Friend Me (25 page)

“I'm so sorry. I wasn't—”

Now he sat, unable to stand any longer, balanced on the edge of the chair.

Castle looked down at his desk, his head still moving slowly from side to side. “I treated you like a son and I trusted you with our biggest account. You really, really let me down. I don't know what you're going to do with the rest of your life, but I suggest you find a new field of endeavor, Mr. Douglas. One where people don't have to trust you.”

Scott's face burned with humiliation. There was no place to hide.

Castle looked down at him. “Clean out your desk with as little fanfare as possible. I don't want to see any trace left of you when I come out of my office. Am I crystal clear?”

Scott's throat constricted with the emotion of his humiliation. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. He sat uneasily a few moments longer.

“What are you waiting for? Get it done and go away.”

Scott rose awkwardly from the chair and left the office. He heard Castle's voice behind him as the man turned back to his desk. “What a loser.”

Shame hung heavy in the air as he made his way back to his cubicle. Not “his” anymore. Nothing was his any longer. The others were talking on the phone, tapping on keyboards, moving papers from place to place.

His professional life was over, but the world just kept on going.

Without a word, he walked to the copy machine and picked up the two empty paper boxes stacked against the wall. He carried them to his cubicle and packed the first of his personal effects.

When he removed the pictures of his family from the cubicle walls, he saw Carole watching him, consternation on her face. His eyes burned with bitter tears as he turned the pictures down on their faces where they couldn't accuse him.

He said nothing. No one asked him any questions. It was more than obvious that he was leaving for good, whatever the reason might be.

•  •  •

HE SET THE LAST BOX
on the asphalt next to the Taurus. As he fished the keys out of his pocket to open the trunk, his cell phone rang. He looked at the display, but did not recognize the number. The caller ID said LCER. “Scott.”

“You are Mr. Scott Douglas?”

“I am. Who is calling, please?”

“Sir, my name is Rudy Garcia. I am a family counselor with
Lake County Hospital. Mr. Douglas, your wife has been admitted to our emergency room. The doctors have requested that you come as quickly as you can. Are you nearby?”

“Rachel? Are you sure you have the right person? Is her name Rachel?”

“Yes, sir. Rachel Douglas. Can you come quickly, Mr. Douglas?”

Scott threw the box into the trunk of the Taurus and slammed the lid shut, swung himself into the driver's seat, and started the engine, cell phone still pressed against his left ear. “What's wrong? What's happened to my wife?” He backed out of the parking place, one wheel grinding against the curb, and sped down the service road toward the highway.

“She's experienced some severe bleeding, Mr. Douglas. The doctors are trying to stabilize her now. By the time you arrive, we'll be able to tell you more.”

“Where are the children? Are they with her?”

He was losing everything.
Let the kids be all right, God
.

“Uh, just a minute. Let me look at my notes. The paramedics called social services when they took your wife. The children are just fine. No need to worry.”

He craned his head as he made the sharp turn onto the highway. “What happened? Why is she bleeding?”

“Sir, I can't tell you any more now. Come as quickly as you can. Are you on your way?”

“I'm on my way.”

Hopeless

S
cott followed the signs to the emergency room entrance. He parked the car in the first spot he could find, jumped out, and ran as fast as he could toward the ER entrance. The Taurus chirped behind him as the doors locked.

He pushed his way through the double glass doors and angled directly toward the desk, where three people were in line. Ignoring the line, he went directly to the harried-looking nurse. “My name is Scott Douglas. I received a call that my wife, Rachel, is here. Where is she?”

The woman raised her gaze and waved to a man on the other side of the room, motioning for him to come over.

A middle-aged man in a polo bearing a hospital logo came over. “Mr. Douglas?”

“Yes, do you know about my wife?”

“Mr. Douglas, I'm Rudy Garcia, the one who called you. Your wife is stabilized now, but the doctors are still with her. Please follow me.” Garcia touched Scott's elbow and turned down the hallway. “This way, sir.” He paused for Scott, then strode directly down the hall and around the corner.

They came to a room marked
Conference
, which Garcia opened with a key hanging from a ring on his belt. “This way, sir. I'll tell you all there is to know.”

“When can I see my wife?”

“Soon, but we need to talk first. I need some information.”

Scott fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Here, I have my insurance card. Here's my driver's license, everything. Just take it, let me go see her now.”

“This isn't about insurance, Mr. Douglas. Just sit down, please. He motioned to a chair across a small table in the center of the room. I want to discuss Mrs. Douglas's situation with you. I'll bring you completely up to date, all right?”

Scott forced himself to slow down his breathing, closed his eyes. He calmed, but only slightly. With shaking hands, he returned the wallet to his pants pocket and sat down in the chair that Garcia had indicated. “Okay, what can you tell me?”

“Mr. Douglas, your wife arrived here in response to a nine-one-one call that she made from your home. When the paramedics arrived, they found her unconscious in the bathroom.”

“What happened? What—”

Garcia looked down at a clipboard, lifted a sheet of paper to read another marked up with a highlighter, then looked back up to meet Scott's eyes.

“Stay with me, Mr. Douglas. The paramedics found your wife comatose and bleeding heavily, but not from wounds, more what we call generalized bleeding.” As soon as she arrived in the emergency room, Dr. Watson, our ER physician, immediately did a coagulation workup on her.”

“Why? What's a coagulation workup?” His knee knocked against the table leg, once, twice.

“That includes a pro time, that is, prothrombin time, a partial
thromboplastin time, a platelet count, CBC, and some other clotting parameters that he thought important.”

“I don't understand any of this. What does all that mean?” He felt like he was about to lose it completely. He didn't understand what was happening. The words were in English but they might as well have been in another language.

“A prothrombin time test measures the ability of the blood to clot. As you may know, if blood does not clot, that is, form a thrombosis, or scab, it's possible for a person to continue bleeding uncontrollably. This is the situation we found your wife in when she arrived.”

“Was she in an accident? Did she cut herself?”

“No, Mr. Douglas. No accident. Actually, if a patient presents with abnormal bleeding, a prolonged pro time, but is otherwise healthy and has normal liver function . . . well, sir, there is normally only one reason for it.”

Scott's stomach tightened as the muscles spasmed. He peered intently into Garcia's face. “What reason? What could it be?”

“Poison, Mr. Douglas. Typically, Coumadin poisoning.”

“Coumadin poisoning? What's Coumadin?”

“Mr. Douglas, do you have a problem with mice or rats in your home? Have you been putting out rodent poison of any sort?”

“No, nothing like that. Coumadin is rat poison?”

“Coumadin is sold under a number of different names. Coumadin is one of them, Jantoven is another, and warfarin is another. Warfarin is the more commonly used term and it's normally found in mice and rat poison. However, the medical use of warfarin, or Coumadin, is what people typically call a blood
thinner. It is given in small doses, over a period of about a week, and the patient's blood is monitored closely. “Has Coumadin been prescribed for your wife? Has she seen a physician recently?”

Scott searched his mind, but nothing made sense. They didn't have anything like that in their home. “No, nothing that I know about. Rachel doesn't even take any medicine. Nothing at all that I can think of. Do you know for sure about the diagnosis? Could it be something else?”

“Yes, sir. It may be something else. But that's the best lead we have right now, and we'll know for sure in the next twenty minutes or so. Right now your wife is being treated with large doses of vitamin K to restore the missing clotting factors in her blood. She is actually very fortunate, given her condition, that there was no brain hemorrhage. The prognosis in those cases is almost always very, very bad. Your wife should be fine in a few days. So let me review, Mr. Douglas. Your wife takes no medication at all that you're aware of, is that correct?”

“Yes, nothing. Oh, wait, she takes a calcium supplement, but that's all I can think of. I don't think that counts as medicine, does it?”

“A calcium supplement should be fine, sir. But we'll need to take a look at it. Something is definitely wrong. May I see your arms? Just roll up your sleeves, please, and let me take a look.”

Scott rolled up his sleeves and extended his arms for Garcia to see.

Garcia took Scott's hands in his own and turned his arms around so he could see both sides. “No bruising, that's good. Have you experienced any bleeding in the gums of your teeth, or bruising in other areas of your body?”

“No, nothing like that. Can I see Rachel now?”

“One more question, Mr. Douglas. Where can we find those calcium supplements?”

“They're in a white bottle on the shelf of the medicine cabinet in our bathroom. Do you want me to bring the bottle in?”

“No, sir. That won't be necessary. Someone is already at your home.”

Garcia stood, and turned toward the door. He opened it and leaned out into the hallway. “You can come in now. I think I have all we need.”

Scott didn't recognize the two men that came in, but their uniforms and demeanor were unmistakable.

The taller one spoke first. “Mr. Douglas, I am Deputy Sheriff Landrum and this is Deputy Sheriff Peterson. We would like you to come with us, sir. We need to ask some questions down at the sheriff's office.”

His life was draining away before his eyes. His job, his wife. His children with strangers.

They don't trust me to be alone with Rachel
.

“But I haven't done anything. I just came here to see my wife. I have to see Rachel.”

“Of course, sir. All in good time. Do you have an attorney?”

“No, I don't have an attorney. Why would I need an attorney? I can't believe this! I don't even get to see Rachel?”

Scott's world ground slowly to a stop. By the time he answered, “No, I've never had an attorney,” hope had fled from his life.

Oh, God. If you've ever helped me, please help me now. There's no one else I can turn to but you
.

Suspect

T
he two deputies put Scott in the back of the patrol car, where he was separated from the two officers in the front by a thick wire mesh. He looked at the doors. No controls for opening the door or window from the inside. He was a prisoner.

There had been no arrest, but what was he going to do, refuse to answer questions about his own wife?

The jail was laid out like a wheel, with spokes running out from a center section that contained a large circular console filled with computer screens and communications equipment. Men and women in uniform were busy inside the console area. A heavily muscled female sheriff's deputy came up to him. “Sit here please, sir, until we find an empty conference room.” Scott was left alone by himself on a bench on the outer wall of the hub.

Ten minutes later a male deputy came up to him. “Follow me please. Do exactly as I say. Do you understand?”

Scott nodded. The man stood there, evidently waiting for a reply. “Sorry. Yes, I understand.”

Without a word the man turned and motioned Scott to follow after him. He led Scott to a room with a heavy, painted metal door, which slid aside when he keyed a code in a box on the wall. “Step inside, sir.” He looked at the clipboard he was carrying and shook his head. “We get all kinds here.” He looked up at Scott, his eyes penetrating. “All kinds,” he said, with a look that made Scott feel small and dirty.

He thinks I'm that kind of person
.

The deputy turned and stepped outside, keying another code into the panel on the wall. The door slid shut, and Scott heard the lock mechanism trip inside.

He sat on the cold metal chair. The chill in the steel sucked the remaining heat out of his legs, and he began to shiver. He was nervous, and more than that, he was afraid.

He had never even had a speeding ticket. Now he was suspected of trying to kill his own wife?

The door clicked. Somewhere inside, a bolt slid open with a scraping sound. A large man in a wrinkled white shirt appeared, shoulder first. He said something in a low voice to someone else in the hall, then came in the rest of the way.

Scott looked up at him, waited for him to speak.

Breathing heavily, he sat across from Scott in a low-backed metal chair. He carried no papers or equipment but leaned in with his hands folded on the cold tabletop.

“I've been a detective for almost thirty years.” He tapped with three fingers on the table. They sounded like gunshots in the small room. “I know what it takes to get things done.

“Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Douglas?”