Trauma

by CJ Lyons

  Maybe Ken was right. She slammed her locker shut, the thin metal door flying back at her so she slapped it again. It caught this time, shuddering into place with a weird keening noise that made her teeth ache. She stomped out to the ER, shoving aside all existential nonsense. She knew who she was, that was all that mattered.

  Wasn’t it?

  She was barely halfway to the nurses’ station when she heard her name called. She whirled around, then wished she’d run the other way instead. Coming down the hall behind her was Tank’s mother. Worse, matching her stride for stride, was Gina’s mother, LaRose Freeman, looking particularly elegant in a Donna Karan suit the color of pink champagne.

  “Regina,” LaRose said in a voice of command.

  No running and hiding, no escape. Gina waited for them, wrapping her arms around her chest, leaning against the wall, trying to assume a nonchalant stance.

  “Thank God we found you!” Mrs. Trenton gushed. Gina cringed—it was much too early in the day for exclamation marks.

  “Catherine needs your help,” LaRose said.

  Gina waited, refusing to get sucked in. Probably they were going to try to send her on a food run for Tank like they had Amanda. But Mrs. Trenton surprised her, grasping Gina’s hand as if Gina were a lifesaver.

  “You have to help me,” she said. “Harold’s missing.”

  18

  “Are you okay? Do you need something?” Lydia asked Nora, wondering why the charge nurse had come to her. It was awkward knowing what she knew about Nora—but Lydia couldn’t betray Seth’s confidence, wouldn’t let on to Nora that she knew any of the charge nurse’s secrets.

  Way too complicated. So much easier just staying out of other people’s problems.

  “No. I’m fine.” Nora mumbled the words as if they’d become automatic.

  “I’ve got to go, I’m late,” Lydia said, heading out the door to the carport.

  Nora followed. “Wait. I’ll go with you. I need to talk to Jerry.”

  Lydia had been planning to take the bike—had even had small inklings about “forgetting” her helmet. No way she would ever, ever be able to explain that to Nora. An ER doc riding a “donorcycle” without a helmet? How on earth could she explain the thrill of it? The way riding the Triumph or shooting her nine-millimeter made her feel alive, immortal, death-defying, and fearless.

  Almost better than the adrenaline rush of a fresh trauma.

  The moment of self-indulgence was brief. “Sure,” she said to Nora, tugging her gloves on, snugging Maria’s charm bracelet inside her left one. She wasn’t sure why she’d been drawn to wearing it today, but it felt right. “Come along.”

  Without breaking stride, Lydia headed for her Ford Escape, which was parked in the driveway. “If you don’t want to be alone, I can call Elise,” she suggested. She was pretty sure the flight nurse had the day off. And because Elise had been there with Nora in the cemetery yesterday, she’d understand what Nora was going through. “You two can hang out, go shopping or something.”

  “You trying to get rid of me?” Nora said it with a smile, but Lydia heard the hurt in her tone.

  “No. Of course not. You and Elise have known each other longer; I figured—”

  “Look. Lydia. It’s all right. You don’t have to babysit me. I’ll be fine. Just tell me where to find Jerry. I can find my own way from there.”

  Lydia didn’t like the jagged edge Nora’s voice had taken on. “Hop in, you can ride with me.”

  They drove through Highland Park in silence. “Would you use it?” Nora asked, nodding at the gun case. “Really?”

  That was an easy one. “Yes. When I was attacked, in my own home—I felt so . . . helpless. I never want to feel that way again.”

  “I read somewhere that women carrying guns are more likely to have them taken away, used against them.”

  Lydia choked back a laugh. After living on the streets of L.A., hustling with her mother, and then spending the rest of her youth in foster care, she knew every dirty street-fighting trick in the book. Hell, she could write her own book. Those were the skills that had saved her life last month. “Let them try.”

  After a long silence, Nora said, “I think that’s why Trey doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like seeing that side of you.”

  “What side of me?”

  “The side that put that man in the hospital.”

  “He tried to kill me.” Why did everyone always forget that? “Besides, I’ve never hidden who I am from Trey.” Except for telling him next to nothing about her childhood or her mother or the fact that Jerry Boyle was reinvestigating Maria’s murder. Guilt left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  “Lydia, you need to be careful. I’ve seen the way Trey looks at you. The man has fallen, fallen hard.”

  “Who asked him to?” Lydia muttered, hoping Nora wouldn’t hear. As if by blaming Trey she could make the problem go away. Hah.

  She pulled off Washington Boulevard into the Pittsburgh Police Training Center. “We’re here. You’ll need your driver’s license, but leave everything else in the car.”

  Sandy McKenna was manning the desk as usual.

  Lydia signed in and opened her gun case for McKenna to inspect her Para Carry 9. “Is Boyle here yet?”

  “Nope. Called and said he’d be a few minutes late. Who’s your friend?” Running a hand through his military-cropped silver hair, Sandy beamed at Nora.

  “Nora, this is Sandy. Watch out for him, he bites.” Lydia made introductions with a smile. After an upbringing where distrust of the police had been pounded into her, she was pleasantly surprised to find herself at ease with men like McKenna and Boyle, even to the point of calling them friends.

  “Hi, Nora,” Sandy said, flirting shamelessly. “This your first time at a range? I need you to fill out this form, and then I’ll go over the safety briefing with you while we wait for Boyle. Are you going to be shooting today?”

  “No. No shooting, not for me.” Nora jumped as the sound of gunfire came from beyond the thick Lexan window that looked out onto the range.

  “She’s here to try to talk me out of owning a gun,” Lydia told him.

  “You gotta be kidding. Lydia’s a natural. Are you going to be doing those weak-hand drills again? I’ll put you in the center stall so the cadets can see how it’s really done.”

  Lydia was left-handed by birth and right-handed by the grace of the nuns who had taught her how to write. Her nine-millimeter was set up for a right-handed shooter, but she liked to practice with her left as well. Never knew when it might come in handy. She’d gotten good enough that she could beat almost everyone except McKenna and Boyle. Given that Sandy was a former SWAT team commander, and before that an army sniper, that was saying a lot.

  Boyle came rushing in from the parking lot, toting a box of ammo and his two off-duty weapons. His hair was still wet from a shower, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept.

  “Nora.” He stopped short when he saw the charge nurse. “What are you doing here?” He dumped his ammo and guns on the counter before folding Nora into his arms with a gentle embrace. “You doing okay?”

  Lydia shook her head, constantly amazed at the way Boyle did his job so well yet still allowed his vulnerabilities to show through. He was unlike any cop she’d ever known. He gave Nora a tight squeeze, one hand ruffling her auburn hair before releasing her.

  “I need to talk to you, Jerry,” Nora said, her voice breaking. “It’s important.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Do you want me to leave?” Lydia asked, feeling uncomfortable with the emotions roiling off Nora. She shifted her weight, anxious to flee to the comfort of the firing line, but to her chagrin, Nora grabbed her wrist.

  “No. Please, Lydia. Stay.”

  Where was Amanda, or Elise, hell, even Gina, when she needed them? Lydia was no good at this.

  Sandy cleared his throat, obviously also embarrassed by Nora’s sudden emotional outburst. “Yinz can use my office.”

 
Boyle nodded his thanks and opened the door to the small cinder-block-walled room decorated with brass plaques and mounted handguns. Nora tugged Lydia inside with her, not dropping her hand as she sank onto the well-worn leather loveseat across from Sandy’s desk. Lydia tried to keep her distance by perching on the arm of the couch, but Boyle had no compunctions, plunging straight into the heart of things by crouching down so that he was knee to knee with Nora, taking her free hand.

  “Nora, what is it?”

  The charge nurse looked up, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. “I lied. I’m sorry, Jerry. It’s all my fault. Karen’s dead because of me.”

  Amanda got back to the PICU just in time for rounds. She felt better after eating, but guilty about not personally checking on her patients before rounds started. She was surprised to see the team clustered around Tank’s room. Had he crashed?

  More guilt hit her as she jogged across the unit to the isolation room. Damn, she’d thought he was just a goofball kid, not really sick. More lonely and upset about his mom and dad than anything.

  Then she stopped short. His bed was empty. His room was empty.

  Dr. Frantz was berating the charge nurse, who was having none of it. “We have critical patients here,” the nurse was saying. “If yours is healthy enough to disobey orders to remain in his room and abscond, then he doesn’t belong here in the first place. We do not provide a babysitting service, Doctor.”

  Bravo, Amanda echoed the sentiment. But that didn’t answer the question of where Tank was. Probably run off to play his Game Boy . . . or down to Narolie’s room?

  She edged back from the crowd. Before she could escape to the nurses’ station and call down to Narolie’s nurse, Dr. Frantz spotted her.

  “Amanda Mason.” His tone was sharp, and suddenly all eyes were on her. “Do you know where Harold is?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He’s your responsibility. Go. Find him.”

  Amanda blinked. Suddenly she was responsible for Dr. Frantz’s mistakes? Bad enough the man thought he could use and abuse her, but she had patients up here whom she was responsible for. “Sir, I can’t. I have rounds. And then I need to help with Zachary’s next treatment.”

  Dr. Frantz turned on her as if he were a pit bull. “Did you not hear me? A critically ill boy is wandering the halls, potentially contagious with a life-threatening illness—”

  “Actually the latex agglutinations came back negative for meningococcemia,” Terry Wyshkoff, the PICU fellow, put in. “He’s been afebrile since two a.m., and his white count is normal.”

  Dr. Frantz brushed her comments aside. “Just means I was right and the antibiotics are working. We need to find him—”

  “Which hospital security is already working on,” Terry said. “We know from security that he hasn’t left the hospital and every nursing unit is in lockdown, so what makes you think my medical student can find him faster?”

  Now Amanda felt like a piece of meat torn between two pit bulls. Dr. Frantz glowered at Terry, not relenting. “Are you saying that Ms. Mason’s services are so essential that you can’t spare her long enough to find a missing patient?”

  “Have you called the police?” Amanda asked.

  Both physicians stared at her—Dr. Frantz with a withering glare and Terry with a smirk. “The family requested that we not call the police,” Dr. Frantz said.

  “Because if we do, we’d need to let them know about Harold’s positive tox screen and the joint the nurses found in his pillowcase,” Terry added.

  “Ms. Mason was with Harold yesterday,” Dr. Frantz said. “She bonded with him. If he’s confused or agitated, she may be able to help.”

  Terry ignored Dr. Frantz to turn to Amanda. “It’s your choice, Amanda. If you think you can help find Tank faster, I’ll cover Zachary for you. If not, you don’t have to.”

  Amanda considered. “Well, I am watching another patient of Dr. Frantz’s. One who needs a brain MRI and neuro consult ordered. So while I’m waiting for those, I maybe could look for Tank.”

  Dr. Frantz met her gaze, then gave her a slow nod. “Thanks for reminding me, Amanda. I’ll take care of those orders right away.”

  “Then I’ll get started looking for Tank right away.” As Dr. Frantz strode over to the nurses’ station, Amanda turned to Terry. “Call me if the Millers need anything.”

  “No problem. You do realize Frantz is using you as a scapegoat. If anything goes wrong, it’s your head on a platter.”

  Amanda glanced over her shoulder to where Dr. Frantz stood talking on the phone. Hopefully ordering an MRI on Narolie. “That’s okay. I’m using him, too.”

  19

  Nora drew in a deep breath, almost choking on the smell of gunpowder and an acrid oily scent—cleaning fluid? She was so tired of tears, the way they leached her strength, sucked her dry. Sitting up straight, she folded her hands carefully into her lap.

  “Three years ago, on New Year’s Eve, I was raped,” she started.

  Jerry remained crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees, gripping them tight to quiet her trembling.

  Nora kept her gaze focused on a photo mounted above the desk in the place of honor. In it a dozen men bulky with the weight of their combat SWAT uniforms held rifles aloft in a posture of victory. She recognized Sandy McKenna, the man from out front, and to her surprise, on the far end, Jerry Boyle.

  “I didn’t know you were on the SWAT team,” she said, glad of the distraction.

  Jerry squirmed, whether from irritation at her stalling tactic or embarrassment, she wasn’t sure. “Long time ago. Messed up my shoulder, transferred to hostage negotiation then to Major Crimes.”

  He waited, his gaze on her face even though she still couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

  “Hostage negotiation? You’d be good at that.”

  He only shrugged in response.

  “I’m sorry,” Nora said, forcing herself back on track. “I’ve never told anyone—except Seth. Look what came of that.” She flinched at the bitterness in her voice. It wasn’t Seth’s fault. It was hers. “You see, the man who attacked me, he’s the same one who killed Karen.”

  “Are you sure?” Lydia asked, sliding down from the arm of the couch to sit beside Nora, their thighs touching. She laid her hand on Nora’s forearm, not forcing the contact, just there. Nora appreciated that, the way Lydia seemed able to get involved without getting sucked in too deep.

  “Yes. He left me, naked, spray-painted, eyes glued shut, hair chopped—”

  “Did he cut you?”

  Nora shut her eyes before answering Lydia’s question. Jerry remained silent, waiting, allowing her to pace herself. “No. But he had a knife. He—he touched me with it.”

  The room was quiet except for the faint sound of gunfire from beyond the walls.

  “Start from the beginning,” Jerry suggested as the silence grew.

  Nora nodded, eyes still closed, telling them everything. That she’d gotten a new dress; how it was only her second date with Matt—they both knew the relationship was going nowhere, but who was going to pass up a date for New Year’s?—and how they’d spent the night drinking champagne and dancing; the cab ride home; Matt too drunk to escort her to her door; watching him drive off . . .

  “I never saw the man. He came up behind me, put the knife to my throat, and I froze. He made me walk to where his car was parked behind a Dumpster, made me kneel down. I remember there was ice and slush on the street; I worried about getting my new dress dirty.”

  A strained laugh circled around the room. It took Nora a moment to realize it had come from her. She inhaled, opening her eyes. Jerry hadn’t moved, although surely his legs were cramping by now. Lydia sat twisted so that she faced Nora, her hand stroking Nora’s arm, but Nora couldn’t feel it. It was as if she drifted above them all, far away from her words or the memories they described.

  “Of course, my dress was the least of my worries. He yanked my head back and that was the only time I caugh
t a glimpse of his face—he wore a black ski mask. Then he poured superglue into my eyes and I didn’t see anything else. He used duct tape to tie my hands and cover my mouth before shoving me into his trunk. We drove for a long time, around and around. I remember praying I wouldn’t throw up and aspirate and choke to death.”

  Her hands tightened their grip on her knees, digging in, holding on for dear life. “That’s when I knew I would do whatever it took to get out of there alive.”

  20

  “I’m sure Tank’s fine,” Gina said, leading her mother and Mrs. Trenton to the nurses’ station, where she picked up a patient’s chart. “Do you need me to call security for you?”

  “They’re already looking.”

  “Then I don’t understand. What do you want me to do?” She met her mother’s eyes straight on as she said this, waiting for LaRose to ask her to call Jerry. As embarrassing as it was for her parents to have her “associating” with a cop, she was glad for the opportunity for them to see how good Jerry was. Not to mention the groveling she intended to coax from LaRose.

  Mrs. Trenton grabbed for her arm. “We want you to find him!”

  “Me? How would I know where he went? Besides”—she gestured to the stack of charts—“I have patients to take care of.”

  “You’ve worked in this hospital for three years,” LaRose said, acting as if Gina had been exiled to a dungeon for a life sentence. “Surely you know where a teenager might run off to.”

  Gina knew a lot of places—the medical center had two large towers built onto the original infrastructure, which dated back more than one hundred fifty years. “The guys in security know this place even better than I do.”

  “But we’re—I’m—asking you to help. It’s not like they don’t have other doctors around here. This is Catherine’s son we’re talking about.” LaRose laid her hand on Gina’s arm, the closest she got to an affectionate hug.