One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Nobody should have to do that. No one. The bodies…” His voice is broken by a sob.

  “What bodies are you talking about, Emjay?”

  “I keep seeing them, soldiers. Men and women. They keep carrying their bodies out of the ravine.” He sniffs and wipes a sleeve over his face.

  “This is in Iraq?”

  He nods. “We were in traveling a convoy by this oil rig that somebody set on fire. It was burning like the fires of hell, damn hot, and we were doing our best to get around it fast. One of the armored vehicles took a different detour, trying to get away, but they ran into a drainage ditch. Flipped the vehicle, and the soldiers were trapped inside.” He blanches, his face tight with anguish. “They drowned. Drowned in the fucking desert. What’s the chance of that?”

  “Bad things happen in war,” Abby says. “Things that the human psyche isn’t built to endure.”

  “They made me count them. Someone had to count the bodies.” A sob slips from his throat and he drops his head into his hands. “They made me cull the bodies.”

  Abby reaches over and rubs his back, firm strokes between the shoulder blades.

  When his breath evens out, he continues. “Now—how many months later?—I dream about it. I’m walking through the desert, picking up dead bodies as I go, tossing them onto heaps. All for the U.S. Army, so they can have a list, their statistics. Their war.”

  “When was the last time you had this dream?”

  “Just before I took that midnight stroll down the boulevard with my rifle.”

  She nods. “You know, there are ways of gaining some control over your dreams. You can make your mind go to a safer place at night.” The buzzing of the hospital pager at her waist disrupts Abby’s train of thought. “We’ll work on some strategies for programming dreams.”

  The page is from Admissions. After Abby finishes the session with Emjay, she takes the elevator down, expecting to be assigned a new patient. However, when she passes the waiting room on the way of that wing, she nearly runs into Sharice Stanton, who is pacing frantically.

  “Sharice?”

  “Abby! Oh, Abby.” Tears flood Sharice’s eyes as she clutches Abby’s hands.. “It’s Madison. Something happened. A panic attack, I think. I dropped her off here for therapy and when I came to pick her up they told me she’s going to be admitted.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Abby bites her lower lip. Would any of this have happened if Madison had been in the hands of a decent therapist? Guilt sweeps over her, a hood of regret, but Abby has to shake it off and move ahead. Right now Madison is the priority. “I’ll do everything I can to help you, Sharice.”

  “Will she be in your ward? Maybe you can look in on her.”

  “We don’t have minors in the psych ward. She’ll probably get a room on a pediatric floor. How did she look to you?”

  “I haven’t been allowed to see her yet.” Sharice presses a hand to her forehead. “That’s one of the reasons I’m so worried.”

  “But you’re her mother,” Abby says, shaking her head. “We’ll get you in. Let me see what I can find out.”

  At the Admissions desk she learns that Madison is “still being stabilized” in one of the Admissions bays. As a psych intern, Abby has no authority or privilege in this wing of the hospital, but she strides down the hall, checking charts and peering into the slits between curtains. At last she finds Madison, but the sight of the unconscious girl, waxen and pale against the sheets, strikes fear in her heart.

  A nurse glances up from taking her vitals. “If you’re the psych consult, you can come back at the end of shift. This little shorty’s going to be sleeping for a long time.”

  “I know her.” Abby reaches under the sheet and takes Madison’s hand, which is cold to the touch. Her fingers are limp, her fingernails pearly with a pale blue tint. “Is she going to be okay?”

  “Looks that way. Though the doctor had no business giving her that much morphine. Apparently the syringe was loaded up for some other patient and this girl went wild. Took a swing at him and he used the injection to calm her down.” The nurse glances up through an artistic spray of curls to check the IV. “This girl’s lucky to be alive.”

  When Abby brings Sharice into the curtained bay, Sharice’s eyes well over at the sight of her daughter, so lifeless and sedated. She drags a plastic chair over to Madison’s bedside and rocks there, holding her daughter’s hand to her cheek.

  “She’s so still,” Sharice murmurs. “Are you sure she’s breathing?”

  “Her breathing is shallow, but at least she’s breathing on her own. There’s a good chance she’ll be nauseous when she wakes up. She should be okay, Sharice, but I feel responsible for this.” Abby glances toward the curtain; no sign of him yet. “I should have never recommended Dr. Jump as a therapist.”

  Sharice holds a hand up. “Abby, it’s not your fault. I know your reservations, and I have some of my own.” She winces. “I found out that he lied about attending Rutgers with John. I don’t know, maybe it was a ruse to put him in our good graces. But I talked to Jim about it and, little white lies aside, he thinks Dr. Jump is just great.” Her hand squeezes Madison’s. “Whatever happened to Maddy today, we are going to get her through this.”

  “Of course we are, but Sharice…” Abby squats beside her. “It’s not Maddy. Madison is not the problem at all—it’s Dr. Jump. I’ve figured out what happened to John. Jump’s the one who killed John, Sharice.”

  “What?” The older woman’s eyes go wide, then she closes them. “No, Abby. That’s impossible. Don’t you know the creed doctors take? ‘First, do no harm.’”

  “But Jump is no normal doctor. He suffers from a serious personality disorder, and he has the capacity to do heinous things to people without feeling any guilt or remorse.”

  “Where are you getting this from?”

  “From observing his behavior, catching him in a few of his lies. He’s a sociopath, Sharice, and I think he’s targeted me and…” Then it hits her. “Oh, my God. It’s not just me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m not the only one he’s after. He’s targeted all of us…all of John’s family. That’s why he injected Madison today. Oh my God, Sharice, you’ve got to promise me you won’t leave Madison alone with him.”

  “Now who’s having a meltdown? Listen, Abby, I appreciate all your help. But really, Jim and I thought Madison made considerable progress with Dr. Jump and it seemed to make sense to leave her under—” Her eyes grow wide as something behind Abby steals her attention. “Oh, hello, Dr. Jump.”

  Steeling herself, Abby rises and faces her husband’s killer. Her attacker. Sofia’s kidnapper.

  Under the hospital’s fluorescent lights, his skin looks slightly pallid, but with his broad smile and clear blue eyes he could be the poster child for MDs of America. “Sharice?” He stares right past Abby, taking Sharice’s hands. “First, I don’t want you to see this as a setback but as a breakthrough. Madison was trying to conquer some difficult demons today, and I’m afraid the monsters got the better of her.”

  Speaking of demons, Abby wants to say, I hear you’ve got a direct line to hell.

  With great restraint, she stands there staring at the floor tiles while he tells Sharice his version of Madison’s episode, a tale that sounds ludicrous even to Abby’s unseasoned ear. First, she finds it hard to believe that a man the size of Dr. Jump could not restrain a slender girl like Madison. And even if it was a struggle, he could have called for assistance. And the drug injection…as if anyone would leave a loaded syringe of morphine on his desk during a therapy session? Morphine is a special class of drug kept under lock and key, even in a hospital.

  “So Madison is going to have to stay with us for a few days,” he says, checking the patient’s pulse. “In a few minutes they’ll move her to a room upstairs, which will be more comfortable for you.” He turns to Sharice and claps her on the shoulder. “Give you a chance to catch up on your TV viewing. I hear American Ido
l is addictive.”

  Charming, charismatic—Dr. Charles Jump has honed his people skills well. It’s chilling to watch him in action, frightening to think of the damage he can cause in his quest for self-gratification.

  Abby wants to stay and warn Sharice further, but Jump dismisses her outright, telling her that he needs a few moments alone with the patient’s guardian.

  “I’ll check in on you later,” Abby tells Sharice, looking directly in her eyes. “You’re going to stay with Maddy, right?”

  Sharice nods. “Jim is bringing me some things. We’ll take good care of her.”

  As Abby leaves the room, Jump flashes her a chilling smile that penetrates her soul. It plants a hollow feeling of fear for Madison’s welfare, a feeling of dread for her own safety here at the hospital.

  An hour later, as she’s working on her therapy notes upstairs, she finds that she’s still shivering.

  Chapter 70

  Seattle Flint

  The Lakeside Hospital Web site dedicates an entire page to Dr. Charles Jump, Director of Psychiatric Services. His record in the U.S. Army is lauded, as well as his educational background—a Bachelor of Science at Rutgers University and an M.D. at Harvard University School of Medicine.

  “Very impressive,” Flint says aloud for the benefit of anyone in the newsroom who cares to hear.

  The snag here is that it’s a load of bullshit.

  Charles Jump didn’t attend Rutgers or Harvard University.

  A check with the American Medical Association revealed that Dr. Charles Jump was a Board-Certified Psychiatrist, a graduate of the University of Missouri School of Medicine.

  A good guy, according to his obituary. Dr. Jump passed away in Kansas City back in 2003 at the age of seventy-four.

  Something stinks here, a real rotten egger. Flint’s favorite kind of story.

  He’s supposed to be covering the grand opening of the Potlatch Trail, a new path connecting South Lake Union to Elliott Bay. Snooze. The exposure of Charles Jump’s fraudulent ways, however, is a story with mileage.

  His only concern is that Abby Fitzgerald is caught in the eye of this storm.

  He tries calling her for the ninetieth time, but again, the voice mail clicks on. Damn. Where the hell is she? No answer on her home phone or her cell.

  To build a story, he needs to speak with someone from the hospital’s human resources department, inquire about their hiring practicing and process of checking employment history, but that will have to wait until morning, since HR people work bankers’ hours.

  So where does he stand now?

  He’s got to talk to Abby.

  She needs to be warned. And if he’s going to write this story, which he’s itching to do, he wants her to be onboard. Although the promise was unspoken, he never intended to write about John Stanton, never wanted to use his connection to Abby for a story. But now…this thing is spiraling out of control, way beyond the orbit of John’s celebrity, and Flint wants to be the one to lasso the moon.

  He could lump this all into an e-mail, but that would be a little abrupt, considering they haven’t had any contact with each other since they argued. Somehow, an attack on Jump doesn’t seem to be the best way to reestablish the connection.

  Hey, here’s some dirt on the asshole you were shacking up with last time we tangled.

  No, that’s not quite right.

  You know the dickhead who’s been borrowing your razor? He’s actually an imposter, someone who’s stolen a dead man’s identity.

  But Suz Wollenberg said Abby and the dickhead weren’t shacking up anymore. Actually, she said Abby never slept with the man, though that wasn’t his take on it.

  “Believe me, it never happened. Never.” Suz was emphatic on the phone. “But I think Abby is embarrassed because she let him push her around and…well, you’ll have to get the details yourself. Abby says the man is a sociopath, whatever that means, but it’s clear he’s targeted Abby and he’s like a shark with his jaw clamped shut and just can’t let go. Just this weekend, he slipped Abby drugs and scared the hell out of her by taking Sofia, but he’s a careful motherfucker. We can’t prove anything. The bottom line is, this guy is a psycho tyrant, and we’ve got to figure out what rathole he crawled out of and expose him.”

  “I never liked the guy but I didn’t peg him as a psycho.”

  “Well, think again. Abby says he’s a sociopath, a manipulative, charming asshole who doesn’t feel guilt. Look, I’ve got to get to a meeting, but you get going and do some digging, okay?”

  “You’re pretty passionate about your cause,” he told Suz.

  “I’ll leave the passion to you. Me, I’m just trying to watch out for my friend. She’s been through a lot, and she’s in an impossible situation right now. This psycho is her boss at the hospital.”

  “I get it. I’ll do some digging under Jump’s rocks,” he told Suz.

  Of course, when he made that promise, he had no idea that a few records checks would open a huge can of worms.

  He tries Abby again, but still gets no answer. This time he leaves a message. “Dammit, Abby, call me.”

  “Charming,” says his editor, Nina Torkelson, as she walks past him without looking. Nina possesses a luscious voice and the body of a Teletubby. When he was embedded in Iraq, speaking to her daily on the phone, he was sure she was much sexier than he remembered. Wrong. “I wouldn’t wait around to hear back from that one, Flint.”

  Flint rakes his hair back with his fingers. “Yeah, I always stick my foot in it.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Potlatch Path event?” Nina calls.

  He checks the clock in the corner of his computer. Might as well, since there’s no way he’s getting through to Abby today. “I’m on it,” he says, swinging his fleece-lined denim jacket over his shoulders as he heads out to the elevator.

  Today he’ll cover the community event. Tomorrow, Doctor Imposter.

  Chapter 71

  Lakeside Hospital

  Sharice

  In the haze of near-sleep inside Madison’s room, colors dance in Sharice’s mind.

  Velvety evergreen branches. Emerald green fields of clover edged by wildflowers in bursts of brilliant yellow, red and violet. A dusky purple mountain ridge holding up a big cerulean sky. The rich colors come to mind when she thinks of Noah these days, having seen her youngest son standing before towering pines in a photo on the war resisters’ Web site. In the picture Noah looks healthy, and his e-mails are very positive, talking about the hard work of helping some Canadians run a dairy farm and the peace he’s found living in the countryside. Madison has already promised him a visit, and Sharice hopes that one day that might happen. Maybe she and Madison could travel there together, a mother-daughter trip before Madison finishes high school.

  Settling into the corner chair under the blankets the nurses brought her, Sharice falls into melancholy over her failure to protect her children. Why do parents believe they can handle the navigation and growth of tiny beings when the world is riddled with hazards, dangers, evils?

  How ambitious she was when her children were toddlers. How blissfully ignorant of the dangers that would appear suddenly, giant potholes in the course of a life.

  Good, solid, strong John…all the love in the world could not keep him alive.

  Sensitive, smart, diligent Noah…living a world apart, unable to ever rejoin them.

  And Madison, her persistent baby girl who taught herself to walk at ten months, bruised shins and all. How does a mother help a child walk without worrying that she’ll walk away?

  Her daughter is breathing more deeply now in the nearly dark room. The light rack behind Madison’s bed has been switched to night-light mode, and the only other light in the room floods in from the corridor through the glass window in the door. In the dimness, Madison’s body seems so small under the sheets, as if she were still a child.

  And in a way, she still is. Sixteen. A foot in each world.

  Sharice rarely que
stions the decisions she’s made regarding her kids. Somehow, a mother just knows what’s right for her own kids.

  But what if she and Jim were wrong about Dr. Jump? Madison, who vehemently resisted when they made her see the psychiatrist for her first session, recently softened her attitude toward Jump. Or was that the drugs making her go soft? Sharice worried about those drugs, too. Maybe they should wean Madison from them?

  Or maybe Abby was right about switching to a different therapist. Sharice still had a bad feeling about Charles Jump’s credentials—the lies about Rutgers and Harvard. Since that day, she has not mentioned her discoveries to a soul, but it always niggles at her.

  Why did he lie about his college alma mater?

  What was he trying to hide?

  Really, if there was any question about the man’s credentials, he shouldn’t be treating her daughter. Her baby girl. It was Sharice’s job to watch out for Madison, and if that meant hurting some feelings here and there, so be it.

  Tomorrow morning, when Jim stops in to visit, she’ll discuss changing therapists for Madison. Certainly, after the incident today, Dr. Jump would understand. In fact, he might welcome the change that would let him off the hook. She settles into the chair, relieved to have a plan.

  The slightest creak of a rubber sole on the tile awakens her. She stares at the strange properties of the room, taking a moment to realize where she is.

  A glance to her left reveals someone standing over her daughter.

  Dr. Jump.

  At first realization she is warmed by his presence. She wouldn’t expect a psychiatrist to visit his hospitalized patients in the middle of the night.

  Then she sees the syringe in his hand.

  What?

  As she watches in horror he folds down the sheet and reaches down to Madison’s hips, turning her slightly in the bed. His hand snakes under her gown to her bare bottom, smoothing a path there.

  He tests the syringe. In the silhouette of light from the hall she sees the tiny spirt of liquid arching through the air from the needle.