Not a Sound

by Heather Gudenkauf

  I pull into the center’s parking lot just before six. It is nearly deserted and I’m able to park right next to the entrance.

  The waiting room is empty and Lori, sitting behind the counter, startles when Stitch and I enter.

  “Oh, Amelia, you shouldn’t be here,” she says. She looks around the room nervously as if Barb or Dr. Huntley might suddenly appear.

  “I forgot to pack up a few of my personal things this morning. Do you mind if I go and grab them? It will only take me a few minutes.”

  She hesitates, then nods her head. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Amelia, but there was nothing I could do.” She looks as if she might start to cry and she looks afraid. Afraid of me?

  I want to tell her that she has it all wrong. That I’m the last person she should be afraid of. But instead I say, “Don’t worry about it, Lori. The truth will come out soon enough.” I walk back to the file room hoping that she doesn’t follow me. She doesn’t. Stitch has stayed behind with her and I imagine she is feeding him the last of the dog treats.

  Once in the file room I shut the door and sit right down at my computer. I don’t have much time. I dig into my pocket and pull out the flash drive and insert it into the port. I enter my user name and password. An error message pops up. I tell myself to slow down and try again, entering each character carefully. Again the error message appears. My permissions have already been scrubbed from the system.

  I have to think fast. I remove the flash drive and pick up a framed photo of Nora that I keep on my desk and tuck it under my arm to prove that I came here to gather my personal items. I go over to the file cabinet. I have to find one or two files and smuggle them out of here without Lori noticing. Huntley fired me for a reason. He set me up in the best way possible in order to ruin my credibility. I’m close to learning his secret and my thoughts are spiraling in a hundred different directions and I can’t seem to rein them in.

  Jo Ellen’s file is not in the section labeled A to B, where it should be. My heart skips a beat. I thought I put it in the new standing file cabinet the other day. I thumb through each of the files and still don’t find it. I return to the battered file cabinet to see if I may have accidentally put it back in its original spot. Not there. I check again, in case I missed seeing it. Still not there.

  I’m running out of time. I already should have grabbed my things and been out of here. Lori will get suspicious soon and come back to find me.

  Think, I tell myself.

  The other patients. The ones where I noticed odd discrepancies. The missing biopsies and the missing blood tests. I scan my memory for the names. Roberts, Rivera, Quigley. All the files are gone. What’s happening here? I have to find Jo Ellen’s file or I’ve got nothing. I need to slow down, retrace my steps.

  I think back to the last file I worked with yesterday. Dennison maybe? I open the drawer that holds the patient files whose last names begin with D in search of Jo Ellen’s file. Here it is. I accidentally gathered up Jo Ellen’s file with the Dennison file. I pull it and stuff it into my purse, knowing that I can’t walk out of here with it in my hand. I need to get out of here. Now.

  But I feel like I should have something more. I know that I will never get the chance to look at these files again. My instinct is to follow the money and find any reference to insurance or patient billing. My eyes land on the file cabinet that Lori said I didn’t need to worry about. The cabinet that contains “inactive” files waiting to be shredded. I remember seeing some billing sheets in there when I was looking for John Winthrop’s file the other day.

  Knowing I have zero time for this but not able to leave without at least checking inside, I go to the cabinet. It’s locked. Strange. It wasn’t locked when I looked through it in search of the Winthrop file. Someone doesn’t want me in this drawer but I’m not ready to give up. It’s an old file cabinet and after two good tugs the drawer pops open.

  Billing files. Hundreds of them. It would take me hours to go through all of these. What had Jake said at dinner the other night? Something about the motives for murder: Greed. Hate. Revenge. Evil. What if the motive all along has been money and the proof is somewhere in these insurance records? What I’m doing is highly illegal, but there’s got to be something here that will help me understand why Dr. Huntley wants me out of this office for good. I shove a fistful of billing sheets into my purse and, hoping that Lori doesn’t notice the sudden bulk of my bag, I step from the file room and begin to walk down the hallway back to the waiting room.

  I find Lori and Stitch where I left them and join them behind the counter, acutely aware of the files that I have concealed in my purse.

  “Did you get everything you need?” she asks.

  I nod. “Thanks, Lori. You take care.”

  “You too,” she responds and looks as if she wants to say more, but doesn’t.

  With my contraband stowed away in my purse, Stitch and I exit the clinic for what I know will be the last time. The wind has picked up and the snow is coming down in swift dizzying spirals. Drifts form in stiff white peaks across the parking lot and I scan the area searching for anyone who might be nearby, watching, but I’m alone. I unlock the Jeep and toss my purse onto the passenger-side floor. I’m ready to get home and really dig into these files and figure out exactly what’s going on.

  Stitch has wandered off several feet and I’m just about ready to call him back when I see his ears perk up and head tilt in the direction of the clinic. Something has caught his attention. There’s something in Stitch’s stance, not fear but wariness, which makes me want to see what he’s going to do next. He sniffs at the air and starts moving toward the back of the clinic, and I hurry to catch up with him.

  The narrow roadway, lined by a wrought-iron fence, leads to the back of the clinic and is just wide enough for a delivery truck to drop off packages at the rear entrance, or for Dr. Huntley and Dr. Sabet to park their cars. Beyond the fence is the beautiful view of Mathias and Five Mines.

  Stitch rounds the corner and that’s when I see two figures standing beneath the bright lights over the rear entrance. I manage to snag Stitch’s collar just before he takes off running toward them and I pull him back behind a Dumpster. It’s Dr. Huntley and Dr. Sabet, both bundled up against the weather, and from the looks of it they are deep in conversation.

  Dr. Huntley looks at Dr. Sabet in irritation and Dr. Sabet scowls when Huntley begins to speak. I pray to God that Stitch doesn’t try to wriggle from my grasp and that he stays quiet. We are less than ten feet from the men and I know I should get back to the Jeep and just go home, but fear of making a noise and being discovered and something on Dr. Sabet’s face keeps me rooted to my spot. He’s angry and fearful all at once.

  “I got a call from...” I can’t quite catch the name. I squint and crane my neck to try and get a better view. “His wife is terminal,” Dr. Sabet says. “...unnecessary treatments?”

  Though I pride myself in being a pretty accurate speech reader, I know that even my overinflated estimate of my abilities can be less than 50 percent and probably less so under these conditions. I have to fill in a lot of the words I miss.

  Dr. Huntley rocks back and forth on his heels before speaking. “Not your business... I treat my patients. You treat yours.”

  “It’s my business,” Dr. Sabet says, “...it’s wrong.” Dr. Sabet begins speaking rapidly and I try to catch as much of what he’s saying as possible and come up with only snippets that when I piece them together are chilling. “Unethical practices...unnecessary and aggressive...prolong suffering...fill your pockets...kickbacks.” I want to turn away, but I can’t. I need to know what they are saying.

  “What is it you think you are going to do?” Dr. Huntley asks.

  “Quit, walk away. I can’t do this anymore.”

  “I think that’s a good idea,” Dr. Huntley says. “...keep up your malpractic
e insurance, Aaron. If I go down, you’re going down too.”

  Dr. Sabet shakes his head in frustration. “...crazy.”

  Dr. Huntley roughly grabs Dr. Sabet’s arm and I know that the next words that come out of Huntley’s mouth could be the most important that I ever read. “...that’s what the last person...got in my way... She’s not a problem anymore.”

  Did Dr. Huntley just admit to murder? Gwen’s murder? I can’t believe it and by the shocked expression on Dr. Sabet’s face neither can he. Dr. Sabet throws off Dr. Huntley’s grasp and goes back inside the clinic.

  Dr. Huntley lingers a bit longer and I hold my breath, hoping that his eyes won’t turn to the spot where Stitch and I are hiding. Finally, he slowly makes his way to his car, starts it and unhurriedly begins to brush away the snow from the windows. Once he turns his back to me, I can’t stand it any longer and I run from my hiding spot with Stitch at my side and don’t stop until I reach my car. I get Stitch inside and climb in after him, fire up the ignition and flip on the windshield wipers to clear the snow that has accumulated since I’ve arrived.

  I’m not fast enough, though. Dr. Huntley’s car comes out from behind the back of the building and he stares at me as he slowly passes in front of my still-parked car. The flat, cold anger in his eyes gives him away. Fear snags the air from my lungs. It wasn’t David who killed Gwen, it was Dr. Huntley. I just need to figure out exactly why.

  * * *

  The snow makes driving difficult and I keep looking for Huntley in my rearview mirror, expecting him to come barreling up behind me on the road. It takes me nearly an hour to get home and by the time I pull up next to the cabin my fingers ache from clutching the steering wheel so tightly.

  Once inside the house, I get to work. Stitch, sensing my anxiousness, sticks close to me as I settle at the counter with my laptop, Jo Ellen’s file, Gwen’s calendar and my phone.

  First I text Jake. I know he’s supposed to come over for dinner tomorrow night, but this can’t wait much longer. Can you call me later tonight? I have some info about Gwen. I keep it short and sweet. I don’t mention anything about Dr. Huntley. It’s too complicated to get into now. I’ll save that for when we can talk in person.

  And though it’s the least of my worries right now, I leave a message for my attorney, Amanda, asking her to please call me back, that I need to set up an appointment with her as soon as possible. I’m hoping that she will be able to somehow make sure that Barb and the others at the center can’t use the fact that a bottle of alcohol was found in my desk against me. I know it’s a long shot, but my drawer wasn’t locked. Anyone could have put the bottle there but now I’m pretty sure it was Dr. Huntley.

  I spend the next twenty minutes reading through Gwen’s calendar. I try to make sense of the more cryptic shorthand and see if I can find any connection between Gwen and Dr. Huntley. I’m just about to give up when a brief notation jumps out at me.

  Linda W. 2:30.

  This could be it. Linda Winthrop.

  What was it she had said on the online forum? Dr. Huntley wouldn’t listen to their concerns. Hardly grounds for malpractice. Her husband, John, had been diagnosed with a bleeding disorder. Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. But why would Gwen have a meeting scheduled with Linda Winthrop? I can’t help but think this woman holds an important clue; I need to speak with her.

  I search online for a phone number for a John or Linda Winthrop and two options pop up. I dial the first and wait for someone to answer.

  “Hello” appears on my phone display.

  “Yes,” I begin. “May I speak with a John or Linda Winthrop please.”

  “This is Linda Winthrop.”

  I’m not sure how to continue. Anything I say will sound intrusive and strange. But what do I have to lose?

  “My name is Amelia Winn and it’s my understanding that you had an appointment to meet with Gwen Locke on October 30.”

  The display remains idle so I plunge forward. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions about that appointment with Gwen and the treatment your husband was receiving for ITP.”

  “Who are you again?”

  I’m losing her. If I don’t get to the heart of this call she’s going to hang up. She might anyway. “My name is Amelia Winn and I used to work with Gwen Locke, as a nurse. I think she had some questions about the treatment your husband was receiving from Dr. Joseph Huntley.”

  Again there is a long pause. “We were supposed to meet but she never made it. She said she was working on quality assurance documentation for local health care providers. She wanted to talk about the care John got for his ITP.”

  I don’t know how hard to push. So I just wait for Linda to continue. “Dr. Huntley had John receiving infusions of an antibody twice a month for the past three years when he simply could have had John’s spleen removed. My poor husband suffered years of headaches and back and joint pain when he could have had the surgery and his ITP would have been managed.”

  “Why do you think he did that?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  “Money. Why else? Each round of treatment cost upward of twenty-two grand. Thank God we have decent insurance. I can’t even begin to guess how much of that ended up in Dr. Huntley’s pocket. We finally got a second opinion and the hematologist told us to get the hell away from Huntley. John had his spleen removed and now his platelet levels are in the normal range.”

  “I’m so sorry you had to go through this,” I say. “Do you mind if I or someone else follows up with you on this in a few days?”

  “I hope you do,” Linda says. “I’ve been trying to get someone to listen to me about that crook for months.”

  I thank her and we disconnect.

  * * *

  Outside, the storm is picking up strength. At least three more inches have already covered the ground, bringing the total snowfall to about six inches. I can barely see Evan’s house on the bluff through the heavy snow, and the wind is shaking the bare branches.

  I pull out Jo Ellen’s medical file. I go through it page by page and a sad picture slowly begins to form. Jo Ellen was a seemingly healthy twenty-seven-year-old when she went to her doctor complaining of feeling tired. The blood tests came back a bit off and Jo Ellen was referred to Dr. Huntley for follow-up. Dr. Huntley diagnosed her with Waldenström’s macroglobulinemia. I’m not an oncology nurse, but I know that as cancers go, Waldenström’s is relatively rare. I do a quick online search to learn more about its symptoms and treatment. I thumb through Jo Ellen’s lab work and find her initial IgM levels, which are found primarily in the blood and lymph fluid and are the first antibodies the body creates to fight infections. Jo Ellen’s IgM is a bit high but not exceptionally so.

  I spend the next two hours poring over Jo Ellen’s treatment files and when I’m halfway through I think I have an idea of what Dr. Huntley was up to. Based on what I know about Waldenström’s and after a quick internet search, it appears that most doctors who encounter patients with similar labs and symptoms to Jo Ellen’s would simply watch and wait. If the IgM levels increased, treatment would begin. But I still need more proof. I pull my dog-eared copy of the Physicians Desk Reference. A few years old, but it’s still the go-to reference for pharmaceutical warnings, dosages and side effects. Based on Huntley’s treatment protocol and the dosages and the number of rounds, Jo Ellen’s lungs and liver would be fried. Jesus, Jo Ellen didn’t have a chance.

  Stitch nudges me with his nose, letting me know he needs to go outside, and I step out into the yard with him. The snow continues to fall but instead of the lazy fat flakes of earlier this afternoon, it has turned to small sharp pellets that scour my skin. Stitch sniffs around a tree trunk and then his ears perk up, suddenly alert. Here we go again, I think as he tears off in the direction of the woods. “Ke mne!” I shout. Come here. Stitch ignores me. The surface of the snow
has formed a shiny crust and with each step it collapses beneath his paws. If I weren’t so irritated with him and on edge I’d laugh at his comical trek. “Ke mne!” I call again. Stitch pauses briefly to look at me but then continues toward the pines.

  I glance up at Evan’s house and the wind and snow have calmed enough for me to see his silhouette in the window looking down at us. Chances are he won’t come down and try and help me this time. I can’t blame him.

  Stitch disappears into the dark, and I squint in hopes of catching a glimpse of his silver fur. “Dammit,” I say in frustration.

  Just as quickly as he vanished, Stitch reappears and gallops back to my side. I look back up at Evan’s window and give him a wave that he returns along with a shake of his head. I grab Stitch by the collar and lead him back inside. “You have to stop doing that,” I say as he slides his eyes guiltily away from mine.

  We go back inside, and I toss more wood into the fireplace and pour more kibble into Stitch’s dish. He sniffs at it but instead of eating he lies down on his dog bed. I flip on the television to check the weather forecast. More snow through the night with clearing early tomorrow morning.

  All along I thought that Gwen found out that David did something that endangered Jo Ellen Beadle and her baby but now I’m confident it had to do with Dr. Huntley and Jo Ellen’s cancer diagnosis from before she was even pregnant.

  Huntley overtreated Jo Ellen, leaving permanent damage to her body. Gwen figured it out and tried to confront Huntley at the coffee shop. Did she confront Huntley, and he killed her for it? Possibly. But there has to be more to it than what’s in Jo Ellen’s file.

  I think maybe there is something else that isn’t in the file that would lead me right to Dr. Huntley. I went through dozens of files in my short time at the clinic that appeared to have missing paperwork. Maybe that wasn’t an oversight. Maybe Huntley didn’t want a record of Sharon Quigley’s lung biopsy or Mitchell Rivera’s CBC report.