Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  He returned his hand to the steering wheel, and Shannon reached across to lightly touch it. He noticed that her hand was trembling slightly. Maybe I won’t mention the gun tonight.

  INSIDE SHANNON’S HOUSE, WHILE MARK MOVED FROM ROOM TO room, checking doors and windows, she went to the kitchen and pulled two Diet Cokes from the refrigerator. In a moment, Mark walked in and said, “All secure.”

  Shannon handed him his drink. “Want to sit down and rest a bit first?”

  Mark grinned. “No more than you do.”

  She lifted her Diet Coke in a sort of toast. “So let’s look at what we brought back.”

  They moved into the living room, and Shannon pointed to her desk, where a banker’s lamp stood on a green blotter. “The light’s good over here.” She pulled the chain on the lamp, extracted the key from her pocket, and dropped it onto the desk in the center of the blotter.

  Mark took his knife and teased the label off the key. He held it beneath the light and read off the numbers. “75035299. Any idea what it means?”

  “No. What about the key?”

  The key, when viewed in better light, still yielded no useful clues. Its faded and scratched brass surface had a two-digit number stamped along the top. “Maybe the number means something,” Shannon said.

  Mark was already shaking his head. “I’ve seen numbers like this before. I’m betting they’re a designation for the key blank.”

  “So this is a duplicate key,” Shannon said.

  Mark nodded. “And that means it’s not to a US Post Office box. Those carry a stamped warning not to duplicate.”

  “What should we do with this, now that we’ve found it?” Shannon asked.

  “Up to you,” Mark said. “I’m too tired to think about it tonight. We can decide tomorrow.” He turned to face Shannon. “I’m going to head home. When I leave, lock the door behind me and don’t open it for anyone. In the morning, lock your car doors before you pull out of the garage. And when you arrive at the medical center, call security to walk you into the building.”

  “Is all that necessary?”

  “Maybe not. But it’s better to be cautious.” At the door, Mark kissed Shannon. “Are you sure you won’t take that gun I have for you? It’s easy to use. Point it, pull the trigger.”

  This time she paused. Then, slowly and almost regretfully, Shannon said, “No.”

  After he’d left, she stood for several moments staring out into the gathering darkness, wondering if she was being foolish. Time would tell.

  She still wasn’t hungry. And it was too early to shower and go to bed. Shannon booted up her computer, wondering what she could put into a search engine that might give her a clue to the label and key they’d found tonight.

  As with most Internet searches, she found herself following rabbit trails that, while interesting, led nowhere. Eventually, Shannon looked at her wrist and discovered it was almost ten o’clock. She’d try one more search, then give it up for the night. She entered another term in the Google search box, clicked on one of the results, and there it was. The answer was right before her eyes. That was what 75035299 meant.

  Now it made sense.

  MEGAN FRASIER CHECKED HERSELF IN THE MIRROR IN THE HALLWAY of her new apartment. She was ready to face the day and end the workweek. Her blue eyes were clear and bright behind the designer glasses she wore today, letting function triumph over vanity. Her makeup was perfect but not overdone. Megan moistened her lips and nodded with satisfaction at the effect. She patted her blond hair, then smiled when she saw how well this hairstyle flattered her face.

  She turned from side to side. Her clothes fit her well. True, she carried a few more pounds on her frame than her older sister, but she’d work on that in the days to come. No more fast-food lunches. No more meeting the gang for beer and nachos after work. She was determined to turn her life around, and losing weight would be a natural offshoot.

  Megan thought back to all she’d experienced. Maybe God really did have a hand in getting her through. She vowed to do better. She’d attend church, stay in touch with her parents, be more patient with her sister. Her dad had always preached that God could forgive, no matter how black our sins. Maybe he was right.

  Parker walked down the hall, stopping long enough to remark, “Looking good. Want to go somewhere after work to celebrate the start of the weekend?”

  Megan felt her good intentions heading out the window. She tightened her resolve. “Maybe for club soda and a few pretzels. I’ve got to start a diet.”

  Parker laughed. “You’re the boss. Maybe we can find a juice bar and load up on kale chips and carrot juice.” She checked her appearance in the mirror and nodded approvingly. “I’m off. See you tonight.”

  “Right behind you,” Megan said. In the front hallway, she picked up her purse and checked the contents. She rescued her keys from the depths of the bag and went out the door.

  The parking area for the apartment where she and Parker lived was behind the building at the end of a covered walkway. The parking slots were also covered, which was especially nice now that the July temperatures were climbing. Even at eight in the morning, Megan was thankful for the shade. By this evening, pulling into it would be a blessed relief.

  Each apartment had two designated parking spaces, with visitor’s slots interspersed here and there. Megan’s little white Ford was sitting in its assigned space at the far end of the first row. When she was about half a dozen paces away, she beeped the car unlocked. She noticed a maroon sedan next to hers. She was pretty certain that wasn’t a visitor’s space, and as she recalled, the vehicle that was usually parked there was a black pickup. Oh well. Maybe a relative was visiting. Maybe someone wanted to be closer to an apartment while they did some work there. Not her problem.

  Megan had the driver’s door of her car halfway open when something hard prodded her back. A strong hand gripped her shoulder, preventing her from turning. At the same time, a muffled voice, harsh and raspy, sounded in her ear. “So, Megan, we meet again.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  DURING MULTIPLE SPELLS OF WAKEFULNESS THROUGH A TROUBLED night, Shannon wrestled with the problem of what to do now that she’d found the key. She was pretty sure she knew what it represented, what it would unlock. It might take a bit of driving, but she was certain the key and the numbers on the label could lead her to whatever Walt Crosley wanted so badly. So should she take the next step herself, or trust the detectives with the key and her thoughts on its meaning?

  All during her breakfast of coffee and a muffin the next morning, while she was getting dressed and putting on makeup, as she prepared for the day she continued to turn over her options. She was hesitant to do this on her own, but neither Callaway nor Alston had her trust anymore. She might be able to go to someone else in the police department, but who would that be? What if she happened to choose one of Alston and Callaway’s friends . . . or, even worse, their coconspirator? She could try another law enforcement agency—but where would she start?

  As Shannon packed her briefcase, she slipped the key and label into an envelope and tucked it behind some professional journals. As she walked to her car, the answer came to her in the form of one of her father’s favorite sayings: “You don’t buy a dog and bark yourself.” She had an attorney, one well versed in criminal law. She’d call Elena, tell her what she and Mark had found, and let the attorney take it from there.

  Shannon entered her garage through the door from her house, and although she felt foolish doing so, she looked carefully into her car before climbing inside. She locked the doors, started the car engine as she raised the garage door, and backed into the driveway. This was no way to live her life.

  She wondered if she’d been wise to refuse the gun Mark offered. Maybe this was a case of foolish fears overriding common sense. It wasn’t as though she would be using the gun as an offensive weapon. The only way she’d pick it up, much less fire it, was for self-protection. Was it worth risking her life for the sake of a pri
nciple?

  She hoped she hadn’t made a potentially fatal mistake. Of course, if she had, she wouldn’t know it until too late.

  MEGAN’S HEART SEEMED TO STOP. SHE STOOD MOTIONLESS, transfixed not so much by the strong hand that held her shoulder as by the fear that started in the soles of her feet and radiated upward through her whole body, paralyzing her as effectively as a curare dart.

  “I asked if you were glad to see me,” Walt Crosley said. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  It was impossible for Megan to discern the emotion behind the words. Not only had whatever misfortune befell Crosley’s vocal cords permanently rendered his speech rough and strained, it apparently made it difficult for him to convey emotion through his words. Never mind. The gun pressed against her back and the grip on her shoulder told her that he meant business.

  “What . . . what do you want?” she asked.

  “Get in. Crawl over to the passenger side so I can drive.” The pressure was withdrawn from her back. “Leave your purse between us. And don’t think about reaching into it. When I visited Barry at First Step, he told me he was going to hook you up with someone who could get you a gun.”

  Megan opened her mouth to say, “There’s no gun in there,” but decided that any edge was better than none. If Crosley was extra careful, maybe she could use that to her advantage. She scooted over until she was almost against the passengerside door.

  “Car keys?”

  “I have them in my hand.” She held them out in her open palm.

  Crosley eased under the steering wheel and closed the door. He transferred his gun to his left hand and held out his right. She dropped the keys into it and fastened her seat belt. Megan didn’t know what was coming next, but she figured she’d better be ready for it.

  “Just sit there and be quiet,” Crosley said. He started the car and pulled away. Megan was surprised to find he was a careful driver. As though privy to her thoughts, Crosley said out of the side of his mouth, “When you’re driving stolen cars with no driver’s license or papers, you don’t want to get stopped.”

  Now that she could see him, Megan noticed several puckered scars on Crosley’s neck. Maybe they had to do with the injury that affected his voice. She filed the information away in case it might be useful.

  Right now she didn’t know where they were going or what Crosley planned to do once they arrived. As the car gained speed, Megan did something she hadn’t done in quite a while—she prayed.

  MARK REACHED FOR THE RINGING PHONE ON THE CORNER OF HIS DESK, never taking his eyes off the reports in front of him. “Dr. Gilbert.”

  “Hard at work already?”

  Mark shoved the papers aside and leaned back in his chair. “Shannon, how are you this morning?”

  “Sleepy,” Shannon said.

  “Are you in your office?”

  “I’m on my cell, trying to stay awake as I drive in. I wrestled with this key thing all night, and I think there’s only one reasonable course of action. I think we should tell Elena what we’ve found and let her take it from there.”

  “I agree. We can’t trust the detectives. And if the key really leads to the money Crosley is after, we don’t want to contaminate the evidence, or however they say it on the TV shows.”

  “That’s the problem,” Shannon said. “All the law and the police procedure I know come from watching those shows. That’s why we need to let Elena handle this. So you agree with me?”

  “I think it’s our only real option,” Mark said. “Want me to be with you when you call her?”

  “No, I can do it. Why don’t I check back with you about lunchtime? Maybe we can get together then.”

  “Have you talked with your parents? Your dad had his last chemo treatment yesterday. Think he’ll be able to preach this weekend?”

  “I don’t know.” Shannon’s deep sigh was like a strong wind in the receiver.

  “It slipped your mind, didn’t it?”

  “I’m not sure that I didn’t just bury it in my subconscious. I can’t get used to thinking of Dad as anything but the rock that anchors our family. And knowing that he’s being treated for a potentially fatal disease . . . well, it’s hard to take.”

  “If you’d like to see them this evening, I’ll be glad to go with you,” Mark said.

  “I’m pulling into the parking garage now. I’ll call Elena from my office. After that I’ll check with Mom and Dad.”

  “Don’t forget to call security and let them walk you from your car to your office.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary?”

  “Three options,” Mark replied. “Take the gun I offered, get security to escort you into the building, or let Crosley ambush you—and this time, you might not get out alive.”

  There was a long pause. “I’m going to hang up and call security right now. Let’s get together at lunch. Meanwhile, here’s some news for you. I think I know what the numbers on the key mean.”

  ELENA WAS JUST SITTING DOWN AT HER DESK WHEN HER CELL phone rang. Had one of the girls left a book at home? Was there a permission slip Elena had to sign for a field trip today? Why could teenagers remember the words to every song the latest pop idol recorded, but never things like this?

  When she looked at the caller ID, Elena felt guilty for automatically blaming her daughters. “Shannon, good morning.”

  “Do you have a moment to talk?” Shannon asked.

  Elena checked her watch, then glanced at the schedule centered on her blotter. “If it’s not too long a conversation. What’s on your mind?”

  “I think we’re a step closer to learning what Crosley wants.” She went on to explain about finding the key at the cemetery.

  Elena started to ask how Shannon and the police had missed the key the first time, but she didn’t want to interrupt the narrative. “And you think the key is what Crosley wants? How do you know what it unlocks?”

  “The key’s pretty anonymous—small brass key, no particular markings on it. But the clue’s in the label. It says 75035299. I think Barry Radick rented a private postal box in the 75035 ZIP Code, box 299, and the money is in there.”

  Elena doodled on a legal pad. “The robbers got away with about three-quarters of a million dollars. If Radick’s share was a third, that’s two hundred fifty thousand dollars. In hundred-dollar bills, that would be a package about a foot high.”

  “I’ve already done the math. Maybe it’s one of the larger boxes. I don’t know how it works out. But I think we’ve got the key to recovering Radick’s share of the stolen money. The problem—”

  “The problem is that you don’t want to take it to the detectives working the murder case. I can see that. Let me think.” Elena tapped her pen against the pad on her desk for a moment. “This really isn’t about a murder case. We’re talking about the money from a bank robbery. That’s a federal offense. I have a contact I trust at the FBI. Let me call him.”

  “So I can give him the key and tell him what I think?”

  “Actually, you’d better show him where you found the key at the cemetery. The chain of evidence is already compromised, but maybe we can make this work.” Elena jotted another note on her pad. “Can I call you back when I have some answers?”

  “I’ll be free about noon.”

  “Great,” Elena said. “I’ll get back to you then. In the meantime—”

  “I know,” Shannon said. “Be careful.”

  THE CLINIC NURSE TAPPED ON THE EXAM ROOM DOOR, OPENED IT just far enough to stick her head inside, and asked, “Dr. Frasier, can you take a call from your senior resident?”

  “We’re almost finished here,” Shannon said. “Ask him to hold.” She turned back to the middle-aged lady sitting on the edge of the examination table. “Mrs. Verhuisen, my nurse will get that surgery set up and give you instructions. But do you have any questions for me?”

  Two minutes later, the patient was following the nurse down the hall in one direction while Shannon walked briskly in the
other. In the dictation room, she lifted the receiver and punched the phone’s blinking button. “This is Dr. Frasier.” Please don’t let it be an emergency. I have too much on my plate already.

  “This is Kyle. Do you recall Mrs. Molina?”

  Shannon shuffled through her mental index cards. “Older woman with intestinal obstruction. No previous abdominal surgery, no mass on X-ray to suggest malignancy, probably paralytic ileus. She’s getting IV fluids, nasogastric suction, conservative management because of her age and medical status. Right?”

  “Right. She seems a little worse today, and I’m wondering what you want to do next.”

  Shannon thought for a minute. “Get a CT scan of the abdomen, and ask the radiologist to concentrate on the gallbladder area. Maybe this is a gallstone ileus.”

  The pause on the other end of the line confirmed that Shannon had mentioned something the resident hadn’t considered. “I’ll check that out. If you’re right . . .”

  “If I’m right, we do an endoscopic enterolithotomy. Use a scope to get the stone out, let the patient recover, go back in after four to six weeks to remove the gallbladder and close any biliary fistula.” She looked at her watch. Almost noon. “Call me when the CT’s done. I’ll have a look at Mrs. Molina, go over the films with you, and we’ll make a decision.”

  After she hung up, Shannon, as she often did, rethought what she’d just sounded so confident in saying. Gallstone ileus was uncommon, but the more she thought about it, the more sure she was that her diagnosis would be correct. As for treatment, a difference of opinion existed, but she felt this was the best choice. In an older patient with numerous medical problems, do as little surgery as necessary to take care of the acute problem. Consider more definitive surgery later, after Mrs. Molina was stable.

  Shannon was anxious for noon to come. Maybe Elena would have some good news for her. Meanwhile, she had another call to make. She reached for the phone and felt fear gnaw at her as she dialed her parents’ number.