Lethal Dose by Jeff Buick Page B
Authors: Jeff Buick
Tags: United States, Fiction, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, drugs, Pharmaceutical Industry, Corporations - Corrupt Practices, Side Effects, Medication Abuse
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enough money off the food she had to buy every few days. She smiled at the clerk as she left; it wasnât his fault.
The Texas sun was hot, the mercury pushing ninety-two, as she exited the store. It took less than a minute to load the bags in her trunk and return the cart to the small corral and retrieve her quarter. She plopped into the front seat and checked her watch. She could stop by the bank if she hurried; the kids wouldnât be out of school for another eight minutes. Her paycheck sat on the passengerâs seat, and she ripped off the stub showing her deductions as she waited for a traffic light. Fleetwood Mac played softly on her radio, and she twisted the knob slightly to the right. Stevie Nicksâs quivering voice shot shivers down her spine. The light changed and she hit the gas, singing along with Stevie.
Her bank was two blocks north of the supermarket and on the way to the kidsâ school. She pulled into the parking lot and lucked out with a spot right by the ATM. There was no line, and she took the open machine on the far left. Deposit envelopes were tucked in a slot next to the machine, and she pulled one out, slipped her check in, and licked the flap. It tasted tart, but she swallowed the glue residue and tucked the check in the opening. She glanced at the account balance and grimaced slightly. Why was money so hard to earn and so easy to spend? She returned to her car and dropped the slip of paper into the console between the two front seats. The dashboard clock read 3:15, the exact time her kids were released from classes. She swung out onto the road from the parking lot and gunned the car. Sheâd make it in time.
The taste from the envelope lingered on her tongue, and she scraped the top side against her upper teeth. First the grocery store charging three cents for plastic bags, now foul-tasting glue on the envelopes.
Why were the simple things getting complicated?
10
The law firm of Stevens and Hilbrecht was tucked away on the second floor of one of the old historical buildings on Harrison Street. On the side of the building was a prominent ghost sign in white paint on red brick, promoting the long-defunct Bronx Lounge. Parking was in a secluded lot behind the building, and Gordon left his BMW in the stall closest to the alley and entered through the rear door. A musty smell tickled his nostrils and he sneezed a couple of times. It happened every time he visited his lawyer.
The stairs were wooden and creaked slightly under his weight. He reached the second-floor landing and veered right, down the hall and into Christine Stevensâs office. Her receptionist and paralegal, Belinda, was manning the scarred wooden desk and smiled as he entered.
âHi, Gordon,â she said cheerfully. âChristine said to send you right in when you arrived.â
âThanks, Belinda.â He tried to force a smile, but he couldnât seem to force his lips to make the journey. He strode down the hall and into the second office on the left. A mid-thirties woman sat in the pewter and tanned-leather chair behind the desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was diminutive, no more than five-four, with a slender figure that probably fit into a size two, three at best. Her hair was dark brown with a few lingering streaks of color sheâd tried months back and realized she didnât like. Her face was chalk white and bony, and her teeth were too big for her mouth when she smiled. But this Friday morning, she wasnât smiling. She pointed to one of the chairs facing her desk, and Gordon sat. The chairs were more tanned leather on pewter frames and decidedly uncomfortable. They melded with the rest of the room, which was sparsely decorated with spindly halogen lamps and cold metal sculptures.
âIâve been on the phone for fifteen hours on this file, Gordon,â she said. Christine Stevens charged by the hour and didnât make idle conversation.
The Texas sun was hot, the mercury pushing ninety-two, as she exited the store. It took less than a minute to load the bags in her trunk and return the cart to the small corral and retrieve her quarter. She plopped into the front seat and checked her watch. She could stop by the bank if she hurried; the kids wouldnât be out of school for another eight minutes. Her paycheck sat on the passengerâs seat, and she ripped off the stub showing her deductions as she waited for a traffic light. Fleetwood Mac played softly on her radio, and she twisted the knob slightly to the right. Stevie Nicksâs quivering voice shot shivers down her spine. The light changed and she hit the gas, singing along with Stevie.
Her bank was two blocks north of the supermarket and on the way to the kidsâ school. She pulled into the parking lot and lucked out with a spot right by the ATM. There was no line, and she took the open machine on the far left. Deposit envelopes were tucked in a slot next to the machine, and she pulled one out, slipped her check in, and licked the flap. It tasted tart, but she swallowed the glue residue and tucked the check in the opening. She glanced at the account balance and grimaced slightly. Why was money so hard to earn and so easy to spend? She returned to her car and dropped the slip of paper into the console between the two front seats. The dashboard clock read 3:15, the exact time her kids were released from classes. She swung out onto the road from the parking lot and gunned the car. Sheâd make it in time.
The taste from the envelope lingered on her tongue, and she scraped the top side against her upper teeth. First the grocery store charging three cents for plastic bags, now foul-tasting glue on the envelopes.
Why were the simple things getting complicated?
10
The law firm of Stevens and Hilbrecht was tucked away on the second floor of one of the old historical buildings on Harrison Street. On the side of the building was a prominent ghost sign in white paint on red brick, promoting the long-defunct Bronx Lounge. Parking was in a secluded lot behind the building, and Gordon left his BMW in the stall closest to the alley and entered through the rear door. A musty smell tickled his nostrils and he sneezed a couple of times. It happened every time he visited his lawyer.
The stairs were wooden and creaked slightly under his weight. He reached the second-floor landing and veered right, down the hall and into Christine Stevensâs office. Her receptionist and paralegal, Belinda, was manning the scarred wooden desk and smiled as he entered.
âHi, Gordon,â she said cheerfully. âChristine said to send you right in when you arrived.â
âThanks, Belinda.â He tried to force a smile, but he couldnât seem to force his lips to make the journey. He strode down the hall and into the second office on the left. A mid-thirties woman sat in the pewter and tanned-leather chair behind the desk, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She was diminutive, no more than five-four, with a slender figure that probably fit into a size two, three at best. Her hair was dark brown with a few lingering streaks of color sheâd tried months back and realized she didnât like. Her face was chalk white and bony, and her teeth were too big for her mouth when she smiled. But this Friday morning, she wasnât smiling. She pointed to one of the chairs facing her desk, and Gordon sat. The chairs were more tanned leather on pewter frames and decidedly uncomfortable. They melded with the rest of the room, which was sparsely decorated with spindly halogen lamps and cold metal sculptures.
âIâve been on the phone for fifteen hours on this file, Gordon,â she said. Christine Stevens charged by the hour and didnât make idle conversation.
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