10:30 p.m. Deep Water, Florida
What had happened to him?
Unable to move, unable even to lift his head off the desk
blotter, Dan Dawson attempted to focus on his
surroundings, but couldn't. The room — his home office —
seemed to be a mishmash of colors, one bleeding into
another.
The objects closest to him were clearer — the paper clip
and the gold pen appeared almost jewel-like as they
floated against a bloodred background. Those a few inches
beyond were blurred and indistinct.
As he was staring at the paper clip, his eyelids slammed
shut, cutting off the one sense that seemed to be working,
the one thing that kept him feeling connected to his
surroundings. Even as the panic ripped through him, he
tried to fight it. But it was as if he'd been closed into
a box — a coffin.
His eyelids suddenly sprang open, the sharp reentry of
light painful but not unbearable.
Don't panic. Panic was...was counterproductive. Stay calm.
Approach it as if it was one of his patients who was in
trouble. He needed to...he needed to do...
What? He tried to focus, but it was as if his brain had
locked him out.
Vitals. Like a life ring, the word suddenly floated past
in the black sea of nothingness, and he grabbed on tight.
If he really concentrated, he realized he could feel the
air moving in and out of his chest. Respiration slow and
shallow, but steady.
A sudden explosion of pain struck at the base of his
skull, then ravaged downward through him, sucking the air
from his lungs. His throat muscles contracted hard, and he
felt his body gasp for oxygen.
What the hell was wrong with him?
His sluggish mind grappled with and discarded possible
diagnoses. Stroke? Too young. Cardiomyopathy? Overdose? He
hadn't taken any drugs in months...or had he? Had he taken
something tonight?
Sweat slid slowly down his back, morphing into a living
thing, a parasite that devoured his life force before
escaping through his pores and oozing downward toward the
floor, toward escape. Like rats from a burning building.
A distorted sound shattered the silence. Not in the room
with him, but in the foyer or the kitchen. He felt a warm
rush of relief. Rescue. He would be rescued.
Dan again tried to raise his head, but it was like trying
to lift a watermelon that dangled from the end of a
swizzle stick.
When he attempted to speak, the muscles of his throat
refused to cooperate, the sound coming out more a cough
than a plea.
More noise drifted from beyond the room. Drawers opening.
Closing. Not in a hurry, but slowly, as if someone wanted
to go unheard.
A shapeless shadow entered the room. For a moment, he
thought he'd imagined the movement, but then, as the form
passed in front of the flickering light from the
fireplace, he realized he hadn't.
Dan again tried to speak, but the pitifully weak sound
that came from his lips was barely audible. "Help..."
The shadow made no attempt to render aid. Dan's vision
partially cleared, and he made out a hand encased in
latex. The disembodied hand hovered ghostlike, and then
slowly slid open the top right drawer of the desk.
With sudden lucidity, Dan knew what had left him
paralyzed. Worse, he knew what was about to happen.
And this time, there was no controlling the panic.
LEXIE DAWSON GLANCED longingly at the exit of Baldacci's.
Even before she had arrived for this business dinner, it
had been a long day for her, and the conversation among
the three surgeons at the table had drifted into more
technical realms. As a pharmaceutical rep of a large drug
company, she was well versed in her product, but not this
stuff.
Fortunately, none of the three seemed to notice that her
attention had shifted.
Dr. Dennis Rafferty, the oldest and least forward-thinking
of her three guests, had chosen the upscale, overpriced
restaurant, which was located in what eighty years ago had
been Deep Water's theater house. Back then, the interior
would have been quite ornate, but now, all that remained
of the once-gracious building were exposed brick walls and
large, un-adorned windows, giving it the warmth of an
empty operating room.
Small wonder that Rafferty had chosen the place. She
didn't even want to think about what this one night was
going to do to next month's expense report. But if it paid
off, if she sold another doctor on using Talzepam, the
meal would be well worth it.
"What's your opinion, Lexie?"
Lexie refocused her attention on the man directly across
from her. Ken Lattimer was a thirtysomething orthopedic
surgeon with dark hair and liquid brown eyes. Good-looking
by most standards, but not by hers. He was reputed to be
the Southeast's best hand and wrist surgeon. But his
nickname around the hospital — Dr. Hands — had nothing to
do with surgical talent.
The third man at the table was Joe Lemon, a slightly over-
weight, fortysomething pulmonary specialist with a wife,
two kids and a booming practice.
Straightening in her seat, she hoped to buy some time by
reaching for the glass of water. With any luck, someone
would unknowingly clue her in on the direction of the
conversation. When she lifted her gaze above the glass
rim, though, she realized all three doctors were waiting
for her to respond.
It was Ken who rescued her. "I was telling Joe and
Rafferty that I've been using Talzepam for about two
months now. Or has it been three?"
"Three." Lexie had started repping the drug about six
months ago and had found it a difficult sell. Most
anesthesiologists and surgeons were slow to make changes.
In fact, Ken was one of the few doctors at Cougar County
Regional Hospital who embraced Talzepam.
She understood the reluctance the others had. Talzepam's
competitors, Valium and flurazepam, had been used in the
operating room with good success for years. Why take a
chance on a new drug — even if it offered some advantages
to the patient? "Like Ken, most surgeons who have tried
Talzepam have found it to be fast-acting and dependable,"
Lexie continued.
Ken agreed. "And so far I've seen very few post-op side
effects. At least with my patients."
She scanned the faces of the other two men — the
unconverted — then swung her gaze back to Ken. "Not just
your patients. I've been hearing the same from all my
accounts. In every trial, Talzepam outperformed its
counterparts. There were fewer reports of vision changes
post-op, as well as problems with breathing or a slow
heartbeat."
Rafferty leaned forward. "Perhaps fewer incidences of
respiratory problems, but those that did occur were more
severe."
Lexie maintained her relaxed posture. "You're right.
Several early studies did suggest that when breathing
problems occurred with Talzepam, there was greater
difficulty stabilizing the patient's respiration —
especially during long procedures. But it was found that,
in all but one case, the anesthetist had overcompensated
for the patient's body weight. Talzepam is a powerful drug
and dosing guidelines have to be strictly adhered to."
His expression thoughtful, Ken nodded. "I've been
following Talzepam since the trial stages. I think it has
something to offer both the medical community and the
patient."
"In what ways?" Joe Lemon asked, and in the next instant,
Ken was off and running, discussing his experiences with
the drug.
Lexie knew that doctors tended to listen to other doctors
more than sales representatives. Which made sense, really.
The key was to pick the right doctor — usually the young
ones were more open to new drugs. And if you could nab one
who was both well-liked and respected by his peers, as Ken
Lattimer was, the selling became that much easier.
She still was puzzled, though, by Ken's phone call this
morning. He'd asked her if it would be possible for him to
join the group. That had never happened to her before, and
she couldn't help but wonder what was in it for him. It
could hardly be the free meal. Or that he was without
other social options for the evening. Reaching for the
nearly full glass of red wine, she realized what she was
most afraid of was that his interest was not in Talzepam,
but her.
The cell phone tucked discreetly beneath her black tweed
jacket vibrated. Pretending to smooth the napkin in her
lap, she glanced down. Her ex-husband's home phone number
appeared on the backlit screen.
Great. She'd been expecting some form of communication
from Dan all day. Dreading it, actually.
Lexie straightened her jacket, concealing the phone once
more. Even if it had been someone she was interested in
talking to, she would have ignored it. She'd already been
caught once being less than attentive; she wasn't about to
look unprofessional a second time in one evening.
The discussion at the table again drifted away from her
product, briefly touching on hospital politics and the
current shortage of nurses. When the conversation veered
to Tampa Bay's chances in the playoffs, she excused
herself from the table and headed for the ladies' room.
She'd nearly made it there when her phone began to vibrate
again.
Flipping it open, she scanned the text message: have
anniversary surprise stop by drink.
What in the hell was wrong with her ex-husband? Didn't he
understand that as far as she was concerned the only
anniversary worth celebrating was March 15, the day she'd
been awarded a divorce from him?
Fed up, she stopped just inside the short hallway where
the restrooms were located and quickly manipulated the
phone pad keys.
Don't drink with murderers. Cruel words, but Dan would
know exactly what she meant.
Only after hitting Send did she notice her hands were
trembling. Calm down, she reminded herself. He's just
doing this to get a rise out of you. Or because he was
drunk.... It didn't really matter why he was doing it,
though. She was pissed.
She clipped the phone to her waistband again. Right now,
she needed to forget about Dan and keep her mind on
business.
When she returned to the table a few minutes later,
something in her face must have given her away, because
Rafferty leaned toward her. "Everything okay?"
She glanced at him. He'd always seemed like such a cold
fish, so she was surprised when he picked up on her
emotional state. "Everything is fine." She offered a tight
smile. "Can I interest anyone in some coffee and dessert?"
Rafferty shook his head. "I have an eight o'clock surgery
scheduled." He placed his napkin on the table. "Time to
call it a night, gentlemen."
"I'll drop by with samples of Talzepam in the morning,"
Lexie said as she, too, stood.
"Sounds good. Wait up, Dennis." Joe Lemon shook her hand,
then hurried after Dr. Rafferty. Lexie caught the words
prolapsed and ICU, and knew the two men were discussing a
mutual patient.
Ken was the last to get to his feet, and he made no move
to follow the other two men.
Here it comes, she thought. He's going to suggest a
nightcap or something. How was she going to turn him down
without damaging the professional relationship?
She bent to retrieve her briefcase. By the time she
straightened, Ken had walked around the table.
"Care to come by my place for that dessert?" He didn't
look quite as confident as he usually did. Which surprised
her. She tried to formulate some type of reply in her
head, but after several seconds realized that the longer
she waited to say something, the more awkward it was going
to be for both of them. She settled for simple and
direct. "No, thanks."
He nodded, his mouth tightening ever so slightly. "I
didn't think so, but figured it was worth asking."
He offered his hand, and she took it without
hesitation. "Thanks, Ken, for helping tonight."
Again, his mouth tightened briefly. "It's a good product,
Lexie. In time, it will outsell its competitors. Can I see
you to your car?"
She had barely declined his offer when he tossed his
jacket over his shoulder and, with one hand tucked into a
pants pocket, strolled toward the front door. Several
women a few tables over watched with interest. For a
moment, Lexie envied them.
What did they see that she didn't? She was twenty-seven,
not ninety-seven. Sex was a healthy part of being an
adult — one of the few perks, when you came right down to
it. But in the eleven months since she and Dan had gone
their separate ways, she'd had sex only one time. With a
stranger who hadn't stayed a stranger. Her abdominal
muscles tensed at the memory of all the things they'd done
that night. But more than the mechanics of sex, she'd been
able to do something she hadn't done in months — she had
cried. He'd held her while she sobbed, never asking why,
seeming to understand that her pain couldn't be mollified
with words.
"Excuse me, ma'am."