by Pat Warren
Nights at the ER at Phoenix General Hospital were usually long. Rainy nights seemed even longer. It was definitely not a place for the squeamish. Dr. Noah Grayson, a third year resident, was in charge when the EMS attendants wheeled in the two accident victims. It took him only moments to pronounce dead the woman who’d been removed from behind the wheel, burned beyond recognition, and move on to the next cubicle. The living had to be attended to urgently. “What do we have?” he asked the ambulance attendant.
“Accident, I-17. Volkswagen spun around and hit the retaining wall. This one wasn’t wearing her seat belt. Got tossed free, but apparently hit her head.”
“What’re her vitals?” he asked.
Jane Amelio, a ten-year veteran of the ER, rattled off the numbers from the attendant’s chart as they transferred the woman onto the table. “Vitals steady. Pulse 110. BP ninety over fifty and falling. Apparently glass severed an artery in her neck. They were able to close it off, but she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Who’s the surgeon on tonight?” Noah asked, leaning closer to examine the glass shards in the woman’s face around the cervical collar. There were at least half a dozen fine slivers that he could see, and several were in pretty deep.
“Dr. Renfree,” Jane told him. “Shall I page him?”
“Yes, and tell them to prep the OR.”
Jane signaled the triage nurse to take care of the page.
“Let’s get a CBC and a Chem 7.” Noah checked the woman’s eyes, then saw that a cut on her head had begun bleeding through the bandage that EMS had put on. “Inspect that head wound for traces of glass, then clean it up before she loses more blood.” His practiced hands moved over her shoulders and found that her clavicle was broken. A floating piece, yet. She’d need surgery, probably a permanent screw. He lifted one of her hands, then the other. “Cut this ring off. Pick out the glass particles you can reach, then treat the cuts and burns.”
Jane was already at work on the worst of the patient’s head wounds as she glanced up at the monitor. “Her pressure’s dropping.”
Dr. Grayson stepped aside and spoke to the younger nurse, Amy Stowe. “Get a cross-check on her blood and get her to the OR, stat.” Wearily, he stripped off his gloves. “Come on, people, let’s move it.”
“She’s going to need plastic surgery, poor thing,” Amy commented.
“If she makes it,” Grayson said. “Has anyone notified the family?”
“They brought in a purse with ID,” Jane told him. “I believe the desk’s already called.”
The doctor turned to Rodney, the first year resident holding the clipboard with the chart he’d been jotting instructions on. “Get an orderly to take the burn victim downstairs. I don’t want some parent or husband rushing in here and seeing that poor soul like that until we’ve had a chance to prepare them.”
“Right.” Swallowing hard, Rodney went to round up an orderly, wishing he’d never had to look at that charred body in the next cubicle. He hoped the girl’s relatives were made of strong stuff.
Outside the hospital, the rain continued to fall.
In a rundown area of South Phoenix, Willie Morrison squinted up at the sky, cursing the rain. He hated getting wet, he thought as he turned up the collar of his light jacket. He was a little drunk, he knew. Not falling down, but with a nice buzz on. But he’d had the good sense to leave Mickey’s Bar at ten, just like he’d promised Thelma. Maybe tonight, she wouldn’t yell at him and make him sleep on the couch.
It was six blocks to their apartment down Washington Street. Grabbing the front of his pants, Willie knew he’d never make it. He should’ve gone back in Mickey’s, but he’d been in a hurry to get home. He walked somewhat painfully past the adult bookstore, turned into the alley alongside, and unzipped his pants.
Moments later, with a sense of relief, he zipped up again and turned to leave. But something caught his eye, a pair of shoes sticking out from behind an overflowing trash can. Squinting in the pale glow from the streetlight, Willie saw they looked new. A bit unsteadily, he leaned down for a closer look.
“Jesus H. Christ!” Someone was wearing the shoes, someone who wasn’t moving. Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder, but could see no one. The guy was probably passed out drunk, he decided as he circled the can. Maybe he had a fat wallet in his pocket. A little extra cash might make Thelma smile.
The man lay on his side facing the dirty stucco wall. Gingerly, Willie reached to turn him over. As the man flopped onto his back, Willie saw the badge on the inside flap of his jacket and the bullet hole in the center of his forehead.
“Sonofabitch,” he whispered, then turned and ran back to Mickey’s Bar.
Julia Hartley’s open raincoat billowed out as she hurried down the corridor of Phoenix General Hospital, her lips moving in silent prayer. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, please help me. Let my baby live.”
The telephone call had come only half an hour ago, but it felt more like an eternity had passed. The voice on the phone had been calm as she’d said that there’d been an accident. Julia’s worst fears confirmed. The caller had asked her questions: When had the girls left? Who was driving? Where were they headed? But when she’d asked just how badly hurt Lynn was, the caller had instructed her to come to the hospital right away, that she couldn’t tell her more.
For the first time in her life, Julia had driven like a madwoman. Downstairs, they hadn’t been very encouraging. Critical, they’d termed Lynn’s condition. She’d already lost her husband. Surely God in his mercy wouldn’t take her only child.
Julia reached the nurse’s station on the fourth floor, out of breath and heart pounding. Running a trembling hand through her dark hair, she stopped in front of a uniformed nurse making notes on a chart. “I want to see my daughter, Lynn Hartley, please.”
The nurse checked the admittance sheet. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hartley, but you’ll have to wait. She’s in surgery.”
Julia’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh, my God. What’s wrong with her?”
“I really couldn’t tell you. If you’ll have a seat in the waiting room across the hall, the doctor will be out to talk with you as soon as he’s finished.”
Julia read the nurse’s name tag. “But can’t you tell me anything, Nurse Andrews? I’m… she’s all I have.”
Sympathy filled the nurse’s eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t.”
“What about Terry? My niece was in the car with her. Terry Ryan?”
Nurse Andrews knew exactly where Terry Ryan was. The police officer who’d been up earlier had explained the accident. She worked to keep her expression even. “I believe the police officers who were on the scene are still downstairs. Let me see if they’ll come up and talk with you.” She picked up the phone.
Feeling helpless, Julia stuck her hands in her pockets and waited. Lord how she hated hospitals, the antiseptic smells, the muted pagings, the soft-soled shoes marching on spotless floors. She’d spent days at Tom’s side after he’d been shot in the line of duty, leaving only for meals she didn’t want, dozing in the chair for endless hours. And she’d lost him anyhow.
The double doors at the end of the hallway swung open and she looked up. John and Emily Ryan were hurrying toward her, their faces filled with the same fear she knew was on her own. A thunderclap overhead startled her momentarily, but she had no time to worry about the storm outside.
With a sob, Julia rushed to meet her family.
Ninety miles to the north of Phoenix in Sedona, lightning streaked the sky as a man sat on his newly laid flagstone patio drinking coffee from a mug. He liked watching storms, enjoyed the excitement and drama of it. The danger. Even as a young man, he’d been drawn to danger.
But not so much anymore.
He wanted out. Perhaps not permanently, but for several months more anyhow. Then he’d see how things were, decide if he’d go back or not.
Taking another swallow, Luke Tanner watched the rain fall all around his small wood frame house and onto the new roof he’d finished instal
ling yesterday. A damn fine job, if he did say so himself, especially for a man who hadn’t worked with his hands in years.
But he’d surely made up for lost time lately, Luke thought as he drained his mug and bent down to pick up a stick. The big yellow Labrador who’d been dozing at his feet jumped up excitedly. Luke threw the stick and Yuma took off after it in a game he never tired of, rain or shine. He’d run across the abandoned dog on his wanderings through the small town of Yuma near the California-Arizona border awhile back, and had fed him a time or two. After that, the dog had leaped into the passenger seat of Luke’s white pickup and they’d become traveling companions.
They had a lot in common, he and Yuma. Luke had been abandoned, too, more than once. Rainwater dripping from his coat, Yuma returned and dropped the stick at Luke’s feet. “Good boy,” he said, patting the big head. The dog was exactly what Luke needed for company. He was all he needed.
Off to the right, he gazed at his dilapidated barn with a critical eye. Now that the house was in decent shape, he’d get started on repairing the outbuildings. Fix the barn, turn the carport into a garage. Then a fenced corral so he could bring home his horse. He’d put a deposit on a black stallion with white markings named Domino. Like Luke, the stallion was a little shopworn around the edges, but he had some good years left. The redrock country of northern Arizona had dozens of riding trails along Oak Creek Canyon and up into the low mountain ranges. A man could be alone with his thoughts up there, think things through, let the tension seep out of him.
And Luke had plenty of tension stored up. It happened to most of the guys who worked for the Justice Department. His job as a deputy U.S. marshal was demanding, risky and often life-threatening. In twelve years, he’d had more close calls than he cared to count. It wasn’t any one incident that had triggered the need for time off, but rather the feeling that if he didn’t straighten out his head, he’d be facing serious burnout.
Not that he’d want a desk job like his immediate superior, Bob Jones, had settled for after a decade of working in the field. Perhaps that was why Jones had understood Luke’s request for this leave of absence. He had weeks of accumulated vacation time and plenty of money set aside. What he no longer seemed to have was peace of mind.
A damp breeze ruffled his dark hair as he propped his booted foot onto the railing that fenced in two sides of his patio. Luke was a tall man, slim-hipped, broad-shouldered, in excellent physical condition. In his line of work, he had to be. He’d let his hair grow shaggy, tired of the regulation haircut the department required, and he hadn’t shaved in several weeks. He also hadn’t climbed into one of his dark, three-piece suits since he’d driven away from the Phoenix office three months ago. The casual clothes and careless grooming were a welcome change.
The first month, he’d just drifted around in his truck, stopping when the mood moved him. He’d holed up at a friend’s cabin for a while, fished a lot, and read every book in the house. Then one day he’d spotted an ad offering a rundown ranch for sale on ten acres just on the edge of the mountains. He hadn’t been aware he’d wanted a place of his own until he’d driven up that day and seen the spread. The cabin was secluded, surrounded by evergreens, cottonwoods, and saguaros much older than he with a crystal-clear stream running along the back property line. He’d made an offer on the ranch on the spot.
Luke heard a night bird perched on a low limb of the palo verde tree alongside the patio loudly protest the rain, and smiled. His place, his land, where he could do as he wished and answer to no one. He liked the new feeling of ownership, the isolation, the solitary life. He’d always enjoyed being alone.
Because of the way he’d grown up, because of his work and his personality, Luke Tanner was a private man, unwilling to share much of himself with others. Perhaps unable to, he’d often thought. He’d turned thirty-eight yesterday and hadn’t received a congratulatory card or call from anyone. The price of seclusion and a secretive job.
To be fair, he hadn’t had a phone installed, and only Jones knew how to reach him. With only Yuma for company, there were no pressures, no demands, no lags in the conversation.
The storm seemed to lessen, the thundershower turning from a downpour to a drizzle. He liked the sound of the gently falling rain. It soothed his nerves. He was regrouping mentally, slowly but surely. Speed wasn’t important; healing was.
A man could get used to this life, Luke thought. He liked his job and he was damn good at it. But he wasn’t anxious to go back. Not yet. Maybe not ever. He’d hinted at that very thing the last time he’d talked with Bob. His friend hadn’t been pleased, but he’d understood. How many years can a man put his life on the line daily protecting others before he makes a serious error in judgment? Some agents who burn out and fear they’re on the brink of losing it make the transition to a desk job. Others just retire. Luke wasn’t sure where he fit in.
Yuma sat by the screen door leading to the kitchen, whining to be let in. Luke glanced at his watch and stood. “Almost eleven. I guess it’s time we locked up, boy.” With a last glance at the rainy night, he went inside with his dog.
In downtown Phoenix at the Central Police Station, Sergeant Fred McCarthy sat back in his desk chair, stroking his full mustache and listening to Detective Earl Bates’s report on the discovery of Phoenix Gazette reporter Don Simon’s body in a parking garage on Van Buren. McCarthy was a short man, stocky and somewhat barrel-chested, with a fondness for fast sport cars and imported cigars. Around the station, most called him Mac, except for the few who referred to him as “Bulldog” because of his tenacious nature.
Tonight, the sergeant was tired and wished the slow-speaking Bates would get on with it. The long meeting with the Russos together with Sam’s insistence that they had to take Simon out tonight had taken its toll on his nerves. It was already past eleven and he had a lot to do. He wasn’t crazy about working the night shift, but it was usually quieter than days. Tonight was one of the exceptions.
“Time of death approximately seven, two .38s to the chest. Killer likely used a silencer since the watchman on duty heard nothing, or so he said. Body found about seven-thirty by a couple of bank employees. I’ve got both their statements, but they saw no one suspicious and heard nothing odd.” Earl ran a hand over his balding head, carefully smoothing the little hair he had left. “What do you make of it, Mac?”
“Hard to say.” Mac picked up his gold Cross pen and swiveled it between his fingers, working at keeping his face expressionless. Russo had insisted he go along for the hit. From the beginning, Mac hadn’t thought he should, but the crafty mobster wanted to drag him in deeper and deeper. Some days, Mac felt he might never surface. “A reporter makes enemies occasionally. Simon wasn’t exactly high-profile, though.”
“I’ve got a call in to his managing editor. Maybe Simon was working on a story that someone didn’t want printed.”
Mac frowned. “Wasn’t he on the police beat?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him around here quite a few times. He’d hear things, get leads, run ’em down.”
“Ever read a story he wrote that he picked up around here?”
Earl nodded. “There was that land fraud scheme a year or so ago. Remember, it involved a couple of builders who hired someone to discredit that land developer?”
Mac knew it. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s still pending, I believe. Maybe you should check into those guys, see if they’re still carrying a grudge over Simon’s involvement.”
Earl shrugged, then got to his feet. “I guess I will. Not much else to go on. Looks like a hit by a pro to me.”
The desk sergeant walked over as Earl left. “Mac, I just got this report in. There was an accident on I-17 tonight. A Volkswagen went out of control and crashed. John Ryan’s daughter died, burned to death, and his niece is critical. Tom Hartley’s daughter.”
Mac’s fingers tightened on the pen as the blood drained from his face. “Terry’s dead?”
“Yeah, that’s what it says here. Patrol
man on the scene called it in. John’s over at Phoenix General. Pretty tore up, I guess. You and John and Tom go back a long way. I thought you’d want to know.”
“Okay, thanks.” Alone, Mac sat back, loosened his tie and undid his top button. He took several long breaths, then leaned back and closed his eyes. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. What had gone wrong?
When he’d stepped out of Sam’s car a couple of blocks from the parking garage, Russo had promised to forget the girl, that she probably hadn’t seen a thing and it would only arouse suspicions to go after her. Had Sam changed his mind and tracked Terry? Or was it a coincidence that Terry Ryan’s car had gone out of control this same evening?
“You all right, Mac?” Earl asked from in front of his desk.
Mac straightened. “Yeah, just tired. What is it?”
“Talk about your nutsy night, listen to this. Black-and-white just called in. Officer found shot in the head in an alley on Washington near Mickey’s Bar. Some drunk found him. No sign of a struggle and his gun still in his holster.”
“What’s his name?” Mac asked, trying to sound casual.
“Jerry Foster. Ten-year man. He was off duty. We’ve got a couple of uniforms down there questioning the bar regulars. Chances are, no one will talk, as usual.”
Mac scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’re right, Earl. It’s turning into a bitch of a night. See what you can get on that for me.”
“Will do.”
Mac opened his desk drawer, took out a package of Rolaids, and popped two in his mouth. Damn, but he’d tried to warn Foster, tried to tell him he was playing with fire threatening to blow the whistle on Russo. The young idealistic punk hadn’t listened to the voice of experience. And now he was dead. Mac sighed heavily.
Checking to make sure no one was nearby, he picked up the phone. It took three rings for the party to answer. Swiveling his chair around, he kept his voice low. “You promised you wouldn’t go after the girl.”
The voice was silky smooth and unrepentant. “Things changed, Sarge. Relax. It was rigged as an accident. Brake failure.”
