That was because the person he saw wasn’t Margaret. Instead, Dr. Allen Goodrich stepped through the open door and staggered forward to stand in the center of the living room. He certainly wasn’t the person Mark expected to see, but the surprise didn’t end there. Goodrich smelled like a brewery. His eyes were red-rimmed. He was unshaven and his hair uncombed. His suit was wrinkled, his tie hung loose around his neck. The man was the picture of someone who’d been on a bender, then slept in his clothes.
But Mark wasn’t focused on Goodrich’s appearance. The thing that got his attention was the shotgun Goodrich carried, the stock tucked under his arm, the barrel pointed at Mark like the open mouth of a tomb.
27
One thought drove Allen Goodrich, one central theme ran through his liquor-addled brain: kill Dr. Mark Baker. That was the order given him by the Jefe, and he knew failure to carry out the task would result in grave consequences for him. He seemed to recall something about doing it “by Monday,” and he wasn’t totally sure what today was, but Goodrich figured that even if he were late it would be better than failing completely.
He’d waited in the hospital parking lot until three a.m., at which point he decided Baker was going to spend the night there. That essentially trashed his plan to confront the doctor in his home and set up a death that would look like suicide. He wasn’t certain where to go from there, so he drove home where he could think more comfortably.
The house had been quiet. Mildred was still visiting her parents, which was a blessing. Goodrich settled into a chair in his den and tried to think through his problem. After an hour of wracking his brain, Goodrich decided he needed a drink to help him concentrate. One drink turned into three, and soon more than half the bottle was gone. He fell asleep in his den, slumped in a comfortable chair, where he awoke several hours later. He couldn’t recall the details, but it seemed to him that he’d dreamed a plan—an excellent plan, a foolproof one. Goodrich had several more drinks directly from the neck of the bottle of Jim Beam, grabbed the shotgun, and jumped into his car.
And now, here he was, face-to-face with Baker. Unfortunately, he couldn’t recall the details of his plan. Only one thing resonated in his mind—Mark Baker had to die.
Baker pointed to the shotgun. “Dr. Goodrich, what are you doing with that?”
“I’m going to kill you. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Why?”
“Because if I don’t, El Jefe will tell everyone about what I did down in Mexico a few years ago. There are pictures, you know. If Mildred found out, if she saw the pictures, she’d leave me. And—” He winked. “And Mildred is the one with money. The house is in her name. The cars are hers. I married well, but it will all be gone if she finds out about Mexico.”
“So this Jefe controls you?”
Why did Baker want to know all this? Couldn’t the man just let him pull the trigger and get this over? “Of course. That’s why I had orders to get you away from the hospital.”
Baker appeared to be genuinely puzzled. “Why?”
“If I didn’t, the police might start nosing around. They might ruin a good thing. I mean, what’s a better place for the center of a drug ring than a hospital? That’s why that man, Garcia, brought his brother to the emergency room when he was shot. It was one of the first places he thought of. He’d been there before to drop off drugs and pick up money for the Zetas.”
Goodrich saw Baker’s eyes widen. Maybe it was because he finally realized he was about to die. Then he heard a voice—a familiar voice—that froze him in his tracks.
“Necio, me dan el pistoletazo de salida.”
Goodrich’s numbed brain translated automatically. “Fool, give me the gun.” His gut clenched, and he was afraid his bowels would loosen then and there. The Jefe was right behind him. And Baker was still alive. Goodrich was doomed.
***
Mark didn’t know what happened, but at the sound of those words—words not covered by Mark’s limited knowledge of Spanish—Goodrich went pale. The shotgun trembled in his hands. Slowly the man turned and handed off the gun.
But Mark’s amazement didn’t end there. The person standing behind Goodrich, the one who’d spoken the words in accent-free Spanish was Margaret Cane.
“Allen, get over there beside Dr. Baker.” She held the shotgun like someone familiar with such a weapon, the gun angled diagonally in front of her with the barrel directed upward, her left hand supporting the stock. Marge reached toward the trigger area with her right hand, and Mark heard a faint click. “I can’t believe you didn’t even have the safety off.” Then her left hand went through a rapid pumping motion, and Mark heard a metallic chuk-chuk. “And you didn’t have a shell in the chamber.” Marge shook her head.
“Marge, what’s the meaning of this?” Mark knew it sounded corny, but those were the words that came out.
“I think Allen here told you most of it,” she said, calmly. “The Zeta cartel has established a base here in this part of north Texas, with Drayton General Hospital as the focal point. Because we could blackmail good old Dr. Goodrich here into doing pretty much what we wanted, things were going well.” Marge made a wry face. “Then you and that nurse let one of our people die, and to keep the respect of the rest of the rank and file we had to go after you for revenge.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’?”
“Haven’t you guessed? I’m the Jefe.”
Mark’s head was spinning. “I thought—”
“Yes, Jefe is a masculine noun, but since 99 percent of the members of this cell have never seen me, and they wouldn’t take orders from a woman anyway, it served me best to leave it that way.”
Mark searched desperately for a way to get the upper hand on Marge. There was a pile of letters on the table, but throwing them at her wouldn’t help. It would only hasten the time when she cut him down with the shotgun. Could he simply rush her—cover the distance between them before she could pull the trigger? No way.
He had to keep her talking and hope something changed. “I can understand the attempts on my life and Kelly’s. The Zetas believe in revenge. I guess I can see how you’d order Anna’s shooting. But how could you order the killing of your own husband?”
Marge grinned. “Actually, I’m the one who shot both Anna King and my husband. I used the .22 target pistol Buddy kept in his sock drawer for years.”
“Why? Because they both were involved in treating the Garcia brothers?”
“No, because my husband and Anna were having an affair.”
“So when Anna tried to say who shot her, but all she could get out was ‘Mar—’ it wasn’t Mark, it was Marge.”
“Killing those two was a double bonus for me,” Marge said. “Everyone thought it was a revenge killing by the cartel. Actually it was personal.”
“And the gun you used?”
“Safely buried in my late husband’s coffin.”
Mark recalled the time Marge asked to be alone with Buddy’s body. Now he could see why.
Marge shrugged. “I was going to come over here, get you in the kitchen, and stab you with a knife. Then I’d tell the police you tried to force yourself on me—you know, recent widow, ripe for the taking.” She raised the shotgun to her right shoulder and sighted down the barrel. “Now, I guess I’ll set up a different scenario. You and Goodrich met here to discuss your getting back to work, and you stumbled into a burglary in progress. The burglars shot you and ran away.”
“You’re crazy,” Mark said.
“No, I’m smart—smarter than anyone else around. That’s why I’m the Jefe. That’s why I have the money to buy the luxuries I wanted. You didn’t think Buddy’s income was enough to support my lifestyle, did you?” She paused. “I think you both had better move over here by the door. That sets up better for my little story.”
For the second time in just a few days, Mark was facing death, staring down the barrel of a gun. But this time, he wasn’t thinking of himself—not at all. If Marge killed Goodrich and him, t
he sound of the shot would certainly bring Kelly out of the guest room, and she wouldn’t stand a chance. Marge would gun her down and think of something to explain her death as well.
The shotgun in Marge’s hand didn’t waver. Obviously, she knew how to handle it. And Goodrich would be no help—right now, he seemed on the verge of tears. If something was to be done, it was up to Mark.
He looked once more at the table near his right hand. The lamp? No, by the time he could rip it free from the cord Marge would annihilate him with a barrage of shotgun pellets. The phone? Not heavy enough. Then he saw the Bible, the one his parents had given him, the one he’d read recently. It was thick and heavy. If he could just—
“Move, I said.” Marge made another gesture with the gun.
Mark took a step forward as though he was obeying, then swept up the Bible and flung it—not at the gun but at Marge’s face. Her left hand came off the stock of the shotgun in an automatic gesture aimed at knocking the book away, and Mark launched himself at her like the All-District tackle he’d been in high school football. He hit her in the midsection with his shoulder, heard the shotgun blast, and felt the discharge go over his shoulder, then he was wrestling with Marge for possession of the weapon.
That’s when a deep male voice behind them said, “Police! Drop the shotgun! Hands above your head! Now!”
***
Kelly stood stock-still in the doorway leading to the living room and watched one police officer, a diminutive blonde, train her pistol on Margaret while her partner, who resembled an angry linebacker, applied the cuffs to the woman. Only when the situation seemed secure did Kelly move forward to grab Mark.
They hugged for a long moment, then he whispered in her ear. “You’re the one who called the police?”
“Goodrich’s voice woke me up. I knew I couldn’t go up against a shotgun, so I used my phone to call 911. Then I tiptoed here and stood in the doorway just out of sight. I was listening when Marge came in.” She held out a bookend. “This was on your bedside table. It was the heaviest thing I could find. If the police didn’t get here in time, I was going to throw it at her.”
Dr. Goodrich stood transfixed, a puzzled look on his face. Finally, he said, “Well, I guess I’ll go now.”
The blonde officer swung her pistol toward him. “I don’t think so. We can start with the charge of assault with a deadly weapon. And I know Detectives Jackson and Ames have some questions for you. I’d guess by the time this is all over you’ll be looking at a long, rent-free vacation courtesy of the State of Texas.”
Her partner took a second pair of cuffs from a pouch at the rear of his belt and secured Goodrich’s hands behind him.
“Looks like the party’s winding down.” The voice was that of Detective T. R. Jackson, who walked through the still-open front door, followed by Detective Addison Ames. Jackson addressed the two police officers. “A backup unit just arrived. Read these people their rights, put one of them in each car, and take them to the station. We’ll be there as soon as we talk with Dr. Baker and Ms. Atkinson.”
The two officers shoved Margaret and Goodrich through the door, and Jackson closed it behind them. Jackson looked at the shotgun, still lying where Margaret had dropped it. “We’ll take that when we go. I’m sure it has prints from both of them all over it.”
“How much do you know about what happened here?” Mark asked.
“Not much.” He sat down on the couch and pulled out a notebook. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”
“I can do better than that,” Kelly said. She reached into the pocket of the scrubs she wore and pulled out an iPhone. “Right after I dialed 911, I recorded everything that went on.”
A wide grin split Jackson’s face. “We’ll keep those two separated while we question them. I was willing to bet Goodrich would give up his partner in short order. This pretty much guarantees it.”
For the first time since she’d interacted with him, Kelly actually saw a faint smile flit across Ames’s face. Maybe that was a sign things really were turning around.
***
Almost an hour after the last of the police had left, Mark and Kelly sat in his living room trying to come down from the adrenaline rush they’d experienced, when Mark’s cell phone rang. He noted that he’d already missed two calls from the same “Private Number.” He frowned and answered the call.
“Doctor, this is Abe Nunez.”
“Abe, I’m sorry. Things have been sort of busy around here.”
“I know. I talked with the officers who brought in your hospital administrator and that doctor’s wife. They gave me some time with . . . what’s his name? Oh, yeah. Goodrich. He was anxious to confess. We rounded up an assistant DA and a stenographer, and he gave us pretty much everything we need to roll up the Zetas here in this area.”
“What about Marge?”
“The detectives have applied for an order to exhume her husband’s coffin. If the pistol that killed him and Dr. King is there with her fingerprints on it, I believe you can say that El Jefe—or maybe it should be La Jefe—will be incarcerated for a long time.”
“So Kelly and I don’t have to feel like we’re walking targets?”
“I think within a few days you’ll be as safe as in your mother’s arms.” There was a smile in Abe’s voice. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Does this mean Carl won’t be at the hospital anymore?”
“Carlos—I mean, Carl—will probably be gone within a couple of weeks. We’ll both be heading back down to the border.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t have time to get to know each other,” Mark said.
“Just glad we were around to help,” Abe replied. “See you down the road.”
Mark ended the call and pocketed his phone. “Abe tells me that they’re winding things up. We should be safe now.”
“I’m afraid it’s going to take me some time to stop looking behind me for potential shooters,” Kelly said. She rose slowly from her seat on the sofa and eased over to where Mark’s Bible still lay on the floor. “I suppose it’s okay to straighten up now.”
“I would think so,” Mark said. “But you don’t need to do it.”
“No, no.” She picked up the book and thumbed through it until she found the passage she wanted. “Here it is.”
“Here what is?” Mark asked.
“A passage I thought of when I was in the hospital after I’d been shot. I guess I was trying to feel sorry for myself. Then I remembered this one: Romans 8:28. ‘And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them.’”
“So you’re saying all this was good?” Mark asked. “I don’t see how.”
“No, people died as a result of the actions of some evil people. God doesn’t cause bad things like that. But He can use even the bad stuff, just like He used this to help you make a change in your life and me to deepen my faith.”
“Eric says the key is giving up control of our lives. So long as we feel like we’re at the helm, God isn’t. And I guess that’s one reason I thought about my own safety first when we faced the gunman in the ER. But I’ve tried to change that.”
“And I saw the results,” Kelly said. “You put your own life in jeopardy to protect me when you were facing Marge holding a shotgun.”
For a moment they were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Mark said, “There’s one more thing I was hoping would come out of all this. But I don’t know how to—”
The ring of his cell phone stopped him. He pulled it from his pocket, read the caller ID, and said to Kelly, “I think I’d better take this. But I’ll put it on speaker.”
He punched a button and said, “Hi, Gwen.”
“Have you heard anything more from the police,” Gwen asked.
Mark explained to her what he’d just experienced. “The police assure me they’ll have this wrapped up in a few days. So I guess I won’t be needing your legal services in the future.�
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“I’m glad,” Gwen said. “But there’s another reason I called. I can’t tell you why I feel this need, any more than I can tell you why I’ve fought it and put it off so long.” She paused. “Could you give me the phone number of your pastor?”
Mark grinned. “I’m going to give you two numbers. One is my pastor, the other is a doctor who’s helped me a lot—a real man of faith.”
He read off the phone numbers of Pastor Steve Farrington and Dr. Eric McCray. “Wait about a half hour before calling, so I can contact both men and tell them to expect your call.”
“Thank you,” Gwen said in a quiet voice.
“No thanks necessary. I’m glad you’re taking this step,” Mark replied. “Is there anything else Kelly or I can do for you?”
The answer was slow in coming, and when it came it brought smiles to both their faces. “Yes. Pray for me.”
Group Discussion Guide
1. As you consider their backgrounds, what events in the early lives of Mark and Kelly might have shaped their relationship with God? If their backgrounds had been reversed, how might this have affected the way they behaved?
2. What was your impression of Dr. Eric McCray? What factors influenced his behavior?
3. Who in the story seems to have the best grip on their personal relationship with God? Who has the most accurate ideas about God? Why do you say that?
4. How would you compare the strength of character of Kelly and Tracy? Of Mark and Eric? Did these change over time? How?
5. Did your opinion of Carl (Carlos) change as the story developed? What influenced your original feelings about him?
6. What factors seem to have affected Gwen Woodruff to shape her current mind-set?
7. Discuss your feelings about the two detectives. Did you sympathize with either? Did your emotions change as the story unfolded?
Fatal Trauma Page 24