Chapter 14
"Farouk? That you?"
"Yes, Ted, it’s me. How are you this morning?"
"Good—great, in fact. Got a good night’s sleep last night. First time in about a week. I see you’re back at the office."
"Indeed, I am."
"So, your jaw’s feeling better?"
"It is. Thank you for asking. Still a little sore, but that’s to be expected. Is there anything I can help you with?"
"The Riley Case—I’ll keep this short; I know you’re busy. But I thought you should know, since we’re sharing information, that I examined the Baker woman at the morgue yesterday."
"You did?" Dr. Imran tried to sound detached, but a little pep bled through his voice in spite of himself.
"And I was right. There were bite marks all over her face and neck—at least on the parts that were still there. They definitely came from a dog. Which breed I don’t know, but it was probably one of the bigger ones; had to be. That part isn’t important. What is important is that the coroner found dried saliva on her neck. If only the virus didn’t die so quickly."
"Or if he could have obtained a sample while the saliva was still wet."
"It’s frustrating, I know. Unfortunately, that particular morgue didn’t have an electron microscope."
Ted laughed, and so did Farouk.
"Did you meet with the sheriff?" Imran asked.
Hubert coughed once and said, "No, and it’s really starting to piss me off. My other purpose for driving down there was to meet with him—I even told his secretary this on the phone. She said she’d pass my message along, but when I arrived there around noon, he was MIA. The second I walked through the door, though, she knew who I was—telling me to have a seat, Caldwell was out and should be back any minute. So I waited. What choice did I have? I was there for two and a half hours before I got up and left."
"So he left you hanging?" Imran ribbed.
Hubert chuckled. "Exactly. He reneged on his goddamn campaign promise. But then again, I’m not a resident of the county, so…"
"He still should have met with you. It’s professional courtesy."
"True. But the trip wasn’t a complete loss. I got to examine Mrs. Baker. The coroner was a nice enough fellow, but when I cornered him on how he could conclude that she’d been killed with a weapon—in this case a knife—when it was obviously an animal attack, he clammed right up. Then he pulled out the report and, sure enough, in black ink: ‘Cause of Death: Laceration of both carotid arteries. Severe hemorrhaging due to animal attack: Dog bite.’ I’m not making this shit up."
"I believe you, but do you think the sheriff will…what’s the best way to put it?…play ball?"
"He’ll have to! The wheels are already in motion. I spoke with the Riley police captain and made it clear that should anything like what happened on Monday occur again, and Price tries to step in and ‘oversee’ or ‘advise,’ he needs to call me right away. I don’t want that idiot screwing up another investigation. He’s done so once already, and the only reason he didn’t botch up the O’Brien case was because he was out of town for most of it."
"So what’s next?"
"First, the newspapers in Riley, Greenville, and Montgomery, are going to run similar articles in tomorrow’s editions stating that Mrs. Baker was attacked and killed by a dog and not murdered by an intruder, as Sheriff Price earlier claimed. We can’t tell them the dog has rabies, because we don’t know that for a fact, but we can tell them there’s a strong possibility that it does. Or did. I’m aware of the panic this may cause—reports of rabies have a way of doing that—but the TV and print news will lay out some guidelines that hopefully, when followed, will prevent people from reacting too rashly."
Farouk thought back to the phone call his wife received the night before. After hanging up, Nari had told him to make sure Pepper didn’t go outside—even in the backyard—without someone accompanying him. When he’d asked why, she had turned ashen and replied meekly, "Because they’re killing them in Riley."
"Ted," Imran said, "I think it might be too late. Is your field team still in Riley?"
"No. I pulled them out Tuesday afternoon. They were finished with the O’Brien case, and by then Price was already covering up the facts on the Baker woman."
Something clicked in Imran’s mind. He could almost feel the snap—like the spark between his fingertips and a brass doorknob on a cool, dry day—as the question he should have asked forty-eight hours ago suddenly came to him. "Ted, why did you suspect a dog had killed her when all you had to go on was what Price reported? I realize there were probably rumors floating around, and your team would have likely heard some of them, but the county sheriff said she was murdered. What made you not believe him?"
Hubert remained silent for a few seconds. Imran thought he had lost him, when he finally responded. "That’s a funny thing, because now that you mention it, we received an anonymous phone call late Monday evening from a man claiming to be an officer in the Riley police department—a whistle blower, I guess you could say—who obviously didn’t care for the…nontruths…Price was spreading. He claimed to be the first person on the scene and also the first to view Mrs. Baker’s body. In his professional opinion, she definitely had not been murdered. He went on to describe her throat and face and lots of other details I won’t get into. He also said that as soon as Price showed up, he told him to get lost. I listened to the recording of his call myself, and he sounded legit to me. He had a weird accent, though. Southern, but not from around here."
Imran considered this. He knew Ted was telling him the truth, but he also felt he had to ask the next logical question. "Was that all it took to convince you Price was a liar—one anonymous phone call?"
To this, Ted Hubert said, "Did you see Price on channel thirty-two two days ago?"
"No."
"Well, I did. He was interviewed live during the midday broadcast. By pure luck I happened to have the TV in my office tuned to it, and what I saw on the screen, Farouk, was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. As soon as that sheriff of yours opened his mouth, I knew right away he was lying. I just didn’t know why he was lying, and that irked me. ‘What‘s he trying to cover up?’ I asked myself. Shortly after, I called you."
"Ted," Imran announced abruptly. "I should have mentioned this earlier, but I have a patient waiting on me. It’s been nice talking to you, though, and I appreciate you keeping me up-to-date. But I really do need to get going."
"I understand," Ted replied. "I’ve got things to take care of myself—Farouk?"
"Yes."
"It’s been good talking to you, too. Before you called out of the blue a couple of days ago, I hadn’t heard from you in years."
"I know."
"Six—at least."
"I know, Ted. I don’t keep in touch like I should."
Hubert’s voice took on a lonesome tone as he added, "Don’t be a stranger now." He chuckled briefly into the line.
Don’t forget about me was what Imran thought he had meant to say.
"I won’t, Ted. Goodbye now."
As soon as he hung up, Farouk knew that he would be a stranger, that he would forget about him. That was just how he was. It made him sick to think about how, a week ago, Ted Hubert had been just another number in his rolodex—a long lost, forgotten friend whom he hadn’t thought about in years—until the vulgar, fat kid came into his life, that is. Now Ted was out of his life once again. He had served his purpose and was of no use to him anymore. Back in the rolodex. Out of sight, out of mind (Until I need him again). Imran had done what he believed to be the right thing by telling Ted about the kid with the raccoon bite, and he thought he had lent a sympathetic ear when Hubert had felt the need to rant about Sheriff Price and his cover-ups. He had done his duty and then some.
Keep telling yourself that, Farouk. Keep telling yourself he’s a colleague and not a fellow human being. You don’t even remember his wife’s name. What kind of friend are you? You were inseparable in medical school, and now
all he is to you is a contact, a phone number. Why didn’t you ask him if he feels the ground moving beneath his feet?
"Dr. Imran, are you okay?"
Farouk looked up to the sound of Laura’s voice.
He managed an affable smile, but with his heavy beard it was all but invisible. "Yes, Laura. I’m fine."
"Would you like some coffee? I made a fresh pot."
He waved her away politely. "No thanks," Then, referring to a room number: "Which one is he in?"
"Number three."
Imran nodded and left. Marching down the long hallway, it suddenly hit him. He had forgotten to tell Hubert what they were doing to dogs in Riley.
He’ll hear about it eventually he told himself, reaching for the doorknob to Exam Room 3. As he turned the metal sphere, the ground shifted two inches to the left. Vertigo, he thought. Better keep an eye on that. If it gets worse, I probably should see a doctor.
Then he laughed, but he didn’t know why.
Because it wasn’t funny.
Not funny at all.
An impish voice then spoke up: his betrayer, the part of him that reassured the crazy notion that the earth was, in fact, sliding toward a black void and carrying him along with it. And the voice told him to relax, to go with the flow, to not fight it, because it would all be over before he knew it.
What’s on the other side? he asked it. He listened for an answer, and when one didn’t come, he pressed: Do we fall off, or do we stick to the ground and roll over to the other side? Do we eventually return to where we started? Answer me, damn it!
The imp in his head stayed quiet.
Like the friend who says he’ll call but never does.