by CJ Lyons
Jim kept nodding, a damn bobblehead, his foot tapping in time.
“I could fire Nora or have her transferred out of the ER.”
Jim’s fingers joined in the rhythm, tapping his knee as he showed his teeth. He scooted forward, ready to leap up and shake Tillman’s hand or burst into a victory dance, Nora wasn’t sure.
“But,” Tillman continued, “then I’d have to deal with the nursing union. Because of the recent violence here at Angels, we’re already short-staffed. And with contracts up for negotiation, I don’t want that.”
As his words sank in, Jim’s fingers stopped their tap dance. They lay limp on his knee. His foot slowed as well, now beating out a dispirited dirge.
“I could suspend Jim.”
Nora didn’t bother responding to Tillman’s words even though she knew he expected her to. She wasn’t playing his games.
“But,” he went on, “then I’d have to justify it to the Resident Review Committee, and that means paperwork and jumping through hoops and tarnishing our reputation as a teaching hospital.”
Jim was perfectly still now. Tillman leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers—a pose copied from The Donald, no doubt.
“So, we’re going to have a little team-building exercise. You two,” he brought his body forward with a dramatic flourish, “are going to work together. I canceled the second shift because of the weather, but I understand the ER patient census is down, so you can start immediately. Jim, Nora’s your nurse, the only nurse who will take your orders.”
Jim’s snaggletoothed grin returned as he clearly envisioned ordering Nora around, his own personal scut-monkey. Nora swallowed her groan, not wanting to reveal any weakness.
“Nora, you’ll decide which patients Jim takes. Any nursing procedures he orders will be performed by both of you, together.”
Jim sank back, realizing that he’d be the one actually doing the scut work.
“All of the patients you two treat will be interviewed after their care is completed. If I receive any less-than-satisfactory comments, then you’re both gone.” Tillman stood, bracing his weight on his desktop. “Do I make myself clear?”
Before either Nora or Jim could speak, the door opened and a man in a black suit strode in, followed by Tillman’s secretary, who was sputtering, “I’m sorry, sir, he barged right past me.”
The man came to an abrupt stop in front of Tillman’s desk, effortlessly meeting Tillman’s gaze as he snapped open a small black wallet. “Harris, DEA. I need to speak to you about one of your physicians.”
“I’m in the middle of—”
The DEA agent rotated his gaze to narrow in on Jim, then Nora. He dismissed them without a blink. “We need the room. Now.”
Jim scrambled to his feet and was halfway out the door before Nora even got up. Tillman glowered at the agent but nodded to his secretary. Her phone was ringing, so she scurried back to her desk.
In the anteroom, Nora started to take a chair, then stopped—should she wait, or had Tillman finished with them? Jim seemed to be having the same conundrum, shifting his weight, pacing one way for two steps, then returning to stand beside the door they’d just come through.
“He was just yanking my chain,” he said. “No way he was serious about firing me if we can’t work together.”
“It’s my job on the line, too,” Nora reminded him.
Jim opened his mouth to say something, then held his hand up. He leaned closer to the door, his ear against the crack between the hinges.
“The DEA guy says he’s on the trail of a woman who forged her credentials and is running a prescription drug ring. He’s asking Tillman about doctors who came from California.” Jim pushed away abruptly, shoving his hands in his pockets and acting nonchalant. The door opened.
“I’ll let you know if our records show anything,” Tillman was saying, “but I really think you have the wrong hospital.”
The DEA agent was stone-faced. “We’re checking all the hospitals in the area. If I have to, I’ll get a court order for your personnel files.”
Tillman flushed. “I already told you we would cooperate to the best of our ability.”
The agent narrowed his eyes, then gave a nod. He left without a word. Tillman scowled after him, then turned his wrath on Jim and Nora. “What the hell are you two still doing here? Get back to work!”
Tillman returned to his office, slamming the door. Nora glanced at Jim and saw that the intern’s eyes were unfocused, undoubtedly thinking of twenty ways to wiggle out of this assignment, leaving her with any blame.
“Guess he was serious,” she said. “We’d better get down to the ER.”
“Wait here,” Jim said. “I want to talk to that DEA guy first.”
He rushed through the door. Nora stood there, eyeing Tillman’s closed door and then the outer door Jim had gone through. Considering her options—neither were good.
The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Not to worry you or anything,” she said, “but Mr. Tillman always says it’s easier to find cause to fire a nurse than a doctor.”
“Thanks.” Nora followed Jim out, saw him standing with the DEA agent at the elevators.
“Her name’s Lydia Fiore,” Jim was saying when she drew close enough to hear him. “She’s an attending physician in the ER. Be careful, though, she killed a man. Shot him.”
Agent Harris looked interested at that.
Nora came up behind Jim, nudging him aside. Just because Jim didn’t like Lydia was no reason for him to claim to the DEA that she was running a prescription scam. Or might have faked credentials.
She leaned forward to tap the elevator button. “We’re late, Jim.”
“I’m telling you,” Jim continued, “check out her credentials. She’s been nothing but trouble since she got here from L.A.”
“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Nora said, shoving Jim inside the elevator before the doors fully slid open. As usual the intern was clueless about any repercussions his brash words could have. “I’m an ER charge nurse. I work with Dr. Fiore all the time. She’s an excellent physician; there’s no way her credentials are faked. And she would never be involved in any kind of drug scam.”
Just because a doctor was a magnet for trouble didn’t make her suspect. But from the agent’s expression, she was pretty sure he disagreed.
He joined them in the elevator, stabbing the button for the first floor. “I think I need to learn more about this Dr. Fiore.”
This isn’t my real life, Gina thought as she steered Jerry through the circle of hallways surrounding the fifth-floor nurses’ station. My real life is going to start again. Soon. Once Jerry gets better.
Jerry wobbled, misjudging the placement of his three-footed cane, and almost fell. Gina pressed her hands against him, one to each of his hips, realigning and steadying him. Instead of thanking her, he glared at her. “I can do it.”
He took off, faster than before, using his unsteadiness instead of the cane to propel himself. A deranged pinball set loose, he careened against a stray drug cart, then ricocheted off in the other direction. But he made it all the way to the end of the hall and turned, hoisting the cane like a trophy, grinning in triumph.
Jerry should be dead. No one had expected him to make it through that first night, much less wake up fairly intact. He was a walking miracle—and it broke Gina’s heart. These little triumphs, the greater failures.
But it hadn’t broken Jerry. That part of him—the too-stubborn-to-die part—that had survived.
So she couldn’t help but clap and cheer as she jogged down the hall to join him.
“Told you. I can.”
“You did.” She kissed him on his cheek. “You can do anything.”
“Except remember.” He pulled her close so that she couldn’t see his face. “Tell me. I need it, Gina. I need it all.”
Suddenly his shoulders shook with sobbing and his tears wet her turtleneck and cardigan. Gina took the cane before it could f
all from his hand. She circled her arm around his back, surprised at how bony he felt; he’d lost more than his memories in the weeks since the shooting.
She walked him back to his room. After settling him into bed, she wiped away the tears he’d already forgotten, hoping that he’d also moved past his request, burying it in the crevasses that mauled his memory. Last thing she wanted was to tell him again what had happened that night. Every time she did, she relived the horror, and, unlike Jerry, she wouldn’t forget in five minutes.
But this time he hadn’t forgotten. He grabbed her hand, not allowing her to escape. “Tell me.”
Gina sat with him on the bed. “There was a man. He was looking for Lydia and he knew you could take him to her. But he found me first.”
Jerry nodded in time with her words, eyes narrowed as if working hard to commit them to memory. “Why was he looking for Lydia?”
“Something to do with her mother’s death. Do you remember calling your friend in L.A.? Having the old case reopened?”
Frustration cascaded through his exhalation. “No. All I remember is Lydia being in danger—and I don’t know why.”
“I’m sorry. That’s all I know.”
“But Lydia. She’s okay, right?” Fear and confusion filled his face.
She laid a palm against his cheek. Didn’t have the heart to remind him that Lydia had been coming to visit him every day. “She’s fine, Jerry. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me?”
“You saved her. You saved us both.”
The door popped open and Gina’s roommate, Amanda Mason, bounced in, smiling as usual, her blond hair shiny, her eyes as blue as a summer sky. Amanda’s perpetual cheerfulness sometimes made Gina wince—like staring at the sun without sunglasses.
The medical student was just entirely too bright, casting darker shadows over Gina. Amanda never had to fake being happy, put on a pretense for the rest of the world. She simply was always happy, a natural flaw in her character.
“Gotta surprise for you today, Jerry,” Amanda sang out, holding a bowl aloft as if it contained diamonds.
“Amanda!” Jerry bounced up in bed, forgetting all about Lydia or the shooting, holding his arms out, palms up, eyes closed, waiting for his daily surprise.
Amanda shared her smile with Gina and winked. Maybe there was something to Amanda’s sensory stimuli theory of rehab. Gina did always feel better after the medical student visited, and so did Jerry.
Wafting the bowl below his nose, Amanda sat on the bed beside Jerry. “What’s it smell like?”
He sniffed, wrinkled his nose, inhaled again. His face grew puzzled as he strained his memory. “Monkeys.”
Amanda laughed and placed the bowl in his waiting hands. “Close. Here, try tasting it.” She guided Jerry’s finger into the yellow goo. “What does it make you think of?”
Jerry stirred his finger around, then brought it to his face, eyes still shut, smearing most of it before reaching his mouth. He dutifully licked and swallowed. He smiled. “Summer. Yellow. Nilla wafers.” His eyes popped open. “Banana!”
“Yeah, Jerry! You’re right. Banana pudding.” She took the bowl from his hands, pulling a bedside stand close, positioning the bowl on a rubber mat so that it wouldn’t slip and then wrapping his hand around the spoon with the Velcro splint that helped his grip. “Go ahead, you can do it.”
As Jerry fought to maneuver the spoon successfully to his lips, Amanda turned to Gina. “Did you get some sleep?”
“Yes,” Gina lied. “I brought the dress. Did you get the night off?” She nodded to the garment bag, which Amanda gleefully unzipped.
“Yep. I’m officially off duty, finished with my PICU rotation.” Amanda grinned as she pulled the exquisite Carolina Herrera from the garment bag and held it up to her body. “It’s gorgeous. Gina, thank you so much.”
Gina couldn’t help but smile in return. A real smile this time. It hurt—as if her muscles had forgotten how to express anything but worry. She’d left Post-it notes for herself all over the house and a voice mail on her cell to remind her not to forget the ball gown, but it was worth it to see Amanda’s joy. “You’re very welcome. Go try it on. Let’s make sure it fits before tonight.”
Amanda vanished into Jerry’s bathroom, shedding her scrubs and medical student lab coat and reemerging a few minutes later transformed into a beauty queen. She stepped into the stilettos that matched the blue-green of the gown and twirled, the silk swishing and humming.
Jerry clapped, ignoring the too-yellow-to-be-real pudding that flew from his spoon. “Beautiful!”
Amanda blushed. “Thanks. I hope Lucas likes it.”
“If he doesn’t—” Jerry sounded like his old self, his normal, wisecracking self. But then he stopped, spoon hanging from his hand, gaze vacant as he forgot what he was going to say.
“If he doesn’t, then he’s the one who needs his brain checked,” Gina finished for him as she took the spoon and wiped his face clean.
Amanda tottered back and forth, practicing walking in the stilettos, more unsteady than Jerry, lurching against the wall, in danger of twisting the heels off.
“Want my cane?” Jerry asked.
Amanda beamed at his attempt at humor. “No. I can do it.”
“They’re Manolo Blahniks, not running shoes,” Gina told her with a laugh.
“Mannilow what?”
Gina shook her head. Her phone rang before she could educate Amanda about designer labels.
“It’s Nora. You need to get down here to the ER.”
Disturbed by the urgency in Nora’s voice, Gina moved into the bathroom for a little privacy. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“There’s a DEA guy named Harris here. He’s asking questions about Lydia—and now he says he wants to talk to Jerry about the shooting.”
“Why?” Gina’s nerves jangled in alarm. She pressed her palm against the bathroom mirror. Wouldn’t it be nice to find one she could escape through, like Alice in Wonderland? Fear choked her for a long moment. Only a handful of people knew that the hit man who’d shot Jerry had been after Lydia. And the only reason he’d been able to find Jerry was by following the trail of law enforcement officers that led from L.A. to Pittsburgh.
What if whoever was after Lydia had sent someone to finish the job? To tie up loose ends as well as potential witnesses?
Like Gina. And Jerry.
Her breath was swept away by a rush of adrenaline. “I’m on my way.”
4
To Lydia’s surprise, Jerry’s partner, Detective Janet Kwon, was waiting for her and Sandy when they exited the gun range.
“Nice shooting,” Janet said. Her face was perpetually devoid of a smile, so Lydia didn’t start worrying about Janet’s frown until she added, “Sandy, can we use your office?”
“Sure, just close up after you’re done. I’ve already got the range and vault locked up.” He looked curious but said nothing as he grabbed his parka and stepped into a pair of snow boots. Sandy opened the outside door; a blast of frigid air and snow fought to tear it from his grip. “Don’t dawdle, this is looking like some serious snow.”
Janet ignored him, heading into his office, and setting her laptop on his desk. “I think I’ve discovered your mother’s real identity,” she said to Lydia without preamble.
Lydia’s brain filled with a roaring louder than the wind pounding against the windowless cement-block walls. “You found her?”
“Maybe. But it all fits. Explains why after eighteen years, a few inquiries from Jerry about your mom’s cold case suddenly ended up with someone interested enough to send a shooter.”
Lydia collapsed into the scuffed tweed armchair beside Sandy’s desk, releasing a cloud of stale cigar smoke to mix with the smells of gun oil and ammo that clung to every surface. “Tell me. All of it.”
“When Jerry reopened your mom’s case, he repeated the AFIS search—the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Sent her prints through the system again. Back when your mom
died, not every jurisdiction entered their fingerprints into AFIS, particularly not the smaller places that didn’t have the budget. But in 2004 the government began digitalizing those smaller places, starting with the Indian reservations’ tribal police.”
“My mom lived on an Indian reservation?”
“I don’t know if she lived there, but she was arrested on one.”
“So you know? You really know who she is?”
“Yes.” Janet began typing. A set of fingerprints appeared on the computer. “Here’s the arrest record matching your mom’s fingerprints. Picked up for shoplifting on a reservation in Nevada.”
Lydia looked at the date. “She’d have been six months pregnant with me then, if the birthday she told me was anywhere near the truth.”
“Yeah, and I’m guessing she was newly on the run—probably hadn’t figured out yet how to get alternative forms of ID, so had to use her own.” She scrolled down to the demographic information. “In which case, her real name was Martha Flowers.”
“Martha Flowers.” Lydia tried it on for size. It didn’t feel any more “right” or natural than the other aliases her mother had used during their life on the run. Maria would always be Maria to her. “Are you sure?”
“I called and asked them to scan in her booking photos.” Janet clicked out of the screen and logged into her e-mail. “Okay, here we go.”
One click and three black and white images filled the screen: a dark-haired teen, eyes wide, lips pursed, in full face and both profiles. The flash glistened from the girl’s cheek on the left-hand profile shot. Tears.
Lydia wrapped her arms around herself, hugging her cast to her chest, cold despite the fleece pullover and long underwear she wore beneath. She was still a California girl, trying to dress against Pittsburgh’s perpetual chill.
Janet broke the silence. “Is it her?”
Lydia tried to speak but couldn’t. All she could do was nod. She traced the image with her finger, the closest she’d been to her mother in eighteen years. She swallowed her tears. “It’s her.”
