T Wave (14 page)

“You know,” said Mallory, rubbing her ear, “I didn’t get the sense that Nancy and her husband were all that close. When she and I were working in her office, she had a phone call with Ken that was pretty harsh and a couple of other calls with…someone else—someone with whom she seemed to be on friendlier terms, although she seemed to be trying to hide it. I certainly wouldn’t have pegged her and Ken to be in the running for Married Couple of the Year.”

While Alton paused to assimilate this information, Mallory flashed a mischievous smile and grabbed his coffee cup, placing it and her own on the end table once again.

Alton opened his mouth to ask a question, but before he could speak, Mallory placed a forefinger on his lips. “No more work tonight,” she said. “Nancy Goins is quite a looker. She’s bound to make a good impression on you. So, before you visit her tomorrow, I’m going to make my own impression first.”

Alton could only smile and shake his head. “You already have made an amazing impression on me…every day since we met.”

Mallory pulled Alton towards her, wrapping her arms around him. He responded in kind, holding her face with both hands, and their lips met hungrily. In a flash, Alton’s mind fled as far away as possible from criminal investigations, focused instead only on his beloved.

CHAPTER 36

Scrubs wiped his brow and leaned against the shovel. The view from his back yard wasn’t inspiring, but on the other hand, the ugly wooden fence encircling his property provided an effective screen from the neighbors’ curious eyes. Of course, the likelihood of a neighbor being outside at 12:30 a.m. was small, but waiting until the cover of nighttime to bury the object added an extra degree of security.

Scrubs resumed digging. The screech of cicadas rising in the background blended curiously with the scrape of mud and stone against the flat surface of the tool. The fecund aroma rising from the mound of newly-turned earth possessed an alien quality to Scrubs, whose olfactory experience largely consisted of the antiseptic hospital environment and Camel Cigarettes.

Despite the late hour, Scrubs continued to sweat in the muggy evening. Ignoring his fatigue, he redoubled his efforts to bury the object without delay. He didn’t want anyone getting a look at it.

Three minutes later, Scrubs completed the hole. It wasn’t particularly deep, but it didn’t need to be for his purposes. After depositing his object into it, he replaced the soil and smoothed it over with the shovel. A scattering of pine straw over the freshly-turned soil provided the final measure of concealment.

Scrubs gazed at his handiwork with approval. “Ain’t no one gonna find this.”

He took silent steps through the moonlight and entered his back door, securely locking it behind him. After a brief shower, Scrubs retired to bed and immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Scarcely an hour later, Scrubs’ eyes shot open. Was he simply on edge, or had he truly heard a noise?
I knew it. There it is again.

Scrubs shook his sleeping wife. “Wake up!” he hissed. “I think someone’s breaking into the house. I heard a noise like something’s hitting glass.”

Jeanette rolled towards him, still half-asleep. “It’s probably just a bird running into the living room window again,” she mumbled.

“But I heard it twice,” protested Scrubs. “That’d have to be a dumbass flock of birds for two of them to fly into a window a few seconds apart.”

Scrubs pulled open the drawer of his nightstand and removed two fully-loaded Smith & Wesson 500s. He stole across the bedroom to the doorway leading to the hall and crouched down. Craning his neck around the doorframe at floor level, he peered down the long hallway to the front door. The streetlight dimly illuminated a pair of shadowy figures moving on the front porch. Were the intruders somehow aware of his drug trade, or were they simply random burglars? Scrubs had no way of knowing.

One of the figures used both hands to hold a piece of soiled cloth over the lowest glass square on the multi-paned front door. Scrubs could see a second person tapping on the cloth with what appeared to be a rock. As the intruder struck, the soft noise reverberated once again through the house, and a spider web of cracks appeared on the glass.

The second intruder tapped again, and the window shattered, sending shards of glass cascading to the floor. A large, gloved hand reached through the empty pane and fumbled with the door lock. Finally, the deadbolt turned. The shadowy figure withdrew his hand, twisted the doorknob, and began to push open the door.

As the door swung open and the intruders rushed inside, the Abernathy’s home alarm system launched into a piercing wail. The alarm continued to sound, and the invaders seemed unsure of whether to advance or flee.

From the intruders’ tattoos, Scrubs recognized them as members of the Diablos gang, the “boys” to whom Leroy resold Scrubs’ narcotics. Scrubs realized that after his supply of narcotics had dried up, the Diablos must have leaned on Leroy, who then fingered Scrubs as the source of the delay. That meant the Diablos must have come looking for drugs or money.

Scrubs knew the gang members would kill him and Jeanette if they had the chance. Leaning into the hallway just enough to raise one of his pistols horizontally, he began firing. At the first sound of gunshots, the gang members drew their own handguns and returned fire. While the alarm continued to wail, muzzle flashes illuminated opposite ends of the darkened hallway like a diabolical fireworks display. In the enclosed space, the roar of the crossfire and the sound of shattering glass and exploding wood, combined with the alarm’s high-pitched siren, rivaled a passing freight train in volume.

At the end of the hallway behind Scrubs, the sliding-glass patio door shattered. The barrage from Scrubs’ powerful Smith & Wesson created a random pock-mark pattern on the front door and wall behind his adversaries, and drywall impact dust quickly enveloped them in a hazy cloud.

Scrubs’ first handgun ran out of ammunition within seconds. The biting smell of gunpowder wafted into Scrubs’ nose as he raised his second sidearm and continued firing. One of his rounds created a wet, ripping sound as it penetrated the triceps of the closest invader.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, man!” cried the gang member, grasping his arm. In their panic, the two thugs attempted to exit simultaneously and nearly wedged themselves in the front door frame. Pushing forward, they burst through the door, their momentum carrying them tumbling headlong down the porch steps.

The gang members rose and sprinted down the street, the injured one grasping his wounded arm to staunch the flow of blood. Scrubs advanced to the front door and watched them retreat. His heart felt like it was trying to retreat out of his body, it pounded so hard. He staggered a little as a wave of lightheadedness came and went. He knew he had to get the drug supply going again or risk another attack.

Jeanette crept out of the master bathroom—where she had hidden herself during the raging battle—and stood next to Scrubs. “Oh, my God! Are they gone?”

“Yeah. Still think it was birds?”

“Very funny, Randy. Let’s call the police.”

Scrubs pondered the suggestion. He didn’t like the idea of involving the cops, yet he recognized the ongoing danger he and his wife would face if they failed to act. Plus, the attack had every appearance of a vanilla home invasion. There was no reason the police would suspect him and Jeanette of drug trafficking.

“Yeah, good idea,” he replied. “Those guys won’t come back if they see a cop car around here. And I can tell the police it was the Diablos that did it. I saw their tats. The gang must have got our address from Leroy. He’s the only one who knows where we live. Our phone number and address are unlisted, so we know they didn’t get it that way.”

“If you tell the police about the Diablos, won’t that get Leroy in trouble with the gang?”

“Yeah, probably. But that’s his problem. He should have kept his mouth shut.”

“But who will we sell our stuff to if Leroy cuts us off?” asked Jeanette.

“I dunno. Right now, I’m more worried about being shot up by a bunch of crack-head gang bangers than I am about being late with the electricity bill.”

Scrubs knew he had to locate a new buyer for his illicit narcotics and reinstitute the inflow of drug money to avoid financial ruin, but he chose to remain silent on that topic. In fact, he had already taken action with this idea in mind. Jeanette wouldn’t have approved of his plan, yet she would offer no alternative. For now, silence was definitely the better choice.

SUNDAY, JULY 22

CHAPTER 37

The next day, Alton returned to the hospital to continue his research into the string of mysterious patient deaths. After updating Agent Wiggins on the previous night’s assault, he sought out the hospital staff who had cared for the patients under investigation in order to obtain a more firsthand account from those who had seen the actual events unfold. He hoped the hospital employees would have a meaningful detail or two, something that would shed a little more light on the nature of the patients’ deaths.

Alton arrived at Five South, the floor on which Janice Kell had convalesced until she had met her untimely end. He tracked down Karen Proffitt, Kell’s nurse. After introducing himself, Alton asked Proffitt to recount the events leading up to the patient’s demise.

“It was so odd. Mrs. Kell was recovering well,” said Proffitt, shaking her head in residual perplexity. “BP normal, heart rate normal, pulse ox normal. She had a slightly elevated temperature, but nothing unusual for a patient recovering from surgery.”

During Proffitt’s response, Alton had observed Reginald Oswald approach the nurses’ station and strike up a conversation with the rather attractive blonde entering information into a terminal.

“What does Doctor Oswald consider her cause of death?” asked Alton.

“I’m not on his research team,” replied Proffitt, “so I don’t know all his conclusions. But when he questioned me about her passing, he did speculate that perhaps MI, myocardial infarction, was a contraindication of his treatment. He seemed stumped—said the drug’s properties shouldn’t increase the risk of an MI at all.”

“Interesting,” said Alton. “Did Mrs. Kell have visitors that day?”

“Yes. They came into the room with her when she was first brought to the floor.”

“Did any of them seem angry or otherwise out of the ordinary? Perhaps not acting the way a visitor normally would?”

“To be honest, in this job I see every emotion you can think of, so it’d be hard to say what would constitute ‘out of the ordinary.’ But I don’t recall anyone whose behavior jumped out at me as particularly weird. In any case, the last of the visitors left a good hour before my five o’clock rounds, the last time I saw Mrs. Kell alive. That would make it a good
two
hours after they left that I found her unresponsive.”

Alton mulled over this information. “After your five o’clock rounds, did you see anyone else enter Kell’s room?”

“No, but I was in my other patients’ rooms most of the time, so I really didn’t see who was coming and going.”

At that moment, Andrew Powell entered the hall and approached the nurses’ station wearing a frown. He interrupted Oswald’s conversation with the blonde nurse. “Nurse, Mrs. Russell in room one fourteen says she hasn’t had her Dilaudid since noon. That was over six hours ago, and I gave orders for her to have them every four hours. She’s in considerable pain.”

“Sorry, Doctor Powell,” replied the nurse, whose name badge read Grace McEwen. “Let me page her nurse so we can get that taken care of.”

“Thank you. Also, I have three new patients,” said Powell, handing the nurse a piece of paper. “Here are their names. Can I get a list of their room numbers after you call Mrs. Russell’s nurse?”

“Sure, Doctor Powell,” replied McEwen. She paged a nurse over the public-address, then picked up the slip of paper.

As McEwen looked up the patients’ room numbers, Powell turned to Oswald. “I heard you lost another patient yesterday. Tough break.” Alton thought he detected a note of jubilance in Powell’s voice.

“Really?” replied Oswald, tensing up.

A document ejected from a nearby printer. McEwen handed it to Powell, who smirked as he walked down the hall.

Dr. Oswald turned to McEwen. “Did one of my patients die? Why wasn’t I notified?” His eyes narrowed with concern.

The nurse’s fingers danced over the keyboard, and her eyes scanned the results. “The only death this entire week was Ken Goins. He just passed yesterday afternoon.”

Oswald breathed a sigh of relief. “He’s not my patient. I had asked him to join my research group, but he hadn’t yet signed on. Wasn’t he here for rhinoplasty?” Upon seeing McEwen nod, he straightened his tie and continued, “I suppose I should get my patient list, too. I have a schedule to keep.”

McEwen handed him a printed sheet, and Oswald resumed his morning rounds with his former air of confidence, seemingly happy in the knowledge that his research had not experienced another setback.

“Is he always like that?” asked Alton.

“Who? Doctor Oswald?” asked Proffitt. “What do you mean? Is he always kind of stuck on himself?”

“Yes. It strikes me that he’s less concerned about a patient dying than he is about whether that patient was one of his guinea pigs.”

“I suppose that’s true, but think about it. He only takes the desperate cases—that’s why they’re willing to try experimental medicines. With such sick patients, he can’t let their deaths get him down. He has to stay focused on the objective of the research, even in the face of patient fatalities.”

“In that case,” replied Alton, “his temperament seems perfectly suited to his work.”