Page 47 of Rock Bottom

“Call Leo,” Church said. “We need everything he can find on Oscar.”

Bowie rapped his knuckles against the door frame. “Already on it.”

I frowned, glancing between them. “Sam said he vetted all the staff. You should already have everything you need on Oscar to find him.”

“I’ll check the files he sent over,” Bowie offered, “but if I recall, his dossier was pretty bland. I sure would’ve noticed if it said he was into poisoning people.”

Church stood. “And I’ll get on the phone with Boone.”

Bowie hesitated. It was the first time I’d ever seen him frown, and it didn’t look right on him. “You sure you want to do that?”

“Somebody has to do it.”

Something in my chest clenched. My arm shot out to grab Church’s sleeve before he could leave. “Wait. How did you know where to find me?”

“You called me,” he said, turning back around. “You don’t remember?”

I shook my head. “The last thing I remember is getting up to go to the bathroom and feeling like something wasn’t right.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.”

Church spent most of the next hour on the phone arguing with his boss and my boss and my boss’s boss. From his bedroom, I couldn’t hear most of what was said, but he must’ve figured if he said, “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir” enough, someone would go easy on him.

Eventually, Wattson came back to check on me.

“So, Wattson,” I started as he took my pulse. “Is that a first name or a last name?”

“Neither,” he said. “My name is Connor McCormick. Everyone just calls me Wattson.”

“Why do they call you that?”

He sighed. “Because my ex-wife’s last name is Holmes.”

“Wattson and Holmes. Like Sherlock Holmes?”

“That’s the joke. How are you feeling?” He pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves.

I shrugged. “Confused, a little groggy, and really guilty.” I jerked my chin toward the door. “Is he going to get fired because of me?”

“Church?” He huffed and paced into the room. “Doubt it. Boone will write some checks, make some promises, and be pissed a while, but nobody’s dead yet, so that’s good.” He came in and picked up my wrist, looking down at his watch. “Any tingling, numbness, or chest pain?”

“I’m fine, Doc.”

He squinted through his glasses at me. “I’ll be the judge of that.” He started pressing cold fingers under my jaw the way doctors always did.

I studied his face. “You think this is a waste of time, don’t you? That I’m just going to go back to drinking and using as soon as I get out of here.”

He hesitated before inhaling deeply through his nose. “Addiction is a disease. Like any other, it’s treatable, but only if a patient agrees to participate in his own care.”

“In other words, I’ll never get better if I don’t want to.”

For the first time since he entered the room, he looked me in the eye. “No. I said it was treatable, not curable. The war on drugs is unwinnable, one that’s more profitable than oil. Why would any doctor ever want that to go away? As long as you keep swallowing your pills and poisoning your body with alcohol, I have job security, so by all means, continue.”

I huffed and crossed my arms. “You’re an asshole.”

“I failed bedside manner in doctor school. Not to worry. It was an elective. I took cynicism 101 instead.” He pulled off his gloves and massaged his thumb over his palm. “The good news is you’re not suffering any ill effects from last night’s adventure. I’d tell you to avoid stimulants like caffeine for a few days, but you won’t. I should also tell you to follow up with your regular doctor within two weeks, but you won’t do that either. So here’s some real advice, kid. If you’re going to be a drunk, be a drunk. If you’re going to do drugs, do the damn drugs. Repeated rapid detox just makes you more likely to overdose.” He walked toward the door, but I didn’t miss the slight hitch in his step. “Also, don’t share needles and wear a condom when you have sex.”

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