“Even if I’m innocent?” Baker’s face was getting redder by the moment. Perhaps he’d rupture an aneurysm. No, we can’t have him dying in this office.
“Calm down, Dr. Baker. I can see how important this is to you, so please forget that I brought it up.” He consulted a leather-bound appointment book that lay on a corner of his desk. “Today is Friday. Suppose we meet again next Wednesday at noon and discuss this further.”
“Okay. We’ll leave it until Wednesday. But I don’t want any more phone calls to Eric McCray trying to get rid of me. I’ve got enough on my mind without looking over my shoulder at you.”
As the door closed behind Baker, Goodrich nodded to himself. Oh, don’t worry. You won’t see it coming at all—until it’s too late.
20
As Mark approached the central desk in the ICU where the ward clerk sat, a nurse stopped him. “You’re Dr. Baker, aren’t you?”
Mark nodded, trying to ignore the hard, cold lump that had suddenly formed in his gut. “Yes. Is something wrong?”
“Not at all. But Miss Atkinson fell asleep shortly after you left, and her doctor thought it would be a good idea for her to rest undisturbed by visitors for a while. He suggested you might want to go home, shower and change clothes, maybe even get a nap.” She paused, and when there was no reply she said, “I’ll make sure we call you if there’s any change . . . any change at all.”
Mark had been too busy to pay much attention to his appearance. These were the same clothes he’d worn for twenty-four hours. He rubbed his hand over his chin and felt beard stubble that would have been right at home if he were the doctor on House. A discreet sniff convinced him that the suggestion about a shower was probably a good idea, as well.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “Do you have—”
The nurse smiled. “We have your cell number here at the nurses’ station. It’s on a slip of paper you left at her bedside. And if for some reason we can’t find it, we can call the emergency room or the hospital operator.” She made a shooing motion. “We’ll see you in a few hours.”
Mark stopped at the emergency room secretary’s desk and retrieved his car keys the police had left for him. As much from force of habit as from any desire to go to work, he peeked inside the ER, which wasn’t too busy in mid-morning. The children who’d gotten sick during the night had already been treated and taken home by their parents. The accident and trauma victims would come later in the day. One pregnant woman moaned softly as she lay on a gurney awaiting transportation to the obstetrics suite.
Mark turned back toward the exit door, but paused upon hearing a familiar voice. “I’m telling you, I don’t care that I’m too young for a heart attack. I feel like an elephant is on my chest. It hurts, and I can’t breathe.”
He followed the sound to a treatment cubicle, pulled the curtains aside, and saw one of his fellow ER physicians bending over Jimmy, a boy whose facial lacerations he’d repaired just six days earlier.
“What do you have, Earl?” Mark asked.
The doctor, Earl Meador, looked at Mark and shook his head. “Sixteen-year-old male came in complaining of chest pain and dyspnea. His EKG doesn’t show any cardiac damage. Of course, we’ll check his enzymes, but if he’s having a heart attack he’ll be the youngest patient I’ve ever seen with one.”
“I know this patient and a bit of his medical history,” Mark said. “You’d get this eventually, but let me ask him something that may give us a shortcut.” He bent over the teenager, who was writhing on the gurney. “Jimmy, did you have a migraine this morning?”
Jimmy nodded. “I used the shot, but when the headache didn’t get better, I took a couple of the tablets. The headache’s almost gone, but my chest is hurting and I can’t breathe.”
Mark turned to his colleague. “Imitrex injectable, followed by tablets, resulting in coronary vasospasm.” He pointed to the EKG Earl held. “You were looking for ST segment sagging, like we see in a typical coronary. Look here—the ST segments are actually elevated. It’s Prinzmetal’s angina.”
Jimmy moaned louder. “It’s back. It comes in waves.” He looked at the two doctors. “Can you do something?”
“I don’t want to give him nitrates,” Earl said. “They might bring back his migraine.”
“How about a calcium channel blocker?” Mark suggested.
Thirty minutes later, Jimmy lay relaxed on the gurney, oxygen flowing from a plastic tube into his nostrils. “Good pickup,” Earl said to Mark. “We’ll watch him, check his cardiac enzymes for any heart damage. Then he’ll need a follow-up appointment.”
“Want me to talk with his parents?” Mark asked. He hoped he could convince Jimmy’s family of the importance of a follow-up visit, both to make certain there was no underlying heart disease and to consider changing his migraine management. Besides, he’d need the stitches removed from that facial laceration.
“My parents didn’t bring me. I drove myself,” Jimmy said.
“Aren’t you a bit young to have a license?” Earl asked.
“A license doesn’t make any difference. If I need to get somewhere, I just take my mom’s car keys and go.”
Mark shook his head. He couldn’t imagine a teenager whose parents cared so little for him that they wouldn’t get him to the emergency room. If Jimmy were telling the truth, this might be a situation for him to talk with Child Protective Services. And that, in turn, reminded him that he hadn’t yet made contact with the pediatrician caring for Detective Ames’s son. He’d add that to his list of things to do later today . . . if he finally made it home.
Mark’s car was where he left it in the ER parking lot, still encircled by yellow crime scene tape. He hadn’t seen the two detectives since Gwen rescued him from the interrogation room of the police station, but he figured that if the police left his keys with the secretary, it was okay for him to use the car.
He wadded the yellow tape and tossed it onto the floor of the car. In his concern for Kelly, Mark had forgotten the damage to his Camry. The back window was riddled by four bullet holes, and there were three more in the windshield on the passenger side, each surrounded by stellate cracks. However, the glass in front of the driver was clear enough for him to see the road. He’d need to keep his speed low unless he wanted to hear and feel the wind whistling through the holes. Given how sleepy he was, that was probably a good thing.
Mark tried to ignore the bloodstains on the passenger side of the car, but when he saw the track through the top of that seat made by the bullet that struck Kelly, he shivered. He’d come so close to losing her. He wished he could be back at her bedside now, wished he’d been able to tell her what was on his mind before the urgent phone call interrupted him. He knew that now it would be better if Kelly got some rest. He’d clean up, take a brief nap, and get back to the hospital as quickly as he could. And this time, he wouldn’t let anything interrupt him as he shared his feelings with the woman he loved.
***
Mark was faintly aware of something demanding his attention. He struggled into semi-consciousness and realized that it was his cell phone ringing. He yawned and stretched out his hand to retrieve the instrument from his bedside table.
Without bothering to look at the caller ID, he answered the call. “Dr. Baker.”
Gwen sounded worried. “Mark, are you all right?”
Mark frowned. Why wouldn’t he be? His puzzlement was reflected in his voice as he said, “Sure.”
“I asked you to call me this afternoon so we could talk about your case. It’s five o’clock, and I haven’t heard from you. Between the police and the Zetas, I was afraid something more had happened to you.”
Five o’clock? When Mark got home, he’d been too tired to eat or shower or do anything except flop onto his bed. That had been almost seven hours ago. He still wore the same clothes, even more wrinkled than before. His beard was starting to make him resemble a porcupine. And his lack of a shower was now more evident than ever.
“
I’ve got to get to the hospital. Kelly’s going to wonder why I’m not there.”
“Wait!” Gwen said. “When can we meet?”
Mark was already on his way to the bathroom, shedding clothing as he struggled to keep his phone to his ear. He turned on the shower. “Look, I’ve got to clean up and change clothes. Let me call you from my car. Maybe we can get together later tonight or tomorrow.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mark was in his car, alternately speeding up in response to the sense of urgency he felt and slowing down when the wind whistling through the bullet holes in the windshield became too loud to tolerate.
He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the main number of the hospital; he had the direct number for the ER preprogrammed, but not the ICU. “Hello, this is Dr. Baker. Would you connect me with the ICU nurse’s desk?”
A series of buzzes and clicks was followed by, “ICU. This is Ramona.”
“Ramona, this is Dr. Mark Baker. I’m the one who brought in Kelly Atkinson, the patient in room six. I sneaked off to change clothes and fell asleep. Would you—”
“Oh, they told us about you, Dr. Baker. Miss Atkinson rested very well today. She asked about you once, and when the other nurse told her you’d gone home, she said, ‘That’s good. I hope he gets some rest.’”
Mark felt a bit better, although his conscience still troubled him for leaving Kelly’s side. “Please tell her I’m on my way back, and I’ll see her soon.”
***
Gwen Woodruff was still in her office, shuffling through papers on her desk, one eye on her watch, when her cell phone rang. “Mark, where are you?”
Wind whistling in the background made it difficult to understand him. “I’m about five minutes away from the hospital,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier.”
She sighed. Apparently Mark wasn’t going to be able to give her his attention until he’d been back to the hospital and seen the nurse who got shot while riding with him. “When will you be through?”
“I don’t know. I guess it depends on how things go when I talk with Kelly. With ICU visiting limited to ten minutes every couple of hours, it’s hard to carry on any kind of conversation. I may even stay there overnight. If I get sleepy, I can snatch a nap in one of the call rooms.”
“Look, I’ll bet you haven’t eaten since last night. Why don’t you give me a call when you can? I’ll meet you somewhere, and we can talk while you eat.”
“I’m almost at the hospital.” The wind noise in the background diminished. “Let me see how things go when I see Kelly. Whatever happens, I’ll call and let you know.”
“But we really—” Gwen realized she was talking into a dead phone. She dropped the instrument onto the desk and buried her head in her hands. What a mess! She really did need some uninterrupted time with her client. Probably as important, she wanted a chance to possibly straighten things out between them. Sure, she was angry when he dumped her, but it seemed that now she had another chance to rekindle that flame. Gwen was determined not to waste it.
She thought about the irony of the situation. Once their relationship was so strong she was certain they’d spend the rest of their lives together. Now she had to practically beg him for a few minutes out of his crowded schedule . . . even though she was defending him against charges that could cost him years behind bars or possibly his life.
Gwen wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. When she was younger, she would have prayed over the situation, while Mark rolled his eyes at the gesture. Now their positions were reversed. Perhaps it was true what they said. God really does have a sense of humor.
***
“You’re looking better,” Mark said.
Kelly smiled up wanly from her bed in the ICU. “I’m glad you think so. I don’t feel so hot.”
She tried to turn, and winced. Mark figured most of the discomfort was from the tube protruding from her right side midway below the armpit. Then again, the surgery to remove the bullets had involved stretching and cutting muscles. All things considered, he guessed her demeanor was pretty stoic. “Do you need something for pain?” he asked.
Kelly shook her head. “Not unless I have to. I feel like my head is just now clearing from all they’ve given me.”
For a while they were silent, Mark sitting at her bedside with the fingers of one hand intertwined in Kelly’s. Sometimes she’d open her eyes and look directly at him, but most of the time her gaze was unfocused or her eyes closed altogether. He didn’t know why he expected her to be totally lucid. She was still hooked up to a patient-controlled morphine pump.
Kelly might have told him she wanted to avoid any more morphine, but he was willing to bet she was still under the influence of the drug. And that was good. Don’t let the pain get ahead of you.
Although he wanted nothing more than to confess to her the changes in his feelings, changes that had come about when she was shot and afterward, Mark recognized this still wasn’t the right time. The best thing he could do was to sit beside her when they’d let him, then wait outside until it was time to do it again.
The second time he was in Kelly’s room, when the nurse came to tell Mark he had to go, Kelly roused enough to say, “Mark, it’s late. Why don’t you . . . get some rest? Come back in . . . in the morning.” She barely got the words out before she closed her eyes, and by the time Mark was at the door, she was asleep.
Before Mark could say anything, the nurse was at his side. “Dr. Baker, this isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. We have your cell phone number. Go home and get some sleep.”
Mark nodded. When he reached the hospital lobby, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Gwen’s number. He might as well get that out of the way since the opportunity had presented itself.
***
“I’m glad you agreed to come to my house and have dinner,” Gwen said. She used a fork to flip the chicken breasts as they sizzled in the pan. “I’m sure that, after all you’ve gone through recently, a quiet, home-cooked meal is what you need.”
Mark leaned back on the couch. It was nice to let someone else do the cooking. His meals, those that didn’t consist of fast food consumed in his car, were generally what a bachelor would cook, frequently eaten standing at the kitchen counter.
He felt himself relax. Kelly’s medical care was in good hands. She seemed to be out of danger, although he knew she wasn’t yet ready for discharge, and it would probably be several weeks before she could return to work. That was okay with him. While she was in the hospital, she was safe from the Zetas or whoever had shot her in the first place. He hoped that by the time she was discharged, the police would have caught up with the shooter and both he and Kelly would no longer feel as though they had invisible targets on their backs.
“Okay, dinner’s ready,” Gwen said. She shed her apron and carried two plates to the dining room table.
“We could have eaten in the kitchen,” Mark protested as he slipped his shoes back on and made his way to the table.
“Nonsense. I don’t often have guests.”
Gwen had argued that they needed both to discuss his case and to eat, so it made sense to combine the activities. Then, since she was already home from the office, she maintained that it simply made sense for him to come over and let her throw something together.
She saw him surveying his plate. “I hope this is okay. It’s just some sautéed skinless chicken breasts, a baked potato, and salad. Nothing fancy.”
“It’s perfect.” The candles on the table, a nice tablecloth, and what he guessed was good china, told him this wasn’t just a simple working dinner. Mark decided he’d better be on his guard.
He was about to ask if she wanted him to say grace, but she’d already unfolded the cloth napkin sitting by her plate and was reaching for her knife and fork. Mark did a mental shrug, said a brief, silent thanks, and followed suit.
The food was good, and Mark enjoyed it. When he paused to take a sip of ice water, he noticed that Gwen’s wine glass was alr
eady half empty. So far the conversation had consisted of lawyer-type questions from her, with no mention of their past relationship. Maybe it was truly going to be just a working dinner.
Gwen emptied her wine glass, took a deep breath, and said, “Mark, I have to confess something. I don’t think the police have anything but unfounded suspicions that you might be involved in the King shooting. And, unless you’re hiding something from me, I have all the information I need to defend you.”
“Then why did you—”
Gwen held up a hand. “Please. I need to get this out.” She picked up her wine glass and found it empty. She reached for the bottle, then pulled back her hand. “When you called my office, I had visions of your coming back to me all apologetic for dropping me. Instead, you needed my professional help. When I finally got up the nerve to ask why you dropped me, you told me you decided that what we had wasn’t love—just extreme like.”
Mark forced himself to remain silent, but he had to admit she was right. Once he discovered that there were other girls in the world, he realized he wasn’t really in love with Gwen. She represented a high-school romance, but not the real thing.
Gwen continued in that same vein for a minute, then asked the question Mark knew was coming . . . and which he dreaded. “So here it is. Do you think there’s a chance we can get back together? I don’t mean immediately become engaged or anything. But do you want to date? Get reacquainted with each other?”
Mark thought about the women in his life. He and Gwen had a history, and he had to admit he’d wondered if that flame could be rekindled. Anna King had been fun—for a while—but he’d already given up any thoughts of getting serious with her before she was fatally shot.
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