Lethal Remedy (15 page)

The waiter eased up to the table, introduced himself, and asked what they'd like to drink.

Mark picked up the wine list and looked at Sara. "Would you like a bottle of wine?"

"Just water for me, please," she said.

"San Pellegrino okay?" he asked. When she nodded her assent, Mark ordered and the waiter hurried away.

"You could have had some wine if you wanted," Sara said. "I just . . . I just don't drink."

"No, no. That's fine."

"Aren't you going to ask why?"

He'd wanted to, but Mark figured she'd tell him if she wanted him to know. Apparently she did. "I'm an orphan. My parents were killed by a drunk driver when I was in college. When I got the message, I was at a party and I'd just taken a sip of the margarita my date brought me."

"And you swore that was your last drink. Right?"

"I know. Sounds silly, I guess."

"Not at all. Not too many years ago, there were still people who wouldn't drive a German car because they had bad memories from World War II."

The waiter arrived and poured their water as though it were Châteauneuf-du-Pape or some other high-priced wine. "Would you care to hear the specials?" he intoned.

"Give us a moment," Mark said. He turned back to Sara. "I respect your decision. And I appreciate you not lecturing me about the evils of alcohol."

"I've made my decision, but that doesn't give me the right to make yours." She lifted her glass. "Now how about that relaxing evening you promised me? How many years did you practice law before you gave it up to go into medicine? I'll bet there's quite a story there."

Mark dredged up stories from his law practice, his medical training, and his current situation as a primary care physician. Sara proved to be a great listener, and as the evening progressed he found himself doing most of the talking. "Sara, I wanted to get to know you. Instead, you know almost everything about me and I know next to nothing about you. Help me, here."

"Not much to say, really. Graduated from Southwestern Medical, did my residency here, then went onto the faculty. Got married while I was a resident, but that's over."

"Would I know your husband?"

She took another sip of San Pellegrino water. "Jack Ingersoll."

Wow.
He hadn't seen that coming. Drop that hot potato right now. "Any children?"

Sara shivered, and Mark wondered what he'd said. "I'm sorry. Is that a touchy subject?"

"Our infant son, Jack Jr., died of SIDS. It wasn't long afterward that Jack divorced me." She reached for her coffee cup and found it empty. "But that's enough about me. Let's talk about more pleasant things."

Mark beckoned to the waiter, who refilled their cups. Sara lifted hers to her lips and in the action her sleeve fell away from her watch. "Oh, my gracious. I had no idea it was this late. I'd better be getting home."

"I wish we could stretch this out a bit, but I suppose we both have a full day tomorrow." He called for the check and covered it with a credit card, managing not to flinch at the total. No matter. The evening had been worth it, and he would have paid double the tab if it could stretch the night out longer.

At her door, Sara said, "Thanks for a wonderful evening. The meal was wonderful, and I enjoyed getting to know you."

Mark put on his most hangdog look. "Would you take pity on a poor guy and give him one more cup of coffee for the road? You wouldn't want me to fall asleep at the wheel, would you?"

Sara laughed. "Oh, come on in. I'll make us both some coffee. I think caffeine addiction is a universal consequence of medical school."

One cup turned into two as the conversation picked up where they'd left off. The pot was empty when Sara yawned and shook her head. "That's it. I'm kicking you out. I have to go to work in the morning."

"I guess you're right. Thanks for the coffee." Mark followed Sara's lead and rose from the sofa. "I'll give you a—"

"Mark. Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Listen."

Mark strained his ears. At first he heard nothing. Then he did. Faint at first, gaining in intensity and volume before dying away in a mournful decrescendo. The cry of an infant.

I
T'S GREAT TO FIND SOMEONE WHO'S AS FOND OF GOOD
T
EX-
M
EX FOOD
as I am," Lillian Goodman said. "I've never been to this restaurant before, but you can bet I'll be coming back."

John shrugged offthe compliment. "Finding a good Tex-Mex restaurant in Dallas is as easy as finding a Starbucks in Seattle."

"Yes, but the hard part is knowing which one of them serves the best food. And you get credit for this one." Lillian looked around the room. "I don't know how they stay in business, though. Only about a third of the tables are occupied. And I can't believe they can serve so much food for such low prices."

"You should see it on weekends. Then the waiting line stretches out the door. As for the price, it's a family business. Dad is the host, Mom is the cook, and the oldest kids are the servers and help in the kitchen."

A teenage girl hurried over with a coffee pot. "Dr. Ramsey, would you and your lady like some more coffee? Perhaps some
flan?"

Lillian was about to say no when John said, "You really should try the
flan.
It's ambrosia."

Oh, well. Another fifteen minutes on the elliptical tomorrow. "Sure. Why don't we split one?"

When the waitress had left, Lillian said, "You seem to be known here."

"I used to be, but I haven't been here since—" He blinked several times.

"John, it's okay to cry. Men can show their emotions the same way women can. And it's a way to heal." She sipped her coffee to give him time to recover. "So you and Beth used to come here."

He nodded. "You might say this was 'our place.' I haven't been back here since she died. And truthfully, maybe it was a mistake to bring you here. I feel sort of guilty."

Lillian chose her words carefully. "It is guilt, John. It's called survivor guilt, and it's the toughest part of the grieving process. You feel guilty because Beth isn't here to enjoy it. And you feel like you're cheating on her by bringing me here." She opened her purse, rummaged in it, and put a credit card on the table. "You know, I invited you to have dinner tonight. Maybe this will help you accept that this isn't a date."

The
flan
came, and Lillian found it to be worth the calories. She and John ate carefully from either side of the cylinder of custard, their spoons finally meeting in the middle. "That last bite is yours," Lillian said, laying aside her spoon.

"That's what Beth used to do." The words came out almost as a croak. John brought his napkin to his face and blotted tears. "Sorry."

"No, that's good. You can't keep it bottled up. It's not healthy." Lillian decided to plunge ahead. "John, until the dessert came, you hardly touched your food. How much weight have you lost since Beth died?"

"I really don't know." He shrugged. "I know that I probably should get some new shirts. The collars on these are pretty loose."

"But you don't feel like buying clothes. Right?"

"How did you know?"

"I've been down that road. Remember." Time to take the plunge. "Have you thought about antidepressants?"

"No. I want to—"

"You want to experience your grief fully, because it would be disrespectful to Beth not to do so. And, like a typical man, you think that grieving harder will get it over sooner."

His expression told her she'd hit the nail on the head. "You're not eating. You're not sleeping. You're distracted. You descend into self-pity. John, that's clinical depression. It's normal under the circumstances. And I think you should see your own doctor and ask him about taking an antidepressant."

John shook his head. "It's not that simple. I'd also have to see if an antidepressant would react adversely with the medications I'm on."

"What kind— No, I shouldn't pry. Talk with your doctor."

"My doctor is Rip Pearson, and the meds are antiretroviral. I got stuck by a needle that someone left in a waste receptacle." He held out his hand.

Without hesitation, she reached forward and took the hand he held out. "Hmm, puncture wound at the base of the thumb. And it looks pretty red." She pressed and felt the tissue give beneath her fingers. "John, there's some fluctuance here. I think you may be forming an abscess. Are you on any antibiotic prophylaxis?"

"No, just post-exposure prophylaxis against HIV."

"Well, we should needle that area and see if there's pus there." She decided that only a couple of doctors could talk like this while still at the dinner table.

Lillian could see his male ego struggling with his training as a physician. Fortunately, the medical science won. "You're right. I'll ask Rip to look at it tomorrow. He can aspirate it and culture the pus." John dropped his napkin on the table and held up Lillian's credit card to get the waitress's attention. "I guess it's time I began to take care of myself. Beth used to tell me that if I don't, no one else will."

Sara's first reaction to the infant cry was an instinctive tightening in her gut, followed almost immediately by a wave of relief—the cry was real. Mark heard it. This time it wasn't just a product of her tortured mind.

"Where's that coming from?" Mark asked.

"I don't know. It sounded like it came from . . . from—" Her throat seemed to close off. She dabbed at her eyes.

Mark appeared bewildered. "Sara, why don't you sit down? Can I get you some water?"

She shook her head. "I'll be okay. It's just that—" Again, she couldn't finish.

Sara felt Mark's hand guiding her toward the sofa. When she was seated, he hurried from the room, returning with a glass of water. "Drink this. Take some deep breaths. Then start at the beginning and tell me what's going on."

In a few moments, the roaring in her ears had subsided and her breathing was under control. "It's sort of a long story."

"I've got as long as it takes." He eased onto the sofa beside her. "What's this about?"

"I told you Jack and I had a baby, a son. He was three months old when I found him dead in his crib, probably SIDS. After Jack left me, I began having nightmares about our son. Once or twice a month I'd hear an infant crying in the middle of the night, but when I rushed to the nursery there was nothing there. No baby furniture—I'd long since gotten rid of that— and nothing else. Just a bare room, one that I never entered."

"And now . . . ?"

"Now you've heard the cries, too. It's not my imagination." She shivered. "But I still can't explain it."

"Where's the room?"

She pointed to a door. "Down the hall, last door on the right."

Mark patted her shoulder. "Stay here. I'm going to check it out."

He hurried away, and Sara felt a cold wind on the back of her neck. She'd never believed in ghosts before, but now she halfway wondered if the ghost of her son inhabited the nursery. What would Mark find in there?

Mark was back in five minutes. "Just an empty room."

She tried to hide her sigh of relief. "I told you."

"Do you have a flashlight?"

"In the middle drawer under the kitchen counter," Sara said.

He rummaged until he found the flashlight. "And where's your attic access?" He turned in a circle. "Never mind. I think I saw it a minute ago."

He disappeared into the hall, and soon she heard the attic stairs unfold. Then a series of creaks and groans announced his movement overhead. Just as she was about to venture into the hall and shout up to him, she heard him coming back down the stairs.

"I don't think you're going to find a baby up there," she called.

He poked his head through the door and gestured with the flashlight in his hand. "No, but I found something even more interesting. Come see."

Sara eased offthe couch and followed Mark on feet that seemed to be made of lead. He led her up the attic stairs, directing her to stand in the small space where plywood bridged the rafters. "Stay here. Don't step out into the attic. I don't want you to fall through the sheet rock."

"What am I supposed to see?"

"Look where my flashlight's pointed."

At first, she saw nothing out of the ordinary—just rafters and insulation, all coated with a generous layer of dust. But in the area where Mark's flashlight beam settled, she could see that there was much less dust, fewer cobwebs. And sitting on a rafter she saw a series of small boxes interconnected with wires.

She looked up to see Mark's eyes were fixed on hers. "There's your crying baby. A digital recorder with a separate speaker, connected to a timer, and all neatly wired into the house's electrical current. I suspect that it's set to go offon random nights, playing just long enough to get you out of bed."

Sara couldn't believe it. This was something you read about in detective novels or saw in a James Bond movie. It didn't happen to divorced women living in a nice neighborhood in Dallas. The questions flew through her mind. Why? Who?

"Would you happen to have some wire cutters? Or even a pair of pliers with wire-cutting jaws? I'll cut this thing loose. We can talk later about who did it and how. Right now, I want to assure you that you're not going to be awakened by those cries anymore."

Sara's heart sank. No, she wouldn't hear the electronic cries anymore. But neither would she hear the cries of her own baby. He was dead. As dead as the love she'd once had for Jack Ingersoll.

The man behind the hotel desk wore a dark suit, a gleaming white shirt with a conservative tie, and a smile as false as Grandma's teeth. His English was only slightly accented. "Welcome, Herr Doktor Ingersoll. Or do you perhaps prefer Herr Professor?"

"Either will do," Ingersoll said. He dropped his passport and American Express Platinum Card on the registration counter. "I'm quite tired from the overseas flight and would like to go to my room as quickly as possible."

"Of course." The man beckoned to a bellman and said something in German. The bellman gave a curt nod and hurried away for a luggage trolley.

"We have for you a very nice room on the Executive Level.
Zimmer sieben funfzig."
He paused and translated. "Room seven fifty." The clerk pushed the credit card back toward Ingersoll, along with a few other pieces of paper. "Here is information about our services. All your expenses will be direct-billed to Jandra Pharmaceuticals. I will return your passport as soon as I have completed your registration form."

Ingersoll scooped up the credit card and other papers. One of them, a business card, fell to the floor, and when Ingersoll picked it up he saw that engraved letters identified the Hotel Hessischer Hof, with an address in Frankfurt, Germany. At the bottom, smaller script spelled out the name and phone number of Wilhelm Lambert, Generaldirektor.
Not bad. Business class on Lufthansa. Quartered on the executive level of a first-class hotel, met by the general manager.
So far, Jandra was treating him right. Then again, he knew that all this would vanish like the morning mist if Jandramycin failed to live up to corporate expectations.