by Nina Wright
Around seven AM, the night shift went off duty even if they couldn’t go off site. Or at least my night nurse took a break because the next person attending me was a freckled young man whose nametag read C. RICHARDS, RN.
“I hear you got a little excited during the night,” he said pleasantly.
“Not excited. Just concerned–for those without emergency generators.”
I smiled. He smiled back. He was kind of cute for someone just out of nursing school. Actually, he looked just out of high school.
“I have a question,” I said in my sweetest voice. “Is hospital staff allowed to confiscate the personal possessions of patients?”
C. Richards looked thoughtful, as if trying to recall that question from his New Employee Handbook.
“I don’t think they can ‘confiscate’ things. But I know the hospital can hold onto personal possessions. For a while.”
“See, we have an issue here. . . . ” I motioned for him to lean closer so that I could whisper my concerns. He did, and I conveyed my theory that the formerly nice night nurse had crossed a line by removing my cell phone against my will.
“Technically, I don’t think she did anything wrong,” C. Richards said, straightening. “But, if you really want your cell phone back, and you promise not to use it while you’re here, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Cross my heart,” I said, making the appropriate gesture over my left breast. His blue eyes followed my fingers. “I really need that phone back . . . .”
“Okay,” he said, still staring at my chest. “Just let me finish rounds first.”
“That’s fine,” I cooed.
Ten minutes later, C. Richards came through for me, confirming my faith in men, or at least in testosterone. Meekly, I thanked him and asked that he store the phone in my top drawer. As soon as he left, I removed it and checked the charge. How lucky that I’d carried it in a vest pocket that didn’t get wet. Two bars left.
Now that it was daylight, I could see through my small window what the storm had wrought. The world outside appeared to be coated in glass. Earth and sky—both pearly white—were separated by no visible horizon. Neither humans nor machines moved. Everything seemed frozen solid.
I didn’t have time for that. Fortunately, I knew one person with a vehicle that could probably get through anything. As part of both his veterinary practice and his animal rights activism, Dr. David Newquist owned and operated a 1989 Braun Type 3 ambulance. Dubbed the Animal Ambulance, it was painted white with horizontal yellow stripes that matched his gaudy parka. And it bore a variation on the same slogan he always wore:
ANIMALS ARE PEOPLE TOO.
WE SAVE ANIMALS.
Confident that David also wanted to save Chester, I dialed his cell phone number. The first two calls wouldn’t go through, but I connected on the third attempt.
“David,” I whispered. “Get me out of here!”
“Who is this? And why are we whispering?”
As soon as I identified myself, David said, “How are you? I wanted to come see you last night, but I had two emergencies, and by the time I finished, visiting hours were over.”
I doubted that most men would let a little thing like visiting hours stop them from seeing a woman they hoped to impress. I forgave him, though, and explained the reason for my call. David agreed that the Animal Ambulance could handle the ice storm. In fact, it was how he’d gotten to the vet clinic that morning. What he had doubts about was my readiness to leave the hospital.
“As a medical professional”—he made it sound like “medicoh pwofeshunoh”—“I have to advise you to put your own welfare first,” David said.
“Yeah, yeah. I would have said the same thing if you’d shown me Gil’s contract before you signed it,” I retorted. “But you didn’t, did you?”
“And you would have been right!” he reminded me.
“Okay, bad example. I need you to come get me, David. Together we are going to find Chester.”
“Isn’t that Jenx’s job?”
“She needs help. Manpower shortage.”
“There was an ice storm, Whiskey,” David reminded me. “I’m sure Jenx would prefer that we stay off the road.”
“What better time to go door to door looking for Chester!” I exclaimed.
“And where would we begin?”
“Do you care about Chester, or not?” I demanded.
“Of course, I do! I also care about you, and you’re supposed to be in the hospital!”
“Not when I’m needed elsewhere. Let’s start with what we learned yesterday,” I said. “Did you find any sign of him after you and I split up?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. I interviewed people in the parking lot, asking if anyone had seen a kid who looked like Chester. Two people saw a boy who fit his description get into a white Jaguar. But they didn’t see who he was with.”
I supposed it was too much to hope they had written down the license number. It was. However, David said the witnesses recalled seeing an Iowa plate.
“Iowa?” I repeated. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure that’s what they told me,” David said. “But am I sure they were right? How could I be?”
“Why would someone from Iowa snatch Chester?” I wondered aloud.
“Chester’s the son of a celebrity,” David reminded me. “Anyone from anywhere might want to collect ransom.”
My heart thumped. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Probably because I hadn’t wanted to. But nobody had asked for ransom. At least nobody we knew about. I recalled my strange phone conversation with Cassina. Did she and Rupert know something we didn’t?
Just then I became aware of C. Richards, R.N., peering at me through the glass panel of my hospital room door. Quickly I concealed the cell phone under my blanket. When he continued to stare, I remembered what I knew about men: What works once works every time.
Very slowly with the index finger of my right hand, I traced a large X over my left breast.
C. Richards grinned and walked away.
Chapter Fourteen
Reluctantly Dr. David agreed to come pick me up in the Animal Ambulance. He made me promise, though, that I would check myself out of Coastal Medical Center the legitimate way, rather than try to sneak out. That sounded a little too much like my mother talking. Of course, I wasn’t going to sneak out. I’m a responsible adult: I run a business with employees and other kinds of headaches. Not to mention a 24/7 daycare center for kids and canines. What kind of person did Dr. David think I was?
As soon as we concluded our call, I located the clothes I’d arrived in, including my now dry socks and boots. Someone had had the sense to discard the expended flotation device I “borrowed” from the helicopter. Fortunately, my pocket-sized purse and its contents had survived the slide into Lake Michigan. I dressed quickly. Then, grabbing my cell phone, I peered out into the hall. I would have to make a break for it if I wanted to avoid arguing with overworked nurses or the random attending physician.
My destination was Admissions. At least, I assumed that’s where I should go, although what I needed to do was the opposite of admitting myself. If the folks in that office could sign me in, they could probably sign me out. They’d just need a different form.
As soon as the hall was clear, I bolted for the stairway, yanked open the heavy metal door, and plowed straight into C. Richards, R.N.
“Getting some exercise?” he asked. “Or looking for a better signal for your cell phone?”
“Shh.” I stepped all the way into the stairwell, closing the door behind me. “Don’t tell anybody, but I need to check out. Do you know where I go to do that?”
To my annoyance, the young nurse was staring at my left breast again, with such intensity this time that I wondered if I’d left it uncovered. So I checked. Everything was secure.
“Hey,” I said. “Here’s a tip: Try looking your patients in the eye for a change. It makes for a better bedside manner.”
“I know all about
bedside manner,” he said huskily. “I even know where there’s a maintenance closet with a cot.”
“I’m going to report you!” I sputtered.
“Oh yeah? Do you know where to go to do that?”
Disgusted, I pushed past him and literally ran until the stairway ended. That was a mistake since it landed me in the sub-basement boiler room. But, after adjusting my course and going back up two flights, I eventually found Admissions. The clerks there weren’t pleased with my assumption that they could automatically check me out. They made a few phone calls and insisted on my signing a little form called AMA—Against Medical Advice. The whole process was more time-consuming and aggravating than necessary considering we all knew that I was going to get my way.
When I did, Dr. David was waiting for me out front. His Animal Ambulance had attracted considerable attention from off-duty hospital staff who couldn’t get their own cars out of the glassy lot.
“I was offered almost two hundred dollars to take folks home,” he said.
“You should consider running this as an emergency taxi service,” I said, climbing aboard. “Pick up a little cash on the side.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. There are four people in the back. We’re going to deliver them first, then look for Chester.”
I stared at David, hoping for a sign that he was kidding. Then I realized the truth: He had no sense of humor with humans. Oh, he could giggle and laugh and roll on the floor with critters, but people turned him deadly serious.
“I’m donating the proceeds to Fleggers,” he added.
Fleggers was shorthand for Four Legs Good, the name of the Ann Arbor-based Animal Rights group to which David devoted his spare time. Their slogan was, “We love people of all species.” Their goal was equal rights for animals, whatever that meant. I found the notion too ridiculous to fit inside my head. Did “equal” rights mean equal to human, such as the power to, say, own one’s home? Marry? Vote? Just what this country needed—dogs and cats voting in the next presidential election.
“We’re giving four people a lift?” I asked.
David nodded. He consulted a scrap of notebook paper. “Two live in the neighborhood, one lives north of town, and the other lives east of Sugar Grove.”
“East of Sugar Grove? That’s almost an hour away in good weather,” I moaned.
“Then we’d better roll,” David said. He pronounced the last word like “woe.” Which was precisely what I felt.
“By the way,” he said. “Do you know you have blood on your jacket?”
In my haste to break out, I hadn’t noticed. Now in the flat morning light, I stared at my chest and sleeves. Not just any blood, but Gil’s blood—from my struggle to get out of the frigid water back onto the ice where our mayor had hemorrhaged. I whipped off the jacket and wrapped myself in a wool blanket I found on David’s front seat. My teeth were chattering, and not from the cold.
In the hands of a skilled driver like David, the Animal Ambulance could overcome most road hazards. The vet was proud to have purchased it used, on line, for a mere five thousand dollars. As a contribution to Fleggers, he had re-fitted the back to accommodate and secure both large animals and small.
On the down side, the ambulance had no radio or heat, and the passenger seat was built for rides lasting less than fifteen minutes. By the time we’d delivered three of the four passengers and were heading east toward Sugar Grove, I’d been bouncing in place for an hour and a half.
“Do you think we could take a break? Maybe get something to eat?” I asked David.
“Nothing’s open today,” he replied. “Maybe you shouldn’t have checked yourself out before breakfast.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to chauffeur four passengers,” I groused.
Silently David raised his right hand from the wheel to display five fingers.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Five passengers.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way to Sugar Grove, a former railroad town slightly larger than Magnet Springs. I respected David’s driving, which was confident but not incautious. The roads were terrible, varying from a sheet of glass to a bed of broken glass. Now and then the Animal Ambulance fishtailed wildly. When it did, I gripped the door handle with both hands, closed my eyes, and hung on. David remained calm, his hold on the wheel relaxed.
Passing the Sugar Grove Inn stirred my memories. There I’d had many romantic brunches with my late husband Leo and one not so happy meal with the local judge. Six months after Leo died, jurist Wells Verbelow and I dated without making sparks. Now I was beginning to doubt whether David and I could, either. Or whether he’d even ask me out. Or whether I wanted him to, for that matter. The vet was competent, dedicated, and not bad-looking. But, God help me, he wasn’t Nash Grant.
I jumped when someone thumped the partition behind me.
“Yo, dude!” said a muffled voice. “This is where I get out!”
We were on the other side of town now, on the edge of a woody glen. David eased the Animal Ambulance to a stop. The rear door opened and closed. Then our fourth passenger slid past my window. In civilian clothes, C. Richards, R.N., looked like the teen-age boy he probably still was. He grinned lasciviously at me and ran his tongue over his upper lip. I glanced at David, who was adjusting something on the dashboard and hence missed the show. C. Richards, or whoever he was, stepped deftly across the narrow ditch running parallel to the road. In seconds, he had vanished into the woods.
“Where to next?” David asked, looking up.
Before I could reply, my cell phone rang.
“How’s your left breast?” panted You-Know-Who. “Are you keeping it warm for me?”
I clicked off. The damn kid had copied down my number when he retrieved my phone.
It rang again.
“Listen, you little pervert,” I began.
“I’ve been called worse.” Police Chief Jenkins was on the line.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“I hear you busted out of Coastal Med. What’s up with that?”
“Dr. David and I are going to help you look for Chester, now that we’ve finished our morning deliveries. Any suggestions where to start?”
“Where are you?” she asked.
I gave her our approximate location just east of Sugar Grove.
“That’s great!” Jenx exclaimed. “You’re near Bear Claw Casino Resort!”
“So? We don’t have time for games of chance.”
“That’s what we’re playing, Whiskey. I just got a call from Chester. On his cell phone. Somebody made him hang up before he could say much, but I recognized the noise in the background. It was the ding-ding-ding of a casino floor. Get over to Bear Claw now!”
Thanks to David’s expert driving and keen sense of direction, we arrived at the Native American-run resort in less than twenty minutes. On the way, I tried to talk about my discovery of Gil’s body, but David wasn’t having any.
“Listen, Whiskey, I’m not glad the guy got whacked—if that’s what happened—but I’m not sorry he’s gone, either.”
“You realize that your contract with Best West still stands,” I said. “Gil’s business continues to exist even if he doesn’t.”
David seemed shocked to hear that. Sometimes I wondered if he had any business sense.
“But Gil’s name’s on my lease! He signed it!”
“Yes, but he signed it as an agent of Best West Realty. Read the document, David.”
Once again the vet settled into a funk. After a few minutes I said, “But the good thing for you is that Gil won’t be around to threaten you anymore. Whoever takes over Best West has got to be more pleasant to deal with.”
“More pleasant for you, too.”
That revelation had already dawned on me.
“Who’ll take over Best West?” David asked.
I didn’t know. Unlike Leo, Gil was single and had no kin in the biz. He had a couple part-time agents, neither of whom
seemed likely to want to run Best West.
When we pulled into the Bear Claw Casino Resort parking lot, David and I remarked on the number of vehicles. Apparently, ice storms don’t discourage gamblers—not if the back-up generators keep running. David had a plan: He would drop me off at the front entrance and then check every row in the lot for a white Jaguar with Iowa plates.
“Or any white Jag at all,” I suggested.
My job was to find out whether someone inside had seen Chester, which way he went, and who he was with. Since Chester’s a kid that folks remember, I figured we just might get lucky. If Jenx was right in assuming the phone call had come from here.
Chapter Fifteen
The Bear Claw Casino Resort desk clerk hadn’t seen Chester or any children that morning.
“Most parents don’t pull their kids out of school for a day here,” he remarked. “We’re not Disney World.”
When I pointed out that local schools were closed due to the ice storm, the desk clerk looked surprised. “There was an ice storm?”
I thought he was joking until I realized that the front desk afforded no outside view. Moreover, the bulk of the casino’s business was day traffic, patrons who came to gamble for a few hours and didn’t stay at the hotel. They used a different entrance. I headed that way.
From the smoky casino floor came a cacophony of artificial sounds. Not just the ding-ding-ding reported by Jenx, but also electronic chords and scales, and the occasional cascading clink of quarters when somebody’s slot machine paid off. Bored cocktail waitresses roamed the room. They wore leather headbands with bedraggled feathers, beaded suede mini-dresses and four-inch heels. The costume suggested a nubile Native American princess, but every waitress I saw was Caucasian and had a name like Mindy or Megan.
I interviewed Mindy first as I ordered a tall Pepsi and some pretzels. She was a stocky dish-water blonde with sallow skin and watery eyes. When she complained about an allergy to cigarette smoke, I questioned her choice of employment.
