Fatal Trauma

by Mabry M. D. , Richard L. ; Mabry M D, Richard L ;

  Then there was Kelly. He’d enjoyed dating her, but it was only after he saw her with a gun to her head, recognized that he’d be devastated to lose her, that he realized he was falling in love with her. And the shooting in his car cemented his feelings. As soon as she was lucid enough to realize what he was saying, he intended to tell her of his love.

  All this meant that Gwen wasn’t going to like the answer he was about to give. Mark wished Gwen still had the faith at which he’d secretly scoffed years ago. It might make this easier for her to hear. God, please give me the right words to say.

  ***

  The shooter was almost asleep behind the wheel of his car when the door to the house opened and the doctor emerged. The dashboard clock showed ten p.m. The time and the circumstances were right for removing the next member of the medical team that let Hector Garcia die. If revenge were to be exacted, tonight would be the night.

  The doctor pulled slowly away from the curb. The shooter would let him get a bit ahead before sliding in behind the little Toyota. Since getting this assignment, he’d spent some time familiarizing himself with the territory. He had a pretty good idea of the ideal location for the hit, and he’d be ready.

  ***

  Mark left Gwen’s home still wishing he could have explained himself better. In one corner of his mind was the thought that the woman he’d left disappointed and a bit angry was still responsible for defending him against a possible charge of murder. Don’t obsess about it. You can’t unsay the words.

  By and large, Mark had the road to himself. If his speed exceeded thirty miles an hour or so, the wind whistling through bullet holes in his windshield was a definite distraction. Not a problem. He’d drive slowly. He needed to think anyway. A few minutes difference in his travel time wouldn’t matter.

  As he turned to go through a less populated area, he noticed headlights behind him. He thought back and realized they’d been there for some time. Don’t be paranoid. Nevertheless, he decided to take a few random turns. If the vehicle were following him, it would soon be evident.

  After a series of right and left turns, sometimes doubling back the way he’d come, Mark was pretty certain he was being followed. Not only that, but his maneuvers had apparently tipped the driver of the other vehicle that Mark was onto them, because now the headlights were coming closer.

  It was time to ignore the holes in the windshield and the partially shattered back window. Mark accelerated, but the headlights crept closer still. Should he take a detour toward an area where there would be people? There was an all-night café not far away, one where Mark had stopped from time to time. But what if there was shooting? Would he be putting innocent people at risk? The ethics of the situation bothered him, just as they had bothered him after the incident in the ER when he realized he’d initially placed his own welfare above that of others.

  By now, the headlights were close enough for Mark to tell they were part of a dark SUV, a fairly large one. Mark jammed the steering wheel hard to the right and took a turn on two wheels. The SUV followed, but the driver had to hit the brakes to do so, and Mark gained a little bit of ground. The police station was probably the safest place to head, so he took the next turn that would take him in that direction.

  The SUV was gaining ground again. Even though Mark plowed through stop signs and intersections without regard to traffic laws, the vehicle behind him closed the distance between them.

  Now the dark SUV was almost on his tail. Mark had the accelerator to the floor at every opportunity. What else could he do? In a desperate attempt to escape, he jammed the wheel into a hard right turn and jumped the curb to drive into a park he was passing. Maybe he could lose himself in the trees. That’s when he heard the shots.

  Mark felt things whiz by his head like angry wasps. In front of him the windshield burst with multiple holes surrounded by cracks that made it difficult for him to see. He stamped on the brake, but it was too late. Mark saw the tree in his path and braced himself. He felt the jarring crash at the same time the air bag deployed in front of him, knocking him back and blinding him momentarily with a cloud of powder.

  A car door slammed behind him. The gunman was coming to finish him off. Mark tried to open the car door, but it was jammed. He was trapped.

  21

  Gwen Woodruff stared at the ceiling above her bed. Her plans, plans that had slowly taken shape in her mind since Mark’s first call, had been dashed tonight. When she first heard from him, she was angry, angry that a man who’d shed her like a bad habit would now be back asking for her help. But gradually she found herself wondering if it might be possible to rekindle the romance they’d had. And the more circumstances made Mark depend on her, the better she thought her chances were to make that happen.

  But this evening had put an end to all that. What could she have done differently? Was it the doctor who’d been shot? If Mark was hiding something from her, if he’d been the one to kill Anna King, he was doing a great job of disguising it. He seemed genuinely broken up over her death. Had she been more than a friend?

  What about the nurse who was in the hospital now? Was the attention Mark paid her just because he felt guilty she was shot while riding with him? Or did he, as he said, truly have feelings for her?

  And, of course, wouldn’t you know it, religion played a part in the change in Mark. When they were dating, Mark had attended services with her because it was expected, but she had the impression his Christianity had never taken root. Having grown up in a preacher’s family, Gwen followed a path that wasn’t unusual for a preacher’s kid, drifting away from the church at the first opportunity. As it turned out, Mark did the same thing, but now he’d reversed his course. And just as before, they stood on either side of a chasm that divided them as surely as a wall.

  As clearly as though she had spoken the words, she cried out. Whether it was an exclamation or a prayer, she wasn’t sure. God, I’m a mess.

  ***

  Mark turned to look through the rear window of his car, a hole now almost completely open to the warm night air. The vehicle stopped behind him had its lights on, and their reflection in the rearview mirror momentarily blinded Mark. He twisted the mirror so the light was no longer in his eyes. Backlit by the headlights was the silhouette of a man. He was approaching Mark’s car, his hands hanging free with what looked like a pistol in the right one.

  Mark’s eyes stung from the powder on the air bag. His hands hurt because of the force with which they had been driven off the steering wheel. He fumbled for the release button on his seat belt. He knew he probably didn’t have a chance, but at least he was going to try. Forming a quick prayer in his mind, Mark edged past the center console of his car, ready to exit on the passenger side, assuming that door would open.

  The driver’s side door opened slowly and a dark form filled the space. It was a man, his face still masked by darkness. His right hand held a short-barreled revolver. “Dr. Baker.” The voice was unfamiliar, the words flat and unemotional. They didn’t form a question. Rather, it seemed to Mark as though his assailant was simply announcing the name of the next person to die at his hands.

  Mark wondered if could spring across the seats and get the passenger-side door open before the man got off a shot. He was preparing to try it when that door opened, and he heard a familiar voice, one with a faint Hispanic accent. “Dr. Baker, are you all right?”

  “Carl?”

  “That’s right,” the second voice said. “Carlos. Or Carl, I guess, is how you know me.”

  Like the first man, Carl held a pistol. This one was a small, boxy gun. Carl saw Mark eye the gun, so he stooped, pulled up his right pants leg, and shoved the pistol into a holster concealed there.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Carl said. “We’re here to protect you. But let’s get back to Abe’s car before the shooter comes back.”

  Mark was halfway out the door when Carl said, “Turn off the lights and leave your key behind the sun visor for the tow truck driver. No one’s going
to drive this car away—not the way the front end’s wrapped around that tree.”

  When all three men were walking toward the vehicle that sat behind them, its motor running, its headlights illuminating the scene, Carl said, “Dr. Mark Baker, this is Abe Nunez. He and I are special agents with the DEA. We’ve been tracking the Zetas since they moved into north Texas.”

  Abe was taller and stockier than Mark. His dark hair was neatly cut. He wore a sport coat and tie. He stowed his revolver in a shoulder holster and extended his hand. “Doctor. Sorry we couldn’t prevent the shootings.”

  Carl explained. “Abe and I have been shadowing you and Miss Atkinson since we learned the Zetas were after you.”

  “Which explains why you seemed to be so willing—actually, so insistent—to offer Kelly a ride,” Mark said.

  Carl nodded toward the vehicle they were approaching, a dark blue four-door pickup of some sort. “Get in the front. Abe will drive you home when we’re through talking. You can call a wrecker to pick up your car in the morning.”

  “What about you?” Mark asked, as he opened the passenger door.

  “My car’s parked on the street about fifty yards back. Abe was following you, and I was trailing behind the vehicle we suspected belonged to the Zeta shooter. After he shot at you, he accelerated away.”

  “So you lost him?”

  “I didn’t try to chase him. Instead, I radioed his plate number and vehicle description to the police, who had a couple of cars already in the area. They’ve been cooperating with us, and I imagine that by the time we’re through here the shooter will be in a cell, waiting for Abe and me to question him.”

  Abe, silent behind the steering wheel during the conversation, turned to face Carl who was in the back seat leaning forward. “Might as well tell him the rest of it.”

  “The rest of what?” Mark asked.

  “The reason I’m working at Memorial Hospital is that we have reason to believe it’s a drug trafficking way station for the Zetas. When we learned they were probably going after you and Kelly Atkinson, it was a perfect opportunity to get a handle on some of the local people involved.”

  Mark couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re saying that we were the goat you staked out to catch the lion.”

  Abe said, “You were never in danger. Either Carlos or I was always around.”

  “Well, you weren’t close enough.” Mark’s words were forceful. He knew he shouldn’t be angry with the two men. They’d probably saved his life this time. But . . . “If you’d really been shadowing us closely, Kelly wouldn’t be in the hospital recovering from a gunshot wound. And I wouldn’t be sitting here.”

  “When Miss Atkinson got shot, I was trying to catch up to your car. Unfortunately, I was a few seconds too late, although I did make him hurry his shots,” Carl said.

  “It seems to me that you all have been a couple of steps too late during all of this,” Mark said, his words dripping with sarcasm.

  “Maybe,” Abe said. “But, if we hadn’t been around at all, both of you would be dead by now.”

  ***

  Kelly opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings. It took her a minute to adjust, to realize where she was and how she got there. Her dreams had been filled with images of men chasing her with guns. But now she realized she was in the ICU, recovering from surgery. She started to roll over, but pain in her right side and back stopped her. Kelly fumbled until she found the right button to call the nurse.

  In a moment, a cheery brunette hurried in. She wore a short floral-print jacket over blue scrubs. Her nameplate read Rachelle. She smiled at Kelly. “What can I do for you?”

  “I . . . I don’t remember you,” Kelly said.

  “No wonder. Less than thirty-six hours ago, you were in surgery. When I first started taking care of you in the ICU, you were pretty well out of it. But it seems you’re making some progress.” She fussed with Kelly’s covers. “What do you need?”

  “I’m trying to turn, but it hurts to move.”

  “Let’s try this.”

  After the nurse helped Kelly move into a more comfortable position, she said, “The doctor said when you’re ready you could have a clear liquid diet. How does that sound?”

  “I’d kill for a cup of coffee,” Kelly said.

  “Can’t do that quite yet,” Rachelle replied. “Would you settle for some bouillon and hot tea?”

  “I guess that’s a start. Thanks, Rachel.”

  “It’s Rachelle . . . but don’t worry. Most people get it wrong.”

  As Rachelle left, a visitor stuck his head through the door. “Knock, knock.”

  Kelly’s eyes widened. “Pastor Steve. I’m glad to see you. But how—”

  “I told you—just plain Steve is fine.” Steve Farrington smiled as he moved into the room. “Your friend, Tracy, called me yesterday, but warned me you probably wouldn’t be ready to have visitors right then. Now it looks as though you’re starting to recover.”

  “I don’t recall Tracy being here,” Kelly said. “Then again, the past couple of days are sort of a blur.” She pointed to a chair. “Please. Have a seat.”

  She and the pastor exchanged small talk for a minute before he looked at his watch and said, “You know, they’re going to run me out of here soon. You and I had a pretty serious talk the night you were held hostage by that gunman in the ER. Want to tell me what’s been going on since then?”

  Kelly bit her lip. She hated to relive some of the things she’d been through in the past six days, but perhaps it would help to talk them out with her pastor. “I saw Mark after you and I talked, and he told me he was ashamed he’d considered trying to escape from the gunman, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves.” She went on to explain Mark’s spiritual struggle. “I think he’s sincere in his commitment, but it’s hard to tell.”

  “I’m glad he’s trying to rethink his relationship with God,” the pastor said. “What about his relationship with you?”

  “I’m not sure. When he was here yesterday evening, I think he was going to discuss that with me, but I was so groggy from the meds that I sent him home. I’m sort of waiting for him now.”

  A nurse stuck her head into the room. “Reverend, it’s time for you to leave.”

  The pastor nodded. “If you could give me a second to have a word of prayer with her . . .”

  The nurse nodded and left.

  The pastor put his hand over Kelly’s. “What shall we pray for?” he asked her.

  “For healing, I guess.” Kelly thought for moment. “And maybe for God’s will in Mark’s life . . . and mine.”

  ***

  Mark struggled slowly and unwillingly out of a deep sleep, awakened by sunlight outside his bedroom window. He was aware on some subliminal level that he had things to do, although at first he couldn’t recall what they were. He wasn’t working, but . . . oh, yes. Kelly was in the hospital, Anna was dead, and he was a suspect in her murder.

  He stumbled to the kitchen more by instinct and muscle memory than by sight. There, Mark flipped on the coffee-maker, then noticed he hadn’t filled the machine. He grumbled as he rectified his error, and by the time he emerged from the shower, the smell of the fresh brew filled his small home.

  He poured a cup and sat down at the kitchen table to consider what he had to do next. At least he didn’t have to report last night’s shooting to the police. Carl and Alex would have taken care of that.

  He guessed his first priority was his wrecked car. Mark figured his insurance agent probably wasn’t thrilled to get a phone call this early on a Saturday morning. On the other hand, Mark was a good customer who paid on time, and this was the first claim he’d filed with the company. “I’ll arrange for a flatbed wrecker to pick up your car,” the agent said. “He can haul it to Drayton Toyota, and I’ll have an adjustor look at it there. It will be Monday or Tuesday before we have an answer, though. I’ll talk with someone at the dealership about a loan car.”

  “Thanks, Ronn
ie,” Mark said. “I’ll take a taxi over there as soon as I can shave, shower, and dress.”

  The next thing on the list was the hospital and Kelly. In the past twenty-four hours, Mark had been interrogated by police, bullied by the hospital administrator, had a difficult conversation with his attorney (who happened also to be a former girlfriend), and been shot at and almost killed. Yet the butterflies in his stomach seemed to be more active right now than during any of those situations. He had no idea how Kelly would react to his presence. Would she be angry because she had been shot? Would she recognize that perhaps Mark had saved her life? Well, there was only one way to tell.

  By nine-thirty that morning, freshly shaved, dressed in clean jeans and a polo shirt, Mark was behind the wheel of a red Toyota Corolla rental, headed for Memorial Hospital. When he arrived, he realized that his parking sticker was on his wrecked car. Rather than go through the hassle of trying to get a temporary permit on Saturday, he pulled into the visitor’s lot and took a ticket from the machine. Maybe his hospital ID and an explanation would get him out of paying as he exited.

  Mark didn’t bother to check the information desk. Kelly would still be in the ICU . . . unless she’d had a complication and required more surgery. But if that were the case, surely they would have called him. He consulted his cell phone to assure himself there were no messages or missed calls. No, nothing.

  He entered the ICU waiting room and checked his watch. Visiting hours would start in ten minutes. Mark found a seat and looked around. He saw a familiar face in the far corner, and it took him a moment to place the man. Mark was used to seeing him in an entirely different setting.