leave you alone, Dr. Kaz.”
“No need to explain. I’ve been through this so many times before, that it is routine.”
With the exception of a twin mattress, end table with a digital alarm clock, goose-neck lamp, copy of the Koran and several microbiology journals on it, and a prayer rug rolled up in a corner, the master bedroom was virtually bare. There were no pictures, no plants, nothing to warm the space. This was where Ahmed Kazimi slept and prayed and nothing more. It took only a minute for Burke to check the bathroom and closet, and beneath the bed, and to wave him up the final few stairs. Rodriguez and Vaill followed but stopped in the doorway.
Usually, as soon as the room was deemed safe, the detail retreated to the living area on the second floor. This time, though, Burke remained by the edge of the window, looking down below.
“Dr. Kaz,” he asked, “is that truck frequently parked in the alley?” Burke’s voice was tinged with concern.
Rodriguez and Vaill took several steps into the room.
Just as Kazimi reached Burke, and peered down below, the agent spun around impossibly quick, his weapon drawn. The gunshots—two of them—were deafening. Kazimi cried out and reflexively dropped to his knees, covering his ears. The stench of gunpowder filled the room and burned his nostrils. Just ten or so feet away, Maria Rodriguez’s head exploded as the bullet tore through the front of her skull.
Tim Vaill was reaching for his gun when Burke fired twice more. Kazimi was on the ground now, shaking violently, his hands still clutching his ears. He saw Vaill driven backward by a bullet to the front of his chest. His horrified expression at the sight of his wife would live in Kazimi’s mind as long as the terrible images of her corpse. Vaill was teetering on the top step when the second shot hit. His head snapped to the right, blood spurting from just above his left temple. He flew backward, tumbling down the stairs.
Kazimi was pulled to his feet by Burke and held there while the agent opened the window.
“It’s actually our dump truck parked in your alley,” Burke said. “Don’t worry, Doc, we put in plenty of padding.”
Before Kazimi could respond, he was falling. Three stories below, he landed softly in a pile of foam rubber. Before Kazimi could even move to get out of the bin, Burke landed beside him. The engine roared and the dump truck backed up onto the street. Kazimi felt a stinging jab at the base of his neck and saw Burke withdraw the syringe, then pin his arms to his sides.
In less than a minute, everything went dark.
CHAPTER 7
What one should expect from unemployment benefits is added unemployment and nothing more.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors , SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 111
The conference officially began the day following Lou’s trip to the CDC. While Cap stayed over at his aunt’s house until late afternoon, Lou spent the day attending workshops and lectures dealing with changes in the board of registration policies in various states, research studies on the success rate of physician monitoring, medical ethics, addiction treatment, and sadly, suicide prevention. His work for the PWO may have been emotionally taxing and frustrating at times, but as long as Walter Filstrup kept his distance, it was always fascinating.
The keynote address, from the man Filstrup was hoping to replace, dealt with the question of whether a physician health program should limit itself solely to reporting that a suspended doc had adhered to the provisions of their monitoring agreement. At the other end of the spectrum was allowing the director to step up and offer the licensing board a thoughtful, subjective evaluation of the physician’s recovery, and the likelihood of relapse, reminding the board that no matter what or who or where, whether it was a doc or a teacher, a quarterback or an airline pilot, there was never any sure
“No need to explain. I’ve been through this so many times before, that it is routine.”
With the exception of a twin mattress, end table with a digital alarm clock, goose-neck lamp, copy of the Koran and several microbiology journals on it, and a prayer rug rolled up in a corner, the master bedroom was virtually bare. There were no pictures, no plants, nothing to warm the space. This was where Ahmed Kazimi slept and prayed and nothing more. It took only a minute for Burke to check the bathroom and closet, and beneath the bed, and to wave him up the final few stairs. Rodriguez and Vaill followed but stopped in the doorway.
Usually, as soon as the room was deemed safe, the detail retreated to the living area on the second floor. This time, though, Burke remained by the edge of the window, looking down below.
“Dr. Kaz,” he asked, “is that truck frequently parked in the alley?” Burke’s voice was tinged with concern.
Rodriguez and Vaill took several steps into the room.
Just as Kazimi reached Burke, and peered down below, the agent spun around impossibly quick, his weapon drawn. The gunshots—two of them—were deafening. Kazimi cried out and reflexively dropped to his knees, covering his ears. The stench of gunpowder filled the room and burned his nostrils. Just ten or so feet away, Maria Rodriguez’s head exploded as the bullet tore through the front of her skull.
Tim Vaill was reaching for his gun when Burke fired twice more. Kazimi was on the ground now, shaking violently, his hands still clutching his ears. He saw Vaill driven backward by a bullet to the front of his chest. His horrified expression at the sight of his wife would live in Kazimi’s mind as long as the terrible images of her corpse. Vaill was teetering on the top step when the second shot hit. His head snapped to the right, blood spurting from just above his left temple. He flew backward, tumbling down the stairs.
Kazimi was pulled to his feet by Burke and held there while the agent opened the window.
“It’s actually our dump truck parked in your alley,” Burke said. “Don’t worry, Doc, we put in plenty of padding.”
Before Kazimi could respond, he was falling. Three stories below, he landed softly in a pile of foam rubber. Before Kazimi could even move to get out of the bin, Burke landed beside him. The engine roared and the dump truck backed up onto the street. Kazimi felt a stinging jab at the base of his neck and saw Burke withdraw the syringe, then pin his arms to his sides.
In less than a minute, everything went dark.
CHAPTER 7
What one should expect from unemployment benefits is added unemployment and nothing more.
—LANCASTER R. HILL, 100 Neighbors , SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1939, P. 111
The conference officially began the day following Lou’s trip to the CDC. While Cap stayed over at his aunt’s house until late afternoon, Lou spent the day attending workshops and lectures dealing with changes in the board of registration policies in various states, research studies on the success rate of physician monitoring, medical ethics, addiction treatment, and sadly, suicide prevention. His work for the PWO may have been emotionally taxing and frustrating at times, but as long as Walter Filstrup kept his distance, it was always fascinating.
The keynote address, from the man Filstrup was hoping to replace, dealt with the question of whether a physician health program should limit itself solely to reporting that a suspended doc had adhered to the provisions of their monitoring agreement. At the other end of the spectrum was allowing the director to step up and offer the licensing board a thoughtful, subjective evaluation of the physician’s recovery, and the likelihood of relapse, reminding the board that no matter what or who or where, whether it was a doc or a teacher, a quarterback or an airline pilot, there was never any sure
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