Disaster Status (7 page)

“Wait, please.” The sleepy quality of Nick’s voice was replaced by urgency. “I only wanted to say I heard about the pesticide spill, saw you on the news. Are you okay?”

Leigh choked. Whether that was because the second sip of water went down the wrong way or because of the ludicrous irony of her husband’s question, she wasn’t sure. Had he really had the gall to ask if she was okay? She gripped the water bottle as anger festered.

“Leigh?”

“I’m busy,” she whispered through clenched teeth. “That’s what I am right now. You shouldn’t have called. I’m involved in something critical.”
Like saving my sanity.
Leigh slammed down the phone, then hurled the water bottle against her office wall.
He’s still with that woman.

She sank into her chair and rested her head in her hands for a moment, blinking back tears. She took several deep, slow breaths and then smiled grimly, remembering how she’d advised Mrs. Alton to do the same thing for her pain.
“Nice, slow breaths.”
It was sound advice. And Leigh was going to follow it.

Tonight she’d go to the stables instead of the town hall meeting. Erin was planning to attend, and she’d bring back a full report. Leigh would sit in a fluffy mound of pine shavings in a dark corner of Frisco’s stall with her back against the oak-plank wall. She’d listen to her horse chew his hay and snuffle contentedly. She’d inhale—slow, deep, therapeutic breaths of sweet and pungent alfalfa, warm horse flesh, rubbing liniment, and saddle leather.

And then she’d start her plan to move forward with the divorce. End the pain once and for all. Otherwise her heart would end up in a specimen jar like Elaine Alton’s gallstone.

Chapter Seven

Erin parked her Subaru on the sandy asphalt outside Arlo’s Bait & Moor. She opened the door, letting the salty and damp afternoon breeze toss her hair and fill her lungs. The distant call of gulls, scratchy and shrill, accompanied the relentless
draw-whoosh-draw
of the waves. She climbed out of the car, headed toward the red lacquered screen door of the coffee side of the shop, then changed her mind and walked to the metal railing overlooking the sea.

A handful of surfers, seal-like in their wet suits, dotted the gray-green water, some paddling parallel to the shore on their colorful boards, the rest sitting upright and laughing together, turning now and again to peer over their shoulders for waves. The narrow stretch of beach was empty of the usual shell-gathering young families and rapidly giving way to the rising tide. Frothy white water swirled around the pitted and sea-scoured rocks bordering the beach.
That big rock . . . where Scott injured his arm this morning.

Erin’s face warmed, remembering him sitting on the gurney in her ER, muscular shoulders, stony expression, and sand in his hair.
This is where he swims.
And buys his coffee.
Erin bit her lower lip, thinking how close—within a short walk of her house—he’d been all this time. She’d walked this beach countless times, sat cross-legged on a blanket in the sand reading her Bible, joked with Annie Popp about taking her coffee worldwide, and yet she’d never crossed paths with Scott. Not once. Until yesterday, when in the face of a community disaster—

Erin smacked her palms against the rail. Why was she standing here thinking about that aggravating fire captain? The disaster status was the exact reason she stopped here on the way home from work; she needed to buy bottled water. She’d tried to pick some up in the hospital gift shop, but they’d sold out. The volunteer, wearing a Pacific Mercy smock and rhinestone-embellished tennis shoes, had been chatty and sweetly apologetic to everyone, and . . .

Erin smiled as the thought struck her. Volunteer. In the Little Mercies Gift Shop
.
Why hadn’t she thought of that before? It would be the perfect spot for her grandmother. She’d be helping at the hospital like she wanted, but she’d be away from direct patient contact and close enough to keep an eye on. A win-win all around. And after the past twenty-four hours, Erin could use a win.

She stepped away from the rail, then turned and glanced once more at the shoreline below, thinking of Scott being swept into the rock by the rising surf. She already knew him well enough to suspect he would have hated that loss of control. He liked to win too. Disaster, by the book. That’s what he’d be offering tonight at the town meeting. She’d seen the goals on the fax sent to the hospital’s chief of staff: provide information, identify leadership, disseminate information, and offer resources. All designed to “engender cohesion and morale, squelch rumors, and allay anxiety.”

Erin’s brows drew together as she remembered the hospital visitors watching the TV clip with the dead cat, the frantic voice of Leigh’s gallbladder patient insisting she’d been “poisoned” by her dinner . . . and that anxious look in Sandy’s eyes in the ICU. Erin hoped McKenna’s book was big enough.

+++

Iris tapped at the thirty-gallon fish tank, watching as Elmer Fudd rose from the bottom, spat out a chunk of fuchsia gravel, and swam toward her fingertip, shiny as a newly minted penny. He was nearly nine inches long and had one opaque eye but was still spry considering he was . . .

Iris tried to remember Elmer’s exact age. Was he turning eighteen this coming summer? Yes. Doug won him at the Monterey County Fairgrounds after spending thirty dollars on Ping-Pong balls to toss onto a table crowded with fish bowls. She recalled the determined look on her husband’s handsome face as the plastic balls ricocheted off the rims. He’d been fifty-eight then, his thick hair more than a little gray at the temples. Iris’s heart squeezed as she remembered the details of that day. He’d been determined, hurt, and angry because of what she’d told him. What she’d done. But there was no point in revisiting that now.

Iris sprinkled a pinch of food flakes into the tank and walked the short distance to the bathroom. “Erin?” She poked her head inside, wrinkling her nose at the scent of cleanser, cloying as sun-fermented grass clippings. “I hope that cleaner works better than it smells.”

Erin turned away from the shower wall, her arms in opera-length flowered gloves and hair twisted into a haphazard topknot. “It’s that eco-friendly stuff I found on the Internet. Nontoxic. But I’m still wearing the gloves. Considering what’s happened lately, I’m not trusting anything. You know?”

“Yes, I know.” Iris felt a rush of love for her strong and beautiful granddaughter. Mixed, as always, with a pang of worry.
You’re not trusting . . . or forgiving, darling.
Erin’s difficulty with trusting went much further back than the events of yesterday. It was born of all those disappointments with her father. Frank Calloway was the reason Erin spent so many summers here with Iris and Doug. Brooding, letting her wounds scab over. And her defenses deepen.
Always fighting.

Iris glanced at the bathroom’s small window, covered by the stained-glass panel that nearly obscured the sunlight. Jagged pieces of purple, scarlet, and green glass roughly soldered together to resemble a medieval shield and sword, tediously crafted by Erin the summer she was fourteen. Hours and hours of feverish work on a makeshift table out on the patio. Foil, glass cutters, pliers, solder—burns, cuts, and countless Band-Aids. She’d been so determined. Iris would never forget the look on her face. So much like Doug’s the day he threw thirty dollars’ worth of plastic balls to win a twenty-five-cent feeder fish
.
My goldfish and that dismal window—both of them reminders of anger and hurt.

“I couldn’t reach Claire,” Erin said, stripping off her cleaning gloves. “Did she say what she wanted?” She blew at a strand of hair falling across her eyes and grinned. “What do you bet Logan’s trying to talk her into that motorcycle trip?”

“Actually, she saw the news coverage about the pesticide spill and wanted to know how we were doing.” Iris tried to recall the exact words. “And she also wanted to know if you’d had to call together a CIS . . .” She frowned. “Anyway, some kind of employee counseling.”

“CISM.” Erin stepped out of the shower and set the bottle of cleaner on the sink. “Critical Incident Stress Management. It’s a plan of action aimed at helping people cope in times of disaster to kind of boost their defenses and protect them from traumatic stress and burnout. That’s how I met Claire, remember? She was trained as a peer counselor for critical stress and came in to help our staff at Sierra Mercy after that awful propane explosion at the day care.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “Oh no.”

“What?” Iris moved closer. “What’s wrong?”

“Sandy. My triage nurse, the one who ended up as a patient. That’s what I saw in her eyes: critical stress. And her husband . . . he’s a paramedic but he’s having to deal with his wife’s being a victim. That’s a whole different story. Why didn’t I see this coming? I took the CISM course last fall, and I never stopped to consider that my team—the whole hospital—might be affected by this disaster. I need to go find my notes and figure out what I should do.” Erin yanked at her topknot, and her hair tumbled down around her shoulders. “Can we drive separately to the town meeting?”

“Sure. But why?”

“Because I need to talk with Captain McKenna. And he’s probably not going to like it that I’m bringing my book too.”

+++

Sarge Gunther grimaced in the darkness against a jolt of searing pain in a calf he didn’t have. Phantom pain, the VA called it. Even after twenty years, it still jabbed like an ice pick. And now, two full weeks after he’d stopped his medications—ending the suffocating fog the psych drugs induced—the pain was more noticeable. He didn’t care; it was worth it. Because despite what the doctors said, Sarge knew he couldn’t take the meds anymore. He had to stay sharp, focused on his mission, and alert to the dangers crowding in. Now more than ever before. Yesterday was proof.

He shifted his weight on the bulky prosthesis, then focused the penlight to inspect the water bottles on the closet shelf, looking carefully at the dates, the places of manufacture, the bar codes, and the lot numbers. He lined them up symmetrically and examined the tops to be certain they hadn’t been opened and re-capped. Or pierced with a needle right through the plastic. They could do it to add the pesticides. He’d learned way too much about poisons during the war: nerve gas, blistering agents . . . the enemy had access to these and more. Look what they’d done to thousands of Kurds. He grimaced, remembering the photos. Bodies heaped high like so much garbage. And that little girl in the ER. She was still in a coma. He had to be careful. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if the sergeant was out of commission.
My squad counts on me
.

When he finished checking the bottles, he’d mark each label with a tiny, inconspicuous dot of permanent ink. And then he’d know they were safe to drink when he returned to work the night shift. He was assigned to the south wing of the second floor, but it was easy enough to keep an eye on things here in pediatrics. He knew the nurses’ routines, could slip down here and use this housekeeping closet as a base. Dark, contained—secure as a foxhole. It was worth the risk. He knew, more deeply than he’d known anything in years, that it was his mission. It felt good to have one again. Almost like . . . a second chance.

He would protect the boy. Only ten years old. He’d heard the whispers—they were trying to take Cody Sorenson’s leg.

Chapter Eight

Erin squirmed with compassion. Scott’s height and his unfortunate location on the raised podium put him at the mercy of the Pacific Point Butterfly Festival banner. Every time he moved, a gigantic orange and black rayon butterfly skimmed the top of his blond hair as if it intended to grasp him by the head and carry him off the stage. It was like some low-budget horror movie. Erin could almost see the caption on YouTube: “Killer butterflies terrorize coastal town.” But there was nothing funny about tonight’s town meeting. Bottom line, people were scared. She’d never seen so many people holding plastic water bottles. Or raising blue umbrellas—while wearing gas masks. The environmental group was well represented.

More than two hundred people filled the small auditorium to hear the assembled leaders from police, fire, water resources, animal control, and public health deliver information. And though the session was coming to a close, several hands still waved for questions. Erin turned as a balding man, one row behind her, stood.

“We’ve heard that it was more than a few fish and a cat that died.” The man crossed his arms. “Is it true that facts are being covered up because of liability?”

Murmurs rose around the room, and the man blinked against the sudden glare of camera lights as the TV news crews bore down on him. No Poison Rain placards waved overhead.

The public health officer approached the microphone after nodding at the animal control representative. “I assure you that the initial reports are accurate. There have been possible symptoms of illness in a few head of sheep but no deaths in any of the larger mammals. And that includes humans. No cases of organophosphate poisonings have been covered up for any reason.”

“Don’t you believe it!” A man near the middle of the room leaped to his feet, a gas mask perched atop his head. “This is exactly the same response the officials in New York City gave back in ’06 during the West Nile spraying. They sprayed the streets without warning! Openly endangering children, blasting pregnant women, exposing innocent unborn babies to . . .” His gaze shifted sideways to the police officer moving closer to his row of chairs. The woman beside him tugged his arm, and he took his seat under the shadow of her umbrella.

The public health officer raised his hands in an attempt to silence the rumbling crowd. “Please,” he said after gaining their attention once more, “let’s not make comparisons that don’t exist. This isn’t New York. No one is spraying the streets. We’re dealing with an isolated event, and I assure you we are doing everything we can to keep the citizens of Pacific Point safe. We’re here to answer your questions.” He pointed to a man in the front row. A look of relief passed over his face. “Yes, Doctor?”

As Erin tipped her head to watch, she was more than surprised to spot Sandy sitting in the second row. She’d been released from the ICU only hours ago, and her husband had his arm protectively around her. Even from a distance, Erin could see the anxiety on her face
. Critical stress.

Erin turned her attention back to the gentleman rising from his chair. He was perhaps midseventies, sporting a silver mustache and dressed in crisp khakis and a denim shirt. Held close to his chest, in what appeared to be a sling-type carrier, was a dark-eyed Chihuahua. The dog stared at his owner, ears quivering and gaze unwavering, as the man began to speak.

“Thank you,” the man began, acknowledging the attention of the public health officer. He then addressed the crowd. “If I may, I’d like to add my reassurance in response to these concerns.”

Erin was surprised to see Scott offer the man one of his rare smiles.

“You see,” the man continued while stroking the dog with one hand, “I have some experience with the subject of fish. I was long employed as a marine biologist and now volunteer my services to the Monterey Bay Aquarium.” He chuckled. “And I’ll confess to maintaining far too many personal fish tanks in my own home.”

Erin’s grandmother, sitting beside her, leaned forward in her chair.

“Anyway, the unfortunate demise of those fish you saw on TV was primarily due to the stock pond’s small size and its very shallow depth at the point where the barrels were dumped. The fish in the deeper portion of that pond remain clinically healthy. I won’t bore you with the mathematical equations, but significant dilution factors are involved. And fortunately, we humans are considerably larger than mosquito fish—” he patted his stomach—“some of us more so than others. And as a Pacific Point citizen, I’m heartened that our city put together this forum. If I can be of assistance to any of my neighbors, I most certainly will.”

Then he brushed his hand against his hair in what appeared to be some sort of signal. Scott took a step away from the butterfly banner that rested menacingly atop his head. The elderly fish expert nodded with satisfaction and sat.

Scott took the microphone. He scanned the crowd and settled for an instant on Erin. He shuffled his papers. “In review, let me assure you that a multiagency task force is in place to protect Pacific Point citizens from any ill effects of the pesticide spill. This includes your local police and fire department personnel. Thus far it does not appear that any water other than an isolated ranch has been contaminated. And that is being cleaned up. Extensive water testing is ongoing, and nearly thirty-six hours post–initial incident no further contamination has been found. Bottled drinking water will continue to be supplied by the Red Cross and several local businesses free of charge.”

He pointed to a desk laden with flyers and manned by volunteers. “We have lists of local resources available for you. Everything is being done according to strict disaster protocols, and—”

A young woman interrupted by shouting, “I don’t care about your protocols and your papers.”

TV reporters tripped over themselves to get her on camera.

“I want to know what I’m supposed to tell my six-year-old to help her sleep tonight. Can you tell me that? The little girl who got sprayed attends our school, and she’s still in a coma. Now we keep seeing that dead cat on TV. And today I caught my daughter hiding stuffed animals under her bed. She begged me, ‘Buy some of those blue umbrellas. It’s going to rain more poison!’” The woman’s eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away, then planted her hands on her hips. “My baby’s scared to death, and you’re standing up there quoting some stupid government manual. What are you going to do about our children? Or don’t you care?”

There was scattered applause and a wave of sympathetic murmurs.

Scott glanced at the other officials before leaning toward the microphone. “Ma’am, this forum is designed to provide basic emergency information. I’m afraid at this time we aren’t equipped to address—”

Oh no you don’t.
“Excuse me.” Erin leaped to her feet, waving her hand in the air. “Captain McKenna? May I help with this?” She blinked, blinded for an instant by the sudden glare of camera lights. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like Scott was frowning. But then, she really didn’t care.
Lord, I have to help these people. Help me help them.

“I’m Erin Quinn,” she said, turning to survey the audience. “Let me say first that I’m not a city official. I’m a nurse in the emergency department at Pacific Mercy.”

Her name was repeated by a group of reporters, and there was an answering whisper, “Right. She’s that charge nurse.”

“I just wanted to say that certain feelings of anxiety and stress are normal during events like this.” Erin glanced toward the podium and decided that Scott was definitely frowning. “And the county’s multiagency task force mentioned by Captain McKenna does include resources to help any citizens who need emotional support, even if the agencies don’t have a representative here tonight. It’s all part of something called Critical Incident Stress Management, based on an international program put in place to assist victims after disasters like hurricanes and floods, and—” She bit off her words, not wanting to incite the umbrella crowd with further disaster images. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that there is help available through school counselors and volunteer pastors and family service agencies. Right here in Pacific Point.”

She glanced at Sandy and her husband. “I’ve received critical stress training myself, and over the next few days I’ll be coordinating with emergency physician Dr. Leigh Stathos and Pacific Mercy Social Services to offer assistance to our own staff as needed.” She met the gaze of the young mother who’d spoken. “And I promise that you’ll get help too. If you give me your name and phone number after the meeting, I’ll see to that personally. Thank you for letting me speak.”

There was a vigorous round of applause.

Erin sat, her face flushing.

Iris reached over and squeezed her hand. “Good job, Wonder Woman. But I’m not sure your fire captain is too happy that you commandeered his meeting.”

Erin caught the look on Scott’s face and groaned. She couldn’t agree with her grandmother more. He was looking at Erin like he’d much rather share the stage with a gigantic man-eating butterfly.

She’d have to do some serious damage control.

+++

Get control!
Leigh hauled on the braided leather reins, attempting to shorten Frisco’s stride and pull him up as the big gelding galloped across the field toward the four-foot pasture fence, his ribs heaving beneath her. She leaned back but he yanked against her, eleven hundred pounds against 130, as the thoroughbred’s power exploded vertically in huge up-and-down strides. She planted one fist against his neck and tried to muscle him headfirst into a turn, and he responded with a vigorous buck.
Oh, please, please let me stick. What good is a doctor with a broken neck?

Frisco bucked a second time, and Leigh stretched tall in the saddle, centered her weight over her stirrups, gathered the reins, and made the only decision she could. They were taking the fence—splintered split rail and perfectly capable of entrapping a horse’s leg, taller than anything they’d jumped together before—and had heaven only knew what on the other side. Leigh’s stomach lurched. And it was now six strides away . . . five . . . four . . . three.

She rose in her stirrups to a half seat, then slid her hands forward and grabbed a hunk of Frisco’s black mane. Two strides . . . one stride . . . Leigh held her breath as her horse’s powerful haunches bunched under her before sending his big body spring-loaded into the air . . . and over the fence.

He landed in the soft earth on the other side and skidded sideways, throwing Leigh onto his neck, where she dangled helplessly as he trotted away. She let go and dropped on the seat of her riding breeches into a mud puddle.

Stunned, she sat there for a moment watching as Frisco, reins hanging, slowed to a walk, then stopped and turned to look at her, his dark eyes innocent and soulful. As if to ask,
What are you doing down there?
She stood and pulled off her riding helmet, not sure whether she wanted to laugh or curse. She’d survived.

She was still shaking her head when her cell phone buzzed against the belt loops of her riding breeches. The ICU? She’d asked the staff to let her know if Ana’s condition worsened. Despite respiratory support and a second round of antibiotics, she remained comatose and had spiked a foreboding fever. The attending doctors were awaiting results on blood and sputum cultures, while Ana’s family kept a vigil in the hospital chapel. It broke Leigh’s heart every time she passed by there.

Or the call could be from her troubled half sister. Caroline always had some new drama. Leigh brushed the mud off the phone and answered.

It was Erin. “Leigh? Is that you? You sound funny.”

“More like muddy and grateful to be alive. But I’m fine and it’s a long story. I’ll tell you over coffee—my treat. Any surprises at the town meeting?”

“Not too many. The umbrella people did their best to stir things up, just as we expected. And so far there have been no new exposures, animal or human. But trust me, people are still plenty worried.” Erin moaned softly. “I sort of volunteered us to do some critical stress counseling.”

“Us?” Leigh took a step to test her legs, and water sluiced in the bottom of her riding boots. “Meaning who?”

“Meaning you and me. And social services,” Erin added. “Plus, I’m sure the chaplain would want to be involved with anything that benefited the hospital staff. It may not even be necessary to do a full debriefing, but I’ve got all the information to offer some one-on-one counseling—”

“Hold it,” Leigh interrupted, walking toward Frisco. “You think the hospital staff needs critical stress intervention?” As soon as she asked the question, the image of Ana’s pale and now sadly bloated face came to mind, and Leigh felt like a fool.
And how well did I sleep last night?

“Yes.” Erin raised her voice over a commotion in the background. “I do. And it’s not only the staff caring for Ana in the ICU. And those last two patients in the telemetry unit. It’s our ER team too. Sandy in particular. I saw her right before she was discharged, and she was nervous and panicky. When I said something about coming back to work, she reacted like I’d asked her to jump off a cliff.”

Leigh glanced at the intimidating fence behind her. “I think I know that feeling. So what do we do?”

“I’m going to try to meet with social services tomorrow and hopefully get approval to do some initial staff interviews over the next several days. Sort of a pulse check to see how people are feeling and get a sense of whether or not a full department debriefing will be necessary. I think we need to identify any of our staff who might be at risk for critical stress.” She sighed. “And at the very least offer some ways to boost resistance for the rest. Who knows when this incident will finally be over? We’ve all got to hang tough.”