Critical Condition

by Richard Mabry

  Crosley felt like things were coming under control. The weight of the semiautomatic pistol in his waistband was comforting. The magazine of the Glock held fifteen hollow-point rounds. That should be more than enough.

  “I CAN SEE PARKLAND AHEAD,” SHANNON SAID.

  Mark clicked his turn signal. “We may have a little wait in the emergency room.”

  “I’m on the faculty of the medical center. I’m on the staff at Parkland. I know all the surgery residents and most of the ER nurses,” Shannon said. “I’ll make sure Megan’s taken care of.”

  Mark pulled into the parking area for the emergency room. He put the Chevrolet into a slot marked for unloading of emergency patients only. “Want me to let you out here and park the car somewhere else?”

  Before Shannon could reply, a white Ford Focus stopped with its nose at a tangent across the rear bumper of Mark’s Chevy, effectively blocking it in.

  “That’s my car!” Megan said. “And that’s Crosley.” She dove under the blanket like a kid hiding under the covers.

  The car’s lights went off, the driver’s-side door opened, and Walt Crosley approached, a boxy-looking gun hanging from his right hand. He banged on Mark’s window, pointed the gun at him, and made a downward motion.

  Mark turned the key in the ignition and hit the button to lower the window. His shoulders twitched, and Shannon knew he was thinking of pulling the gun from his belt. She put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Don’t.”

  Crosley leaned in until he could see Megan’s form huddled in the backseat. “All three together. I seem to have hit the jackpot.” He pulled back to keep his gun out of Mark’s reach. “Which one of you ladies is going to tell me the truth about where Radick hid his share of the money from the bank? One of you better.” He pointed the gun directly at Mark. “Or I’ll take it out on your boyfriend here.”

  “Don’t be—” Mark recoiled as the barrel of the gun crashed against his temple.

  Shannon made a move toward Mark, but Crosley motioned her back with the gun. “That’s just a sample. Next comes a bullet. Now start talking.” He looked first to Shannon, then Megan. “You have thirty seconds to tell me what I want to know.”

  Shannon took a deep breath and said a silent prayer. “I’ll tell.” Behind her, she heard Megan draw in a sharp breath. Mark raised his head just enough to turn toward her, but she silenced him with a single shake of her head.

  “Go ahead,” Crosley said. “It better be good.”

  “The numbers Radick gave were GPS coordinates that led to a map he’d hidden—a map of where he’d buried the money. I’ve had it all along, but I didn’t want to tell you.” She stretched her hand toward the door of the glove compartment. “It’s in here.”

  “Let’s see it,” Crosley said.

  Shannon opened the glove compartment and reached in. She moved some papers aside until her fingers found what she wanted. This went against everything she felt, every principle she’d lived all her life. But she had to protect Mark.

  As her hand closed around the handle of the gun she’d recently refused, Shannon remembered what Mark told her. Point it and pull the trigger. And that’s what she did.

  Her first shot made Crosley stagger backward. His gun barked, and she heard Mark grunt.

  Crosley was still upright, so Shannon kept pulling the trigger. The sounds of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder filled the car. Crosley slid below the open car window like a ship sinking from sight.

  Shannon dropped the gun on the floor of the car. “Is anyone hurt?” she almost screamed.

  “I’m okay,” Megan said from the backseat.

  “Mark? Mark?” Shannon leaned over and saw blood gushing from Mark’s abdomen. Oh, God. Not again.

  Two men in scrub suits ran up, followed closely by a police officer from the ER, his weapon in his hand. Shannon tumbled out of the car and raised her hands, palms outward. “I’m Dr. Frasier. The man on the ground is a wanted criminal. I shot him, but he shot my fiancé. Get me a gurney. We need to get Mark to surgery immediately.”

  Another orderly arrived, pushing a wheelchair. “The woman in the backseat’s been hurt. Take her inside,” Shannon told him.

  About that time, a middle-aged man in scrubs covered by a white coat hurried up. He raised the ID badge clipped to his lapel and addressed the policeman. “I’m Dr. Waites, vice chairman of the surgery department here. I’ll take over.”

  There was a brief argument, but the policeman allowed Shannon to trail Waites and the two orderlies into the hospital with Mark on a gurney.

  Two nurses met the procession at the door. “Get a couple of IVs started. Cross match for six units of whole blood. I’ll take him right to surgery,” Waites said. “Shannon, you should wait down here.”

  “No!”

  “Shannon, you know doctors shouldn’t take care of family or . . . or close friends.”

  “Tom, if you want to assist, I’d be glad for some help. But it’s important that I do this myself. I have to.” I’m not going to lose him like I did the others.

  IT WAS WELL AFTER MIDNIGHT WHEN SHANNON, STILL IN SWEAT-SOAKED scrubs, her hair tucked under a surgical cap, eased open the door of her sister’s hospital room and peeked in. Megan lay still, the head of her bed elevated, an IV running into one arm. Dried blood had been washed away, revealing the pallor of her skin. Dabs of ointment covered her visible burns.

  Megan was awake and talking in a low voice, hesitating periodically. The person on the other end of the conversation sat in a chair at Megan’s bedside, leaning forward as though not to miss a word. Megan looked up when Shannon entered the room. “How’s Mark?”

  “Mark will make it, but it was a tough case. Crosley shot him with hollow-point bullets. That means they mushroomed once they hit his abdominal wall, effectively creating shrapnel inside the belly. I had to—” She saw Megan turn even more pale. “Never mind. I had to stop a lot of bleeding, repair a lot of injured areas, but I did it. We’ll watch him in ICU for a couple of days, but he should recover with no long-term effects.”

  “Did the FBI agents—”

  “Elena talked with them while I was in surgery. When I got out, I gave them the details of your kidnapping and what Crosley did to you . . . and to Mark. They’re going to coordinate with the police now.”

  “Speaking of police.” Detective Steve Alston rose from Megan’s bedside and held out his hand. “Dr. Frasier, so glad you weren’t hurt. I appreciate you rescuing Megan. And I hope Mark is okay.”

  Shannon took the extended hand. “I suppose you’ll want a statement from me about the shooting. How’s Crosley?”

  “We’ll get your statement tomorrow.” Alston looked at his watch. “Well, technically, later today. I know you’re going to need some rest first.” He shook his head. “As for Crosley, he’s dead. You emptied the revolver—five shots—and three of them hit him in vital areas. He was DOA in the emergency room.”

  Shannon saw the room turning dark, felt it spinning around her. She’d killed a man—pulled the trigger of a gun and watched him die. But as the room slowly righted itself and her vision returned, she realized she’d been faced with a killor-be-killed situation. To protect the lives of her loved ones, to protect her own life, she’d reached for the gun she hoped Mark still had in the glove compartment of his car, the gun he’d bought for her protection.

  Would she do it again? Shannon prayed she’d never again be faced with that decision. But at that time, under those circumstances, she’d done what she had to do to save the life of . . . What had she called Mark when talking with the ER staff? Her fiancé. And, yes, that’s what he was. He just didn’t know it yet.

  “Doctor, are you all right?” Alston asked.

  “I guess I will be. Tonight I took one life and saved one. It’s going to take awhile for me to process all this.” She squared her shoulders. “Does this mean I’m going to be arrested?”

  Alston smiled. “No. We’ll take your statement, but we have witnesses wh
o’ll swear you shot in self-defense. I doubt it will even go to a grand jury.” His expression became more serious. “I need to apologize for the way I behaved during the investigation. You remind me so much of my late wife. I miss her terribly, and when I saw you . . . Let’s just say that I let my feelings get out of hand.” He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re in a relationship, and I promise not to infringe on that.”

  “Apology accepted,” Shannon said.

  “What about Detective Callaway?” Megan asked. “It seemed as though he was ready to hang me, and supply the rope if necessary.”

  Before Alston could answer, there was a knock at the door. “Let me see who this is,” Alston said. He admitted a woman in a Dallas Police Department uniform. “Perfect timing. Dr. Frasier, Ms. Frasier, this is Captain Locklear.”

  Shannon nodded but said nothing. What was going on here?

  “Captain Locklear is with Internal Affairs,” Alston said. “I think you need to hear what she has to say.”

  The captain was a middle-aged brunette with sad, brown eyes set deeply in an oval face above a straight nose and a thin mouth. Her police uniform bore an insignia that Shannon didn’t recognize, undoubtedly a sign of rank and length of service. Locklear, who was a bit taller than Shannon, stepped gracefully forward, nodded to Megan, and extended her hand. “Doctor.”

  Shannon returned the handshake, wondering what Internal Affairs had to do with all this.

  Locklear moved to stand next to Alston and addressed her remarks first to Shannon, then Megan. “IA has quietly been investigating Detective Callaway.”

  Shannon wasn’t sure where this was going but decided it should be interesting.

  “Detective Alston noticed that Callaway seemed focused on Megan, especially in the murder of her former boyfriend, Tony Lester,” Locklear said. “When Callaway wanted to bring her in and question her, Alston talked to me. I agreed that if we let Callaway do what he wanted—which was clearly going beyond the law—we could see what he was focused on.” She turned to Megan. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. But Detective Alston did arrange to get you out as quickly as possible.”

  “So what was Callaway doing?” Shannon asked.

  Locklear took a deep breath. “Callaway found out from one of his sources that Tony Lester was the driver for the bank robbery you already know about, so he decided to shake him down for some of the money. He went to Lester’s, where he found the man stunned from a blow to the head. There was a gun on the floor—apparently dropped there by someone.” She turned her penetrating gaze on Megan.

  “I’m sorry,” Megan said. “Yes, I sneaked back and retrieved the gun. I was afraid to face Tony without it, even with Mark there. As it turned out, the gun slipped out of my pocket in the fight, so I used a bottle to hit Tony. Then we got out of there.”

  Shannon turned to her sister. “Why didn’t you—”

  “It just seemed better to keep lying about it. I’m so sorry.”

  Locklear took up her narrative. “Callaway found the gun on the floor of the apartment and it gave him an idea. He slipped on a pair of the gloves he carried for use at a crime scene, picked up the gun, and threatened Lester with it. When Lester refused to pay, they struggled and Callaway shot him. Then he got rid of the gun. When your prints were found on it, he decided it was a perfect opportunity to frame you for the killing.”

  Megan’s voice was a bit stronger this time. “So Radick was murdered in front of Shannon’s house as part of a random drive-by. That had nothing to do with her. And after I moved out, Callaway shot Lester. It had nothing to do with me.” She reached for the water at her bedside and took a sip. “My sister and I are in the clear with the police. Right?”

  “There’s the little matter of lying in your statement, but I imagine your attorney will handle that,” Alston said. “So, yes, you’re clear. Why?”

  “I wanted to be certain my holding on to this wasn’t going to get me in trouble,” Megan said. “On the top shelf of the closet in my new apartment, you’ll find a little coin purse. Inside it is a key. I took it from Tony’s before I left him that night.”

  “And . . . ,” Alston said.

  “When Tony hid the key, he didn’t know I was watching him. I heard him tell someone on the phone afterward that he’d just funded his retirement plan. I knew the key was important to him, so when I left, I took it.”

  “But why didn’t you say something earlier?” Alston said.

  “I’ve been afraid to say anything, especially after my gun turned out to be the weapon that killed Tony,” Megan said. “Think how that would look. So I just tucked the key away and tried to forget about it.”

  “We’ll check it out, but I’m guessing it’s the key to a safe-deposit box—probably one that contains Tony’s share of the money from the bank robbery,” Alston said. “If that’s the case, it means that three men thought they got away with three-quarters of a million dollars—and none of them are alive to spend a cent of it.”

  THIRTY

  SHANNON EMERGED SLOWLY FROM A TERRIFYING DREAM, ROUSED by the ringing of her doorbell interspersed with knocks on her door. She raised herself on one elbow and squinted at the bedside clock, which told her it was almost noon. She’d tumbled into bed, totally exhausted, six hours ago. She’d give anything for a bit more sleep, but the people at her door didn’t show any inclination to give up and go away.

  Wrapped in a light robe, her feet in scuffed slippers, Shannon made her way to the front door and looked through the peephole to see the two FBI agents to whom she’d talked just hours earlier. Agent Andrews was raising his hand to knock again while Agent Crowder stood patiently behind him.

  “Okay, okay. I’m unlocking the door.” Shannon swung the door wide, beckoned the agents inside, and headed for the kitchen. “I’m going to flip on the automatic coffeemaker. Would you like some when it’s ready?”

  Andrews overrode Crowder’s “No, thank you” with “Yes, please. Milk and sugar.”

  In a moment, Shannon padded back into the living room and gestured the agents to the sofa. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Obviously we woke you, and we’re sorry for that,” Andrews said. “None of us got much sleep last night. But I thought you might like a follow-up.”

  Shannon cocked an ear toward the kitchen. No, the coffee was still perking. “I thought I gave you what you needed last night. This morning, I mean. Anyway, just a few hours ago.”

  Andrews shook his head. “This is about the key and label you gave us yesterday. We figured that since we were already up, we should do some looking this morning.”

  “Some of us decided,” Crowder said. “Others wanted to get some sleep.”

  Andrews glared at his partner, then continued, “Anyway, we got lucky at the third place we tried, and I thought we should stop by and let you know what we found.”

  Crowder smothered a yawn. “Whereas I thought—”

  Andrews quickly went on. “We found a private mailbox business that had a box 299, and the key fit.”

  “Was it a large mailbox? Did you find the money inside?”

  Crowder smiled. “Nope. It was the smallest mailbox they had, and it didn’t contain money.”

  Shannon felt disappointment well up. “So it was a wildgoose chase?”

  “Not at all,” Andrews said. “Apparently Radick was afraid the bills he got in the robbery might be marked, so he used them to get something a bit more portable.” The agent reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small evidence bag, about the right size to hold a box of kitchen matches. Inside was a chamois pouch, cinched at the neck. He dropped it onto the coffee table in front of him, and Shannon heard a clink like a bag of marbles. “This is going to the evidence room just as soon as we leave here, but first I thought you might like to see how many diamonds a quarter of a million dollars will buy.”

  MARK KEPT DRIFTING IN AND OUT OF SLEEP. HE KNEW THE DREAMS were morp
hine-induced, and they left him feeling alternately euphoric and depressed. When the nurse entered his ICU room, he asked her to remove his morphine pump. He’d rather hurt than go through more of the dreams.

  He had no idea how long afterward Shannon came into his room. She wore a simple red summer dress covered by a fresh lab coat. A stethoscope was draped around her neck, a symbol that attested even more convincingly than her white coat that she was a doctor and belonged in this setting.

  She walked softly to his bedside, bent, and kissed him on the lips. “I did that about eighteen hours ago when you came out of surgery, but you didn’t know it then. Now you do.”

  “What happened? The last thing I remember is Crosley firing, then feeling like I’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule.”

  “Crosley’s dead. He shot you before I killed him with the gun from your glove compartment.”

  “Are you okay?” Mark asked.

  “I’m having a hard time coming to grips with killing a man. I still don’t like guns, but in this case I’m glad one was available.”

  “How about Megan?”

  “She’ll be fine. She’s in a room on another floor. And while I was with her after your surgery, Detective Alston and a captain from the police Internal Affairs Division gave me some interesting news about Jesse Callaway.”

  Mark had to concentrate to follow the narrative, but when it was over he said, “I guess that explains some things.”

  “Why don’t you rest a bit?” Shannon said. She used her stethoscope to listen for a moment to Mark’s chest and abdomen. “Bowel sounds aren’t back yet, but that’s expected. You’ll have to be on IVs for a while, but that’s a small price to pay for still being alive.”

  “Who . . . who did my surgery?”

  “I did. Tom Waites assisted.”

  “But . . . you told me you had to work through panic attacks when you operate on a patient with a gunshot wound. How did you—”