by Melissa Yi
WRU
I'm not so into abbreviations like that—I vaguely pieced together that WRU probably meant Where are you—but I noted the times. She'd been texting him steadily from 23:53 until 01:05.
He’d answered at 00:06.
ily rounding parking lot brb
Emojis at 00:23, 00:30, 00:33.
Then nothing.
Even I knew, and sometimes used, BRB for Be Right Back. So what happened to Patrick?
Presumably he was patrolling the hospital. But which part? It was weird that Patrick had texted frequently, and then not at all for half an hour.
Patrick knew his beloved was bedbound, beaten, and scared. Even if he'd been called away to work, he'd try to answer her.
The words fell out of my mouth. "I'll go find him."
9
Before I left Alyssa, I asked for Patrick's number. She sent me everything. Cell, Whatsapp, Snapchat, Insta, Facebook messenger, e-mail, home address, everything. Plus she mouthed, "Thank you."
It was a 180 degree shift in attitude from No.
That worried me, too.
When I exited room 13, I spotted Dr. Dupuis's green scrub-clad back blocking the corridor to both our call rooms and the conference room. He was probably heading to the tiny kitchen nook tucked into the right, in front of the staff call room.
It meant I couldn't retrieve my coat and mittens from my call room, so I retreated back toward the ambulatory zone.
Did I have to go outside? Patrick had rounded in the parking lot an hour ago. He'd be long gone by now.
But maybe I could follow his boot prints.
No, there would be too many people coming in and out of the hospital, even after midnight.
What were the chances I could roam around the hospital and find him? St. Joe's wasn't massive like the Glen "superhospital," but it was still sizeable for one person to investigate every corridor.
I decided to pop outside for a quick look immediately around the building. Not the smartest idea in January in Canada, wearing only my scrubs, but I always packed multiple layers underneath, including fleece, because I was perpetually cold. A night shift cranked that up another order of magnitude. Once, a menopausal nurse told me that just looking at me, all bundled up with a fake fur hoodie, gave her a hot flash.
"What are you doing, Hope?" a woman's voice called.
I jumped.
Dr. Chia stared at me from the ambulatory desk. "Didn't Dr. Dupuis tell you to take a break or go home? We're worried about you."
"Yeah. Thanks. I'm, ah, getting fresh air."
"It's minus 25 out there," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"I know. I'll only be a second. As soon as I get some wind on my face, I'll feel better."
"Panic attack?"
"What?" Ye gads. I'd never mentioned my PTSD to her. All the staff doctors must've talked about me and Tucker, the post-traumatic twins. Was it better for her to think I was a psych patient, or disobeying them? Decisions, decisions. "I need some fresh air," I repeated. I'm a terrible liar. Best to keep it simple.
She moved her mouse. "This stupid computer is frozen. Well, anyway, take my lab coat."
I doubted it would help much. "I'll be fine—"
"Hope." She stood up and plucked her white coat off her chair. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing."
In her own way, she was trying to protect me. Maybe she was making up for the whole "not my first rodeo" conversation. So I took it. It was warm, and it smelled a bit flowery, like her. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." She had already moved on to another computer and was logging in, trying to get her charting done so that she could go home.
Her white coat was a denser weave than the standard St. Joe's issue polyester. It might protect a bit against the wind. Maybe when I was making the big bucks, I'd spring for a coat like this.
I buttoned it all the way, which only brought it up to my collarbone, with a V of neck skin exposed. Then I tucked my head down against the wind as I headed out the emergency room door, past triage and patient reg and Charles Packard.
This time, I had no choice in exits. They locked the other doors after hours, to divert all foot traffic through the ER. It's a safety thing, to force everyone to pass by the security guard.
The wind slapped me in the face, slid down my collar, up the coat's hem, and between the buttons.
I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the night, lit only by some street lamps.
No ambulances squatted by the door. Most of the cars were parked in the lot behind the hospital and around the Annex building, to my right.
I glanced down at the snow, but there were too many tracks leading in and out.
On the other hand, relatively few would lead to the parking lot and immediately circle back again. Most people would either park and walk in and wait to be seen, or there'd be a few drop offs. I'd look for a pair of men's boot prints making a circle.
All that would prove was that Patrick had made the rounds, of course. Unless he was still out here.
I shivered. My breath made clouds in the frosty air.
This was dumb. I should go in and lie down like at least two doctors had commanded.
Instead, I took a step into the night, examining various boot prints.
Once, my favourite police officer, Officer Visser gave me an impromptu talk on tracking people's prints. She told me that when you run, your shoes make deeper impressions at the heel and toe. Your shoes also sink more deeply into the ground or snow if you're carrying a heavy load, like a dead body.
I hadn't noticed the kind of shoes Patrick was wearing. If pressed, I'd say they were black and heavy-looking. And he had above average-sized feet as well, maybe size 12.
I turned the light on my phone, shining at the snow. We'd had a snow fall that evening. Light flakes were still coming down, but I had a good view of the tracks.
One of them had a good, solid, man-sized tread—you'd need good soles, as a security guard—that headed toward the parking lot. It was a long shot, but I started to follow the tracks. They seemed to have the same stride length and an even depth, so I didn't think he'd been running. Or carrying a dead body.
It was cold enough that my skin hurt, and I had to blink against the snow.
I thought I heard something and twisted my head diagonally to the right, scanning the silent cars lined up in the parking lot ahead of me, layered in snow.
Nothing. I started walking and heard it again, this time behind me. Tap, tap, tap.
Footsteps. Had Patrick somehow circled around me? I twisted to the left now, even though most of the street lamps were straight ahead and to my right, in the parking lot, or behind me, at the ER entrance.
"Patrick!" The chill air rushed down my open mouth and throat, making me cough.
I spotted only a black blur of an arm and a boot before someone pinned my arms to my sides in a bear hug from behind. "Got 'er."
He reeked of marijuana smoke. I opened my mouth to scream. I was right beside the hospital, maybe 40 feet from the ER entrance. Not in direct view of the glass doors, but close by.
Someone would see. Someone would hear.
Before I could do more than suck air, a dirty glove clapped against my mouth.
10
Alyssa's broken face blazed into my mind. Was this how it started? Was someone terrorizing all the women around St. Joe's?
No fuckin' way.
I stomped on the black boot, trying to shatter the foot. Harder to break in a boot, but not impossible.
The shock of impact shot up to my hip.
All he did was grunt. Didn't even lift up his foot. But his arms loosened a smidge.
I managed to jerk my pointy right elbow backward, slamming him in the gut.
He gave an oof, faint but unmistakable.
I swung back toward the ER. A few steps would do it. At least I'd be in the light. The guard and maybe a patient would spot me.
"Grab her!"
That was a different voice. There were
two of them, tag teaming me before I'd gotten more than two steps.
A hand snapped through the air, cuffing my right wrist. My dominant wrist.
I tried to shake it off. He yanked me toward him like my arm was a fishing line.
I screamed through the foggy darkness, a raw noise that pierced the night, but weak because I'd already been almost strangled tonight.
The snow descended, clogging my eyelashes behind my glasses. I couldn't see well, I was alone, I was underdressed, but damned if I would let them have me.
I screamed again, even raspier than before, and kicked the one clamping my wrist. I didn't make contact, but it kept him at bay for a second before he lunged again, tackling me around the waist. Then he began to drag me backward.
Don't let them get you in a car. If they get you in a car, you're dead.
A whistle punctured my thoughts. It Dopplered from the sidewalk, ten times louder than my screams, and a woman's voice shouted, "Let her go!"
The attacker dropped me.
I slipped on the icy asphalt and barely caught myself, my right arm skidding sideways as I landed on my hip and bare hand.
I scrambled to my feet, wary of getting pinned on the ground, but two dark shapes raced away from the street, toward the parking lot—where I thought Patrick had gone—and out of sight.
A couple approached me from the sidewalk. The woman wore a beige head scarf and a long parka. She was the one who stretched her hands out to me and said, "Are you all right?"
"Yes," I gasped. My word made a cloud in the air.
The husband, who was larger than her, scanned for my attackers. He spoke to her in their language. She shook her head.
"Let's get you inside," said the woman. "My husband will call the police. Don't worry."
Can't worry. Running. I bolted for the door while she shielded my back and the husband brought up the rear, already murmuring on his phone.
Warm air blasted us as the automatic doors flared open. My glasses fogged up worse, but I was lucky I was still wearing them.
My arm smarted. My biceps had been over-stretched breaking my fall. My right ankle was tender, too, but I could tell it wasn't broken because it could bear my weight, even though I'd already sprained it twice last month.
My throat ached, but I had to talk. Again. "Thank you," I whispered.
I checked for the security guard, but Charles Packard chatted further down the hall, helping a family by the vending machine.
I rolled my eyes. The one time I needed a security guard, he'd left his post. Murphy's Law should be renamed the Hope Sze Universal Commandment.
I turned back to my saviours. "Were you coming here?"
She shook her head. "Just walking home."
"Did you see them?"
She shook her head again. "It was too dark. They were wearing black. But my husband is very observant. He'll describe them to the police."
I wished I had her confidence. Telling the cops that two black blobs had attacked me wouldn't get us further than "uh huh."
My teeth began to chatter.
The woman wrapped her arm around me. "Are you all right?"
I nodded, although I clearly wasn't.
"You want to see the doctor?"
I half-laughed, even though it hurt my throat. "I am the emergency doctor. Well, I'm one of the resident doctors, Dr. Sze."
"Oh, that's why you have that coat." She looked down at it, clearly confused by the embroidery. "But—you're Dr. Valerie—" She didn't dare pronounce the last name.
I glanced down at my front pocket. "I borrowed this jacket from Dr. Valerie Chia, the evening doctor. It's not mine."
"Are you all right, then?"
"Much better, thanks to you two. We'll all have to talk to the police." I was afraid they'd take off and leave me trying to explain what had happened, with my broken voice.
"No problem," said the man, in quite good English. He nodded, squarely meeting my eyes.
My shoulders relaxed. They weren't going anywhere. Two strangers had saved me and would continue to save me.
He pulled the phone away from his head to look at his wife, then at me. "It's strange, but they say the police are already at St. Joe's. In the emergency room."
I nodded and gave him the thumbs up, too tired to explain that either they must have arrived to carry away Lori Goody, to interview me, or both. I'd have to head back in and face Dr. Dupuis's wrath for taking off and nearly getting kidnapped.
"Is this a very dangerous hospital?" asked the woman, gently patting my shoulder. "I don't know if you should work here."
I chuckled. St. Joe's was considered a snoozy community hospital before I arrived.
The man said something in their language, and her eyes widened. "This is the one with the hostage taking! Oh my goodness. We moved here from Toronto and didn't realize. Oh, my."
Crap. The last thing I needed was her fleeing in terror. I slipped my phone out of my front pocket—somehow, I'd managed to keep it on me—and wrote, It's usually safe. Welcome.
"We're not scared," said the man, reading my thoughts. I must have looked agonized. "Let's go talk to the police."
Dr. Dupuis stood by the secretary's desk on the acute side, red-faced and the angriest I'd ever seen him. He watched us walk past the eye room and resus area into the nearest opening to the nursing station, which was, unfortunately, right in front of him. He barely glanced at my saviours, focusing on me. "Where were you."
The man said, "This poor doctor was attacked in the parking lot. Two men tried to drag her off. I called the police. Are they here?"
On cue, two officers loomed behind Dr. Dupuis. One of them flipped open a notebook as soon as he saw me. The other stared.
"The police are here to interview you about the patient in 14. What's this about two men in the parking lot?" said Dr. Dupuis.
I typed on my phone, It's true. I tried to find the security guard in the parking lot, and two men attacked me.
I let the couple explain the rest, which resulted in two officers interviewing me in the conference room before they'd talk to the couple. At least it got me away from Dr. Dupuis.
Before I left, I took the woman's hand in mine and mouthed to her and her husband, "Thank you." I didn't even know their names.
"I'll pray for you," she said.
Well, Ryan wasn't praying for me any more. I'd take it. "Thank you," I mouthed again, as the police led me away.
11
My wooden chair creaked as I sat at the Formica conference table with the police, struggling to describe the two men in black.
"How big were they?" asked the cop who was writing my testimony in a pocket-sized blue notebook. He was younger and a bit chubby, like Seth Rogan, minus the humour.
"Bigger than me," I said, closing my eyes to try and picture the scene. This insulated me from their stares and the overhead fluorescent light, but it made me sleepy. I pried my eyelids open and blinked at them.
"How much bigger?" asked the fortyish cop. His salt and pepper hair was so close-cropped, it looked painful. Maybe that was why he looked annoyed with life in general. Well, that and the fact that it was nearly 2 a.m. He took a sip of the coffee Andrea had placed in front of him.
"Um, at least 5 foot 7. Maybe up to 6 feet?" I shifted in my chair, scraping it on the tile floor. The sound echoed around the cavernous conference room.
Salt 'n' Pepa made a face.
It's lame, but when most adults are taller than you, I only have a few categories of size. Teeny (much shorter than me). Normal (within a few inches of my size, which is five foot two and a quarter). Tall (anyone over 5 foot nine). I suppose I could make a category for extra-tall, but I don't really notice unless it hurts my neck to look up. I'm not like a guy constantly comparing size to see if I measure up.
"Wider than me," I said, which might not have seemed like such a help, because I'm on the narrow side, but I held my hands out. Even with the puffy coat, at least one of the guys, the one who'd grabbed me, had been st
ocky. "Up to 200 pounds. Definitely over 160. Let's say 190."
Salt 'n' Pepa raised his eyebrows, but I have to be more precise with weight because we dose drugs accordingly. I'm not super talented at it, like some of the nurses, but I can guesstimate weight a bit better.
"That's the one who grabbed you?" asked Young 'n' Chubby.
"Yup. I never saw the other one, just heard him. But they were both men." I hesitated. "From the voices, I don't think they were old. Like, not elderly. Say between 18 and 50, more likely 20 to 35."
Salt 'n' Pepa sighed. I didn't take offence. He'd probably rather be out chasing down the suspects than taking vague testimony. On the other hand, he had to get better at eliciting information from witnesses, or there'd be no one to chase if criminals didn't do the do right in front of his nose.
"As for race..."
Both of them leaned forward now, suddenly alert. Racial profiling isn't in vogue, but everyone does it.
"...I'm not sure. I was grabbed from behind, so I couldn't see the grabber's skin, and I never saw the other one properly. They didn't have any noticeable accents. Well, one of them might have been French." French accents are so ubiquitous that they barely register on me. I tilted my head, closing my eyes. "The leader—the one not doing the grabbing—could have had a slight French accent, but I can't swear to it."
Young 'n' Chubby tapped his pen on the paper and glanced at his partner, who sighed.
"Maybe the other witnesses can describe them better. I did stomp on the one who was holding me." Personally, I thought it was more impressive that I'd escaped being thrown in a car trunk and driven away.
"Did you see any hair?" said Salt 'n' Pepa.
I shook my head. "He was wearing a hat. He kept it on the whole time."
"Did he have a beard, or any facial hair?"
"I don't know." I felt silly, but he'd pinned me facing outward, and then I was trying to run, and my glasses fogged up. My eyes, always my weakest link, hadn't been able to see much. "He was wearing a black parka, though. Made out of tough, artificial material, like nylon. I think he was wearing it on his legs, too. Snow pants. And he had black boots on."