Code Triage (27 page)

Nick hadn’t stayed more than twenty minutes yesterday. He’d said she looked tired, that he needed to drive Elisa to the babysitter and get back to the department for his officer-involved-shooting interviews. All true, of course. But she’d hoped that he’d come back, imagined him sitting here all night. Holding her hand. And that sometime, in the wee hours this morning, he’d mention what she’d told him before they wheeled her into surgery. Say that he’d been surprised, of course, but that he was glad she’d told him she loved him. That the only reason he hadn’t been able to express those same feelings to her was that he wasn’t free yet. He had to put things on hold until the divorce was final. She jabbed the button on the medication pump.

The truth was, she’d asked him to come back last night and he’d said he couldn’t, that he’d call today to check on her. Not come by to visit, just call. He’d patted the top of her head the same way he did Elisa’s. As if she’d never said she loved him. As if they hadn’t made love, fallen asleep in each other’s arms in those long, gray days after Toby died. It would be different now, all so different, if Leigh Stathos hadn’t called the night he’d come for dessert. Sam had seen it in his eyes when he held her; he’d been ready to give up on his marriage. And now, after all Leigh had done to hurt him these past months—all Sam had done to help him through it—he was defending her.
“Leigh doesn’t lie.”

She shut her eyes, letting the medicine’s floating effect compete with the fresh sting of anger. Strangely the anger made things clearer, helped her understand what she had to do. The divorce had to happen. She couldn’t let anything—even a bullet in her belly—stop her from getting the happy ending she’d been cheated of her whole life.

“Miss Gordon?”

Sam turned to see the evening nurse in the doorway, holding a small IV pouch.

“I have the antibiotic your surgeon ordered.” She checked Sam’s patient identity band, questioned her about medication allergies, then connected the tubing to an infusion pump. “There,” the nurse said, smiling at her. “You’re all set. Need anything else while I’m here?”

“Yes. How do I get in touch with a doctor?”

“Dr. Bartle’s still in the house,” the nurse answered. “I could have him stop by.”

“No. Dr. Stathos in the ER.”

“She’s not on duty today. And I’m sorry, but the ER doctors don’t take calls.”

“I think she’ll take mine,” Sam said, noticing a mild burning sensation as the antibiotic began to flow. “Tell her I need to talk with her.”

+++

Leigh pressed her heel against the mare’s side, signaling the big red horse to move into a canter, and then urged her forward, faster. She rose from the saddle in a half seat and stood in the stirrup irons, squeezing her calves until they were in a brisk gallop—hooves flinging clods from the soft, moist dirt of the coastal trail.
Yes, better . . . but more.
She gathered the reins in one hand, tapped her crop against the mare’s hip, and felt her spring forward in response, stretching out, mane flying. Leigh followed the horse’s head with her hands, letting the wind whip through her hair and bring tears to her eyes, seeing the park’s knee-high grasses and trees blur like an impressionist painting. Feeling only the wind, the mare’s muscles bunching beneath her; hearing the rhythm of hooves against earth, the horse’s breathing, and her own heart singing in her ears. Finally singing, in sweet escape. She sucked in a deep breath of bay air, tasted the brine in it—kept riding, kept breathing. Felt alive again. She didn’t want it to ever, ever stop. She wanted it to go on forever.

Forever. Oh, God, no. Don’t do this to me. Not here. Not now.

Leigh shortened the reins, easing the mare back from the gallop with a half halt. She settled into the saddle as the horse returned to a canter and finally broke to a big, up-and-down trot, breath heaving. She posted the trot for several strides, then sat deep in the saddle and drew back on the reins again, patting the horse’s neck as they finally slowed to a brisk walk. Leigh sighed. For a few minutes, she’d escaped. She’d forgotten it wasn’t Frisco beneath her, that Cappy Thomas was dead, that her mother had left that message on her phone.

“Leigh-Leigh, darling, Mom. Only have a minute—ship to shore costs like murder. Heard the news. I told you that hospital was in a bad area. If Nick Stathos wants to live like that forever, let him. But you don’t have to. Nor does Caroline. I’ve been discussing it with my new beau, Phillip. He’s a plastic surgeon, remember? With a lovely practice in Palm Beach. And modeling connections, too—oh, I have to go. We’ll be late for dinner. E-mail me. I’ll try and check it tomorrow sometime. After our shore excursion. Hope you’re okay.”

Leigh slipped her boots from the stirrups and turned the mare around, her legs hanging along the animal’s warm sides as they followed the trail back to the barn. She let the small of her back relax, feeling her hip joints stretch forward and back alternately with the horse’s movement, legs free, body free.
Free.
Leigh closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and raised her arms, palms up. She breathed in slowly, let it out, and searched for peace. For that connection, that balanced center, she’d lost somehow. In the last year, these quiet moments in the saddle had been the closest she came to . . .
prayer.

Leigh thought of what she’d told Riley yesterday, that even God couldn’t track her down here. Then she opened her eyes, searched the clouds, and asked the question that was whispering inside her head more and more these past few weeks. “Do you want to? Do you want to find me, Lord?”

+++

Nick dribbled the basketball, whirled, dodged the gangly ten-year-old in braces and headgear, then found a break and drove forward—took his shot and missed. The kids howled and hooted among themselves.

“Gettin’ old and slow, Officer Nick!”

“My grammy can aim better than that with a can of SpaghettiOs!”

“Yeah, at the back of your ugly head, Addison!”

Nick laughed, threw his hands up, then yanked at a handful of his tank top and wiped it across his face. Sweat burned his eyes and his legs had turned to rubber. He leaned over, hands on his thighs. “Okay . . . I’m done. You win. All I’m good for now is saying, ‘Thank you for the food, Lord,’ and chewing. Pepperoni or sausage pizza? Shoot your baskets and make up your mind—this old man’s starving.”

He walked to the bleachers, sank down, and watched the boys take turns from the free throw line, wishing the rest of life could be like this. Work hard, give it all you got, play by the rules . . . He winced. But he hadn’t, of course. He hadn’t played by the rules and Leigh would never forgive that. No matter how hard he tried to make up for it, no matter how long he kept at it. Even if he’d been so close to seeing it happen just two days ago. But now . . . She hadn’t responded to his text message, and—

“Officer Nick?”

Nick looked into the huge brown eyes of his littlest player. Edwin, barely seven, had cheeks like a chipmunk and wore his hair in dozens of fuzzy twists and his thrift-store sneakers two sizes too big. He walked like one of Oly’s pigeons but—perched on Nick’s shoulders—shot hoops like Kobe Bryant. “Yeah, Ed-winner. What can I do you for?”

“Is it true, what folks are sayin’?”

Nick’s chest tightened. “What are they saying?”

“That you shot somebody.”

Father God . . .
“Yes, it’s true.”

Edwin’s eyes held Nick’s, unblinking. “He was a bad guy?”

“He did a bad thing. I couldn’t let him do it again.”

The boy’s brows puckered. “How did it feel—to shoot somebody?”

Nick took a slow breath. “Bad. Real bad.”

Edwin rested his small palm on Nick’s knee. “I’m going to ask my Jesus to look after you. Even though you’re big.”

Nick smiled over the lump in his throat. “I’d appreciate that.”

+++

Riley slipped through the door of the ICU, blinked against the dim lighting, then crossed the short stretch of maroon carpeting to Kurt Denton’s room. She held the staff list in her hand and told herself she’d come to be certain she hadn’t missed anyone who might need stress counseling, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. She needed to see this man, the vicious assailant who’d killed without mercy, because he put a face on her nightmares. She glanced toward the nurses’ desk, took a slow breath, and stepped into the room, struggling against the memory of plunging headfirst down a flight of stairs.
Father, I’m afraid. . . . I’m afraid.

Her gaze moved first, irrationally, to the handcuffs that secured him to the bed. As if that precaution were the only thing that kept this young killer’s eyes from popping open, stopped him from leaping over the bed rails, snatching a gun from under the pillow, and grabbing her around the neck like he’d done to Kristi Johnson. It wasn’t handcuffs that tethered Kurt Denton to the bed; it was a bullet to the brain.

She startled, feeling immediately foolish as the blood pressure cuff inflated on his arm, Velcro crackling. She watched the digital display as the machine searched for his systolic pressure. The device hummed and inflated further, and then numbers appeared: 260, 240, 220 . . . Her eyes moved to his heart rhythm, sinus bradycardia, slower than normal at barely 50 beats per minute. High blood pressure, slow pulse, signs of intracranial pressure—ominous. He’d been given a death sentence. Kurt Denton would pay for his crime.

The memory intruded before Riley could stop it. Houston, her father. At her hospital bedside.

“I’ll see that there’s justice, baby girl. We’ll find this guy if I have to do it myself. What I’d give to feel my hands around his throat. As God is my witness, I’ll make him pay. He could have killed you!”

But they hadn’t found him. And worse—what still left Riley with nightmares—was that they’d never discovered any motive for her attack in the medical center parking lot. A hooded man in the shadows of the stairwell, hands around her throat; then the ruthless shove that sent her hurtling down the steps.
Why? Why?
Her purse had been found on the landing, cash and credit cards in place; not a kidnapping, no attempt at sexual assault. Riley’s stomach roiled and she wrapped her free arm around her sling. “A random act of violence,” the Houston papers had reported, as if that would make it feel less personal somehow, bring peaceful closure.

Riley jumped as the monitor alarm sounded.

“His pressure isn’t responding to the medications,” the nurse said, stepping to the bedside to reset the alarm. “Any luck reaching family?”

“No. According to the mother of his children, he’s been estranged from them for years.” Riley glanced at the nurse’s ID badge, saw she was from a local staffing registry. “We appreciate your coming in to relieve our nurses.”

“Not a problem,” she said, smoothing the sheet over Denton’s chest. “I’m a ‘traveler,’ new to the area, so I don’t know the staff that were shot.” Her brows scrunched. “Maybe I’d feel different if he were awake, staring at me. But at least we know why he did what he did: some really messed-up attempt to keep his family together. In my mind, that feels easier to accept, safer, than some random act of violence.”

Riley hugged her sling close. “Yes.”

The nurse pressed a button, raising the head of her patient’s bed a few inches. “I saw the critical stress information you left at the nurses’ station. Those tips about eating right, exercising, and listening to music.” She glanced up and smiled. “I was working at Sierra Mercy during that day care explosion last year. When Claire Avery—she’s Claire Caldwell now—did CISM peer counseling and a staff debriefing. It was a good thing, made me feel like someone cared. I’m glad you’re doing it for these folks. If I can help you in some way, I’d be happy to.”

Riley felt a rush of warmth. “Thank you. I’ll be working with the senior chaplain and social services to get that going. And I have a small hospital ministry in place that I hope will help, too. We meet in the chapel before our shifts.”

“Faith QD. Erin Quinn started that at Sierra Mercy. I still have my T-shirt with that stenciled nurse’s lamp.” The traveler nurse’s smile broadened. “It looks like you’ve got it covered, Chaplain.”

Riley glanced at the comatose patient and exhaled softly. “I’m trying.”

+++

“Is this all the water he’s taken today?” Leigh asked, staring down at the large rubber bucket the stable staff installed in a corner of Frisco’s stall.

“I’m afraid so.” Patrice sighed. “I turned off the automatic waterer and filled the bucket myself so I could keep an accurate record. Dr. Hunter’s up-to-date. He said the water he gave through the stomach tube helped, but if this keeps up, he’ll need to give some IV fluids.” She reached out and brushed Frisco’s dark forelock aside. “But his vital signs are normal. And he isn’t in pain; you can see that.”

Leigh’s throat tightened at the dull look in her horse’s eye, his depressed posture. She glanced around the stall thickly bedded with pine shavings. “No manure?”

“Not yet. But I still hear bowel sounds.”

“So we wait.” Leigh thought of Sam lying in a hospital bed with her own belly problems.

“You’re off duty tomorrow too, aren’t you?” Patrice asked. “That awful incident yesterday hasn’t changed things for you?”

If you only knew.
She’d tossed and turned half the night. Then had that text from Nick this morning:
“Call me?”
“It’s still my day off. Although I promised to work a couple of hours as a favor to one of the doctors. His wife has an OB appointment. Otherwise, I’ll be out here, walking Frisco and trying to coax him to eat.”

“Good.” Patrice turned as Maria approached, leading Tag at the end of a pink rope. The donkey’s big ears pricked forward as Frisco nickered. “I’m glad you’ll be available,” the stable owner continued. “Gary and I have to make a visit to the family of a former foster child. We’ll be gone until tomorrow night.” She patted Maria’s head. “My sister, Glenna, will be here to watch Maria and generally oversee things. She’s not an experienced horsewoman. But she’ll have the stable hands and access to all the emergency numbers, of course.”