Richard Mabry - Lethal Remedy

"Sorry, that's a holdover from court. Witnesses have to answer aloud, so the court stenographer can record their responses. Reflex action on my part, I guess." Nevertheless, he fixed Wolfe with an expectant look. Wolfe took a deep breath and said, "Yes, I'm prepared to state that I know of no such side effects." As Wolfe made his way back to his office, he wondered how Lindberg could know about the "side effects Dr. Miles mentioned." Maybe he'd been Patel's "designee," monitoring Wolfe's calls in some way. And why was Patel the only one who didn't respond to Berman's question? Wouldn't he, above all people in the company, have no hesitancy in going on record? Finally, Wolfe found it strange the way Berman had phrased his question. Not "Are there any side effects?" He'd steered clear of that particular question, as though he already knew the answer. Instead, he'd asked everyone to state their willingness to go on record that there were no such adverse consequences. And despite Berman's attempt to cover his insistence that a nod wouldn't do, Wolfe knew full well the reason for requiring a verbal response. That meeting, especially the responses at the end, was being recorded. He wondered how Berman and Patel might use such a record. Wolfe tugged at his collar, but the tightness in his throat remained.

The policewoman paused at the end of the walk and looked at Sara.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay here by yourself?" "I'll be fine. Thanks for everything." "Can you arrange transportation for tomorrow?" "I'll call a co-worker to pick me up in the morning. How long do you think it will be before my car's available?" "Depends on how busy the evidence techs are. Couple of days, I'd guess. You say you only heard one shot, and it appears to have gone completely through and out the opposite window. But in case more shots were fired and there's a slug hiding in there somewhere, we want to dig it out, so we have it if there's ever something to match it to." "Guess I'd better talk with my insurance company about this. I'll need to have the windows replaced and arrange for a rental car." Like a reluctant beau after a first date, the officer lingered on the front porch. "I know I'd be really shaken if this happened to me. Would you like me to have a patrol car cruise by a few times this evening?" What Sara really wanted to say was, "Please. And maybe a policeman could sit up in my living room all night, and take me to work tomorrow." Instead, she said, "I'll be fine. Really." "Okay." The officer took a card from the breast pocket of her uniform. "If there's a problem, call this number, and we'll send someone to check." She pulled a pen from the same pocket and scribbled something on the back of the card. "Here's my cell number, too." "Thanks again." The policewoman touched a finger to the bill of her cap, turned, and walked slowly down the sidewalk.

Sara ducked inside to lock and bolt the front door. Soon she heard footsteps fade, followed by the slam of a car door and the sound of a car engine starting. Now that she was alone, the shaking began again.

Why me? Who would do this? Why was someone trying to kill me? She almost wished she were a drinker. If this had been Jack, he'd have a glass two-thirds full of liquor in his hand by now. Sara didn't even have any cooking sherry in the house. She supposed she should find something to eat, though. Stress produced adrenaline, and that caused a drop in blood sugar. She snorted. See how your medical training has come in handy? You were almost killed tonight, but you know enough to look for some peanut butter and crackers. Sara made it halfway to the kitchen before dropping onto the sofa with her head in her hands. She fought the urge to start crying again. She'd already done that, sitting in her car, shaking and sobbing. She wasn't going to do it again. Get hold of yourself. You've faced life-and-death situations when they involved other people and never lost your cool. Pull it together. Sara rose, but had to steady herself on the arm of the sofa.

In a moment the light-headedness passed, and she was able to walk to the kitchen despite unsteady legs. She managed to put together a couple of crackers spread with peanut butter. She ate them while standing at the counter and washed them down with a few swallows of milk. Maybe that will take care of the shakes. Back in the living room, she pulled a notepad toward her and thought about what she had to do next. The list was a short one, and only one thing required her attention tonight: arrange a ride to the medical center in the morning. Who should she call? Rip? He was the obvious choice, but for some reason she couldn't bring herself to talk with him tonight, to reveal her vulnerability. True, it wasn't her fault that someone shot at her. And anyone in that situation would be upset. But she just wasn't ready for Rip to see her like this. Silly, but there it was.

Mark? She'd only met him recently. There was no question he was interested in her, but she hesitated to bring him into this. She didn't know Mark well enough, and vice versa. Jack? Never! Her administrative assistant? Gloria or some other nurse in the clinic?

Another doctor in the department? She chewed on the eraser end of her pencil. No matter how she looked at it, the name she kept coming up with seemed the right one. She picked up the phone and dialed.

"I've got bad news for you. Every one of your HIV tests came back positive, and your T cell count is already dropping. It's like you've been taking placebo instead of zidovudine and lamivudine. We're going to have to ramp up the meds." Jack Ingersoll's face was somber as an undertaker's, his voice somehow an octave deeper than John remembered.

John could already feel the cold dampness of the grave reaching out to him. "There must be some mistake. Those meds are standard treatment.

Rip Pearson assured me they'd work." Ingersoll shrugged. "Rip doesn't know everything that goes on around here." He grinned. "Maybe the pills you've been taking were compounds I've been working on in my lab. You don't suppose one of the side effects could be to kill the immune system, do you? My, my. I'll have to write that down in my journal. My secret journal." John was drenched in sweat by now. His chest shook with the pounding of his heart. He'd call someone-Dr.

Schaeffer, Lillian Goodman, someone to talk with about this. Maybe he could call Beth. She'd know what to do. Oh, please, God. Send me someone who can help. The pounding in his chest morphed into a steady vibration from the cell phone in his shirt pocket. John's eyes sprang open. He was alone in his easy chair, the stroboscopic flashing of images from the muted TV painting the walls of the darkened room. More by reflex than volition, he answered the phone. "Dr. Ramsey." "John, this is Sara Miles." His colleague's voice shook a bit, and he wondered what was wrong. "I need your help." John struggled to come fully awake. His feet explored the area around his chair, searching for his discarded shoes in the near dark. "Where are you? What do you need?" "I'm at home. But I need you to give me a ride to the medical center in the morning." There seemed to be a catch in her voice that John couldn't explain. "Sure. But what happened to your car?

Mechanical trouble?" Her laugh had no mirth in it. "Not really. But the police impounded it so they could look for the bullet." "Whoa.

Police? Bullet?" She told him about the shooting. "Who's there with you?" "I'm alone at home with the blinds drawn, the doors locked, and a baseball bat by the front door. But I'm still a little shaky." John knew the simple thing to do was set up a time to pick her up in the morning, wish her well, and hang up. But that wasn't the right thing.

By now he'd found his shoes, and he slid his feet into them. "Would it help to talk about it? Would you like me to come over?" Her exhalation sounded like a rushing wind in his ear. "I think I'd like that. Would you mind?" "Not at all. Give me your address." John splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. He despised the way he'd let himself descend into self-pity. He could almost feel Beth in the room behind him, saying, "John, you can't get bogged down in thinking about yourself when there are other people who need you." Right now, Sara needed him. He was determined to come through for her. He offered up a silent prayer to that effect, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door.