by C. J. Lyons
“Do I really look like the gala type?” He gestured to his rumpled lab jacket, jeans, and polo shirt. “Why is this so important to you?”
“I want to give the award to you. You and the guys from Med Seven. You guys were the real heroes that day.”
“No thanks. I’d rather skip the medal and the gala. Besides, I doubt Moses would want to see me there.”
“So what if my father sued you for malpractice? That will be true of half the doctors who’ll be there. He won’t notice—he’s going to be pretty upset when I make my announcement.”
“What announcement?”
“That I’m marrying Jerry Boyle.” Gina had no idea why she said it—she hadn’t even told Amanda about her engagement yet, and here she was, blurting it out to Ken Rosen of all people.
She tugged the engagement ring free from under her shirt to show him. “Moses doesn’t exactly approve.”
Ken’s smile vanished. He started to turn away, then turned back. He cleared his throat. “I see. Well then, I guess I have an early wedding present for you. It’s up in my office.”
“What?”
“Your Kevlar vest. The one with the bullet in it.”
Gina’s hand automatically went to the back of her neck where the bullet would have hit if not for the bulletproof vest. “The one I was wearing that day? I thought it went missing from the ER. You have it?”
He was already three steps away from her, speeding up. Then he skidded to a halt. “Don’t marry Jerry. It’s a mistake.”
Gina did a double take. “Are you kidding? Jerry’s a wonderful guy. He cares about me. He loves me.”
“That’s the problem. Jerry is a wonderful guy. He does love you. But you don’t love him.”
Gina stared at him, stunned. Fury and confusion battled as she felt her cheeks heat up. “What the hell would you know about it?”
He looked over his shoulder as if searching for an escape, but then turned back to her. “Jerry’s got you swaddled in bubble wrap and Kevlar. But that’s not what you need, Gina.”
“Go to hell.” She straightened to her full five-ten, meeting him head-on. “Jerry’s not like that—I can damn well take care of myself.”
“No. You can’t. But you need to learn how to.” He met her stare without flinching or backing down. “You need someone who believes in you enough to let you stumble and fall, someone who will watch your back while you pick yourself up, someone there, ready to offer a hand when you ask for it. Someone more than a caretaker.”
The slap surprised her—it just happened, as if her hand had a mind of its own. And damn, it hurt her more than it hurt him. He merely rocked back, didn’t even touch his cheek where her palm print burned red.
“You have no idea what I need.”
“Neither do you.”
NORA RETRACED HER STEPS, HEADING TO THE security office. There she found Glen Bakker working at the front desk, a schedule spread out in front of him.
“Just call me the Grinch,” he said, making a notation beside one of his men’s names. “Stealing Christmas from everyone.” He laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair, appraising her. “How’s the girl? I didn’t hurt her, did I?”
“She’ll be fine. Psych is admitting her for observation, and I tipped the social worker to what’s going on with the boyfriend.”
“The way some men treat women.” He shook his head, scowling. “So, what can I do for you, Nora? Are you headed home? Need an escort to the garage?”
“No. I was wondering if the police found the rape kit yet.”
He stood and came around to join her on the other side of the desk. “Not that I know. Why?”
“I want to find it. We were only gone a few minutes. How could anyone have known where to find it or when to grab it?”
He nodded slowly, appraising her as if trying to decide if she was trustworthy. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. What if the perp came from here, inside the hospital?”
She held her breath for a moment, hating to acknowledge the truth in his words. “Did your cameras pick up anything?”
“Let me show you something.” He led her back to his private office. It was a spartan room with bare walls and an institutional metal desk. His chair had stuffing poking through cracks in the vinyl and the only personal memento was a framed photo of Glen with his reserve unit in Iraq. A large-screen monitor sat on his desk, the picture divided into four separate video feeds.
“I gave the police copies of everything from last night and this morning, but I’ve been reviewing all the footage myself as well.” He pulled out a chair for her, positioning it beside his own, then sat down, a captain taking command of his ship. His fingers danced across the keyboard, and four new images popped up onto the screen. “Can you narrow the time frame?”
Nora had been through all of this with Janet Kwon, but obviously the detective hadn’t confided in Glen. Why should she? Nora doubted that the prickly detective confided in anyone. “I left the garage around six forty.”
“Okay, that helps. I can only do four feeds at a time, but I’ll pull the ones from that side of the medical center, slow them down, and start at six twenty or so.” He punched in some keys and the screen blinked for a moment, and then four images began to flow across each quadrant. They moved in a painfully slow, almost stuttering type of movement; it was hard to watch without becoming seasick.
And there wasn’t a lot on them. A few workers arriving early for their shift, entering the main lobby. No one coming in through the ambulance bay or the clinic entrance, where the third camera was. Two women arriving together through the ER entrance.
“Wait,” Nora said, pointing to a dark blur of motion at the edge of the frame. “What’s that?”
“I’m not sure.” Glen selected the ER camera’s feed, and it filled the screen. He zoomed in on the area she pointed to. “A man. I think I got a piece of his back and his arm. Here.”
As he zoomed in further, the image blurred even more. The back of a man from the shoulders down was visible. He wore a long black trench coat over black slacks. His gloved hand was extended as if reaching out to someone.
“What is he doing?” Nora pulled her chair closer, leaning forward so her face was mere inches from the screen.
Glen manipulated the image and it slowly, frame by frame, went backward. The man seemed to grow shorter, then taller again as he moved through the shot, his hand arching out from his side then falling back into place before he vanished.
“He threw something,” she said after Glen rewound it and played it for the second time. “Is there a trash can near that camera?”
“Let’s go see.” Glen vaulted from his chair, his face aglow with the prospect of playing supercop. Nora had to admit, she was pretty excited as well. If they found something that would lead to the killer, she could jettison the load of guilt that had been weighing her down for two long years.
Glen grabbed his bomber jacket and handed her a windbreaker from the collection hanging on the coat rack. It was much too large for Nora’s small frame, but as soon as they stepped out into the cold air of the ambulance bay, she was glad for the protection. Glen had a BlackBerry-type device in his hand, ungloved fingers punching the tiny keyboard as he squinted into the small screen.
“I can control all the cameras and security from this, but I have to admit my eyes are getting old. It’s a lot easier from my computer. Okay”—he strode to the far right of the ambulance bay, halfway between it and the main ER doors—“this is it.”
“It” was a small piece of wall that jutted out at an angle, demarcating the ambulance bay and employee entrance from the main ER entrance. It was also the place where smokers gathered, sheltered from the wind and out of sight of the public. A nursing assistant, arms crossed over her chest, no jacket, saw them coming, quickly snuffed out her cigarette, and hustled inside before they reached her.
Nora went straight to the trash can. Inside it she found fast-food debris, a few surgical caps and booties,
tons of cigarette butts, and a paper bag half-split open, revealing its colorful contents: blaze orange, neon green, and scarlet spray paint cans, all smeared with fresh paint.
“Bingo,” she said.
“He was probably too smart to leave prints,” Glen said, now using his PDA to make a phone call, “but this should give the police a time frame so they can check alibis.”
“What was the time stamp on the video when we saw him?”
“Six thirty-eight. He would have dumped the body right before.”
Nora turned and stared across the drive. She could see over the fence into the cemetery and the weeping angel where she’d found Karen. And she had a clear view of the parking garage exit. The one she used every day.
He had watched—he’d seen her find Karen.
Despite the windbreaker, she began shivering uncontrollably. Hugging her arms around her chest didn’t help.
He’d been watching her.
EIGHT
Thursday, 12:41 P.M.
THE TECHS CAME TO TAKE NAROLIE TO HER CT scan. Amanda followed Lucas out to the nursing station. He walked beside her without touching her—he was always so hyperaware of decorum. Especially once they’d realized that if she was going to be a resident at the same hospital where he was attending physician, then they needed to get married first. He had even flown home to South Carolina with her over Thanksgiving to meet her family and ask her parents’ permission to marry her.
“How’s your little boy in the ICU?” he asked.
“Not so good.” She glanced at her beeper to make sure she hadn’t missed any pages. “I hope we can buy him enough time with the ECMO for his lungs to heal.”
“Too long on bypass and you risk brain injury.” He held a chair out for her at the dictation area.
“I know.” Then she brightened. “At least I was able to help Narolie. I can’t believe Dr. Frantz gave up his PICU bed for her.”
“He didn’t. The kid I did the spinal tap on is getting it.”
Amanda wheeled around, the chair rattling. “But—you heard him. He told me to write up her admission orders.”
Lucas pulled up the admission screen on the computer. “There, see. Harold Trenton, PICU. Narolie Maxeke, regular pediatric bed, twenty-three-hour observation.”
“Observation? So basically he’s going to sit on her tonight, do nothing, and send her home in the morning?”
“Basically.” Lucas typed his note on the lumbar puncture while Amanda fumed over Dr. Frantz’s manipulation. “Cheer up. Maybe the CT will give you the diagnosis.”
“There’s something wrong with that girl—it’s not all in her head, despite what the clinic doctors say.”
He turned to smile at her, his blue-gray eyes crinkling in delight. He reached across to squeeze her hand, surprising her with the almost-public display of affection. “You never give up on anyone.”
“It’s so unfair. She came to this country to build a new life. She shouldn’t be treated this way just because she doesn’t have insurance.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“I don’t know. I need to find time to get a complete history from her—every time she’s seen a clinic doctor, it’s been a different one and the doctors have only done short, complaint-focused histories. I’m sure there’s a missing link to everything.”
He scanned Narolie’s chart. “Have you thought about abdominal migraines?”
“Maybe. But there’s no good test for them other than a trial of medication. I guess if I only have twenty-three hours to work with, I’d better rule out anything that needs special testing first.”
“How are you going to get Frantz to sign off on that testing? You’re only a medical student.”
She flipped to the order page on the chart. “He already did. Look at how the lazy son of a gun signed the admission order: ‘further orders per Amanda Mason, MS4.’ All I need to do is get a resident to cosign what I order. They won’t know or care; she’s not their patient.”
“Amanda—”
She recognized the warning in his tone but didn’t care, already thinking of the differential diagnosis and what tests she could order in the next twenty-three hours. “If the CT is negative, can you pull some strings, help me get her in for an MRI of her head?”
“You could lose your residency slot over this—Frantz is very powerful.”
“If so, it’d be worth it.” She scooted her chair closer to his, rubbing her leg alongside his. “Look on the bright side—we wouldn’t have to rush the wedding.”
“Yeah, because we might both be on the unemployment line.”
“HAVE YOU SEEN GINA?” TREY ASKED, LEANING over the counter at the nurses’ station so that his face was close to Lydia’s. “We’re ready to roll anytime she is.”
“Would you be okay with her skipping the rest of her shift?” Lydia asked. Nora was listlessly rearranging patient charts and seemed oblivious to the rest of the ER.
“Maybe. Why?”
She gestured for him to join her down the hallway across from the trauma bay. “I’m worried about Nora.”
“Finding a murdered colleague has a tendency to screw up your day.”
She hadn’t told him about the missing rape kit or that Karen, the victim, had also once been involved with Seth Cochran. Or her suspicions that there was more going on, distracting Nora. “I don’t want her to be alone. Was thinking about sending Gina home with her.”
Trey glanced at the clock. “Sure, that’s fine with me. Not like Gina is skipping out on her own. She’s made up most of her shift; that’s what counts.” He threaded his fingers through hers. “You going to fill me in on all the details later?” He didn’t wait for her answer, but instead shifted his weight as if off-balance. “My mom wants to know your schedule over Christmas.”
“I’m working.”
“Right, like you were working Thanksgiving.”
“I was working Thanksgiving.”
“Lydia. I know you traded shifts with Mark Cohen to work Thanksgiving.”
“Is that a crime? The man deserves to have time with his family.”
Trey’s stare hardened. “Look, I know this is hard for you. Family stuff. But they really want to celebrate the holidays with you. We’ve been together five months; you can’t avoid them forever.”
Five months? Before Trey, the longest she’d let any man stick around was five weeks. Operative word being let—as in she was in control of the situation.
Not with Trey. Anything but in control. It was as if she’d somehow allowed her life to gallop away, a horse without a rider.
“It’s just one day. What can happen in one day?”
A lot. People lived their whole lives and died in one day—as a street medic, he knew that as well as she did.
It wasn’t that Trey’s family wasn’t nice—they were. Too nice. And loving. All those questions, concerns, trying to get to know her, watching out for Trey, judging her . . . not to mention the noise, the laughter, old jokes, old memories, things she could never share. Weekly dinners were bad enough. A full day with Trey’s loud and loving family scared the crap out of her.
As usual, Trey picked up on her vibes better than she did herself. “There’s no reason to be scared. It’s only Christmas.”
“You make me sound like some kind of freak, an alien from outer space.”
“Doesn’t matter. They’ll still love you. That’s what family is all about.” The radio on his belt sounded an alert. He kissed the top of her head, his hand lingering as if reluctant to pull away from the contact. “Gotta go. I’ll see you at home.”
Lydia stared after him as the ambulance bay doors swished open and shut again. Home. She had a home—her home, his home, their home. When would those simple facts become real to her?
NORA LEANED AGAINST THE NURSES’ STATION, feeling numb. Worse than numb—numb would be a blessing. Instead, she had tons of feelings reeling around, colliding inside her gut, ricocheting down her nerve endings.
A stream of lab techs, nurses, and finally Ken Rosen wandered into the isolation room. She knew the patient in there was some kind of VIP, yet she couldn’t find the energy to do more than direct traffic.
She’d thought that she’d outrun her past; she’d accepted the lies she told herself and everyone else, had re-created herself after the rape. She’d left her apartment and found a new one, left her old friends behind, abandoned all her old routines. She’d survived the attack—put it all behind her—had even tried her best to give something back by becoming a sexual assault nurse examiner. It had been a year before she dared to trust a man, date again. Seth. Look how that worked out.
And now her carefully crafted wall of denial was crumbling.
She sat down and began to mindlessly organize the lab results spewing forth from the printer. Jim Lazarov jogged out from the isolation room, his mask hanging jauntily from the neck of his Tyvek gown.
“Aren’t my labs back yet?” he demanded.
Nora reached for the last of the papers and handed the stack to Jim.
“Why didn’t you bring them in? Dr. Frantz was waiting.”
“They just came up,” Nora responded before she could stop herself. She didn’t owe an explanation to anyone, much less a snotty intern. “Everything is normal except for the white count.”
“We already knew that from the earlier CBC,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand and marching back to the room, holding the papers aloft as if they were hard-won trophies.
Nora watched him go, her vision blurring as she forgot to blink, allowing herself to be transfixed by the fluorescent lights overhead. Footsteps pounded the linoleum to her left, but she didn’t focus until a large shadow blocked out the light.
“Is it true?” Oliver Tillman, the medical center’s CEO, towered over her, leaning across the counter and bracing his elbows on it.
Nora blinked hard, twice, before meeting his gaze. His eyes were narrowed, his lips compressed into a tight line, but other than that his face was devoid of expression. His Donald Trump mop was in dire need of a comb.