work once she was gone. I think she was just being responsible.”
“What about her Internet account,” Ali asked. “Can you access that? If we knew who she was e-mailing and what about, it might give us a big leg up.”
“I know her e-mail address,” Andrea said. “It’sR. [email protected], but I have no idea what her password is.”
“Do what you can,” Ali told her. “And if you figure it out, let me know. What about her calendar. Is that there?”
“Yes.”
“And what does it show for Thursday?”
“One appointment: two P.M., Dr. Clyde Mason, Mayo Clinic, Scottsdale.”
“Phone number and address?”
Andrea gave it to her and Ali put that information into the Reenie file as well, and as soon as she got off the phone with Andrea, she dialed Dr. Mason’s office. It wasn’t easy talking her way around the gate-keepers-first the office receptionist and then the nurse-but eventually Ali prevailed. By the time Dr. Mason came on the line, he sounded none too happy.
“I’ve already spoken to the authorities on this matter,” he complained. “As I told them, privacy rules limit my ability to comment on a patient’s condition including whether or not someone is one of my patients. Who are you again?”
“Alison,” she said. “Alison Larson. I’m a reporter with…”
“A reporter!” he bristled.
“And I was also Reenie Bernard’s best friend,” Ali put in quickly. “But my questions aren’t about her. I’m assuming she wasn’t your only ALS patient.”
“I have several,” Dr. Mason said.
“Supposing one of your patients, not Reenie, of course, happened to have heard about some new course of ALS treatment down in Mexico, would you advise them to try it?”
“No,” Dr. Mason barked. “Absolutely not.”
“I’ve been told that this supposed course of treatment is expensive-in the neighborhood of eighty-thousand dollars or so. I also understand that after Reenie left your office, she planned on visiting a bank.”
“I advised her not to have anything to do with those crooks,” Dr. Mason blurted. “I told her to go home and spend whatever time she had-whatever quality time she had-with her family, and not to waste financial and emotional resources on some kind of scam.”
“So you think this treatment, whatever it is, is a scam?”
“No question.” Mason quieted suddenly and Ali knew he had said more than he intended. She was afraid he might hang up on her.
“One more thing,” she hurried on. “And this is strictly theoretical. From what I’ve been able to learn, some ALS patients, faced with what has to be a very dire future, choose to go out on their own terms.”
“Yes,” Dr. Mason agreed. “Some of them do, but not within the first week of getting their final diagnosis,” he added. “Hardly anyone ever does that.”
It took Ali a moment to assimilate what had happened. It sounded as though Dr. Mason had answered the question she hadn’t asked, but she had to be sure.
“So you don’t think Reenie committed suicide?”
Dr. Mason hesitated for so long that Ali thought he wasn’t going to, but then he did. “In my experience,” he said, “that would seem unlikely.”
“Thank you,” Ali managed, pushing her voice past the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “And please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend. From everything I learned about her through my dealings with her, Reenie Bernard struck me as a wonderful person.”
“Yes,” Ali managed. “She was certainly that.”
Once Ali was off the phone, it took several minutes before she reached for her computer and turned her attention to the New Mail section of cutlooseblog.com.
Dear Babe,
And in my opinion, you are one. As far as I’m concerned, Melissa G. is walking around with a bag over her brain. Obviously her daddy never taught her the lesson Thumper’s father passed along to his little ones. “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothin’ at all!”
I miss seeing you on the news, but I think you’re doing good work.
Randy
Dear Ali,
Why are some people so mean? They need to get a life.
Donna
Dear Babe,
From what you’ve said, it sounds as though you’ve never experienced domestic violence. Lucky for you. I have, and I really related to what’s going on with Watching’s wife. I spent eighteen years in an abusive relationship. My husband was a physician. He didn’t beat me up physically, but he did mentally. He told everyone in town that I was a mental case and he told me that if I ever tried to leave, he’d kill me in a way that no one would ever detect. I’m thinking now of your friend’s suicide. He also said that if I ever did get away, he’d track me to the ends of the earth and put me out of my misery.
My husband was an influential person in town-you’ll notice I’m not saying which one. He made sure I didn’t have money of my own and no credit cards, either. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t know how. Then I heard about an organization called Angel Flight. Most of the time, they fly patients back and forth across long distances for chemo or dialysis treatments. But now they’ve started doing domestic violence escape flights as well.
Two years ago next month, I walked out of my house with nothing but the clothes on my back. A friend gave me a ride to the airport. A private plane met me there and away I went. If I’d had to pay for a ticket, I couldn’t have afforded one, and since there were no tickets to buy, there were also no credit card receipts that he could use to find me.
I live somewhere else now. People here helped me establish a new identity. Starting over isn’t easy. I’m waiting tables now, too, and I’m glad to do it. At least I’m safe. At least I’m alive. My parents and my sister know I made it out, but they don’t know where I am because I’m afraid my ex-husband might browbeat or threaten them into revealing my location. I love them and miss them, but for right now this is what I have to do for me. I’m better off safe and alone than dead.
I’m unwilling to come out of hiding. For that reason alone, I haven’t divorced my husband and, as far as I know, he has yet to divorce me.
I pray that Watching’s wife and baby stay safe. Unfortunately, due to liability issues, the organization that helped me is reluctant to be involved in situations that involve minor children. And I’m praying that you’ll be safe as well.
Noname, notown, nostate.
While she was posting that one, Ali had reason to be grateful. Noname was right. Ali had never had to deal with domestic violence on a personal basis. She had money, credit cards (at least they were still working as far as she knew), food to eat, a place to live, and friends and family who loved her. Compared to Noname, Alison Reynolds was very, very lucky.
Dear Ali,
I bought your autographed photo from e-Bay for $4.67. I thought you’d want to know.
Your fan,
Sylvia
Her landline rang while she was posting the e-Bay message. The caller was none other than Paul, and he was
