By Your Side (9 page)

“T
HE
SANE
NURSE IS ON HER WAY,”
Macy assured the social worker who stood alongside the exam table.

“Good.”

Their patient, a fifteen-year-old assault victim
 
—and presumed runaway
 
—lay faceup and shivering despite a triple layer of warmed blankets. She’d covered her eyes with a skinny arm, hand dangling, nail polish a chipped, desolate black. Her burgundy hair was littered with leaf debris from the park bushes where she’d been found by an elderly woman walking her dog. Since then the girl had breathed barely a handful of words, each accompanied by uncontrollable shaking. Her lower lip was swollen, split by a small laceration. One earlobe trickled blood. A hoop earring had been viciously torn free by her assailant
 
—the least by far of her traumas. The sexual assault nurse examiner couldn’t get
here fast enough as far as Macy was concerned. Everything about this was bringing back memories of Leah’s trauma.

“Make sure the hospital chaplain is coming too,” Dr. Carlyle told the social worker. She tucked the warmed blankets under her patient’s back and bent low to whisper, “We’re going to help you get through this, Sonya. You’re safe here.”

Safe.
Macy closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the click of Nonni’s door latch.

“Is everything ready?” Andi Carlyle kept her voice low as she glanced at the metal instrument stand. “The exam equipment, evidence kit, and
 
—”

There was a knock at the door.

“Excuse me, Dr. Carlyle.” The door opened a crack and a registration clerk’s face peeked through. Her expression seemed anxious. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Unless it’s urgent, I really can’t leave right now.” Andi took a step toward the door, and Macy noticed that her flowered T-shirt, tucked into the faded-blue scrub pants, made the doctor’s blossoming tummy visible. “Is it something PA Koenig can handle?”

“It’s that Mr. Harrell,” the clerk whispered. “He says it’s urgent that he speak with you personally. He’s insisting.” The look on her face said
demanding
was more accurate.

Their patient turned onto her side with a small groan, exposing a glimpse of an amateurish tattoo on her pale shoulder
 
—a painful and permanent typo:
Beleive
.

“Tell Mr. Harrell
 
—” Andi pressed her fingers to her forehead
 
—“that I’ll be with him in five minutes. He can wait in my office. Show him where the coffee is.” Discomfort
flickered across her face. “This has been a rough day for his family.”

“Okay.” The clerk’s brows pinched. “He doesn’t look like he would want coffee. But I’ll tell him.”

Bob Harrell. Macy thought of the day they’d lifted his unconscious mother from the backseat of his car, how agitated he’d been. She’d hoped that having his brothers here would make it easier for him. But then there was nothing at all easy about losing someone you love. The ICU team had discontinued life support on Darlene Harrell an hour ago. The family was keeping a painful vigil
 
—except for Bob, who apparently handled stress by pacing the halls. Miles of them over the past week. Macy had seen a member of the chaplain staff following a discreet distance behind, just in case he wanted to talk. But it seemed that the only person he wanted to talk with was Andi.

“The SANE nurse is here,” the clerk added as she slipped out of the exam room.

“Thank you.” The social worker patted their patient’s arm. “I’m going to go speak with our nurse specialist for a few minutes before she comes in, Sonya. And then we’ll both be back.”

“And I think I’ll slip out now too. I need to give a status report to the oncoming physician.” Andi bent low in an attempt to make eye contact with the girl. Impossible since she’d drawn the blanket up high enough to cover her brows. But at least she’d stopped the terrible trembling. “You’re in good hands, Sonya. We’re going to do everything we can to help you.” She glanced at Macy. “And my nurse is going to wait with you until we’re ready to start your exam.”

“Absolutely.” Macy grabbed a rolling stool, straddled it, and moved close to the exam table. “Not going anywhere.”

In a moment it was only the two of them, Sonya lying so still that Macy suspected she’d fallen asleep. Merciful, considering that in a short while she’d need to answer a list of excruciatingly personal questions. Things no fifteen-year-old should have to address. Then give permission for an intimate probing of her body, collecting evidence designed to build a case against her vicious attacker. All of it would be performed by a skilled and caring professional. But to a frightened child, it still might seem far too close to a second assault.

The girl pulled down the blanket, met Macy’s gaze. Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. Her voice emerged in a husky, raw monotone. “That . . . man . . .”

Oh no.
Macy wanted to interrupt, advise her that she should wait to talk to the sexual assault expert or the waiting female detective.

“I heard . . . ,” Sonya continued, fighting another involuntary tremble. “That man, that sniper out there . . . shot a dog.”

The shooter? Macy’s thoughts staggered. This battered and violated child was worried about the dog?

“Is it true?” Sonya asked.

“I’m afraid so.” Even if this girl asked, Macy wasn’t going to reveal the final outcome of that senseless attack. At least she could spare her that. But Sonya closed her eyes and went quiet again. Macy scooted closer, trying not to imagine Leah’s experience in that exam room years back; she’d been even younger than this girl.

“I have . . . I had a dog. Back in Pocatello,” the girl whispered, a sad smile teasing her lips. “Tater always liked to sleep at the end of my bed. She’d scratch my quilt and turn and turn . . . like she was making this perfect little nest for herself.” Sonya grasped the hospital blanket to her chest, exposing that misspelled tattoo. A tear slid down her face. “Maybe . . . it’s not too late. Maybe I could . . .”

Macy waited.

“I want to go home.” The girl’s eyes found hers. “Can you all help me with that?”

Macy nodded, an ache crowding her throat. “We’ll try our best.”

A few minutes later, the SANE nurse and the social worker returned, and Macy headed back to the nurses’ station. Andi was at the doctors’ desk, her homely Keebler elf mug
 
—an anonymous gift from last year’s Secret Santa
 
—in one hand. The other hand rested protectively against her growing tummy.

“How was Mr. Harrell?” Macy asked after glancing toward the assignment board.

“Changed his mind apparently. Not in my office or anywhere in the department.” Andi shrugged. “I’m hoping that means one of the chaplains got through to him. Truthfully, I’m relieved. Besides prayer, there’s not a lot I can do for him at this point. And
 
—” she glanced at her watch
 
—“as soon as I finish this tea, I’m on my way. I’m meeting my guy at Babies & Beyond.” Her dimpled smile appeared. “The new date night.”

Macy smiled back. She could only imagine what that kind of happy felt like.

Andi drained the last of her tea, reached for her backpack, then glanced toward the doors to the corridor. “Oh, dear, I forgot.” She turned back to Macy. “Did he find you?”

“Who?”

“Fletcher Holt, the deputy. He was waiting outside to talk with you.”

Clearly Macy was busy, Fletcher told himself as he reached the exit doors to the hospital parking lot. He’d find another opportunity to talk with her.
Excuse?
Yeah, probably. But
 
—

“Fletcher. Hey, wait up.”

Macy jogged toward him, stethoscope bouncing around her neck. Different scrubs today, green like that dress at the gala.

“I’m sorry,” she told him, coming to a stop. “I didn’t get the message until just now that you were out here.” Her gaze skimmed his off-duty clothes. “Visiting Charly?”

“Right,” Fletcher confirmed, amused to hear his mother’s nickname
 
—of course she’d insist. “I was on my way out and thought I’d let you know how she was doing. That’s all. I can see that you’re busy.”

“It’s okay. I want to hear about your mother. I’m good for a few minutes.” She nodded toward the doors. “Let’s step outside. Otherwise I’ll start believing it’s normal for air to smell like iodine, rubbing alcohol, cold pizza, and things you probably don’t want to imagine.”

“You’re right.” Fletcher pushed the door open before Macy could reach for it. He agreed with her completely.
Fresh air, a few minutes’ respite . . . some peace. He hadn’t realized until just this moment how much he needed that.

“Ah, heaven,” Macy said almost immediately. She backed up against the stucco wall, lifted her face toward the sun, and closed her eyes. The breeze, scented by eucalyptus trees, played with her dark ponytail. Then her eyes met his. “So how is your mother doing?”

“Much better. The packing is out
 
—no more bleeding. Doctor thinks I can take her home in the morning.”

“And her blood work?” Macy tilted her head. “The leukemia?”

“Better than they expected. I don’t know the numbers
 
—how that all goes. But her oncologist said we could still be ‘cautiously optimistic.’” He rubbed his fingers against the shirtsleeve where the cotton ball was still taped to his skin. “The lab drew my blood for HLA testing. I’ll donate marrow if she needs it.”

“Ah . . .”

Fletcher was sure Macy had stopped herself from quoting the same statistics his mother had about the likelihood of a tissue match. The math didn’t matter. He’d never been so certain of anything. “So . . . all good.”

“I’m glad.” Macy glanced toward the parking lot, frowned. “Oh, brother. Looks like Andi didn’t get away after all.”

Fletcher saw what Macy did: the short woman in scrubs standing in the parking lot, arms crossed over her chest. A huge GMC pickup truck idled beside her. “Dr. Carlyle?”

“Yes.” Macy sighed. “We treated that man’s mother. Sad outcome. Which reminds me . . .” She turned back to
Fletcher. “The police dog, Titus. Do they have any idea if he was targeted?”

“No clue.” The next words slipped out. “Even in my line of work, it’s hard to stomach this kind of senseless . . .
stuff
. Lately I’ve had all I care to take.”

“I hear that.” Macy studied Fletcher like she was seeing him for the first time. “Looks like we’ve got something in common after all, Deputy Holt. I wouldn’t have guessed that could be possible, but
 
—”

They both turned at a loud engine roar, followed by squealing tires and
 
—

“He hit her!” a voice shouted. “He ran that woman down!”

“T
ELL ME HIS NAME,
Macy
 
—just that much.” Fletcher sucked in a breath, pulse still hammering; he’d chased the truck to the hospital exit, tried to get a look at the license plate as it peeled away. No luck. And now . . . He stepped aside as yet another hospital employee joined Macy on the asphalt beside Dr. Carlyle. Someone spread a paint-spattered tarp over her for warmth. It looked like she needed so much more. Blood coming from her nostrils, a raw abrasion running from temple to jaw, skin too pasty white. “Macy, I need that driver’s name. I’ve got to relay it to dispatch, get units out there.”

“It’s Bob.” Macy pressed her fingertips against the unconscious doctor’s neck, then glanced up at Fletcher, anxiety etched on her face. “Bob Harrell. Robert maybe. I don’t know for sure.” She repeated the last name, spelled
it. “I think he still has family members up in the ICU.” Her black ponytail whipped as she turned to shout toward the ER. “C’mon, get that stretcher out here. Backboard, C-collar,
now
!”

“Harrell. Got it.” Fletcher jabbed a finger at his speed dial for the comm center.

In seconds, the stretcher clattered alongside and was dropped low to the ground by ER staff. Help swarmed like Texas fire ants: technicians, white-coated MDs, and a couple of paramedics who had a rig parked in the ambulance bay. Macy continued to give the orders, watching every move made and urging people to act carefully but quickly. Probably unnecessary
 
—it was obvious they were giving their fallen teammate every chance possible.

“Okay, let’s roll!”

Fletcher followed close behind as the ER team propelled the gurney carrying Dr. Carlyle toward the ambulance bay doors. If he could get in through here, he’d split off toward the ICU, try to confirm an address on Harrell, and
 
—

“Fletcher!” Macy hung back as the stretcher disappeared through the automatic doors. Her lips pressed together in a grim line. “Be sure you get that guy.”

“I’m on it,” he promised, fighting the urge to climb into his Jeep, gun it out of there, hunt the guy himself. Address or not, it still offered much better odds than finding that lousy dog shooter . . . or fighting blood cancer single-handedly . . . or convincing Jessica Barclay she was choosing the wrong man. A clear win right now would go a long way.

“What’s going on?”

Taylor Cabot caught Fletcher as he was about to follow
Macy through the ambulance doors. The redhead was dressed in street clothes, her green eyes anxious, face flushed. “I was on my way up to see your mom when a visitor said there’d been some sort of accident. I saw the gurney . . .”

“A hit-and-run in the parking lot,” Fletcher confirmed, wishing there were a gentler way to convey this. He thought of the look on Macy’s face as she knelt beside her teammate. “It’s Dr. Carlyle.”

“No.” Taylor’s fingers rose to her lips, smothering her gasp. “Andi?”

“A truck ran her down.”

“Oh, dear God,” she breathed, the color draining from her face. “I’d better get in there.”

She punched in the door code for both of them, and they headed in different directions, each dealing with this newest tragedy. Fletcher thought of Macy, those few seconds when she stood enjoying the sun on her face. That moment of peace was cut short for both of them, something that happened far too often in their separate workday worlds.
“Looks like we’ve got something in common after all, Deputy Holt.”

Right now, he wished it were something entirely different.

“I’m starting that second IV line now, Andi,” Taylor explained, despite the fact that the injured doctor had roused only a few seconds at a time since her arrival in the trauma room. And then it was to moan and call for her
husband. Taylor prayed they were dealing with a concussion and not a serious brain injury. And that she could do what needed to be done for Andi without battling too many memories of Greg’s death. Car versus pedestrian
 
—it was the same set of circumstances. “This is a 16-gauge needle, so it’s going to pinch
 
—and you know how we totally fib with that mercy word. Hang in there. Here we go . . .”

“X-ray’s here!” a tech shouted over the din of voices and electronic beeps.

“Give me a minute, one more minute.” Taylor stretched the skin taut, wishing the first liter of saline had raised Andi’s veins more. Too flat.
Oh, please don’t let that be from hemorrhage . . .
She tapped the vein with a gloved finger, pierced the skin with a quick thrust, then slid needle and catheter farther. She held her breath until she saw blood rush back into the flash chamber.
In the vein, thank you.
“Got it, Andi. I just have to advance the catheter, tape it down, and start that fluid going.”

She’d placed the last of the tape and adjusted the flow on the second liter of saline when Macy slid in beside her, a whiff of her almond lotion mixing with the pervasive scent of disinfectant.

“A 16-gauge,” Taylor reported. “Wide-open. X-ray’s up next. Point me at anything else you need done.”

“You are the best for being here.” Macy took a step away from the gurney to be out of earshot. “Pitching in like this.”

“It’s Andi.”

Macy groaned. “Obvious femur fracture. Bruising, no deformity of that forearm. But she’ll be lucky if her pelvis isn’t broken. That truck was monster size, and Andi is, what?
Five foot two standing on tiptoe?” She glanced to where another nurse was setting up for a Foley catheter. “We need to see if there’s blood in her urine
 
—her belly didn’t seem distended and there’s no obvious bruising, thank goodness. And the baby . . . From what Andi’s told people, she’s about fourteen weeks along. Her OB ordered an ultrasound; he’s on his way here. But no matter how much we want it to be different, fourteen weeks just isn’t viable. The only way to protect the pregnancy is to keep Andi oxygenated, stabilize her blood pressure. And
 
—”

“Pray.” Taylor took a slow breath, wondering if anyone in that trauma center two years ago had ever considered Greg
viable
. “I called for the hospital chaplain, and I’ll try to find out her pastor’s name.”

“Sure . . .” Macy hesitated. “Good. That will be important to her. While you’re praying, be sure to ask that she doesn’t bleed out from something we haven’t discovered yet. I don’t like her color, and
 
—” her gaze swept the monitors
 
—“those numbers aren’t even close to where we want them.”

“No.” Taylor scanned the digital displays: blood pressure 87 over 48, heart rate 128, pulse ox 99 percent on the high-flow oxygen, though her breathing still looked shallow and air hungry. Andi’s hand, despite the pain of an injured arm, spread over her lower abdomen. Protecting her baby.

“I’ve got to check on the rest of the department.” There was regret in Macy’s voice. “I’ll be back in a few. You’re staying for a while?”

“Try to kick me out.” Taylor found a smile as Macy gave her shoulder a grateful squeeze. “I saw a few deputies
heading down the hallway. Going up to question the Harrell family?”

“I’d think so. I heard that Mrs. Harrell was pronounced dead about fifteen minutes ago. I’m guessing the ICU staff is getting pretty jumpy.”

“Worried Bob Harrell might come back?”

“It’s possible.”

Taylor’s gaze moved to the woman on the gurney, small and vulnerable. Nothing like the vibrant and dedicated physician who strode through these rooms less than an hour ago. It was still so surreal. The tech who removed Andi’s cartoon socks
 
—cutting one with trauma scissors because it was so caked with blood
 
—had been unable to stop her tears. Taylor connected with Macy’s gaze. “Our staff’s been on edge too, after the freeway shooting and then with the news of the police dog. Now this. We’ll all be looking over our shoulders. I hope one of those deputies is planning to hang around the ER until Harrell is found.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that.” Macy nodded toward the corridor to the ambulance bay. “Looks like we have our own private protection.”

“Hospital security?”

“Fletcher Holt.”

“I saw him out there. We were on the same mission, I’m sure. I was on my way up to visit Charly.”

“Well . . .” Macy squared her shoulders, took one more glance at the monitors. “I’m glad you were both here, whatever the reason.”

Taylor watched Macy thread her way through the crowded staff, directing people she thought needed it,
being her usual woman in charge
 
—not ready to fully rely on anyone but herself. But then that was Macy.

“Eee . . . f,” Andi moaned, eyes snapping wide as her oxygen mask fogged. “Pl . . . ease.”

“What?” Taylor moved close again. “I’m not sure what you’re saying. Tell me again. Do you need something? Pain meds?”

“No. I’m all right. But . . .” The ER doctor closed her eyes for a moment, a tear sliding from beneath her lids. “Elf . . . our baby. Make sure X-ray knows I’m pregnant.” She groaned, pupils dilating with what had to be a cruel wave of pain. Her tongue swept across her pale lips. “I’m afraid I’ll lose this baby. Would you . . . pray with me, Taylor?”

“Sure,” Taylor managed, tears threatening. “Of course.”

She signaled to X-ray that she needed another minute. Then Taylor rested her hand over Andi’s and bowed her head, trying her best to carve out a peaceful moment amid the clatter, whirs, and hisses of the trauma room
 
—all necessary. But so was this: a simple prayer for a mother and her unborn child. This couldn’t end tragically. Not again.
Not like Greg.

“Merciful God,” Taylor began.

“Thanks for the offer, but no. I’m going to drag myself home and crash on the couch. If my roommate’s dog hasn’t managed to devour it completely.” Macy plucked at the sleeveless purple tunic she’d pulled over a tank and black exercise tights. “I was heading to the gym, but I’m not up to it.” She gazed across the hospital parking lot. It was still hard to
believe what had happened there. Macy shifted her gym bag to the other hand. “Awful, awful day.”

“But you have to eat,” Elliot insisted, loosening his tie. “I’ll take you to Rio City Café
 
—we’ll stop first and you can change into something more appropriate. We’d still be early enough to get a great table.” His smile broadened. “You can order that grilled salmon you like. I owe you since we got detoured last time.”

By a bullet. If Elliot was expecting to perk her appetite with that walk down memory lane, he was failing utterly. Macy resisted the temptation to check if Fletcher was still talking on his cell phone outside the doors to the ER waiting room. “Another time. I don’t have enough energy left to chew.”

“You did a great job in there today,” Elliot offered, giving her arm a pat. “Quick work getting Dr. Carlyle stabilized and off to surgery to pin the femur fracture. It has to be a huge relief that the ultrasound showed her pregnancy hasn’t been affected.”

Macy’s lips tensed. Elliot had been asking questions. About a woman he barely knew beyond a cordial nod in the hallways. Even if this financial planner was a familiar face around the hospital, there was no way staff should skirt privacy issues. Time for a HIPAA review. “You know I can’t discuss patients’ medical care.”

“I’m not asking.” Elliot’s smile was warm. “Except about dinner.”

“Rain check,” Macy assured him, hating that she’d probably sounded abrupt before. The Rushes had been nothing
but good to her. Fatigue and stress were obviously taking a toll. “Another time. Promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

She’d made it to the car and was stooping to unlock the door when she heard a voice behind her
 
—close enough to make her jump.