Tara Quinn - At Close Range

“Right.”

His silence was difficult to take.

“He doesn’t name his source but he claims that he’s gone through public records to verify his facts.”

“Which are?”

“You have three-hundred percent more cases of SIDS than any other doctor in the city.”

Again, he said nothing.

“Is that true?”

“If every other doctor in the city averages one death a year, yes.”

“You’ve had four.”

“And you knew about all four of them.”

Yeah. She had. She just hadn’t realized…

“He says that all four of your patients were Hispanic babies.” Hannah could hardly hear the words she was speaking for the undertones in this conversation. If Brian…

But that was impossible. She’d known him since college. Had loved him like a brother. He’d been a great friend. And a great husband to her best friend, Cara. More, he’d helped Hannah adopt Carlos, had been her son’s doctor and watched over Carlos as diligently as if the baby was his own. His and Cara’s.

Cara. He’d taken her death hard.

Hard enough to quietly, gradually, unhinge him as the article implied?

“You know better than anyone how much time I dedicate to SIDS awareness, education, research and fund-raising.” Brian’s voice, lacking any hint of his usual charm, fell flat.

“Yeah,” she said, also remembering the months after the accident. The bitterness that had poured out of Brian in his darkest moments, usually after imbibing more alcohol than he’d had during even the most raucous college parties. His wife, the only really close female friend Hannah had ever had, was killed by an illegal immigrant—a young man who’d crossed the Arizona/Mexico border with his parents as a child, without paperwork and, therefore, without the means to take drivers’ training or get a license.

“The fund-raising is part of the problem.”

“How so?”

“Without some SIDS deaths, there’d be no funding.”

“Without SIDS, we wouldn’t need the funding.”

“The implication is that some of the funds we raise line your pockets.” Hannah didn’t believe it for a second. If for no other reason than because Brian didn’t need the money. That wasn’t the implication that bothered her.

“You know me better than that,” he said when she didn’t continue.

“I think he only put in that part to explain away the volunteer time you spend on behalf of SIDS victims. They can’t write an ugly exposé and have you coming off looking good.”

“So why write one at all?”

And here was the real problem.

“It talks about Cara and the accident.”

Hannah could tell by his silence that he was hurting. And she hurt with him. Even while looking for reassurance that he was as sane as anyone. As incapable of killing another human being as she was.

“There’s a picture of the car, a line about you screaming at the other driver while they tried to cut Cara free from the wreckage.”

“Which I don’t remember at all,” he said softly.

Brian had hit his head in the accident. His memories were select. The doctors had warned that he might never remember everything.

“And they talk about the trial….”

“And the fact that the kid wasn’t tested for drugs at the scene? That he got away with some misdemeanors and a few months in jail?” Even while she understood his anger, shared it, it scared her for a second.

Because she was stressed. Worn out. Not at her best.

“What’s this got to do with SIDS?”

“They imply that you’re trying to rid the state of immigrants because of Cara. They printed a picture of you, taken ten years ago, at that rally downtown….”

“For stricter enforcement of immigration laws, I remember. But this guy can’t actually think that because I support immigration patrols, I’d resort to murdering innocent children. I’m a pediatrician, for God’s sake!” Brian’s incredulity struck a chord in Hannah. Her momentary doubts dwindled into nothing—the result of a long day, a long week. A trial that still hadn’t ended.

“Crazy, huh?” she asked her dear friend. Cara’s death had changed Brian forever. Changed them both. But he wasn’t unstable. He wasn’t disturbed enough to take the law into his own hands, as the article implied.

“I’d say someone has way too much spare time. Does it say how I supposedly bring about these deaths? Or how rich I’m getting with the supposed kickback I’m getting from the SIDS fund-raising?”

“Of course not.”

“Did they mention Carlos?”

She blinked. And blinked again. She’d only had her sweet boy for eight short weeks, but what an impact he’d made on her heart. On her life. For eight weeks out of forty years she’d been what she’d always dreamed of being—a mother.

“No,” she said when she could speak. She’d accepted that her grief was going to be a permanent part of her. And had learned to live with it. “None of the children were named.”

“So the only mention of you was regarding the seminars?”

“Yes.”

“I should sue them.”

“All they did was state facts and then imply. You can’t stop that.”

“There aren’t enough sick and twisted people in the world, doing ungodly things, that they have to drum up something like this?”

“Sick and twisted is too commonplace. The Sun News is always looking for the big angle. The story no one else has.”

It was going to be okay. The story was just that. A story. She’d overreacted.

“I wouldn’t hurt a child for anything. Not even the son of the man who killed my wife.”

“I know that.”

“I loved Carlos.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry this came up now. You didn’t need it. I should’ve remembered the damned call. I probably could’ve prevented the whole thing.”

“Or not. You know how these people are. They had some interesting coincidental facts and that’s all they need to sell papers.”

“I don’t understand why anyone reads that crap.”

“Makes their lives seem better, I guess,” Hannah said, not wanting to hang up. On days like this she longed to be back in college when she and Cara and a few others had all lived in the same block, sharing life’s ups and downs. “You know, they see someone worse off than they are and think they have it good.”

“I hate seeing you hurt.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“I’ve had negative press before,” he said, sounding as tired as she felt.

So had she. Most recently the previous week when a certain unnamed reporter thought she’d been too lenient in sentencing a girl convicted of vehicular manslaughter in a hit-and-run.

“If there’s a drop-off in your patient load you can claim damages…”

“That would have to be a drop-off in my waiting list,” he said with more weariness than pride. “The accusations are ludicrous and while some people will believe anything, I have to hope this article’s going to generate more awareness of SIDS. It might actually help save a few lives.”

Trust Brian to come up with a positive spin. A fix. He was the ultimate fixer. Bodies. Minds. Hearts.

He spent his entire life fixing—as a means of escaping the things that couldn’t be fixed?

No matter how many lives he saved, he’d never be able to bring back the wife who’d died in a car he’d been driving.

“How’s the trial going?” he asked and Hannah was glad he wasn’t ready to hang up, either. It had been a couple of weeks since they’d talked and she’d missed him.

“Not great.” Glancing at the file in front of her, the one that was thicker and far more bothersome than the rest of the stack her JA had left on her desk, she said, “Based on statements made by the defense, the state, who’d already rested, moved to admit testimony from the victim of a crime the defendant was convicted of as a juvenile.”