Critical Condition

by CJ Lyons

  Lydia listened without really hearing, her mind spinning back to the day her mother was murdered. She and Maria had argued. Maria had come to her school, about to go on the run again, but Lydia didn’t want to leave her friends. They’d been too late, and ended up being chased by a man Lydia had never seen before; she’d thought he was a cop, after Maria for playing her fake psychic scam, conning people.

  She’d been wrong. So very wrong. The man chased them into an empty church. Maria forced Lydia to hide in the confessional and faced the man alone. Maria had struggled, but he’d beaten her to death, stopping only when interrupted by a priest and running off.

  Lydia had been only twelve, but that day had changed everything for her. Not only had she lost her mother, she’d lost her one connection to her own past—she didn’t even know who her own father was, much less any other family. Maybe today was the first step to regaining that lost history.

  Maybe she had a family. Maybe they were still looking for Martha and her baby, even after all these years. . . .

  “What happened?” Lydia asked once Janet hung up.

  “Looks like your mom was right to run. Storekeeper dropped the charges the next day and she hitched a ride out of town with a local trucker after her hearing. But that same day, a man came to the station saying he was her lawyer and demanding to see her—even though she’d never requested a lawyer and hadn’t made any phone calls.” Janet paused, eyes squinted at the cement-block wall, thinking.

  She shook her head, her frown deepening. “The next day when the trucker got back into town, a gang of guys beat him to a pulp. Wanted to know everything about her—where she went, what they’d talked about. They were interrupted by the trucker’s son coming home, otherwise they probably would’ve killed him, sounds like.”

  “Are you going to talk to him?” Hope flared through Lydia. Maybe Maria—Martha—had mentioned her home, who her family was.

  “Can’t. He died in a traffic collision a few years later. Wouldn’t matter anyway—we already know where your mom went. What we need to know is where she came from. Why she was running.”

  Reality dashed Lydia’s hopes—she’d been foolish to get so excited anyway. She knew as well as anyone that Maria had been terrified of going home. She’d been running for her—their—lives. “And who she was running from.”

  THREE

  GINA WAITED FOR THE ELEVATOR, FATIGUE BLURRING her vision. As a third-year emergency medicine resident, she was used to being tired, but this was something different. A weariness that crept into her blood, numbing her from the inside out. Every move, every decision—hell, every blink—left her feeling empty.

  She twisted the engagement ring hanging from the chain around her neck. Jerry’s ring. Maybe her New Year’s resolution would be to finally be honest with herself, that she wasn’t good enough for him, and she should walk away forever. Lord knew, he’d be better off without her—just look where loving her had gotten him.

  If there was one thing Gina could be brutally honest about, it was her own shortcomings. She couldn’t take care of Jerry. She didn’t have the strength, the patience. Hell, she couldn’t even take care of herself—wasn’t that why she’d stayed with Jerry for so long?

  He’d made her feel safer than anyone else ever had. Protected. Cherished.

  Even Old Jerry had been putty in Gina’s manicured hands, no match for a mind trained in the art of verbal guerrilla tactics by the famous trial lawyer, her father, Moses Freeman.

  It had been oh-so-easy to persuade Jerry to race to her rescue in the past, when she was in trouble. What the hell else could she have done when the hit man took her hostage?

  She had the feeling that when she finally figured it out, she’d hate the answer.

  The elevator arrived and the doors opened. Gina stepped inside and immediately wished she’d taken the stairs.

  Ken Rosen stood in the corner, sandwiched between a woman whose arms were filled with balloons and a man on crutches who was clutching a pack of cigarettes.

  Ken, an attending in immunology and infectious disease, was dressed in his usual casual hospital uniform: jeans and a polo shirt. No lab coat, so she guessed he wasn’t seeing patients today. You never knew with Ken; he was the essence of Bohemian/Zen master/don’t-give-a-shit casual. Aside from occasionally also wearing the lab coat, she’d never seen him in anything other than jeans and a polo—except for when they’d first met and he’d been wearing running shorts and dodging bullets during a drive-by shooting.

  The fight-or-flight urge raged through her, leaving a cascade of sweat streaming down the back of her neck. But Gina didn’t want to fight Ken. Didn’t want to run from him either.

  She sucked in her breath. Inhaled the scent of cigarettes. God, she would kill for a cigarette. Nineteen days cold turkey—no patches, no gum. Small penance. Or punishment.

  Ken broke the silence. “I’ll catch the next one.”

  He pushed past her. The doors banged against his arms, but he didn’t seem to notice. His back was rigid, his shoulders tight—as knotted as his expression when he’d seen her. A wince that etched his eyes into two slits, as if merely seeing her was painful.

  All because she’d chosen Jerry instead of him—seeing how that was working out, she’d think Ken would be celebrating.

  Instead, his pain sucker punched her. Gina turned to face the blank rear wall of the elevator, aware that the other occupants were staring at her. She sniffed. Pinched the bridge of her nose, her eyes suddenly hurting.

  Hah. Well, at least she’d finally gotten some emotion out of Mr. Zen Master. . . .

  Unlike Jerry, Ken had made it very clear that he wouldn’t play nursemaid to her, that he wouldn’t coddle her or solve her problems, wouldn’t make everything she screwed up right again.

  He’d told her the truth about herself even when she didn’t want to hear it. And damn him, he’d been right. If she’d listened to him sooner, Jerry might never have been shot.

  Gina turned to the man on crutches. “I’ll give you fifty bucks for that pack of cigarettes.”

  “YOU KNOW THE ONLY REASON TILLMAN IS DOING this is so one of us will quit. Just so we have things straight,” Jim told Nora after she hung up from calling Gina. “I’m not leaving.”

  “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.” Nora scanned the ER census board. Only two patients, both from an earlier traffic collision. “Are those the guys from the zoo? Why are they still here?” she asked Jason, the desk clerk.

  “One’s waiting for crutch-walking instructions, and they’re both waiting for their ride.”

  If her staff was going to be working a double shift, she had better start rotating them, send a few to get some rest. And she had to talk to Mark Cohen, the attending on duty and ER department head, to make sure he was on board with that. Even if things stayed slow, it was still going to be a long night. No one was going to be happy about missing their New Year’s Eve plans. Including Seth. Damn. Nora dreaded making that phone call.

  Her fiancé, Seth, had also been injured during the violence that had swept the hospital almost three weeks ago and he was still off work, recuperating at their home. He’d almost died. Every night Nora woke, fighting nightmares about finding him . . . all that blood.

  “Jim, can you go teach a guy how to use crutches? Do you know how to do that?”

  “Tillman said we need to work together.” Jim’s petulant tone sent the message loud and clear: If he was being relegated to performing scut work, then Nora was damn well going to suffer alongside.

  She wanted to get rid of him long enough to call Lydia, as well as find out where Harris had wandered off to, so she could keep an eye on him. “You get started. I’ll be right there.”

  Jim stood his ground. Just then Harris appeared down the hall, accompanied by Mark Cohen. The DEA agent appeared frustrated. Good for Mark. Nora knew he’d never betray any of his people, especially not Lydia.

  Jim tapped his foot and handed her the patient chart.

  �
��All right. Let’s go,” Nora conceded. Damn Tillman. He had the worst timing.

  Apparently medical school had never covered basics like how to walk with crutches, much less how to measure them or teach a patient how to go up and down steps and overcome other obstacles, so Nora had Jim read the patient education handout while she measured their patient, Mr. Olsen, for his crutches. It didn’t help that Mr. Olsen was distracted, more interested in talking with the other patient than learning how to use his crutches.

  “What’s the status of the Spheniscus?” he asked his friend, who was nodding his head, listening to his cell phone.

  “They’ve left the airport, but the roads are awful. The state police are diverting people off the interstates and have closed down the turnpike.”

  “Damn weather.”

  “What’s a spheniscus?” Jim asked, forgetting about the crutch he was supposed to be adjusting.

  “Spheniscus mendiculus,” Mr. Olsen answered. “A very rare and valuable specimen of equatorial penguin.”

  “We’re awaiting a shipment of twelve of them from Galapagos,” the other man put in, hanging up his phone. “We were supposed to pick them up at the airport, but—”

  Mr. Olsen rolled his eyes. “They’d be in the habitat where they belong, acclimating to their new home right now, if you knew how to drive in snow.”

  “There was ice. I couldn’t help it.”

  “Now we need to rely on Zimmerman. He doesn’t appreciate how delicate they are.”

  “Calm down, Henry. Zimmerman understands. He’s doing his best.”

  Now Nora was intrigued. “Wait. You’re worried about penguins getting cold?”

  Both men began speaking at once. “These penguins—”

  “Spheniscus.”

  “These spheniscus are equatorial.”

  “Where it can be as warm as thirty-eight degrees Celsius.”

  Oh. Nora saw how that could definitely be a problem. That was over one hundred degrees Fahrenheit.

  “And, to make matters worse,” Mr. Olsen continued, “several of them are molting in preparation to mate. Which means they’ve also been fasting.”

  “So, they’re particularly vulnerable to the elements?” Jim asked. He looked surprisingly interested—unlike his usual haughty, too-bored-to-be-bothered expression. “What kind of transport are they in? Is it climate controlled?”

  The zookeeper warmed to Jim’s concern. “It would have been if someone hadn’t crashed it. Zimmerman has them in the back of his van, so if the trip isn’t prolonged they should be okay.” He paused, looking morose. “I hope.”

  “Are Galapagos penguins related to the Magellanic penguins off the coast of Argentina?” Jim asked.

  “Yes.” Mr. Olsen brightened, obviously excited to find another penguin enthusiast. “The Galapagos penguins traveled the same Humboldt currents up the coast to the equator and settled there. They’re a unique population.”

  “Jim, I didn’t know you were so interested in penguins,” Nora said, hoping to redirect the conversation back to medicine. Although it was nice to see Jim treating his patients like human beings for a change, rather than nuisances. “At least not the non-NHL ones.”

  “I did a summer working with an Earthwatch expedition studying Magellanic penguins in Argentina,” he murmured. “Came home wanting to be a zoologist, but my dad had different plans.”

  “Let’s get Mr. Olsen up and walking so he can get back to the zoo and take care of his new charges.” Nora handed Jim the crutches she’d adjusted to fit their patient.

  “Right. Okay, Mr. Olsen. All you need to do is remember that you don’t want your weight to rest on your arm-pits.” He tapped the padded top of the crutch. “But rather on your hands. Always move the crutches and your injured leg first, then swing your good leg to catch up. Like this.”

  Jim demonstrated, taking a few steps, then handed the crutches to Mr. Olsen. Before taking them, Mr. Olsen turned back to his coworker. “Call Zimmerman again. Call the police, get him an escort if you have to. We must protect those penguins.”

  IT WAS A LOT TO TAKE IN ALL AT ONCE. LYDIA stood beside Janet Kwon, hovering over the laptop. “Do they say anything else about my mother? Where she was from? Any family?”

  “Not here. Now that we have a name, though, I can search for more information later. But right now we need to concentrate on the immediate threat.”

  “The man who almost killed Jerry.”

  “And who wanted to find you.”

  Lydia sank back into the chair, thinking hard. “How did the people responsible for my mother’s death find out that Jerry had reopened her case?”

  Janet’s frown corrugated her forehead. “You’ve always said the man who killed your mom was dressed like a cop.”

  “Jerry’s the first person I told that to. Ever.” She’d been too terrified to confide in either the L.A. police officers who’d found her standing over her mother’s body or the social workers who’d taken her into custody.

  “What if the killer kept looking for you after he killed your mom? Best way for him to keep an eye on anyone looking into Maria’s case would be to flag those fingerprint records.”

  “Which means he really was a cop.”

  Janet seemed to reluctantly agree. “Back then, before a flick of the computer could get you into records, it would have been hard. And even now with all the security clearances, virtually no one outside law enforcement could do it. In fact”—somehow her frown managed to deepen—“unless he works in the same jurisdiction where your mom’s murder took place, it’d be tough to pull off.”

  “So he must be LAPD.”

  “Or maybe L.A. County Sheriff.”

  “Why didn’t he just come after me while I was in foster care? What stopped him?”

  “As far as I can tell, since you had no ID or birth certificate, family services initially labeled you a Jane Doe until the lab tests confirmed your relationship to your mom, right? Way back then the records were pretty much all on paper—so even a police officer wouldn’t have had access without first knowing your name.”

  “And since Maria was labeled a Jane Doe as well, he’d have had no idea what name I was using.” Lydia never realized it before, but thanks to the foster care system, for the past eighteen years, she’d been as good as invisible to anyone looking for Maria or her. Including Maria’s killer.

  “Or what name you went by now—after eighteen years, you could have taken on an adopted family name, or been married, more than once, even. But he must have flagged your mom’s AFIS file as an early-warning system.”

  “So when Jerry reran Maria’s prints and got a match, the killer knew someone was looking into her case. Which meant that Jerry probably knew where I was.”

  “So the hit man was sent here to Pittsburgh, to get Jerry to tell him where you were.” Janet bolted upright, her feet slamming against the floor. “Eighteen years of law enforcement. He’s gonna be high ranking—or”—she paused, clicking her nails against the butt of her gun as she thought—“or maybe he’s gone federal. The AFIS system is run by the Department of Justice.” She shrugged, deflating a little. “Or he could just be a clerk in a cubicle somewhere with access to the database.”

  “But that still doesn’t answer the real question: What does he want from me? It’s been eighteen years.”

  That was the question that had kept Lydia awake for the past two and a half weeks. She’d been just a kid when she witnessed her mother’s murder—she doubted that she could identify the man’s face. Not that he’d even known she was there; she’d stayed hidden, just as Maria had told her to. The killer haunted her dreams, but by the time she awoke, she never remembered anything but the terror he provoked. Her attention had been focused on her mother’s screams, the blood, the need to stay small and quiet and hidden.

  “Whatever it is, he didn’t think twice about targeting police officers.” A glower darkened Janet’s face, and Lydia knew she was thinking of Jerry. “That’s high stakes.”
>
  “I don’t have anything worth killing for—and neither did Maria,” Lydia protested. “We lived on the streets most of the time, were constantly on the move.”

  “Maria worked as a con artist, right?”

  “I don’t know if you’d call it ‘con artist.’ Some days I think she really believed she was psychic, but she pretty much just told people what they wanted to hear.”

  “Maybe one of her clients told her something—”

  “Something worth killing her over? Seems unlikely. And why then come after me after all this time?” Lydia flounced in the chair, frustrated, and immediately regretted the sudden movement when it jarred her sling and pain bellowed from her arm. She took the sling off—she was more comfortable without it anyway, and had worn it only to help with any recoil while she was shooting—and propped her cast on the arm of the chair so it was elevated. The throbbing quieted.

  Janet shut down her computer. “I should get back to the station. I’ll call you if I learn more.”

  Lydia remained sitting in the chair beside Sandy’s desk.

  “You okay to get home by yourself?” Janet asked. Lydia glanced up and realized the detective had already put her coat and gloves on and was standing by the door.

  “I’m fine. Just moving slowly.” Lydia nodded to her arm, as if that were her excuse. “You go ahead.”

  Janet hesitated. “Okay,” she finally said. “Drive safely.” A blast of wind and snow heralded her departure. The office felt ten degrees colder after she left.

  And still Lydia sat, thinking of the frightened teenage girl from those booking photos. Martha Flowers had been skinny—much too thin for a pregnant woman. There’d been what looked like track marks visible on her arms, and her eyes had held the sunken look of a junkie wanting a fix. No surprise to Lydia. Maria—Martha—had confessed to her daughter that she’d been a heroin addict once, but told Lydia she’d quit cold turkey when she found out she was pregnant. It was about the only fact she’d ever shared about her life before Lydia.