“Are you going to mention it to the agents?”
“Maybe to Neilson,” Caden said. “I don’t think I want to talk with Harwell about it though.”
When Caden passed Ann in the OR on Thursday morning, she nodded and said, “Hi,” then went on her way as though nothing had transpired between the two of them. Maybe her reaction had really come from the tension of the surgery, the disappointment of losing a patient, and the let-down when she compared the absence of friends and family in the life of the man who’d just died with her own life. Caden walked on eggs around her and watched for further signs.
At noon, he went into his office and closed the door. Neilson had promised that the investigation would be winding down soon, but when was “soon?” Mel Sewell had made Caden realize that he’d been cooperating with the men who showed up unannounced in his office without getting any information back. And even after they promised that would change, he’d seen no real evidence of it.
He picked up his phone to call Neilson, but quickly replaced the receiver. He’d use his cell phone. That way, there was no danger of someone in the office picking up their phone and accidentally overhearing his conversation. As he punched in the cell phone number Neilson had given him, Caden wondered if he was getting paranoid about the whole situation. Better safe than sorry. At least, that’s what his father used to tell him. Most of the lessons of his life at home though came from his mother.
Neilson’s answer to the call was a neutral, “Yes?”
“Agent, this is Dr. Taggart. Can you talk?”
“Not really.”
“Is someone there with you?”
“Yes.”
“Let me give you my cell number. Call me when you can talk freely.” Caden reeled off the numbers, waited while Neilson repeated them back, and pushed the button to end the conversation. Now came the waiting.
Caden kept his cell phone in his pocket all afternoon, but Nielson never called. Had he decided not to get back in touch with him? Was the agent busy? Were the arrests that Neilson promised imminent? Caden wondered which of the nurses or office staff might be involved in the drug ring the DEA agents were investigating. He couldn’t picture any of them as the perpetrator. Then again, he hadn’t thought it possible that two men would show up at his office and turn his life upside down.
About the time Caden was ready to leave for the day, his cell phone buzzed. He looked at the display and saw that the identity of the caller was blocked. Should he answer? Yes. This was probably Neilson calling back. Caden stepped into his office and closed the door before he answered.
“Dr. Taggart?”
The voice on the other end of the call was distorted, and the words were difficult to make out because of an electronic frying sound. “Yes. Look, can I call you back? There seems to be a lot of static on this line.”
“Can’t. We need to meet somewhere safe. Can you come to this location right now?”
The site Neilson directed him to was probably a twenty-minute drive away, outside the city limits of Freeman in an isolated area. “I guess I can,” Caden said. “But why—”
“You’ll see.” This was followed by a click.
Caden found Beth and told her he was going to meet Neilson. He didn’t know when he’d make it home. If he was needed, call his cell phone.
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“He didn’t specifically say to come alone, but I think that’s what I’d better do,” Caden said.
On Thursday afternoon, Henry made his way to the office of the gastroenterologist he had chosen. Dr. Bradley Ross was much younger than Dr. Gershwin, but along the way Henry had found that the man was already gaining a reputation as a top-notch practitioner in his specialty in the Dallas area. Unlike Gershwin, he didn’t keep an office at the medical school, but was a clinical associate professor there, donating his time on a regular basis to teaching residents and fellows.
From the time Henry walked through the door of Ross’s office, he was impressed. The waiting room was nicely appointed, but the way the staff behaved was what sold him. The receptionist was pleasant and helpful. The registration process was efficient. He handed over his records and a DVD that documented his radiology procedures. Although he had to fill out the usual forms, he didn’t have to wait long before a middle-aged woman in a nurse’s smock appeared at the doorway and called, “Dr. Taggart?” Although Henry didn’t really want special treatment, he couldn’t help but be pleased that the office staff at least recognized his profession and title.
After the standard weigh-in and recording of vital signs, he settled down in the exam room to wait. Now we’ll see how long I have to sit here. The answer was “not long.” Less than ten minutes later, Dr. Ross tapped on the door and entered.
The young man—at least, he looked young to Henry—smiled, introduced himself, and took a seat on the rolling stool next to the exam table. Ross was blond, with a ruddy complexion. A clean lab coat covered his pale blue dress shirt and patterned tie. Maybe it was because he dealt with GI issues, rather than cancer all day, but to Henry, Ross seemed pleasant compared to Gershwin.
“Dr. Taggart, I’m Brad Ross. How can I help you?”
“Would you like to see my records and tests before you get started?” Henry asked. “I brought them.”
“I’d prefer to hear your story first.” Ross leaned forward a bit. “Then we’ll look at the tests together and decide where to go from there.”
It took Henry about ten minutes to tell his story. Ross listened intently, occasionally jotting down a note but never interrupting. When Henry had finished, Ross asked a few questions, then was silent for a moment as he appeared to digest the information.
Finally, he rose from the stool and pulled a stethoscope from the pocket of his white coat. “Next I want to examine you. Why don’t you slip off your shirt?”
The exam took another ten minutes and was thorough. Ross didn’t say anything during the procedure, and Henry found it almost impossible to read his expression.
“After you’re dressed, we’ll look at the GI series,” the gastroenterologist said. “That’s what started you and your doctor on this trail.”
In Ross’s office, Henry handed over the DVD that showed his initial X-rays. The consultant popped the disc into the laptop computer on the desk and invited Henry to come around, so they could look at the radiographs together. Ross watched silently, often going back and forth to observe the passage of the contrast material through the intestinal tract. Finally, he turned to Henry and pointed to the area where the duodenum made its characteristic loop before the small intestine proper began. “So, the radiologist and your internist both thought the widening of this C-loop suggested a space-occupying lesion in the head of the pancreas.”
“That’s right,” Henry said. “They felt it probably indicated early pancreatic carcinoma.”
“Well, that’s certainly possible, but further workup is necessary,” Ross said. “Many times, that’s a valid diagnostic clue, but it’s not a slam dunk.” He ejected the DVD and looked for the next one. “Let’s check the ultrasound scan.”
“I haven’t had one yet. The consultant suggested a CT scan, and I have that here.” Henry pushed forward another DVD.
Ross said, almost to himself, “I wonder why he did the CT next.” As he put the disc in the laptop, he said, “We’ll look at it because we have it, but as we both know, it will take a biopsy to definitively establish the diagnosis.”
Henry nodded. Well, he’s not jumping to conclusions anyway.
Ross was silent as he went through each of the views from the CT. After he’d finished, he went back and enlarged a couple of them. Then he pointed with the blunt end of his pen. “Here’s a space-occupying lesion in the pancreas. It’s not very large, but certainly large enough to widen the C-loop. It also showed up on the initial GI series. I suppose your consultant ordered the CT scan to confirm it.”
“Do you agree that there’s something there?”
Ross nodded. “It was pretty perceptive of your internist to follow up the abnormality on the GI series. I just hate to put a name to it until we actually have a biopsy and see the cells within the mass.”
“So, what do you think?”
“The CT shows it’s solid, so it’s unlikely to be a pancreatic cyst. The next logical step is a needle biopsy. That’s done with an endoscope you swallow—”
“I know how it’s done,” Henry interrupted. “But if it’s pancreatic cancer, there’s not a lot that treatment can offer. Aren’t we just expending a lot of effort for nothing?”
“We aren’t sure what the mass represents. We won’t know until we look at some tissue,” Ross said. “The studies raise the possibility of carcinoma of the pancreas, but even that’s not a death sentence. There are things that we can do, but first comes the biopsy.”
“I—”
Ross held up his hand. “I note from the papers you filled out that you’re here for a second opinion. You’re a doctor, but I’m going to simplify it anyway. You have a mass in the head of the pancreas that may represent a malignancy. I agree with Dr. Gershwin that an endoscopic ultrasound and needle biopsy are the next step. It appears to me that, like a lot of patients, you’ve been putting off moving forward, hoping all this would go away.” He shook his head. “It won’t.”
“So, your opinion . . . ”
“Endoscopic ultrasound and needle biopsy, and the sooner the better. If they’re positive, it’s not a death sentence. But putting them off might be.” Ross put his hand on Henry’s chart but made no effort to open it. “Now you’ve had two doctors tell you what the next step should be. Whether you want the work performed by Dr. Gershwin at the medical center or by me is your decision. What do you want to do?”
“He’s got a lawyer involved now. He wants to know everything we’ve found out. This isn’t going down the way we thought.”
“Do you have what you need to pull out and whitewash the whole thing?”
“Almost, but I think it would be easier to blame the whole thing on Taggart . . . after he’s dead.”
“So that means plan B.”
“It’s already been activated.”
Beth was the last one out the door of the office. She had her hand on the doorknob when she heard the phone ring. She had already checked out to the answering service, so she knew that after a couple of rings the call would go to them. If it was something Caden should respond to, the service would call his cell phone and give him the message.
She stood in the hall and listened for a moment. That was two rings . . . then another . . . and another. The call wasn’t going to the answering service. Someone had dialed the unlisted, back line number. Beth reinserted her key, opened the door, and strode toward the front desk. This could just be a wrong number, but each of the doctors and nurses also had this number, so it might be important.
She lifted the receiver and punched the flashing button. “Dr. Taggart’s office.”
“This is . . . er . . . Dr. Neilson. Is Dr. Taggart there?”
“This is his wife. I know who you really are, Agent Neilson.” Beth told him about the cell phone call Caden had received. “He left a little while ago.”
“I didn’t call him,” Neilson said. “I’ve gone from meeting to meeting all day long, and just now got free where I could go somewhere private and call him. He’s not answering his cell, so I decided to call him here.”
“How did you get this unlisted number?”
“That’s not important. But if he isn’t there and he’s not answering his cell, how am I supposed to get in touch with him?”
“Wait a minute. The call he got wasn’t from you?”
“No. It wasn’t from me.”
A queasy feeling swept over Beth. Who had called Caden? And, where was he?
As Caden drove along the route laid out in the phone call, he saw city buildings give way to dwellings—apartments, then homes, then farm houses set far enough back from the road they were essentially isolated. During this time, traffic along the road he was driving became progressively lighter until his was the only vehicle on the road.
He directed his attention to the numbers painted on the mailboxes sitting at the roadside, and soon he saw the one he wanted. The turnoff was nothing more than a gravel track, ending at a ramshackle house a quarter-mile away.
Caden couldn’t drive very fast without his front-wheel-drive Ford Fusion skidding on the loose gravel. As he got closer to the house, he noticed that, although dusk was settling, no lights were visible inside it. He saw no vehicles parked where the gravel road ended in front of the house. Torn shades were drawn, partially blocking the view of the darkened interior of the farm house. So far as Caden could see, there was no sign of anyone inside the house. It looked abandoned. But maybe that was what the agents wanted.
Why had Agent Neilson chosen this out-of-the-way place? Maybe the DEA had set up headquarters here for privacy. Perhaps there were cars hidden in back, out of sight. And they would arrange it to look like the farmhouse was deserted. On the other hand, this could be . . . No. That only happened in the movies or in novels.
He opened the car door and started to get out, but before Caden could fully exit the vehicle he heard a loud crack. Reflex drove him to dive back into the car, sheltering there. That sounded like a shot, but that was impossible. He kept his head below the dashboard while he replayed what had just happened. Was the sound a product of his imagination? Was someone really shooting at him? When the second shot rang out, he raised his head long enough to see dirt fly up a few yards in front of his vehicle. This hadn’t felt right, and now he was certain. It was a setup, and it was time for him to get away.
Keeping his head down as best he could, Caden started the car and slammed it into drive. He spun the wheel in the tightest turn he could manage, but it wasn’t any easier to drive away on the loose gravel road than it had been to arrive. He heard another gunshot almost simultaneous with a metallic sound as the round hit the trunk of his car. Caden spared a glance into the rearview mirror. No one seemed to be chasing him, but he still wanted to get away from there.
When his car reached the junction of the road with the highway, Caden whipped the car into a tight turn, trying to pick up speed as he transitioned from the loose gravel onto the pavement. His vehicle fishtailed, hitting the mailbox before spinning out of control. While he tried to correct, he heard a loud air horn. That was when he saw a truck coming at him on a collision course.
13
At home, Beth picked up Kitty and held her, taking comfort from the presence of another beating heart in the house. How many times since Caden set up his surgical practice here in Freeman had she been grateful for Kitty’s presence. She loved the little kitten, but it was no substitute for Caden . . . or for the child they both wanted.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ring of the phone. At first, she thought it was Caden calling. She had a hundred questions for him, but the main thing was that he was safe. Then she realized it was the landline ringing. Probably someone wanting to sell her a cruise. But when she looked at the caller ID, it showed that the call was from her father-in-law.
“Henry, how are you doing?”
“I’m fine, Beth. I wanted to tell both of you where I am with the workup of my . . . my cancer. Is Caden there?”
Beth had brought Kitty with her when she went to the phone. Now she set the kitten down and reached for a pad and pencil. “No, not right now, and I don’t know when he’s coming home. Can I give him a message? Or we can call back, so you can talk with both of us.”
“No need. I just wanted you both to know that I’ve scheduled my endoscopy with biopsy. Dr. Ross is going to do it tomorrow morning.”
She was scribbling as Henry talked. “Do you want one of us to drive you to and from the procedure?”
“No, I’ve got it taken care of.”
Probably with Jean. It was just as well that Caden wasn’t here to talk with his father. Beth wa
sn’t certain, but it was possible that her husband was still hanging on to his theory that Jean had in some way contributed to his mother’s death. He certainly still resented the role she was taking in his father’s life.
“I’ll give this information to Caden when he comes in. And will you be at home if he wants to call?”
“I don’t think so. I need to go back to my office for a bit. Then I may go over to Jean’s.”
Beth was thinking about her response when there was a beep that signaled someone else was calling. “I’ve got another call coming in, Henry. Looks like it’s from the emergency room. They may have something for Caden, so I guess I’d better take it.”
After promising to talk with Henry later, Beth answered the other call. “This is Mrs. Taggart.”
“Beth, it’s me. I don’t have my cell phone right now, and I practically had to threaten the people here in the ER to get to use their landline. I’m okay, but—”
Caden’s conversation was cut off suddenly and replaced by a different male voice. “Beth, this is Jim Sparling. I was in the ER when the paramedics brought Caden in. He’s been in an accident. He’s okay now, but you probably should come down here.”
At the offices of Drs. Henry Taggart and Claude Horner, all the lights were off except a lamp illuminating Dr. Horner’s desk. A scratch pad in front of him was filled with figures. The man sat with his head in his hands, occasionally looking up to check a figure, then bowing his head once more.
The office suite had been quiet for a while when Horner heard a noise at the back door. It wasn’t the normal sound of a key turning in the lock. It was a series of scratches and thumps. Finally, the door opened and closed.
Horner frowned. There were only a few people with keys to that door, but this didn’t sound like someone using one. He had never heard someone pick a lock or jimmy a door to open it, but this was what he imagined it would sound like. It was probably silly, but there’d been a rash of break-ins to medical offices recently. Suppose someone had come through the back door, expecting the suite to be empty?
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