Code Triage

by Candace Calvert

  He groaned and sat up. “I can’t lie down. What do you mean, blood?”

  “I mean you have a kidney stone,” she said, wanting to thank him for having a straightforward malady completely unrelated to any full-moon lunacy. She’d needed that this morning. “About the size of a grain of sand, most likely.” Leigh patted his shoulder with empathy. “That feels as big as the Rock of Gibraltar when your body tries to pass it. I know you’re miserable.”

  “Ahh . . . tell me about it. Gotta get up, gotta walk around. Sorry, Doc.” He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead, then slid from the gurney to pace in circles, holding a calloused hand to his flank. “Oh, man, now I know what my wife felt like when she was in labor with our daughter. Women are tough.” His eyes, pupils widened with pain, connected with hers. “You have babies, Doc?”

  “No . . . no babies.” She glanced down at her clipboard. “Now if you can try to hold still long enough for the nurse to get an IV started, I’ll get those medications going for you. Once you’re comfortable, we’ll see about getting an X-ray.”

  “You mean the pain will go away?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Jesus,” he breathed, glancing toward the ceiling. “I thought it was going to be like this forever.”

  “Nothing lasts forever.” Leigh was glad that this time her mother’s wisdom was merciful.

  “I promise you’ll be fine.” She looked toward the door to the waiting room, where she knew there were a minimum of eight laborers in steel-toed work boots pacing the floor. “Shall we get a message out to your coworkers? I think they’re planning to storm the door if they don’t hear something soon.”

  Her patient’s lips stretched in a wan smile. “Probably will. Last month Denny nailed his kneecap pretty bad. Before that, Grubber had heatstroke. And Ben’s dad passed away this spring. Always somethin’ we need to help each other with. We’re sort of like a family, you know?”

  “Sure,” she said, reminded, ridiculously, of Dr. Hunter’s story of the Clydesdale and the banty hen. “I’ll see that your men get a heads-up.”

  “Thank you.” He sat on the edge of the gurney as the nurse wheeled the IV pole toward him. “And I’m betting they called my wife. She’ll be easy to spot. She travels with a fairy-tale princess.”

  Another Cinderella . . . Do you have to rub it in, Lord?

  Leigh told the nurse which labs she’d be ordering, then walked back toward the nurses’ desk wondering again about this new, grumpy monologue she seemed to be having with God lately. She hadn’t prayed to him in almost a year—wasn’t sure he even listened—and now she was grumbling at him. She wondered exactly how risky that was. But then, he’d taken all he could away, hadn’t he? Except . . . She caught the clerk’s gaze.

  “No calls, Dr. Stathos. I’ve been here the whole time.” The heavyset young redhead’s lips pursed together as if she wanted to say something else but didn’t dare. “But if you want me to, I’ll call the stables right now.”

  “No need,” Leigh said with a wave of her hand. “Thank you,” she added, after seeing the look that passed between the two nurses at the desk. Watch out for Stathos, it warned, as clear as a flaming red allergy band around the wrist of a patient.

  Guilt washed over her; she hated that this foreign and uncomfortable edginess was affecting her team. Worry about Frisco on top of skimpy sleep was making her . . . No, that wasn’t the truth. She’d had things under control until Sam Gordon walked through the middle of the ER about twenty minutes ago. Again. Invading Leigh’s space the same way she’d done before. The way she had Sunday night with that idiotic phone call. But this time she’d seemed even more confident. Strolling through, dressed in a tailored blazer paired with a pink flowered skirt that seemed completely inappropriate for business—sheer, feminine, with a modest slit that showed her leg when she walked. Like a woman dressing for a date. With my husband. She’d hesitated as she came close to Leigh, looked her directly in the eyes, and mouthed, “Thank you.” Before continuing on and exiting through the door to the lobby.

  “Thank you”? For what? Answering that bogus question on the phone? Or for handing Nick over? Leigh snatched her coffee cup from the counter and walked back to the doctors’ desk. She sat and scanned the nurses’ assignment board on the far wall: the kidney stone, a woman with mild congestive heart failure, a rule-out appendicitis waiting for a consult with the surgeon, someone new in room seven with a fever and headache. No overdoses, no adulterous husband bludgeoned with a shoe—she should be grateful. She should be ordering dim sum for her staff or calling her friend Erin Quinn about her upcoming engagement party. Checking on Harry McNealy again. Not grumbling at the God she hadn’t spoken to in nearly a year. Or wondering how the dying lemon tree had managed to go missing Sunday night and if Nick had taken it with him. To bring it back to life. . . . She took a quick sip of her lukewarm coffee, appalled at the sudden threat of tears. She wasn’t going to do that. No way.

  And she wouldn’t—absolutely would not—do any more second-guessing of how she was going to handle things if Nick did show up here today. That is, if he hadn’t already changed his mind about everything he’d said to her. If he didn’t go back to Sam after he left me. Leigh had work to do, patients to see. Everything else could wait.

  “Dr. Stathos?”

  “Yes?” Leigh looked up at the nurse and reminded herself to smile. “Does Mr. Phelps need some morphine, Jess?”

  “No,” the nurse said, wariness flickering across her face. “Your husband’s here. I let him wait in your office. I hope that’s okay.”

  +++

  “I want you to understand that while my primary duty is to advocate for children, I do my best to consider the feelings of parents.”

  “I need my children with me.” Kristi wrapped her arms tighter around her baby and stared at Sam. “And they need me. That’s how I feel.”

  Sam sighed, thinking once again how she’d react if anyone threatened to take Elisa. “I understand that.”

  “Then why did you say that the decision to let me take Abby and Finn home is ‘temporary’? Does that mean that the county can just show up someday and steal them away while I’m at work?” Her gaze drifted to the door, expression showing observable anxiety.

  “Abby’s there. In the playroom,” Sam reassured her. “No one’s taken her—no one will. All I’m saying is that the doctors need to examine Finn regularly for any delayed effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. Child Crisis will make certain that happens and schedule home visits over the next several months. To see how you’re getting along.”

  “You mean, to see if I’m doing drugs, bringing dangerous felons to the apartment, or forgetting to feed my kids.”

  “Putting them at risk, like you absolutely did when you made the decision to run that propane stove. And didn’t check to see if your babysitter had arrived. Those are facts, Kristi.” Sam saw tears gather in the young mother’s eyes. “The plan we’re putting in place is for their safety and yours. Very much like that new carbon monoxide detector the fire department installed in your apartment. Try thinking of it that way. We’re helping you to be the best parent you can be. All right?”

  “Could Officer Nick be the one who checks on us?”

  “Well . . .” Sam smiled at the intriguing possibilities. “Maybe we could do the visits together. I’ll be glad to talk with him about that.” She pulled some papers from her briefcase. “Meanwhile, let me go over some of the services the county can make available to you. Like day care and coupons for groceries.” She tapped a stapled document. “I also have information on the program for tracking down deadbeat dads. Even with a restraining order in place, there’s no excuse for your children’s father not to contribute money.”

  “No.” Kristi’s face went deathly pale. “I don’t need Kurt’s help. I don’t know where he is, and I want it to stay that way. I can’t—”

  “Mommy!” Abby called from the doorway, tugging on a
man’s hand. “Look, it’s Daddy! He’s who sent us the pretty flowers!”

  Sam stood so quickly that her skirt caught, tugging the plastic chair forward until it smacked into the back of her knees. “You can’t be here, Mr. Denton.”

  “Says who?”

  “A police restraining order.” She kept her tone as calmly authoritative as she could, despite her confusion. He was wearing scrub pants under a jacket; he looked familiar somehow. Had she seen him here before?

  “And you?” he asked, his mouth twisting into a vicious smirk. “You’re saying I don’t have the right to be with my family?”

  “Kurt . . .” Kristi beckoned to Abby, then gasped as he gripped the child’s shoulder, holding her back. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  “Shut up!” He glared at her, jaw muscles twitching as his teeth ground together.

  “Mr. Denton, easy there,” Sam said, dread rising as she noted the man’s dilated pupils, the fine tremor in his hands. And the way he kept nervously patting the front of his jacket. She tried to see around him, locate staff.

  “Don’t even think about calling someone,” he growled, lurching within inches of her. Abby scurried to her mother’s side.

  “I wasn’t,” Sam said quickly, trying not to tremble as she met his gaze. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, lips cracked, breath fetid and sour. Her heart rose to her throat as he patted the front of his jacket again. Oh no . . . not a weapon. “I realize now,” she said, as calmly as she could, “that this is a perfect opportunity to include you in our plan.”

  “Plan?” His lips twisted in a sneer. “To put me in jail?” He swore, then whirled to face Kristi, still perched on the edge of the rocker and holding her children close. “You know that’s what they want, right? To throw me in jail!”

  Abby whimpered and Kurt stepped toward them. Sam stared out the door again, pulse hammering. She didn’t dare leave the kids alone with this man. She had to get someone’s attention. She nearly groaned with relief as she caught sight of Riley Hale.

  Kurt stooped down, talking to his daughter. “You don’t want your daddy to go to jail, do you, princess? We won’t let this mean lady do that, will we?”

  Finn coughed and started to wail.

  Sam saw the chaplain begin to walk toward them and shook her head quickly, bringing confusion to Riley’s face. She raised her hand, gesturing as best she could to indicate a phone call. Call security; get help.

  “What are you doing?” Kurt shouted, yanking Sam’s arm down. “I told you to stay away from that door.” He shoved her aside, strode to the door and slammed it, then pinned Sam with a glare that made her throat close.

  “Now,” he said, “you’re going to listen to my plan.”

  +++

  “I don’t have time to talk,” Leigh said from the doorway of her office.

  Nick was leaning against her desk, dressed in his SFPD blues, the body armor adding angular bulk to his torso. He straightened, his leather Sam Browne belt creaking with the movement. “Good morning to you, too,” he said, offering her a smile that hinted of holding her in his arms Sunday night. And proved that he hadn’t a clue Sam called her after he left.

  “I have a surgeon coming in for a consult—we’re busy, Nick.”

  His radio crackled. “Yeah, I saw the hard hat battalion out in your waiting room. I came by to see if the Johnson baby’s being released. But . . .” He swallowed. “I thought I’d stop by for a minute. And maybe arrange a time for tonight. I thought we could take a drive out to Pier 39, get some dinner. And do some more talking about—”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  A muscle along his jaw tensed. “What are you saying? That tonight’s a bad time to talk—tomorrow would be better?” He stepped toward her. “Or . . . that it wasn’t a good idea for me to tell you that I love you? and that I want to postpone the court date?” He took hold of her hand.

  She closed her eyes for moment, feeling the warmth of his touch, wanting to feel that tiny glimmer of hope she’d had sitting on the porch steps with him. But . . .

  “Leigh?”

  “I’m saying,” she said, pulling away, “that I think it isn’t a good idea to expect me to believe that Sam Gordon doesn’t matter and isn’t part of your life when that’s obviously not the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She called me after you left the other night. She said you’d been there with her.”

  Leigh watched Nick’s expression, holding her breath.

  “I was,” he admitted. “But nothing really happened. Not what you think, anyway, and—”

  “What I think,” she said, cutting him off, “is that I have patients to see. And you’re wanted upstairs—Sam’s there, too.” She grimaced as the PA system screeched overhead.

  The operator’s nasal voice began to page: “Mr. Strong, second floor. Mr. Strong, Pediatrics floor. Mr. Strong, please.”

  Nick squared his shoulders. “Isn’t that a distress call?”

  “Hospital code for assistance with a combative patient or disgruntled visitor. Usually doesn’t amount to much.” Leigh shook her head. “Somebody’s probably complaining about their child’s breakfast. Security will handle it.”

  +++

  “Down there, Cappy.” Riley pointed toward the Johnson baby’s room. “Some of the staff is already trying to help, but that guy’s not listening to anybody from what I can see.”

  “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. Someone said he’s in scrubs, which doesn’t make sense. If he works here, why would he shut himself in the room and create a scene?” She grimaced, seeing the young man’s arms flailing even from a distance. “I just wish he’d let the kids out or someone in. Maybe I should try.”

  “No.” Cappy stretched tall and shifted his work belt on his hips, making his heavy collection of keys jingle. “You send a prayer up from a safe distance away, little lady. I’ll see if I can get a handle on things. Most times these guys see a uniform and simmer down; but if that doesn’t happen, I won’t hesitate to call law enforcement. Done it before. Keepin’ my hospital folks safe is what matters.”

  Riley nodded, realizing her mouth had gone dry. Violence, even the threat of it, brought back too many memories. Father, please . . . “Be careful.”

  “I will.” He winked. “Got to stay in one piece if I’m going to take my best girl out to the movies tonight.”

  She watched from the desk as he joined a small group of staff outside the patient room, saw him knock on the door. The man inside responded with an obscene gesture. She wondered if she should go ahead and ask the staff to call the police, then noticed that the ward clerk had wandered down the hallway. The desk was empty.

  Riley tried to remember if protocol dictated that she first call the hospital operator or if she could directly dial 911. Then she told herself she was being ridiculously paranoid. From what she could see, Sam Gordon was remaining calm. Cappy had managed to get a foot in the door, and—

  Riley froze as the young man burst from the room, shoving Kristi Johnson ahead of him and shouting.

  “Get back! All of you—out of my way!”

  A male nurse tried to intervene, and the man kicked him in the chest, knocking him to the floor. “Get away!” He pointed at Cappy. “You too, old man. Don’t be stupid.”

  Kristi cried out and stumbled, and he yanked her to her feet by her hair, herding her along the hallway toward the desk. Sam Gordon followed, staying close to Cappy. One of the staff slipped into the room with the crying children and closed the door.

  No. Oh, please . . . Riley scrambled, heart pounding, to get around the expanse of desk to a phone. Then she heard someone scream.

  “A gun—he’s a got a gun!”

  She froze. Then dropped down beside the desk and out of sight, as the man shouted again.

  “Everybody get back in their rooms. Stay away from the elevators; touch a phone and I start killing people!”

  The guard’s voice, low and
calm, filled the terrified wake of silence. “Son . . . please, you don’t want to do that. Listen to old Cappy. Life is short. Nothing’s worth—”

  There was a single deafening blast, followed by a chorus of screams.

  Riley hunched low and ran, heart hammering in her ears, seeing nothing but the door to the stairs. She threw it open, fighting a dizzying wave of nausea, and ran down the steps. There was a phone outside the door onto the first floor. If she could only get there . . . Stay with me, Lord.

  +++

  Leigh stepped out of the treatment room and stared at the speaker on the ceiling. She couldn’t have heard it right. It had almost sounded like—

  “Code Silver,” the operator repeated, her voice audibly anxious. “Code Silver, second floor.”

  Silver meant . . . Leigh’s breath caught. Person with a weapon.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nick slid behind the wheel of the patrol car and nodded to his partner, busy writing a report. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “That was fast—thought you were going to check on that Child Crisis case.”

  “It’s complicated. We’ll come back later.” Nick frowned. After Sam’s gone. She called Leigh?

  “Fine by me.”

  Nick updated their status with dispatch, pulled out into traffic, and made it two blocks before a call came in: “All units in the vicinity of Fulton and Stanyan . . .”

  Stanyan? What—?

  “Be advised: You have a 417, Golden Gate Mercy Hospital. Man with gun. Shots fired.”

  Pulse quickening, Nick pressed the car forward in traffic, searching for an opening; his partner grabbed the radio mike and hit the lights and siren as dispatch continued.

  “Suspect described as white male, midtwenties, shoulder-length brown hair. Wearing dark hospital scrubs, gold jacket . . . Witness reports one shooting victim.”

  One victim. Nick cranked the wheel, whipped the car around, and, tires squealing, raced back to the hospital. Lord . . . don’t let it be Leigh.