Although some of his colleagues had guns in their desk for just such an eventuality, Horner didn’t. He looked around and realized there was no weapon readily available for him to use. He picked up the phone and had punched in 9-1 when Henry Taggart’s head appeared in the doorway.
“Claude. Got a minute?”
“Sure. Come in.” Horner returned the receiver to its cradle. Despite the air-conditioning in the office, Claude felt a trickle of sweat beneath his dress shirt. He decided not to tell his partner how his entrance to the building startled him.
“Sorry to make such a noise.” Henry smiled. “I tried to make the key to my house work in this lock.”
“Have a seat.” Horner was wondering how he could find out where his associate had been. While he was deciding, Henry solved the problem for him.
“You remember I told you there’s a possibility I might have pancreatic cancer,” Henry said.
“Yes. And you put that workup on hold when Nancy died. Are you moving forward now?”
“I’ll undergo an endoscopic ultrasound and needle biopsy tomorrow.”
“At our hospital? At a surgical center?” Claude asked. “Who’s doing it?”
Henry pursed his lips. “I don’t really want to talk about the details now. All you need to know is that I’ll be out tomorrow. I’ll talk with you when the biopsy results are in, and we can make plans for the practice.” He rose from his chair. “I hope you understand.”
“Sure, Henry. This is a tough situation, and you’ve made a big decision today. Now you want to put it out of your mind for a few hours.” Claude cast a compassionate look at his long-time associate. “But whatever you need, just let me know.”
“I will,” Henry said. He rose, but before he left the office he turned back to his partner. “Claude, say a prayer for me, will you?”
Claude waited until he heard the door close and the office suite was quiet again. Then he pulled the pad toward him, scratched out some figures and wrote in others. Claude looked off into the middle distance as he ran through everything once more. Then he nodded to himself. He’d need to tell Nelda about this latest development. But just maybe this would all work out for the best. Except for Henry, of course.
Beth found Caden in the ER, his right wrist partially immobilized by a splint from palm to mid-forearm, a bandage covering his forehead. He was sitting on the side of a gurney, arguing with Dr. Sparling.
She was hesitant to do more than give Caden a peck on the cheek until he enfolded her in a full-on embrace. “Don’t hurt yourself,” she said.
Caden looked at his colleague. “I keep telling Jim I’m fine. The X-rays of this wrist don’t show a fracture. And my skull films are negative—just a little forehead laceration, which they closed with butterflies.”
“The wrist is sprained, and keeping it braced for a few days will help it heal faster,” Sparling said. “As for the bandage on your forehead, you can change it to a smaller one when you get home. But I don’t plan to let you go until we see if there’s something going on that an X-ray doesn’t show us.”
“You mean you want to keep me for observation.”
Sparling nodded.
“You can’t hold me here, Jim.” Caden pointed to Beth. “She’s a trained nurse. We both know what to watch for in case a subdural hematoma or some other complication starts to develop. And I promise to use the brace for a few days. Now can I go home?”
Sparling looked at his colleague and shrugged. Then he turned to Beth. “They say the Lord watches out for fools and children. I don’t know which one this guy is, but to total his car and get out of it with no more than a sprained wrist and a bump on the head tells me that Someone is taking care of him.”
Beth nodded her agreement. And maybe my prayers while he was gone had something to do with it.
After another twenty minutes, Caden was ready to leave the ER. Sparling looked at him and shook his head. “Just take it easy, and don’t worry about the office. We’ll see you on Monday, if you feel up to it.”
Beth saw her husband open his mouth, but she squeezed his shoulder and shook her head. Miracle of miracles, he seemed to get the message, and remained silent.
She had to almost fight Caden to get him to follow the rules and be rolled in a wheelchair to her car, but at last they were headed home.
“That call I got before I left, the one I thought was from Neilson, didn’t come from him,” he told her. “This was a setup. Someone took several shots at me. I think the only bullet that got near me went through the trunk of the car. But when I made my getaway I took the turn off the gravel road too fast. I tangled with a truck and lost.”
“What happened then?” she said, her eyes fixed on the road.
“The man in the truck used his cell phone to call for help. My phone was on the seat beside me, and it’s probably still in the car somewhere. I was trapped until the firemen and paramedics pried me out and sent me to the hospital.”
“I’m glad you’re okay. And the car?”
“I’m sure it’s totaled. You can check with the wrecker service and try to retrieve my phone and stuff tomorrow.”
“Did the police talk with you?”
Caden started to nod his head, then stopped. “Ouch. I have pains in some places I didn’t anticipate. The police think I was turning onto the highway, lost control, took out a mailbox when I fishtailed, and ended up with that truck T-boning my car.” He waited, and when there was no reaction, he went on. “I want to talk with Neilson before I give the police details about the shots that were fired at me.”
“Do you have his cell number?”
“Yeah, stored in my cell phone. I guess I’ll have to wait to call him until we can retrieve it.” He noticed Beth turning on her blinker for a right turn. “Where are you going?”
“Neilson tried to reach you at the office. The caller ID captured the number.”
“Great,” Caden said.
“Oh, and your father called. He’s going ahead with the biopsy. It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning. And he apparently has a new doctor. I’ll give you all those details after we get home.”
Caden sat at the desk in his office. He touched the bandage on his forehead and wished he’d asked for pain medication before he left the hospital. He really hadn’t had a lot of discomfort after the accident, but maybe that had been the masking effect of the adrenaline. And that was rapidly wearing off. “Beth, don’t we have some Tylenol around here?”
“I’ll get it.” She left to find the mild pain-reliever for him. Caden knew his colleague had been right—he really shouldn’t be moving around right now, but he wanted to contact Neilson. Beth had retrieved the DEA agent’s cell phone number from the caller ID at his office, and that was the number he dialed as he waited for medication to help stop the army of little men hammering on his skull.
After five rings, Caden resigned himself to leaving a message. But then the call was answered with a brusque, “Yes?”
“Agent Neilson, this is Dr. Caden Taggart. I wanted to let you—”
“Where have you been? You left a message for me to call you. I tried to, but you didn’t answer your cell phone.”
“Someone phoned pretending to be you. They sent me to a deserted farm house to set me up for an ambush. I managed to turn my car around but had a wreck as I escaped.”
There was silence on the other end of the call. Caden took advantage of the lull to accept two extra-strength Tylenol tablets and a glass of water from Beth.
“I can’t talk right now. Can we meet tomorrow morning?”
What day was this? Tomorrow was Friday. Caden didn’t remember anything special on his schedule. He’d have to take their one remaining car, but he could make an early meeting with the agent, then double back to pick up Beth. “I think so.”
“I’ll meet you about a quarter to seven in the hospital coffee shop,” Neilson said. “Until then, be careful.”
Henry Taggart rolled out of bed at 5:00 a.m. on Friday, ending a
night marked by brief naps interspersed with long stretches when he lay in bed with his eyes wide open. His mind was going at warp speed, thinking of what was ahead, knowing he could do nothing about it except be swept along in the process. He’d finally decided that any further attempts at rest were out of the question.
Now he knew how his patients felt before he performed an exploratory laparotomy to determine whether their cancer was operable or not. He’d always tried to reassure them and calm their fears, but he’d never really experienced the anxiety they must feel. Today he did.
Henry remembered something he’d heard in medical school. The professor had talked about anxiety as an unreasonable fear of the unknown. Well, he’d have to challenge that. Sometimes it was just as bad to know as not know. And because he was a doctor, a surgeon, he knew all the things that came after a confirmed diagnosis of carcinoma of the pancreas.
He slid his feet into slippers and padded to the kitchen, stopping halfway there. Henry had been about to flip on the coffee maker, but he couldn’t have coffee this morning. He couldn’t even have water. Nothing to eat or drink after midnight was the main instruction he’d been given.
Was there anything else he needed to do? He’d been told to stop blood thinners and aspirin, but since he didn’t take these, there was no need to discontinue them. He had mild hypertension, easily controlled with one pill a day. He could take that with a small sip of water, the nurse told him.
Henry wondered if he might cheat and perhaps have a sip of black coffee instead of water with his pill. Ever since he was in medical school he’d run on coffee, and that habit stayed with him through the years. Surely a sip wouldn’t hurt anything. After several seconds of deliberation, he reluctantly decided it was best to do exactly what the doctor ordered. He’d always heard that doctors were the worst patients. Right now, he tended to agree.
He took his time shaving and dressing. When he opened the front door, it was still dark outside, but the newspaper was already on his porch. He brought it inside and began browsing through it, but when he came to the obituaries, Henry closed the paper and put it aside. That was too much a reminder of his mortality.
He looked at the clock in the kitchen. He needed to be at the outpatient center, the place where Dr. Ross would perform the endoscopy and biopsy, at 6:00 a.m. He’d arranged to be picked up at his house this morning by a taxi. He intended to go home the same way after his procedure. The nurse he talked with at the outpatient center had argued with him, warning that he’d be a bit woozy from his IV sedation, which is why they required a responsible individual be with the patient afterward.
“I’m a doctor. I’ve arranged my transportation, and I’ll be able to care for myself at home.”
It took quite a bit of arguing, but eventually he had convinced them. Now he wished he hadn’t been so stubborn.
He wasn’t totally certain why he’d decided to keep Jean out of the process. Maybe it was to prove he could handle this on his own. Or perhaps he was afraid he’d become a bit too dependent on her. The loss of his wife was still fresh enough that Henry felt a little guilt because there was another woman sharing some aspects of his life. He wasn’t ready to compound that.
When his son called him back late last night, Henry told him he was going ahead with the biopsy this morning. Caden volunteered to drive there and ferry him back and forth for the procedure but received the same response that he had given the nurse at the outpatient surgery center. He had it covered. I don’t want them making a fuss over me. They have busy lives of their own. Actually, Henry realized he didn’t want to feel dependent on someone else—not on Caden or Beth or Jean. Not on anyone.
If the biopsy showed what both consultants predicted, was Henry ready to commit suicide? And would he ask Caden for help in doing that? Lots had happened since that initial conversation he had with his son. Was he still ready to take his own life before the cancer did? Some people survived—lived for years. Could he be one of them? The odds of beating this were slim, but they weren’t zero. Did he want to take the risk? At least he’d found that if his death was the result of a suicide, his life insurance would still pay off.
He looked at his watch. The taxi would be here in about fifteen more minutes. He didn’t want to pick up a book. The newspaper was out. Henry had no desire to turn on the TV. He wandered into the study, eased into what he considered “his” chair, and closed his eyes. He wished he had a do-over on so many parts of his life. But it was too late to change what had gone before.
Finally, Henry stretched out his hand and pulled the leather-bound Bible off the coffee table. It hadn’t been opened since Nancy’s stroke, but thanks to once-a-week cleaning by the maid there was no dust on the book or around it. He let it fall open, hoping he’d find a note that Nancy had left in the margin. He’d give anything to see her handwriting again. But instead of a note he saw a passage she had highlighted with a yellow marker: “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble.”
Henry recalled the times he’d found Nancy sitting in this room reading this same Bible. Then, in a rush, more memories came flooding back—memories of her encouraging him to accompany his family to church instead of making hospital rounds or playing golf. He recalled the gentle way she’d tried to get him to open his heart to the Author of this book. But he’d put her off, again and again. Was it time for him to take that step now?
He was still sitting there, the Bible open in his lap, when the taxi pulled up outside and honked.
14
Caden stirred sweetener into what would be his third cup of coffee for that Friday morning and looked around. The crowd hitting the hospital’s food court about this time swirled around him, but he didn’t see Neilson. He looked down at his watch. The agent was fifteen minutes late. He’d give him another ten, but then Caden needed to go home and pick up Beth. Today he wanted to see about a rental car, maybe buy a new one if his little Ford was indeed totaled.
The scrape of a chair to his immediate right made him turn in that direction. Neilson was out of uniform, so to speak—no suit and tie today. He wore chinos and a golf shirt, covered by a dark blue jacket.
“I was about to give up.”
Neilson put down the cup of coffee and sweet roll he carried. He took a sip of the hot liquid before speaking. “I had to navigate a traffic tie-up on my way.” He lifted the pastry, took a bite, and chewed slowly. Neilson waited until he’d swallowed and chased it with more coffee. “Tell me about this incident yesterday.”
“You might call it an incident. I call it a near-death experience,” Caden said. Then, while Neilson polished off his sweet roll and finished his coffee, he related the whole story—the phone call with voice recognition made difficult by static, the apparently deserted farmhouse, the rifle shots that sent him hurrying away, and the crash that ended the story.
“And one of the shots hit your car’s trunk?”
“It sounded like that to me.”
“What did you tell the police?” Neilson asked.
“They think I came out of the gravel road too fast, skidded, and hit the truck.”
“Did you say anything about the shots? Do you think they noticed the bullet hole in the trunk?”
Caden thought about that. “No. They gave me a ticket, and a flat-bed wrecker came for my car.”
Neilson pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, clicked a ballpoint pen, and made a note. “If your car isn’t drivable, I presume it’s still at the lot where the tow truck took it.”
“I haven’t checked yet, but I suppose it is.”
“I’ll take a look,” Neilson said.
“If you or Harwell go out there today, look for my cell phone in the car. I had it beside me, using it for directions to this place, and I imagine it slid onto the floorboard or under the seat with the crash.”
“Better get another one,” Neilson said. “I may need to keep that one for a bit.”
“Why?”
“D
id it ever occur to you that it might be helpful for me to know the number that called you and arranged what you call a setup?”
“Won’t work,” Caden said. “Caller ID didn’t show the identity of the caller.”
“Leave it to me,” Neilson said. “There are ways.” And with that, he pushed back his chair and soon was lost in the crowd that continued to swirl around the food court.
When she heard the car pull up in the driveway and honk twice, Beth drained the last of her coffee, put the cup and saucer in the sink, and headed out. She picked up her purse and coat, made sure the door locked behind her, and slid into the front seat of their Subaru Outback. She had barely fastened her seat belt before Caden backed out of the drive and headed for the office.
“How was the meeting with Agent Neilson?”
Caden didn’t take his eyes off the road. “Unsatisfactory. I told him all about the incident last night. I expected him to tell me he was winding up his investigation, maybe reveal who was doing what, but instead it was another one-way street. He got some information from me and hurried out of there.”
“Do you think you should go to the police?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. But the DEA agents have told me they want to keep this investigation quiet, and we all know that the more people who know about anything, the greater the chance of a leak. I’m going to give it just a bit longer.”
“I don’t know why,” Beth said. “You’ve had anonymous phone calls, been shot at, been in a car wreck. The next time the people responsible reach out, you may end up dead.”
Caden didn’t respond to that. Just maintained the grim expression he’d had since his meeting with Agent Neilson.
Henry Taggart regained consciousness slowly. It wasn’t a sudden thing, like someone throwing open the curtains to view the day outside. He’d been wrapped in a dreamless sleep from which he gradually emerged like the slow fade-in of a movie. When he finally had his senses about him, he looked around and saw he was in the recovery room.
Guarded Prognosis Page 12