Sophie
Medical Staff
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Trials and Trust
Part 1
Part 1
SAN FRANCISCO
JANUARY, 2011
SUNDAY, 0500 hours
She opened her eyes to stare at the narrow sliver of light that sliced across the pale ceiling above, her brow already beginning to furrow in confusion. Then, there it was: the low ping of her work line.
Pushing aside the coverings, Dr Sophie Conrad rolled over and stretched an arm across her bed to reach for the mobile phone. She stared at the screen and her frown deepened. Duly, clearing her throat and expelling all further traces of sleep, she sat up and accepted the call.
“Director Devineaux, good morning.”
“Sophie,” an exhalation followed the name, “I may… I have an emergency, do you think you can meet me outside your apartment in about fifteen minutes?”
Out of bed, already walking across her bedroom and towards the bathroom, she nodded to no one in particular even as he spoke. “Yes,” she confirmed, tapping a switch to squint as light flooded the space.
* * *
Chase Devineaux had been in a fight and it was barely five in the morning. The silver Toyota Camry, tinted cashmere by the slow dawn, was heading towards 1201, 4th Street.
The Field Director took pride in looking proper, and if he stayed clear of long conversations, he might hide the fact that his night was unusually eventful. His shirt was only slightly ruffled; any discrepancies masked by his jacket. The necktie was in a quickly-made four-in-hand knot, unusual for him, but no one would pick that up. Dashing down 3rd Street with only one hand gripping the steering wheel, he made a quick turn towards 4th Street and nearly passed his intended destination.
With her hands tucked into the pockets of her dark-wash jeans, she stood at the edge of the pavement, haloed by the warm lights of the condominium lobby behind her. The wind disturbed her ponytail, casting streaks of bright-red hair around her shoulders and Sophie raised an eyebrow as a recognisable sedan sped past her before pulling to a harsh stop.
Adjusting the strap of the duffel bag at her side, she calmly covered the short distance.
“How do you know where I live?” she asked as she opened the passenger-side door and climbed in, shifting the weight of her bag onto her lap before holding out a chilled bottle of cold-pressed organic orange juice. Stitched onto the no-nonsense black canvas of the holdall was a singular red-coloured cross.
“Your… files…” his explanation seemed both sufficient and equally empty as he took the offered drink with his right hand. Confused, he read the label briefly before placing the bottle into the cup holder of the middle console.
“Ah… my files.” Sophie scrutinised the Field Director, the beads of perspiration on his brow inconsistent with his stoic façade. He did not appear intoxicated, although he did appear distressed. She considered his mien before pressing her lips together thoughtfully.
“You’re injured,” her observation was matter-of-fact.
“No,” he deviated, but did not want to lie, “I mean -- yes, but I need you to help me with someone else first.”
Hesitating, she narrowed her eyes.
“All right,” she nodded as she picked up the bottle of orange juice and twisted its cap to break the seal, “I have one condition.” Sophie returned the plastic container to rest within the cup holder.
At ‘all right,’ Chase was ready to go, his foot on the accelerator. Yet, he paused at the second phrase.
“Yes?” he inquired, almost impatiently.
“I will drive,” the doctor stated, her tone precluding objection. “It’s not possible for you to safely do so with your arm in that condition,” her gaze rested on his guarded left side for a moment, conveying her deductions.
I… drove here, he thought, but did not say. Instead, he reluctantly unbuckled his seatbelt and moved to step out of the vehicle.
Silently, they exchanged places and Sophie offloaded her medical kit onto the backseat before sliding the catch of her seatbelt in place. She tapped the tip of a finger on the loosened cap of the juice bottle before resting her hand on the clutch.
“Where are we going?”
“169, Naples Street,” Chase answered. “Have you been in the area?”
“No,” the reply came after a moment of thought as she began coaxing the Toyota forward before picking up speed to turn into China Basin Street and then onto 3rd Street. “We’ll have to get onto the I-280, yes?”
“Yes,” he affirmed, considering the juice and how he was to negotiate the bottle. Detaching the already-unfastened cap, he drank from it… and drank all of it.
Watching him from the corner of her vision field, Sophie remained silent. She had questions -- many questions -- but sensed that the answers would come in their time. Thus, the duo sped through the minimal early-morning traffic without attempt at conversation, the Camry finally turning right and right again to merge with the I-280.
To be continued...
This was written in 2011 and is currently being edited for publication.
Write drunk, edit sober, as someone so oft repeats.
Apparently, it took us four years to become sober.
Merci beaucoup, Directeur.
Write drunk, edit sober, as someone so oft repeats.
Apparently, it took us four years to become sober.
Merci beaucoup, Directeur.
