Code Triage

by Candace Calvert

  “No problem,” he said, returning her badge. “We’re almost finished. I can walk you down there, but I’ll have to ask you not to touch anything or go beyond any of the perimeter tape.”

  “Of course,” she said, noticing that she’d dropped her voice to a near whisper. Her mouth had gone dry.

  They walked past the shut-down elevators to the nurses’ desk, littered with charts and abandoned coffee mugs; past rooms with open doors and empty cribs, a cafeteria cart still loaded with breakfast trays, the children’s playroom with its mural of Seuss creatures, and—

  “Oh!” Leigh jumped sideways, heart hammering in her chest.

  “Sorry,” the officer said, snatching at the string of the bobbing happy face balloon. “I’ve been trying to get it; the air ducts keep sailing it around the ceiling.” He glanced at her. “Are you all right?”

  She pulled her hand away from her chest and sucked in a breath. “Sure. It surprised me, that’s all. I’m a little tired, I guess.” She smiled weakly. “Long day.”

  He continued down the corridor and she followed, aware of the unnatural echo of their footsteps and of the distant sound of a patient’s TV left on during the haste of evacuation.

  “Golden Gate Mercy Hospital remains on lockdown after a shooting spree that ended when two Mission District police officers . . .”

  “Here,” the officer said, stopping to point at the floor, “is where the security guard was shot, and there—” he pointed to a second stain nearby—“is where the Child Crisis investigator fell. And you can see . . .”

  How Sam struggled. Oh, dear God . . . Leigh held her breath, eyes moving over the side-by-side pools of blood, dark purple, larger than seemed possible. One with smeared palm prints, like some macabre finger painting. Her knees weakened.

  “And down here,” he continued, walking a few more steps, “is the Johnson baby’s room, where it all started.”

  Leigh inched forward, then stopped, her gaze moving past the yellow crime scene tape into the room beyond: crib, an IV pump, diaper bag, and an overturned vase of flowers. White lilies, at least a dozen, strewn all over the floor. And next to them, Abby Johnson’s stuffed pony. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I’ve seen enough,” she said, turning away. “I can get back by myself, thank you.”

  She jogged down the empty corridor, eyes on the stairwell door. She passed the room with the TV and tried not to listen.

  “. . . according to hospital sources, remains in critical condition. Per department policy, the two SFPD officers will remain on administrative leave pending investigation. . . .”

  She yanked open the door to the stairs, lurched through to the landing, and leaned back against the cold wall, fighting a vicious wave of nausea. She’d been a fool to come up here; she was a doctor, not a forensic scientist. She dealt with living beings, did what she could to save them. She performed the skills she’d been taught, made diagnoses, wielded instruments, applied joules of electricity to dying hearts, did everything she’d spent years learning to do. And then walked away. That was how it was supposed to go. But this . . . this aftermath was horrible. Too much like standing there with Cappy’s widow, listening to prayers, when all Leigh wanted to do was get away. Distance herself—leave the pain of it behind.

  She retched, closed her eyes, and inhaled slowly through her nostrils, pushing down the images of drying blood she could do nothing about. She’d nearly panicked over a helium balloon. A balloon. She raised her hand to her mouth. How awful had it been for Cappy? Sam? . . . And Nick, out there in the parking lot? Risking his life for all of them.

  She took another deep breath, then pushed away from the wall. There were a few patients to finish with in the ER, but no new ones because of the lockdown. Her cell phone buzzed in the pocket of her lab coat.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry, Dr. Stathos,” the charge nurse said, “but looks like we have one more victim from the incident. One of the peds nurses is here. Apparently he was kicked in the chest.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Leigh hustled downstairs, telling herself she was hurrying toward what she was trained to do, not running away from things she didn’t have the stomach to face.

  +++

  “What’s the first thing I thought of?” Nick looked over the rim of his coffee cup at the police chaplain sitting behind his cluttered desk. The man’s ever-present electrical fan whirred over the distant sounds of afternoon traffic and fluttered the sheet of paper in his hands.

  Buzz smiled. “It’s a question straight off my critical incident stress algorithm.” He tapped the paper. “Actually, it suggests we ask, ‘What was the first thing that you thought of once you stopped functioning on automatic?’” He set the paper aside.

  “I know. The department psychologist already asked me.” Nick studied Buzz’s face for a moment. “You want the same answer?”

  “I’m here for whatever you need to say.”

  Nick forced a laugh. “Why is this easier over a slice of cold pizza on your lumpy couch?” He sighed and met his roommate’s gaze. “Not official?”

  “And completely confidential. You know that.”

  Nick scraped his thumbnail across the SFPD logo on his cup. “When we got the call for a 417 at Golden Gate with shots fired, the first thing I thought of was Leigh. That someone had hurt her. We were wedged into traffic just two lousy blocks away, and I couldn’t get clear. I thought my head would explode. I almost jumped out of the car and started running for that hospital.” He stared into Buzz’s eyes. “Truth? Looking down the barrels of Denton’s guns was nothing compared to thinking that I could lose Leigh. That I’d never have the chance to make things right between us.”

  Buzz was quiet for moment. “And now you know it was Sam Gordon who was shot.”

  “Right.”

  The chaplain leaned forward slightly. “So how are you doing with that?”

  “How much time do you have?”

  +++

  “It’s not that bad, is it?” the male nurse asked, looking at Riley. He flinched as Leigh’s fingers palpated the bruised area over his lower chest.

  Riley noticed that the middle-aged and bearded man wore a surgical cap printed with Care Bears.

  He tried to chuckle and flinched again. “I mean when a guy’s on an ER gurney and sees the chaplain show up, it makes him wonder if he’s going to need last rites.” His smile faded, and sadness flooded his eyes. He swallowed.

  Riley watched as Leigh pressed her stethoscope against the man’s chest and asked him to breathe in and out. She repeated it on his uninjured side and then asked him to lie flat on the gurney.

  “I didn’t want to come down here. The kids are still pretty shook up, and there’s no playroom on the third floor, where we moved them.” He inhaled deeply at the doctor’s request and grimaced very slightly as she palpated his abdominal wall below the bruised ribs. He looked at Riley, his pupils widening. “I didn’t think he kicked me that hard. All I could think was I had to stop him from hurting those kids. My wife and I can’t have any children of our own. She’s a volunteer up there on weekends. I guess sometimes we think of those little guys as . . .” He glanced away. “I’m glad they caught him.”

  Leigh checked the display of vital signs, then stepped away from the gurney. “I’m ordering a chest X-ray with rib detail,” she said, draping her stethoscope around her neck. “And a blood count and urinalysis—just to be safe. You’re not tender over your spleen or your kidney, but that’s a bad bruise. And I won’t be surprised if you have a rib fracture. Or two.”

  The nurse was silent for a few seconds. “We all know how hard you worked to save Cappy. And I hope you’ll tell your husband that I’m grateful he stopped that guy before more people were hurt.”

  “Thank you.” Leigh looked away. “Now let me order your X-ray. Get you all set up.”

  Riley followed as Leigh strode out, then caught up with her at the doorway to her office.

  “Leigh?”

&nbs
p; She turned, and there was no mistaking the fatigue etched on her face.

  “I have fresh coffee in the chapel and some of that nut bread from the cafeteria.” And I’ll listen, my friend.

  “Chapel?” Leigh shook her head. “I’ll give you credit, you don’t give up. But no thanks, I’ll pass. As soon as I see our big Care Bear’s films, I’m out of here. I’m going to sleep until noon tomorrow, then spend my day off someplace even God can’t track me down.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sam jerked awake, confused for a moment, then caught sight of the date on the room’s message board below the wall clock: Wednesday, October 1—5 p.m. She’d slept the day away. She groaned at the familiar wave of pain spreading across her lower abdomen. Dr. Bartle’s “fortunately less serious than we’d feared” description of her injury belied the vicious reality: it felt like someone had detonated explosives in her navel. She reached for the cord to the pain-med pump and squinted at her IVs. No more blood transfusions, but such an endless nightmare. Still, none of it, not the pain or indignity or sense of helplessness, was as bad as . . .

  Nick hadn’t stayed more than twenty minutes yesterday. He’d said she looked tired, that he needed to drive Elisa to the babysitter and get back to the department for his officer-involved-shooting interviews. All true, of course. But she’d hoped that he’d come back, imagined him sitting here all night. Holding her hand. And that sometime, in the wee hours this morning, he’d mention what she’d told him before they wheeled her into surgery. Say that he’d been surprised, of course, but that he was glad she’d told him she loved him. That the only reason he hadn’t been able to express those same feelings to her was that he wasn’t free yet. He had to put things on hold until the divorce was final. She jabbed the button on the medication pump.

  The truth was, she’d asked him to come back last night and he’d said he couldn’t, that he’d call today to check on her. Not come by to visit, just call. He’d patted the top of her head the same way he did Elisa’s. As if she’d never said she loved him. As if they hadn’t made love, fallen asleep in each other’s arms in those long, gray days after Toby died. It would be different now, all so different, if Leigh Stathos hadn’t called the night he’d come for dessert. Sam had seen it in his eyes when he held her; he’d been ready to give up on his marriage. And now, after all Leigh had done to hurt him these past months—all Sam had done to help him through it—he was defending her. “Leigh doesn’t lie.”

  She shut her eyes, letting the medicine’s floating effect compete with the fresh sting of anger. Strangely the anger made things clearer, helped her understand what she had to do. The divorce had to happen. She couldn’t let anything—even a bullet in her belly—stop her from getting the happy ending she’d been cheated of her whole life.

  “Miss Gordon?”

  Sam turned to see the evening nurse in the doorway, holding a small IV pouch.

  “I have the antibiotic your surgeon ordered.” She checked Sam’s patient identity band, questioned her about medication allergies, then connected the tubing to an infusion pump. “There,” the nurse said, smiling at her. “You’re all set. Need anything else while I’m here?”

  “Yes. How do I get in touch with a doctor?”

  “Dr. Bartle’s still in the house,” the nurse answered. “I could have him stop by.”

  “No. Dr. Stathos in the ER.”

  “She’s not on duty today. And I’m sorry, but the ER doctors don’t take calls.”

  “I think she’ll take mine,” Sam said, noticing a mild burning sensation as the antibiotic began to flow. “Tell her I need to talk with her.”

  +++

  Leigh pressed her heel against the mare’s side, signaling the big red horse to move into a canter, and then urged her forward, faster. She rose from the saddle in a half seat and stood in the stirrup irons, squeezing her calves until they were in a brisk gallop—hooves flinging clods from the soft, moist dirt of the coastal trail. Yes, better . . . but more. She gathered the reins in one hand, tapped her crop against the mare’s hip, and felt her spring forward in response, stretching out, mane flying. Leigh followed the horse’s head with her hands, letting the wind whip through her hair and bring tears to her eyes, seeing the park’s knee-high grasses and trees blur like an impressionist painting. Feeling only the wind, the mare’s muscles bunching beneath her; hearing the rhythm of hooves against earth, the horse’s breathing, and her own heart singing in her ears. Finally singing, in sweet escape. She sucked in a deep breath of bay air, tasted the brine in it—kept riding, kept breathing. Felt alive again. She didn’t want it to ever, ever stop. She wanted it to go on forever.

  Forever. Oh, God, no. Don’t do this to me. Not here. Not now.

  Leigh shortened the reins, easing the mare back from the gallop with a half halt. She settled into the saddle as the horse returned to a canter and finally broke to a big, up-and-down trot, breath heaving. She posted the trot for several strides, then sat deep in the saddle and drew back on the reins again, patting the horse’s neck as they finally slowed to a brisk walk. Leigh sighed. For a few minutes, she’d escaped. She’d forgotten it wasn’t Frisco beneath her, that Cappy Thomas was dead, that her mother had left that message on her phone.

  “Leigh-Leigh, darling, Mom. Only have a minute—ship to shore costs like murder. Heard the news. I told you that hospital was in a bad area. If Nick Stathos wants to live like that forever, let him. But you don’t have to. Nor does Caroline. I’ve been discussing it with my new beau, Phillip. He’s a plastic surgeon, remember? With a lovely practice in Palm Beach. And modeling connections, too—oh, I have to go. We’ll be late for dinner. E-mail me. I’ll try and check it tomorrow sometime. After our shore excursion. Hope you’re okay.”

  Leigh slipped her boots from the stirrups and turned the mare around, her legs hanging along the animal’s warm sides as they followed the trail back to the barn. She let the small of her back relax, feeling her hip joints stretch forward and back alternately with the horse’s movement, legs free, body free. Free. Leigh closed her eyes, tipped her head back, and raised her arms, palms up. She breathed in slowly, let it out, and searched for peace. For that connection, that balanced center, she’d lost somehow. In the last year, these quiet moments in the saddle had been the closest she came to . . . prayer.

  Leigh thought of what she’d told Riley yesterday, that even God couldn’t track her down here. Then she opened her eyes, searched the clouds, and asked the question that was whispering inside her head more and more these past few weeks. “Do you want to? Do you want to find me, Lord?”

  +++

  Nick dribbled the basketball, whirled, dodged the gangly ten-year-old in braces and headgear, then found a break and drove forward—took his shot and missed. The kids howled and hooted among themselves.

  “Gettin’ old and slow, Officer Nick!”

  “My grammy can aim better than that with a can of SpaghettiOs!”

  “Yeah, at the back of your ugly head, Addison!”

  Nick laughed, threw his hands up, then yanked at a handful of his tank top and wiped it across his face. Sweat burned his eyes and his legs had turned to rubber. He leaned over, hands on his thighs. “Okay . . . I’m done. You win. All I’m good for now is saying, ‘Thank you for the food, Lord,’ and chewing. Pepperoni or sausage pizza? Shoot your baskets and make up your mind—this old man’s starving.”

  He walked to the bleachers, sank down, and watched the boys take turns from the free throw line, wishing the rest of life could be like this. Work hard, give it all you got, play by the rules . . . He winced. But he hadn’t, of course. He hadn’t played by the rules and Leigh would never forgive that. No matter how hard he tried to make up for it, no matter how long he kept at it. Even if he’d been so close to seeing it happen just two days ago. But now . . . She hadn’t responded to his text message, and—

  “Officer Nick?”

  Nick looked into the huge brown eyes of his littlest player. Edwin, barely seven, ha
d cheeks like a chipmunk and wore his hair in dozens of fuzzy twists and his thrift-store sneakers two sizes too big. He walked like one of Oly’s pigeons but—perched on Nick’s shoulders—shot hoops like Kobe Bryant. “Yeah, Ed-winner. What can I do you for?”

  “Is it true, what folks are sayin’?”

  Nick’s chest tightened. “What are they saying?”

  “That you shot somebody.”

  Father God . . . “Yes, it’s true.”

  Edwin’s eyes held Nick’s, unblinking. “He was a bad guy?”

  “He did a bad thing. I couldn’t let him do it again.”

  The boy’s brows puckered. “How did it feel—to shoot somebody?”

  Nick took a slow breath. “Bad. Real bad.”

  Edwin rested his small palm on Nick’s knee. “I’m going to ask my Jesus to look after you. Even though you’re big.”

  Nick smiled over the lump in his throat. “I’d appreciate that.”

  +++

  Riley slipped through the door of the ICU, blinked against the dim lighting, then crossed the short stretch of maroon carpeting to Kurt Denton’s room. She held the staff list in her hand and told herself she’d come to be certain she hadn’t missed anyone who might need stress counseling, but she knew that wasn’t the truth. She needed to see this man, the vicious assailant who’d killed without mercy, because he put a face on her nightmares. She glanced toward the nurses’ desk, took a slow breath, and stepped into the room, struggling against the memory of plunging headfirst down a flight of stairs. Father, I’m afraid. . . . I’m afraid.

  Her gaze moved first, irrationally, to the handcuffs that secured him to the bed. As if that precaution were the only thing that kept this young killer’s eyes from popping open, stopped him from leaping over the bed rails, snatching a gun from under the pillow, and grabbing her around the neck like he’d done to Kristi Johnson. It wasn’t handcuffs that tethered Kurt Denton to the bed; it was a bullet to the brain.