by Ann Gimpel
That poor, poor man. He’d have a hard road ahead if Katie never came home. Julie fisted both hands. This was her fault. She should have anticipated something like this. She’d seen the desperation—and avarice—sheeting off Orestes. He needed a find—a big one—or the university would drop him from the faculty.
Sarah’s illness had provided just the opportunity he’d been waiting for. Damn, but she’d been a fool to believe he’d play fair.
“Focus,” she hissed to center herself. Right now, the important thing was getting Katie back. She could reprimand herself later. If anyone could turn this around, it would be her dad. Relentless, driven, wise. Men gave him the best they had in them because he inspired that level of devotion.
In her opinion, the Marines had lost their best general when he retired.
Juliana turned toward home, still antsy but drained. She knew enough from eavesdropping on her folks through the years to understand if they didn’t locate Katie soon, they wouldn’t find her at all. Tracks grew cold fast in places like Egypt.
Brice joined the cavalcade marching through her mind. She wanted to talk with him, tell him about Katie. He was wise and had a cool head. He’d hold her, comfort her. Or he would have, once upon a time.
She unlocked her front door and walked inside feeling empty. No Brice. No dig. The find that would have set her up for life had turned into such a boondoggle, she was sorry she’d stumbled across it. Nothing was worth the life of one of her students.
Nothing.
The only bright spot was that Sarah was better.
Julie plodded to her desk and booted up her computer. She’d been staring at the screen for god only knows how long before she brought up her email, determined to accomplish something tonight.
Chapter Seventeen
Brice pulled his mask aside and stripped off his gloves as he walked out of a room at University Hospital. The sun was just breaking through a pallid, gray dawn. His pager had gone off around three, summoning him to intervene with a COPD patient. He and his partners covered several hospitals, and this call had come from one across Lake Washington in Seattle’s University District.
Behind him, Angus droned on lecturing the medical students and residents who’d sat in on the patient’s struggles and eventual death. He should have remained behind, answered questions from the next generation of doctors, but he was tired.
Not that it constituted much of an excuse. He’d called time of death and walked out of the room. Unlike the lung cancer victim, tonight’s patient would have had a different outcome if he’d quit smoking twenty years ago. Even ten would have helped.
“All done.” Angus ran up to him. “We can leave.”
Brice nodded curtly and strode toward the exit and the physician’s parking lot.
“What’s wrong?” Angus asked once they reached the car, following it with, “We can’t save everybody.”
“No. We can’t, but he could have saved himself,” Brice mumbled.
“Och, and ’tis beside the point. They never see that part, do they? ’Tis the hardest part of our job. Patient non-compliance.”
Brice didn’t feel like an excursion through that particular minefield, so he asked, “Feel like coffee or breakfast?”
“Both would be splendid. How about a quick jog first?”
“Sure.” Brice popped the trunk and traded his lab coat for a windbreaker. The emerging morning was crisp and damp, but it wasn’t raining.
Angus rummaged in a small duffle and pulled a well-worn fisherman’s knit sweater out, trading it for his white coat. He rubbed his hands together. “Positively balmy this morning. You should come home with me. Scotland has some frosty mornings. Freeze the balls off a skunk.”
Brice shot a meaningful glance his way and slammed the trunk. “Paris isn’t home, eh?”
“Never.” Angus sounded shocked. “Not to a Scotsman. Now this”—he spread his arms wide—“comes closer. I’m looking forward to making a home here with Sarah.”
“It will be nice to have you on this side of the pond.”
“You do know no one on my side of ‘the pond’ calls it that, right?” Angus took off at a brisk pace.
Brice ran beside him. They covered a few miles up through the center of the University District, ran through campus with its old, intriguing buildings, and circled back to the BMW chatting about this and that.
“This was a good idea. Thanks.” Brice opened the car and got in.
“Always helps my perspective,” Angus agreed as he buckled into his seat belt.
“Another plus is the worst of the morning traffic should be done, although I’m not certain of that. Off on a tangent here, you’ll want to apply for a post as adjunct faculty at the university medical school. In case you want to teach a class or two. Or mentor residents.”
“Technically, I was teaching this morning,” Angus said.
“Yeah, I know. We need to formalize everything, though. One of the big differences between practicing here and ‘across the pond’”—he grinned—“is our malpractice policies and the insurance industry that’s grown fat suing doctors and hospitals. Last place you want to be is on the receiving end of a patient who feels wronged.”
“Aye, wronged and entitled.” Angus ran a hand through his dark hair.
“Something like that.” Brice guided the car into moderate traffic, pleased his prediction was bearing out. “Is the hospital cafeteria acceptable for breakfast?”
“I have no bloody idea, mate. You tell me. Is their food edible, or does it drive the patients to get well faster, so they can escape to their own kitchens?”
“It’s surprisingly good, but we can hit Starbucks instead. Their coffee is better, and they have breakfast sandwiches and fruit and yogurt, that type of thing.”
“Let’s do that. I’ll bring Sarah a cup of dark roast. She used to live on it.”
His mention of Sarah brought Brice’s Juliana dilemma roaring to the fore. He’d come to the inescapable conclusion he had to carve out time to talk with her before Christmas Eve. Since they were running out of opportunities, he’d call her once he got to his office.
Establish a mutually agreeable time and a neutral location. Not the hospital. Not his office. Maybe a quiet restaurant. He knew several within easy reach of Overlake.
“You’re quiet,” Angus observed as they exited the freeway and turned toward the hospital. “Losing that man still bothering you?”
“Yes and no. I’ve always thought we should point more resources toward prevention, but that’s a topic worthy of a dissertation.”
“Indeed, it is. Something’s eating at you. What?”
Brice shrugged. He wasn’t about to disclose his pathetic, long-ago saga with Juliana and Sarah. Especially not to Angus who’d soon be Sarah’s husband. He didn’t need to know his wife-to-be had been involved in an on-purpose, mistaken-identity seduction scheme.
Maybe if he came up with part of the truth, though, Angus would stop staring at him with a gimlet gaze.
“’Tis all right, mate. Your guilty secrets will be safe enough with me. Who would I tell?”
Brice tried for a disarming smile. “This doesn’t quite rise to the caliber of a guilty secret. I’ve been taking stock of my life, and I work way too much. I’ll be taking more time off and spending some of it with Doctors Without Borders.”
Angus clapped him on the shoulder. “Stellar organization. I’ve done a few tours with them. Maybe if Sarah improves enough, she and I could go somewhere not too third-worldish and work as a medical team.”
“Maybe so.” Brice turned into the Starbucks lot and parked in a corner where the odds of someone scratching his paint job would be less. “Come on.” He opened his door. “Breakfast is on me.”
“Good thing. All I have is Euros—and plastic. I do plan to stop by a bank today sometime, though.”
Brice hustled into his office and shut the door. He’d left Angus at the bend in the corridor leading to the ICU with a cup holder with two cof
fees and a bag full of goodies he’d selected to tempt Sarah. Tilting his cup, he took a brisk swallow of tepid coffee, followed by another, and waited for the caffeine jolt to hit. He had to call Juliana.
Now.
Before something happened and the day got away from him. He was on call until midnight, which meant he was fair game for being pulled in a million directions.
He dug out his phone and looked at her text, ostensibly to get her cell number. Except he’d memorized it when the text came in. It wasn’t quite nine, which meant she should be home or in her office. She generally hadn’t come to the hospital much before noon.
“For Pete’s sake, I’m making excuses, putting this off.”
Disgust turned his stomach sour. Or maybe it was the coffee without much else beyond half a croissant. He could do this. Hell, it wasn’t any harder than marching out of the operating room and informing a family their loved one hadn’t made it.
He fell heavily into his overstuffed desk chair. Out of all his doctorly tasks, that had to be the hardest. Next in line was telling a patient they were likely terminal. It never got easier, no matter how many times he did it. When he entered the exam room, lab results in hand, patients looked at him with hope in their eyes.
Hope it wasn’t as bad as they feared.
Hope that he could wave his white-coat wand and make them well again.
Knowing his next words would make the light in their eyes flicker and die, but he had to utter them anyway, was gut-wrenching. He’d developed stock phrases like, ‘hope for the best but plan for the worst.’ They always stuck in his craw. When only a handful of patients with a certain condition were alive five years hence, the odds weren’t good, but he always opted to be as honest and accurate as he could.
He set his paper cup down and picked up the phone. He’d get through this. Worst thing that could happen is she’d tell him to pound sand, that she was coming to the Christmas Eve party to see his mother, not him.”
He tapped his display and dialed her number. She picked up on the first ring. “Brice. What do you want?” She sounded as friendly as a feral cat guarding a newly dead mouse.”
“If this isn’t a good time—” he began.
“Sarah’s still all right, isn’t she?” Julie cut him off.
Understanding hit him between the eyes like a lightning bolt. He was her sister’s attending physician. It was a logical reason for him to be calling. “Sorry. Sarah’s fine. Improving beyond my expectations. I should have said that straight away.”
“How? I didn’t give you an opportunity. I’m the one who should apologize. Didn’t get any sleep.”
He wanted to ask why, but it wasn’t his place to intrude. “Like I said, if this is a bad time, I can call back later.” He uncurled his other hand—the one not holding the phone—from where he’d been gripping the edge of his desk.
“There may not be any good times,” she muttered. “Not anymore.”
Her tone tugged at his heart. She sounded broken, defeated. Nothing like the Juliana he’d always known. She’d had the world on a string. Always sure of herself. Grounded in her competence and skill.
He inhaled raggedly. “What’s wrong, Julie?”
“What’s right?” she countered. “Other than Sarah, and for a minute there I was afraid you were going to tell me she’d relapsed.”
“Granted we haven’t spent any time together since, well in a long time, but I’ve never heard you sound so overwhelmed.”
“Aw geez. I was such a stupid ass. This whole mess is my fault.” Her voice broke and a sob rattled against his ear, followed by another.
“Julie. Breathe. Whatever this is, it can’t be as bad as all that.”
“Trust me. It is.” She snuffled noisily.
He wished he was close enough to wrap his arms around her, comfort her. “How about if you tell me. Let me be the judge of how devastating this thing is.”
“Aw crap. Last night, I—” She dissolved into crying that tore at his soul.
“I’m here, Jules. Take your time.” Protectiveness surged to the fore, shocking in its intensity. Maybe if he didn’t push, she’d talk with him. Whatever this was, she shouldn’t be facing it alone.
“Egypt,” she croaked.
“Yes. The dig site there. Was it promising?” He fed ideas, hoping she’d pick up on them and it would help her, loosen her tongue. She’d always been so damned strong. An entity unto herself who hadn’t needed anyone or anything—except him and her twin. And then she’d decided he was too much trouble.
“Promising? Hell, it was the find of a lifetime. Or two or three. It would have set me up forever. I could have written my own ticket. Taught at any university in the world. Had my expeditions sponsored with premiere equipment...”
“A whole lot of past conditional verbs there,” he said. “Did the dig not pan out as you’d hoped?” He leaned back in his chair. Was a dry hole the source of all this angst? That wasn’t like Juliana, either. She was a pick-yourself-up, dust-yourself-off gal.
“Crap. I may as well tell you. I’ve gotten this much out. It’ll be jumbled, but let me get through it. Do not interrupt.”
He bit back a grin. Finally, she was sounding like the woman he used to love—and probably still did. Pushy. Bossy. Bitchy.
“I’ll do my best,” he said.
“The site is the best-preserved one from its time period, which is somewhere between Egypt’s Middle and Old Kingdoms. We’d unearthed a very promising layer. When we were done examining it and packaging items to move back to the university, I saw something that led me to believe another level lay beneath.”
She stopped to snuffle and blow her nose. “We included another professor, junior to me, and assorted grad students and field staff. The other professor argued with me, said I was wasting university resources and we should be happy with what we’d found and go home.
“I understood him well enough. We’d been squatting in tents for six months at that point. Everyone dealt with intestinal issues from bad water and crappy food, and the locals were tired of us. They’d gone from welcoming to making it clear they wanted us gone.”
She chuckled, but without much warmth. “I’ve always been a brassy bitch, and I pulled rank on him. We opened the dig farther, and I swear it was like finding another King Tut exhibit. Wonders atop more wonders. We worked four more months, and then my parents called about Sarah.”
She took a measured breath, but at least she’d stopped crying. “Sorry. This is getting long, but I do better when I tell things in order. I was no sooner gone than Orestes Conom, the other professor, declared going deeper had been his idea, and the finds were his. He accused me of stealing his field notes, but that was after I’d filed an ethics complaint with the university—”
“Hold up.” Brice took a chance and interrupted her. “How’d you find out about all this?”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. You’d have no way of knowing. One of my grad students, a woman developing her dissertation research on our find, called me. She was panic-stricken that Conom would strip her of her research topic and hand it to one of his students. That was before the stolen field note allegation.
“I went to my department head and told him what was happening after Katie—that’s my grad student—got hold of me. I also told him I’d filed a complaint with ethics.”
“Let me guess. He wasn’t pleased.”
“Oh hell no. He all but told me to stand aside and give this find to Orestes. I’d shoot myself first, and I’m not the suicidal type.”
Brice smiled to himself. This was definitely the woman he knew. She had a firmly ingrained sense of right and wrong and would go to the mat if her rights were being trampled on.
“Seems manageable. All you need to do is go back to the dig site. You have your notes, and—”
“You haven’t heard the bad part yet.”
His eyes widened. “This gets worse?”
“Much. Katie stood up to Orestes after he claimed I’d absc
onded with his field notes. Told him her notes would corroborate what was in mine. And now she’s missing. Her husband came to see me yesterday. Poor guy. He was in tears. He’s afraid his wife is dead. He raised the dig site via its sat phone and talked with a local who said Katie vanished during the night, along with all her things.”
“Jesus.” Breath rattled through Brice’s teeth. “I take back what I said about this not being as bad as you thought. That’s rough. What are you going to do?”
“I got hold of Dad. He still has plenty of connections, and they have boots on the ground over there.”
“Good call.”
“I thought so at the time, but it’s been almost fifteen hours since I phoned him, and I haven’t heard anything back.”
“Waiting is hard.”
“No kidding. I swear, if Katie’s hurt, held against her will—or God forbid, dead—because that bastard sold her to a slave auction or to some caravan leader, I’ll strangle him.”
“How could he finesse something like that?”
“Easily. It’s a patriarchal country. Especially in the bush. Women have zero rights. Orestes speaks fluent Arabic. I do too, but it’s beside the point. Katie’s husband is close to a doctorate in linguistics. If he hadn’t had a grasp of the language, he’d never have been able to communicate with the flunky who picked up the phone. Damn it.”
Brice could picture her, hands balled into fists and color high on her face. “What?”
“It’s exactly what Orestes was counting on. Why he had the Egyptian field flunky sitting over the phone. He assumed Katie’s husband might call, and figured it was safe enough since phone-boy didn’t speak much English.”
“Maybe—”
“Hang on. It’s Dad. Let me call you back.”
The line went dead, leaving Brice staring at his phone. Despite the hideous news and Sarah’s rightful despair and angst, they’d actually talked for the first time in fifteen years. Even better, she’d trusted him enough to open up about her pain and panic and fear.
The world felt right in a way it hadn’t since she’d shooed him out of her apartment. He set his phone aside and went to work on his coffee. If Hippocrates, the ancient Greek who kind of watched over those like him, was kind, the hospital wouldn’t require him over the next half hour.
