Medical Error (11 page)

Maybe if she went back to the car and got the tire iron out of the trunk—

"What's up?"

Anna was sure she jumped a foot. She swiveled her head around so quickly she heard the bones in her neck crackle. Nick Valentine stood just offthe porch, his hands in the pockets of his windbreaker. "Did I scare you?" he asked.

"Yes. Definitely." She took a deep breath. "But I'm glad to see you. What brings you here?"

"I tried to call before I left the med center, but there was no answer."

"My cell didn't ring. I must have been in a dead zone."

Nick shrugged. "We haven't talked in a couple of days, and I wanted to see what you've found out." He reached down and hefted the grocery bags. "Let me give you a hand with those."

"No! Don't go in." Anna put her hand on his arm. "Sorry. I'm jumpy. Probably it's nothing, but when I got home, the lock on the front door was sticking. Then I saw some scratches around it and thought maybe somebody had broken in. I was about to call the police."

Nick laid the bags beside the door. "No need for that. Just give me a sec." He turned and hurried to his car. She saw him pull something from the glove compartment and shove it into his jacket pocket before striding back to the porch. He motioned Anna aside. "You stay out here until I check things out."

"Don't do anything foolish."

"I won't." Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out a small revolver. He held it loosely in his right hand, his index finger outside the trigger guard, the short barrel pointing skyward."But if someone is hiding in there, they're going to wish they hadn't picked this house."

"That's it. No intruders inside, and no sign that one's been here." Nick jammed the gun into his pocket before retrieving the grocery bags from the front porch. "Where do you want these?"

Nick noticed a strange look on Anna's face as he helped unpack the bags in her kitchen. "Hey, I don't blame you for being suspicious," he said. "But I looked at those scratches around the lock, and I'm pretty sure they're old. And the lock probably needs some graphite."

Anna pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and dropped into it. "No, I'm glad it was nothing. What has me upset is the sight of you with that gun in your hand." She dry washed her face with a hand that trembled slightly. "I guess I didn't expect that."

"Would you like me to put it away?"

"Please."

Nick went outside and placed the gun back in its resting place under a stack of road maps in his car's glove compartment.
Glad I didn't need it. But I'm glad it's there.

As he walked back into the house, he held out his hands in a "look, they're empty" gesture.

"Thanks," Anna said.

Nick picked up the empty paper bags from the counter and folded them carefully before he sat down across the table from Anna. "I'm sorry. I guess I should explain why I have the gun."He leaned forward with his elbows on the table. "During my first year of med school I moonlighted at an all-night convenience store in Lubbock. If you read the papers or watch the news, you know that's a dangerous job. The owner refused to keep a gun behind the counter. He was one of those who believed that if you handed the robber the money, you wouldn't get hurt." Nick began moving the saltshaker in random circles on the tabletop. "I spent my first paycheck on the training course required for a concealed carry permit. Then I bought this gun. Every night I worked, I had it on a shelf under the cash register." He looked down and closed his eyes as the memories came back, sharp-edged and fresh.

Anna's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. "So it kept you safe."

"In a manner of speaking." He opened his eyes and looked directly into hers. "A guy came in at two one morning, hopped up on speed or something. He pulled a gun out of his belt and pointed it at me. Told me to give him all the money in the register. The way his hands were jerking, I was praying that gun didn't have a hair trigger. I pulled out the bills—probably about seventy dollars—and all the time, my eyes never left that automatic in his hand. The barrel looked about as big as the mouth of a tunnel. Then I thought I saw his trigger finger start to twitch." He shook his head, but couldn't stop the film that was unwinding in his head.

"Go on."

Nick wiped a thin film of sweat from his brow. "I was holding my gun under the counter. I'd grabbed it with my right hand while he was watching my left get the bills out of the cash drawer. I saw that movement and decided it was him or me. I pulled the trigger. One shot in the chest. The coroner said he was dead before he hit the floor."

"You did what you had to do," she said. "He could have killed you."

"Maybe." He dropped his hands on the table and stared into Anna's face. "Unfortunately, the only way to be sure of that had sort of a permanent downside to it. I made a decision, and I stuck with it. Then I put it behind me."

"But you still have the gun."

Nick wasn't sure whether it was a question or a statement, and Anna's tone gave him no clue about what she was feeling right now. "I keep my permit up-to-date, and I carry the gun locked in the glove compartment of my car."

"Why?" In that single word, Nick heard both disbelief and disapproval.

"You can't argue that the parts of town around a hospital are generally pretty unsafe, and the place where we work is no exception. Carjackings, robberies, random drive-by shootings. Back when I was going to church regularly, I recall the preacher saying we live in a broken world. I believe he was right."

"So you depend on your gun to protect you?"

"Sure," Nick said. "What's your protection?"

"The same protection I've depended on for years—God."

Nick thought there was less than total conviction in Anna's voice, but decided not to challenge her. Instead, he said, "I'm not sure God and I are on speaking terms anymore. I seem to remember some commandment about 'Thou shalt not kill.' So far as I know, that hasn't been repealed, has it?"

Anna brushed her hair aside with a casual and probably unconscious gesture. "I think there's room for discussion there, Nick. You might be surprised at how much God can forgive, if you'll let him."

Nick wanted to believe Anna, but surely the taking of a human life brought too much guilt for even God to forgive. He'd made his decision that day, and there was nothing he could do to change it. "Anna, I appreciate what you're saying. But if I'd depended on God instead of Smith and Wesson, I might have been the one lying dead on that floor. It's a good thing I decided to look out for myself. But now I have to live with the consequences."

Anna put her hand on Nick's arm. "You really don't, you know. But I don't think this is the time to talk about it. I'll just say thank you for being here for me today."

Nick rose slowly, feeling as though he were a hundred years old. "You know, I was going to see if you'd like to have dinner with me tonight, but now I don't think I'm very good company. Why don't I head home?"

"Please don't. When I was really down, you kept after me until I went out with you. You really cheered me up, and I appreciate it. I'd like to return the favor." Anna reached into the pocket of her skirt and extracted a multi-colored plastic rectangle. "Besides that, I have a new credit card. Why don't you let me test it out?"

Nick forced a smile. Why not? This probably wasn't the greatest time to be alone anyway. "Sure. This time you pick the restaurant."

6

T
HE NEXT MORNING, ANNA TOOK HER SECOND CUP OF COFFEE TO THE living room, where the letter lay partially unfolded on her desk, only the DEA seal at the top showing. She brushed her fingertips across the stiffpaper— good quality bond, your tax dollars at work—but didn't bother to pick it up and read it. No need. The words were burned into her mind. Just as Hale promised, the letter had come to Anna's office at the med school the day after she met with the two agents. When Anna called the legal office to notify them of the letter and its contents, she got no further than Laura Ernst's administrative assistant. As though reading from a script—and maybe she was—the woman warned Anna to keep Ms. Ernst informed of further developments. No offer of help. Not a drop of sympathy. Just a boilerplate admonition designed to protect the interests of the medical school. The same kind of response Ernst had given Anna about the Hatley case.

Well, in a way, Anna couldn't blame the woman. She probably fielded a dozen calls like this every week, calls from doctors who were worried about malpractice suits or trying to straighten out problems with licensure or attempting to cut through the Gordian knot of regulations that threatened to strangle the independent practice of medicine. Not much fun to work in the legal office of a large medical center.

Anna half-listened to the rest of the woman's instructions, including a reminder not to ignore the embargo on prescribing controlled substances until she was issued a new DEA permit. No danger of that, since she was effectively suspended from clinical duties while this scenario played out.

Since Anna was supposed to use her time offto clear her name, maybe she'd better get started. She went into the kitchen and returned with a fresh cup of coffee. She kicked off her loafers and pulled the phone toward her, berating herself for not thinking to ask Hale and Kramer for their cards. She unfolded the letter far enough to find the phone number at the top. She dialed and was surprised when a real live voice answered, not something that sounded like it came from Star Wars. She asked for either Hale or Kramer, then listened to a series of clicks followed by a string rendition of some semiclassical song she didn't quite recognize.

She'd had her fill of music on hold when she heard a familiar alto voice. "Agent Kramer."

Anna didn't know whether getting the ice queen instead of the rumpled private eye clone was good or bad, but she plunged on. "This is Dr. Anna McIntyre. Do you remember me?"

"Sure, Doctor. You calling to admit you've been selling Vicodin 'scripts on the side?"

Anna wanted to crawl through the phone lines and throttle this woman, even if she had been the nicer of the two agents in her office, although marginally so. "I've told you already, I'm not involved. I'm calling to see if you've found out how someone got hold of my DEA number and decided to play doctor with it. I can't go back to work until this is settled."

"Okay, okay." Had Kramer's tone softened a bit? "It might surprise you, but we're as interested in clearing your name as you are. That would mean we would have discovered who's papering this part of town with those little slips with your name on them." Then the ice crept back into Kramer's voice."Of course, we haven't given up on the possibility that you're in the middle of the whole enterprise."

Anna searched her memory. What were the names? "Have you talked with Detectives Green or Dowling? They came to see me after I talked with you." She shivered at the thought of that encounter.

Kramer's soft chuckle was out of character for the woman who'd sat across from Anna a few days earlier. "Afraid not. The police and the DEA aren't exactly in the habit of calling to share secrets. Right after we met with you, I talked with one of them—don't recall which one—and they seemed to think you were masterminding a scheme to sell narcotics 'scripts, but I haven't heard anything from them lately."

"So how soon do you think you'll settle this thing? I need a new DEA permit before I can go back to work."

"My crystal ball's a bit cloudy, Doctor," Kramer said. "Check with me in a week and I'll let you know if we have anything."

"Thank you." Anna had to swallow hard to force out the words.

"Of course, if we find something that implicates you, we'll be in touch earlier. You're not planning on leaving town this week, are you?"

After assuring Kramer that she had no such plans, Anna replaced the phone. She shoved the letter aside and tried to think. What else could she do? Call the detectives? No, she'd keep her distance from them. While Hale had seemed skeptical and Kramer cold, Green and Dowling had been downright intimidating, conjuring up visions of rubber hoses and bright lights. She'd avoid any contact with them unless it was absolutely necessary.

Anna felt the frustration of being out of her element. Give her a patient with a difficult diagnostic problem—an acute abdomen, a puzzling set of symptoms—and she was more than competent. But dealing with the law? Not her thing. She needed help.

She dug through the papers on her desk and retrieved the note with Donovan's name and number. Why hadn't he called her back? If she'd had a call from a patient— No, this wasn't medicine, it was the law, and apparently, it moved more slowly than she was used to.

Anna decided to help things along. She punched in the numbers and began to count the rings. On the third, there was a click and a masculine voice said, "Ross Donovan."

"Mr. Donovan, this is Dr. Anna McIntyre."

"Oh, yeah, I just got your message. You were on my list, but I'm glad you called first. How can I help you?"

Anna took a deep breath and launched into a recitation of the events of the past several days, ending with the episode involving the detectives and Laura Ernst's recommendation that she contact Donovan.