More praise for Richard Mabry
More praise for Richard Mabry
Stress Test
“It is easy to understand why Mabry’s popularity has been skyrocketing. He is a fine, fine writer.”
—Michael Palmer, New York Times best-selling author
Fatal Trauma
“Asks big questions of faith, priorities, and meaning, all within the context of a tightly crafted medical drama.”
—Steven James, best-selling author of Placebo and Checkmate
Critical Condition
“Mabry has the uncommon ability to take medical details and make them understandable while still maintaining accuracy and intrigue.”
—Romantic Times Book Reviews
Other Abingdon Press books by Richard L. Mabry, MD
Other Abingdon Press books by Richard L. Mabry, MD
Prescription for Trouble series
Code Blue
Medical Error
Diagnosis Death
Lethal Remedy
Fatal Trauma
Miracle Drug
Title Page
Copyright
Medical Judgment
Copyright © 2016 by Richard L. Mabry
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission can be addressed to Permissions, The United Methodist Publishing House, 2222 Rosa L. Parks Blvd., PO Box 280988, Nashville, TN, 37228-0988 or e-mailed to [email protected].
Macro Editor: Teri Wilhelms
Published in association with Books & Such Literary Agency
The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Mabry, Richard L., author.
Title: Medical judgment / Richard L. Mabry, MD.
Description: First edition. | Nashville : Abingdon Press, [2016]
Identifiers: LCCN 2015048015 (print) | LCCN 2016001264 (ebook) | ISBN
9781630881207 (softcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781630881214 (e-book)
Subjects: LCSH: Women physicians--Fiction. | Women--Violence
against--Fiction. | Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian
fiction. | Romantic suspense fiction. | Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A2 M435 2016 (print) | LCC PS3613.A2 (ebook) | DDC
813/.6--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015048015
Dedication
For my family, with thanks for believing in me
Acknowledgments
Acknowledgments
When I began to write novels, I had no idea I’d get this far, and it wouldn’t have been possible without the help and encouragement of a lot of people along the way. At the start, two great writers and teachers, Alton Gansky and James Scott Bell, suggested I try my hand at fiction. Along the way I learned from numerous others—too many to name. Agent Rachelle Gardner saw something in my writing she liked and has helped guide my course for years. The folks at Abingdon Press, first under the direction of Barbara Scott and now Ramona Richards, have been a pleasure to work with. Cat Hoort and her team have made sure word gets out about the book. Teri Wilhelms supplied the finishing touches with her edits. My wife, Kay, in addition to being an encourager, has served as my first reader for all my novels, always pointing me in the right direction when I get off course. I appreciate every one of you. I couldn’t have done it without your help.
My retirement from medicine has not gone according to my plan, but rather that of God. But that’s okay, because His plan, as always, has turned out to be much better than mine. I can hardly wait to see what He has in mind next for me.
Chapter 1
1
The smell of smoke gradually nudged Dr. Sarah Gordon from a troubled sleep into semi-wakefulness. Hours earlier she’d finally given in and taken a sleeping pill. Now it made her feel fuzzy and uncertain, as though she were moving through cobwebs. At first, she couldn’t separate the odor of smoke from the dream in which she’d been mired. Sarah struggled to bring herself more fully awake. Had she really smelled smoke? Or was it a nightmare? She eased up in bed, resting on one elbow, and sniffed the air around her. There it was again. The smoke was real.
Her brain, still numbed by sleep and Ambien, took a few seconds to make the connection. Smoke meant fire. Something in her house was burning—perhaps the whole house was about to go up in flames. She had to wake Harry. He’d take charge. After she awakened him, they’d hurry down the hall together and get Jenny. Then Harry would lead them to safety.
Sarah reached to her left across the king-size bed, but when her hand touched a bare pillow, the reality hit her, forcing her fully awake more effectively than a bucket of ice water. Her husband wasn’t there. He’d never be there again. He was dead. He’d been dead for eight months now. So had Jenny, their two-year-old daughter. Sarah was alone . . . in a burning house.
But was she alone? She had a vague recollection of hearing a noise about the same time she became aware of the smoke smell. Was someone out there, waiting for her? Or was that part of a dream as well? Should she stay here in the bedroom until she was sure? No, she needed to get to safety. The “someone” might or might not be real, but the fire wasn’t the product of her imagination. She had to get out, and quickly.
She threw on her robe and shoved her feet into slippers. Sarah dropped her cell phone and keys into the pocket of the robe. She took two steps away from the bed before turning back to pick up the flashlight from the bedside table. Sarah flicked it on and checked the beam. It was dim—the batteries probably hadn’t been changed since before Jenny died—but it gave off enough illumination to let her see a few feet in front of her. She hoped that would be enough. In several strides that displayed more confidence than she felt, Sarah covered the distance to the door leading to the hall. Feel the door. If it’s hot, find some other way out.
Cautiously, she pressed her palm against the door. When she felt no heat, Sarah let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She opened the door and looked around. No flames. Then she sniffed, and there it was again—a faint aroma of smoke wafting up the stairway—not enough to choke her, not an amount capable of blocking her vision, but sufficient nonetheless to send her hurrying toward what she hoped was a safe exit.
Guided by the faint glow from the flashlight, she descended to the first floor. As she got lower, she coughed a little, her eyes watered a bit, but she could breathe, could see through the tears. The smoke still wasn’t bad. Maybe that was a good sign.
At the bottom of the stairs, she stopped to listen. Was that a noise? She strained her ears but heard nothing more. Maybe there was no intruder. Maybe that was all in her imagination. Maybe.
But the smoke wasn’t something she’d imagined. It was real, and where there was smoke, there was fire. But where was