by C. J. Lyons
“But we’re—I’m—asking you to help. It’s not like they don’t have other doctors around here. This is Catherine’s son we’re talking about.” LaRose laid her hand on Gina’s arm, the closest she got to an affectionate hug.
And, like always, Gina found herself seriously considering abandoning her duties to do her mother’s bidding. She didn’t want to—in fact, the impulse to tell her mother to go to hell was almost as strong. A few months ago that was exactly what she would have done.
But neither was the right thing—for her or her patients. Ken Rosen was right. She needed to start acting like she had her own life to live, not someone else’s. Even if it meant screwing up the always tenuous relationship she had with her parents.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
When she opened her eyes, Mrs. Trenton was staring at her with eyes welling up, smudging her mascara. LaRose merely shook her head in dismissal, removed her hand from Gina’s arm, and straightened. “Very well.”
Before Gina could try to explain or apologize or do anything to wipe the look of outrage from her mother’s face, Rachel, the charge nurse, interrupted. “Gina, we need you in Trauma One. They’re bringing in a cop who’s critical.”
Shit, a cop. Jerry was working today—detectives were usually safe from danger, but a few months ago he’d been stabbed by an angry pimp he’d been questioning. “Did they say who?”
“Said it was an officer named Boyle. All I know is blunt-trauma injury and a GSW to the head.”
What? No, no. Boyle was a common name, there had to be more than one on the police force. It wasn’t Jerry. It couldn’t be. All of this passed through her in a flash as she dropped the chart she held, abandoned her mother and Mrs. Trenton, and grabbed a gown and mask from the cart beside the trauma room. She dashed down to the ambulance bay, the gown flapping behind her. Focus. ABCs, ABCs. You have a job to do, you can’t lose it, not now.
Sirens screamed the arrival of the ambulance. Gina ran out, wrenching the rear door of the ambulance open before it stopped. The December wind sliced through the thin Tyvek gown, but all her attention was on her patient. She couldn’t see his face because the paramedic doing CPR blocked the way.
“What’s his name?” she asked. The second medic glanced at her—the patient’s name wasn’t the first question an ER doctor wanted or needed answered on a fresh trauma.
“Jerry Boyle.”
Ice flooded Gina’s veins, flash-freezing her heart in mid-beat. No!
“Found in his town house over in Friendship,” he continued as they hauled the cot out of the ambulance. “Looks like a victim of a home invasion, beaten to a pulp, then shot. We had agonal respirations and a pulse when we arrived, but just lost both.”
Gina forced herself to step forward so that she could see clearly. The man on the gurney had been beaten so badly that she doubted his own mother would recognize him.
But he definitely was not her Jerry. This Boyle’s hair was red; he had a beer belly and on his right deltoid was a tattoo of an eagle clutching a flag.
“Let’s get him into Trauma One,” she ordered, back in command. “Any penetrating injuries other than the head wound?”
“No. But bruises from here to Philly and back again. This guy took one hell of a beating.”
As they rushed the stretcher down the hall, Gina wondered what kind of idiot robber would pull a home invasion on a cop’s house?
“TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT, NORA,” HE WHISPERED as his lips caressed her neck. Outside, his voice had been harsh, muffled. In here, wherever “here” was, it was tinny, mechanical, echoing as if he were everywhere at once.
“What I want?” Her voice was choked with tears she didn’t dare shed.
“Yes. I want this night to be perfect. Your wildest dreams come true.”
He moved her in a parody of a waltz. His voice echoed, then faded as if they were in a small space. Her shoes tapped against a hard surface, concrete or tile, she guessed.
“What if I want—” She stopped herself before she could beg to go home, to be let free. She couldn’t afford to anger him, not with his knife pressed into her back, over her spine.
“What if I want to touch you?” She tried and failed to give her voice a seductive edge. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Touch me where?” The mechanical disembodied whisper amplified his excitement. “Touch me where?”
“All—all over.”
He rubbed his face against her cheek, his tongue lapping at her skin as if tasting her terror. “I love it when you blush like that. It makes your freckles come out. Enchanting.”
His hands slid around to caress her breasts. “Do you like that, Nora? Ah, you do, I can feel it. What are you wearing under this dress? I know you picked it out with me in mind. Blue, my favorite color.”
She froze, her breath trapped in her throat as his knife rasped against the back of her neck. There was a tug and then the snick of her halter strap parting. Followed by the soft shiver of fabric sliding to the floor. His hands left her and she was suddenly disoriented, not certain where to face, where danger might attack from.
Then she heard his breathing. Fast, heavy, not quite panting.
“Very nice,” he said, his voice surrounding her, making her dizzy. She spun around, trying to center herself. “You read my mind. Is that your secret, Nora? You read men’s minds, drive them wild with thoughts of you?”
“What do you want?” she asked, praying for him to just tell her, to stop playing games, tormenting her. “I’ll do whatever you want.”
It came out as a whimpered plea and she hated that. But she didn’t want to die, not tonight, not at the hands of this creep. Visions of her mother and father weeping over a closed casket, of her younger brothers and sister broken, inconsolable, filled her mind. No. She’d live, do whatever it took to make it out of here alive.
“I want to please you, to make this the best night of your life, Nora. That’s all I want.”
His hands reached out from behind her, pulling her to him, her restrained hands pressing against his crotch, unable to escape the knowledge of his erection. He held her there, his knife pressed against her throat. She was afraid to move, to even breathe, holding her breath until she thought she’d black out. When the pressure grew too much, she tried to sneak in a breath, slow, shallow.
He laughed. Fabric whispered against her ankle and vanished again as he kicked her tangled dress away. “Don’t worry,” he said, his mouth close to her ear. “I won’t let you fall. I’m here for you, Nora. I’ll always be here.”
He spun her to face him, his hand resting on her breast, his knife sliding over her bare skin. A ripping noise, a swish of air, and her strapless bra fell to the floor with a soft thud. Her lace panties soon followed. She trembled, naked now except for thigh-high stockings and her heels. She stood, frozen as his hands and mouth and knife explored every inch of her bare skin.
It had taken all her energy not to flinch as she imagined herself somewhere, anywhere else. . . .
Lydia’s hand squeezed hers, and Nora jerked back to the here and now: a small cinder-block office reeking of gunpowder and testosterone. Jerry was still crouching before her, leaning close, too close.
Nora shook herself, pulling away from Jerry. He seemed to understand, stood up straight, his joints creaking, and settled against the desk a few feet away from her.
“Anyway, he kept me there for two days and nights. Long enough that he fed me—microwave burritos, some pop. I remember when I had to use the bathroom, that embarrassed him, he wouldn’t help me or touch me, even though I was blind and my hands were tied. He kept the door open, but I’ll bet he didn’t watch. And he had to be using Viagra or something because every time I thought it was over, he’d . . . well, he’d be ready again.”
“All this time he acted like you were on a date?” Jerry asked.
She nodded, her gaze fixed on the frayed edges of his pan
ts cuffs. “Like we knew each other, were lovers.” Her voice drifted off. “Then it all changed. He couldn’t—perform anymore, blamed me. Screamed that I’d wasted his precious time. Began to hit me, hurt me. He stopped talking, and that was the scariest part of all.”
Her body shook as she rushed to finish before she lost her courage. “He threw me naked into the trunk of his car. We drove and drove, and then he made me get out, walk barefoot through the snow and ice up some steps and into a building. It smelled so bad I almost threw up, but he told me if I did he’d kill me.
“He made me walk up more steps; they were old and creaky and I could feel the dirt and trash beneath my feet. Then he began to hit me, kick me. He chopped off my hair and grabbed some spray paint. I think it must have been left there because I don’t remember him carrying anything except his knife. He held one hand around me and had the knife in his other. Anyway, he sprayed the paint on me; it got in my mouth and burned. Then he found a piece of plastic and put it over my face, suffocating me. I’d pass out, then come to, and he’d do it again and again and again.”
She dropped her gaze, now concentrating on Jerry’s polished leather loafers and his hideous green and purple tartan socks. Only Gina could have persuaded a man to wear those socks.
“That’s when I thought I was going to die. I passed out one more time, and when I woke up he was gone. I worked my hands free of the duct tape, pried my eyes open, used some old newspapers and trash bags to cover myself, and ran home in the dark.”
“You never reported it?”
Nora shook her head. “He said he’d kill my family—he knew their names, where they lived, everything. He laughed about how easy it would be. I was so scared and ashamed, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I never told anyone until I told Seth. I couldn’t risk him targeting my family or coming after me again.”
Tears threatened to overwhelm her and she buried her face in her hands, trying to pull it together. Damn it, there had to be a statute of limitations on crying, didn’t there? She hadn’t even cried this much when it happened or when she’d told Seth the barest of details, letting him draw the wrong conclusions.
“You can’t blame yourself,” Jerry said.
“We always blame ourselves, it’s human nature,” Lydia replied, even as she circled an arm around Nora’s shoulders protectively. “That’s why you became a sexual assault examiner, isn’t it? Because you felt guilty.”
Nora nodded, surprised Lydia understood. She raised her head. “Then when I found Karen—I knew. If I had told someone, back then, maybe—”
“Probably not,” Jerry said. “You never saw him. He disguised his voice, used condoms. Made you bathe in bleach. I doubt he intended to use the spray paint to destroy evidence, although it’s pretty damn effective. That feels like an afterthought, at least the first time with you.”
“How did you know about the bleach and condoms?” Nora asked, now facing Jerry straight on. Her stomach did a slow, curdling flip-flop. “I didn’t tell you that. And ‘the first time’—you mean there were others after me, before Karen?”
He met her gaze, his lips pinched. She saw the ugly truth in his eyes before he nodded. “At least two more that we know of. So far. I’m waiting to hear back from the FBI’s ViCAP. One was attacked last year, the other seven weeks ago.”
Guilt slammed down on her, stealing her breath. “Are . . . are they alive?”
“Yes. Both found naked, abandoned, spray-painted with graffiti. One in a Dumpster in Uniontown and the other near the old Rolling Rock plant in Latrobe. No usable forensics from either case. Both blitz attacks and only held for a few hours, as we suspect Karen was.”
Nora hugged herself, desperate to feel warm again, desperate to feel anything. “Two more. But I was the first.”
“And he took a lot more time with you,” Jerry continued. “I haven’t interviewed either of the other victims yet—we just learned about the Uniontown victim this morning, in fact, but the investigating officers said both victims worked at health care facilities. One in the kitchen, the other as a secretary. If they’d all been within Allegheny County, we would have figured it as the same actor from the start. But three different jurisdictions—”
“Uniontown, Latrobe. And now he’s back here in Pittsburgh,” Lydia said.
“Now he’s back.”
SIXTEEN
Friday, 8:02 A.M.
AMANDA LEFT THE PICU AND IMMEDIATELY headed down to peds. She had a pretty good idea where Tank might be and wanted to get to him before any nurses spilled the beans to Dr. Frantz and all bets were off. She had no doubts that Dr. Frantz would renege on his deal and kick Narolie out if he found Tank before she did.
She pushed through the stairwell door and jogged past the clump of peds residents making rounds, finally reaching Narolie’s room.
The bed was empty. As was the bathroom. No signs of Narolie anywhere—nothing except an IV pole with the bag of fluid hanging empty above the pump and the intravenous line dangling over the side of the bed rail.
“Sugar!” Amanda swore. She would have said what she was really thinking—words she’d learned by listening to her older brothers—except this was the pediatric floor and you never knew who could be listening. She spun around in a circle once more, as if Narolie and Tank would magically appear, then tapped her foot in an irritated staccato as she thought.
During her pediatric rotations, she’d quickly learned that the ward clerks were the all-seeing, all-knowing eyes of the floor. Reversing her path, she headed out to the nurses’ station.
“Monica, have you seen Narolie Maxeke?”
“Hey, Amanda,” Monica said, typing and juggling the phone as she smiled a greeting. “Thought you were in the PICU this month.”
“Following up on a patient. Room three-twelve?”
Monica shook her head. “Sorry, no. But I just put in a few orders for her, so she can’t be far. Did you try the teen lounge?”
The teen lounge was a locked area on the opposite end of the floor from the younger kids’ playroom. Only staff and teens with lounge privileges were given the code. “Good idea. Thanks.”
Waving at a few of the day-shift nurses, Amanda made her way down to the teen lounge. She entered the code—a not-so-hard-to-remember 4-3-2-1—and walked in. An emaciated boy in a wheelchair equipped with an oxygen tank was bobbing his head to technofunk while watching one of the X-Men movies and playing a handheld video game.
Otherwise the room was empty. “Have you seen a black girl?” she asked. “Tall, skinny, her name’s Narolie?”
The boy shook his head without looking up from his game. Amanda turned the boom box off and stood in front of him, blocking his view of the TV. Deprived of two-thirds of his sensory overstimulation, he glanced up in annoyance. “What?”
“I’m looking for two kids. A girl named Narolie and a boy called Tank.”
“Oh, them. They left. Pair of emos, didn’t like my tunes. I told ’em to get a room—way they talked you’d think the world was ending or something.”
“Do you know where they went?”
He shook his head. “Nope. They spent all their time looking out the window. Said something about watching the storm.”
“Thanks.” She turned his music back on, but at a slightly less deafening volume, and looked past him, out the windows. The lounge faced out onto the visitors’ parking garage—not a very romantic or colorful view. A few drops of rain streaked the window; thick, heavy like it had started as snow but melted as it fell.
The lounge door opened. Lucas Stone stood there, his gaze sweeping the room before coming to rest on her. “Heard my consult might be down here.”
Amanda smiled. Dr. Frantz couldn’t discharge Narolie now—not while he was waiting for Lucas’s consult. She led him from the room.
“How did you get Frantz to change his mind?” he asked.
“His PICU patient went missing. He said he’d schedule a neuro consult for Narolie if I found Tank.”
�
�Very Machiavellian. Of course, now we have two patients missing. Coincidence?”
She shook her head. “Doubt it. Anyway, sorry to waste your time. I’ll call you as soon as I find Narolie.”
Instead of leaving, he kept pace with her as she entered the stairwell and headed downstairs. “I’ll help.”
“Lucas. You’re busy. I can clean up my own mistakes.”
“Two lonely, sick kids who found something in each other. Doesn’t sound like a mistake to me.”
“Try explaining that to Tank’s mom or Dr. Frantz.”
“Anyway, I have ulterior motives. This consult is keeping me out of a very tedious IRB meeting. And besides”—he slipped his hand into hers—“I haven’t had much of a chance to see you this month.”
She paused on the landing to turn and look at him for a long moment. No kiss, no words, just look. Those old-soul blue-gray eyes, the strong jaw that spoke of a stubbornness as irritating as it was charming, the shadow of a smile hovering at his lips.
A lot of people saw Lucas as aloof, even arrogant, because of his superintelligence, disregard for social niceties, and obsessive-compulsiveness. They didn’t know the man she knew. The man who had spent a lifetime as an outsider and who’d paid a high price for his talents.
Lucas hadn’t changed because of her—thank God, because she loved him as he was—but he had lowered his defenses, invited her inside the barriers he had built around his true self. And that was a gift both unexpected and precious.
“What?” he asked, breaking contact and looking back when she didn’t continue down the steps with him. “Did I say something wrong?”
She skipped down three steps to join him. “No. You said something right.”
GINA AND THE PARAMEDICS RAN THE STRETCHER with the wounded cop into Trauma One. Waiting for them was an array of nurses, residents, and the surgical attending on duty, Diana DeFalco.
“What have we got?” DeFalco asked, staking her claim to the position at the foot of the gurney where she could see everything and bark out commands.
