Deadly Errors (13 page)

Benson’s smile was not friendly. “There is no way I can predict what will happen to the stock. You should know that.”

Sergio gave a derisive snort and turned to look out the side window. “Ah yes, but we can imagine can’t we?”

“When it comes to financial matters I don’t like to work with imaginary numbers. They make me nervous. I prefer reality.”

Up ahead the bare concrete Sea-Tac control tower loomed above a ten-foot-high chain link fence, an overcast sky dark with swaths ranging from battleship gray to black as storm clouds rolled in from the Olympic Mountains.

“I was too generous with my demands. You and your colleagues knew that and have taken advantage of my good nature. It is time for you and your colleagues to rethink my, ah, consultative compensation.”

The car approached the passenger loading zone.

Silence.

“How much do you believe your compensation should be, amigo?”

“More along the lines of two million.”

“Two million,” Benson echoed without emotion, then nodded his head almost appreciatively.

The car came to a stop. Sergio opened the passenger door but did not step out. “I am sure Prophesy would be interested in a similar discussion. Yes?”

Benson turned blank eyes to him. “Don’t be so quick to jump ship. I’ll need to discuss this with my colleagues. In the meantime, I suggest you not talk with anyone from Prophesy. Is this perfectly clear?”

Benson’s eyes spiked fear in Sergio’s heart. A moment later he shook this off. He was the one in control, not the Med-InDx investors. They needed him more than he needed them. “I am quite serious. Either pay me two million dollars now or the endorsement goes to Prophesy.”

“Do not worry, amigo, you will be taken care of.”

Smiling with the satisfaction that power brings, Sergio stepped from the car. The trunk lid popped. He retrieved his bag. But not before checking out the model number on the trunk hood. A 420 CLK.

He would stop by the Mercedes dealership tomorrow.

T
YLER LOCKED THE door of his beat up, used Range Rover, pulled his leather bomber jacket over his head to shield the driving rain and splashed through shallow parking lot puddles toward the restaurant, a sports bar on Lake Union, not far from the Fred Hutchinson. He’d never been here before, but a colleague of Nancy’s had recommended it as being close to work and serving to-die-for fish and chips. He smiled. She remembered his tastes.

He found her at a table for two by a large picture window overlooking slips filled with white powerboats with tinted windows and sleek sailboats with skeleton masts. She smiled as he approached, which he took as a hopeful sign. Her black hair was pulled straight back in a pony tail, her preference when working. Instead of contacts, plain wire rim glasses. No makeup over her flawless skin, an attribute she took great pains to shield from direct sunlight. The assistant professor look. A conscious effort to keep her Asian beauty disguised. He believed she felt people automatically devalued a beautiful woman’s intelligence by about 50 percent.

“Hello, Tyler.” Her smile faded. “My god, what’s happened to you?”

He stopped short of sitting down and glanced at his soaked Dockers. “I forgot to bring an umbrella.”

“No, I mean your weight … your face … just look at you … you look like you just escaped from one of those awful Nazi concentration camps or something.”

“Just working hard, I guess,” he lied. Unsure whether to kiss her or not, he decided to just sit down and took the other chair.

“Have you had a physical lately? Is something wrong?”

“You mean like terminal cancer?” he joked.

“No, I didn’t mean—”

“I’m surprised you chose this place,” he said nodding toward the window at her back.

“You mean the water?” She didn’t turn to look at or out the window.

“Yes.” With her phobia of water so strong, coming here must have taken a goodly amount of resolve, he realized.

“I know how much you love fish and chips. My roommate said this place has the best in Seattle.”

Resisting the urge to touch her arm, he said, “I’ve missed you,” then blushed at his own frankness.

“Well, I’ve missed you too.” She blushed too and dropped her eyes. “You’re one of the reasons I jumped at this Hutch opportunity.”

His heart warmed at her confession and shyness. “You like it then, the job?”

She beamed at him. “I love it. You should see the lab they gave me.”

The waiter asked for their drink orders. She settled for water, explaining how she planned on returning to work after dinner. Tyler ordered a Red Hook beer, seeing how the restaurant didn’t serve his favorite from the San Francisco Anchor brewing company.

When the waiter left she continued, “The whole thing just came together beautifully, kind of as if …”

“As if it were predestined.”

She blushed, “Yes,” and glanced away in embarrassment.

Probably consulted a fortune teller before accepting the job
, he thought.

“I mean,” she continued, “when the offer came I had, like, maybe a week—ten days at the most—to decide. Then Carol, you remember her? She told me about this friend with this apartment on Capital Hill? Said she was looking for a roommate? So I called her. She’s the kind of person you’d like just talking with her over the phone. I couldn’t believe it.”

“So you took the job. That’s great.”

“No, you haven’t heard the best part.” She leaned back beaming as if about to lay down a royal flush. “She works at The Hutch too. I mean, we drive to work together most days.”

He shook his head in dismay. Amazing, but typical. Somehow she always fell into things like this. Lucky. “That’s terrific. How’s John?” Her brother.

Her smile widened. “Sumitomo, the Japanese con-glomerate?”

“Uh huh.”

“They hired him. He’s working in Los Angeles now. Loves it. I mean, talk about good fortune, he didn’t even have to look for it. They recruited him just before graduation.”

“Your parents?”

“Still in Hong Kong. I tried to get them to move over here, but they wanted to stay put. Said they didn’t think it was any safer in the United States, what with all the crime and terrorist threats. They’d rather face an infectious disease.”

Tyler asked, “May I ask you something?”

“Sure. What?”

He felt his face redden. “Naw … forget it.” He decided certain questions were completely off base. He considered mentioning that he had not been dating, but figured this would only look like an oblique way of putting the question back on the table.

“What?”

He shook his head. “It’s nice … being here with you. Like it hasn’t been all that long.”

“Yes, I know.”

Tyler’s heart accelerated. He wanted to reach out and touch her cheek but didn’t want to rush anything for fear of putting her off.

“How’s your job?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why?”
Here we go
, he thought.

“I don’t know … you don’t look so good. Your weight … how much have you lost?”

“I don’t know,” although he knew exactly. “Can we drop the subject?”

“You’re not …” The words seemed to die on her lips.

“What? Not using? You mean, you still believe I was?” He felt the old anger ignite.

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

Liar.

“Don’t give me that look, Tyler. It’s important. You know that.”

Tyler sucked a deep breath, blew it slowly out between pursed lips. “Look, let’s not get started. I was really looking forward to seeing you. I don’t want to get into an argument. Okay?”

Their orders arrived: his fish and chips with a bottle of vinegar, her taco salad with an extra portion of salsa—just the way she always liked it.

They ate for a moment in silence. She finally said, “I checked on you through a friend.”

He set down the piece of fish he was ready to take a bite from. “You what?” not certain he’d heard correctly.

“Don’t get angry with me, Tyler. I wanted to be certain you were doing okay before I took the chance of moving back up here.”

He pushed the plate away. “I don’t believe this.”

She reached across the table, grasped the back of his hand in hers. “Hear me out before you get that way.” She looked directly into his eyes. “I still love you. I didn’t want to take the chance of moving up here if you were still … still spiraling down hill.”

“Spiraling downhill? Jesus, Nancy. After I got fired and no one wanted to hire me … what …” He let the question die. Old ground. All of it. Baggage, the Dr. Phils of the world call it. He thought about her last words, trying desperately to focus only on the best part of them. “You still love me?”

“Yes, I do. I want to see if we can get it back together. But before we do that, I want to know that you’re back on your feet and completely. That means no drugs.”

“Believe me, I am.”

“Good. Then there’s a chance for us.” She glanced at his partially eaten meal. “Why don’t you finish it? I know how much you like fish and chips.”

He picked up a now cold piece of fish and forced himself to nibble part of it.

D
INNER ENDED. AN awkward lull hung over the table like dense San Francisco fog.

Finally she announced, “Time to get back to the lab.”

“When can I see you again.”
How bizarre
, he thought,
asking your wife for a date.

She looked away. “Let’s not rush this, Tyler. I’m still settling in and … ”

“And?”

“Just let’s not rush it. Okay?”

“Y
OU CAN STAND in the shower now and let the water run over your head, just don’t shampoo.” As always, Tyler was explaining wound care to a post-op patient in for removing the staples holding the wound together after removal of a small benign brain tumor. She was sitting on the exam room table smelling of rubbing alcohol and cotton dressings as he removed the clips one by one. One exam table, one rolling stool, two chairs and a small desk on which to write notes. A small counter along the wall contained a small stainless steel sink with cabinets above and drawers below.

“It has nothing to do with the chemicals in the shampoo—the wound’s healing beautifully—it’s that I don’t want you to stress the wound edges and pull them apart.” With a snip of the staple remover, he popped out the last one. A puncture site just behind the hairline began oozing blood. Tyler picked up a two-inch square cotton sponge and pressed it firmly over the spot. “Hold still a minute while I put a little pressure on this.”

For a moment he admired his handiwork. When the redness vanished and the hair fully grew back in three months you would really have to search to find this scar. A definite advantage of private practice over academics: closing your own wounds instead of allowing a first year resident to do it. But he still missed teaching residents, probably always would. Would he ever make it back to an academic appointment? Maybe. If enough time passed. Memories dim. His past problems might be forgotten.

“Ah, Doctor Mathews …”

“Yes?” He glanced at her face. The crimson ascending her cheeks triggered a suspicion of what was coming.

“Brad … my husband … wanted me to ask … when I could have sex again.”

He smiled at her. “Any time you want, but only with Brad. I don’t want you getting too excited.”

For a moment she looked blankly at him, mouth slightly agape. Then she giggled and gave his hand a playful slap. “Oh Doctor Mathews, bad puppy!”

His beeper started chirping.

He let up on the wound, made sure the bleeding had stopped, then checked the beeper readout. A number he didn’t recognize.

“Be right back, Mrs. Gowers.” He opened the door and headed for his office down the hall.