Borrowed Time

by CJ Lyons

  If Rob had accepted the day shift assignment, he’d still be alive.

  Turner obviously agreed. He leaned closer, his fingers squeezing tighter. “So help me, O’Hern,” his voice emerged in a low hiss, “if I find out you screwed up out there, I’m going to nail your bony ass to the wall. No medical miracle is going to save you this time.” Spittle flew from his lips, landing on her cheeks like sparks from a bonfire. “It’s bad enough what you and that SOB put my daughter through—”

  Kate stared up at him. Surely he didn’t believe, couldn’t believe, she and Rob—

  Suddenly, Turner’s face blurred. Everything became dark, the only light a strange green glow coming from behind her.

  A man’s hand touched her face. It was the shooter. Her pulse hammered in her ears, so loud she thought her head might explode. Sweat drenched her, yet she was shivering. The man’s finger brushed against her lips, it was wet, dripping with fluid.

  Was it blood? She retched, turned her head away. He reached down to her left shoulder, squeezed. Her bones scraped together, releasing a lightning bolt of pain. Kate cried out. The man closed his lips over hers and she lay powerless, helpless beneath him.

  A shrill alarm lanced into Kate’s consciousness as she struggled to break free. Her vision cleared. The gunman vanished. A stranger appeared, leaning over her, filling her vision. A pair of dark blue eyes met hers, tugged at her, offering a lifeline out of her torture.

  “Hey now, everything’s going to be all right. Quiet down there, slugger,” came a man’s voice. It sounded oddly familiar. Calm, soothing.

  She blinked and stopped fighting.

  “I think it’s time for you to leave now,” the man told Turner.

  Turner stepped back, giving her one last glower, then stalked away. The stranger reached up, silencing the alarm.

  “I’m Doctor Lightner,” he said. “You’re in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit at Three Rivers Medical Center. There’s a tube in your airway, hooked up to a ventilator—a breathing machine. You need to relax, let the machine do all the work.”

  He spoke in slow, distinct words as if she were a baby. Kate wanted to give him the finger, leap from the bed and track down the shooter.

  Except the shooter wasn’t here. She blinked, trying to decide which reality to believe in. The daydream had seemed so real, she still tasted the acid bite of terror.

  The merciless machine expanded her lungs again. Kate closed her eyes, tried to ignore the pain spiraling through her chest and the confusion clouding her mind.

  She opened them again as she felt a hand fumbling near her left breast. Get your fucking hands off me! Lightner didn’t even bother to draw the privacy curtain as he poked and prodded and muttered to his group of white-coated sycophants behind him.

  She was naked under the gown. There was some kind of tube in her bladder. Tape and bandages swathed her left breast and shoulder, her legs were wrapped in plastic stockings that squeezed her calves and thighs, her left hand was useless and her right was tied to the bed rail, leaving her powerless to do anything except give Lightner her best eat-shit-and-die glare.

  Lightner’s eyes flashed with amusement as he met her gaze. He straightened, casually flipped her gown back over her. He had brown hair, trimmed close, typical of a man too busy to take the time to do more than run a comb or his fingers through it. A quick smile flitted over his face, then he turned away. Kate heard him muttering something about rate and pressures to another person out of sight.

  “Wound’s healing nicely, but there’s still blood from her JP,” Lightner continued without bothering to translate. “Would you like to get rid of the endotracheal tube?” he asked Kate in that same patronizing tone he’d used earlier.

  She swallowed her anger and nodded meekly. He patted her hand, then untied it from the soft restraints, freeing her. “If you make some progress today, I’ll take it out tomorrow.”

  Lightner left without saying anything more. All Kate saw was the back of his white coat moving away. She slumped back, the memory of the shooting flooding over her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, straining to regain the bliss of unconsciousness, trying to block out the sight of Rob’s shattered face.

  CHAPTER 3

  Kate O’Hern was their last patient in the ICU. Dr. Joshua Lightner gathered his team at the nurses’ station and delegated the work for the day. He would have liked to spend more time with O’Hern but as always, there were too many patients and too little time.

  He couldn’t resist glancing back at her bedspace. She had surprised him, regaining consciousness so soon—and with a definite spark of intelligence in her eyes.

  “Adams, you’re scrubbing on that AKA revision? Let’s get going.” Without waiting to see if the junior resident followed him, Josh turned and left the ICU.

  Once beyond its protective double barrier of sliding doors, he was approached by a man who had been waiting outside. The man was a few inches shy of Josh’s five-eleven with a shock of dark hair that clamored for a haircut.

  “Dr. Lightner? I’m Anthony Martini. Kate O’Hern is my fiancée. The nurses won’t let me see her.”

  Josh took another look at the man. O’Hern was engaged? He felt a sudden wave of disappointment, but immediately smothered it. O’Hern’s private life was none of his business. He was only interested in her recovery.

  “ICU patients are restricted to family visitors only.” A rule that he’d had to already bend or else risk a mob of concerned cops breaking down the doors.

  “Is everything okay?” Martini asked. His eyes were bloodshot and sunken, as if he hadn’t slept much in the two days since the shooting.

  “She’s still critical, but she’s doing well, considering the extent of her injuries.”

  Martini grew pale. “Is she conscious yet? Could I see her?”

  “Go ahead and start the prep,” Josh told his resident. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” Martini was still waiting for an answer. Josh gestured toward the doors to the Surgical ICU. “I guess we can make an exception. I’ll take you in to see her.”

  “Martini, you’re not going in there, don’t you even think it!” yelled a distraught, tall, athletic black man racing down the corridor, balancing a coffee cup in front of him.

  Detective Mel Carter, the police officer who was investigating Katherine O’Hern’s shooting. Josh noticed that the detective still wore the same tweed sports coat and navy slacks as he had yesterday.

  Carter had remained at O’Hern’s bedside throughout that first night, holding vigil with Josh. Where was her so-called fiancé when O’Hern needed him most? Josh wondered, pivoting to stare at Martini.

  “Doc, don’t let him in.” Carter arrived in front of them, somehow managing not to spill any of his coffee.

  “Carter, give me a break,” Martini said.

  “You two know each other?” Josh asked, suddenly certain that Martini had taken advantage of him.

  “Yeah, doc. This here is Anthony F. Martini—F being for fink, fraud, or fake—whichever you prefer.”

  “My mother preferred Francis, and you damn well know it, Melvin,” Martini retorted.

  “He’s a reporter for the Post-Gazette. I’ll bet he has a camera on him somewhere.”

  Martini looked offended. “Carter, you know how close Kate and I are. I want to see her, make sure she’s okay—”

  “You’re not her fiancé?” Josh asked. He was surprised by the relief that he felt at the realization.

  “Well, not currently.”

  “Not in your wildest dreams,” Carter scoffed. “Look, Martini, the doc has lives to save. How ‘bout you come with me so I can personally kick your ass out of here?” Carter finished his coffee in one gulp, crushed the cup in his large hand, and threw it into a trash can. He grabbed Martini’s arm and began to lead him away.

  “See ya later, doc,” Carter called back over his shoulder.

  Josh frowned, annoyed, and headed to the OR. He hated taking care of special patients w
ith all the attendant publicity and reporters, not to mention O’Hern’s extended family of fellow police officers. But even he had to admit that bringing O’Hern back from the dead—that had been a real adrenalin rush. The odds were against her from the minute they wheeled her in without vital signs. But he had beaten them.

  He couldn’t take all the credit. Together, he and Kate O’Hern had bested death. He shook his head, remembering. No vitals for eight minutes—it was a hell of a long time to go without oxygen. The longest he’d ever seen anyone who wasn’t hypothermic survive asystole.

  O’Hern was a fighter, no doubt about that. If she hadn’t been, all his surgical expertise would have been wasted on a corpse.

  CHAPTER 4

  Blake lay awake beside the girl—what was her name? He couldn’t remember. He’d picked her up on Liberty Avenue, yesterday, sometime before dawn.

  The sex had been good—hell, he was always good at that. But somehow it’d been disappointing, a let down compared to the exhilaration, the thrill he’d felt wasting those cops.

  The girl lay on her stomach, arms stretched up over the pillow. Blake ran his fingers lightly over one of her shoulders, stroking the bruises forming there. The dark, purplish circles echoed the grip his hands had taken earlier.

  No matter how toned and muscular they tried to be, women always had soft spots he could find.

  Blake lay back, closed his eyes, satisfaction dancing over him like the blonde’s lips had earlier. Those poor cops had no clue what was happening to them.

  God, it had been great. Weeks of planning. He’d spent days before deciding on which store to hit. Then the absolute look of terror in the clerk’s eyes and the way everyone obeyed his commands. When the cops came…

  A smile settled over his face, warming him more than the sun shining through the window. He would treasure forever the cop’s expression of surprise. So sweet.

  Then the male cop’s face, his entire head blown away. What a power rush, not even the bullets pounding into his Kevlar vests could slow Blake. He was invincible.

  The second cop, the woman, she was the entire reason he was there. He wondered if she realized that, that it was because of her he had chosen that store, that night.

  Maybe she did. When he turned on her, he had felt a spark of connection as if they had touched instead of only their eyes meeting from yards apart. She’d looked at him, into him and then he’d taken her. God, what absolute glory!

  The memory almost brought him to the point of another orgasm, but then it failed. Remembering wasn’t enough. He looked over at the sleeping girl and quickly rolled on top of her, thrusting himself into her from behind. She cried out and his erection grew strong once more as he squeezed her shoulders, pushing her face into the pillow, muffling her cries.

  They quickly turned to whimpers as he rocked back and forth, pounding his hips against her. Tears blackened by mascara stained the pillowcase below her face, angering him more. He quickly climaxed as fury surged through him.

  Now she knew who was in charge. Soon everyone in the city would know. He rolled off her and lay staring at the ceiling, oblivious to her sobs. As long as she got her drugs and money she wouldn’t tell anyone—she knew full well what she’d be risking if she did.

  The girl was meaningless compared to what he would do for an encore. He knew he could do better, he would do better. Next time.

  He hadn’t liked waiting in the store for the cops. What if some trigger happy clerk went for him and hit him in the face where his Kevlar wouldn’t protect him? And he couldn’t always count on taking two down at one time—he had to admit he’d had some luck on his side. Plus it’d hurt like a son of a bitch when she had shot him.

  Blake pushed these negative thoughts aside. He’d take care of the problems. It was just a question of more care in his planning. Of picking the right time, the right place. He climbed out of bed, trying to ignore the dull ache his bruises caused him. Wrapping himself in a terrycloth robe, he left the bedroom and went into the kitchen to start coffee.

  As it was brewing, he gathered two days worth of newspapers from where they lay in front of the apartment door.

  He hadn’t intended on checking out for, he glanced at the clock, more than a day and a half. It was stupid and dangerous. But he couldn’t resist celebrating and the girl had been all too happy to accompany him on a meth-fueled binge of sex and drugs.

  Next time he would be more disciplined. Stay in control.

  Blake sat down with his coffee and scanned the papers, savoring every word of the account of his activities. There was a nice photo of paramedics bundling one of the dead cops into an ambulance. Then he froze.

  “No,” the word was forced from him in a strangled whisper. “Damnit, she was dead!” He couldn’t believe it—the woman was still alive.

  That wasn’t the plan. She was supposed to be dead.

  He crumbled the paper between his fists and held his breath until his rage passed. When he was calm he took a deep breath and smoothed the wrinkled paper out onto the table in front of him.

  The hospital was listing Officer Katherine O’Hern in critical condition, but reported that an operation to repair a lacerated artery in her chest and re-expand a punctured lung had been successful. Dr. Lightner, her surgeon, was unavailable for comment but a hospital spokesperson said her chances at recovery were excellent.

  Lightner, Joshua Lightner. Blake rolled the name around his mind, trying several pronunciations. He didn’t like the name. He didn’t like the man who interfered with his plans. He was supposed to be in control, he was supposed to decide who lived and died, not some hot shit, self righteous, son of a bitch—

  Blake raised his hands from the pile of shredded newspaper that lay in front of him and took another deep breath. So what if O’Hern was still alive? He owned her, she was his.

  She’d know that sooner or later.

  Maybe better it was later. Let her sweat, let her dangle and twist, wondering when her fate would catch up with her. Because there was no escaping him.

  Blake smiled again, feeling better as he began to imagine how good it would feel next time. He wouldn’t have to wait so long. Not now that he had a good idea where to pick the next one.

  CHAPTER 5

  Cloaked in the perpetual twilight of the ICU, Kate lay in her bed, shivering beneath sweat-soaked sheets. Background noises buzzed through her brain in an ever-varying melee of clicks, beeps, bells, footsteps, hushed voices, phones ringing and the whirl of machines.

  She and the ventilator had come to an accommodation of sorts. It now allowed her to breathe on her own, asserting just enough pressure to keep her lungs inflated. It hurt like a sonofabitch, but the respiratory guy assured her she was making progress. The nurses had given her a notepad so she could communicate. She knew she frustrated them by refusing to accept any pain medications. They couldn’t understand that sleep was the last thing she wanted.

  These nightmares were more exhausting than staying awake. No, not nightmares. Night terrors.

  The curtains around her bed didn’t close completely and she could still see the old woman in the bed across from her, sleeping so peacefully, like an angel.

  Kate’s vision grew hazy and her eyelids fluttered. She tried to fight against the images that overpowered her mind, but was helpless against them.

  Alarms shrieked and white coated figures rushed to the old lady’s bed. Electricity jolted through paddles into the woman’s frail body, causing it to arch up, sending the acrid odor of burnt flesh into the air.

  Kate felt the woman’s heart stutter and stop as if it were her own, felt the shocking pain of the electricity sear through her chest again and again. She felt the woman’s heart give a final thud as the nurse straddling her stopped compressing her chest.

  Kate felt the woman die.

  She shuddered and broke out in another cold sweat, swallowing against waves of nausea, gagging against the tubes in her throat until finally her body was hers once more. It took all h
er effort to stop her hands from shaking.

  When she looked at the clock, Kate realized she had lost almost four minutes—this time. The little old lady still slept, blissfully unaware she was the object of Kate’s torment.

  Panic seized her. What was happening to her? These weren’t the flashbacks she’d heard victims of violence describe. These took over her body, her mind, her life for chunks of time.

  The clock read six a.m. Somehow she had made it through the night, but she had no idea where she would find the strength to face another one.

  It seemed like anything could trigger the—hell, she didn’t even know what to call the damn things—episodes, hallucinations, fits, spells?

  All she knew was when they happened, they hit with the force of a tornado, blasting through her mind and body, leaving her with no control, flooded with pain. That same awful, mind-wrecking pain she had felt after being shot, when she lay face down in the sewer.

  She tried to rein in her out of control mind by focusing on minute details. Her father had a game. Observation, he had called it. She and her older brother, Michael, played whenever Dad took them anywhere. Noticing and memorizing details—what people were doing, what kind of cars passed them on the street, what the drivers looked like. Her father quizzed them mercilessly, telling them they needed to notice the little details. It’s the little things that will get you killed, Brian O’Hern would say.

  Little things like not noticing when an actor is smiling at you right before he shoots your partner—no, Kate, don’t think of Rob, think of Dad.

  The way he would walk through the front door and instantly the entire house would be filled with his presence, so much larger than life when he was in uniform. The way he could pierce your soul with one sidelong look of disappointment, making you want to never, ever let him down. The way Mom’s face lit up, her smile crinkling her eyes, whenever he would lean down to kiss her hello.