Mercy

CHAPTER 23

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in early November, three weeks after Sam’s death. Most of the leaves had escaped from their branches and the slate-gray sky held the stark promise of winter. Parents and friends on the sidelines watched the soccer game, draped in heavy coats and scarves. Some were cocooned beneath blankets pulled over their lawn chairs.

Julie knew most of her fellow spectators by name, but the soccer field was where their orbits collided. She stood next to Paul, who sipped hot coffee from a thermos. The game was almost over. The score remained a one-to-one tie.

Julie felt good to be doing something other than working or continuing her search for an expert’s opinion on Sam’s death. She held out hope that an expert would emerge from the shadows soon enough. With Michelle’s help, they had posted Julie’s inquiry on the most trafficked blogs and medical message boards. That seed-scattering approach should eventually bear fruit.

Right now, though, it was all about the game.

The left wing’s pass to Trevor came as a perfect feed between two defenders. Trevor, patient and aware, waited until the first defender committed to the ball before he made his cut. Julie squeezed her hands together as the excitement built in her chest. The rest of the crowd, some twenty-odd spectators, must have felt it as well, because their collective voices rose to a fever pitch.

Matt Davis, the father of one of the midfielders, shouted, “Shoot!” so loud that Julie jumped a little. But Trevor did not fire off a rocket like he could have. A defender had quickly closed in and any shot Trevor took would most likely have been deflected.

Instead, Trevor pulled the ball back with his foot, then a scissor move, before cutting hard to his left. To Julie’s adoring eyes, Trevor looked like The Flash dressed in his red uniform. Showcasing deft footwork, Trevor maneuvered the ball to his left foot as two defenders in white uniforms encroached on the ball with speed. Trevor’s window of opportunity was closing fast.

Riverton Academy, a private school in Cambridge with 350 students in grades six through eight, prided itself on academics and athletics. The boys’ and girls’ soccer teams were the crown jewels of its sporting programs. Trevor had plenty of natural ability, but he’d lacked the drive to be more than a role player for the Riverton Hawks middle school team.

Since Sam’s death, however, Trevor seemed to have found his wheels. The last game had been his first as a starter. He still had zero goals on the season, but that could change if he took the shot.

“Shoot, Trevor!” Paul yelled.

Julie sucked in a breath as her body tensed. How was it that a kids’ soccer game got her nerves jangling like a code blue?

Trevor feigned a cut to his right, swung back his left leg, and brought it forward with speed. The ball shot off the ground with velocity and immediately gained height. It passed between two defenders without deflection and was on a trajectory to hit the upper right corner of the goal. Julie’s hands went to her mouth.

The goalie, a tall boy with the body build of a marsh reed, leapt to his right with his arms outstretched. The ball curved as it spun. Julie held her breath as she watched the ball skim the goalie’s fingertips and smash into the back of the netting.

Trevor dropped to his knees and thrust a triumphant fist into the air. He was soon swallowed by a sea of red jerseys that toppled on him in a gigantic pig pile of bodies. The referee blew the whistle that ended the game, with the Hawks taking the win on Trevor’s magnificent goal.

Paul and Julie hugged, and Julie hugged some other parents who were just as excited as she was. They’d probably post pictures online before they returned to their cars.

After the game, the kids organized into two lines-one of white jerseys, the other of red-and did the walk where they slapped hands and said “Good job,” or “Good game” in monotone voices. Afterward, the Hawks gathered on the sideline with their coach, arms draped around each other in a tight huddle, looking like they would be friends forever.

The whole scene got Julie choked up, especially the look of pure joy on her son’s face. They’d had so little to celebrate of late that the small things in life took on a whole new significance. She was more keenly aware of the moments-how precious they were, how quickly it all slipped away.

“What a game,” Paul said. “I told Trevor I’d take him for an ice cream. You want to join?”

“Maybe,” Julie said, when her phone rang.

The caller ID came up unknown, which made Julie think telemarketer. She answered anyway, because she was curious.

“Hello,” she said, using a hand gesture to excuse herself from Paul and the rest of the crowd.

“Hello,” said a female computerized voice.

I knew it.

“This is a collect call from-”

“Brandon Stahl,” said a real man’s voice.

“-an inmate at MCI Cedar Junction,” the female voice continued. “Will you accept the charges?”

Julie was too stunned to speak. Of course she knew the name Brandon Stahl-not only from the news, but also from White Memorial, where he’d worked as a nurse. After his murder conviction, Julie wrote an op-ed for The Boston Globe that did not condone his actions, but made a point of saying the tragedy should start a conversation about patient rights, and the right to death with dignity.

A day or so later, the comments section in the online version of the Globe article was disturbingly vile. What some people felt compelled to post online went beyond unsettling and bordered on threatening. Julie eventually had to stop reading. She had tried to make it clear in her op-ed piece that she was not an advocate for murder, but rather for patient rights. Judging by the slew of letters sent to White, it was a distinction lost on many.

But that was several years ago. Why on earth would Brandon Stahl be calling her now? And how on earth did he have Julie’s cell phone number? Her head became dizzy with questions, but she was with it enough to accept the charges. She had to know what he wanted.

LINCOLN COLE had parked his van in the lot across from the soccer field, where he could watch Julie without using his powerful binoculars. This had been another slow day of doing lots of nothing at all. Lincoln was beginning to wonder where this job was headed. Not all of Lincoln’s clients paid in cash, or paid this well, so Lincoln was happy to stay patient. The talking heads on sports radio jabbered on about Sunday’s Pats game. It amazed him how much mileage they could get from one little running back controversy. So what if a guy missed practice and got sent home? He deserved it. And besides, the game had evolved to make the running back the real walking dead.

Lincoln thought of changing stations when the TrueSpy app on his computer began to chirp. Evidently, Dr. Julie had received a phone call. Sure enough, out the window Lincoln could see she had moved away from the crowd with her phone pressed to her ear.

For just this reason, Lincoln kept his laptop charged and running on the seat beside him at all times, like a terminal from back in his patrol car days. TrueSpy automatically broadcast Julie’s phone calls through his computer speakers, but Lincoln made sure the entire conversation got captured as a digital transcript as well.

The start of the call left Lincoln puzzled.

“Hello, this is a collect call from-”

“Brandon Stahl.”

“-an inmate at MCI Cedar Junction. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes,” Julie said.

Brandon Stahl?

Lincoln knew the name. The case had garnered big press around these parts. But why would a notorious prisoner want to call Dr. J? He thought they had worked for the same hospital, so maybe that was the connection.

“I don’t have long, so I have to speak quickly,” Brandon Stahl said. Stahl spoke in a subdued manner, not much edge. Not the kind of guy who thrives behind bars, Lincoln thought.

“Go ahead,” Julie said.

“We worked for the same hospital, White Memorial.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been in prison for three years.”

“I know that as well.”

“They think I killed Donald Colchester.”

“They don’t think. You were convicted. What’s this about?”

“I can’t tell you over the phone. Not enough time. But can you make arrangements to come visit me in prison? Tuesdays are typically good.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because you’re asking lots of questions about takotsubo cardiomyopathy, and someone thinks that condition is the reason I’m going to die in prison.”

When the call ended, Lincoln made sure the TrueSpy app had properly captured a transcript of the conversation. His employers would want to know about this development right away.