Stress Test (12 page)

Matt’s acquaintance with Hector Rivera had been superficial at best: nods in the hall, an occasional “hello” when they saw each other in the ER. Matt wished he knew more about this man whose job he was taking, whose car he was driving . . . and whose fiancé he was accused of murdering. Right now, it was sort of like wearing a suit belonging to a dead man.

It just didn’t feel right.

TEN

After an internal debate that lasted much longer than it should, Matt moved to his desk and picked up the phone. He knew it was probably hopeless, but he had to try one more time. If Jennifer would just listen to his story, maybe he could convince her that this was all a big mistake. Surely his lawyer would get it straightened out quickly.

He’d already tried Jennifer’s home number and cell phone. When the calls rolled over to voicemail, he’d left the same message:
“Jennifer, we
need to talk. It’s important. Please call me
.” She hadn’t responded, though.

All that remained was calling her at work. She’d told him never to do it, but he felt as though he had no choice. He had half the number dialed when he had a thought. If he dialed her direct line, caller ID would betray him. He hung up and found the main number for the district attorney’s office. A woman answered on the second ring, and he asked for Jennifer Ball.

“Who may I say is calling?”

Matt hadn’t thought this far ahead. He wasn’t very good at improvising, and lying had never been a part of him until now. He took a
deep breath and plunged in. “This is her brother. She gave me her direct number, but I’ve lost it. I’m only in town for a—” He stopped when he realized there was ringing on the line. Either his story had worked or the receptionist hadn’t really cared.

Jennifer answered on the second ring. “Felony Trial Division, Jennifer Ball.”

“Don’t hang up!” Matt hoped the desperation in his voice would keep Jennifer on the line.

“I told you not to call me, especially not at work.”

“Jennifer, you’ve got to listen. I’m innocent. This is all a mistake.”

In the silence that followed, Matt could almost see Jennifer thinking, her finger rubbing her chin, her brow furrowed. He’d seen that gesture so many times. It was one of the things he loved about her—or, at least, thought he loved. Now he wasn’t so sure.

When Jennifer spoke again, the soft voice had hardened. “Matt, I’m sorry this happened to you. I wish I could help. But if you keep calling, you could get me in trouble . . . big trouble.” Was there a catch in her voice? “Good-bye.” The last words were almost too faint to understand.

Matt sat for a moment, holding the dead phone, until the strident stutter tone startled him from his reverie. He hung up in the middle of the recorded voice telling him, “If you want to make a call . . .”

He’d never felt so alone in his life. There was one person who might help him think this through—one person who he knew would support him. Although Matt had put it off until now, he really needed to get in touch with Joe, even though his brother was in a remote area of South America. In the past, Joe had always initiated contact when he was within reach of a fellow missionary’s satellite phone or if his travels took him to a city large enough to provide a phone or an Internet connection. Matt had an email address for Joe, but there was no telling when the message would get to his brother.

Matt dug through his desk drawer until he came to a set of papers clipped together. They gave Joe’s location, which meant nothing to Matt, whose knowledge of geography outside the US was rudimentary at best. Toward the very bottom of the second sheet was a notation that, in case of emergency, Matt could call this number. They’d get in touch with Joe and have him contact Matt.

Matt put the paper aside. He’d make the call in a minute, but right now, he needed some sense of contact, some way for Joe to affirm him. Then he recalled his last email exchange with his brother, a message he’d sent while things still looked good: Matt’s relationship with Jennifer, the job at the medical school. Matt opened his email folder labeled “family,” found Joe’s reply to his message, and read it again.

Little Brother, so glad things are going well. Just remember that bad times will follow good, just as good times will follow bad. The only constant in the world is God. He’s in control. Set your sights on Him, and you’ll make it fine. Matthew 6:34.

Matt clicked on the utility he sometimes used to call up Bible verses, and read the Scripture Joe had cited.
“So do not worry about
tomorrow; for tomorrow will care for itself. Each day has enough trouble
of its own.”
Matt had to agree. Each of his days recently had presented plenty of trouble. He could only hope there’d be less tomorrow.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Mission Board.

The ring of his phone brought Matt instantly awake, a reaction honed by long experience with being roused by a pager, a phone, or an alarm set for an early case. Surely Joe wasn’t calling back this quickly. He
eased forward in his recliner, muted the TV, lifted the receiver, and said, “Dr. Newman.”

“Matt, did I wake you?”

Matt searched his memory to identify the voice. Then it clicked. Ken Gordon, his neurosurgeon. “I guess I went to sleep in front of the TV.” He glanced at his watch—almost eight. “What’s up? And why are you still at work?”

“The second question’s pretty silly for a doctor to ask. I’ve just finished my last case of the day,” Gordon said. “As for the first, your chart was on my desk when I got back to my office, and that reminded me to check on you. It seems you got away from the hospital without a follow-up appointment.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t functioning too well right then. I still had visions of a squad of armed policemen meeting me at the hospital entrance and carting me off to jail.”

Gordon laughed. “Well, since you’re obviously a free man, let’s get you back here. I’ll bet you’re ready to get those staples out.”

Matt stopped with his hand halfway to his head.
Don’t rub the incision,
don’t mess with the staples
. “That would be great. Just say when.”

“They’ve been in for . . . Let’s see.” Matt could picture Gordon checking his calendar. “Looks like a week, yesterday.”

Matt had been counting as well. Surgeons often left staples in place for two weeks to allow for full healing, but the scalp had a rich blood supply and generally healed rapidly, so in that area stitches and staples could come out in ten days, sometimes as little as seven. Maybe Gordon would go for it. “How about tomorrow? Nine days should be long enough. The wound is healed. And I’ll be careful—”

“Easy, there. I know you’re anxious to get back to your activities, but even after the staples are out, I don’t want you doing too much for a few more days. And you shouldn’t drive for at least another week.”

The argument—well, more like negotiations—went on for another five minutes before Gordon gave in. He would see Matt tomorrow and remove the staples, but his patient had to promise he’d take things easy for another week. Matt carefully avoided further discussion of any restriction on his driving. He’d had no suggestion of a seizure after his injury, and he didn’t intend to sit at home for another week. He’d go crazy. It was time to get his life back together. Sandra’s words rang in his head.
“What I want to hear you say is, ‘I’m ready to rebuild my life.’”

He was more than ready.

Edgar was playing solitaire, cheating most of the time, when Lou called.

“Be outside your apartment in ten minutes. The big man wants to see us.”

“Why?”

Lou’s voice got rougher, if that was possible. “I didn’t ask him. And if you’re smart, you won’t either. He says, ‘Jump.’ We say, ‘How high?’ Be there in ten.”

Edgar raked the cards into a rough stack and shoved them aside. He rose from the card table that did double duty as his lunch counter and the surface where he watched porn on his battered laptop, using a Wi-Fi connection pirated from his neighbor. He stubbed out his cigarette in an empty tuna can that served as an ashtray.

The boss wanted Lou and him. He knew what that meant. Edgar opened the drawer of his bedside table and studied the two pistols there. Both were .38 caliber, which made it convenient when buying ammunition. Both were relatively anonymous, their serial numbers erased with acid. They were belly guns with short barrels, but both packed enough punch to put someone down from close range. And if he had to ditch one, it would be easy enough to replace.

For shooting the woman, he’d used the Smith & Wesson Airweight. Today he’d carry the Chief’s Special. Edgar clipped the holster to his belt behind his right hip and covered it with a denim shirt worn unbuttoned over an almost-clean tee.

What else? He patted his pockets. Cigarettes and matches, keys, wallet. He opened the chest of drawers and rummaged beneath his underwear until he found a leather-covered blackjack. He hefted it and slapped it against his palm, feeling the satisfying weight of the lead shot sewn into the end. Edgar shoved the sap into his hip pocket, made sure it was hidden by his shirttail, and headed for the door.

Twenty minutes later, he and Lou walked into the boss’s inner office. The big man didn’t acknowledge their presence for a moment, busying himself with a stack of important-looking papers on his desk. Finally he looked up.

“When were you planning to take out the doctor?”

Edgar kept his mouth shut. He’d let Lou do the talking. Edgar was content to stay in the background, ready to maim or kill when called upon. He smiled when he thought of what lay ahead. He didn’t know the details yet, but he was sure it would be satisfying.

“Tonight,” Lou said. “We’ll go in about two in the morning. Take him out, make it look like a suicide, the way you said.”

The boss was shaking his head before Lou could finish. “Put that aside for a day or two. I need you to convince one of our people to be more cooperative.”

Edgar paid little attention to the details, allowing his thoughts to float free. Once he heard the word “convince,” he knew his special talents would be put to use. “When” and “where” would be up to the boss and Lou. The “what” and “how” were his.

Matt stood in front of his bathroom mirror and ran his hand over the stubble on his scalp. The staples were out. The incision lines were still pink, but they’d soften and fade and eventually be covered by hair. For now maybe he’d opt for a cap. He had a number of baseball caps in his closet, and this might be the time to make use of them. Then again, the shaved and semi-shaved head look seemed to be popular right now. He was still experimenting with one of those around-the-mouth beards to complement his new look.

Matt made his way to the mailbox and silently rejoiced when he saw the first-class envelope with his bank’s return address on it. With his new debit card, Matt could tap the small reserve in his checking account to replenish the cash in his pocket.

The other pleasant surprise of the day was an express delivery of a box with his replacement cell phone. That, at least, had been something he was able to handle over the phone. He inserted the battery in the new phone and put it on the charger—one more step toward getting his life back together.