On Call: An Original Short Story Read Online Free PDF Page A

said. “By Annabelle.”
    “Blackmailed? How would Annabelle Stern be able to blackmail my husband?”
    I didn’t say anything, figuring it would be best for Radcliffe to reach that conclusion on her own. It did not take long. Her hands covered her mouth while shock and surprise crossed her face like a storm cloud.
    “Oh, my God. George was having an affair with her?”
    I nodded. “I’m virtually certain of it. She kept letters from him to her.”
    “You have proof George killed her?”
    “No, but I’m trying to piece that together. I have a horse in this race. My best friend is in jail, and I don’t think he’s guilty. George has more of a motive for killing her than Lou, DNA or not.”
    “Oh, Gabe, what happens now?”
    “George is your husband, Hannah,” I said. “But if he’s capable of this, I believe he could be dangerous, especially when the walls start closing in. I think you should consider going away for a while, someplace safe.”
    “And you?”
    “I’m going to the police with what I know. Lou is innocent, but I’m sorry, Hannah, I don’t feel the same way about George. I think you should be careful.”

    I sat alone in my office, just down the hall from the pathology department, finishing up some work and thinking about exactly what I was going to say to Detectives Anderson and Rodriquez. Hannah Radcliffe had left her lab in tears, along with a promise to get away to her sister’s home in Saint Louis before I went to the police. As for me, I felt exhausted and still bewildered about how Lou’s DNA could have gotten under Annabelle’s nails. Had he lied to me in denying they had taken up again? Then there were those scratches and his offhand assertion that his lab rats were responsible. Still, I remained solid that my best friend was incapable of such a brutal murder.
    On the other hand, I had always liked George Kincaid, but there was no doubt that the power of his position and the wealth he had accumulated were motivating forces in his life. And a woman like Annabelle Stern was capable of driving all but the most saintly men toward madness.
    By nine, I caved into crushing psychological fatigue, and decided it was time to head home. I grabbed my bag and shuffled down the stairs. The hospital was drifting into night mode, with just a scattering of foot traffic headed from one building to another. Nearly all the buildings of Eisenhower Memorial were connected by a series of subterranean tunnels, some of which were rumored to date back a century. They were more heavily trafficked in the wintertime, but I liked to use them year-round because of the convenience of getting to the Metro several minutes faster than with the aboveground route.
    I was about halfway to my destination, on B-1, the uppermost underground level, traveling along an older, less well lit portion of the tunnel system, when I sensed movement directly behind me. As I was whirling, my eyes adjusted just in time to catch the tubular shape of some object swinging for my head. I instinctively raised my wrists in defense and took the brunt of the blow from a metal pipe directly on bone. Pain exploded up my arm, and my knees buckled, dropping me to the cement floor. Immediately, I went into a roll.
    Again and again, the pipe just missed me, sparking off the floor and wall. Finally, it struck me again, this time on the tip of my shoulder. The pain was blinding. Drills from high school football were all that kept me rolling. My body slammed hard against an exit door. The blows continued from the shadows. I tried to get a fix on the man, but the blows kept raining down, some missing, some not. A surgical mask registered, and some sort of woolen cap.
    I pulled my legs to my chest and pressed my back up against the door for leverage. The attacker was swinging with a nearly regular rhythm. It was my only chance. His blow glanced off my shin, and when he raised the weapon above his head again—I plunged both my feet hard into his abdomen.