Intensive Care

by Jessica Andersen

  She nodded and allowed herself to be drawn into the penthouse, barely registering the opulent tiling and the understated elegance of the open, airy floor plan. “You hurt me this morning, Cage. What you did really hurt. You should’ve trusted me more than that.”

  He nodded, and his eyes darkened to coals. “I know, and I’m sorry. But given the same information, I’d probably do it again, Ripley. My job is to protect the patients from the hospitals.”

  “There’s that honesty,” she murmured, and stepped forward in the tiled hallway to cup his cheek in her scratched palm. “I admire you for it, even when it makes me crazy.” She touched her lips to his and smiled. “I could use a friend, Zack.”

  On a shuddering sigh, he dropped his forehead to rest on hers. Close up, his eyes were tired, but clear. “I could use one of those, too, Ripley.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m glad you came here. Can I offer you a guest room?”

  She didn’t want a guest room. She wanted him. She wanted to feel alive for the night. Feel safe, as though the rest of the world couldn’t get her. And she knew she’d find that security in his arms. She slid her arms around his warm, bare waist, and noticed that when he returned the embrace, he winced. “What happened to your shoulder?”

  “An old injury flaring up, that’s all.”

  She kissed the place where the dusky hair covering his chest gave way to the smooth, tight skin of his sore shoulder and touched her lips to the pale white lines that spoke of old surgeries. “Because you saved me from the motorcycle.”

  “In part.” His breath hitched when she splayed her hand flat across his stomach and kissed his shoulder again. “Ripley…” His voice was a warning growl. “About that guest room.”

  “Do you believe in happily for a while, Zack?”

  “In what?” She could see the flutter of his heartbeat in the pulse at his neck, and felt an answering throb deep within.

  She shook her head. “Never mind. And don’t bother with the guest room. We can share.”

  As though he’d been waiting for permission, his mouth swept down to settle against hers. Ripley slid into the kiss on a sigh and wished the rest of the world to the devil as she wound her arms around his neck and held on tight. Who cared about happily ever after?

  She was happy right now.

  IN THE PREDAWN darkness, Cage rolled onto his bad shoulder and woke with a groan. Then he realized he wasn’t alone in the big bed and he lay back for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts.

  Just twenty-four hours earlier, he’d woken up wrapped around Ripley following a night so intense he had yet to fully process it, or what it might mean. Now, a day later, they were once again lying together, but it wasn’t the same. She was turned away from him, curled in a motionless ball that shut the rest of the world out. Though they had loved each other during the night, her needs had possessed a sharp, almost ferocious edge as if she was storing the sensations away for remembering once it was over.

  And it would be over soon. Cage could feel the pieces gathering momentum as they rushed to fit together into a whole pattern. The killer had struck twice since his arrival, and the motorcycle attack showed a growing boldness that scared him.

  Ripley murmured in her sleep, rolled over and splayed her hand across his bare stomach with an acceptance that was foreign to her waking state. He reached down and brushed a strand of dark hair away from her face, wondering what would become of them when this was over.

  Just as Heather’s death had fundamentally changed him, Cage worried that this job might mark him as well. And in the dark before dawn, he was afraid he might not have the strength to pick up the pieces and rebuild himself again. He would leave Boston General when the Radiation Safety department was back on track and seek out another struggling hospital, another place where patients’ lives were being threatened.

  But this time when he left, he’d be leaving a piece of himself behind.

  When he slid from the bed, Ripley mumbled a protest but didn’t wake. He dressed quietly and assuaged the spark of guilt with a note left on his side of the bed, arranging to meet her at the hospital café for breakfast.

  It should have been enough, but as he jogged up the main steps of Boston General, Cage still felt as though he’d taken the coward’s way out in not waking her to say goodbye.

  She deserved better. But then again, that’s why he held himself away. She deserved a whole man, one who would trust her and love her. Protect her.

  “Why, Mr. Cage! You’re here early this morning, aren’t you?”

  The feminine voice knocked Cage out of his stupor, and he stared down at the volunteer. “I could say the same for you, Belle. Are you on your way to see Milo?” He knew that the boy was a special favorite of hers.

  “Yes, I’m on my way now. His parents missed their visit again, poor thing. But he’s so looking forward to the field trip today.”

  “Field trip?” Cage asked blankly.

  Belle nodded. “Oh, yes. Today is Boston General’s day to use the Tammy Fund’s box behind the Boston dugout.” Her brows drew together. “I thought Milo said you were going with them?”

  Cage vaguely remembered the boy asking him to the ballgame. He remembered telling the kid he wasn’t going, but at the time it hadn’t seemed important. It wouldn’t be important now except… “Will Dr. Davis be going?”

  “But of course! She’s the main chaperone!”

  And he’d bet his life that there’d be no talking her out of it. The likelihood was that this would be one of the last few times she’d see her patients. Cage just didn’t see how they could protect her department from being shut down once the murders came to light. So he nodded. “Then yes, I’ll be going to the ballgame.”

  He hadn’t been near a ballpark in five years, ever since Heather had called him at a Tammy Fund benefit to tell him that she wasn’t feeling well.

  He’d told the organizers to take a message. The guilt still sickened him. If he’d gotten the message sooner, gotten home sooner…Heather would still be dead. She’d been dead the moment the doctors had strapped her to the table beneath the linear accelerator and overdosed her with radiation measured by a faulty program.

  Belle dimpled at his response. “Milo will be so pleased. Well, I’ll be off then.” And she was gone before he had a chance to ask why the heck she was there at 6:00 a.m.

  Ripley had once said she thought Belle was lonely. The volunteer’s mother had died years ago, and her father had passed away just recently. She seemed to need the patients as much as they needed her. Perhaps more.

  Cage made it halfway to the Rad Safety office before another voice hailed him. “Hey, boss. You couldn’t sleep either, huh?”

  Whistler was looking cheerful this morning, Cage noted while wondering whether he was the only hospital employee who thought arriving before 9:00 a.m. on a Monday was ambitious. Then he thought, Whistler. Had he been one of the rad techs in the hall that day?

  They walked to the office together, and as he held the door for the other man, Cage said, “Hey, do you remember when Dixon found those nukes in the R-ONC broom closet?”

  Whistler nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Who else was in the hallway?”

  The young tech cocked his head, considering. “Me and Hiram. Jonesy, too, I think, and a couple of nurses.”

  Cage prodded, “Which nurses?”

  “Lenore from Neonatal Intensive Care, and…I think it was the short one who hangs around with your girlfriend all the time. Why?”

  Tansy. Cage identified the second nurse—she was a doctor, but George might not make the distinction—even as his mind balked at the term girlfriend. Grown men did not have girlfriends. They had…lovers. Fiancées. Wives. Families.

  He clenched his jaw at the spear of regret. He’d done all that. Now he was doing something else. He was keeping the hospitals safe for their patients. It was a higher calling than family, though he was doing it for the family he’d lost.

  For the children h
e would never have.

  He turned away from Whistler without answering, needing to be alone for a moment. But when he opened the door to his office, the glint of crimson and crystal stopped him, as did the picture from the D page of the Boston General staff directory, slashed and stained red. A collapsed bag of plasma in the trash gave mute testimony that the red liquid was just what it looked like.

  Blood.

  Below Ripley’s shredded picture, trailing off onto the blotter, words were scrawled in the blood.

  Do not Interfere With the Lord’s Work.

  The obscene message and the salty smell turned Cage’s stomach. “Damn it! Enough already! Who the hell are you? Come out, you coward. Show yourself!”

  “Boss? Everything okay?” Whistler stuck his head around the door, and Cage shifted to block the sight of his desk without thinking.

  “Everything’s fine. I’ll be out in a moment.” Was that a gleam of satisfaction in the young man’s eye? Cage couldn’t be sure anymore. He didn’t know who to trust except himself, and that even seemed fuzzy at times.

  Ripley. The monster was fixated on Ripley. But who the hell was the monster? Someone in the hospital, obviously. Someone with access to Rad Safety and R-ONC.

  Cage snatched up the items and was on his way to Leo’s office before he realized it wasn’t even seven in the morning. Leo, for one, wouldn’t be in for hours. Cage’s stomach roiled with anger and fear. Ripley was a target. They’d known it all along, but the note and the picture brought the problem into sharp relief. Ripley was in danger, and it was up to him to figure out who was threatening her.

  He paused when he realized the café was open, and the gift shop. He reversed direction and took the stairs down to the atrium two at a time. The salesclerk in the gift shop jumped when he slapped his hand down on the counter and showed her the broken glass rose stem he’d found on his desk beside a bloodied picture of the woman he’d come to care for against his better judgment.

  “Tell me who in this hospital has bought one of these since Friday. And tell me quick.”

  HALF ASLEEP, Ripley stared stupidly at her cell phone, which was speaking to her with her mother’s voice. “Darling, where are you? We were worried.”

  “Mother?” What was her mother doing on the phone?

  Ripley glanced around and realized that the more pertinent question was where the hell had she slept? Then she remembered. Ida Mae Harris. Janice Cooper. Cage. She’d slept at his place and they’d made love. Now it was morning and he was gone.

  “I’m fine, Mother,” she answered automatically while her sleepy eyes scanned the note she’d found beside her. She supposed she should be grateful that he’d left the note, but the annoyance was quick and sharp. Apparently she only rated cuddling once.

  “Where are you?” Eleanor repeated, “We were worried.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I’m fine.” Ripley wondered whether that was the royal “we” or whether her mother and father were actually doing something together for a change, even if it was worrying about their only child. “Tell Father I will not be working at his practice, and do not come to the hospital to visit me, okay?”

  Though she and her parents had fought over the years, Ripley couldn’t stand the thought of either of them being hurt by the killer stalking her at Boston General. Her father might not want to believe in the danger, but she’d be damned if she’d let him be harmed.

  Eleanor sighed. “We really do need to talk to you, dear. When can you come to the house?”

  “Not today, Mother. Maybe tomorrow. I have to go now. Bye.” Ripley disconnected quickly, before the headache got any worse.

  Her parents were difficult enough separately. But together? She shuddered. That was one thing she couldn’t deal with right now. She didn’t want to speak with them yet, and she didn’t want to worry for their safety. She glanced down at the note in her hand again, thinking that Zachary Cage was another thing she’d rather not deal with, as were Leo Gabney, Boston General and the murderer stalking her.

  The thought brought a shiver of terror and a sting of pain to her knees, where she’d fallen to the gutter after Cage had saved her yet again.

  Thoughtfully, fearfully, she looked around the bedroom and took solace from the solid masculinity of the furnishings and the half-packed boxes around the room. Cage’s penthouse felt safe. There were locks on the windows and guards downstairs. She could stay up here forever and be protected.

  Then she thought of Mr. Harris’s eyes when he’d asked why Ida Mae died, and she knew avoidance wasn’t an option. Gritting her teeth, Ripley got out of bed and faced the day. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something ominous on the horizon.

  She drove to her apartment to shower, resenting the nerves that had her looking over her shoulder and dreading the ring of the phone. She scrubbed her body hard, trying to wash away the weakness before she saw Cage again. It probably would have been best if she’d stayed away last night, but she hadn’t been able to deny herself the anchoring stability of his presence, at odds with the hot, greedy rush of need he brought out in her.

  “That’s all well and good,” she told herself, “Just don’t think you can depend on him. He showed his true colors yesterday morning.” But she dried her hair quickly and jumped into fresh clothing, suddenly in a hurry to reach Boston General, though she couldn’t have said why the urgency tapped in her chest. Get to the hospital, it said, or perhaps, get out of the apartment. She wasn’t sure which, but she was on the road to Boston General moments later when her pager buzzed. She checked the display and felt a jolt of adrenaline at the message.

  Café. Now.

  She hit the lot way too fast and parked. Sprinting across the tarmac and jogging through the atrium left her little breath, but Cage wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He met her by the café doors, handed her an enormous carry-out cup and jerked his head up the stairs. “Come on.”

  “Good morning to you, too,” she muttered, though she had promised herself to let it go. “Yes, I slept fine, thank you, except for the part about waking up alone.”

  Black eyes glanced back. “I left a note.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  He turned away after a moment of silence, and shrugged his left shoulder while the right one hung awkwardly. Apparently the “old injury” was more severe than he’d let on. “Do you care where we’re going, or are you enjoying your snit?”

  “Where. Are. We. Going?” Ripley managed between clenched teeth, wondering why it was so difficult for her to keep things casual between them. Why did she keep wanting more from him at the same time that she wanted to shove it away with both hands?

  “Rad Safety,” he replied, as though that wasn’t obvious from the direction they were walking. “We have a meeting.”

  “With?”

  “A medically trained radiation worker who bought three glass roses the day after you were attacked.” He kicked open the door to Rad Safety and Ripley followed close at his heels, wanting to see the young man’s face when Cage said with deadly steel in his voice, “Hello, Whistler.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “You paged me, boss?” Was Whistler’s innocent expression feigned or real? Cage wasn’t sure, just as he wasn’t sure how to handle Ripley’s volatile mood.

  He’d never had to work particularly hard to keep Heather happy. As long as the money kept coming and she had her spot in the wives’ box, she was content.

  Somehow, Cage doubted Ripley would be that easy. And what could he offer her now, anyway? Either a long-distance relationship or a string of temporary homes while he continued moving from hospital to hospital, cleaning up other people’s messes and trying to keep a few more wives and mothers alive.

  “Boss?” Whistler’s voice broke in even as Cage grappled with the fact that somewhere along the line he’d begun to think of his and Ripley’s time together as a relationship. A doomed one, perhaps, but a relationship nonetheless. “You emergency-paged me?”

&nb
sp; “Cage?” Ripley poked him in his good shoulder. “Hello?”

  “Of course, sorry.” Cage sat down and waved her to a chair.

  Whistler glanced between the two of them. “This isn’t an emergency, is it, boss? What’s going on, are you firing me?” He spread his hands. “I know maybe I haven’t been the friendliest, but I can try harder. I liked Dixon, you know? He kept things fun, and we didn’t have to work as hard as you’re making us.”

  Ignoring that, Cage reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the broken crystal rose stem he’d found on his desk. The anger was quick and fierce. Nobody threatened his woman. Nobody. “What can you tell me about this, Whistler?”

  Ripley sucked in a breath and touched her own pocket, where Cage knew she carried the stem he’d handed her the first time they met. He hoped it meant something that she kept the thing.

  “It’s broken,” the young man observed, then his eyes sharpened. “Hey, that’s from one of those glass roses! Where’d you get that? I bought three of them from the gift shop the other day! My girlfriend collects glass flowers, you know? It’s our third anniversary next weekend and I’m going to tuck them into a bouquet of real roses as a surprise.”

  That sounded…believable. Cage frowned, disappointment warring with relief. He wanted to find the killer, but he didn’t want it to be Whistler. The kid was Rad Safety. He was one of the good guys. “Where are the roses you bought?”

  Whistler jerked his head toward the Rad Safety break room. “In my locker, wrapped in a set of scrubs to keep them safe. Why?”

  Ripley quickly asked, “What made you leave medical school?”

  Whistler blinked in surprise before answering, “My father’s parish ran out of money just about the same time my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. Insurance wouldn’t cover the treatments, so I quit school and worked two jobs to keep the family going.” The boy glanced down at his hands. “She was only fifty-two when she died. My dad never really got over it, you know? If she’d just gotten better treatment…”