Authors: L. J. Sellers
“We find him. You start calling hospitals, and I’ll notify the police.”
Joe frowned. “You think he’s still practicing medicine? Wouldn’t a scandal like that ruin a doctor’s reputation?”
“He probably moved on, made a fresh start somewhere else. He wasn’t even charged.” Eric removed the microfiche.
“The hospital might have a record of where he went.”
“It’s worth a phone call, but we probably won’t be able to find out anything until Monday.”
“Better yet, I’ll call Barb at the DMV first thing Monday morning. If Carmichael has a valid driver’s license, she’ll know his current address.” Joe started to leave, then turned back. “Any wild guesses why he might have kidnapped your girlfriend?”
“Not one.”
Eric followed Joe downstairs. He decided to call his landline and check his answering machine to see if he had any messages. He hadn’t been home since he’d left for the prison that morning. He pushed the first three numbers, then stopped. What if another nutcase had left messages about the pictures in the paper? He didn’t have patience for bullshit at the moment. He was too close to finding the truth.
Eric hung up, then called Jackson’s number. No answer. So he left a message: “The kidnapper with the ponytail is a doctor named David Carmichael. Call me.”
He headed over to Joe’s cubicle. “I’ll be at home if you come up with anything. You should go home too.”
“Who wants to sit home on a Saturday night?” Joe made a face. He had a girlfriend but was a workaholic.
Eric laughed. “Thanks for your help. I owe you.”
“I want exclusive rights to this story.” Joe was serious.
Eric hesitated for half a second. “Agreed.”
Too excited by his discovery of Carmichael to go straight home, Eric stopped by the corner Grocery Cart for a pint of Chunky Monkey and a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. On the drive to his duplex, he worried that his obsession with finding Jenna was mentally unhealthy. Yet when he arrived, he hurried up the front steps, anxious to check his answering machine. He struggled to find his house key in the dark, failing to have left his porch light on that morning. As he opened the door, Eric sensed immediately that something was wrong. The air had a faint scent of cigarette smoke. Had someone been in his house?
He set down the sack to free both hands, then flipped on the living room light. For a second, everything seemed normal. Eric stepped into the room and turned to push the front door closed. His brain registered the form—thin man, dressed in dark brown with a long shiny forehead and long shiny knife—a second before it landed on him. The blade plunged into his right pectoral before he had a chance to react.
Eric bellowed with rage and pain, a primitive bone-quivering sound, and lashed out at the same time. He shook the skinny man loose with a strength he didn’t know he possessed. The man staggered back but didn’t fall. Eyes wide with alarm, he came at Eric in a sudden burst. Eric threw up his arm to block the knife. A fiery line of pain burned down his forearm. The man began to circle him like a jackal around a wounded gazelle. Eric backed toward the kitchen, hoping to find a weapon there.
The primitive part of his brain wanted to rush the guy, throw him against the wall and pummel him with heavy fists until he was dead. But he had been stabbed twice and was losing blood. He only had one more chance with this guy. A vague sense of who the attacker was and why he was here hovered just outside Eric’s conscious thought pattern. For the moment, he could only focus on keeping space between his body and the knife while he searched with his hands along the kitchen counter for a weapon.
He grabbed the coffeepot and threw it without thinking. The man ducked, and the glass pot crashed against the dining room table. Eric wished he’d broken it against the edge of the counter and used the jagged edge as a weapon instead. Without taking his eyes off his assailant, who continued to stalk him with methodical precision, Eric groped along the counter for the big wooden knife holder. He had a big knife of his own, sharp and shiny from lack of use. But as he fumbled with his hands behind him, the fingers on his right hand began to feel numb. His whole right arm felt weak. Eric was suddenly aware of a pattern of wet red blood on the beige tile. His blood. The room began to spin in slow lurching twists. He had trouble keeping his eyes on the man in brown, who was only a few feet away in the narrow kitchen. Eric forced his fingers to close around the big knife handle. He pulled it loose and held it out in front of him.
Something was wrong. The end was round instead of sharp. It wasn’t a knife. The room closed in, and Eric’s legs went weak. The man in brown leaped at him. Eric felt the piercing tip of the knife plunge into his chest. The pain was excruciating. He dropped to his knees. The floor swam up to him. The man waited, watching, until Eric fell forward into a pool of his own blood.
His last thought was this man had probably killed Jenna too.
Chapter 31
Sunday, Nov. 5, 8:41 a.m.
“Jenna’s temperature is ninety-eight point nine this morning.”
Rachel stood in his office doorway refusing to look at him. Carmichael realized the significance of her news but decided to take a moment to mend their relationship. Rachel was still upset from the night before when he’d chastised her for coming home without Sarah. Later, he’d practically screamed at her for letting Jenna out of bed.
“How’s your arm?” The wound wasn’t serious. In fact, her pride had been injured worse. Still, it was an opening.
“Fine.” She glanced up briefly, but he couldn’t read her expression. “I’ll get back to work now, I just came in because you said to let you know the minute her temperature went up.”
“Thank you, Rachel.” Carmichael stood, opening his arms wide. “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. This has been a rough few days for both of us. I’m as worried about Sarah as you are. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”
“It’s not that.” Rachel kept her eyes down.
“What’s wrong then?”
“Why is Jenna here?” Rachel looked up, suddenly defiant.
“I’ve told you. Her family wants to get her off heroin and away from her abusive boyfriend.”
“Why is she getting hormone shots?”
Carmichael started to deny it, then stopped, realizing how foolish it was. Jenna’s and Sarah’s reactions had obviously been similar enough to alert Rachel. He couldn’t afford to alienate Rachel now. She knew too much.
A plausible story came to him. “Her parents, who know of my success with
in vitro
pregnancies, asked me to remove and freeze some of her eggs.” Rachel seemed to be buying it, so he continued. “Jenna is an only child, and they fear she’ll destroy herself and their only chance of having grandchildren. They can’t sit back and let the family die out because of her self-destructiveness.”
He watched her think it over and decide to believe him. Relieved, Carmichael smiled. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?”
“I’d like permission to counsel her about her addiction. I think she’d be less desperate to escape if she knew why she was here.”
“It’s too soon. She’ll only deny it.”
Rachel was silent.
“I know you want to help her. Now that she’s ovulating we can do the retrieval and get her off the hormones. In a day or two, we’ll both sit down and talk with her. All right?”
Rachel hesitated. “All right.” Her voice was deliberately deadpan.
Carmichael sensed her displeasure, but whatever else was bothering her would have to wait. He had too many other things to worry about, all of which were far more serious.
Rachel turned back. “Should I test her urine for luteinizing hormones?”
“Please get it started. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Yes, Reverend.” The nurse nodded and left. Carmichael rubbed his temples and wished he could have a drink. The thought frightened him as much as the fires of hell. He’d been clean and sober for eleven years, eight months, and two days.
He searched his desk for an aspirin. Thank God, this would be over soon, even if it meant never seeing Jenna again. He didn’t handle stress well. That’s why he’d become a drug and alcohol addict during his medical internship. After the accident, God had called him to do his work, then showed him a better way to live. The Lord had provided for him as well. His life had been stress free and nearly perfect until that moment Elizabeth called in her favor.
Carmichael cursed her and her obsession with giving birth to a genetically related child. Why couldn’t she have adopted? He would have done anything to help, including marrying her. The anger faded quickly. Thousands of infertile couples felt the same way about genetic offspring. That very obsession had led to the first test-tube baby and the subsequent developments he now used to help the Sisters produce healthy female offspring. Obsessive, research-driven people like he and Elizabeth were the catalysts for medical progress.
He picked up the phone and dialed Liz’s number. It rang seven times before she answered with a sleepy hello.
“Liz, did I wake you?”
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine. It’s not like you to sleep this late. Are you all right?” Something about her voice worried him.
“I’m fine, I was up late, that’s all.”
“I have good news.”
“I could use some good news.”
“Jenna’s temperature is up this morning. We’ll undoubtedly do the retrieval sometime today. I’ll let you know as soon as I have her LH levels.’
“Excellent. I think I’ll pack a bag and drive out. I want to assist with the retrieval.”
“It’s really not necessary. Rachel will be here. It’s such a risk to let Jenna see you.”
“I have to be there, to have some control in the whole process. You know how I am.”
Carmichael sighed. “Yes, I do know. We’re too much alike sometimes. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
He hung up the phone and headed for Jenna’s room. He would spend time with her while he still could.
Chapter 32
Sunday, Nov. 5, 9:06 a.m.
Eric knew he was in a hospital even though he couldn’t pry his eyes open to confirm it. Sleep kept dragging him under. He struggled to the surface again and again, knowing he had something essential to do.
When he finally managed to lift his heavy eyelids, the room was empty, devoid of the efficient voices he’d been hearing all morning. Was it morning? He had no idea.
Eric tried to sit up, but a fire line of agony burned through his chest. Sucking in oxygen, he squeezed back tears. What in the hell had happened? The last thing he remembered was coming home and… Oh God… the knife. The blood. He’d been stabbed in the upper chest.
But he was still alive. Eric shuddered. He’d cheated death. His life meant something.
His mother’s face, aging and vulnerable, flashed in his mind. He knew he had to see her before it was too late. His brothers too. It had been too long since he’d been home.
“Hey, Troutman, you’re awake.” Jackson came into the room, lacking his usual bustling energy.
“Sort of.” Eric’s mouth was dry, and his tongue felt puffed up like a balloon.
“How are you feeling? Or is that a stupid question?” Jackson laughed nervously.
“Stupid question. How did I get here?”
“I saved your sorry ass.” Jackson grinned. “After calling you repeatedly last night, I decided at the last minute to stop by your place on my way home. Fortunately, the sleazebag who cut you didn’t bother to close the door all the way. So when you didn’t answer my knock, I went inside in a typical nosy-cop way and saw the blood. I found you lying on the kitchen floor bleeding like a stuck pig. What a sight.” Jackson shook his head. “The docs say you’re lucky to be alive. The knife missed your heart and lung, but you might have bled to death if someone hadn’t come along.
“Thanks.” Eric could barely speak. Fear and love and gratitude welled up in his throat.
“I’m glad you’re going to make it, my friend.”
“Me too. Did you get my message?”
“What message? When?” Jackson reached for his cell phone and flipped it open to check his missed calls. “There’s no call from you.”
“I bet I called your house number.” Eric’s head ached, and it was a struggle to concentrate. “This is Sunday isn’t it?”
“Yes. So what was the message?”
“A doctor named David Carmichael is the guy with the ponytail.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“Car wreck, twelve years ago.” Eric had to stop and wait for the energy to speak again. “His wife and son died, but he didn’t report the accident. Possible drug and alcohol problem.”
“I think I remember.” Jackson pulled up a chair and sat down. “A very slick gentleman. He had a blonde lady on the side who claimed he was sober. The DA wouldn’t file charges, so we let him go and he disappeared”—Jackson snapped his fingers—“just like that.”
“We have to find him.”
“We will.”
A nurse came into the room and glared at Jackson. “That’s enough for now. He needs his rest.”
“Five more minutes.” Jackson grabbed a picture out of his suit pocket and held it in front of Eric’s face. “We’ve got a lead on the other kidnapper. Do you recognize this guy?”
Eric squinted, the headache pounding behind his eyes now. It was a mug shot, jailhouse blue shirt against a white wall. The man was thin, with a large nose and a receding hairline. Eric’s heart skipped a beat.
“That’s the guy who stabbed me. He’s older and balder now, but it’s him.” Eric laid back and closed his eyes. Knowing Jenna’s abductor was a cold-blooded killer hit him hard. His last ounce of hope for finding her alive evaporated.
“I’ll find them, Troutman. You can count on it.”
“Thanks.” Eric blinked back tears. The sheer joy of being alive was fading fast. He was exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open.
“You’d better get some rest.” Jackson stood to leave.
“Wait.” Eric’s voice was weak. “The other woman’s name was Elizabeth Harrington. Maybe she knows where Carmichael is.”
“I’ll look into it. You rest. I’ll take it from here.”
Chapter 33