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Overview
The infection wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. The treatment was supposed to take care of it, but it didn’t. Then Dr. Josh Pearson discovers why—his patients, including the former President of the United States, have been dosed with a different strain of the original virus, one that is universally fatal. The only chance for survival is treatment with an experimental drug, but the manufacturer might already have discarded its supply.
As if treating the President of the United States isn’t stressful enough, the situation goes from bad to worse when Rachel Moore, a nurse Josh is falling in love with, falls ill. With the nation’s eyes on him, Josh must pull off a miracle to save a man who holds a good deal of power and the woman who holds his heart.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781630881191 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Abingdon Press |
| Publication date: | 09/15/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Richard L. Mabry, M.D. is a retired physician who writes medical suspense with heart. His novels have won multiple awards. He and his wife live in Central Texas. You can follow Richard online at RMabry.com, as well as on Twitter (@RichardMabry), and Facebook at RMabryBooks.
Read an Excerpt
Miracle Drug
By Richard L. Mabry
Abingdon Press
Copyright © 2015 Richard L. MabryAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63088-119-1
CHAPTER 1
Dr. Ben Lambert stood at the bathroom sink washing his hands. He sensed more than saw the movement behind him.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he said without turning. The intruder didn't respond. Lambert repeated the words, this time in Spanish. "Se supone que no debe estar aquí."
When there was still no answer, Lambert, his hands wet, the water still running, turned toward the intruder. That's when he felt it — a sharp pain in his left upper arm. Within seconds, a burning pain swept over his extremities. His vision became fuzzy. He tried to reach out, but the commands his brain sent went unheeded by his arms and legs.
With agonizing slowness, Lambert crumpled to the ground. He felt his heart thud against his chest wall in an erratic rhythm, at first a fast gallop, then slower and more irregular. He tried to breathe but couldn't satisfy his hunger for air. His calls for help came out as weak, strangled cries, like the mewling of a kitten.
Then the next wave of pain hit him — the worst pain he'd ever experienced, centered over his breastbone as though someone had impaled him with a sword. Lambert struggled to move, to cry out for help, to breathe. Through half-closed eyelids, he could barely see a patch of worn linoleum, topped by an ever-enlarging puddle beneath the soapstone sink. Then that vision and the world around it faded to black, and Ben Lambert died.
* * *
Dr. Josh Pearson tapped on the office door. "Nadeel, you wanted to see me?" Dr. Nadeel Kahn half-rose from behind his desk. Kahn was a small man — almost five eight compared with Josh's six feet plus. His accent was almost non-existent, probably worn off through years of medical school, residency, and practice. Normally, Josh's interaction with the managing partner of the Preston Medical Clinic was limited to an occasional "Hi" as they passed in the halls, plus phone calls about hematology patients Josh referred to the subspecialist. This summons to Kahn's office had come as a surprise.
Kahn motioned Josh inside. "Thanks for coming. Close the door and have a seat, would you?"
Josh did as Kahn asked. "What's up? I think this is the first time I've ever been called into your office." He tried to summon up a grin. "Am I in trouble?"
Kahn's expression never changed. "We'll wait to decide that until you hear both pieces of news I have for you." He leaned back in his desk chair and tented his fingertips under his chin. His dark eyes fixed on Josh's. He took a moment, apparently deciding how to deliver his message. When he spoke, his tone had turned serious. "As you know, our colleague, Ben Lambert, left a few days ago to accompany former president Madison on a trip to South America. The delegation was to consider locations for a free clinic Madison's foundation was considering setting up. Before he left, Ben approached me and said he thought it appropriate, as he got older, to prepare a younger colleague to care for David Madison should the need arise."
An idea took faint shape in Josh's mind, but he quickly rejected it. Surely not. He shook his head.
"Yes. He named you," Kahn said. "Ben told me he had already discussed it with Madison. They'd known each other for years — actually grew up together — and Madison trusted his friend. He said he was willing to go along with Ben's recommendation."
"I'm ... I'm flattered, I guess, but I have no idea why he'd choose me."
"Unfortunately, we can't ask Ben that question. I just got a phone call that he died earlier today of an apparent heart attack." Kahn rose from his chair. He reached across the desk and put his hand on Josh's shoulder. "I don't know whether to offer congratulations or sympathy. Josh, you're now the personal physician for David Madison, former president of the United States."
* * *
Tears formed in Rachel Moore's eyes as she stood on the tarmac of El Dorado International Airport in Bogotá¡, Colombia, watching the special metal coffin holding the earthly remains of Dr. Ben Lambert disappear into the cargo hold of the private jet. Dr. Lambert, I'm so sorry. I wish I could have done more.
An older man, the silver waves of his hair blowing slightly in the wind, stood beside her. As though he could read her thoughts, he said, "Don't beat yourself up, Rachel. No one could have predicted this. And you and the others did everything humanly possible. Ben was probably already dead when you found him." Then David Madison put his arm gently around her shoulders and hugged her.
"I guess I know that," she said. "But no one expected it. I mean, we all had physicals along with our immunizations before leaving, and he told me he was in tip-top shape for a man over sixty. Then, when we were eating lunch at the church, he was in the bathroom ..."
"I know. It's a shock. Ben Lambert was an old friend. We grew up together. And now he's gone." Madison took his arm away and looked down at the nurse. "You know you don't have to be the one to accompany his body back to Dallas. One of the other members of the party could do it."
"No, I think I need this to achieve some closure. You'll be coming back in a couple more days, and if there's a medical problem after I leave, you still have Dr. Dietz and Linda Gaston."
The door to the cargo hold closed with a thud, and Rachel shivered despite the tropic heat. She lifted her carry-on bag and started to turn away, but Madison stopped her.
"Ben must have sensed something like this might happen, because before we left he spoke to me about another physician he thought should take care of me if he couldn't." Madison hesitated. "I think you know him. Matter of fact, I imagine he's the one meeting you at the airport after you land."
"You mean Josh?"
"When you see him, please tell Dr. Pearson I need to see him as soon as I return."
* * *
The Preston Medical Clinic utilized cutting-edge technology in every aspect of its practice, and records were no exception. All the records were computerized, the information encrypted, ample backup in place. The primary difference between David Madison's records and others was that the former president's were more strongly encrypted and only available to the medical staff on a need-to-know basis. Now Josh had that need.
Most of the physicians had gone home for the day, but Josh was still at his computer studying David Madison's medical records, trying to prepare himself for what he anticipated was going to be his biggest job ever as a physician.
Did Ben Lambert have a premonition something like this might happen? Was that why he named Josh as his successor before leaving on the trip? Maybe there was a clue in his medical records.
Closing down Madison's record, Josh opened the one for Ben Lambert. His pre-trip physical had been just as thorough as the ex-president's ... maybe even more thorough. Then why would he have suffered a sudden heart attack and died? Josh figured it was something weird like a rhythm disturbance. He shook his head. No need for him to agonize over something that had already happened. Maybe the autopsy would tell them, maybe not.
But, no matter what was in Ben Lambert's medical records, whatever his autopsy would show, one thing remained a certainty. Dr. Ben Lambert was dead, and Josh Pearson was now the personal physician for the immediate past president of the United States.
* * *
It would be wonderful to get back home to Josh, Rachel thought. They'd been dating for a year, and this was the longest they'd been apart. A mutual friend had introduced them, warning her that he was still a bit fragile from the death of his wife a couple of years earlier. But Rachel rationalized that since her fiancé had dumped her before she moved to Dallas, perhaps she and Josh would be kindred spirits. They proved to be more than that, though. And this absence from him cemented it — her feelings for him were more than friendship. She'd fallen in love with Josh. And she could hardly wait to see him, to pick the right time to let him know.
Rachel looked out the window of the plane, trying to discern landmarks below. She'd always envied people who could look down at the metropolitan sprawl that was Dallas and say, "Oh, I can see my house" or "There's the building where I work."
Sometimes, if she was lucky, she might recognize the sprawling campus of the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center. On rare occasions, she might even be able to spot the Zale Lipshy Hospital where she worked — but not today. She wished she were there right now, checking on patients in the ICU, instead of escorting the body of a colleague back to his loved ones. A wave of guilt washed over her like the rain that streaked past the windows of the plane. Get over it, Rachel. You did all you could. But if that were true, why did something about it all simply feel wrong?
The plane dropped lower, and through the rain she was able to make out street lamps and car headlights. The touchdown was relatively smooth, and soon she heard the roar of reverse thrusters and the squeal of brakes as the pilot brought the jet to a slow rollout. This area of Love Field was reserved for VIPs, and certainly a plane chartered by former president David Madison qualified. She wondered who would meet her — besides Josh, of course. Exactly how would she accomplish the handoff of Dr. Lambert's body?
The jet rocked to a stop and the engine noise died. Rachel looked out the window and saw that the plane was probably a hundred yards from the terminal building. The male steward unfastened his seat belt and made his way back toward her. "Miss Moore, we're here. Are you ready to deplane?"
Rachel rose from her seat, took her carry-on bag from the steward, and moved toward the forward door, which had already been folded downward to form a short staircase. She grasped the wet handrail and descended the steps, which were already slippery from the rain. She avoided looking to her left as the airplane's cargo door opened. Dr. Lambert's coffin would be off-loaded soon, and she knew that seeing it would tear at her heart.
Then she saw Josh hurrying toward her, oblivious of the rain. His raincoat flapped behind him, the rain on his bare head turned his sandy hair to a helmet from which water streamed down a handsome face. Josh opened his arms toward her, and for the first time in what seemed like days, Rachel felt the clenched muscles in her shoulders relax.
* * *
As Josh had prepared for his trip to the airport to meet Rachel, he once again took a personal inventory and realized how blessed he was to find love once again. When Carol died two years ago, Josh felt as though his world ended. He was certain he'd never love again. But Rachel changed that. She'd brought sunshine into what had been, to that point, a dark world. Josh was determined not to let her go.
In his vehicle, he tried to imagine how she must feel. Josh knew it was up to him to comfort her and guide her through the next few hours and days. He just hoped he could do it.
He snagged a parking place in the short-term garage at Love Field. Despite a few wrong turns and false starts, Josh managed to navigate the route to where the private jet bearing Rachel would land. He planted himself where he had a good view of the tarmac outside, then stood peering through the large, rain-streaked plate glass window, as though by his actions he could make the plane arrive more quickly. Finally, he saw the small private jet land, traverse a couple of runways, and come to a stop. As soon as the plane door opened and the steps unfolded, he hurried across the tarmac to Rachel, ignoring the rain. He kissed her, then pulled her close to him and clasped her tightly, her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. He nestled his face in her soft brown hair and whispered, "I've missed you so."
"And I've missed you." He held her as though he'd never let go. Eventually Rachel pushed back and said, "I ... I guess I should see about —"
A middle-aged man in a black trench coat and dark felt hat approached them. He opened a black umbrella and held it over Rachel to shield her from the spring shower as he talked. "Excuse me," he said, in a voice as somber as his attire. "Miss Moore? I'm Bill Smith. President Madison's office arranged for us to meet the plane and take the body of Dr. Lambert."
"Oh. We ... we hadn't talked about the details." She looked uncertainly at Josh. "I guess it's okay."
"Could we see some identification?" Josh asked.
"Of course." Smith pulled out a wallet, which he opened to show a Texas driver's license bearing his name and photo. Then he brought out a card identifying him as a member of the National Funeral Directors Association.
"Thank you," Josh said. He turned to Rachel and gave a small nod.
Smith raised a clipboard in the hand not holding the umbrella. "If you'll just sign this form, we'll do the rest."
Rachel took the pen from under the clip and signed the paper. "And that's all?"
"Do I need to call someone to pick you up? Anything else we can do?" the man asked.
"I'll take care of her," Josh said.
As the hearse pulled away, Josh took Rachel's arm. "Let's get in out of the rain. What about your luggage?"
"I only have this carry-on. Mr. Madison said not to worry about the rest of my things — someone would pack them and send them back. I guess all I have to do right now is clear customs." She took Josh's hand. "I thought that once someone else took charge of Dr. Lambert's body, I'd feel some relief, but I don't ... I ... I ..."
"Later. We'll talk about it all you want, but right now let's get you home."
As they arrived at the glass door into the terminal, it slid back to reveal an older man wearing a black suit and a somber expression. "Miss Moore?"
"Yes. Did President Madison arrange for you to meet me?"
The man nodded and stepped back so Josh and Rachel could enter. "I apologize for being a few minutes late. There was an accident on Mockingbird Lane that held us up." He handed her a business card, then reached into the breast pocket of his coat and produced a three-page document. "I'm Vernon Wells with Sparkman Hillcrest Funeral Directors. The coach will be pulling around next to the plane in a moment. If you'll sign this, we'll take possession of Dr. Lambert's body."
CHAPTER 2Josh looked at Rachel, who stood in stunned silence, her mouth forming a tiny O. At this point, he figured the less said, the better. "Mr. Wells, there's been a mix-up." He gestured with the business card Wells had given him. "Someone will be in touch."
Wells said something about "mistakes happen, I guess." He left, a somewhat puzzled expression on his face.
Rachel looked as though she might throw up right there. "Oh, Josh. What have I done?"
Josh put his hand on her elbow and urged her further inside the terminal. "Obviously you hadn't been briefed on the hand-off of Lambert's body. Smith, if that's what his name was, showed proper identification. There was no reason to suspect the encounter was anything but routine. I don't think you could have handled it any differently."
An official waited for her a dozen steps further into the terminal. "Miss Moore? Mr. Madison asked me to meet you." He nodded toward Rachel's carry-on bag. "Do you have anything to declare?"
"What? No. No," Rachel said, in a distracted voice.
"Then you're free to go."
"I ... I have to make a call first," Rachel said.
The official said, "Follow me. There's a meeting room down here you can use."
Once they were inside the room, Josh thanked the man and closed the door behind them. Rachel took one of the swivel chairs arranged around an oval table and pulled out her cell phone. "I have the number of the satellite phone Jerry Lang carries."
As she punched in the numbers, Josh asked, "Who's Jerry Lang?"
"The head of the Secret Service detail assigned to guard the former president," Rachel said. "He's —" She cocked her head. "Jerry, this is Rachel Moore. I need to speak to Mr. Madison."
She listened for a moment. "I see. Well, please ask him to call me back at this number ASAP. It's urgent." She read off her cell number and ended the conversation. "He'll get back to me in a few minutes."
After a moment's silence, Rachel asked, "Should we notify the police?"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Miracle Drug by Richard L. Mabry. Copyright © 2015 Richard L. Mabry. Excerpted by permission of Abingdon Press.
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