First Responder on Call

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  If he looks down...

  Thankfully, a moment later, he stepped out of view. His voice, though, remained close.

  “How long?” he asked. “Yeah, okay. Try to cut it to ten if you can.” He paused. “Okay. Once you’ve done that, can you do me another favor? Look up a guy named Remo. Hospital employee, I think.” There was a second pause, this one longer. “I admit that it’s a little vague, but how many Remos do you think there are hanging around here?” Another pause. “No. Call it instinct. If it doesn’t pan out, it doesn’t pan out. But I didn’t come this far because I’m in the habit of making mistakes.”

  Just like he hadn’t issued a greeting at the beginning of the call, Teller also didn’t officially sign off. But after his last statement, silence hung in the air long enough for Celia to conclude that he’d ended the call. And a few moments later, the thump of his feet on the linoleum, followed by the door creaking shut, signaled that the man had finally left the room. Relieved, Celia closed her eyes. She didn’t dare move too early and risk bringing Teller back. But she did let herself relax as much as the small space allowed, and when she felt Remo’s arms tighten in a reassuring hug, most of the pressure in her chest released. She counted off ten somewhat normal breaths, then slid out from the small place and extended her hand to help pry Remo’s big body free.

  “Ten minutes until the cleanup guys get here,” she whispered as she gripped the edge of the desk and pulled herself to her feet. “Do you think that’s long enough to...”

  Her words died off, and her heart seized. Teller stood at the closed door, a wickedly self-satisfied smile on his face, and his gun pointed in their direction.

  * * *

  When Celia stopped speaking and froze with her eyes fixed forward, Remo was puzzled only momentarily before quickly coming to the sole logical conclusion. Teller’s exit had been a ruse.

  Remo cursed himself for assuming the best, and he jumped up from his position on the ground with the intention of shielding Celia from harm. His cramped muscles screamed a protest, though, and before he could properly position himself, he stumbled. The awkward movement had one benefit—it drew the armed man’s attention. Teller swung his way instead of Celia’s, his expression dark.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice laced with assurance that he’d be obeyed. “Put your hands on your head, and I’ll—”

  Teller’s words were cut off as something—a heavy-looking, old-fashioned desk phone, Remo realized—came flying at him. It hit the other man hard enough to make his head snap to the side, and before he could recover, Celia darted around the desk and knocked into his gut, shoulder first. As Teller stumbled, Celia then lifted her elbow and jabbed up toward his throat.

  Remo was sure the moves had a practiced look, but he didn’t take the time to wonder where she’d learned them. He threw himself into the fray instead. Or tried to. His intervention turned out to be unnecessary. Celia’s lightning-quick maneuvers had sent the already off balance gunman toppling over. Before Remo could deliver a single blow, Teller’s temple hit the corner of the desk. The weapon dropped from his hand, he let out a groan, then collapsed in an unmoving heap on the ground.

  Celia immediately sprang toward the gun, snagged it from the floor, and quickly—almost expertly—tucked it into her waistband. Then, with her chest heaving with exertion, she lifted her eyes and met Remo’s gaze.

  “I think we’re down to T-minus eight minutes,” she breathed, and held out her hand. “Assuming Teller’s cleanup crew are on the ball.”

  Remo nodded, then clasped her fingers and started to let her tug him out the door, but paused as a thought occurred to him.

  “Hang on,” he said.

  “T-minus seven and a half minutes,” Celia warned.

  “Give me ten seconds,” he replied.

  He freed himself from her warm grasp before she could argue, then stepped back into the room and moved toward the unconscious man. Quickly, he knelt and gave the guy a rushed pat down. His search came to fruition in the form of a leather wallet, which he tugged out of Teller’s lapel pocket.

  “Three more seconds,” Celia called softly. “Hurry, Remo.”

  “Hurrying,” he called back.

  He wanted to know more about who Teller was, but he also wanted to get out of the hospital in one piece. So he stood up and shoved the procured ID into his own pocket without looking, then turned back to Celia. But once again, he saw a reason to delay. A red splotch a little bigger than a quarter had appeared on Celia’s pants. He knew without checking that her stitches had to have come loose.

  Dammit.

  She followed his concerned gaze, then let out a little gasp. But she also immediately lifted her eyes and shook her head.

  “We don’t have time to worry about it,” she said.

  “We don’t have the luxury of not worrying about it. You won’t be any good to your son if you bleed out, and we have to go past the room where we left the first aid kit, anyway. Come on.”

  Ignoring her attempt to protest, he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her up the hall to the room where they’d first taken cover from Teller. There, he paused, kissed her lightly, and sprinted through the door. He grabbed the bag from the gurney, then hurried back out again.

  “See?” he said. “Future crisis averted, and still T-minus six minutes.”

  Celia rolled her eyes. “Less talking, more running for our lives.”

  “Happy to oblige.”

  This time it was she who did the hand-grabbing, tugging him to the stairwell, then opening the door wide so that they could step through together. As they started up the first flight of stairs, Remo expected to see some sign of strain on her part. He was ready to swoop in and carry her up if need be, but she didn’t seem affected by the reopened wound. She took the steps as easily as he did. But when they’d nearly reached the first-floor landing, a new problem presented itself. From above them—maybe two or three levels up—a door whooshed open, and they both went still as two men’s voices filtered down.

  “You ever get tired of doing his dirty work?” said Man One.

  Man Two laughed. “It’s all dirty work. That’s why we get the pay upgrade.”

  That was all Remo stopped long enough to hear. Silently, he pointed at the door on the first-floor landing. Celia nodded back. They took the final two steps, and Remo reached out and gave the door handle as gentle a tug as he could. A rush of air still filled the stairwell, and he tensed, ready to run out at full speed if necessary. Thankfully, the men above were too involved in their own debate to notice. Breathing out, Remo gestured for Celia to go first. He tossed a final glance up—the men still hadn’t come into sight yet—then followed her through the door. Then stopped abruptly at the chaos all around them.

  It was just a hallway, but it was filled to capacity. Beds lined the walls, people sat in randomly placed chairs, and medical personnel swirled through it all.

  “What’s going on?” Celia asked, her voice low.

  “This is the emergency overflow area. Nobody in or out, so they can’t discharge people, and anyone who needed to be admitted might’ve been delayed. Busy night in the ER, and it could easily pile up like this,” he explained, then added, “At least the crowd will help keep us hidden. Speaking of which...we should get moving. Make our way to another set of stairs and get up to that second floor walkway so we can get out before things settle down.”

  He started to walk, but Celia didn’t move when he did, and their hands slid apart. He turned to face her, surprised that she no longer seemed to be in a rush. Her expression was pained, and concern flooded in.

  “What’s wrong?” Remo asked. “Is it your leg?”

  “No, not that. It’s just such a waste. Of resources. Of time. All these people...stuck here and scared and probably not really knowing what’s going on. Some of them are probably really sick, or hurt, too. And I don’t
like it one bit.” She shook her head. “Whoever Teller is, I hope he gets caught and has to answer for this, just as much as he has to answer for Elm’s murder.”

  Remo studied her for a moment. There was more than a hint of vehemence in her voice, and he couldn’t help but wonder if it was completely related to the current situation, or if it had something to do with the bits of her past she couldn’t remember. He opened his mouth to ask, but stopped abruptly as he remembered that he had at least a partial answer to her concerns. Right in his pocket, in fact.

  “Let’s find somewhere a little quieter,” he said. “We can have a quick look at his ID and check that leg of yours before we go.”

  “His ID?” Celia replied. “What do you mean?”

  He patted the spot where he’d stored it. “In here. What did you think I went back for?”

  “I don’t know?” She said it like a question. “But...you stole his wallet?”

  She sounded so incredulous that Remo couldn’t stop a chuckle from escaping his lips. “You’re worried about me, stealing from Teller?”

  Her cheeks went a little pink. “No.”

  “Liar,” he teased. “Come on. I’ll find us a spot.”

  She sighed, but let him take her hand and lead her through the crowd. Remo made sure to walk with purpose so that no one would look twice at them as they passed. But it wasn’t until they were clear of the overflow area and halfway there that he realized his goal wasn’t just a random, more secluded space. He had a specific destination in mind.

  Chapter 12

  A few quick turns took them away from the stiflingly busy emergency overflow hall—there was no sense in pretending it was a room of any sort—and they were alone. A few more turns, and they were standing in front of an unmarked door.

  Celia turned her head to look at Remo, and was surprised to see that he had his free hand on the back of his neck and a strange expression on his face. Not quite sheepish. Not quite embarrassed. Something else. Something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. And when he spoke, his voice had a matching timbre. A little rough, a little awkward. A little indefinable.

  “So...” he said, gesturing toward the door. “This is it.”

  “This is it?” Celia echoed, puzzled by the fact that he seemed to have chosen somewhere specific rather than just a promised quiet spot.

  She eyed the door again. It was literally just plain. The same tan color as the walls. A brushed steel handle. Nothing else. She turned back to Remo. And then it struck her. His look was boyish and shy. It was the same expression her son got on his face when he wanted to show Celia something he was kind of proud of, but not utterly confident in. And she almost gasped.

  “This is it,” she repeated, but this time, she knew what the words meant—this room was the one where he and his mother had hidden out.

  Remo nodded, then released her hand and twisted the handle. The door opened easily, and an automatic light flickered on overhead, revealing a room as nondescript as the exterior. There was a bunk bed—no sheets or pillows—and a sink. The walls were beige, and devoid of decoration. And it wasn’t any bigger than a closet.

  Celia’s throat constricted, and time seemed to slow as she thought about what it would be like to live in the space. It was all too easy to relate to. She could almost feel the quiet desperation. The circumstances that would drive Wendy DeLuca to see this tiny room as a haven rather than as a trap. And as she stood on the threshold, not quite ready to step inside, she realized it was more than empathy. If she hadn’t chosen to break free when she did, her own life—hers and Xavier’s—might’ve paralleled this exact trajectory.

  She could see her son, sitting on the top bunk with his game console in his hand.

  She could picture herself, lying awake at night, fearing that any moment she’d be caught and flung back out into the world.

  Not just the world, she thought. Back at the mercy of the man from my recurring dream. Back into my nightmare.

  Because he was real. Quite abruptly, she knew it. He was Xavier’s father, and now she could picture his face.

  A salt-and-pepper-haired man with dark eyes and deceptively friendly crinkles around his lids. The friendliness masked his true temperament. And his quick fists. Celia wished the last bit didn’t come to mind so vividly. But it made her understand why her mind sought to block it out. Who would want to remember the way those fingers and their cruelty felt? What lesson did it serve?

  Just a warning to outrun his smooth voice and expensive suits.

  Feeling light-headed and nauseous, Celia braced herself against the door frame. And Remo immediately came toward her, his shy little-boy side gone and his confident paramedic side taking its place.

  “Here,” he said, guiding her into the small room. “Sit down.”

  Celia sank gratefully onto the lower bunk, and even more gratefully leaned against Remo when he joined her. He slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her closer, supporting her until her head cleared and she straightened up again.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he replied. “I’m just not sure if I should hope that you’re not woozy from blood loss, or if I should worry that it’s something worse.”

  “I don’t think it’s blood loss. My leg feels okay.”

  “I should still probably take a look.” He smiled. “And this isn’t some clever ploy to get your pants off, either.”

  Celia’s face warmed, but she stood up and loosened the drawstring on the borrowed scrubs anyway, then pulled them down like it didn’t bother her. As if Remo—the man who’d given her the best kisses she’d ever had—wasn’t about to get up close and personal with her bare skin for a decidedly unsexy reason. But as he took charge, his expertise quickly wiped away any bit of awkwardness. In moments, he had her lying flat on her back, the pants off completely, and the first aid supplies out.

  “So...” Remo said, as he dabbed the wound with an antiseptic. “You wanna talk about it?”

  Celia exhaled at the slight sting. “You caught that, huh?”

  He gave a small shrug. “I’m well acquainted with what fainting from physical trauma looks like. Your particular shade of pale seemed different.”

  “I wasn’t going to faint,” she protested. “But you’re right about it being mental. I remembered something about Xavier’s dad, and it overwhelmed me for a second.”

  “His name?” Remo asked hopefully, as he continued with his attention to the cut.

  She shook her head. “No. Just the way he looks.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He’s older than I am. Maybe early to midforties? And he looks like the kind of man who people like, if that makes sense.”

  “Puts on a good front.”

  “Yes. Exactly that. And well-dressed, too. So maybe he has money?”

  “Or wants people to think he does,” Remo suggested.

  Celia considered it for a moment, then shook her head again. “I don’t know why, but I don’t think so. I can picture his hands.” She closed her eyes to do it, then opened them with a shiver. “They’re manicured. And not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s kind of an indulgence, isn’t it?”

  “A man can’t have nice hands?” Remo replied, then leaned back and lifted his own up and held them a couple feet from her face.

  Celia could see that they were clean and well-groomed. His nails were short, and there was no sign of dirt anywhere. But it wasn’t the same. Celia reached up and grabbed his fingers, running her thumbs over his nails.

  “You’ve got cuticles,” she told him.

  He raised an eyebrow. “People generally do.”

  “It’s often one of the first things to go during a manicure. And he doesn’t have any. Plus, his nails are too perfect.” She sighed. “I know that’s not very helpful.”

  “Of course
it is. We’ll just go around demanding to see everyone’s hands.” Remo winked.

  “Ha-ha.”

  “But seriously. It is good. Your memories are coming back.” He pulled his hands free and gave one of her bare knees a squeeze. “And in more good news, your leg is looking okay.”

  “Does that mean I’m not dying of blood loss?”

  “Nope. It was just a loose stitch on one end. Might not even have bled at all if we weren’t so busy orchestrating all the narrow escapes. But I cleaned you up, put on a bit of tape stitch, and you’re good to go. So if you’re done sitting around in your underwear...” He trailed off with a cheeky grin.

  Celia felt the blush creep back up as the reality of their current pose set in again. She was still lying down, the T-shirt she wore barely covering her rear end. Remo was seated beside her, his hip resting against her thigh. And in spite of the patchy memory issue, Celia was sure it’d been a very long time since she’d been this close to naked with a man.

  She cleared her throat and shot for sounding as casual as possible. “Do you, uh...have the pants in question?”

  His grin didn’t fade in the slightest as he reached across her lap, snagged her folded-up scrubs, then held them out. “Here. I won’t even watch you put them on.”

  “So helpful,” she muttered, her cheeks not cooling in the slightest, even when Remo dutifully stood up and turned away as he’d said he would.

  Trying to move in a not-frantic, not-horrifically-embarrassed way, Celia swung her legs over the bed and sat up and shook out the pants. There was something strangely sexy about the soft, crinkly sound of getting redressed. Something intimate. And it was far too loud, and far too obvious in the small space, and Celia felt a sudden need to say something to cover it up.

  “You know what?” she said. “I’m not actually convinced that getting my memory back is what I’d call a ‘good’ thing.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard someone say that knowledge is power?” he replied.