Tess Gerritsen - Bloodstream

Claire looked out the window to see Vera, all flashing bangles and earrings, shaking her fist at two boys with skateboards. One of the boys was yelling back at her now, his voice cracking in adolescent outrage.

“We didn’t do anything to your stupid car!”

“Then who left that giant scratch on the door, huh? Who?” demanded Vera.

“Why’re you always blaming us? Like kids are always the ones who get dumped on!”

“I see you here again, I’m calling the police!”

“This is a public sidewalk! We gotta right to skate here!”

A tapping on glass drew Claire’s attention. Mitchell Groome’s hangdog face was gazing at her through the receptionist’s window.

She slid the window open. “Mr. Groome, I’m not talking to any reporters.”

“I just wanted to tell you something.”

“If it’s about Taylor Darnell, you can talk to Dr. Adam DelRay. He’s the boy’s physician now”

“No, it’s about your receptionist’s car. The one that got scratched. Those boys out there didn’t do it.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw it happen yesterday. Some old woman scraped past it with her car. I assumed she was going to leave a note on the windshield. Obviously she didn’t, and I think your receptionist has already reached her own conclusions.” He glanced out the window, at the argument raging outside, and he shook his head.

“Why do we always treat kids like the enemy?”

“Because they so often behave like an alien species?”

He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Spoken like someone who has an alien living in the house.”

“Fourteen years old. You can probably tell by all the gray hairs on my head.”

They regarded each other for a moment through the window.

“Are you sure you won’t talk to me?” he asked. “It would just be for a few minutes.”

“I can’t discuss my patients. It’s a confidentiality issue.”

“No, I’m not going to ask about Taylor Darnell specifically. I’m after more general information, about the other kids in town. You’re the only doctor in Tranquility, and I assume you have a good idea of what’s going on around here.”

“I’ve only been in town eight months.”

“But you’d be aware of drug abuse among the local kids, wouldn’t you? It could explain the boy’s behavior.”

“I hardly think one incident, tragic as it was, means that this town has a drug problem.” Her gaze suddenly focused on the view through the front window The boys with the skateboards were gone. The mail carrier had arrived, and was chatting with Vera on the sidewalk. He handed Vera an armful of mail. Was there a letter from Paul Darnell’s attorney in that stack?

Groome said something, and she realized he had moved closer, and was practically leaning through the open business window.

“Let me tell you a story, Dr. Elliot. It’s about a perfect little town called Flanders, Iowa. Population four thousand. A clean, decent place where everyone knows everyone else. The sort of people who go to church and join the PTA. Four murders later-all of them committed by teenagers-the shell-shocked residents of Flanders finally got around to facing up to reality.”

“Which was?”

“Methamphetamine. An epidemic of abuse in the local schools. It turned that town into the dark side of America.”

“But what does that have to do with Tranquility?”

“Haven’t you been reading your own newspaper? Look around at what’s happening to your neighbors. First, there was that Street brawl on Halloween night. Then a boy beats his dog to death, and fistfights are breaking out in the school.

Finally, there’s the shooting.”

She was focused on the front sidewalk again, where the mailman was still shooting the breeze with Vera. For heaven’s sakes, bring in the mail!

“I followed the Flanders story for months,” said Groome. “I watched that town implode on itself. Parents blaming the schools. Kids turning on their teachers, on their own families. When I heard about the problems in your town, methamphetamine was the first thing I thought of. I know you must have run a drug screen on that Darnell boy. Could you just tell me one thing: Did methamphetamine turn up in his system?”

Still distracted, she answered: “No, it didn’t.”

“Did anything else?”

She didn’t answer. In truth, she didn’t know, because she hadn’t heard back from the lab in Boston.

“Then there was something,” he said, picking up on her silence.

“I’m not the boy’s physician. You have to ask Dr. DeIRay.”

Groome gave a dismissive snort. “DelRay says it’s Ritalin withdrawal psychosis.

Something so rare, there’s only a few anecdotal reports that it even exists.”

“You don’t accept his diagnosis?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t tell me you do?”

She was beginning to like Mitchell Groome.

The front door opened and Vera stomped in, carrying the mail. Unceremoniously she dumped the whole pile on her desk. Claire eyed the stack of business-size envelopes, and her throat went dry.

“Excuse me,” she said to Groome. “I have work to do.”

“Flanders, Iowa. Just keep it in mind,” he said, and with a wave, walked out of the building.

Claire picked up the mail, headed straight to her office, and shut the door.

Sitting at her desk, she swiftly shuffled through the envelopes, then sank back with a sigh of relief. Another day’s reprieve; no attorney’s name was on any of the return addresses. Maybe Paul Darnell had been bluffing; maybe there would be no repercussions after all.

For a moment she sat with her head tilted back, her tension melting. Then she reached for the first envelope and tore it open. Seconds later she was sitting up, rigid, in her chair.

Inside was a short note from Rachel Sorkin, the woman who’d reported Elwyn Clyde’s gunshot wound.

Dr. Elliot, This letter came in my mail today. I thought you should know about it.

Rachel.

P.S. I don’t believe a word of it.

Attached to it was a typewritten letter:

To whom it may concern, I am writing to inform you of a disturbing incident. On November third, Dr.

Claire Elliot assaulted a hospital patient. Although there were a number of witnesses, this event has not been made public. If Dr. Elliot is your physician, you may wish to reconsider your options. Patients have a right to know.

A concerned health care professional * * *

There were three men waiting for her in the medical staff office. She knew Dr.

Sarnicki only slightly, but her impressions of him had been favorable. A comfortably rumpled man with a gentle voice, he was known to be a caring physician as well as a skillful diplomat who had helped ease tensions during the hospital’s recent contract negotiations with the nurses. The second man was Roger Hayes, the hospital administrator, whom she scarcely knew at all except as a bland and smiling man.

The third man she knew only too well. It was Adam DelRay.

They greeted her with polite nods as she sat down at the conference table. She was already strung so tight she felt close to snapping in two. On the table in front of Sarnicki was a copy of the same anonymous letter that Rachel had forwarded to her.

“You’ve seen this already?” he said.

She gave a grim nod. “One of my patients sent me a copy. I’ve called around, and so far I’ve confirmed that at least six others have received it.”

“Mine arrived in the departmental mail this morning.”

“This has been blown completely out of proportion,” said Claire. “I certainly did not assault the patient. The letter’s designed to do only one thing, and that’s to damage my reputation.” She looked directly at Adam DelRay. He returned her gaze without flinching, without even a flicker of guilt in his eyes.