Why would a doctor want to make sure that certain tests weren’t seen? Because they made a mistake and didn’t want to get caught? No, doctors did make mistakes, but dozens? And those were only the files I had a chance to go through. The center performed thousands of procedures a year under Dr. Huntley. Maybe he wasn’t trying to hide an honest mistake but trying to cover up something intentional and so evil that it’s nearly incomprehensible? Maybe he was treating perfectly healthy people for cancer they didn’t have.
Jo Ellen’s file isn’t going to be enough, though. If Dr. Huntley finds out I stole these files, then just like Gwen I’m in danger too. At least the bad weather will keep him away from me for the time being.
Next I tackle the billing files that I swiped from the office. They are billing sheets and patient records. Dozens of them. And from what I left behind in his office there were hundreds and hundreds more. What I find in these files is mind-boggling and bone-chilling.
One patient’s file shows that Dr. Huntley was ordering chemo treatment for a cancer that was in remission. The accompanying billing statement had the cost being upward of eight thousand dollars per month for the drug. Several files are for end-of-life patients who are clearly listed as terminal and yet are being administered chemo treatments that cost thousands and thousands of dollars.
When I look up again, it’s after 1:00 a.m. After reading through all these documents I feel dirty and ill. The scope of Dr. Huntley’s malpractice is overwhelming.
But I still feel like I need more. Rachel Nava. She had dropped her files all over the floor when she collapsed in the waiting room. I meant to take the file to her while she was in the hospital. At first I thought that Lori was just being thoughtful when she called me to return the contents to the clinic so they could take care of getting it to her. But maybe it wasn’t even Lori who called me. I couldn’t actually hear the voice on the other line, just saw the words across my phone display. It could have been Huntley for all I know.
Rachel Nava’s file is still in the Jeep; in my hurry to leave the clinic today after being fired I didn’t even think about giving it to Lori. Maybe there is something in there I’m not supposed to see.
The yard is a swirl of white. At least three more inches have fallen and there’s no sign of it letting up.
I root around in the backseat and I pull Rachel’s thick file from the floor where I left it. I go back inside and begin to read.
I flip through the various billing paperwork again and find a curious coincidence. I had assumed that because Dr. Huntley was affiliated with Queen of Peace, he would have used the Q & P pharmacy. Not the case. The pharmacy listed on the billing record is named Midwest Comprehensive Pharmacy Services or MCPS. I compare this to Rachel Nava’s records—same pharmacy. I’ve never heard of it. Though I need to dig deeper, I’m willing to bet that Dr. Huntley is a silent but very profitable partner in MCPS.
I go back to the beginning of the file and read each page word by word. Rachel was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, incurable, often deadly, but manageable with immunoglobin injections and chemo.
It takes me the better part of an hour, but I finally find Rachel’s earliest lab results, the results that led to her diagnosis. I read the pages over and over again. No plasma cell tumor, no high blood calcium levels, kidney function is fine, no abnormal MRIs, no elevated plasma cells in the bone marrow. Except for a slightly low red blood cell count or anemia, there is absolutely no indication that Rachel Nava had cancer. Ever. Despite this, it doesn’t appear that anyone questioned Dr. Huntley’s diagnosis. But why would someone question the judgment of a well-respected, brilliant oncologist whom patients and colleagues love?
I thought it was bad before, but this is nearly unimaginable. Once Dr. Huntley realizes that some of his paperwork is missing—that this particular paperwork is missing—I’m in deep trouble. I send Jake another text. Call me, please. Doesn’t matter what time. I’m not going to be able to sleep at all tonight so I also decide to document all that I’ve learned in an email and send it to Jake.
I sit down again at the computer when Stitch comes to my side. He wants to go outside again. I let him out and then step into the pair of snow boots I left by the door to go out after him. “Stitch, ke mne!” I call. The snow has stopped, the sky has cleared and the moon is glowing as brightly as a lantern.
That’s when I see the tracks. It’s the unmistakable teardrop-shaped impressions that can only be left by snowshoes. They appear just at the tree line and wind around to behind my house.
Who is snowshoeing on my property? My mind tries to lock on any logical explanation. Could it be Evan enamored by the first big snowfall of the year and impatient to try out his snowshoes? I look up at his house on the bluff. It is dark and still. No, it isn’t Evan. Someone camping and caught out in the snowstorm trying to get to shelter? No. That doesn’t make sense.
Curiosity pulls me around the corner of the house and there, lying in the snow, I find Stitch writhing on his back.
“Stitch, ke mne,” I whisper. “Ke mne.” He can’t get up. I go to his side and drop to my knees. “Please,” I say, but still he thrashes in pain. A new terror crashes through me. He’s here.
The man comes around the corner, dressed all in black, his face obscured by the shadows and the hood pulled up over his head but I know who it is. I have to get inside. I have to leave Stitch where he is. I get up and scramble to the door and manage to get inside, sliding the door shut and inserting the wooden stick just as Huntley slams his gloved hands against the glass.
My phone. I need to call 9-1-1 and get help. I pat my pockets, frantically looking for it but it’s not here. I’ve had it with me all night. I spin around, searching, scouring the living room for any sign of it. Huntley and I see it at the same time, in the snow, just off to the right of where Stitch’s spasms are just starting to ease. It must have fallen out of my pocket. A slow grin spreads across Dr. Huntley’s face and I watch in horror as he snowshoes over next to Stitch, bends over, picks up my phone and puts it in his pocket.
He then holds up another object. A gun, I think. He points it at Stitch and presses it against his flank. A stun gun. Again, Stitch squirms piteously and I’m useless in helping him.
My landline is just a room away. I turn and dash toward the kitchen counter. All I need to do is dial 9-1-1 and help will be on the way. I try not to think about the snow-covered roads and how long it will take for help to arrive. I reach the phone and just as I pick up the receiver the house goes black. The small green light on the phone that shows me I have a connection is gone. He’s pulled the power on the outside of the house.
The dark, to me, is something dense and viscous. It fills my throat and my lungs. My limbs feel heavy with the weight of it. Though I can’t hear it, I feel the desperate moan of fear emerge from deep within my chest. My heart begins to race, a pulsing throb. I hold my hand against my chest as if hoping to still the thrum. Blindly, I run my hand along the neck of my lamp, feeling for the switch. No matter which way I turn the knob, the room remains steeped in darkness. I can’t see or hear anything. It feels like being in a black hole.
I know he’s here to shut me up. I try to calm my ragged breathing. I’m getting light-headed and dizzy. The only thing worse than having a panic attack in the dark would be having a panic attack and then passing out in the dark. I try to fight the surge of fear that sweeps through me but I know the more I claw against it, the worse things will get.
My flashlight. It’s upstairs. I scrabble up the steps, tripping as I go, knocking my knees against the wood. I reach my room, throw the door shut and lock it. I feel along the walls until I find my bedside table and open the drawer. My hands land on the flashlight and with relief I switch it on. A narrow beam of light appears. I inch my way to the head of my bed and pull aside the curtains, knowing there will be light on the other side.
I peek out t
he window, hoping to get a sense of where Huntley is. The snow has stopped and the sky has cleared. The light from the full moon spreads out across the yard like a silver cloak. The feathery branches of the pine trees that skirt the property are flocked in white. A stunning sight under normal circumstances. There is no sign of Huntley. If he’s intent in getting inside he will. There’s nothing to stop him unless Evan Okada realizes that someone is trying to break into my house.
Stitch has disappeared. My hope is that he crawled off into the woods and to safety.
I scan the room. My hiding places are limited. I can squeeze beneath the bed or hide in the closet. I’m fit and strong. I could try and fight off Huntley. I’m confident I can take him on, but I have no idea what kind of weapon he might be carrying in addition to the stun gun. I think of Gwen. Her death was drawn out and brutal. There’s no way I’m going down without a fight.
My eyes swing back to the window. I have no idea if he’s in the house yet. How long will he wait until creeping up the stairs to come for me? I look at the window. What if he’s outside, hiding in the shadows, waiting for me to try to get outside to my Jeep? “Shit,” I say out loud. My car keys are downstairs. Never have I missed my hearing more than now. It’s enough to spur me into action, and I grab a down running jacket from my closet and pull it on.
I unlock the window and push up on the sash but it doesn’t budge. Come on, come on, I urge. Cold air bites at my fingers and I push harder until the window rises slightly. Inch by inch I force the window upward until I think it’s wide enough that I can squeeze through the opening.
I look around the dim room for something with which to cut the screen. I don’t want to have to kick it out with my feet. I know the noise will alert Huntley and shave away precious seconds from my escape. I find a ballpoint pen rolling around in the drawer of my bedside table. I wedge the point of the pen into one of the tiny mesh openings and wiggle it around until it rips. I pocket the pen and use my fingers to pull at the ragged edges of screen, the thin metal wires poking sharply into my skin, drawing blood. At least I’m leaving evidence behind, I tell myself. I work at widening the tear, almost ready to give up and kick it out, no matter the noise it makes, when it finally gives and the opening is big enough for me to crawl through.
I turn and stare at the door. I still don’t know if he’s got into the house yet. I lower myself to the floor to peek through the narrow crack between the bedroom door and the floor. It’s too dark to be able to see if anyone is coming up the steps. I try to steady my breathing, close my eyes and lay my cheek against the hardwood and spread my fingers flat against the floor.
He knows I can’t hear him. But I feel each step he takes. I feel the tremor in my jaw first. It’s barely perceptible, but it’s there. It slowly spreads to my fingers. I try to be patient. The vibration grows stronger with each of his footfalls. He’s coming.
I leap to my feet and shove the flashlight into the pocket of my jacket and pull the hood up over my head and tuck my hands into the sleeves to protect myself from any more cuts and scrapes. I scramble over the bed and squeeze through the slit and slide out onto the snow-covered window box. I pray to God it holds. I reach inside and try to pull the curtains back together to conceal my handiwork, and pull the window shut. Maybe the darkness will confuse him for a few minutes before he realizes I’m gone.
The window box sits about fifteen feet above the ground. My feet dangle over the precipice and I try to decide how best to get the rest of the way down. As a teenager, my bedroom was on the main floor, so sneaking out of our house in the wee hours of the night was no problem. I could tuck and roll, easily popping up and onto my feet or I could simply leap from the window box and hope for a soft landing in the newly fallen two feet of snow below. I discard both thoughts. I’m forty and I have a feeling that one misstep will end my escape before it barely begins.
I twist my body so that I’m facing the house and then clutch onto the edge of the window box and lower myself so that I’m dangling the remaining nine or ten feet above the ground. I take a deep breath, knowing that there is no going back now. I brace my body for the impact and release my fingers from the wooden box. I fall fast, the soles of my feet breaking through the snow and striking the ground beneath. A concussion of pain radiates through my legs and they crumple beneath me. I lie on my back for a moment, stunned that the window box held.
I know I have to keep moving. Huntley had to hear the clatter from my fall. He’ll be coming soon. I get to my feet and plan my next steps. The quickest route is to make a dash up the bluff and directly to Evan’s house. But that means coming out into the open. If Huntley has a gun I will be spotted in an instant. Dead in an instant. My best bet is to head into the woods and come up the bluff from the other side under cover of the trees.
I sidle up as close to the house as I can. The shades are drawn so I can’t see inside but I do see how Huntley managed to gain entrance into my house. He has removed the screen from my laundry room window, knocked through the glass and climbed inside. With Stitch incapacitated, Huntley knew that Stitch wouldn’t bark or react when he broke in. Stitch wouldn’t hear a thing. And neither would I.
I want to find Stitch, tell him how sorry I am. I know that Stitch wouldn’t leave me alone if our positions were reversed. He would stay by my side and protect me to the death. I want to tell him that this was my way of protecting him, that I will go get help and come back for him as soon as I can but there isn’t time.
Right now, besides Huntley, the snow is my biggest enemy. Just as Huntley had left his snowshoe prints behind, I will give away my location through the trail I leave. Imagining Huntley behind me, gun in hand, the back of my head in his crosshairs, I zigzag the fifty yards toward the tree line. The snow is deep, coming up to just below my knee in some spots and it’s all I can do to stay upright. In this one brief moment I’m thankful for my hearing loss. If death is coming I’m hopeful it will come instantly.
I duck behind a snow-covered white pine, jostling its branches so that a flurry of snow showers over me. I peer through the branches to see if Huntley is in pursuit. No sign of him. His snowshoes sit casually up against the house as if he were just a passerby stopping in for a visit. I wish I had thought to take them. If he puts the snowshoes back on to hunt for me he will be at a great advantage. He will be able to cross distances much more quickly than I will. Snowshoes, while they appear large and cumbersome, actually distribute your weight over a larger area so you don’t sink completely into the snow, like my size-eight snow boots are doing now.
The moon, while a godsend in my bedroom, has now become a detriment. Huntley will have no problem seeing me beneath its bright, full face. I don’t dare turn on my flashlight.
At last count I now have at least four strikes against me. No Stitch, the deep snow, the bright, full moon, my inability to hear. But I do have one thing that I’m pretty sure Huntley doesn’t. I know these woods, the paths, the bluffs, the way the river cuts through the land. I know it with my eyes closed, I know it by the feel of the earth beneath my feet.
My bedroom curtains sway and then open. A dark figure stands in the window. It’s impossible to see his face but I know it’s Huntley. He is dressed in dark clothing, his head covered with a black stocking cap, his coat zipped up and a scarf concealing the lower half of his face. Though I know he can’t see me in my hiding spot, he can see my footprints. It’s time to go. My first instinct is to stay just inside the tree line, just out of sight and to make my way toward Evan Okada’s house. I know the floodlights will go on the minute I step foot into his yard. I will be safe. But I need to be smart about this, because murderer, monster that Huntley is, he’s smart too. He is sure to anticipate that very move. There is only one passable way up to Evan’s house and all he needs to do is wait for me to try and take it.
“Help!” I scream over and over again, hoping beyond hope that Evan will hear. “Please!”
No lights appear on the bluff. Has Evan gone out? Or maybe he can’t hear me. I look to my cabin. Huntley has come back outside. He sees my tracks, he hears my shouts. “Evan, help me!” I yell. Calmly, as if he has all the time in the world, Huntley puts on the snowshoes and starts toward me. Still no movement from Evan’s house. Where is he?
I can think of only one thing to do. It could be the craziest plan, it could be the deadliest, but it’s my only choice. I turn and start running toward the river.
23
Going down to the river may be what kills me but right now it feels like my only option. The more deeply I go into the forest the thicker the trees become, making it impossible for Huntley to squeeze between the brush and he’ll have to take off his snowshoes, putting us on more even ground, so to speak. By following the river, I also have more of a chance of losing him. There are dozens of channels and paths that I know inside and out. If I can just make it a mile upriver, there’s an old abandoned access road nearby that will eventually take me to Old Highway 3 and to help.
Though one mile doesn’t sound like a very long distance, I know that the deep snow and my inadequate gear will make it treacherous. I need to put as much space as I can between us, and the only way I know how to do that is to run. My gait is awkward at first. I try to step high, lifting my knees so that my feet clear the top of the snow but I know I won’t make much progress at this rate. Next I try to shorten my stride and keep my feet lower to the ground. Though the snow is deep, it isn’t particularly heavy and I move a bit more easily through it. It takes me about five minutes but I find a decent rhythm. The deeper I go into the forest the darker it becomes. The low-hanging, naked branches cast long gnarled shadows across the snow. Occasionally, I slip and grab onto a branch or tree trunk to steady myself.
I try to stay aware of my surroundings without losing precious time glancing back over my shoulder to see if Huntley is catching up to me. I see no other signs of life. No deer or raccoons, no owls. My guess is that despite my best efforts, I’m making a hell of a lot of noise and scaring everything away. If this weren’t so terrifying, it would be a beautiful night for snowshoeing. My biggest fear is tripping over a tree root or rolling my ankle on the uneven terrain. Both likely to happen more than once by the time I reach the old access road. If I break an ankle, it’s over.