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Critical Condition

By Richard L. Mabry M.D.

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Dr. Shannon Frasier looked around her and smiled. She was surrounded by some of her favorite people, she wasn’t on call, and she had a long holiday weekend ahead of her. Things couldn’t be better.
Three people sat with Shannon at her dining room table tonight. On her right was the man who referred to himself as her “almost-fiancé,” pathologist Dr. Mark Gilbert. She knew that given the opportunity, Mark would remove the “almost” from that designation. Shannon didn’t fully understand the barriers that held her back from that decision, but tonight wasn’t the time to examine them.
Across the table from Shannon sat Dr. Le Duan (Lee) Kai. Yesterday was June 30, the last day of the academic year and the final day of Lee’s residency. He was about to enter private practice, and although she knew he would do well in that environment, Shannon hoped one day Lee would join her on the faculty of the Department of Surgery at Southwestern Medical School, working, as she did, to prepare other doctors for the specialty of surgery.
Beside Lee sat his diminutive wife, Ann. An audiologist, Ann worked at the medical center, but that could change, since the couple made no secret of their desire to start a family once Lee’s practice was well established. Shannon envied them that.
Shannon raised her glass. “I think we should toast—”
A noise from outside—three flat cracks—made her pause. “Did you hear that?” Shannon asked. “Is someone getting an early start on the July Fourth weekend?”
“I guess it could have been firecrackers,” Lee said.
“Maybe it was a car backfiring,” Mark offered.
“Not three in a row. Besides,” Lee said, “that’s rare now that fuel-injected engines have largely replaced those with carburetors.”
Shannon pushed back her chair and dropped her napkin on the table. “While you guys discuss advances in the internal combustion engine, I’m going to look outside and see what’s going on.”
She turned on the porch light and opened her front door. Warm July air rushed in, but nothing caught Shannon’s eye. The porch was empty. No cars moved in the street outside her house. Then she saw it on the lawn—a crumpled mass, like a pile of old clothes. She jumped, startled, when the clothes moved, and she could discern a hand clawing at the dirt. A faint cry, like that of a wounded animal, reached her ears.
“Someone’s out there, and they’re hurt,” Shannon said to Lee, who’d edged up behind her.
The man lay sprawled facedown on the lawn. Lee reached him first, with Shannon right behind. The faint light spilling from the open door was enough to show a dark stain in the center of the victim’s back, spreading rapidly outward. Shannon felt her heart race as she was seized by déjà vu.
She touched the man’s neck. “He’s got a pulse—faint and thready, though.”
“Call 911,” Lee yelled over his shoulder. Mark, now standing in the doorway, disappeared into the house.
Lee and Shannon exchanged looks. Help was unlikely to get here in time. The man had been shot three times in the back and was bleeding out fast, probably from injury to a major vessel. The two doctors knelt at his side, powerless to intervene. Without equipment, there was nothing they could do, and they both knew it. Shannon’s stomach knotted at her helplessness. She began to sweat. Her heart threatened to jump out of her chest.
The man stirred. His eyes fell on Shannon, and she almost felt as though there was recognition there. He mumbled something before a gush of blood issued from his mouth. The man sighed, seemed to sink into himself like a balloon deflating, and lay totally still.
Shannon bowed her head and felt defeat wash over her. She’d lost one more fight with death, a fight she’d been forced to wage with no weapons. Once more, a gun had taken a life while she was forced to watch helplessly. Memories came rushing back like a flood.
“Police and EMTs are on the way,” Mark called from the doorway.
Lee rose and shook his head. “Too late.” He edged around the body until he was next to Shannon. “Get into the house. I’ll stay out here until they arrive.”
Shannon nodded and rose slowly. As she moved toward the lighted doorway where Mark waited, she clenched her fists and felt the stickiness of the blood clotting there. The racing pulse and sweating palms were already subsiding, but she knew they’d be back. They always came back.
She brushed by Mark and walked purposefully to the downstairs half bath. Carefully, like a robot moving in slow motion, she turned on the taps. Then she started to scrub the blood from her hands. In the mirror over the sink, her blonde hair was perfectly in place. Her makeup was understated and unspoiled. Her blue eyes displayed not a touch of red. There was no evidence of the turmoil within her. But it was there.
She was still at the sink when Mark spoke from behind her. “The police are here. They’re interviewing Lee now and want to talk with you after that.”
Shannon nodded but kept her hands under the running water. It was several more minutes before she reached down to turn off the faucets. As she dried her hands, a line ran through her head—not one from the Bible, although she wished she could remember an appropriate verse. No, this one was from Shakespeare.
Here’s the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand

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