Richard Mabry: Lethal Remedy

That was almost two years ago. Now when they spoke, it was with forced civility. He had his life, and she had hers, such as it was. Somehow the evening passed, as had all the others since Jack left her.

Eventually, it was time for bed. She almost said sleep, but corrected the words as they passed through her mind. Sleep was never a certainty any more. She padded from the bathroom in her robe, warm from the shower, but not free of the emotional chill that was the undercurrent to her life. She was turning back the covers when the ring of the phone startled her. Who could be calling? This wasn't her week on call. Certainly not family or friends. She had none to speak of.

"Hello?" "Sara, this is Rip. Did I wake you?" She glanced at the clock beside her bed. A little after ten. "Not at all. Just settling in for the night. What's up?" He cleared his throat. "I wasn't sure whether you'd want to know, but I decided-" "What is it, Rip?" "Does Jack drink?" Sara thought back to their time together. "One glass of wine and Jack relaxed. Two glasses and he turned maudlin. Three glasses freed his inner self-belligerent and self-centered." Rip's sigh came through clearly. "Bingo! He called me a few minutes ago. Apparently, he was pretty upset about all the delays in his trip. He was flying first class, and I'm guessing he couldn't turn down the free alcohol.

After he landed here at DFW, he couldn't remember where he'd parked his car, so he called and asked me to come to the airport and pick him up. I suggested he take a taxi. He ordered me to come. I politely declined and told him that wasn't in my job description." "How did you leave it?" "I hung up on him. He called back a couple of times but I didn't answer. I wondered if this sort of behavior was unusual." "Yes and no. Jack didn't drink much at all after we were first married.

Then… then the baby died, and he started to drink heavily. And when he'd had a bit too much, he got really belligerent." "Did he..

. did he ever hit you?" Sara teased a tear offher cheek with her finger. "No, if I stood up to him he'd generally break down and ask me to forgive him. I suspect tomorrow morning he'll try to act like this never happened." "Well, I hope he doesn't have a hangover in the morning. I have to tell him we may have compromised his study protocol in Chelsea's case, and I'm going to need him to be in the best possible mood." "Why don't you let me break the news?" Sara said. She thought back to Jack's reaction after she'd shaken him awake to tell him his son was dead. If she could get through that, nothing Jack Ingersoll could say or do would bother her.

Bob Wolfe eased warily into the visitor's chair across from David Patel. Wolfe's shirt was plastered to his skin, held there by the sweat that began to form the moment Patel's secretary delivered this summons. He rolled his shoulders and leaned forward, trying without success to loosen the broadcloth straitjacket. "You wanted to see me?"

"Do you think Dr. Ingersoll got the message?" Typical of Patel. No time given to social niceties. No wasted words. Down to the nitty-gritty. Wolfe wanted to reach across the desk and shake the man, but instead he pasted a confident smile on his face. "I sat him down and had a heart-to-heart. He understands that the data on Jandramycin has to be good, no exceptions." "You use the carrot and stick?" "Sure.

The carrot was easy. More research grants. Coauthorship on every paper on the drug. We'll write them; all he has to do is add his name.

Jandra will pressure the journals to print them. No problem." "And?"

"He's our number one consultant, lecturing other doctors about the drug and its uses. Trips to speak all over the U.S. When we release Jandramycin overseas, he becomes a world traveler at our expense.

Everything first class, with a handsome honorarium for each lecture."

Patel nodded once, practically an "attaboy" for him. Wolfe decided not to wait for the next question. "And the stick was even easier. If he crosses us up, we pull all his research money. No more lectures. No more papers. We could even-" Patel held up one finger and smirked.

"How's this? If he doesn't perform, he can expect more than the loss of all those perks. We'll get the word out that, although his research was valid, it was the work of others, and he stole it. We'll systematically destroy his reputation." "Good idea. I'll call him in a day or two, see how things are going, and squeeze him with this."

Patel pulled a stack of papers toward him and began signing them. As Wolfe pushed back his chair, obviously dismissed, the CEO muttered under his breath, "That's what they pay me for, Bob. That's what they pay me for."

"Dr. Ramsey, I'm Verna Wells. I'll be working with you on the days you're here in the clinic." The woman sitting at the clinic nurses' station smiled, showing a row of white teeth in a face dark as rich chocolate. Her royal blue clinic jacket had a floral pattern, and there was a small gold cross on the lapel. Her only jewelry was a plain gold wedding band and a simple watch with a leather strap.

"Thanks. I'm looking forward to being here. You're probably going to have to answer a ton of questions for me until I get my feet on the ground." "You'll pick up the routine fast enough. Let me show you which exam rooms you'll be using." After a half hour, John's head was spinning. "Verna, I give up. Do you think that's enough to let me function for my first day or so?" She laughed, a hearty sound that seemed to come from deep inside her. Never had the term belly laugh seemed so appropriate, because once Verna came out from behind her desk John realized she carried about two hundred pounds on a five-footfour-inch frame. "I think you'll do just fine. And if you have any questions or problems, buzz for me. Remember where the buttons are in the treatment rooms?" "I remember. Now how long do I have before I start?" She glanced at her wrist. "You've got about half an hour before your first appointment. You might want to get some coffee." Verna looked over John's shoulder. "Here comes Dr. Goodman.

She generally goes for coffee every morning. Maybe she'll show you the way." "Verna," Lillian Goodman said, "are you getting Dr. Ramsey squared away?" "Well, he doesn't seem to know much, but I think he's teachable." She grinned. "Bring me back my usual?" "Coffee with double cream and three sugars. Got it." Lillian looked at John. "Want to come along?" John followed her through a maze of corridors, and soon they were walking into a moderate-sized cafeteria. "I give up. Where are we?" "University Hospital. Really not too far from the faculty clinic where we started, and they have a great cafeteria." He shook his head.

"I staffed residents at Parkland Hospital for years, but I've never been in a lot of these buildings." "Don't worry. You'll be able to find your way around real soon." They ordered, including coffee for Verna, and John insisted on paying. "Do we have time to sit down and drink this, or do we need to hurry back?" "We've got a few minutes."

She pointed to a door in the far wall. "That's the staffdining room.

It's quieter there." "What do you hear about the lady who had the stroke outside the elevators the other day?" Lillian's face clouded over. "She never regained consciousness. Died within an hour. MRI confirmed an embolic stroke, but while she was in the radiology department she had a cardiac arrest. We couldn't resuscitate her."

"Autopsy?" "The family refused one. And since there were at least two possible causes of death, we chose not to push." John grimaced. "I guess I've lost my first patient since joining the staffhere." "Not really. All you did was take her blood pressure and start an IV. She wasn't really your patient." Lillian blew across the surface of her paper cup, then sipped. "And I guess you can be glad of that." "Why?"