The Swick and the Dead

by Maggie Foster

  “May I join you?”

  “If you don’t mind my continuing to eat while you talk. I have to get back for a meeting.” It was her standard excuse.

  “We’ve met, but I doubt you remember me.” He held out his hand. “Jonathan Simpson.”

  “Marge Hawkins.” She closed the journal and set it down on the table. “Where did the patches come from? Were you able to tell?”

  “Nope. One of the ER docs brought them in. Wanted them tested. But we couldn’t identify a source.”

  “An ER doc? Where did he—or she—get them?”

  “He, and he didn’t say.”

  “Which one was it, do you know?”

  “No. Sorry. One of the night shift crew. Why do you care?”

  “I was just wondering if they might have been used for a prank, you know, a gag of some sort.”

  “Hallowe’en. It’s a thought. I’ll suggest we widen the search to include costume shops.”

  “Theater, too. Some of the movie props are very realistic.”

  “So they are.” He smiled at her. “You’re a sharp cookie.”

  “Thank you. Do you still have them?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. You might ask the Medical Director what happened to them.” He leaned toward her across the table. “I’ve seen you around. Nice gams.”

  She blinked. “Surely that term is out of date?”

  He grinned. “I like old movies. How about you?”

  They chatted film noir while she finished her meal, his suggestions becoming less and less veiled as the encounter progressed. Marge kept her cool. It was one of the things she was good at. When she finished, she picked up her tray and her magazine, and took her leave.

  “So when can I see you again?” Simpson asked.

  She gave him a bland smile. “The minute ‘gams’ comes back into common use, I’ll give you a call.”

  * * *

  Friday evening

  Austin

  As soon as they were dismissed, Ginny headed for the parking garage. If she wanted to visit the State Cemetery while she could still see the graves, she would have to hustle.

  She drove out into the street, meaning to cross under the highway on Eleventh, but found she had come out on the wrong side of the hotel, on Tenth Street, which was one-way and headed in the wrong direction. She proceeded to the next intersection, intending to turn right on Red River and right again on Eleventh, but found that route blocked by police barricades.

  She was mildly annoyed, but it was Austin and rush hour and she was near the State Capital, so police barricades seemed only to be expected. She followed the officer’s directions.

  She could have turned right on Trinity Street, which was one-way the correct direction, but didn’t see the sign in time to get into the right lane and the next, San Jacinto Blvd., was one-way the wrong direction. After that, she moved over to make sure she was in the appropriate lane and carefully turned right at the next intersection, on Brazos Street, which took her straight to the State Capital—where there was a demonstration in progress.

  She only had one block to go, then one more right turn to get onto Eleventh Street, so she gritted her teeth and stuck it out, creeping along at ten miles per hour. This gave her plenty of time to read the pickets.

  There were, apparently, two opposing camps. One was clearly in favor of House Bill 1712, which appeared to be calling for stricter control on the use of foreign nurses. The other was obviously opposed to the Bill, with slogans such as, “Equal Rights for Illegals” and “We Need More Nurses.”

  The demonstration explained the lecture they’d gotten earlier about the use of Mexican nurses in Texas. Clearly, it was a hot topic. So hot, in fact, that Ginny found protesters pounding on her windows, shouting at her to side with them and vote for/against the Bill. She watched as two of them got into a fist fight right in front of her car, then, joined by supporters from both sides, as the fight became a brawl.

  The police moved in swiftly with tear gas and rubber bullets, one of them gesturing to her to get out of the way. Ginny tried to obey, having to brake repeatedly to avoid hitting the protesters. It was with relief that she managed to get clear of the disturbance and head at last for the cemetery.

  She was shaken. Not actually frightened, but not happy about some of the expressions she’d seen pressed up against her windows. It was not her problem at the moment, but how long would it be before her ICU was full of foreign nurses who couldn’t speak English? Dallas was not immune to the problems caused by Texas sharing a border with Mexico. She shrugged the images out of her mind as she pulled into the parking lot at the State Cemetery.

  Genealogy was one of Ginny’s hobbies, visiting cemeteries—a form of recreation. She headed off across the grounds, searching for the ancestor she knew was buried there. The stone was in good condition and the site well cared for, so she took a picture, then spent some time wandering, reading the markers, and soaking in the sounds of the coming night.

  The gloaming in a cemetery always had a special feeling of timelessness, heightened by the presence of those for whom time no longer held any meaning. She found her nerves settling down and her thoughts returning to the problem of the foreign nurses.

  Texas had always been a place for emigrants to go when things got tough. Davy Crockett’s famous line, “You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas,” was plastered everywhere. Three-quarters of her own ancestors had arrived in the area before it became a Republic and the last quarter not long after, all seeking a chance for a better life.

  The Texas of that time, however, was not a place that welcomed newcomers. The government was (to put it politely) constantly in flux. The neighbors were hostile, and the land was wild and dangerous. It had taken a special breed to settle here and build the nation that was to become a legend.

  Times had changed, of course. In the Texas of today, over a hundred years’ worth of laws were in place to safeguard both natives and newcomers. To judge by what she had just seen, however, the pressure of change still had the power to stir emotions.

  Ginny found it interesting that many of the same complaints she had heard today mirrored the complaints found in the records of those early years. She stood for a moment on the edge of the rise and looked across the cemetery to the city beyond. The place had history. Especially here. In this quiet corner devoted to the honored dead, the echoes of war could be heard. Texas had seen a lot in the way of conflict, and had forgotten none of it.

  The rosy tints of evening had gone and the last pale blues were fading from the sky as Ginny turned and made her way down Heroes’ Hill toward the gates and the parking lot. She was startled (and almost twisted her ankle in consequence) by the sound of an explosion. Several, in fact, in rapid succession. She looked around, but at first could see nothing. Then a column of smoke caught her eye, followed by tongues of flame which seemed to be growing, reaching into the darkening sky.

  In the gloom, it took her a minute to figure out which direction she was facing. Once she had identified I-35, however, she knew what she was seeing. The Texas State Capital complex was on fire.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Day 8 – Friday evening

  Ceilidh, Cooperative Hall, Loch Lonach

  Caroline nudged Jim’s arm and pointed across the room with her chin. “Get a load of that.”

  Jim turned to see what she was pointing at and raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t given Lisa an address or directions to the Cooperative Hall, but there she stood, just inside the door, looking around.

  Jim turned his back on her and faced Caroline. “Maybe we should rethink the open-door policy.”

  “She’s headed this direction. Oh, wait, Jean has intercepted her.” Jean Pollack was the Matron for the Loch Lonach Homestead and had, among her other responsibilities, the duty to greet outsiders.

  “She’s pointing at you, Jim. Do you know her?”

  Jim sighed. “I’m afraid so.” He put a noncommittal smile on hi
s face and turned to greet the visitor, looking her over as she crossed the floor. She was wearing an aggressively cowgirl outfit complete with denim skirt, suede cowboy boots, and leather fringe, and she was not alone. She was accompanied by a younger woman, dressed in jeans, tee shirt, and sneakers, carrying a camera.

  “Jim!” Lisa called and flashed him a dazzling smile. She strode across the room, oblivious to the dance patterns and was almost run down by a chase currently going on in the sets. She stepped aside, startled, then fixed her eyes on her quarry and plowed ahead.

  “Jim!” She tried to hug him, but he managed to stick his hand out to forestall her. She took it and pressed it to her chest, obliging him to use a bit of force to retrieve it. “Well, you see I’m here.”

  “I see that.”

  Lisa turned and indicated her companion. “This is my sister, Mary Jo.” The younger woman smiled shyly up at Jim.

  Lisa flashed him another dazzling smile, showing off excessively white teeth straight enough for a toothpaste commercial. “I hope you don’t mind. She’s majoring in photography at school and they’ve got an assignment coming up. I suggested this—” Lisa gestured at the room “—might make a good subject.”

  Jim turned to Mary Jo and gave her a genuine smile, holding out his hand. “I agree, though, if you want to catch the flavor of the dances, I hope you brought a really fast camera.”

  She blushed, then nodded.

  “Caroline is an expert and I’m sure, if you asked her nicely, she would be glad to answer questions for you.”

  “Of course. What would you like to know?” Caroline put an arm around Mary Jo and steered her toward the top of the room, leaving Jim to deal with Lisa.

  “The website said the dancing started at seven.” Lisa looked around. “Is it always this crowded, and this noisy?”

  Jim nodded. The band was playing a reel, using bodhran and pipes for emphasis, and the effect was rousing.

  Lisa watched until the end of the dance, then turned back to Jim. “Do all the men wear skirts?”

  “Kilts are normal clothes for the Scots. You’ll see them at the parties, at the Games, and on any formal occasion.”

  She reached out and started to stroke the fur on the sporran Jim was wearing. “And what’s this?”

  Jim caught her hand and put it back at her side. “It’s a form of pocket.”

  Lisa stepped closer, looking up at him from under unnaturally thick lashes. “And is it true—?” She was interrupted by the approach of three woman, all running toward Jim, laughing and calling to him.

  “Jim, Jim! My turn. You promised!”

  Jim smiled at the approaching harem. “Ladies, this is Lisa. She’s new. Can you find her a partner?”

  One of them smiled at Lisa and took her hand. “Sure! Come on. I’ll give you a crash course in what you need to know to dance with us.” She hauled Lisa onto the floor and could be seen showing her hand and foot positions.

  Jim smiled at the remaining two women, allowing himself to be pulled onto the floor by one and promising the next dance to the other. For the next half hour he was caught up in his own lessons. He was behind the curve here as well as on the battlefield, but was rapidly catching up and was never without a willing teacher.

  He was deep in the intricacies of strathspey footwork when he became aware of a mild exodus from the floor. There seemed to be something going on in the media room. Those who had been to see hurried back into the great hall to report. Jim looked up to see his grandfather beckoning to him. He excused himself from the dance and obeyed the summons.

  “What’s up?”

  “Come.” His grandfather led him into the media room and pointed to the big screen TV. Jim fell in at the back of the crowd, listening to the announcer.

  “The bombs went off in the midst of a riot,” the man was saying. “We’re being told this demonstration has been in the works for months, with nurses coming in from all over the state. Both supporters and opponents of HB 1712 were throwing punches and the police were trying to break up the fight.” The image behind the reporter showed a domed building and the ribbon across the bottom identified it as the State Capital in Austin, Texas.

  “As a result, it’s unclear whether either side was the target, or whether this was a repeat of the ambush on police we saw in Dallas a few years back, or whether it’s an act of terrorism. Over a hundred people have been dispatched to area hospitals with burns and shrapnel injuries. There are twenty confirmed dead, but that figure is likely to rise. We won’t show you, but the street is filled with body parts, so it’s not possible to get an accurate count at present.”

  The image pulled back to show a darkened Austin street lurid with flames. There were several buildings on fire, emergency crews trying to put them out, police trying to clear the area, EMS trying to treat survivors. The voiceover continued.

  “All area hospitals have activated mass casualty plans and crews are being flown in from San Antonio, Houston, and Dallas to help. Locals are asked to stay away. A hotline has been set up for families who may be trying to reach protest participants.”

  Jim was no longer listening. He grabbed his phone out of his sporran and dialed Ginny’s number, telling himself there was no reason to think she was involved, other than she was a nurse and in Austin. That and the prickling sensation on the back of his neck.

  When he got no answer, he took a breath, then tried again, leaving a message for her to call as soon as she could, then turned to his grandfather. “I have to call the hospital.”

  “Aye, lad. Go.”

  Jim grabbed his coat and headed for home, trying Ginny again as he went. He called Hillcrest and was able to get past the switchboard by using the number for Richard Lyons, who was coordinating the relief effort.

  “I want to go,” Jim told him.

  “You’re scheduled to work this weekend.”

  “I’m on the Disaster Response Team and I want to go to Austin. Find someone to cover for me.”

  “Okay. Get over here. The chopper leaves in forty minutes.”

  Jim hung up the phone, pulled into a parking space at his apartment, and jumped out, calling his grandfather as he mounted the stairs, to let him know what was happening.

  “I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  “It’s all right, lad. We’ll hold down the fort.”

  Jim changed clothes, threw an overnight bag together, then hurried to the hospital. He made it with ten minutes to spare.

  “Glad to have you aboard, doc.” The co-pilot helped him get strapped in, then settled into his own seat.

  Jim had been in a medical evacuation helicopter before. He put the ear protectors on and made sure his harness was tight, then looked at the other team members, nodding a greeting to the physician, a burn specialist he knew slightly. The nurse also turned out to be from the burn unit.

  Jim took a deep breath and tried not to think about what they would find when they got to Austin. He watched the night stream by the windows of the helicopter, the lights of Dallas fading, to be replaced by the lights of Waco, then Austin.

  Hundreds, thousands, maybe, of nurses hurt. And her hotel was near the capital. And she wasn’t answering her phone.

  He fought down panic. While he was waiting to hear from her, he would do what he was trained to do. At least he’d be on the scene. It would be easier to get word, to search for her, to deal with whatever he might find. But until the crisis was over, he could do nothing, except pray that none of the body parts mentioned on the news turned out to be Ginny’s.

  * * *

  Friday evening

  Austin

  Ginny hurried down to the car. Ten minutes had her in the hotel parking garage and another ten in the lobby, looking at the puzzled expressions on the faces of the people gathered there. The sirens had started. She could hear the wail as emergency vehicles began to arrive.

  She went up to her room and threw her purse and coat down, then went back to the lobby. The video screens over the ba
r and in the lounge areas were all tuned to the news and reporters were trying to describe what they were seeing. Ginny joined the small knot of people in front of one of them and listened in.

  “—at present. The fire department is attempting to bring in trucks, but the number of bodies in the street is making it hard to get close enough.” The curvaceous blonde in the trendy winter coat looked pale, but that might just have been the effect of the bright lights on her face. “I’m going to go see if I can find out what happened.” She turned in her high heels and tripped over something. When she looked down, the camera followed, showing a woman’s arm, still holding hands with a man, well, half a man, both body parts lying in a growing pool of blood. The reporter stumbled, then fell, then retched. The picture cut away to the studio.

  Ginny heard a noise and turned around to see the doors of the hotel open and a woman stagger in. She was covered in blood, holding her arm, and looked to be in shock. As Ginny watched, another arrived, then another, then two coming in through the garage doors, then movement from the hotel staff, coming out from behind the counters, shouting orders, guiding the victims to chairs or sofas or window ledges.

  Ginny moved toward the victim closest to her, taking in the injuries, assessing the likely complications, calling for towels and water and EMS. She was not alone. The nurses staying in the hotel were being told, notified by friends or asked by the management to help out. Housekeeping appeared with gloves for everyone. Becky Peel appeared from the dining room and got on her phone. In twenty minutes she had turned the lobby into a full-scale triage area.

  The fourth victim Ginny saw turned out to be someone she knew.

  “Grace?” Ginny sat down beside her coworker and tried to make contact. “Grace, are you hurt?”

  The other woman turned slowly to look at Ginny, her eyes glazed, then slowly focusing.

  “Are you hurt?”

  It turned out the answer was, yes, but not seriously. Grace had numerous cuts, some of which would require stitching, but no evidence of major hemorrhage or internal bleeding. No chest pain, no collapsed lung, no head injury.