The Doctor Takes a Detour

by Bren Christopher

  Bumping over the cracked pavement of the parking lot, he rolled to a stop in front of the clinic’s glass front door. The setting sun triggered the few working parking-lot lights, their faint rays struggling to shine through their dirty globes.

  As he pushed the key into the lock, a flicker of shadow inside made him pause. A reflection of the lights against the glass? The door gave a solid thunk when he turned the key, so it had been locked. No one could have gotten in.

  Not through this door anyway. The supply room in the rear of the clinic had an emergency exit. Building code required two doors, but they never used the one in the back. Most of the time, Ian forgot it was there.

  Ignoring instincts got soldiers killed. Ian stepped back and then walked as silently as his boots allowed around the side of the building. He hadn’t even turned the corner to reach the back before a whiff of smoke reached him.

  His building—his clinic—was on fire. The smoke detectors went off just as he broke into a run, no longer concerned about broadcasting his whereabouts. At the same time, he snatched his phone from his pocket and pressed for emergency services. Reporting his name, location, and saying the word fire got him a promise of quick help and an exhortation to stay on the line.

  A shouted curse followed by a loud crash interrupted his answer. “Someone broke into the building,” he snapped into the phone, then shoved it into his pocket without ending the call. He needed both hands free.

  The back door stood wide open, plumes of white smoke drifting out. Not billowing, not yet. Flames licked up rolls of exam-bed paper leaning in one corner. Another crash was followed by an incoherent shout as a wiry old man threw the contents of one of the shelves to the floor with an enraged sweep of his arm. More isopropyl alcohol poured out to join the spilled liquids, shards of glass, and scattered pills on the floor. Fire ran along the tattered linoleum, headed for the cleaning supplies stored under the counter. A cigarette butt floated in the mess.

  The clanging alarm made it hard to hear. Hard to think.

  “Tully.” Ian kept his voice firm and calm. “That’s enough.”

  “You!” Tully rounded on him, fists raised. “You killed George.”

  “No.” Ian took a wary step back. Even from several feet away, Tully’s eyes looked black, his color a sickly mix of jaundiced yellow and brick red. “He had a heart attack.”

  “You didn’t help him!”

  Ian gasped as the familiar pain of guilt punched him in the chest. He . . . Had he failed George? Hadn’t he done everything— “There’s no time for this. Get out of here now!”

  “He said there was stuff in here.” Tully looked around wildly. “Good stuff. Where is it?” He yanked more bottles from the shelves, sending them crashing to the floor. “This is crap. It’s all crap.” He coughed as the smoke reached his lungs.

  Tully stood between Ian and the fire extinguisher mounted on the wall next to the shelves. The closed supply room door prevented the fire from reaching the rest of the clinic, but for how long? Fear lanced through Ian. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—let the clinic burn.

  “I’m getting the fire extinguisher. Get out of here or you’re gonna get sprayed.” Acrid smoke filled his lungs, and he pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth and nose. He rushed for the fire extinguisher, dodging the puddles of burning liquid on the floor.

  Brushing past Tully, Ian freed his face from the T-shirt, ready to yell at Tully to get out again, then jerked to a stop. Flames were beginning to spread up the drywall. On the other side of the room, the papers on his desk caught fire.

  Too late. He was too late. Grabbing Tully’s arm, he started to drag the old man out. “We have to go now.”

  With a scream of rage, Tully tore his arm away from Ian and shoved him against the shelves. Pain seared the back of Ian’s arm as hot metal burned the flesh.

  The unit tore from the weakened drywall. Through tears of pain, Ian saw Tully still enraged, shrieking, seemingly unaware of the collapsing shelves. Ian shoved him out of the way, saw him hit the floor as he felt the shelves knock his own shoulder, throwing him off-balance and toward the counter. Desperately, he twisted his body, trying to avoid a full-on collision with his head, and then the world went dark.

  When Josh pulled into the Eastside EMS station, the bay doors were open and the vehicles gone. Maybe Ian was on a call, which would explain why he hadn’t answered his phone.

  Hoping someone inside could tell him when Ian might be back and free to talk, Josh left his car parked as far to the side of the lot as he could in case the trucks returned.

  Although the main area was deserted, a couple of desks lined the far wall. A woman wearing a headset sat in front of a computer, talking intently. A worried line carved a path between her brows.

  He moved to the front of the desk, trying to catch her eye. He didn’t want to interrupt, but he didn’t want to startle her by hovering either.

  She frowned at him, a harried expression pinching her mouth.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I need to speak to Ian Manolas for a minute. Is he working this evening?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment out of proportion to the situation dragged at him. Despite his anger at Ian, and despite the bad news he felt obligated to pass along, he had to admit he’d been sort of looking forward to seeing him again. Stupid, maybe, but the attraction was still there. “Okay, I’ll try his phone again.”

  “You won’t reach him,” said a voice from behind him.

  Josh turned as a paramedic limped toward him on a cane, her knee in a brace. “Why not?” Then he frowned. “Wait . . . Elaine, isn’t it?”

  “Good memory.” She gave a sharp nod, mouth twisted in annoyance. “And I should be out with the rest, but this damn knee . . . You’re the doc Ian has the hots for.”

  Josh’s mouth dropped open. “I . . . Oh, he . . .”

  “Yeah, well, that’s Ian. Wears his heart on his sleeve, and talks to Tommy. Loudly and often.” She tilted her head. “And you? You care about him too?”

  This interrogation was the last thing he’d expected. But she was waiting, she was holding a walkie-talkie, and he had a feeling that something was terribly wrong. He swallowed. “Yeah. I care about him.”

  The woman at the desk held up a finger, wordlessly telling them to be quiet while she listened to her headset. After a moment, she glanced at Elaine, who gave her a nod. The woman turned back to Josh. “If you’re a friend of Ian’s, you should go to Bayside to meet him.”

  Confused, Josh asked, “He’s dropping someone off?”

  “No. He’s on his way to be admitted.”

  “What?” Panic lanced through him. “Why?”

  “There was a fire at his clinic. Radio chatter is that Ian is injured, along with another man on the scene. I don’t have any more details.”

  Without another word, he spun on his heel and ran to his car, and then he was driving straight back the way he’d come. Curse the timing.

  A fire. Ian could be coming in for anything from third-degree burns to a little smoke inhalation. Christ. Josh forced the panic away, tried to find the cool, analytical mind that had seen him through so many crises in the ER.

  But this wasn’t some stranger. This was Ian, and Josh had things to say to that stubborn ass. He’d damn well better be okay.

  The drive passed in an anxious haze, but luck was with Josh, and he drove into the ER lot just as an EMS truck pulled in. He slammed out of his car, hoping this was the right truck. He needed to be there when Ian was brought in, though he refused to try to articulate the reason why that was so important.

  The driver hopping out was familiar. Tommy? Yes, that was it. Ian’s brother-in-law.

  Josh rushed over, careful to stay out of the way. His breath caught. God, Ian looked like an unnaturally still shadow of himself, stretched out on the gurney with his eyes closed and an oxygen mask covering his sooty face.

  “Doc.” Tommy seemed startled to see him but never stopped moving as he and anot
her EMT pushed Ian through the double doors to be met by hospital personnel. “What are you doing here?”

  “I heard what happened.” Josh had never wished harder for a stethoscope in his life. “How is he?”

  “Concussion, smoke inhalation, second-degree burns on the back of his left arm.”

  They’d passed through the doors into the ER. The attendants lifted Ian onto the bed, and Josh tried to follow them into the curtained room, but a nurse blocked his way. “I’m sorry, sir. You have to wait in the—”

  “I’m staying. I’ll keep back.”

  She shook her head. “If you—”

  “It’s okay, Jenny.” Aguto came through the curtain. “He can stay.” She looked at the readouts. “It’s the concussion I’m worried about. Let’s send him up to MRI and see what’s going on in there.” She glanced at Josh. “See if you can get him to open his eyes.”

  Josh took Ian’s right hand while someone worked on the burn on his arm. He didn’t spare any attention for that, his gaze on Ian’s pale face. His breathing sounded a little labored but steady. A nurse swapped out the full oxygen mask for a nasal cannula.

  “Ian.” Josh squeezed his hand gently. “Wake up, you idiot. I’ve got things to tell you, and you damn well better listen.”

  No response. But wait . . . was that a flicker of an eyelid? “You owe me an apology. Hell, more than one. Don’t think you’re getting out of it.”

  “For what?” Ian rasped, his words barely audible.

  “For what?” His voice rose. “I can write you a list.”

  “Hmmm.” Ian spoke without opening his eyes. “I can think of about a dozen ways I’d like to apologize to you.”

  Relief made Josh’s knees go weak, but it wasn’t enough. “Oh, you smooth talker, you. Open your eyes.”

  Ian’s grip tightened, his strong, sure clasp sending warmth through Josh’s belly even now. Ian must have felt it too—that heated connection they’d had since they first met—because he blinked open his eyes, wincing in the bright overhead lights.

  Then Ian gasped and his grip tightened to the point of pain. “The clinic . . . God, Tully . . .”

  “The man who came in with you is being treated for burns.” Aguto leaned over with her penlight. “He will be fine. Police are with him.”

  Ian’s head tossed restlessly. “What . . . what about . . .”

  “Be still and look at me.”

  When Ian continued to twitch, Josh leaned over him and rested a hand along his cheek. “Ian, please be still.”

  Ian settled down, and Aguto flicked the penlight across his eyes. She began asking questions: his name, the date, the President of the United States? Ian answered in a slow, raspy voice.

  Now that Ian was awake and calm, anxiety eased from Josh’s stomach, and his lungs could expand again. He watched Ian’s pupils react, took note of the dressing wrapped around Ian’s arm. Listened to his breathing.

  “They’re all set for him upstairs,” Aguto said. Two attendants stood ready to take Ian for his scan.

  Ian rolled his head, his eyes seeking Josh’s, a question in their depths.

  “I’ll be here,” Josh assured him.

  When they’d left, Josh asked Dr. Aguto, “How’s the burn? I didn’t see.”

  “Second-degree. He will need wound care at home. His lungs are fine, but there is some damage to his airway. That should clear up in a couple of days. We’ll admit him overnight because of the concussion, but if all seems well, he can go home tomorrow.”

  Her assessment concurred with his own conclusions, so he nodded.

  “I’ll show you where to wait.” Aguto turned and led the way toward a far door.

  She walked slowly, taking what seemed like a rather convoluted route through the emergency area. The sneaky woman was determined to give him that tour, even if just a quick walk-through. Well, he was here, and his relief that Ian seemed to be okay had lifted his spirits. Anyway—he looked around—there wasn’t that much to see. It was a typical emergency room. Nice equipment, busy staff, the familiar sounds of people in need and others trying to help.

  Aguto let him out the door and then gestured down the hall. “Go sit with the family in the waiting room. We will let you know when he is settled in a room and can have visitors.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Given how long that process could take, he had time to brave the cafeteria for a sandwich and . . . Wait. He was going to meet Ian’s parents? Now?

  Well, hell. Everybody was here. Why was everybody here? Ian’s head pounded, his arm throbbed, his throat felt dry and raw, and he wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. But no, he was surrounded by hushed voices that thought they were being quiet but were sorely mistaken. And that would primarily be his dad. The man’s whispering voice carried like an auctioneer with a bullhorn.

  And who was he talking to in his assertive dad voice anyway? Ian hadn’t heard him use that tone since he’d interrogated Lucia’s high school boyfriends . . . Ah.

  The smile made his face hurt. “Josh?”

  “Oh, you’re awake. Thank God.”

  Ian suspected the relief in Josh’s voice had little to do with Ian’s health and everything to do with being rescued from Ian’s papa.

  Opening his eyes, he tilted his head with slow, tentative movements until Josh’s face came into view. He looked tired. How long had he been here? Ian wanted to hold Josh’s hand but didn’t reach out. Although Ian didn’t care about his family seeing them together, Josh might.

  “Oh, baby.” His mom leaned in to give him a careful hug. “You’re going to be okay.” Her eyes were reddened and her face pale, but she smelled like lavender.

  He took a deep, comforting breath, then lifted his good arm, mindful of the IV in his hand as he gave her a one-armed hug in return. “I’m fine.”

  “You better be.” Papa threw his hands in the air, and Ian had to hide a smile. “You worried your poor mother half to death.”

  And then Tommy was there. Finally, someone who could answer his questions.

  “The . . .” Ian cleared his throat, hoping the others would blame the hoarseness on smoke inhalation. It was mostly true. “The clinic?”

  “Still standing,” Tommy assured him. “The supply room is a mess, but the fire never made it to the roof or past the door to the rest of the clinic. Gabriel is there, securing the place and calling the insurance company.”

  Relief flooded Ian. Yes, this would be difficult to recover from, but it could have been so much worse. And Gabriel . . . God, Ian owed him big-time.

  “What happened?” Josh hovered by the bed. “Or do you want us all to go away so you can rest?”

  Ian rolled his head on the pillow and smiled at Josh. “Not you.”

  “Hey,” Tommy protested.

  Ian started to chuckle, but that hurt his throat. “Where’s Lucia?”

  “In the cafeteria with the kids,” Tommy said. “They’ll be back any minute.”

  Good. He wanted to see them. As soon as he was well enough, he’d take them to someplace fun, spend some time with them. Disney World, maybe.

  Tommy crossed his arms and glared at him. “The fire guys said you pushed Tully out of the way of those shelves.”

  “My son. The hero.” And there was his mom, back to her usual sardonic self. Or was she? He squinted at her. Sometimes it was hard to tell when she was being serious. Her mouth was twisted in irony, but her eyes shone. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

  “Is that what happened?” Josh asked. “The shelves fell on you?”

  “And I hit my head on the counter. I think.” He carefully touched his scalp, right above his forehead, feeling the singed ends. No bald spots or open wounds, but a decent-sized lump throbbed under his fingers.

  “What the hell happened? Was this guy one of your so-called patients?” Josh’s eyes flashed. “Was he high? Did he start the damn fire?”

  Ian closed his eyes. “Later, okay?”

  A tense silence filled the room, and then there was a b
arely audible sigh. To his shock, Josh took his hand, wrapping their fingers together. “Later, then.”

  Ian was going to answer, but a coughing fit interrupted him.

  Josh squeezed his hand. “You should stop talking so much. You’re supposed to rest your voice.”

  Mirth bubbled up in Ian’s stomach. Then stop asking me all these questions. He didn’t say it, just raised his brow at Josh, who flushed a little. “Shut up.”

  The mirth faded as pain lanced through his arm. He sucked in a breath.

  “You need another pain pill?” Papa was halfway out the door. “Want me to get the nurse?”

  “Yeah,” Ian breathed. “Yeah, please do that.”

  Josh let go of his hand. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” The unexpected harsh tone kicked Ian in the gut.

  Ignoring the gasp of outrage from his mother, Ian cleared his throat. “Opioids have never been my problem.”

  Josh studied him, his eyes hard. “No. You wouldn’t want anything slowing you down. Are you going to tell me about it?”

  “Are you going to listen?”

  “I . . . God.” Josh sent an apologetic glance toward Ian’s mother, who was glaring at him as if she’d like to toss him out the window for talking to her baby boy like that. Then Josh threw up his hands and glared at Ian. “It’s just— You’re frustrating as hell.”

  A snort came from the doorway. “Welcome to our world, Josh.” Lucia walked in, the twins darting past her to get to the bed.

  “Uncle Ian.” The kids crowded around him. “You’re awake.”

  “Careful,” Lucia said to them. “Gently.”

  They slowed their attack, and simply patted him, their small hands touching his good arm, his belly, and his legs, stroking his face lightly as if to reassure themselves he was intact.

  “Oh, babies.” He had to clear the lump from his throat. “I’m fine.”

  When the nurse came in with the pain pill, she said, “I let the doctor know you’re awake. He should be around soon.”

  “When can I be discharged?”

  “We’ll see what the doctor says.”

  After the nurse left, Lucia said, “My guess would be tonight, but you’ll need someone to watch you and to help with the bandages on your arm for a few days. You should come home with us.”