Michael Palmer - Flashback

The walls had begun to spin. She hung up and glanced at her arm. The larger wound, three inches or four, gaped obscenely. Beefy, bleeding muscle protruded from the cut. The room began to dim, and Barbara knew that she was close to passing out. She lay on her back and dialed the hospital. "This is an emergency, " she gasped, forcing hysteria from her voice as best she could. "Please help me. I must speak to Dr. Iverson.

Dr. Zachary Iverson. It is a matter of life and death…"

The afternoon was oppressively warm and humid. Much to Judge Clayton Iverson's relief, several continuances and a no-show had led to the completion of the docket of the Clarion County Court far earlier than usual. Returning to his chambers, he slipped off his black robe and tossed it onto the brass coat rack near his desk. With two unanticipated free hours before Leigh Baron was due at the farm, he was rapidly becoming obsessed with thoughts of a shower and a cold drink or two. His white shirt was soaked through with perspiration, and his underwear felt as though it were glued to his body. Over the summer, BTU by BTU, the courthouse air-conditioning system had been dying. Even worse, the chances of getting it replaced before several more summers had come and gone were, the Judge knew, remote. There was a time when he would have laughed at such inconveniences. But now, he could barely keep his mind off his own discomfiture and concentrate on the cases at hand. Perhaps, he reasoned, in what had become a recurring internal dialogue, it was time to consider retiring. Despite frequent promises to his wife and to himself to cut back to travel more and work less-the pace of his life had, if anything, speeded up. Since buying the house in West Palm six years before, he and Cinnie had spent exactly two weeks there, and had finally leased it out. They had no real need for the rental income, but it had made no sense to leave the place vacant. The Judge knew that with her arthritis worsening, and her childhood roots in North Carolina, Cinnie would jump at the chance to sunbathe away at least some of the grueling New Hampshire winter. They had friends who had already made the move south and sounded ecstatic about their choice. And goodness knew, his golf game could always use some attention. Retirement… Such a soothing notion, he thought… such a frightening reality. It was one thing to consider leaving the bench. He had done about as much as he could do, seen about as much as he could see in that position. But it was quite another to pack up and move to the land of oversized tricycles and afternoon tea dances. The Judge sank into his chair and mopped at his brow with a towel. For the time being, at least, Cinnie and her arthritis would just have to make do. Bum air-conditioning or not, he had yet to reach the point where the liabilities of giving everything up and retiring to Florida were outweighed by a few less aches and pains for her and a few more rounds of golf for him. Besides, he reflected excitedly, for the foreseeable future he had business to attend to in Sterling-important business. In what could well become a landmark move in slowing the advancing juggernaut of r-orporate medicine, he had elected to spearhead the repurchase of Davis Regional Hospital from the Ultramed Hospitals Corporation, and then to supervise its reorganization and transition back to community control. Meetings… politicking… bargaining… rearranging… bending… standing firm… winning … losing… Clayton Iverson felt an almost sexual rush at the thoughts of what the months ahead held in store. It was an ironic harbinger of things to come that, even without knowing he had already made up his mind, Leigh Baron was making the four-hour drive from Boston "just to talk." It was also, he knew, probably not the last time Ultramed and RIATA corporate leaders would be dashing up to Sterling for a session with him. It would be interesting to see the ploys they chose to try-interesting and amusing, for whatever they were, he had absolutely no intention of changing his mind. Not that his decision to convince the board of trustees to annul the Davis sale had come easily.

In fact, it had been one of the most difficult he had ever had to make.

And the stickiest part of all was Frank. Engrossed in thoughts of his son, the Judge packed Guy Beaulieu's folder ap-d some related documents into his briefcase and left the courthouse for the drive home. Zack was right, he acknowledged, as he rolled down Main Street and then out of town along the Androscoggin road, toward the turnoff to the farm, Frank had done an excellent job as administrator of the hospital. It wasn't his fault he was working for a company whose policies were so self-serving that they could ultimately cause catastrophes such as Annie's. Nor was it his fault, at least according to Zack, that the corporation had set out deliberately to destroy Guy Beaulieu. Handling Frank just right through all of this would be a test… perhaps the hardest test of all. Still, the man was worth the effort. He had fallen on some hard times, true, made some bad decisions, but nevertheless…

The initial warning blast of the approaching tractor trailer entered Clayton Iverson's thoughts as nothing more intrusive than the familiar drone of a distant foghorn. He was driving by rote, looking without seeing. The second blast, far more desperate and insistent, startled him from his reverie with an ugly and terrifying suddenness. The left side of the Chrysler had drifted far across the two-lane road-so far, in fact, that the solid dividing line was streaking along underneath the very center of the car. The semi, a monstrous, red GMC was hurtling toward him, its air brakes screeching, its grillwork gaping down at him like the balleen of a whale. In the clamorous, surreal, frozen moments that followed, the Judge processed countless minute details of the scene before him, the high, Slavic cheekbones of the burly trucker, who was staring down at him in wide-eyed terror and fury… his green baseball cap-its gold brim… the sun, glinting off the truck's windshield… the white script Tenby's on the crimson wind deflector above the cab…

The horn… the air brakes… the face… the grill… the sun… the screeching tires… With no conscious realization of what he was doing, Clayton Iverson whipped the wheel of the Chrysler to the right, spinning into one ninety-degree turn and then another before skidding to a stop on the gravelly soft shoulder. Lurching and heaving from its efforts, the behemoth rig barreled past, shaking the Chrysler viciously in the vacuum of its wake. The Judge glanced in the rearview mirror in time to see the trailer stop its pitching and level out as the trucker gradually regained control. Gasping for breath, he continued staring at the mirror until the crimson reflection disappeared around a bend. Then he sat by the roadside, trembling mercilessly and waiting either for his heart and lungs to burst or for the adrenaline surging through his body to subside. He had had more than his share of close calls on the road before, although none much closer than this one. And after each one, as now, he silently thanked his Higher Power for giving him reflexes quick enough to compensate for being one of the most easily distracted drivers ever set behind the wheel of a car. He also paid brief tribute to his own foresightedness in purchasing one of the heavier models on the road.

After several minutes, his pulse had slowed and his shaking had let up enough for him to swing back onto the roadway. The rest of the drive, he promised, would be made at fifteen, twenty at the most. The trucker, whoever he was, had earned a pass to heaven with his masterful driving … and masterful it was, too, he thought… He fished a handleerchief from the dashboard pocket and wiped the drenching sweat from his face and hands… absolutely masterfur… He savored a deep breath, then another. His pulse returned to normal. Now, he thought, where was he? … Ah, yes, Frank… It had been a joy to hear from both Whitey Bourque and Bill Crook of their dinner session with him. One hell of a guy. Those had been Bourque's exact words. Smart, well prepared, and persuasive as the Dickens… It was almost like the old days-the reporters, the TV people, the calls from friends every week… Judge, that's one hell of a kid you've got there… One hell of a kid…