Spark

28

Carver stood leaning on his cane behind Beth, looking over her shoulder. They were in her room at the Warm Sands, breakfasting on stale doughnuts and coffee he’d brought from a quick-stop market down the highway, seeing what was on the Keller Pharmaceutical disk Carver had stolen last night. He was fully dressed, Beth was in panties and bra, seated like a supplicant at the room’s tiny desk with her portable computer open and glowing like a god before her.

It had taken her only a few minutes to key up the information on the disk, which consisted mainly of Latin medical descriptions and columns of figures.

“Not much here but what looks like a record of orders, delivery dates, and payment amounts and dates,” Beth said. The radio was on in the room, not very loud, rap music. The human voice was never meant to be a drum. He wished she’d turn that crap off.

He leaned closer and studied the orange-tinted screen. It would take someone more knowledgeable than either of them to know what the listed drugs were for, what the prices and delivery dates meant. Maybe a CPA with a medical degree.

While he was leaning so near her, Carver decided to kiss Beth on the ear. He was bending farther forward to do that when he noticed one of the abbreviations on the computer screen: MCL.

Beth shivered as he spoke less than an inch from her ear. “What do you make of that?” he asked. He pointed to the half-dozen identical abbreviations.

She rubbed her knuckle in her ear. “That your mind’s not entirely on the job.”

“I mean those sets of letters. They might stand for Mercury Laboratories.”

“If they do,” Beth said, “it appears some of the medical supplies were drop-shipped. Ordered and paid for through Keller Pharmaceutical but delivered direct from Mercury.”

“Nothing necessarily unusual there,” Carver said, “but it does isolate the Keller drugs that were developed by Mercury.”

“Some of them, anyway,” Beth said. “Other Mercury shipments might have reached the medical center by way of Keller.”

Carver straightened up, leaning on his cane and still gazing at the computer screen. The names of the drugs, be they generic or commercial, meant nothing to him. But then he didn’t read Latin. He took a bite of chocolate-iced cake doughnut, licked his fingers, and reached for his foam cup of coffee where it sat on the desk. He chewed, swallowed, sipped. Said, “Let’s see what’s on the Jerome Evans disk.”

Beth changed disks and went through her ritual with the computer, mumbling under her breath about EXE commands and paths. It was a lingo Carver regarded as intelligible as Latin. A fly droned close to the computer. Without bothering to look directly at it, she managed to knock it across the room with a casual backhand flick, a blur of dark flesh and red fingernails. Maybe EXE stood for “exterminator.”

She punched several keys in quick succession. The disk drive whirred and clunked softly, the screen flickered, and there was the information they sought.

The Jerome Evans file contained a plethora of information, from the date and time of his check-in at Emergency, to the date and time of his expiration written on what Beth called a scanner copy of the death certificate. From what Carver could make out, the autopsy revealed fatal damage to the heart. Jerome also had prostate cancer, but it was in the beginning stages and was in no way a factor in his death. As Hattie had told Carver, the official cause of her husband’s death was listed as cardiac arrest. The trauma to the heart was effected by a massive blood clot that had moved into the aorta. There was Dr. Wynn’s signature attesting to all of this.

“Know anything about heart attacks?” Carver asked.

Beth said, “I know enough to see what happened here. The heart had no way to pump blood out while it was still pulling blood in. It exploded.”

He tried to imagine how that might have felt, acutely aware of the thumping of his own heart. What he felt was a pang of pity for Jerome Evans. Then a tickle of fear. It could happen to him. He decided he’d better pay more attention to his diet, cut down on fats and cholesterol. Definitely.

“Ready to move on?” Beth asked. She was watching his reflection in the mirror over the dresser but near the desk. He nodded and she scrolled the information on the screen.

The brief history of Jerome Evans’s treatment at the medical center was there, from when he’d come in for his routine checkup, to when he’d been brought in two months later by ambulance on the day of his death. Readings from his blood sample workups (Carver noticed Jerome’s cholesterol level had been only slightly higher than his own), a record of body temperature, reflex responses, and blood pressure readings.

Beth reached the end of the file. “Notice,” she said, “there’s no record of an electrocardiogram?”

“He was almost dead when they brought him in,” Carver said.

“I meant from before then, from his physical examination. Heart’s something they always check, ’specially in a man that age.”

She was right, but that wasn’t what interested Carver. “Something else is conspicuous by its absence,” he said. “There’s no record of medication.”

“Digitalis,” Beth said, scrolling up and pointing at the screen. “Day of his heart attack. Looks like massive, desperation doses.”

“But that’s it,” Carver said. “Nothing else. Nothing earlier in relation to his routine physical. Wouldn’t you say that was odd for a seventy-year-old patient? I mean, he wasn’t given blood pressure pills or anything.”

“This says he didn’t have high blood pressure.”

“Maybe not that, but you’d think he’d have some ailment. According to his file, the old guy was healthier than I am.”

Beth smiled at him in the mirror. “Maybe you better enjoy life while you can.”

“Will that thing print?” he asked, pointing to the computer with his cane.

“I don’t have a printer with me, but there are places that rent them or charge to use them. I can probably scare one up.”

“All I need,” he said, “is a list of the drugs supplied directly from Mercury Labs.”

“We can do that with paper and pencil,” she said. She scrolled back to the beginning of the file, got some Warm Sands stationery and a ballpoint pen from the desk drawer, and jotted down the information Carver had requested. Her left hand worked the computer, her right hand worked the pen, while she glanced back and forth between screen and paper. Very dexterous, physically and mentally. He thought she was beautiful in her intensity.

When she was finished she handed him the product of low and high tech, and he folded it and slipped it in his shirt pocket.

“Gonna cross-check with Hattie?” she asked.

“That’s the plan,” Carver said. “I want to know if Jerome was on any medication.” He thought again of his own cholesterol count; the doctor had cautioned him to cut down on fatty foods, mentioned something about too much bad cholesterol, not enough good, as if health were a question of ethics. “And if so, was it part of a drop shipment from Mercury? Hattie should be able to remember what he might have been taking. Could be she even still has the container, if he died before he’d emptied it. Trouble is, empty prescription bottles aren’t the sort of keepsakes grieving widows tend to save.”

Beth leaned back from the desk and looked up at him. “No, Fred, you’re wrong about that.”

He hoped so. He’d try to find out as soon as he finished his doughnut.