by CJ Lyons
"He's getting the worst from both drugs. The FX made his chest muscles too rigid for him to breathe, and the Ecstasy is giving him heat stroke. We need to cool him down and intubate." Cassie prepared her equipment, thinking rapidly. Use the wrong medication, and she could make things worse. "Valium--should sedate him and help any seizures."
She wiped the sweat from her forehead and bent over her patient. Had to get this right the first time. She tried to pry open her patient's mouth, but his jaw muscles were still in spasm. Cassie forced herself to take a deep breath and wait for the Valium to work.
"Damn, that's not doing it. Give me pentobarbital," she ordered. The oxygen alarm sounded, adding to the cacophony bouncing off the tile walls. It was now or never. She forced her patient's mouth open and slid the lighted blade past his tongue until she could see the vocal cords. Like his chest and jaw muscles, they were clenched tight.
God, damn it, cut this kid a break. She gingerly threaded the endotracheal tube to the level of the cords and waited for the opportunity to pass it all the way through them.
"Pulse ox is down to sixty-eight."
Cassie nodded, her eyes never leaving the stubborn, slender cords of muscle. She saw them part. Now. She pushed the tube past them. Hanging onto the tube as if it were made of gold, she whipped the stylet out and straightened up. "Bag him."
"Pulse ox coming up, eighty, ninety, ninety-eight."
Cassie let her breath out and wiped her sweaty palms on the back of her scrubs. Brian Winston was not out of the woods yet, not by a long shot. But he was alive.
CHAPTER 10
It was after three in the morning before Drake had a chance to check in with Janet Kwon, assigned to the surgical floor upstairs. He stepped into the medication room, the closest thing the ER had to privacy, unless you counted the padded lock-down room reserved for psych patients.
"How's bedpan duty going?" he asked after Kwon answered her cell phone. "Get any chance to do some real police work?"
"Nothing on our actor, but there's an orderly up here who's creeping me out. Keeps wandering into the female patients' rooms while they're asleep."
"Don't blow your cover, he's not going anywhere."
"Tell that to those women."
Drake leaned against the window in the door. He could see Hart over at the X-ray view box, the bright lights gleaming in her hair. He'd been watching her all night, staying out of sight, following Miller's orders, but he couldn't complain about the duty. Hart was explaining something to a resident, her face animated.
He closed his eyes. Suddenly she was looking at him like that, her lips brushing his, warm, promising more. His head knocked against the window, and he jerked awake.
"Sorry, what was that?" he said. Kwon clicked her tongue in exasperation. Drake stifled a yawn. "Haven't gotten much sleep in the past few days."
"Thought Miller gave you the afternoon off so you could catch some z's," she said.
Drake smiled as he remembered how he had spent the afternoon. After Oscar's, he'd gone home and relaxed in his studio, playing around with some charcoal studies, the first real work he'd done in months.
"I don't think that doctor, Hart, has anything to do with the FX," he told Kwon. "You should've seen her with the Winston kid. I don't think he would've made it if it wasn't for her fighting so hard to save him."
"Careful, big boy--starting to sound like you're getting personally involved." Kwon, always the voice of caution and logic. "And we both know that can't happen. Right?"
He sighed. Six months was a hell of a long time. "Yeah, I guess."
"Besides, turns out Hart's ex is a doc here too. Some surgeon. And he was mixed up in drugs awhile back. I'm figuring you were right this morning, they're in it together." She paused and Drake could almost hear the pieces of the puzzle dropping into place for her. "Think about it. Winston is in a coma, so is Jane Doe, our one possible lead. Both treated by Hart. Ever think that a smart doctor could put a patient in a coma while making it look like she was trying to save them? I'm going to get Miller to run Hart's financials and a full background check on her and the ex."
Before he could reply, Drake heard footsteps behind him and saw Hart watching him. Shit. How much had she heard? "Gotta go."
"Hey," Cassie called to the strange man in scrubs who came out of the med room.
He looked over his shoulder. It was the vagrant she'd met at the police station. Her stomach did a quick flip-flop. Had he been following her?
"Wait!" She glanced around. No security guards or even any burly paramedics nearby. Cassie rushed after him, skidding around the corner to see where he went. He was gone, probably out the ambulance bay doors.
She slowed to a walk and started toward the security office. Maybe the security cameras had gotten a picture of him or where he was headed.
As she passed Trauma One, a hand reached out and pulled her inside the dark room. After a panicked breath, Cassie's Kempo training took over. She grabbed her attacker's forearm, twisted inside his embrace, then rammed a knee up. She missed his groin when he sidestepped. A roaring filled her head--it was her pulse pounding.
Cassie didn't let her fear slow her as she twisted under his arm and wrenched his wrist up against his back. His free hand flailed behind him, grasping at her scrub top. She bent his wrist into an almost impossible angle, leveraging all her weight against the fragile collection of bones.
"I'm a cop!" His words penetrated her adrenalin haze just before she pushed his wrist past the breaking point.
"Prove it." Her voice emerged higher pitched than usual, tight with fear.
She tightened her grip, propelling him forward until he lay face down on the floor with her knee on the small of his back. The sound of their breathing rushed through the dark room.
"My badge," he gasped. "In my back pocket."
She kept her weight pinned on his wrist. He exhaled and his body relaxed, signaling his lack of threat. She skimmed her free hand up the back of his leg, felt his muscles twitch through the thin cotton scrub pants he wore.
"Find what you want yet? I don't usually get this physical on a first date." His voice was too loud, too bright. She wondered if he was as scared as she was.
Her fingers found his waistband and slid down to the pocket, retrieving a slim wallet. She rolled onto her feet, scrambling to the shelter of the gurney in the center of the dark room. Keeping the gurney between them, she re-oriented herself in blackness broken only by a small amber light glowing on top of the blanket warmer across from her.
"I really am a cop," the man said.
Where was he? Still on the floor, or had he followed her? She kept silent, trying to conceal her position.
"Why do you think I was at the station this morning? Why do you think I'm here? Commander Miller sent me." His earnest words were delivered in a calm, friendly voice that almost convinced her. But Cassie remembered the eager gleam in his eyes when he'd held the FX. Besides, he could have seen her and Miller together.
She edged along the wall, searching for the door or the light switch, hoping he wasn't waiting there to ambush her. Realized she was holding her breath—not good, especially if she needed to fight—and inhaled through her nose, slowly, quietly. Her fingers found the light switch and she flipped it on.
She blinked in surprise as the stark overhead lights gleamed from the metal and glass cabinets. The man was still in the center of the room, although he had gotten to his feet.
"See for yourself," he said, leaning forward and pressing his hands against his knees as if recuperating from a marathon. Sweat stained his rumbled scrub top. He heaved in several deep breaths, his eyes never leaving hers.
Cassie tried hard to slow her own adrenalin-jazzed breathing but failed. She opened the thin wallet and scrutinized his identification. Detective R. Michael Drake, she read. The photo was him. She stared at him, unable to speak, her nerves still buzzing.
Since yesterday Drake had shaved and cut his thick, black hair so that it now merely g
razed his collar, but the flashing blue eyes were the same, still filled with mischief. "Nice technique. Where'd you learn it?"
Remnants of fear, adrenalin, and anger choked Cassie's throat. Of course he'd let her take him down—as a cop, he wouldn't want to hurt her by drawing his gun or fighting back. Disappointment surged through her as she watched Drake edge across the room, keeping a wary gaze locked onto her. As if she were a threat.
"Why didn't you tell me you were a cop yesterday?" she asked, still comparing the photo in her hand with the man before her, ignoring the trembling in her fingers.
"You never asked."
"R. Michael Drake. What does the R stand for?" She returned his ID.
"Ready, willing and able," he replied with a wink.
Obviously their little scuffle hadn't upset him like it had her. She had honestly, for a few brief moments, thought that all that hard work with her Kempo training had paid off, that she didn't need to fear being a victim again.
"Or if you prefer, remarkable, resourceful and really, really good." He braced his foot against the gurney and re-tied one red hightop that had come undone in their struggle. She couldn't help but notice the gun strapped to his ankle—he could have drawn it at any time.
"Just my luck. I ask the police for help, and they send the class clown. So, R. Michael Drake--"
"That's Detective R. Michael Drake." He leaned against the gurney, seemingly relaxed.
"Detective," she amended. "You're Commander Miller's idea of thoroughly investigating the FX case? And you do that how, exactly? By romping through the halls of the hospital?"
"That wasn't my fault, Dr. Hart. I was just trying to keep you from making a scene and blowing my cover." He frowned and stepped toward her so that only a single square of linoleum separated them. "Just what were you thinking, chasing after me like that?"
Cassie's cheeks burned with embarrassment. Looking away from him, she smoothed out her wrinkled scrub top, tucked it back into her pants, and tightened the drawstring. "I wasn't planning on catching you."
"What was your plan?" His voice deepened with anger. "You had no idea I was a cop. What if I was the real deal? Anything could have happened."
He wrong. Nothing would have happened. Not right here in her own ER.
She started to tell him that, to point out the video camera that had begun recording as soon as the lights were turned on in the trauma room, but his expression was so damned smug, superior, that her own anger rose to the surface.
"If you people did your job, I wouldn't have to worry about the possibility that some lowlife was stealing drugs from my ER!" She met his gaze head on.
"You can stop worrying now, I'm here."
"Right, and you're doing a hell of a job so far."
He leaned closer, and she thought for an instant that he was going to touch her. His eyes darkened to a deep indigo. She held his stare, ignoring the sudden kick in her pulse rate, and the moment passed.
"You could have gotten hurt."
"No, I wouldn't have." She needed to believe that, to hang on to some semblance of control, here on her turf. "I didn't."
His lips clamped tight, and he took a deep breath before speaking again. "Look, Dr. Hart. You do your job and leave me to do mine. No more amateur detective work. You hear or see or find anything, you come to me."
The last wasn't a request but an order thrown over his shoulder as he stormed out.
CHAPTER 11
Back at the nurses' station, Cassie scribbled a note on a resident's chart. Tedious paperwork meant to distract her from what had happened in the trauma room with Drake. She sighed, shoving the papers aside. It was annoying to admit, but Drake was right. The FX was a police problem, she should stay out of it. Before someone got hurt.
"I've got Ortho for you," the desk clerk called out.
"It's about time. That hip fracture has been waiting for hours. What line are they on?" She reached for the phone.
"They're, ah, right behind you."
She turned around in her chair. Leaning against the cubicle wall, his arms crossed and a smirk on his face, was a tall man with short blond hair and large gray eyes. His white coat gleamed in the bright lights, pristine and wrinkle-free, making him look like a soap opera actor who had just stepped on stage.
"Ella," he drawled. "Long time no see."
Cold flooded Cassie's veins as tendrils of fear worked their way through her body. She winced at his use of the nickname she hated, tried to grab onto anger, to force out the panic the sight of him brought. "Richard."
He pushed himself from the wall and came over, grabbing the back of her chair, trapping her against the desk. She shoved her chair back hard, banging into his legs, and rolling over one Ferragamo clad foot. Childish, but it felt good. Like maybe she was in control, could remain in control. She spun out of the chair to face him on solid ground.
"Same ole Ella, I see." He slid the chair out of the way. Leaving no barricade between them. He was dressed in blue scrubs and a surgical cap spilled over the rim of one of his pockets.
"I thought you lost your privileges." A nurse glanced up at her raised voice, and Cassie fought to regain a façade of professionalism. Her jaws ground together. Leave it to Richard to get her flustered here in her own territory.
"Finished rehab and got reinstated." He held out a hand. "What, no hug, not even a handshake for your husband?"
"Ex-husband. You're lucky I don't have a restraining order." The words emerged clipped, filled with venom. Good, hang on to the anger, it kept the fear at bay.
Richard's smile hardened. "C'mon now, Ella. You never got anything you didn't ask for. Besides I know it was you that called the Medical Board and turned me in."
She wished. But someone else had done her that favor. "I'm not having this conversation." She handed him a chart, forcing her hand to remain steady. Her mouth was dry, parched by fear. "Your patient is in room six."
She turned and marched down the hall. Footsteps echoed on the linoleum behind her. She ducked into an empty suture room.
The door banged open, and she jumped.
"You still have feelings for me," Richard said, easing the door shut behind him.
Cassie backed away until the tile wall halted her. Back to the wall. Again. Memories flooded over her. Her heart began to pound as if trying to escape the cramped confines of her chest. She struggled against the knot of panic constricting her chest. "Go take care of your patient, Richard. You wouldn't want to lose your privileges again."
"Don't worry, that won't happen." He straightened to his full height, towering over her. "I'm a changed man."
"Fine. I'm glad. How about if you go do your job, and I'll do mine." Wasn't that what Drake had told her earlier? She wished the detective would make an appearance now. Why was there never a cop around when you wanted one?
Richard reached out a hand. Cassie flinched, old habits hard to break.
"Ah, Ella, you're always so serious," he said, caressing her cheek. "Don't you remember all the fun we had?"
"How would you know?" She batted his hand away. "You were drunk most of the time."
He took a deep breath, looked away for a moment, then returned his gaze to her. "I never said I was sorry, did I?" His hand rested on her shoulder, and this time she did not flinch at his touch. "That's one of my greatest regrets. Losing you."
His voice was sincere, but Cassie knew Richard was an accomplished actor when it came to getting something he wanted. She met his eyes. A warm gray, they had promised her the world when they first met. Promised now to grant her that dream once more. Could he have changed that much in a year?
She edged away. "I've patients to see."
His fingers closed on her shoulder, and his other arm came up, boxing her in, her back against the tile wall. She swallowed, gulped in air as if she was drowning.
"Ella, this is important." A note of pleading entered his voice. He leaned his body toward her.
The scent of his cologne overwhelmed her. Drakkor
Noir. Once upon a time she had painstakingly chosen it for him, hoped that he would like it, yearning to please. Now she inhaled its aroma and terror filled her, burning and choking.
The room seemed suddenly empty of oxygen, the walls moving in on her. She felt dwarfed, a scared rabbit caught fast in the hand of a giant. Cassie fought against the panic even more than she struggled against Richard's physical advances.
"Get off me, Richard. I swear I'll--" She clamped her lips shut, immediately realized her mistake. Don't agitate him. Don't fight back. It will only make things worse. Damn, when would she learn?
"You'll what?" he demanded. "Call the Medical Board? Afraid it'll be hard to play that card twice, Ella. Especially when I've had squeaky clean drug tests. Why can't you give me a chance?"
His leaned forward, his body pressing against hers, his erection obvious beneath the thin cotton scrubs. She knew what would come next. He would force her to her knees to finish arousing him, then he would take her on whatever surface was handy: the floor, the scrub sink, the gurney. It wouldn't matter to Richard. Not as long as he was in control.
Cassie wasn't about to let that happen. She'd wasted almost three years of her life on him. He wouldn't get another second.
She placed both hands against his chest and shoved him back. Finally, air to breathe that wasn't polluted by the smell of his cologne. She turned away, but he grabbed her wrist.
"Dammit, Ella. What we had meant something. You can't ignore it, pretend it never happened." He spun her back to face him. "One chance, is that too much to ask for?"
"Yes," she said. His eyes narrowed, and she knew her small act of defiance would cost her dearly. Richard was used to getting what he wanted out of life. Rehab hadn't changed that. His grip on her wrist tightened, and he raised her arm over her head, pinning her against the wall.
"You folks need anything?" came a voice from the doorway.
Richard jerked away. Cassie slumped against the wall, shaking the blood back into her numb hand. Drake, playing his role as an orderly, carried a stack of suture trays into the room. How much had he seen?