Bullseye (20 page)

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ONE

T
he keening wails echoing down the usually quiet
halls of the Serenity Medical Center made the hair on the back of Samantha
Rochard's neck prickle. Every natural instinct told her to flee. Instead,
her experience as a registered nurse sent her racing toward the sound of
misery.

A doctor, white coat flying
behind him, shoved her aside and burst through the curtain into an E.R. exam
cubicle. She heard him start to speak. Then, his words were abruptly cut
off.

A sixth sense brought Samantha
to a skidding halt before the weighted curtain had stopped swinging behind
him. Was that scuffling? Fighting? A thud?

She peeked through a slit
between the panels. Dr. Weiss, the physician who had elbowed her out of his
way, lay on the floor, moaning. A thin, scraggly figure she judged to be
male stood with his back to her. The only thing about him that caught her
attention and held it was the small, silver-colored revolver he was
waving.

Samantha wheeled and flattened
herself against a nearby wall. Hands trembling, she pulled out her cell
phone, called 911 and cupped her hands around the instrument to muffle her
speech.

“We need help at the medical
center. Hurry.”

“What's the nature of your
emergency, ma'am?”

“I don't
know.
” Samantha wanted
to shout instead of whispering. “I heard a scream and…”

When the dispatcher interrupted
to ask, “Is that you again, Ms. Rochard?” she figured her report wasn't
going to be taken seriously. So what else was new?

“Look,” Samantha said, “we've
got a guy in our E.R. with a gun. Isn't that enough?”

“Okay. Stay where you are and
let us handle it.” There was a rumble of conversation and beeping noises in
the background before the dispatcher returned. “We have units on the way.
Stay on the line with me.”

Samantha was about to reply when
someone grabbed a fistful of her shoulder-length, dark hair and jerked her
off her feet. The cell phone hit the floor with a splintering crack. She was
being dragged backward into the exam area where Dr. Weiss lay!

Her scalp felt as though it was
on fire. She couldn't think. Couldn't reason. All she could do was keep
screaming “No! No!” and try to regain her balance enough to fight
back.

The attacker flung her aside
like a sack of dirty laundry. She landed hard. The instant she looked up she
knew who had manhandled her. It was one of the teenage Boland boys.
What's his first name? Why can't I remember?
Marty, Jimmy, Bobby?
It was Bobby.
Bobby Joe. At least that sounded right.

Shying away while her thoughts
whirled, Samantha stared at the young man in the tattered jeans and T-shirt.
His eyes were wide and darting, their pupils dilated. He was under the
influence for sure, which made him even more unpredictable. His demeanor
reminded her of an animal caught in the jaws of a steel trap and willing to
chew its own leg off to escape.

She licked her lips and found
her voice. “Hey, it's me. Samantha Rochard. You're—you're Bobby Joe, right?
I used to go to school with your big sisters. Remember?”

His eyes flickered. His body was
shaking so uncontrollably his hand kept jerking. The hand with the gun in
it. “I—I know,” he stammered. “I came to see you 'cause you're a
nurse.”

“Okay. I'm here,” Samantha said
with forced calm. “I'm going to get up now, Bobby. Will you let me do
that?”

His nod was quick, twitchy.
“Yeah.”

Using the edge of the exam table
to steady herself she kept her concentration on the teen's face, waiting for
him to do something else irrational thanks to his drug-induced paranoia. The
biggest plus of the whole situation was the fact that she knew all of the
Boland kids had been raised with strong morals and lots of love, even if
they hadn't had much else.

Samantha took a deep, settling
breath and squared her shoulders. “I'm listening,” she told the skinny,
long-haired teen. “Why did you want to see me?”

He stepped aside so Samantha
could view the occupant of the narrow gurney for the first time. A homemade
quilt wrapped a frail, blond child about two years old. The little body lay
quiet. Too quiet.

Whipping her stethoscope from
around her neck she pushed the teen aside, threw back the edges of the quilt
and began to check the child's vital signs. There was a heartbeat!
Thank You, God.

“What happened?” she
demanded.

“I don't know. I was just
watchin' him for a friend and…”

“How long? How long has he been
like this?”

Instead of answering, the gunman
stepped back and began to weep as if his heart was breaking.

Samantha was no longer concerned
about anything except the ill child. “Talk to me, Bobby Joe. Tell me
everything.”

Sobbing was all she heard so she
doubled her efforts. “Listen. Time matters. If you think he swallowed
something I need to know what and when. Talk to me. Help me save him.” She
was searching for injuries on the little body as she spoke and finding
none.

The young man sank to the floor
near Dr. Weiss's feet. Samantha heard him mumble something about a stash and
the little boy being too curious. That was enough to get started. She threw
aside the curtain surrounding one end of the exam area and found herself
staring at a trio of quaking coworkers.

“Narcan,” Samantha shouted. “And
find me a doctor who's conscious enough to give the order to
administer.”

“I can do it,” Weiss said,
rolling onto his hands and knees and pausing before pulling himself erect.
He cast a wary glance at the assailant who was still babbling incoherently,
then nodded at a middle-aged nurse who stood outside the immediate area.
“You. Alice. You heard her. Meds. Stat. And somebody order a chopper. We'll
transport to Children's in Little Rock as soon as we stabilize.”

“Respirations are slow, pulse
rapid and weak,” Samantha told him.

“That figures.” Weiss blew a
sigh. “I'll start an IV while you give him half the dose IM. If the problem
isn't opiate-induced, Narcan won't hurt him.”

“Right.” She administered the
injection while other nurses and the doctor worked on the opposite side of
the gurney.

The sound of approaching sirens
caught her attention. Tensing, she eyed Bobby Joe. He apparently hadn't
noticed that the police were almost there.

“Vitals are improving. Somebody
take my place for a second,” Samantha said before leaving the patient in
other capable hands and going to crouch beside the distraught
teen.

“We've given the boy an antidote
and he's starting to respond. It's going to be okay.” Reaching for his
weapon and closing her hand around it, she made sure it was pointing in a
safe direction, then exerted steady pressure. “You can let go. Give me the
gun, Bobby Joe. Everything's under control.”

Relieved beyond words when he
did as she asked, Samantha stood, holding out the small, silver pistol, butt
first and muzzle direction safely diverted, just the way she'd taken it from
its owner.

Several police officers were
already approaching warily when she turned to face them. Their guns were
drawn, their expressions deadly serious so she announced, “You can relax,
fellas. Everything's under control. I got his gun away from him for
you.”

One deputy sidled past her to
cuff the addict while another stepped up and took the pistol from her
hand.

If Samantha hadn't already been
so keyed up that she could barely think straight, she might have shrieked
when she saw that cop's face. Her jaw did drop and she was pretty sure her
gasp was audible. His light brown hair and eyes and his broad shoulders were
all too familiar. It couldn't be him, of course. It simply couldn't be. She
hadn't had one of these déjà vu moments for months. Maybe years.

Her pulse leaped as reality
replaced imagination. She couldn't catch her breath. This was
not
another bad dream.
John Waltham, the man who'd broken her heart so badly she'd wondered if
she'd ever recover, was standing right in front of her, big as
life.

Before she could decide how to
greet him, he set the mood of their reunion. His “What did you think you
were
doing?
” was delivered with such force it was practically a growl.

That attitude stiffened her
spine and made it easy to answer, “My job.”

“You're a nurse, not a
cop.”

“Oh, so I'm supposed to just
stand there while you and your buddies waltz in here and start
shooting?”

“If necessary, yes.”

“Don't be silly. I knew Bobby
Joe wasn't going to hurt me,” she insisted, wishing she fully believed her
own assertion. When an addict was under the influence there was no way to
predict what he or she might do.

Handling the pistol expertly,
John unloaded it and passed it to one of his fellow officers to bag as
evidence before turning back to Samantha.

She noticed that his expression
had softened some but it was too little too late. She was already bristling.
“What are you doing back in town?” She eyed him from head to toe. “And why
are you dressed like a member of our police force?”

“Because that's what I am. I've
come home,” he said flatly.

Samantha couldn't believe her
ears. After all he'd put her through, all the tears she'd shed after he'd
left her high and dry, he had the unmitigated gall to return and go back to
work as if nothing had changed. How
dare
he!

* * *

Seeing Samantha again
had been disquieting to begin with. Seeing her with the perp's loaded gun in
her hand had dealt him such a staggering blow he'd almost been rendered
speechless.

Although Sam was prettier than
ever, she now exhibited an element of authority and expertise that floored
him. The last time they'd been together Sam had clung to him, crying and
begging him to stay in Serenity. She'd acted as if she couldn't bear to see
him go and was positive she couldn't live without him.

Now, however, she was behaving
with such self-assurance he was stunned. His high school sweetheart had
grown up in his absence. Boy, had she!

Waiting until the addict had
been escorted to a patrol car and stuffed into the backseat, John approached
her for the second time.

She looked up from her task of
packaging the quilt and the child's clothing. She didn't speak, didn't
smile.

John cleared his throat. “I
think we got off on the wrong foot just now. It's good to see you again,
Sam.”

All she did was nod.

“Nice job calming the suspect.
Just don't try anything like that again.”

He'd thought she might reply
because her jaw dropped slightly but she snapped it shut and kept mum. “I
told you I was sorry a hundred times,” he said quietly so others wouldn't
overhear. “What happened between us in the past was for the best, Sam. You
and I both know that.”

With a noisy sigh and shake of
her head she regarded him for long seconds before she finally spoke. “I'd
adjusted fine to you being a detective in Dallas, John. What the… What are
you doing back in Serenity?”

“You don't sound happy to see
me.”

“Happy? Happy is getting the gun
away from Bobby Joe Boland and saving that little boy's life. There was no
joy in going through the struggles I faced after you left me. I won't do it
again. Not for anything.”

Floored, he stuffed his hands
into his jacket pockets and tried to look unconcerned. He'd thought he'd
made Samantha understand his desire to better himself, to advance his
career. Surely she must have had some empathy because she'd insisted she
wanted to do the same thing in regard to nursing. They had both succeeded.
He'd just had to move away in order to accomplish his goals and she'd been
able to do it right there in Serenity.

“I kind of hoped you'd be glad
to see me, Sam. It's nice that you're doing so well.” He gestured toward the
area where the doctor and nurse were smiling at the formerly unconscious
boy. “Looks like a good save.”

“This time. I wish I could
rescue them all.”

“Kids, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Another sigh. “There are
so many like…”

“Like you used to be?” he
offered. When her eyes narrowed and she glared at him he was afraid he'd
reminded her too much of her own childhood.

“I managed. And I'm still
managing,” Samantha said, closing and tagging the bag of belongings that
would go in the medevac chopper that was going to transport the child to a
bigger hospital. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”