But the other nurse wouldn't meet her eyes.
Misgiving shivered up Nell's spine.
Don't overreact, she told herself. This was Billie, after all, who loved her nephew and fought for every one of her patients. Billie, who teased Nell about her lack of a love life and came running when she cracked her head on the floor. Billie, who this afternoon had trashed the licensing board's decision to revoke Nell's DEA authorization. Billie wouldn't hurt her.
On the other hand, the two guys with her looked as if they might.
Nell eased another step closer to the counter, her fatigue fading as adrenaline kicked in. Her brain started processing details, descriptions. One of the men was big and one was little. Well, skinny. The big one had a bandana tied around his head. The skinny one had three dots tattooed at the corner of his eye and a sneer.
"Who's the bitch?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter," Billie said. "She isn't staying."
A fist squeezed Nell's heart. Any hope she had that her friend was an unwilling accomplice snuffed out.
"Yeah, she is." He raised his arm. Oh God, he was holding a gun, a stubby black handgun, no compensation issues for this guy… Casually, he pointed it at her, which had the unpleasant effect of making it look much larger. "Don't move."
She froze, still a yard away from the panic button, her palms sweating with fear, her heart pounding with betrayal.
"She Dolan?"
Billie didn't answer.
"I asked you." Skinny's voice cracked like a gunshot. "Is she Dolan?"
Nell swallowed her heart, which had lodged in her throat. "What does it matter? What do you want?"
"If you're Dolan, you can write more prescriptions. Real ones."
"She can't," Billie said. "I told you that won't work anymore."
He rounded on her, his movements jerky. "You told me a lot of things. Like how nobody would be here. You about as dumb and useless as your crack-whore sister."
Nell's mind worked frantically, trying to make sense of an unthinkable situation. Billie's sister? Trevor's mother. This must be the lame-ass boyfriend, the one Billie always spoke of with such scorn. Why would she help him? For her sister's sake? For Trevor's?
Nell edged closer to the counter, feeling with her foot for the button on the floor.
Skinny pinned her with a look. "You got keys?" Nell's mouth went dry. He wanted the keys to the pharmacy.
"You don't need her keys," Billie said sharply, drawing his attention. "You're going to make it look like a break-in, you said. You don't need her."
He smiled, a wide, flat smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Wrong. Now that I've got her, I don't need you."
Nell watched in disbelief as he straightened his arm. The arm with the gun.
Billie set her hands on her hips. "You have got to be kidding."
He shot her. The bullet took her high in the chest, and her body crashed back into a row of patient chairs.
Nell gasped. Dropping under the counter's protective overhang, she smacked her palm as hard as she could on the panic button. She was shaking. Billie, my God, Billie…
"Get her," ordered Skinny.
Crawling on her hands and knees, Nell scrambled to the nurses' station. Her office. If she could make it to her office, she had a chance. The door locked.
They'd have to shoot it open. But, oh, Billie was lying bleeding on the waiting-room floor…
Big Guy launched himself at the patient registration desk, straight across the counter. Nell lurched to her feet. She ran three steps before he grabbed a handful of her hair. Yanked. Her neck jerked back. Her head exploded. Releasing his grip on her hair, he threw her into the wall. She bounced off cinder block and rolled into the doorway of Exam One.
White hot pain, shot through with colors, blinded her. She couldn't get up, couldn't think, couldn't breathe…
Billie. Billie couldn't breathe either.
Nell started to crawl again.
A boot came down hard on her back, squashing her to the floor like a cockroach. She grunted as the breath whooshed out of her lungs.
"Where's the keys?" a voice demanded.
She couldn't tell whose. Didn't care. Her brain was groggy. Her jaw was out of whack. Her cheek mashed against the cold linoleum. She couldn't have answered if she wanted to.
The boot lifted. A hand tangled in the coat bunched over her back—not her hair, she was grateful not to be hauled up by her hair—and spun her around. The overhead light jumped on. Nell closed her eyes in pain and protest.
He shoved his face into hers. The little black dots swung up and down, gang symbols for mi vida loca, my crazy life.
He asked again, "Where are the damn keys?"
Nell licked her lips. "I don't know."
Bam. He backhanded her into the padded examination table. She clung to it so she wouldn't slide to the floor, tasting blood in her mouth from a cut inside her cheek.
How long before the police responded to the panic alarm? How long until Billie bled out and died? Nell could hear her friend's breathing, grunting shallow rasps as her chest filled with blood.
Unless that was her own breathing. It was hard to tell.
"Get me the keys," Skinny said, his voice low with menace.
He could have them. She could feel their jagged edges in her lab-coat pocket, poking into her stomach as she sprawled across the table.
Who did she think she was protecting, anyway? The clinic? The public? Her friendly neighborhood drug addicts? Why should she give a damn about them, when her head felt split in two and her jaw throbbed and her ribs ached and Billie, her friend who had betrayed her, lay bleeding on the waiting-room floor?
Nell wedged a hand under her lab coat. Her fingers closed over the keys.
I never thought you were a quitter.
"Get them yourself," she spat, and raised herself on her elbows and dropped the keys into the biohazard bag on the wall.
Skinny's eyes were flat and cold. "You're gonna be real sorry you did that," he promised.
She bet.
She opened her mouth to scream.
"Hey, baby." She knew that voice, that deep, smoke-roughened voice with its under note of humor, now strangely slurred. "Where's the party?"
A great surge of relief and terror swept over her.
"Joe!" she yelled. "Get the hell out of here!" Skinny swore and dragged her to the door to see outside.
She sobbed once. Oh God. Oh, no. Not Joe.
He was framed by the opening above the registration desk, standing just inside the entrance, grinning at her sheepishly.
"Now, honey, don't be mad," he said, shuffling forward.
A different fear hollowed Nell's chest. A different prayer spun in her brain. He wasn't… He hadn't…
Joe peered at her, bemused, totally ignoring Billie's body, crumpled in the shadows. "It was only a couple of drinks," he said plaintively.
Nell's face went numb. Her heart went cold.
He was and he had.
She was devastated. Betrayed. Bereft.
You are nothing at all like my ex-husband, she had said.
And she'd believed it. Believed in him.
Joe smiled at her gently, swaying on his feet.
"Get rid of him," Skinny ordered.
Bandana man lumbered through the door between the pharmacy and patient checkout.
"Whoa, big fella," Joe greeted him cheerfully, but Nell didn't hear any more, because Skinny dragged her back into Exam One.
"Joe, run!" she screamed, but he couldn't run. He was lame and he was drunk. Frantic, she cursed and kicked and cried.
Her captor lifted his gun. Leveled it. Even though her heart was broken, even though her life was over, Nell fought to free herself from his grip on her elbow.
But he wasn't aiming at her. Pointing the gun at the biohazard bag on the wall, he fired.
The report echoed off the walls. Nell shrieked and cowered. The stench of cordite and melted plastic filled the room.
Skin
ny pointed his gun at the floor, where the keys gleamed in a mess of discarded swabs and used syringes, rusty with blood and black with burn residue.
"Pick them up," he ordered. "Or your boyfriend's next."
Joe.
Defeated, Nell dropped to her knees. Trembling with fear and fury, she raked through the filthy gauze and blasted plastic. Her heart shook with pity and a terrible loss.
He was going to shoot Joe anyway. He was going to shoot them both.
Nell expected the second blast. Was braced for it. Even so, she gasped and jumped at the sound of the shot, so loud, so close.
Loud enough it almost covered the shout, "Halt. Police."
She twisted as Skinny toppled forward, eyes wide, a neat round hole in his back.
She looked up, over his fallen body. In the doorway, Mike Reilly lowered his gun. His face was white and sheened with sweat. His expression was grim.
Nell realized he hadn't given her attacker any time to respond, any chance to surrender. She watched the blood pool under the body on her examining-room floor and was glad.
And then instinct and training kicked in, and she scrambled forward on her knees, checking his neck for a pulse. It was there, thready, beating. He was alive. She grabbed latex gloves and a stack of absorbent pads from a supply drawer.
"Nell? Are you okay?" Mike asked.
"Fine," Nell snapped over her shoulder. She grappled with the gloves, tugged and rolled her scrawny assailant onto his side. He groaned, his eyes rolling up. He had a gaping hole in his shoulder, and she thought his scapula was broken.
"Find Joe," she said urgently. "And Billie. There's a man in the waiting room and he's got Joe."
"No, he doesn't." Mike holstered his weapon. Nell wadded padding into the exit wound and applied pressure, struggling to staunch the flow of blood. "Tom came in the front while I went around back. Joe was supposed to wait for our backup, but the damn fool wouldn't stay put. We were almost in position when we heard the shot."
Nell raised her head, distracted from her fight to save the life of the man who had tried to kill her. "How is he?"
"Joe? He's down. But—"
Down? Her heart squeezed. She threw another pair of gloves at Mike, hitting him at the waist. She wasn't exposing Joe's little brother to HIV. "Get these on and get pressure on this shoulder. I have to check on Joe and Billie."
Adrenaline surged, lifting her like a great swell over pain and past panic. She didn't think. She reacted the way she had been trained to do. Loading her arms with more pads, more gloves—was it too late? was she too late?—she stumbled toward the front room. As she pushed through the door, she heard the rising wail of sirens.
Joe slumped against one wall, legs straight out in front of him. Sitting. Conscious? Alive, anyway. The big thug was down and handcuffed on the floor. Beneath a broken line of chairs, Tom Dietz bent over Billie.
Just for a second, Nell wavered.
But she knew the principles of triage. The more serious injury got treated first. Always. She ran toward the line of chairs.
Billie was bad. A glance confirmed she needed fluids, oxygen, blankets, surgery and more help than Nell could provide. But before Nell could stagger to the acute-care room to grab an IV bag and a line, the door burst open and the blessed paramedics charged in and swarmed over the room. Two teams.
Nell sagged back out of their way as they jumped to their jobs, sending up a silent prayer of thanks to God and Tom Dietz's police radio.
Her legs shook. She was shaking all over, with shock and reaction. She needed to sit down. But not yet. Not yet. Peeling off her bloody gloves, she lurched across the room, clutching at seat backs for support, to where Joe slouched against the wall. A paramedic squatted beside him.
Joe's head tipped back. His eyes were closed. He looked like hell, his face the color of melted wax, his strong features slack with pain, and she loved him so much and resented him so much her heart was breaking in two.
Richard used to swear each time was the last time. If only she would take him back, he'd stay clean. If only she would trust him, he would never use again. Joe had been different. He'd never promised her anything. But she had believed in him to the bottom of her soul, and the betrayal of her hopes hurt more than the crack on her head.
As Nell reached them, the medic pushed up Joe's sleeve and pulled out a syringe.
"What are you giving him?" she asked more sharply than she intended.
Joe's eyes opened. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. She didn't want to see that sharp blue gaze clouded with alcohol, didn't want him to read he disappointment in her own eyes.
"Just something for the pain," the medic said. "Hey, is any of that blood you're wearing yours?"
Nell shook her head. "Give him Toradol. And check his blood alcohol level."
"Nell, it's okay," Joe said quietly.
She patted his arm, needing the reassurance of his warm, living body. But she still couldn't meet his eyes.
"Toradol is a nonnarcotic analgesic. And you have to be careful of drug interactions with alcohol."
"Fine. Toradol is fine," he said gently. "But I haven't been drinking. You don't have to worry about my alcohol level or anything else. Is any of that blood yours?"
"No." She didn't know. "I don't think so."
She couldn't think. She hardly dared to hope. If he wasn't drunk, then what was wrong with him? "Joe, when you came in…"
"I figured a stumbling drunk was less of a threat." His lids drifted shut. "I was right about the stumbling part."
"But… What happened to you?"
His mouth curved. "First they tore my legs off, and they threw them over there! Then they tore my chest out, and they threw—"
"No alcohol in his system," the medic said. "Is he delusional?"
Understanding bloomed in her chest, crowding the air from her lungs. "No, he thinks he's the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz," Nell snapped. "Joe!"
He opened his eyes. His blue gaze focused on her, bright with pain and fever. "No brain," he said. "But my heart is all yours."
She sobbed with guilt and relief and fear and a terrible joy. "Oh, Joe."
He reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. She fell back on her butt and cried like a baby, hugging their clasped hands to her chest.
Mike came up behind her and stood over them. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded. "You were supposed to wait outside."
"He decided to provide a diversion," Tom Dietz reported. "Waltzed in while I radioed for backup and then took on the big guy when I came through the door. Gave me a chance to get in, and we got the cuffs on the guy eventually. But your brother got beat up some."
Mike nodded. "Always did have a glass jaw."
"This ankle's broken," the medic said. "It will have to be reset."
"Don't you touch him," Nell said fiercely.
The two cops and the paramedic looked at her in surprise.
Joe laughed and held more tightly to her hand. "It's okay, Dolan. I'm okay."
And from the lightness in his voice and the light in his eyes, she saw he finally believed it.
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^
"No coffee," Nell said firmly, confiscating the large take-out cup from Will at the door. "Nothing to eat or drink for at least eight hours prior to surgery."
Watching her from his hospital bed, Joe thought she looked tired. The fluorescent lights overhead bleached her face of color. The bruises stood out vividly on her jaw. She should be home in her own bed, not waiting attendance on him and running interference with his family. But even battered, bruised and exhausted, Nell was determined. And still so beautiful she made his heart ache.
Will tried to hold on to the cup. "It's not for Joe. It's for me."
"Give it up," Mike advised. "The woman's ruthless. She took my doughnuts. And after I saved her life, too."
Joe wouldn't blame Nell if she bailed on him. On all of them. She didn't need this cra
p.
"You did save my life," she said. "I'm grateful."
Mike turned dull red. "I didn't mean… Tom was the one who caught the call. And Joe may be a moron, but he did create a diversion. I just…"
"Shot the guy," Will supplied helpfully.
Joe knew Mike hadn't had a choice. He also knew, whether Mike admitted it or not, that the shooting would have consequences.
"How's he doing? The guy?"
"Delbert Jackson. He's recovering." Mike shrugged. "He gets transferred to the prison hospital today."
"And Billie Parker?"
"Can't be moved yet," Nell said. "She's still in ICU."
Joe raised his eyebrows. "And you know this because…?"
Nell stuck out her chin. "I visited her yesterday."
Yeah, she would. Nell would never abandon one of her lame ducks. The thought was vaguely disquieting. Especially since she had just taken on his entire family. He wished they'd clear the hell out of here so he could tell her… So he could ask her…
He couldn't ask her anything. Not now. Not when it was possible she'd say "yes" for all the wrong reasons.
"Didn't she try to frame you for drug fraud or something?" Will asked.
"Not really," said Nell. "Her nephew, Trevor, has sickle-cell disease, which requires an aggressive pain-treatment plan. Billie kept insisting Trevor had developed a tolerance to pain medication, but Dr. Fletcher felt he'd already prescribed the maximum dosage. What none of us knew, including Trevor's mother, was that her boyfriend—"
"Jackson," Mike interrupted.
"The guy you shot," Will said.
"Yeah."
"Anyway, the boyfriend was stealing Trevor's medication all along," Nell continued. "So Trevor was in a lot of pain. Billie started taking drugs for him from the clinic pharmacy."
"Until you discovered the discrepancy in the pharmacy's records and called in the police," said Joe.
Nell nodded.
"So then she stopped stealing?" Will asked.
"She wanted to," Nell said, still defending her friend.
She never gave up on the people she cared about. Even when she thought he'd tumbled off the wagon, she hadn't let the paramedic shoot him full of dope. But was she loyal out of love or duty or some weird personality tic? And did he even want to know?
GUILTY SECRETS Page 17
