading journal articles he’d brought home for that purpose and then neglected. He wasn’t hungry, but forced himself to eat part of a sandwich for lunch. The day seemed to drag, but at last it was time to leave for the airport.

  At Love Field, Josh discovered that access to the former president required being cleared past a number of checkpoints, even if your presence had been requested. “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Madison’s plane,” Josh said for what seemed like the hundredth time. This time he was speaking to a security guard at a door leading to the tarmac. Through the windows that flanked the doors Josh saw private planes sitting in staggered rows like rank upon rank of soldiers awaiting orders. Several hundred yards away he could barely discern the runway on which Madison’s plane would land.

  The guard consulted a clipboard. “I don’t see your name.”

  “Mr. Madison’s staff was supposed to—”

  “Hang on,” the guard said. “Here it is. It was added at the bottom of the list.”

  “Thank you,” Josh said. “Shall I wait here?”

  “In there with the others.” The guard inclined his head toward a nearby room where several men and women sat waiting. All but one of them were studying their smart phones, scrolling through messages and posts as though the fate of the free world depended on their up-to-date knowledge. The one exception was a man who sat staring quietly into space.

  The solitary individual was a husky middle-aged man whose off-the-rack medium brown suit did little to conceal the slight bulge under his left armpit. His thinning hair, mainly brown with some gray at the temples, was combed across his scalp in what was apparently an attempt to cover a bald spot. The man’s thick-soled, brown lace-up shoes were scuffed and slightly run-down at the heels. Josh recognized him as the detective to whom Rachel had talked last evening at the airport—a common name, what was it? Williams? West? Warren. That was it—Detective Stan Warren.

  “Mind if I take this seat?” Josh asked.

  “Suit yourself,” the detective said, with no hint of recognition.

  “We met last night.” Josh offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Josh Pearson. I was with the nurse, Rachel Moore, who reported the . . . whatever you call it when someone steals a body.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m not sure what the legal term is, but I call it body snatching, and we’re investigating it. I’ve heard lawyers called ambulance chasers, but I’ve never before heard of crooks being hearse chasers.” Warren displayed a brief, crooked grin.

  The detective reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, and offered it to Josh, who declined. “Trying to quit smoking,” Warren said. “I go through these things faster than I ever smoked cigarettes. But they don’t cause cancer.” He shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and returned the pack to his coat pocket.

  The security guard stuck his head into the room and said, “The plane has just arrived.”

  Warren pushed to his feet. “Well, I’ve got to report our progress—or, more accurately, our lack of progress—and then get back to work.” He looked toward the men and women who’d been waiting. “Madison will have to speak to these reporters after he deplanes.” He pushed his sleeve back and consulted his watch. “You’ve probably got half an hour to wait. See you.”

  Josh followed Warren out of the room where they’d been waiting. He stood at the window and watched as the former president appeared in the open doorway of the private jet. Madison looked almost like the pictures Josh had seen of him—a tall, silver-haired man, usually with a faint grin on his face, the perfect image of a kind grandfather or a respected political figure. The main difference was that today the grin was absent. Instead, Madison’s features were fixed in a somber countenance. It was a sad day, and his demeanor reflected it.

  Detective Warren met Madison at the foot of the jet’s stairs. The detective, with a few gestures including shrugs and uplifted palms, gave his explanation and, Josh figured, assured Mr. Madison that the police were on top of the disappearance of Ben Lambert’s coffin. After Warren shook hands with Madison and started away, the ex-president walked briskly through the gathered reporters, trailing “no comments” behind him. When he spotted Josh, Madison detoured toward him. “You must be Dr. Pearson. Thanks for meeting me. Come on. We can talk in the limo.”

  A man in a navy blue suit, his red hair cut short, a look of utter concentration on his face, strode ahead of Josh and Madison toward a stretch limo idling nearby. Josh realized this was the man who’d preceded Madison through the crowd of reporters, parting them like Moses at the Red Sea. He opened the passenger door, stuck his head inside, and looked around. He did the same for the back of the limousine. Then he stood back and motioned for the two passengers to enter. Once they were inside, the man climbed into the front seat and the car pulled away.

  “Who’s that?” Josh asked, indicating the red-haired man who now sat in the passenger seat of the limo.

  “That’s Jerry . . . Agent Jerry Lang. He’s the head of my Secret Service detail. I’d better introduce you since you’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him.” Madison leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition separating him from the front seat. When it slid back, he said, “Jerry, this is Dr. Josh Pearson. He’ll be taking over as my personal physician.”

  Lang extended his hand across the seat. “Doctor, good to meet you. Can we come by your office tomorrow and dispose of a few formalities before you see Mr. Madison—things we need to know about you and vice-versa?”

  “Sure. Shall I—”

  “We’ll make the arrangements. Don’t worry.” And Lang slid the panel closed.

  “Things moving a bit too fast for you?” Madison smiled. “Get used to it. What Jerry can’t arrange, Karen can.”

  “Karen?”

  “Karen Marks. She was my chief of staff when I was in the White House, and she followed me into retirement . . . although neither of us seems to have slowed down much.”

  “Was she on this flight with you?” Josh asked.

  “No, she’ll be coming back later. I’ve returned early because of recent events. And that’s why I wanted you to meet my plane.”

  Josh decided he might as well ask the question that had been foremost in his mind since talking with Rachel last night. “Sir, why do you need to see me so urgently?”

  Madison looked up to make certain the partition separating them from the driver and Lang was closed. Then he leaned close to Josh and said in a soft voice, “Because I think someone is trying to kill me. And I’ll need your help to make certain they don’t succeed.”

  ***

  Rachel studied her reflection in the mirror in the front hall of her apartment. She wondered if there was any truth in the old wives’ tale about people turning gray overnight. If so, she was an ideal candidate to have at least a few strands show up. She fluffed her short hairdo and saw no light strands among the brown ones—not yet, at least
. Her hazel eyes were still a bit red rimmed, but she could fix that with a few drops of Visine. As for the dark circles under them . . . well, maybe a good night’s rest would help. Last night had been full of nightmares. She hoped tonight would be better.

  Rachel was going over the events of the past several days in her mind when her doorbell rang. Through the frosted glass panel beside the door, she could see a familiar outline of a tall man with light hair—Josh was here. Last night she hadn’t felt like doing anything but relaxing in a hot bath and trying to put recent events out of her mind. Today, she was ready to lay out the story in detail to see if her fears were reasonable or simply the product of an overactive imagination.

  Rachel opened the door for Josh. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “Me, too,” he said. Still standing in the open doorway, he enfolded her in an embrace that seemed to last forever. He bent down to kiss her, and without thinking she responded. When she realized what she was doing, she pulled back. I let myself get carried away at the airport. I’ve got to be careful—certainly until Josh knows the whole story.

  She took Josh by the hand and they walked together into the living room.

  “I don’t ever want you to be gone like that again,” Josh said.

  “And I don’t want to experience anything like what I’ve been through.”

  As though by common consent, they moved to the couch and sat side by side. “I’ve had an interesting and sort of unnerving conversation with Mr. Madison,” Josh said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  He hitched himself closer and put his arm around her. “He thinks someone is trying to kill him. It seems that, although he’s no longer in office, he wields a great deal of influence, both here and abroad. There are people who don’t want him to exercise that influence. And in the past several years he’s done things that made a number of people hate him—some apparently enough to try to kill him.”

  Rachel coughed. “Excuse me.” She took a few deep breaths. “In other countries?”