“My God, yes! Did you even consider the possible damage to his liver and kidneys?”
“Of course I did. Look, if Fred calls with bad news, we can be at the hospital in seven minutes.”
Brenda shook her head. “Richard, I’ve known you for ten years, and I’ve never seen you take such a risk with a patient’s life. Why play God with your own brother? What were you thinking? That your colleagues would judge
you
by Jeffy’s actions?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
He exhaled. “What’s Jeff told you about Sophie?”
She looked puzzled. “Nothing. Who is she?”
That was a good question.
Richard told Brenda about his visit with the elderly woman, watching her face fill with incredulity as the story progressed.
“You risked his life on some old woman’s ramblings?”
“She
knew
this was going to happen. She told me to go by gut instinct.”
Brenda shook her head, unconvinced.
“She also told me Krista is bad news.”
“You don’t have to convince me, or Jeffy, of that. He’d had enough of her last night. But there’s still a lot more going on than we know about. What’re we going to do about it?”
“Tomorrow morning, I’ll have Michael’s report on Krista. Then I’ll go to the hospital. I’ll find the answers if I have to throttle Krista to get them.”
The precipice
loomed, a dark line against the gunmetal sky. Tiring, I wiped at the rain cascading down my forehead. It had taken hours, pushing and pulling that damned empty chair, to make it up the steep, rocky slope. Getting rid of it was the only way to remove the anchor weight that clung like a barnacle to my soul.
Only feet from my goal, my arms were almost yanked from their sockets. One of the mud-caked wheels had wedged between two boulders. Anger fueled my kicks at the weeds and grass caught in the once-shiny spokes. The damn thing had nearly cost me everything
—
it wouldn’t best me this time.
I yanked it free.
Strength ebbing, it took all I had to drag the chair the final ten feet. Tufts of long wet grass swayed in the gale. Closer, closer.
My rubber-soled shoes slipped. I teetered on the edge. The expanse of gray nothingness stretched out before me, inviting me to be one with it.
No.
Never!
One mighty shove sent the cold metal bulk over the craggy cliff. I watched the wheelchair tumble in a slow-motion dance before crashing into the sea in a geyser of spray. The angry waves hungrily swallowed it.
Victory!
I sank to my knees, exhausted, savoring each sweet breath, ignoring of the stones digging into my skin.
Time passed with infinite slowness.
The downpour slowed to a drizzle.
The curtain of mist parted, revealing an island. Whole and beautiful, she emerged from the cover of towering oaks. A diaphanous gown of ivory fluttered in the breeze, plastering against her thin legs. She saw me. A look of mild interest crept over her placid features. She raised her arm to wave, and understanding dawned.
Not a new beginning
—
farewell.
“Wait!”
She turned away. I called again, but she didn’t stop or turn her head to look back.
The sun broke through a crack in the bleak sky, bathing her retreating figure in pure white light. It burned away the last vestiges of guilt, desperation, and pain.
She disappeared through the trees.
The clouds closed in once more, leaving no trace of her.
I stared at the nothingness.
Had she at last found peace?
Richard’s study
felt cold. The heat had to be on, but the emptiness of the big house rang through him. He flipped on his desk lamp, sat back and clasped his mug of hot, caffeine-laced coffee from his secret stash. It was all that kept him going. How long had he been awake? Twenty-two hours? It didn’t look like he’d get to sleep any time soon, either.
The second set of Jeff’s tests had come back negative, just like the first. That meant Brenda had no ammunition to fire at him. He rubbed his gritty eyes. An insensitive reaction since, more importantly, it meant Jeff was going to be okay—physically, at least. Now all Richard had to worry about was his brother’s precarious mental state.
Six-fifteen was probably hours too early to log on to check e-mail for Michael’s report—but Richard figured he had nothing to lose. He turned on his computer.
Sure enough, a note from Michael, sent only an hour before, with a file attached, sat in his mailbox. Richard opened the note.
Old man,
I didn’t read everything Artie pulled up on your lady head shrinker
How like Jeff, Richard thought with a wry smile.
but enough to know you’ve definitely got a bad guy on your hands. If we can do anything to help you bag this babe, all you gotta do is ask.
Kiss Brenda for me.
Love,
Michael
Richard double clicked on the attachment, waiting for it to download. Just what he hadn’t wanted to hear—that Krista’s reputation was as bad as he feared.
Someone—Artie? —had put together a summary, probably what Michael had skimmed. Richard pushed the print button, then placed the cursor on the scroll bar and began to read.
Krista A. Marsh, age 35, born in Clintwood, Virginia.
He frowned. Krista had never mentioned Virginia. She made it sound like she was from the Midwest.
Parents: Lois and Granger Marsh (Deceased). Graduated from University of Virginia Medical School, Charlottesville, VA. Residency: Mercy General, Bethesda, MD.
Nothing exceptional about her education, nothing indicating she’d ever been in trouble—until after she’d been in practice for three years.
Krista A. Marsh, Washington, D.C.
Profession: Psychologist; Lic. No. 007344; Cal. No. 12598
Regents Action Date: February 27
Action: 1 year suspension, execution of suspension stayed, probation 1 year, $1,000 fine.
Summary: Licensee did not contest charges of failing to request a report from a patient’s former psychiatrist and failure to record a patient’s suicidal ideation.
That last sentence now held added meaning since Jeff’s attempt yesterday. And two years later:
Krista A. Marsh, Washington, D.C.
Profession: Psychologist; Lic. No. 007344; Cal. No. 17364
Regents Action Date: August 17
Action: 5 year suspension, execution of suspension stayed, probation 5 years, $5,000 fine.
Summary: Licensee did not contest charges of having physical contact of a sexual nature with a patient.
The hackles on Richard’s neck rose. Jeff couldn’t remember the details of his sessions with Krista. Richard wasn’t yet ready to speculate on that.
The next entry was dated a year later, from Indiana:
Krista A. Marsh, Bloomington, IN
Board: Psychology; Lic. No. 63-01-009938
Effective Date: November 5
Nature: Technical violations of the Public Health Code; failure to maintain a patient record.
Penalty: Summary Suspension.
What kind of background checks had Krista circumvented to get a position in Buffalo? Who the hell had hired her? And where had the New York State licensing watchdog been when she’d applied to practice here?
Richard’s gaze returned to the first two items on the summary, his stomach lurching as though he’d eaten something rancid. Had Krista deliberately neglected to document her former patient’s suicidal leanings, or had she been too incompetent to see it? Maybe she’d been as self-absorbed as she was Saturday night when she’d ignored Jeff’s distress to further her own professional agenda?
Richard’s outrage smoldered.
Do no harm
. Every physician took the Hippocratic oath. Yet Krista had used Jeff, drugged him, twisting his mind to accept the unacceptable. And whatever she’d done to Jeff, she’d no doubt done to her problem patient, too.
There was more. Richard skimmed down to an FBI Summary dated four years previous.
Surveillance: 498 N Avenue, Georgetown, Washington D.C. Senator William B. Vanderstein, R-NY; Chairman, Senate Ethics Committee, seen entering said building on consecutive Thursday evenings, between 8 and 10 p.m. Also seen entering the building, Krista A. Marsh, MD. (Apartment rented by Shirley Bendhart, Vanderstein’s secretary.)
Senator Vanderstein killed February 22; head-on auto accident, Buffalo, New York. Daughter, Grace Marie, critically injured. Driver of car, Ronald. G. Murray, Tonawanda, NY, charged with DWI, vehicular homicide; sentenced ten years Albion State Correctional Facility.
Richard stared at his computer screen. Donna, the clinic’s secretary, had mentioned Krista’s problem patient as a woman, Vander-something. But it couldn’t be the Senator’s daughter . . . could it? That would be too much of a coincidence. Had Jeff ever mentioned the name of Krista’s patient? Richard couldn’t remember.
Was the senator Krista’s patient or lover?
Lover, he guessed.
He scrolled back to look at the dates on the FBI surveillance summary and the second licensing report involving sexual misconduct. Senator Vanderstein had been dead six months when charges were brought against Krista. Had grief over losing her lover driven her to seek sexual fulfillment with one—or more—of her patients?
The woman was sick, but not stupid. She’d probably relocated to Indiana to escape her past and clean up her reputation, but her shoddy habits had followed her. Had she come to Buffalo to insinuate herself into the life of her former lover’s daughter? What for?
The printer kept disgorging pages. Richard grabbed the stack already in the tray and flipped through it. Michael and Artie had outdone themselves. Richard realized he held the actual transcript from Krista’s second licensing hearing. He frowned as he skimmed through the sworn testimony, growing more and more heartsick for Jeff, and disgusted at the level of depravity one of his own colleagues had attained.
“Dear God, Jeff, who in hell have I gotten you involved with?”
I squinted
at the sunlight streaming through my bedroom window—a gorgeous late-spring morning. But the light was like knife thrusts in my brain. I recognized the pain—an over indulgence of bourbon.
That wasn’t quite right.
I swallowed, my raw throat threatening to crack. Weak as a newborn, I couldn’t even muster the energy to get out of bed. What kind of bender had I?
Oh, shit.
The memory of what I’d done came back in nightmarish reality. Yet, through the morass of humiliation, I felt a tremendous sense of release, and loss. Two emotions at odds.
My head lolled to the left. Brenda dozed in a chair, her feet propped on the edge of the mattress, a book lay across her lap. Had she been there all night or had she and Richard taken turns protecting the crazy man from himself?
Dumb move, Resnick
. Now they’d hover over me day and night. If they didn’t have me committed to a psych ward.
My timing had been off. If I’d done it sooner, Richard would’ve found me too late . . . .
But wait, he’d said Maggie had telephoned him. Could she have heard my psychic call right before I?
Maybe . . . I didn’t really want to die.
Tears threatened. God I wanted a drink.
I cringed.
No! Unlike my mother, I wouldn’t get caught in that nightmare of self-abuse.
But I couldn’t hide out in my bedroom forever. And I was going to have to face—talk to—my caretakers eventually. At least Brenda had always been my ally.
I nudged her foot with my toe. Her eyes flew open and the book crashed to the floor.
“Jeffy?”
“Good morning, sleepyhead.”
She blinked, straightened in the chair. “How do you feel?”
“Horrible. How ‘bout you?”
She sank back. “Pretty much the same.”
“Are you babysitting?”
“You got it, babe.”
I looked away, determined to keep my voice from cracking. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
“Some things and some people are worth putting forth the extra effort.”
The bedside clock read 9:04 am. Where in hell was Richard?
I continued to avoid her gaze. “How do we get past this awkward shit?”
“I don’t know.”
Humiliation washed over me. Had I lost her respect as well as her trust?
“Don’t . . . please don’t tell Maggie about this.”
“Only if you tell me why it happened.”
“I don’t know why. I didn’t mean to do it. Things . . . just got to be too much.”
Brenda leaned closer. “Why didn’t you come to me? You can always talk to me, hon.”
“I didn’t want to burden you. I didn’t want to hurt you with all this crap.”