Terminal Therapy

by Daniel Reinharth

  The gym door was closed. Was I in the wrong place? I turned the knob and opened the door. The lights in the room were on, and I heard a machine noise.

  “Come in, David,” Tracey said. “And close the door behind you.”

  I did as she asked, then stopped a few feet inside the door. I couldn't believe the sight. Paula and Tracey were on the opposite side of the room. Tracey was standing with her gun aimed at Paula. Paula's clothes formed a heap on the floor. Paula was sitting in--a whirlpool bath!

  “See, David. I have only her comfort at heart. Now come over here and hand me the dicta-pen.”

  I pulled the dicta-pen out of my pocket and approached, stopping a few feet from her.

  “Is that it?” Tracey asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I see you wrapped it in plastic. You must be even smarter than I thought. You somehow knew that you'd end up in the water.” She pointed her gun at me. Her expression and voice hardened. “Now hand it over.”

  I thrust it forward, then pulled it back. “It occurs to me that if I don't hand it to you, you'll have to shoot us. Not so good from Paula's and my points of view, but not so good for you, either. You'd never get away with that.”

  “Maybe, but you're not the only smart one here. You're going to undress, and join Paula in the whirlpool.” She reached down, and unplugged the whirlpool from the whirlpool end. The machine and water sounds stopped. She picked up the live wire and dangled it over the bath. “A tragic accident. But so romantic.”

  “But it still won't work if I don't cooperate.”

  “Maybe I won't shoot you. But will you watch me drop this cord into the bath now, with Paula in it?”

  The heart pounding I'd felt for the past hour slowed. Tracey had won. I couldn't call that kind of bluff. My head and shoulders sagged.

  And then the doorknob turned, slowly, with a faint creaking noise. We all turned to watch it, eyes wide. The door burst open, revealing Judith Klansky.

  “What the hell?” Tracey said, verbalizing my thoughts. She shifted her gun to aim at Judith. The arm holding the cord fortunately moved, too, away from the bath.

  “Surprised?” Judith asked as she stepped into the room, leaving the door open. “You shouldn't be. I accused Stephanie for a while, but that was emotion talking. The overly intricate planning, the manipulating and subterfuge, all your trademarks. I've seen you operate over the years. You could fool others, but not me.”

  Judith paused, and made brief eye contact with me. Was she asking me to do something, or just reconnoitering?

  “When I saw that the police were off base,” Judith continued, “and these two young people were looking for evidence, I started following you around. Whenever I could get away from Jonathan.” Another pause. “He's gone, by the way.”

  The news was expected, but still shocking. In the midst of this harrowing scene we observed an unintentional moment of silence. Judith's arrival had clearly unnerved Tracey. This wasn't part of the plan. Her gun wavered between Judith and me, her eyes sneaking a glance at Paula. I saw sweat on her forehead.

  The silence stretched out. My emotions rollercoastered, from fear, to shock, to sadness, and back to fear. The dicta-pen still in my hand, I did something to it, squeezing it in some way. Our silence was broken by Jonathan Singer's voice. Garbled, but unmistakably him.

  Our mouths all opened. “Jonathan!” Judith cried, tears beginning to flow. Tracey's body shook so much I was afraid she'd pull the trigger by accident. She turned her head to look at Paula, her gun still aimed at me, and Paula greeted her with a handful of water to the face. It may not have been much, but it startled her. I dove at Tracey, hoping to stay below her gun arm's trajectory. The bullet's sound was so close it sounded like a cannon.

  I rammed Tracey's thighs with the section between my right shoulder and neck, summoning my best football tackling technique. But unfortunately her thighs were like tree trunks, and moved about as much. Searing pain shot up my neck and down my arm. The pain was even worse than when I'd tried to shoulder open the door on the burning boat. But there was no time even for groaning. As I slid down like a cartoon character splat against a wall, I sensed her re-aiming her gun. I reached for her feet, grabbed them, and yanked back on them with my last reserves of energy.

  Someone yelled “yee-ah!” and hurtled above me. Tracey toppled backwards. This time I did hear the sound of a gun clatter on the floor. In my dazed state I saw Judith on top of Tracey, flailing at her with her fists. Tracey was defending herself with her arms in front of her face. It didn't seem as though Judith was inflicting any damage, but her fury was keeping Tracey at bay.

  When I looked up again I saw a man in a ten-gallon hat. “Whoa, Nellie,” Lieutenant Hansen said, as he pulled Judith off Tracey. He handcuffed Tracey, and read her her rights.

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

  Judith Klansky found a towel and brought it to Paula. She helped her out of the whirlpool bath--after Paula wrapped herself in the towel, that is. They scooped up Paula's clothes and walked to a curtained area in a corner of the room, where Paula dressed. I stood up, wobbly at first. Lieutenant Hansen was in the center of the room, holding on to one of Tracey's handcuffed arms. Paula and Judith joined us. I wanted to hug Paula to death, but-

  “Is everyone all right here?” Hansen asked. We looked at each other. We looked like hell, but we were more than all right--except for Tracey.

  “Thank you for coming, Lieutenant,” Judith said.

  “You're welcome. And thank you. You're the only one who had the sense to call me. As for these two characters...” He looked at Paula and me. “Well, I won't yell at you now for putting yourselves in such danger. I'll do that later. For now, I'll just thank you, and ask you to meet me at the police station to fill me in on all the details. Paperwork, paperwork. Tracey Shanley in, Mitchell Singer out.”

  I turned to Judith, and took her hands in mine. “Ms. Klansky, Judith, I don't know how to thank you enough. You saved our lives. But why-” Something caught me in her eyes, and I felt her hands tense. I looked down. Her nail polish had been damaged in the scuffle, revealing small pits in her nails. Click. I remembered something else.

  “You're Mitchell's mother,” I said. I thought I could actually hear the jaws drop around me, but Judith's wasn't included. Her eyes twinkled, encouraging me to spell it out. “Mitchell's skin patches on his hands, and the indentations in your nails, are both manifestations of psoriasis. It's not just coincidence here, is it? Psoriasis is genetically based, and the two of you are genetically linked.”

  Judith stopped breathing for a moment, then smiled. “It was time for the secret to be revealed,” she said. “It's such a relief. It's hard to imagine now, what with today's mores, but in those days, a child born out of wedlock...I stayed as close to him as I could, and my...Jonathan. It's been difficult, but I won't complain. I'm responsible for my own choices.”

  “So that's why you got involved,” Hansen said. “I arrested your son.”

  “And that's why you deleted the e-mails,” I said. “You were protecting him.”

  “But wouldn't Mitchell have known about his father needing the large fonts?” Paula asked.

  “Yes,” Judith said in a low voice.

  “So you knew that Mitchell didn't send the e-mails,” Paula said. “Why did you delete them?”

  “The e-mails looked as though they came from him-”

  “So you couldn't take that chance,” I said.

  “Exactly,” she murmured. The three of us nodded in response.

  Hansen excused himself, pushing Tracey ahead of him.

  “I'm sorry for your loss,” I told Judith. She didn't seem like the hugging type, but I gave it a shot.

  “At least I gained a son,” she whispered in my ear.

  I turned next to Paula, and hugged her as tightly as I thought she could handle. She winced, tears streaming down her cheeks--but I'm pretty sure they were good tears.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
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  The last day of the conference was canceled in deference to Jonathan Singer's death. His memorial service, which I planned to attend, was scheduled for 10 AM. Thomas Haydock's family had barely been notified, so were presumably still in the process of arranging his funeral. There would be no coffin, I assumed, as his body had burned with his boat. Tragic but poetic.

  I felt guilty about Haydock's death. If I hadn't roped him into my nocturnal murder investigation he'd still be alive. It didn't assuage my guilt that I'd “saved” his life only a day before. Nor that it was Tracey who'd killed him, not me.

  Guilt is omnipresent for doctors. Our mission is to help people live--but death defeats us in the end. So we keep fighting. And wishing we could do more.

  My brain and body ached all over. I'd cleaned the glass cuts I'd incurred crawling through the boat window. They were beginning to scab over. The legs and hand I'd burned, and the shoulder I'd jammed on Singer's boat, throbbed but were bearable. My neck remained stiff from my attempted tackle of Tracey Shanley.

  I could only imagine how Paula must feel. I called her to meet for breakfast, but she begged off. She planned to eat in her room while she packed. With the conference ending we were both checking out of the hotel. My parents had invited us to stay with them at their cottage for their two remaining days. I'd accepted their invitation, but Paula had decided to return to Centreville. She'd promised to speak to my parents after my mother's appointment Monday at Sloan Kettering hospital.

  I almost forgot to eat breakfast because I wasn't hungry. A granola bar and a glass of orange juice were enough for now. I met Paula at her hotel room at 9:30, and packed her luggage in her car's trunk. My parents, who were also coming to Singer's memorial service, would transport me and my things later.

  “I saw Mitchell this morning,” Paula said while we drove to the funeral service. “He came to my hotel room to thank me. And you. They let him out soon after we left the station this morning.”

  “I imagine he didn't sleep much. Even in his own bed.”

  “No. He's aged a lot this week.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that. But it's understandable.”

  “He also told me to call him about a job when I get my degree. Assuming I qualify, of course.”

  “Which I'm sure you will. That's so great. It must take so much pressure off you.” It hit me that a job at the Institute would place her in Princeton, whereas I was on Long Island. But it was all a long way off.

  “I didn't think of that,” Paula said. “But you may be right. I do feel lighter.” I wondered if this clarification in her life might be good for our relationship. “Jonathan Singer's getting cremated, you know,” she said.

  “Really? I thought he was Jewish.”

  “That's true. He was born Jewish. But by the end of his life the Environment was more important to him than his ethnic or religious background. Remember his feelings about the Cape.”

  “Interesting. I hope he was happy.”

  “I think he was. As much as any of us ever is.”

  #

  Singer's service was held in a small chapel. His public service, which people from around the world would attend, would take place in Princeton on Sunday. I shook Stephanie’s, Mitchell's, and Judith's hands, kissed my parents, and sat down next to Paula.

  Several people rose to deliver eulogies. I thought of my own, a variation on an ancient Jewish precept: We all struggle to make it in this crazy scary world. Anyone who gives comfort to one person, much less to many people, it’s as though they’ve saved the world.

  Mitchell was speaking. “One of the many lessons I learned from my father is that you can't wait for things to happen because they're supposed to, or because they should...”

  I knew what I had to do, what I wanted more than anything to do. I leaned over, and whispered into Paula's ear: “Marry me.”

  She continued to stare at Mitchell. But her eyes misted, and she squeezed my hand. “Oh, David.”

  Acknowledgments

  My wife and I adore Cape Cod. Its beauty, its ice cream, its seashore, its seafood, its history, its hydrangeas, its culture, its book sales and more. Cape Cod inspired the locale for this book. Some of the places are real, but I've taken liberties with sites and geography (the hospital, police station and wind turbine company, for example, are pure fiction). The wonderful Anchorage on the Cove really exists - as do its gracious owners, Kathy and Dennis Bunnell. Of course neither the people nor the events in this book are real.

  I'm a medical doctor, but my feeling of kinship extends to all people in helping professions (including our indispensable support staffs). The profession of psychology helped to inspire this story, as well. (The fact that my son Jonathan and my wife are psychologists is purely coincidental).

  I owe immense debts of gratitude to my cover artist (and daughter-in-law!) Jessica Yang, M.D., and to my readers Jon Matthew Farber, M.D., Rabbi Manes Kogan, and David and Jonathan Reinharth (my sons). I also thank David for his indispensable and indefatigable computer formatting work (which means, I suppose, that I should include engineering among the helping professions). Standing above all others in deserving my gratitude, once again, is my wife, Bernice Mednick Reinharth, Ph.D.--my editor-in-chief and supreme inspiration. My crew deserves to share the credit for all that is good in this book, but all the book's flaws are my responsibility. Finally, I thank my mother (Franc{c}oise Meyer Reinharth), my daughter (Sara Reinharth), and our friend Bernalda Rodriguez for inspiring the Charlotte, Rachel, and Griselda characters, respectively.

  About the Author

  Dan Reinharth, author of the Dr. David Calder mystery series, practices Internal Medicine on Long Island, NY. He appreciates good food, good drink, good friends, good books, a loving family, and a good night's sleep. He admires parents, teachers, and those who risk their lives for us. He believes in the Jewish proverb that saving a life is akin to saving the world.

  Someday he'll be the chess-playing center fielder for the New York Yankees. For now, writing books and blogs (awordfromyourdoctor.com) sustains him.

  Praise for First Do No Harm

  Great reading! Suspenseful and intriguing!

  – John Harricharan, author of When you can Walk on Water, Take the Boat

  Once I started reading First Do No Harm it was hard to put it down. My husband, who does not read books very often, read it in 2 days. We both really enjoyed it and can’t wait for the next one to come out.

  – Millie

  Praise for A Catskill Slay Ride

  This is one of those books that once you get into it you can't put it down… The kind of book that makes you want to get into your car and drive up to one of those delightful towns in the Catskills…

  – Danny Kopec, Ph.D.

  Dr. Calder is in the Holmes category of detective, given his ability to make accurate deductions from small observations; only unlike Holmes he is a real person, with his own insecurities and day-to-day problems, but also sympathetic and caring… what one hopes one's own doctor would be like.

  – Jon Matthew Farber, M.D.

  It’s early summertime, 1997. Dr. David Calder is looking forward to a week of sunshine, seafood and ice cream on the Cape. It's the perfect setting to rekindle with his true love, soon-to-be psychologist Paula Hirsch. Even if attending a conference for physicians and psychologists is their stated purpose.

  But when Paula’s mentor is thrown overboard—literally—investigation becomes their priority—and sorely tests their relationship. As they sift through the politics and personalities of the psychology elite, family illness and local environmental disputes complicate their quest.

  David and Paula close in on the killer, only to discover that the killer is closing in on them. The fiery finish demands every ounce of their courage, cleverness and conviction to bag the beast.

 

 

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