by C. J. Lyons
The white-hot flash of anger that had seared her while she’d confronted Seth was fading. Her hands no longer trembled; she trusted her legs to get her to a table. Then she saw Lydia and Deon at a booth beside the windows.
“Shouldn’t he be in school?” she asked. Damn it, she hated how her voice sounded—shrill and judgmental when that wasn’t what she meant at all. After last night and this morning, she’d really wanted the comfort of one thing going as predicted. Just one little thing, sitting down and eating breakfast, was that too much to ask?
“Not while Gram is sick,” Deon said, hunching over his eggs and bacon as if he feared she might steal them from him.
Lydia slid out a chair for Nora. “Figured he wouldn’t be good for much worrying about Emma. But as soon as she’s out of surgery, I’ll take him over for the rest of the day.”
Nora settled into the chair. “So he does go to school.”
“Sure he does. Tell her what you guys are studying, Deon.”
“We’re constructing a computer model of the fossil record, and then we’re going to debate the theory of evolution and its alternatives. My team is doing the coolest—we’re gonna prove that spacemen from another planet brought the dinosaurs!”
Nora had to smile at that. Working in the ER, the theory of human evolution—or lack thereof—explained a lot of what she saw on a day-to-day basis. “What’s your gram think of that?”
“She says since God’s behind it all, doesn’t matter what story we put on it. She says even the Bible is a story—that you have to read the truth between the lines, can’t take stuff for granted just ’cuz someone wrote it down.”
“A wise woman,” Lydia said, handing Deon a spare napkin to wipe chocolate milk from his chin. “You should listen to her.”
“I always do.”
Nora started with her cookie, even though she knew it was a terrible example to set for Deon.
“You okay?” Lydia asked her.
“Fine, why?”
“You look tired, is all.”
Nora shrugged at that, filling her mouth, hoping it would prevent any more questions. Probably not, but Lydia’s cell phone ringing did.
“Yes?” Lydia answered, obviously assuming that whoever called her didn’t need any formal greeting. “Everything’s okay? Sure, I can meet you there in a few minutes.” She hung up and repocketed the phone.
“Is it Gram?” Deon asked.
“No. It’s Jerry Boyle. They caught that kil—that guy they were looking for.”
“Yancy?”
“Yeah. Boyle messed up his arm, wants me to take a look at it real quick.”
Nora gathered the trash onto her tray and stood up. “You’re not on duty.”
“I don’t mind. Except,” she nodded to Deon. “I don’t suppose …”
“No. No way. The ER is not a day care. I told you, this is why you need Tommy Z’s help. He could have arranged all sorts of help for Deon and Emma.”
“I’m not a baby. I can take care of myself,” Deon interrupted, standing on his tiptoes in an obvious ploy to look older and taller than he was.
“I don’t need a lecture, Nora.” Lydia looked down at Deon. “You have a choice, Deon. Do you want to learn some medicine or wait at the nurses’ station? Maybe Jason will let you play his computer games.”
“You can’t let him watch you treat a patient, Lydia. It’s, it’s—” There were too many words describing how wrong it was to pick from.
“It’s educational,” Lydia said as they dropped off their trays and left. “I’m sure he’s seen worse out on the streets.”
“Still. The ER is no place for a ten-year-old. He could get hurt.”
“I’d rather watch,” Deon put in.
“Watching it is,” Lydia declared, ignoring Nora’s frown. “Let’s go.”
GINA SWAYED AS THE AMBULANCE BOUNCED over potholes. Their first patient of the day was a “Surf ’n’ Turf”—Gecko’s slang for chronic patients whose regular doctor didn’t want to deal with them on a Friday, in case they interfered with the doctor’s early escape to the Jersey Shore for the weekend.
In other words, a dump. In this case, the patient was a woman in her seventies, currently babbling to Trey about an ancient Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers movie—something about Rio or Macedonia or Argentina, Gina wasn’t sure—who had kept them almost an hour at her house while she fed the cats, double-checked the locks, and packed her bag.
The monitor showed atrial fibrillation, and from her swollen ankles, Gina was sure she was in early stages of heart failure, but there wasn’t much other than oxygen and monitoring that they could do for her.
A freaking taxicab, that’s what they were. Not to mention baggage handlers.
Med Seven hit another pothole, and Gina’s aggravation spiked. She didn’t understand why Lydia was so insistent she finish this damn rotation—she’d learn more and do more good in the ER where she belonged. She glanced up to see Trey scowling at her manicure.
Remembering Lydia’s reaction last night and wondering whether Lydia had shared Gina’s secret with Trey, she waved her fingers before him. “It’s a new color from OPI; you like?”
His frown deepened. “You know that’s against regulations.”
“Hey, Gina, you still gonna talk to us peons after they give you the key to the city?” Gecko called out from the driver’s seat. “It was on the news this morning that they’re giving you a Carnegie Medal.”
Thinking about the ceremony soured Gina’s mood even more.
The patient grabbed Gina’s arm, drawing her close and squinting at her. “Hey, I know you. You’re the girl saved all those babies last July. They gonna give you an award, sweetheart? Good for you.”
Gina pulled away, leaning back on the bench seat and crossing her arms over her bulky vest. Yeah, right. Good for her.
TWENTY-SIX
Friday, 9:22 A.M.
AMANDA WALKED OUT OF THE HOSPITAL AFTER dropping Tracey’s study medication off at the lab. Another hot, muggy day with dark clouds pressing down so hard they were giving her a headache. This Indian summer seemed destined to go on forever. It was warmer here this week than it was down home. Despite the heat, she pulled her lab coat around her, as if it could mask her shame. Worse than being exiled to the clinic, Lucas had kicked her out of the hospital for the day.
A rumble of thunder sounded overhead. The air shimmered as if it were about to start raining, and black clouds obscured the sun. She crossed the street and entered the employee parking garage.
She needed to get back into Lucas’s good graces so that she could get back on the wards, be with her patients. The best way to do that would be to find out everything she could about the boathouse and any potential toxins that might be hiding there.
Amanda reached her pale pink Love Bug. She slid onto the black vinyl driver’s seat, wincing as the heat permeated through the thin cotton of her scrubs, and cranked down both the driver and passenger windows before turning the engine on. The old VW didn’t have air conditioning, but other than that it was perfect for her: reliable, economical, cute, and best of all, paid for.
After giving the fan a few minutes to chop through the wall of humidity that had filled the car, she put the clutch in and shifted into reverse. The clutch felt mushy—Gina must have been driving it again. Amanda blew her breath out in annoyance. Gina wanted to learn how to drive a straight stick and Amanda was glad to teach her, but she had a bad habit of riding the clutch. And like most of her bad habits, Gina found it easier to ignore than to fix.
Amanda pulled out of her parking space and had to double-clutch to shift into first. Gina had promised to pay for a new clutch if need be—she might take her up on that. Now that she was out of Dr. Nelson’s study, she didn’t have money for luxuries like car repairs. Or food. She was going to have to find work that she could juggle between her clinical duties. Maybe the medical records department would hire her back as a data-entry clerk.
As she steered down the steep co
rkscrew turn leading to the exit, she gnawed over her options. Gina would let her slide with rent and her share of the utilities—Gina didn’t need a roommate for financial purposes, she just hated living alone—but Amanda refused to take advantage of that. She’d pay Gina back. Even if it did mean going back to work in the dark dungeonlike cubicles of data entry.
Amanda hit the brakes to slow as she rounded the final curve. Her stomach somersaulted in surprise as her foot went all the way to the floorboard. She pumped hard, trying to find some braking power, but the car accelerated down the steep hill.
Don’t panic, she told herself even as her heart began to race. The concrete walls on either side of the barricade were looming as she hurtled toward them. She tried shifting down.
Nothing except the engine revving in rebellion. She yanked up the emergency brake, producing a screech and the smell of burnt rubber but not slowing the car.
Beyond the exit barricade was Mathilda Street, bustling with traffic—both vehicular and pedestrian. Even if she survived a collision, there was a risk she could kill someone else. She couldn’t take that chance.
The other parked cars were a blur in her peripheral vision as she focused on her new target. She decided to ram the concrete wall, try to swerve at the last minute, and hope for a glancing blow that would stop her without causing too much damage.
The wall was speeding toward her—she knew it was the other way around, but it felt as if she were immobile, trapped in a bubble of time as the rest of the world moved around her. Don’t tighten, don’t tighten, she thought, trying to force her arms to relax, not hyperextend at the elbows. Too fast, too fast—she’d kill herself, there was no air bag, nothing but her seat belt, she was going to die… .
She wrenched the wheel to one side, spinning the VW into a skid with only inches to spare. The car stood poised, fighting gravity and velocity, for one sickening moment, then spun sideways into the wall. Sparks flew as metal struck concrete, the sound of the car’s death throes high-pitched as a dying animal’s wail, metal straining, then buckling in surrender, collapsing around Amanda.
IN THE END, JUST AS LYDIA KNEW SHE WOULD, Nora had taken charge of Deon and parked him with his Harry Potter in a chair beside the ward clerk with strict orders not to move. Deon had protested; he’d been looking forward to seeing some blood and guts—but once Lydia explained that Boyle was a police officer, his street kid aversion to authority figures had triumphed over his young boy’s bloodlust.
Lydia both loved and hated how much Deon reminded her of herself. At least Emma was a better role model for Deon than Maria had been for Lydia. She pushed through the door into the suture room, where Jerry Boyle waited, his arm stretched out over a procedure table.
“So we got the bastard,” he said, his eyes aglow with adrenaline.
“Yancy?”
“Yep. Found the bodies of three women buried in his backyard. Finally caught up with him after pressuring the guys who owed him money. Best way to find someone you want to put away—go after the folks who’d stand to gain if they’re behind bars.” He puffed out his chest, then winced as Lydia probed at the separated edges of his arm laceration.
“You tore two of my stitches.”
“Yancy didn’t exactly come easily. Had to tackle him. He’s getting checked out next door—don’t want any charges of police brutality messing with my case.”
Lydia poured some Betadine over the wound and scrubbed it clean.
“Talked with Gina,” Boyle went on, studiously looking anywhere except at his arm. “She said Trey was riding with her today. Is that normal? I mean, I thought he cruised around in that fancy Suburban looking for trouble.”
“I asked him to keep an eye on her.”
He glanced at her, silent until she raised her gaze to meet his. “Thanks. I appreciate that.”
“No problem. It’s part of my job, taking care of the EM residents.” She returned her attention to the laceration repair. “I’m just going to put in one staple—it’s been too long to replace the stitches, we risk infection.”
“Sure, whatever. Just make it fast, will ya?”
She grabbed the surgical staple gun. “No problem.” She aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. A loud report echoed through the room and Boyle jerked.
“Hey!”
“All done.” She quickly reapplied a dressing. As she was sealing the tape on the edges, one of the nurses poked her head in.
“If you’re finished, we need this room. It seems a medical student ran her car into the parking garage wall.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Friday, 9:32 A.M.
AMANDA WAS JERKED ABOUT WORSE THAN A dinghy riding out a hurricane. Her head hit the steering wheel, her neck was wrenched in one direction and then whipped in another, her knees collided with the underside of the dash, and one arm was nearly impaled by the gearshift.
Everything stopped. There was quiet, long enough for the ringing in her ears, the echoes of metal shrieking, and the hammering of her headache to fade. Only to be replaced by the shrill tones of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.”
Amanda brushed a shaky hand against her forehead, assessing the damage. Nice goose egg, but no bleeding. Everything moved all right, although with protesting aches. She blinked several times, surprised by tears manufactured by her adrenaline, and looked around.
The roof of her beloved Bug had crumpled along the midline, folding inward, hanging down like a stalactite beside her. Her car was almost half the size it once had been, now folded like origami.
The Charlie Daniels Band interrupted her reverie once more. The sound was coming from below her. As she heaved in a breath, her chest recoiling with pain, she inched her hand across her lap to unfasten her seat belt—and found her cell phone.
She needed to call someone—wasn’t quite sure who. A tow truck? Gina, to give her a ride? No, Gina was working today—Lydia was off, she could call Lydia, Lydia would know what to do.
More tears came as she realized that she would need to abandon her beloved Love Bug. The engine ticked unsteadily, finally sputtered, and then stalled, smoke billowing from below the hood.
“Hello,” she said, trying to remember if she’d called someone or if they had called her.
“Hey, Baby Girl, what the hell you doing?” Andy’s too-cheerful bellow blew through her with hurricane ferocity.
Her hand holding the phone was shaking, the smoke was making her cough and cry harder, and the seat belt wouldn’t let go.
“You know you made Mama cry, don’t you? You can’t be doing that. You have to come home, make things right.”
Through the haze of smoke, Amanda saw figures running toward her. Two security guards, a paramedic, and Nora. Nora! Thank God, she’d take care of everything, Nora was so good at that.
Amanda slumped against her seat, pressing the phone against her cheek. “I can’t talk now, Andy.”
“Of course you can. This is our mama we’re talking about—family trumps any emergency you have going on up there. Besides, it’s not like you’re a real doctor or anything. They can do without. You get behind the wheel of your car and haul your bony butt down here; stop making Mama cry. I’m telling you, Baby Girl—”
The guards and paramedic were trying to pry open Amanda’s door from the outside. Nora was saying something, obviously concerned, but Amanda couldn’t make out her words. Not with Andy’s voice rattling through her brain. “Andy?”
“You’re going to be home by morning, Baby Girl. I’ll tell Mama.”
“Andy.” He paused long enough for her to speak her mind. “Go to hell.”
The door popped open and Amanda tumbled out into the waiting arms of a security guard, the phone skittering to the concrete floor and skidding below the wreckage that had once been her car.
GINA AND MED SEVEN LEFT ANGELS AND WERE heading to the station when another call came in—possible jumper, Smithfield Street Bridge.
“Finally, a live one,” Gecko said with gusto, revving the engine
as they ran Code Three, lights and sirens and air horn honking at drivers reluctant to give way to the speeding ambulance. Trey was busy packing and checking gear boxes and didn’t even look up as they rattled over a set of railroad tracks and then onto a rough, potholed road.
“You can swim, can’t you?” Gecko shouted back from the driver’s seat as they took another jarring bounce over a curb.
“Off with the vest,” Trey ordered. “Too heavy. You can’t wear it under your PFD.”
The ambulance screeched to a halt just as Gina processed his words. She took off her bulletproof vest, hesitating before leaving it in the ambulance and joining Trey and Gecko outside.
They were on the edge of the Mon wharf, surrounded by police cars and two fire trucks. Waiting for them was a boat with twin engines howling, spitting out diesel fumes, like a racehorse eager to break free of the gate.
Gecko grabbed a bright orange flotation vest and jumped on board, not bothering with the small gate that led onto the rear deck. Trey handed Gina a similar vest, then fastened his own tight. Waves lapped against the wharf, driven by the wind. It wasn’t raining yet, but the air felt heavy, water-soaked.
“Perks of being a district chief,” Trey yelled over the noise as he handed her into the boat. “Usually River Rescue would handle it alone, but since we were close enough to meet them, I thought you’d like to see some real action.” He deftly climbed in after her and waved to their pilot.
They cast off, Gina still staring at the rapidly receding shoreline. “If they jump, we don’t have to go in after, do we?”
“That’s our job,” a man’s voice came from the cabin behind her.
She turned and saw two men inside the cabin suiting up in wetsuits bearing the River Rescue logo. They were both extremely fit and grinning as the boat pounded through the choppy water. Like Trey and Gecko, no one would ever peg these guys as office workers. It was obvious they lived for this shit.