Once the service began, Mark gradually slipped into the rhythm of worship. He concentrated on the words of the hymns as though singing them for the first time. When the pastor read from Psalm 139, it was as though the words came from Mark’s own heart: “Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.”
After the service, Mark lingered, hoping to get a few words with the pastor. He was waiting at the rear of the church when someone behind him said, “Mark, I’m so glad I ran into you.”
Mark turned to see a woman about his age. Her short blond hair was perfectly styled. Glasses with designer frames did nothing to hide eyes so dark brown they almost appeared black. He was no expert, but it seemed to him that her makeup was perfect. And he guessed that the black dress she wore, accented by a short string of pearls and small pearl ear studs, probably cost more than his entire wardrobe. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t identify the woman who stood before him.
“You don’t recognize me, do you?” she said, smiling. “It’s Margaret. Margaret Cane.”
The Margaret that Mark remembered from Buddy’s funeral was a plain woman with mousy brown hair. She’d been dressed in black at that time, but the resemblance ended there. This woman had undergone a significant makeover, with notable results.
“Margaret, I’m sorry. I guess . . .”
“It’s my hair, isn’t it? After I lost Buddy . . .” She dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “After he passed away, I decided I needed to do something to get me out of my depression, so I did this.” She indicated herself with an open hand.
“Uh, well Margaret, I’m sorry for your loss. And if there’s anything—”
“There may be.” She looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Can I call you and talk about it?”
“Of course. You have my number?”
“I’m sure it’s in Buddy’s address book.” She started to turn away, then looked over her shoulder at Mark. “Thanks.”
As Mark watched her walk away, he saw that the pastor had finished with the last person at the back door and was moving briskly up the aisle. Mark stopped him. “Can I have a word with you?”
“Sure, Mark, but it will have to be quick. I have a memorial service here in about an hour and a half, and I need to get a quick bite and go over my notes.”
“The service is what I want your advice about.” Mark gestured to one of the pews. “Can we sit down for a moment? I promise this won’t take long.”
When the two men were seated, Mark said, “It’s that call I received from Anna King’s ex-husband, Carter Reitzman. You know the story there, of course. He made a point to tell me he didn’t want me at Anna’s service.”
“Yes, and I told you why.”
“But it eats at me that I can’t attend the memorial for a friend and colleague.”
“Are you certain Anna wasn’t more than a friend?” the pastor asked gently.
“Do you believe Reitzman’s silly theory about my being the other man in the affair Anna was having?” Mark said. “Because, if you do—”
“No, I believe you when you say you weren’t having an affair with Anna. But did you have deeper feelings for her, feelings you’ve buried? Are you mourning the loss of a woman you thought someday you might love?”
“Absolutely not,” Mark said. “I’d seen a side of Anna I wasn’t particularly fond of. I’d already made up my mind that I’d dated her for the last time. But I was talking with her when she was shot. And somehow I feel guilty about it. I don’t guess I’ll get over that until the real killer is discovered and brought to justice.”
The pastor looked at his watch. “Mark, I’m going to have to go. Here’s what I’d advise. I know that in all the mystery novels and TV shows the killer generally shows up at the funeral of his victims, and for that reason I’m guessing there’ll be one or more detectives here this afternoon . . . either in the church or outside. Leave the detective work to them. Don’t go against Reitzman’s wishes. Don’t make a scene. That would dishonor Anna, and I don’t think you want to do that.”
Mark stood alone in the aisle, watching the pastor disappear through the door that led down a hall to his study. Then he sat back down, put his head on the pew in front of him, and closed his eyes. Anna, it looks like I won’t be at your memorial service. But that doesn’t mean you’re forgotten. Someone will pay for your death.
***
The one saving grace for Allen Goodrich was that his wife was visiting her parents. Though it was Sunday noon, he was still in his pajamas and robe. Unshaven, hair uncombed, he paced back and forth in his kitchen, his mug of coffee long grown cold as he tried to figure how he could possibly pull off his assignment.
There was no doubt in his mind that he had to . . . he couldn’t say it, couldn’t even make himself think it. However he chose to phrase it, he’d been given the order to eliminate Mark Baker. No longer was it someone else’s responsibility. It was up to Goodrich. And if he should fail, he was certain his own life would be forfeited as a penalty.
The first question, he supposed, was how to do it. Could he arrange to poison Baker? With a whole hospital at his disposal surely he could find some medication, some substance that would be lethal but not be discovered at autopsy. And there was certain to be a postmortem examination of Baker’s body, given the amount of attention the police had focused on the doctor.
If Goodrich set it up correctly, the police would accept the obvious explanation that Baker killed himself in a fit of remorse after shooting Anna King. The police would close that case, the authorities would look elsewhere for the Zetas, and the hospital could go on . . . he could go on with business as usual.
Thinking of the Zetas made Goodrich wonder about setting up something that would suggest Baker was ambushed and killed by a weapon of some sort—shot, stabbed, even strangled with a garrote. Could he do that? And even if he could bring himself to carry out the execution, where would he get the weapon?
No. He shook his head. The orders had been to make it look like Baker took his own life, perhaps despondent because he’d killed his colleague. So, in the end, Goodrich was faced with two problems: getting a weapon and setting up a scene that would be interpreted as suicide.
Goodrich walked through his house, opening closets, pulling out drawers, knowing before he finished his search that there was no gun, no knife more lethal than the ones in the kitchen drawers. Of course, he could use almost anything to set up a hanging: an electrical cord, the clothesline that lay coiled in the hall closet, even a belt. But could he do it? No, he decided. He couldn’t.
He’d had the TV going, mainly because he seemed to think better when there was conversation in the background. Goodrich started to flip it off when an item on the noon local news caught his attention. And suddenly he knew how he was going to get rid of Dr. Baker.
***
Mark Baker sat in his car in the farthest corner of the church parking lot. He’d been there since he left his conference with Steve Farrington after church. Mark knew he should go somewhere and eat a bite of lunch, but the thought of food turned his stomach. A colleague had died. Her memorial service would begin in half an hour, and he’d been specifically forbidden to attend it. It wasn’t so much the words of Anna’s ex-husband as the reason behind them. Bad enough to be excluded from the service, but it ate at Mark when he thought Reitzman suspected him of an affair with his ex-wife, the mother of their child.
Mark wondered if perhaps he could sit here in his car until everyone arrived and was seated. Then he could slip unobserved into the church. Maybe he could find a spot in the balcony. Unless the attendance was higher than anticipated, that space would probably be roped off. He’d sneak in and sneak out, and no one would be the wiser. But he’d feel that he had truly paid his last respects to Anna. For some reason, it was really important that he do so.
Mark thought back to just a week ago. He’d dreaded the act of visiting Sergeant Purvis’s family. He’d avoided that f
uneral, and would have skipped the one for his colleague, Buddy Cane, if he hadn’t been asked to serve as a pallbearer. Why the difference in his attitude? Was the pastor right when he suggested that Mark’s feelings toward Anna were deeper than friendship? No, he was certain that wasn’t true. It was more a case of seeking justice. And that seemed quite important to him.
***
Allen Goodrich pushed through the crowded aisles and hurried from the church. He’d barely heard the words of the pastor as he told how Anna King had only recently taken the most important step in her life, but almost waited too late to do it. The words and music of the service washed over him, as he mulled over the plan he’d hatched in desperation.
He unlocked his car and crawled into the driver’s seat. As people straggled out and drove away, he surveyed the rapidly emptying parking lot. There, in the far corner. Wasn’t that Baker, in the red car? He must have sprinted to the parking lot to get here ahead of me. There was no hearse, no trip to the cemetery. Once the police released the body, it would be shipped to Dr. King’s parents in Iowa. The ex-husband—the name escaped Goodrich at the moment—wouldn’t be going. His excuse was that he didn’t want their daughter further traumatized by yet another service and by the sight of the actual burial. Goodrich thought it was more likely the man wished to put all this behind him as quickly as possible.
Goodrich glanced down at the long bundle lying on the floor of his car in front of the passenger seat. He’d driven to a nearby city to purchase the shotgun and a box of shells from a sporting goods store, paying cash and giving a false name. Fortunately, there was no waiting period for buyers of long guns. No licensure necessary.
Unfortunately, there was no resemblance between Goodrich and Baker, but if things worked out well, if Goodrich set the scene correctly, the police would never try to trace the ownership of the weapon. What did the provenance of a shotgun matter when it was used in a clear-cut case of suicide?
The parking lot was almost empty now. Baker’s red Toyota started and moved slowly toward the street. Goodrich eased his car out behind him. Soon this would all be over—for Baker and for him.
As he drove, Goodrich went over the scene in his mind. He’d ring Baker’s bell, the doctor would invite him in. Goodrich would ask some sort of question that would make Baker turn his back. Then it was a matter of wrapping his fist around the roll of quarters in his pocket, delivering a hard blow to the back of Baker’s head where the skull and spinal cord met. That should put the meddlesome doctor down for the count. Drag him to a chair, put the shotgun on the floor between Baker’s knees, the barrel under his chin. Put the man’s finger—or more likely, his thumb—on the trigger, pull, and that would be that.
The damage from the gunshot would cover up any bruises from the blow that knocked out Baker. Then Goodrich would compose a suicide note on the doctor’s computer, explaining this was the result of overwhelming guilt over killing his colleague, Anna King.
Goodrich emerged from deep thought when he realized that Baker’s car wasn’t headed home. No, he was going to the hospital, probably to visit his nurse girlfriend. That was okay. Goodrich had time to wait. So long as this was done by tomorrow, he’d have complied with the orders of the Jefe. If Baker was still alive on Monday, though . . . well, that wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate.
25
I’m glad you found me,” Kelly said. “They transferred me to this room after I had my chest film this morning.”
Mark hitched his chair closer to Kelly’s bedside. He spoke in low tones, even though her new room on the post-surgical unit was a private one. “No problem. I’ll confess that, sort of through force of habit, I went to the ICU, but they directed me to your new room. How are you doing?” He squeezed her hand. “Must be okay, since Tom moved you up here.”
“He said he’d be by later to talk with me.”
Mark nodded. “I imagine Tom will take out the chest tube in the morning, do a follow-up film tomorrow afternoon, and let you go after that.”
“Do I hear my name being bandied about?” Tom Sellers came in, shook hands with Mark, and smiled at Kelly. “Your chest film shows complete expansion of that lung. I’m amazed at your progress, but I think we’re ready to get rid of your chest tube.” He paused. “You okay with that?”
“You mean now?” Kelly asked.
“Why not? Some of my colleagues don’t like to do this on a weekend, so they don’t get an emergency call back. Personally, if I had one of those tubes in, I’d like it out as soon as possible.” He smiled. “Besides, you’ve got the next best thing to a special duty nurse right here.” He directed his gaze at Mark. “They tell me you’ve been practically living around here. Plan to stick around tonight?”
“Sure,” Mark said. “Pull the tube tonight, get a chest film in the morning, discharge if she’s doing okay?”
“You got it,” Sellers said. “Give me a few minutes to get this set up. In no time at all, you’ll have one less tube and the stuff that goes with it. By tomorrow, you’ll be headed home.”
But will I be safe? Kelly looked at Mark, who obviously was thinking the same thing. Then she saw his expression change.
He smiled and nodded to her. “I’ll be glad to stay here tonight. That upholstered recliner in the corner makes into a bed.”
“That’s not really necessary, is it?” Kelly asked.
“Maybe not, but I’ll feel better if I do it. Then, when it’s time for you to go home, I’ll take you.” As though reading her mind, he added, “And don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”
***
Mark had slept on hard lumpy mattresses in hospital call rooms, snatching a few winks when he could. He’d fallen asleep in med school late at night to the sound of his roommate sitting in the corner, memorizing the bones of the wrist: “navicular, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform . . .” After one particularly tough double shift in the ER, Mark had fallen face down onto the couch in the break room and been awakened four hours later by a nurse asking if he wouldn’t rather go home to sleep. But despite his past ability to sleep almost anywhere, Mark couldn’t find rest in the reclining chair in Kelly’s hospital room. Eventually he slid aside the thin blanket with which he’d covered himself, made sure that Kelly was still sleeping, and tiptoed out into the hall.
His watch showed it was just after midnight, early Monday morning. Mark counted in his head. It had been a bit more than eight days, one hundred ninety-four hours to be exact, since the scene in the emergency room that changed his life. And not only his life, but Kelly’s as well. At one time, he would have added two more names—Buddy Cane and Anna King—to that list, but that was when he thought the gunshots aimed at Kelly and him by the Zetas were also directed at these two colleagues. If the story from the cartel gunman was to be believed, that wasn’t the case. It appeared the difference in the weapons used in the crimes backed him up. And that meant that, although one shooter was in custody, another was still free.
Mark strolled down to the unit’s kitchen and helped himself to a half-cup of coffee that appeared to represent the remains of a pot made long ago. Should have just cut off a piece and chewed it. That was okay. He liked strong coffee—it helped keep him going. And the way he felt right now, sleep was a long way off.
He approached the nurse who sat at her desk, typing into a computer terminal. “Would you have a blank piece of paper and a pen I could use?” he asked.
She smiled. “Of course.” She opened a drawer and handed him a blank pad and a disposable ballpoint pen. “Is everything all right with Kelly?”
“She’s fine. Since Tom . . . since Dr. Sellers removed her chest tube, she seems much more comfortable.”
“You know, there’s really no need for you to sleep in her room,” the nurse said. Her white lab coat had “Cheyenne Williams, RN” embroidered on the pocket.
“I know. But I feel better being here.” He was willing to admit to himself that the reason for his presence was more to protect Kelly than p
rovide medical care. But she hadn’t argued with him. If his being here helped, he’d hang around as long as was necessary.
Mark sipped on the coffee, made a face, and tossed the remains, Styrofoam cup and all, into the nearby wastebasket.
Cheyenne rose. “I was about to make some fresh coffee. Why don’t I bring you a cup?”
“That would be nice, but if it’s okay with you, I’ll wait here for it. While you’re gone, maybe I can use this pad to make a to-do list for tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “I mean, for today.”
Mark pulled out a chair and began to write. It seemed there was something he’d intended to do, but events kept him from getting around to it. What was it? Oh, yes. He scribbled, “Call Ames pediatrician re: possible abuse.”
***
A sleepless night was nothing new for Mark, although this morning he seemed to be yawning a bit more than usual. He found a quiet corner of the food court and pulled out his cell phone. He’d offered to go to radiology with Kelly this morning, but she assured him she’d be fine. She’d slept well last night, seemed to have no difficulty breathing, and her vital signs were so normal an observer might wonder if the nurse had skipped taking them and simply entered norms from a textbook.
Despite her being a nurse in this hospital, the odds were pretty good that Kelly’s chest film would take a while. There’d be time spent waiting for an X-ray room to come open. After getting Kelly into a room and helping her into the proper position, taking the film would be over in a matter of seconds. Then the finished product would have to be reviewed to make certain it was satisfactory. On some occasions, the radiologist called for a retake or additional views. While all this happened, Mark figured he had time to grab a quick breakfast and make this call.
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