An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller Read online

  He seemed about her age, medium height, with broad shoulders and a muscular body. His physique was wrapped by an open windbreaker, but underneath, his tight plaid shirt emphasized a loose belly. He wore corduroy pants, too short to meet his white sneakers.

  Efron was convinced she’d never seen him before. For a moment, through the haze of shock that engulfed her, she considered checking whether she’d taken the wrong elevator.

  “Professor Efron.”

  What the hell was going on in her living room?

  The man shifted his position again, and she saw that he was holding a golf club with both hands, a white glove on one, his whole body tense with concentration. His eyes bounced to and fro, as if estimating the distance from the wall to the small ball perched on an improvised tee, which was no less than an inverted saucer belonging to a valuable porcelain set inherited from her aunt.

  Then he suddenly swung the club and hit the ball, which rose and flew straight into an ashtray placed near the wall, under the window that faced the river.

  The man turned around and crowed like a bright pupil winning a trophy. “There!”

  He clicked his heels, like a soldier standing to attention, and bowed. “My name is Gibbons—Jeff Gibbons from Medionetyx. What a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Indeed, you paid us a short visit in Gary, but we never had a chance to talk face to face.”

  What was he talking about? Now she noticed that her whole collection of rare porcelain ashtrays—family heirlooms—was scattered on the floor, some raised on an incline, at measured distances.

  The uninvited guest had converted her living room into a mini golf course.

  The man leaned over, pulled out another ball from his pocket, and teed it up on an upside-down demitasse from the same porcelain set. “Come, please, it’s your turn now.”

  Seeing that she remained motionless, he reached and pulled her to him, first caressing, and then forcibly encompassing her entire body with one muscular arm. He offered her the club. “Try it, I dare you. C’mon, loosen up. It’s uncomfortable to putt like this.”

  He stripped off her coat, unbuttoned her shirt cuffs, and rolled the sleeves above her elbows. As he helped her hold the club, she could not control her shaking hands.

  Gibbons whistled the waltz from The Merry Widow. He stood behind her, clinging to her back, his hands on her arms, holding the club tightly together. “Here, not like this. You’re too tense.”

  He shook her arms, moving her hands up and down at a sharp angle. “A little massage, Professor—splendid, splendid.”

  Lucy Efron remained frozen. He didn’t give up. He continued with a gentle massage, his sour, whiskey-soaked breath near her earlobe.

  “Ready?”

  He waved her hands back and they came down as the club and the ball connected with a precise bang. Although the porcelain cup remained intact, a loud explosion ensued.

  “Oops!” He shrugged sheepishly.

  The ball had whistled and torn a hole in the giant window, continuing in a parabolic leap into the river. Wind began to whistle through the hole in the window, which was now decorated with large cobwebs of cracked glass. The curtains flapped fiercely, like sails on a mast.

  “My boss is angry,” he said, still holding her. “Very, very angry.” Then, suddenly, he let her go. She retreated to the wall, her hands folded in front of her in an effort to control the tremor. “He wants test tube #12.”

  “But we discussed it on the phone. I told him I’ve signed a contract with Oculoris.”

  Gibbons said nothing. He placed another ball on an inverted cup. With a loud ringing sound, it went sailing into a funnel under the teacart.

  He bounced back joyfully, beat his chest with a closed fist in an ape-like gesture, reached into his pocket, and pulled out another ball.

  “It’s their substance,” she said to his back. “They bought it. They paid for it.”

  Gibbons frowned in concentration. He held up a finger as if he had just remembered something and reached for the back pocket of his corduroys. Efron wondered how many balls were left in his pockets. But this time, he pulled out an envelope. He spun it around so she could see her name written on the front, and the Medionetyx logo on the upper left corner. Without a word he peeled open the envelope and shook it lightly until the tip of a check peeped over the edge.

  She leaned forward. “Mr. Lister doesn’t understand. I have a signed contract. It’s out of my hands.”

  “Mr. Lister doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  Gibbons placed the envelope on the edge of the table. Even after resuming his stance, he glanced in the direction of the table.

  Efron didn’t touch the envelope; she even avoided looking at it.

  “Don’t you want to see the figure? You should. You’ll get dizzy counting the zeroes. My boss is known for his generosity. He is offering you a second chance, a new chapter. After all, what does Bernie have that we don’t?”

  “That’s not the point. I signed already. I’m afraid it’s final.”

  After two more hits—one successful, the other wrecking the cup that had survived their joint putting effort—Gibbons stopped and scratched his ear.

  “Final, you say. Hmmm…” he mumbled to himself. He gazed at the porcelain shards, but there was no gesture of apology. On the contrary, he seemed invigorated. His smile widened.

  A whistle cut the air. The golf club passed like a sudden breeze at the side of her ear. As if by mistake, on its way down, it gained momentum and hit her leg, half distance between the knee and the ankle. He let out a tiny “Oops.”

  She had no time to scream. Tears stung her eyes. Efron stumbled back and clutched the wall. She leaned against it, then bent to clutch her swelling tibia. A dark and tender spot spread rapidly under the skin, between the muscle fibers. She tried to stand on her right leg, but the pain was unbearable, and she crumpled in a spasm against the kitchen counter.

  “I’m so sorry.” Gibbons dropped the club to the floor and put his hands on his cheeks dramatically. He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped her tears, and hinted back to the envelope.

  But she shook her head firmly. “The tube is not here,” she said, breathing erratically.

  Gibbons smiled. “I see that you understand. My car is downstairs.” He reached out and helped her stand up. “After you, Professor.”

  “No, no. I need to make a call. I need…” She had a sudden wave of dizziness. “I need fresh air,” she said, her breath crackling. “I have to go out—”

  Gibbons lifted her and carried her to the balcony. There was a lull in the rain. Even the wind had died. Moonlight filtered through the clouds, flooding the railing and the planters with light.

  He placed her carefully on a chair, but she stood and hobbled to the distant corner, toward another chair, as far from him as possible. In her final effort she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

  Gibbons sighed impatiently. She didn’t have to look up to know he was right above her. “I don’t like it when people play games with me, Professor.”

  Efron tried to rise, but her right leg remained straight and disobedient.

  “Nobody refuses Mr. Lister and gets away with it.”

  Gibbons lifted her from the ground in one sweep. For a moment she thought he was going to throw her over the rail, and she shook her head in horror. But he let her go and she stumbled to the wall.

  His face was close to hers. “Dr. Nouri says hello.”

  “Ashraf?” She whispered, “We shared a lab in our post-doc in Washington.”

  Gibbons took a ball out of his pocket—it looked different from the others. Although the size was very similar to the golf balls he had used, this one was gray with mottled pink spots, like a badminton ball. It had a tiny plume behind.

  The man bounced the ball and threw it at the wall beside her, where it bounced up and down in
growing arches, like a giant drunken mosquito.

  “A new type of ball, an improved prototype,” he said, his eyes shining. “Ashraf gave it to me.” But he immediately corrected himself: “Well, not exactly gave.”

  18

  Friday

  I awoke with a sour taste in my mouth.

  I had no idea what day it was or even what the time was. What finally aroused me was the cold porcelain of the bathtub and the foam residue that tickled the hairs under my thighs. And then I remembered—Johanna was waiting for me with coffee.

  I leaped out of the bathtub, unstable and dripping from my groin. I looked through the door and blinked. There was no sign of Johanna. Her clothes had disappeared from where I left them, piled up for her. Maybe she was in my bedroom? I peeped inside, calling her name, but there was no response.

  I realized that it was actually not the cold that had awakened me, but the sound of a door screeching. At first, I thought I’d forgotten to close the bedroom blinds or window but realized in the hallway that I’d misidentified the source of the noise. My front door was open, moving back and forth, creaking as the wind rolled in and whistled in the stairwell. The blue emergency light cast a shadow over the rail.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and closed the door. Then I heard a cough—from inside my apartment.

  I turned so quickly that the edges of my towel billowed like a dress.

  Judd, my next-door neighbor and Wilbur’s ‘dad,’ stood in my kitchen in a pool of darkness. He was a confused rich kid who refused to grow up and had never overcome his morbid curiosity. When he saw an open door, he simply let himself in.

  “Hi, butterfly!” He greeted me with his usual fanfare. Judd had a strange glint in his eyes and was bathed in the sweet smell of marijuana. Unlike me, he was wearing flannel pajamas, padded slippers, and a pompom hat. Judd had grown up in the north of England and had preserved several childhood habits.

  “I saw the door open. I heard voices. I realized you were still awake.”

  I remembered locking the door. It must have been Johanna—she’d left and hadn’t closed the door properly. Why the haste? Where to? Had Judd noticed her?

  “Judd, this is important. Did you see anyone leaving my apartment?”

  “Huh? You mean, like, when—now? You had a guest?” Judd frowned, struggling to keep upright. “No, I didn’t see anyone.” Then his mouth gaped slyly. “Hey, I didn’t know you were so naughty. You had a woman here, didn’t you?”

  My teeth chattered angrily. I was irrationally furious with Judd. He was a chronic voyeur; how dare he notice all my random visitors—handymen, parcel deliveries, Bible solicitors—and not have seen Johanna exiting my apartment when it was so important? Her hasty departure worried me.

  Finally, I murmured, “I thought you were at that workshop.”

  “Postponed by one day on account of the weather. We were supposed to be in Cumberland Gap, but all the roads are flooded. I’m leaving in a while. I’ll take Wilbur for his stroll and fill his bowl, but remember to take him out again this evening. And water the plants.”

  “What day is it anyway?” I wrinkled my forehead. “What’s the time?”

  Judd chuckled. “I don’t know. I fell asleep.”

  I searched for my glasses, moving past Judd and fumbling on the counter behind him. I found an old pair under a pile of mail I was too lazy to sort.

  I reached for the light switch, and bluish light from the bagel-like ceiling fixture suddenly flooded the kitchen. I gazed at Judd. What was he doing in my apartment?

  Judd immediately read the expression on my face. “My main power fuse blew, and I was wondering if you might have a spare flashlight or matches or something.”

  I opened a drawer, then another one. I felt around, dug deep, and found a matchbox. I turned around and shoved it into the palm of his hand. I was sure he had enough candles—for his birthday he’d arranged scented candles in the form of ‘30’ on his bedroom floor and lit them all. The smoke detector screamed its lungs out for a long time, heard all the way to the Baptist seminary and the fire station.

  I grabbed him by the elbow and hustled him toward the door. But Judd shook me off and advanced decisively toward my fridge. “D’you have any milk?”

  “You’re making coffee?” I cried. “Now?”

  “No, I have a little heartburn after smoking a hookah.”

  I poured him a glass of milk. He wanted to stay and drink in my kitchen, but I urged him—with my glass in his hand—toward the front door, and nudged it shut behind him with my knee. I stayed leaning on it until I heard him close his door across the hall. I exhaled. Good riddance.

  A sour taste rose in my mouth like cud, and I had a strong sense of levitation. Had there been something wrong with the beer? I opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a Coke, planning to rinse the taste out of my mouth, then nap. I’d leave the cellphone at a safe distance from my pillow, so as not to miss Johanna if she called.

  At exactly that moment, my coat pocket buzzed from the vibrating mobile.

  Johanna. I lunged for the coat rack and yanked the device from the depths of my pocket. I held the phone to my ear.

  And my soul froze, all at once.

  At first, I didn’t recognize the voice. It did not seem to belong to the spectrum of human sounds—more like a wounded animal wailing. Something terrible had happened to Johanna. But wait! This was—

  “You have to come to my place, immediately.”

  The rigid and sharp-tongued woman, the brilliant scientist who was always quick and sarcastic in her response to everything, was now weeping bitterly, swallowing syllables to such an extent that I barely understood her. From the bizarre cracking noise in the background, I realized she wasn’t alone.

  “Something happened to you, Professor?”

  “No. No, I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I just need a favor. I wouldn’t have bothered you at this hour if it weren’t urgent. You must come here—now, at once—and most importantly, bring with you the tube I gave you today. You know, test tube #12.”

  I gawked at the phone in my hand. Another surprise in a day full of surprises—or was it already tomorrow? There was something mesmerizing in her voice that postponed my impending yawn. I blinked and searched for the kitchen wall clock, then remembered that I had unhooked it when the battery died.

  “Hello? Are you listening? Don’t forget to bring the tube with you—I repeat, do not—”

  By now I was starting to feel the adrenaline. Red blood cells rushed through my veins, but my muscles were still lagging. “It’s the middle of the night. What time is it anyway?”

  “Gilbert, please, this is urgent. I can’t explain on the phone.”

  Johanna was bound to return any moment for a second round, and a third. If Efron wanted me to leave my warm apartment and brave the freezing night, she would have to have a good reason. This time I wouldn’t agree without an explanation.

  “I’m bushed. You told me I could have the whole weekend.”

  “But there’s a last-minute change. I need it now, Milbert, now! Andromeda Rock, the western complex. Apartment five. Andromeda Western five, got it? The elevator code is my lab room number and a pound.”

  Then her voice trailed off and the line went dead.

  19

  I navigated to the log of incoming calls on my phone.

  An unlisted number.

  My instructor was known for her extreme mood changes. Her neuroses were mostly short-lived, but this time something in her voice was giving me a sense of major discomfort.

  I had to make a rapid choice: Efron or Johanna. Before Efron had interrupted, I had been about to drink something strong and lie in bed, cellphone within reach. Johanna would be back, or at least call. People didn’t disappear like that without reason.

  But Johanna had vanished without a trace. The marble surf
ace of my kitchen counter was clean. No cups, no spoons. The sugar container remained closed in the drawer. My old kettle was cold, stashed in its usual place between the sink and the teabags and coffee jar. The kettle’s nozzle was directed to the oven, as always, so boiling water wouldn’t drip on me when I picked it up. The new kettle Leanira had bought peered at me from over the oven, untouched.

  Johanna wasn’t going to make us coffee. Strange, I was convinced that was what she’d said she was going to do before I passed out. My head started to ache and my nose leaked. That usually happened to me after drinking cheap wine or smoking a joint, but I hadn’t smoked since a spring concert in Columbus; last night I’d had only one beer and inhaled nothing but fine Austrian perfume.

  I found two Tylenols in the drawer and swallowed them without water.

  I had no desire to dress on such a cold night and go to a black hole in Oldham County. Besides, I had no car—my Kia was still stuck in the parking lot of the medical school. If I were to accede to Efron’s wishes, I had to get a ride.

  I was desperate for a snack.

  A Belgian article quoted in a recent neurology lecture had claimed that chocolate exacerbates migraines. Nevertheless, I settled for a Reese’s. Unable to resist the temptation, I devoured a second. Lightning flooded the kitchen with a ghastly, ghoulish hue. Rolling thunder followed. The bagel-shaped ceiling light flickered, and I used the rest of my energy to order an Uber and get dressed.

  With great effort, I started to piece together the fragments of the puzzle. Yesterday Johanna had driven me home in her car. Could she subsequently have forgotten something and just gone out for a minute?

  I rushed to the bedroom window and peered down at the street. I couldn’t see her anywhere. I was sure she had parked it next to Anderson’s fence, but the spot was now vacant. I turned around and inspected the half-table, my correspondence area; nothing from Johanna. It was odd that she hadn’t even left a note or sent a text.