Fatal Trauma

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

  Mark walked over and stood before the man. “Steve, it’s good to see you. Visiting someone here?”

  The pastor looked up at Mark and smiled. “Actually, the same person I’m sure you’re here to visit.” He indicated the empty chair beside him, and Mark sat. “I talked with Kelly earlier, and decided to hang around for a bit, hoping to see you.”

  “I know she appreciated your visit.” Mark wondered how to put this, then just blurted it out. “Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been back in church yet. But I guess you know I’ve had a lot on my plate.”

  “We’ll be happy to see you when you make it,” the pastor said, “And I’m glad to hear from Kelly that you’re trying to let God be a part of your life again.” He half-turned and leaned closer to Mark. “If there’s anything I can help you with, I hope you’ll call me. Like doctors, ministers don’t keep banker’s hours. Call me anytime.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said. “You said you saw Kelly. Is she doing okay? Did she say anything about me?”

  “She seems to be fine, and she was looking forward to seeing you.” He rose. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  “Just . . .” The words almost wouldn’t come out. Finally, Mark said in a hushed voice, “Just pray for me.”

  Before the pastor could respond, the nurse stuck her head out the door and signaled that ICU visitation was about to start. Mark rose and shook hands with Steve, who gave him a smile and an encouraging nod. Then Mark took a deep breath and headed for the double doors leading into the ICU.

  ***

  It started with a murmur of voices. Shoe leather scuffed on vinyl tiles. An occasional sob broke through, but was quickly muted, as though it had occurred in church. The visitors were here.

  Mark paused at the open door. “I’m back,” he said in his best Terminator imitation.

  “That’s the worst impression I’ve ever heard,” Kelly said.

  He smiled down at her. “You’re looking better.”

  “I’m afraid that’s a relative term.”

  Mark sat down at her bedside. “Your surgeon says he should be able to pull that chest tube soon. Then maybe a day or two in a regular room before you can go home.”

  Kelly nodded. “The main improvement I see is that I can hold a reasonably intelligent conversation and remember most of it.” She beckoned him closer. “I think the last time you were here—or maybe it was the time before—anyway, I believe you were about to tell me something, but you got interrupted.”

  Mark knew this was his cue. All the words he’d carefully crafted flew out the window. Instead, he spoke from his heart. “I’ve already told you how disappointed I was with my own selfish reaction when that gunman burst into the ER. But now I’m convinced that was just human. God has forgiven me, and I believe you have as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “I experienced another emotion after it was all over. I realized that I could have lost you if things had gone badly right then.” He looked around to make certain they were still alone in the ICU room. “Then, when you were shot—well, there was no doubt in my mind anymore. I don’t think I could live without you.” He took a deep breath. “Kelly, I love you. Just you. Only you.”

  Tears dotted Kelly’s cheeks. He wasn’t sure whether they were tears of sadness or of joy, but her words removed all doubt. “And I love you, Mark.”

  It seemed like only a few seconds until the nurse tapped on the doorframe. “Sorry, Dr. Baker. I’m going to have to run you out.”

  Mark whispered to Kelly. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours. We have a lot to talk about.”

  Mark decided a cup of coffee would be nice. As he exited the ICU waiting room, his cell phone rang and he answered.

  “Dr. Baker, this is Carter Reitzman.”

  Mark didn’t recognize the name and said so.

  “I’m Dr. Anna King’s ex-husband.” The words were spoken with a heavy Boston Back Bay accent.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Reitzman. Are you calling about Anna’s memorial service?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Reitzman said. “Her parents want her body shipped back to Iowa, where they’ll arrange her funeral. Because she has so many friends here, we decided to hold a memorial service tomorrow afternoon at the Drayton Community Church.”

  “I appreciate your letting me know. I’ll certainly be there.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” Reitzman said. “I don’t want you anywhere near that service.”

  22

  Mark sniffed the mug of rich coffee he held in both hands before sipping from it. He wasn’t sure if this room should be called the den or library or what, but Steve Farrington had certainly put his stamp on it. The desk and chair where the pastor prepared his sermons was in one corner, but it was obvious this room was also where he liked to read.

  Every available square foot of wall space around Mark was taken up by bookshelves, but the contents weren’t exactly what he expected. Charles Swindoll’s Grace Awakening tilted slightly to lean on James Scott Bell’s Try Dying. A copy of The Message translation of the Bible sat beside Poland’s book of baseball devotionals, Intentional Walk. It was a mishmash, yet Mark felt certain that the pastor could put his hand on any given book in just a few moments.

  The two men were in overstuffed leather chairs, facing each other at a slight angle, a lamp and small side table between them. Mark pictured the man sitting here for hours on end, reading and meditating. He wished he could do the same—turn off his phone, ignore the doorbell, and simply let the circus running wild in his brain calm down and settle into place. But that would have to come later. Right now, he needed the answer to a single question. And for some reason, he thought he’d come to the right place for it.

  “I know you’re busy preparing for services tomorrow, so I’m really grateful to you for seeing me,” Mark said.

  “How can I help you?” the pastor asked, leaning back in his chair as though he had all the time in the world.

  Mark told him about the phone call from Anna King’s ex-husband. “I’m crushed, obviously, because Anna was a colleague—more than a colleague, really—and I wanted to honor her memory one last time by attending her memorial service.” He hunched forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “I had no idea that Anna even attended this church, but when I heard that her service would be here, I hoped you’d know enough about her to answer my questions. What I’m trying to find out . . . if you know anything about Anna that I don’t, can you tell me what would make Carter Reitzman want to keep me away?”

  The pastor put his cup on the table and folded his hands in his lap. “Some of this is common knowledge—at least to a few people—and some of it will come out as Dr. King’s death is investigated further. But I have to ask you to be circumspect about sharing it.”

  Mark nodded. “I know, of course, that the police have this crazy notion that I might have shot Anna, but my attorney assures me that won’t hold up. Is that why Reitzman doesn’t want me there?”

  “No, there’s more. Anna didn’t attend church here, but she had been meeting with me for some weeks for support and counsel. She was working to stay clean and sober, hoping to get her visitation rights to her daughter restored. To do that, she turned to what Alcoholics Anonymous calls her ‘Higher Power.’ At one of her meetings with me, actually less than a week before her shooting, she became a Christian. She made no secret about it, and when I heard of her death, I called her ex-husband and offered to hold the memorial service for her.”

  “I’m happy she did that, of course,” Mark said, “but—”

  “What I didn’t share with her ex is that Anna told me there was another sin that accompanied her drinking, one she also was determined to put behind her.”

  Mark sat stock still, hardly even daring to breathe.

  “She’d been having an affair—one that just ended,” Steve said.

  Mark nodded slowly. “When I talked with her the night she was shot, she painted her
ex as a pretty vindictive man, one who was determined to fight her efforts to see her daughter. But Anna didn’t give me any—.”

  The pastor put down his coffee cup and folded his hands. “What she probably was going to tell you was that not only did Reitzman suspect she was having an affair, but he thought the man involved was you.”

  ***

  Kelly was less drowsy, more awake, this afternoon. She deliberately avoided asking for the analgesics her surgeon ordered. She could take a bit of pain if it allowed her to be more lucid. And this was especially important to her after Mark’s confession of his love earlier in the day. Each time he came back, they talked a bit more about it. They hadn’t gotten around to planning a future yet. That would come after she was further along her road to healing, and they were no longer the targets of the cartel that apparently wanted to kill them.

  She was napping, waiting for Mark to come back, when she heard a familiar female voice. “Some people will do anything to get a few days off.”

  Kelly opened her eyes and saw her best friend, Tracy Orton, at her bedside. Tracy wore a blue hospital scrub suit. Her dark brown hair was tucked into a scrub cap of the same color. A fingertip length floral smock covered the outfit.

  “Are you working tonight?”

  “Yep.” Tracy consulted the clock on the wall behind her. “I’m due in the OR in ten minutes, but I wanted to check on you first.”

  “Did you scrub on my case?”

  “No, I was off that night. Remember?”

  “Oh, of course,” Kelly said. “I still haven’t got my days straight. Mark has been trying to fill me in a bit at a time, but since he can only be with me for short stretches, and I’m just now coming out of the fog, it’s taking some time.” She looked at the clock. “And speaking of that, why are you here? Visiting hours don’t start for another—”

  “Since when do rules bother me?” Tracy said, with the impish grin her friend knew so well. “But I gotta go to work. I’ll keep checking on you.”

  After Tracy left, Kelly lay in her bed thinking back to the chain of events that brought her here. If Tracy hadn’t been sick, would the shooter have attacked Kelly as she rode with her friend? What if Kelly had accepted Carl’s offer of a ride? And what if, when Kelly was shot, Mark had reacted differently and not rushed her to the ER?

  Kelly shook her head. There were too many what ifs. All that really counted was what actually happened—then and later. A verse from the book of Romans came to mind, one she’d heard frequently, and had reason right now to apply to her own life. She didn’t have the exact words on the tip of her tongue, but she knew the gist of the passage: God can and does use everything, even the bad things, to ultimately work for the good of His children.

  She wasn’t certain how that one applied to her getting shot, but then again, maybe God wasn’t through using the episode. She’d have to wait and see.

  ***

  Mark was having an early supper in the hospital food court, preparing to swallow a large bite of tuna sandwich, when his cell phone rang. He started to walk to a more secluded place to take the call, but noticed that no one was seated near his table. He chased the bite of sandwich with some Diet Coke, then answered.“Dr. Baker.”

  “This is Abe Nunez. I hope I’m not calling at a bad time. I got your cell phone number from Detective Jackson.”

  “What’s up?” Mark asked.

  “It came down the way I predicted. The police stopped the man who shot at you last night. He still had the pistol in the car with him. He tried the old ‘I don’t know anything,’ and ‘I don’t speak English’ excuses, but after a night in a holding cell he broke and gave us some pretty interesting stuff.”

  Mark picked up some potato chips but didn’t put them in his mouth yet. “Like what?”

  “I’d really rather tell you in person. Can we meet?”

  “I’ve been at the hospital with Kelly most of the day, but I suppose I can get away soon.” He swallowed the potato chips and took another sip of Diet Coke. “Where shall I meet you?”

  “Can you come by the police station?”

  “I suppose so,” Mark said. He looked at his watch and did some quick calculations. “I imagine after the six o’clock visitation Kelly will tell me to go home anyway. How about seven?”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  Mark ended the call. He picked up the remaining portion of his sandwich, then dropped it back on the plate. His hunger had disappeared, to be replaced by curiosity when Nunez uttered the words, “Interesting stuff.” Maybe this thing was finally drawing to a close.

  ***

  “Don’t you get tired of sitting in the ICU waiting room?” Kelly inched upward in the bed, pleased that she was able to change positions without the level of pain that stopped her previously.

  Mark leaned so close she could feel his warm breath as he spoke. “If you mean ‘Would I prefer to be at your bedside constantly?’ then yes. But I know rules are in place for a reason, and if I insist that the nursing staff make an exception for me, I’d be standing in the way of your care. Besides, it sets a bad precedent for other patients and families.”

  Kelly had similar thoughts when Tracy visited, but her friend had always been of the opinion that rules were made for other people. Since Kelly also knew that Tracy would do anything for her, she chose not to mention her opinion during today’s visit.

  “I need to go pretty soon,” Mark said. “I have a meeting with Abe Nunez.”

  “Abe . . . Oh, the DEA agent. Is Carl going to be there?”

  “Abe didn’t say,” Mark replied.

  “I wonder why the Drug Enforcement Administration is chasing the Zeta cartel here,” Kelly said. “I could understand if it were Immigration or even the FBI, but if the DEA’s on the case they must have a strong suspicion that drugs are involved. ”

  “Oh, I guess I didn’t tell you,” Mark said. “They suspected the Zetas were using this hospital as a way station for drug traffic.” He pursed his lips. “Carl was already working here when that gunman broke into the emergency room. He and Abe just took advantage of what followed.”

  “And they’ve been watching us since then?” Kelly asked.

  “Carl and Abe told me they’d been following us in order to protect us, but I asked them point-blank if they weren’t really using us for bait.”

  “And what did they say?”

  Mark shook his head. “They danced all around it. Abe said that if they hadn’t been around, you and I might already be dead.”

  “On the other hand, if we hadn’t been working in the ER that Saturday night, neither of us would feel like we have to keep looking behind us.” She felt tightness between her shoulder blades, tightness that shifting her position didn’t change. “Even here in the hospital, I worry that someone with a gun may come through that door at any time.”

  “You know—”

  “I know,” Kelly said. “I’m safe here. But I’m so ready for this to be over.”

  ***

  Even though last night’s shooter was in police custody Mark figured there could be more than one of them. Matter of fact, a dozen more people could be hiding not far away, seeking revenge for the deaths of the Garcia brothers. Darkness had not yet fallen, and he had been careful to park in a well-used area of the hospital parking lot. His masculine pride wouldn’t let him ask one of the security guards to walk him to his car. Besides, he couldn’t bring himself to ask someone else to risk their life to protect his. Sergeant Ed Purvis had done just that and paid the ultimate price for it.

  At first the idea of the Zetas seeking revenge by killing those involved in the deaths of the two cartel members seemed so far-fetched that Mark couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Now, at least two people were dead and another lay in the hospital recovering from wounds sustained in a shooting. No, this was quite real. And he couldn’t believe the danger was over yet.

  Mark beeped the locks open on his rental car and peered through the door to check the back seat f
or someone hiding there. When he was certain everything was clear, he climbed behind the wheel of the red Corolla and locked the doors. He drove cautiously toward the police station, staying on main streets and constantly looking around for suspicious vehicles.

  He parked in a visitor’s slot at the Drayton Police Station and fell in beside two uniformed officers who were headed for the front door. Once inside, the police officers peeled off down a side corridor, while Mark stopped at a window behind which sat an older officer. Mark put his mouth near the round metal speaker in the center of the glass. “Dr. Baker to see Abe Nunez. He’s a DEA operative who’s—”

  “Yeah, I know.” The officer held up one finger, gesturing Mark to wait a moment. He picked up his phone, punched in two numbers, waited. “Dr. Baker for Nunez.” He nodded, hung up the phone, then pointed to a row of well-worn chairs along the wall on either side of the outer door. “Have a seat. Someone will tell him you’re here.”

  Mark wasn’t certain which was worse: being in a location where he had strong memories of interrogation by detectives asking him to confess to a shooting he didn’t do, or awaiting a discussion with a federal agent about a plan of a huge drug cartel to kill him and someone he loved. And although he knew that a police station was probably the safest place he could be, thoughts came unbidden of killings of prisoners by other prisoners, evidence of the reach of organized crime even into places like this.

  He was staring at the gray tiled floor, reflecting on the scuffed trail the footsteps of countless men and women had carved, when he sensed someone standing over him. Mark looked up to see not Abe Nunez, but instead, Detective Ames.

  “You here to see Abe?” the detective asked.

  Mark nodded, but remained silent.

  “He’s stretched out on a bunk in the back. I’ll make sure he knows you’re here.”