Critical Condition (11 page)

AMANDA WATCHED LUCAS PUT JERRY THROUGH A grueling set of testing—both physical and cognitive—that left Jerry sweating, exhausted, straining to keep his eyes open. Finally Lucas let him return to his wheelchair, and Amanda helped him from the parallel bars into the chair. Jerry didn’t even protest, his body trembling with the strain of remaining upright. She got him settled, made sure he had his cane and his gun.

“It’ll be okay,” she reassured him. Jerry said nothing, just looked at her as if he knew she was lying. She hoped she wasn’t. “Let me talk with Lucas for a minute. You rest here.”

She joined Lucas at the desk in the opposite corner where he was writing notes. “You see what I mean now, right? He did awful—his balance is off, his hand-eye coordination is gone, and his memory and language skills—”

Lucas nodded, finishing his note before turning to her. “This is the difference between pediatrics and neurology, I think. I see progress—remarkable progress, in fact. You see possibilities—you see what he was and want him to get back there, become the same person he was. That’s not going to happen, Amanda.”

She felt her entire face wrinkle with a frown. Not one of petulance; one of anger. She hated it when Lucas went all I’m-a-genius-and-you’re-not superior, but the fact that he was doing it now when they were talking about the future of one of their best friends? If he wasn’t careful, she’d be giving him more than a frown. She’d be giving him a fight that he’d never forget, fiancé or no fiancé.

“You’re not going to contest the insurance company? Get him into rehab?”

He didn’t seem to notice either her scowl or her tone. “How can I? From a neurologic point of view, he’s doing fantastic. How can I justify taking up a bed in a rehab facility that could be better used for someone who needs intensive intervention—someone like a soldier returning home after a traumatic brain injury?”

Low blow. He knew darn well that half of Amanda’s family had served with the Marines. “But Jerry would get better faster in rehab. You can’t deny that.”

“Of course not. But it’s a question of degrees—”

“I don’t care!” Her shout rattled her—and him.

Lucas faced her head-on, arms crossed over his chest, and stared at her. In any other man, she’d take the silence and posture for anger or arrogance, but she knew better with Lucas. He had his hands hidden inside the sleeves of his lab jacket to keep himself from touching her—from touching anything that could potentially contaminate him or hurt him; his face had become an expressionless mask and his foot was tapping a strange cadence, counting out one of the obscure mathematical progressions he used to calm himself when his anxieties were suddenly flushed out into the open.

What in other men would be a show of arrogance, in Lucas was a sign that he was deeply conflicted, torn so much that he’d retreated, a turtle in his shell, unable to speak until he mastered his emotions.

Amanda took in a deep breath, working hard to control her own emotions. “It’s not your fault,” she conceded. “I understand. It’s just that—” She had to look away, couldn’t face Lucas—not after he’d worked so hard to save Jerry, worked miracles, in fact. “I want everything back the way it was.”

Lucas slowly thawed. He nodded and wrapped his arms around her—an extraordinarily rare display of public affection considering that Jerry sat watching across the room. He said nothing at first, just held her tight. Then he whispered, “I know.”

They parted as Jerry approached in his wheelchair. “Can we talk?” he asked, nodding to Amanda.

Lucas sat back down and returned to his paperwork while Amanda and Jerry moved across the room to the chairs so that she could sit and face him at eye level.

“He can’t send you to rehab,” Amanda said, thinking that was what he wanted to talk about.

But Jerry merely shrugged. “Don’t want to go.” Then he further surprised her by reaching across the space between them to touch her arm. “Thanks.”

She stared at him. What was wrong with everyone today? “What do you mean, you don’t want to go? Don’t you want to get better?”

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. They were so harsh—and they unveiled a truth that she didn’t want to see. That Jerry might never gain back what he’d lost.

“I want to go home.” He was pounding his fist against his thigh in rhythm with his words but Amanda doubted he even knew it, he was concentrating so hard on getting the words out the right way. His eyes squinted with effort. “I
am
better.”

Amanda knew that many patients with traumatic brain injuries had no perception of their limitations—their damaged brains couldn’t acknowledge the reality of what had been lost; they would delude themselves that they were fine, able to care for themselves, return to their old life. The ultimate power of denial.

She was so frustrated and angry that she wanted to cry—it was the same feeling that overwhelmed her whenever she was faced with a seriously ill pediatric patient, this need to defend and protect and fight.

But how could she fight Jerry’s own delusions without hurting him as well?

Shoulders slumped with the weight of her emotions, she rested her forehead in her palm.

Jerry patted her shoulder. “It’s okay,” he said in a singsong voice as if she were the patient, the one facing the devastation of life as she knew it. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Amanda didn’t have the heart to tell him how very wrong he was.

 

 

TOGETHER, GINA AND KEN WHEELED LAROSE INTO an exam room at the far end of the hall where the temperature hadn’t yet dropped into the arctic realms. Still damn cold, though. Melissa, one of the nurses, came in to help.

They quickly cleared LaRose, ruling out any injuries from the car accident, got her on a monitor, started an IV, and began to bring down her blood pressure, which was an alarming 210/144. Then, just as Ken was on the phone arranging for a head CT, the lights went out.

Gina couldn’t even find the energy to curse as they sat in darkness for three seconds before the emergency generator kicked in.

“What’s wrong?” LaRose asked, clutching Gina’s hand.

“Nothing. Just relax.”

“Did the car accident cause that?”

“I’ll go check,” Melissa said.

Ken was redialing radiology, who seemed to be giving him grief about the CT. “I know you’re short-staffed for the holiday, everyone is. . . . What do you mean, the radiologist doesn’t have time to read it? He’s not even here. He works from home reading everything on his computer. . . . I don’t care. I’m coming down with my patient in ten minutes—did I mention she’s the wife of Moses Freeman, the state’s largest malpractice attorney? . . . Oh, you’ll be ready and waiting for us? Thanks, I thought so.”

He hung up with a bang. “Never thought I’d be using your father’s name like that.”

Gina would have laughed if LaRose hadn’t been there watching. Ken Rosen and her father Moses were the modern equivalent of mortal enemies. Moses had once sued a group of doctors that included Ken, which had meant that Ken had to stay in Pittsburgh dealing with the suit while his wife and daughter went on vacation to Disney World. Unfortunately, both of them had died in a car crash while in Orlando and Ken blamed himself for not being there—blamed Moses, too, but not as much as Gina had once she learned the truth: that Moses had known all along that Ken was innocent, and had included him in the suit only as part of a gambit to force a settlement.

“It’s the least Moses can do for you,” she said. As soon as she knew for sure what was going on with LaRose, she’d call her father. She was dreading it; conversations with Moses had a way of erupting into ballistic warfare.

LaRose began to shiver, and Gina got another blanket for her. Just as she was tucking the blanket around her mother’s model-thin frame, Melissa returned.

“The power’s out all over the city,” she announced. “They’re closing down the ER and diverting all EMS calls. Everyone’s moving to the auditorium.”

“Then I guess we’d better get over to radiology before they go AWOL,” Ken said. He and Melissa steered the stretcher through the door, Gina following behind.

She really wanted to get back to Jerry, make sure he was okay, but she needed to take care of LaRose first. At least she could check to see if Janet had any news about Harris.

“I’ll catch up,” she told Ken as she pulled her cell phone out and dialed Janet.

This time it was the third ring before Janet picked up. “What?”

“Just wondering what the guys in L.A. said about Harris.”

“I’m waiting for them to get back to me. In case you haven’t noticed, we just lost power, so things are a bit nuts around here.”

“It’s crazy here, too.”

“I’ll call L.A. back, see if I can talk to a supervisor. Unfortunately, the DEA doesn’t really answer to me, and they won’t give me any info on one of their agents or a case without going through channels.”

“Did you warn Lydia, just in case?”

“I tried; she’s not answering. I can’t get anyone out to Angels until the weather clears—even our SUVs have been grounded. I’m going to keep trying, but I can’t stop Harris from asking questions. Who knows, maybe he’s got a lead on who sent the hit man and needs Lydia to help him piece things together.”

“But what if he’s not legit? He’s got a gun, Janet.” Panic filtered into Gina’s words as she remembered the damage one man with a gun had done three weeks ago.

“If you’re that worried, have your security guys detain him until I can verify his credentials. You can invoke privacy concerns or some other legal bullshit to keep him from wandering around the premises.”

Better than nothing. “Call me as soon as you hear anything?”

“I will. Gina, I have to go now.”

Janet hung up and Gina slid her phone into her pocket. The ER was now completely empty, as dark and cold as the
Titanic
going under.

She turned away from the corridor leading to radiology and headed back toward the nurses’ station. The security office adjoined the waiting room across from the nurses’ station and beside the ambulance entrance. It occurred to Gina that maybe she could use the hospital security cameras to find where Harris was.

Okay, then. A plan. She stepped through the debris littering what was left of the nurses’ station and jogged down the hall to the security office. Inside, she found hospital CEO Oliver Tillman and three guards behind the counter at the monitors, thick binders of emergency procedures open before them.

“We have three days of fuel for the emergency generator,” one guard was saying. “If we minimize consumption.”

“I’ve ordered all ambulatory patients and nonessential personnel to the auditorium,” Tillman said. “We’ll consolidate all other patients and staff to the ICU floor. Make it easier for staff to rotate care.”

“Good. We can cut back on electrical output and heat to the unoccupied parts of the hospital.”

Another guard hung up a phone. “Pittsburgh EMS is diverting all ambulance traffic away from us. The police already have most of the roads closed.”

“We’ve got more problems than just the weather and a power outage,” Gina told them.

Tillman glanced up at her, scowling. “Dr. Freeman. I thought you would be tending to your mother.”

“I would be. Except that I just spoke with Detective Kwon, and she suggested that the DEA agent named Harris be detained until she can verify his credentials. She’s concerned for patient safety. The ER staff reported that he was interfering with patient care.” It was stretching the truth, but Gina figured better safe than sorry. Especially when it involved Jerry’s safety.

“Think he’s another hit man?” The security guard’s tone was one of excitement. He too was young, obviously new. Where was Tillman finding these guys? Gina wondered.

“If he is, then he’s after Lydia Fiore and Jerry. He was asking about both of them.”

Tillman’s scowl deepened. He reached for the phone. “Thank you, Dr. Freeman. We’ll deal with Harris once I’ve verified it. Please join the others in the auditorium.”

“But—”

“Dr. Freeman.” Tillman’s expression turned glacial. “I have enough on my hands. Now, please go to the auditorium. I’m sure they need your help.” He turned his back on her and pointed to the security monitors. “Find me that man, Harris. We can’t let him go wandering the hospital until we double-check his credentials.”

At least Tillman was working on the problem, even if he had summarily dismissed Gina. He was right, anyway; she would be more help in the auditorium with the others.

Gina left the security office and went down to the ER locker room. There she grabbed her lab coat, pulling it on top of her sweater, and stuffed its pockets with supplies: two penlights, a pen and note cards, calculator, disposable scalpel, hemostats, gloves, trauma radio. The nurses would have pulled supply carts with other essentials like gauze, bandages, and medications.

As the familiar weight of the jacket settled on her shoulders, for the first time since the shooting, she felt close to normal. If not for her worry about LaRose and concern about Harris roaming the hospital, the idea of practicing meatball medicine would be fun.

On her way toward radiology, where LaRose was getting her CT scan, Gina took a route that led her back past the security office. She reached the devastated nurses’ station, picking her way through the debris littering the floor—no easy feat, since someone had turned all the lights off—when she spotted Harris talking to Tillman in the security office.

Good. At least they knew where Harris was. They could verify his credentials, make sure he was no threat to Jerry.

Then she froze, pressing her body deeper into the shadows. Harris was holding a gun to Tillman’s head.

A KNOCK SOUNDED ON LYDIA’S DRIVER’S DOOR, and then it opened, wind and snow blowing in at her. Trey Garrison was six feet tall, but his head was currently level with hers because of the way the SUV was elevated.