by C. J. Lyons
“Who’s our mascot, Chief?” one asked.
“Behave yourself, Gordon. This is Dr. Freeman, doing a ride-along.”
“Picked a good day for it. I’ve got odds this one is gonna go.”
The boat bounced to a stop, engines backing down to a low growl, idling. As they waited, Trey squinted into the wind, climbing up to look above the cabin at the man on the bridge above them. Flashing lights, a police barricade, and official vehicles surrounded him. The man looked to be in his late forties, bald except for a too-long comb-over that the wind was whipping into every direction.
“Hmmm. Who’s the negotiator?”
“Sanders.”
“Shit, this guy’s as good as gone already,” Gecko put in. “Wish they’d let Jerry Boyle come back.”
“That’s only because you won enough money off him,” Gordon said.
“Man had a silver tongue, could talk the stripes off a leopard.”
“Jerry Boyle?” Gina asked. The men tore their gazes away from the jumper, looking around as if they had forgotten her. “Jerry was a negotiator?”
“Yeah, back when he worked SWAT. About two, three years ago now.”
“He never told me.”
“He didn’t exactly leave under the best of circumstances. Almost lost his badge,” Gordon said. He reached for a pair of binoculars and trained them on the would-be-suicide’s face. “Hey, put me down for twenty. This guy is going to go for a swim, I’m sure of it.”
“You two good to go?” Trey asked, inspecting the rescue team’s preparations.
“What happened?” Gina interrupted, ignoring the drama on the bridge above her. “Why did Jerry almost lose his job?”
Gordon opened his mouth to answer but shut it again when Trey shook his head. “Let’s focus on the job here, folks.”
Gecko grabbed the binoculars, obviously impatient with the long wait and inactivity. “Hey, Gordo, I’ll take that bet. Look at how he’s clinging to that strut, he’s ready to wet his pants and come on home to Mama.”
“Why don’t you give Gina the glasses?” Trey said. Gecko reluctantly passed them back to Gina.
She craned her head back so far that her neck muscles cramped. “How high is it?”
“About forty-eight feet. Most folks who jump don’t die on impact, usually just fracture their legs, sometimes their spine,” Trey answered as she focused on the man above.
The wind was buffeting the man even as the crowd around him grew. His mouth was moving and he would gesture with one hand, only to wobble and grab back onto the metal beam he was clinging to.
“What usually kills ’em,” Gordon said, finishing Trey’s lecture, “is drowning. They can’t kick after the impact shatters their legs, and they drop like stones. Which is why we’re here. We go in, fish ’em out, hopefully fast enough to save ’em. Easier in the winter when the water is colder—gives us longer if they swallow some. But this chop”—he gestured at the turbulent water, opaque and murky—“is gonna make it tough. Poor visibility and a wicked current.” He shook his head. “Not such a good combo.”
Gina kept her gaze fixated on the agitated man balanced on the side of the bridge. Tears streamed down his face, and he kept releasing his grip to wipe his nose. A suited man on the bridge, obviously the negotiator, took a step toward him as the man nodded vehemently.
“I think he’s surrendering,” she shouted.
“I’ll be damned. Sanders pulled it off.”
The suited man was gesturing, talking to the man on the bridge, motioning him to come forward. The man kept nodding, sliding his foot off the high girder, precariously balanced as he began to climb down. He raised a hand to swipe at his eyes and nose.
He teetered, and the policemen rushed forward, reaching toward him, but then he lurched backward, hands flailing for the beam, as he fell.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Friday, 10:11 A.M.
BETWEEN NORA, THE MEDIC, AND A HANDFUL of other medical workers, Amanda was quickly transported to the ER, clad in a patient gown—which was ridiculous because she was fine—and left to wonder whether her student health insurance would cover the bill.
She was waiting for her discharge papers—the ER doc had found nothing wrong with her that a hot bath and a few Advil wouldn’t cure—when there was a knock on the door. Lucas Stone appeared, frown lines edging his eyes deeper than ever. He’d better be careful or they’d become permanent.
Amanda hid a giggle behind her palm. She’d been feeling giddy ever since the accident—trying to avoid the truth that her only means of transportation was destroyed, that she had told her youngest older brother to go to hell, and that once again she had failed Lucas.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have told you about what Jared said.”
Lucas did what he always did: stared at her. As if she were a specimen he was worried would wiggle away before he could figure her out.
“I’m fine,” she said in a rush, the word echoing through her brain as if that would scare away the shakes that had taken over her insides. She plastered one of Mama’s smiles onto her face, trying to bolster her declaration. “I’ll be back upstairs to help with Alice and Tracey in a few minutes. Just waiting for my paperwork.” Damn the man, why did he constantly turn her into a babbling idiot? He didn’t care about her paperwork, only about her doing her job—something she had failed.
“Can’t go home—I don’t have a car anymore.” Again the impulse to either cry or laugh hit her. One look at Lucas’s earnest face squelched it.
“Are you sure you’re all right? How did this happen? Was it your leg again?” he asked.
“Stop looking at me like that. I told you, I’m fine.” Fine, fine, fine. Not scared or shaken or worried. Well, except about poor old Love Bug; how on earth was she ever going to find another car as good—or as affordable? “It wasn’t me. The brakes on my car failed.”
Before she could say more, the door opened. She straightened, hoping it was the nurse with her discharge paperwork. Instead, it was Jerry Boyle accompanied by a uniformed officer.
“Jerry?” Maybe she did have something to worry about. Was she in trouble? “Surely they didn’t send a detective for my fender bender.”
Jerry didn’t smile—and Jerry was almost always smiling, at least with his eyes. Instead he looked as worried as Lucas did.
“What’s wrong?”
“Amanda, this is Officer Smith. He just heard from the mechanic that towed your car. This wasn’t an accident.”
“I know. I didn’t have any choice but to hit the wall; it was the only way to keep from rolling into traffic and maybe hurting someone else. That’s not against the law or anything, is it? Is the hospital going to sue me or something?” That would be just perfect.
“No.” Jerry blew his breath out, one hand rubbing his forearm as if fighting the urge to scratch an itch. “Smitty, tell her what you told me.”
Lucas had moved to stand at her side, between her and the police. Amanda shot him a glare; she didn’t need his protection, most certainly not from Jerry.
Officer Smith flipped open a small notebook and began to read. “On inspection of the undercarriage of the 1972 Volkswagen in question and on further inspection of the fluids left in evidence—”
“In evidence? Evidence of what?” Amanda asked, not sure whether she was in trouble.
“There was a puddle of fluid at the space where you parked,” Jerry explained.
Smith continued, “There was evidence of multiple lacerations made by a sharp object as yet undetermined in proximity to both the brake lubricant lines and the clutch, suggesting manipulation of the vehicle’s ability to perform, specifically to brake.” He flipped the notebook closed and gave a short nod.
Amanda merely stared. “That makes no sense.”
“Amanda, he’s saying someone tampered with your car, tried to kill you,” Lucas said.
“I know what he said. But it’s crazy.” Her insides felt as if they’d spun out of control,
just as her Love Bug had, coming down that ramp. Kill her? No. Things like that didn’t happen, not to girls like her. Gina and Lydia, maybe—they went looking for trouble. Amanda did as she was told, followed the rules—who would want to kill her?
“No one said anything about anyone trying to kill her,” Jerry put in. He nodded to Smith, who disappeared, presumably to go gather more evidence. “But it does appear that the vehicle was tampered with. For whatever reason.”
Amanda shook her head, ratcheting the pounding in it up to a level she was certain could be heard by everyone in the room. She rubbed her palms along her thighs, leaving sweat stains on the patient gown, and clenched her fists tight to hide the trembling. “Could I please have some privacy so I can get dressed?”
“I need to ask some questions—”
“Jerry, please. Just give me a minute, please.”
“Can’t you see she’s been through a lot?” Lucas said, pivoting to face Jerry.
She wondered at his protectiveness, but didn’t have time to dwell on the question. Not when there were so many other questions ricocheting through her brain.
Like who was trying to kill her. And why?
TWENTY-NINE
Friday, 10:28 A.M.
GINA’S STOMACH HURLED HEAVENWARD, BILE and acid scratching her throat as she watched the man fall through the air. It could have taken only a few seconds at most, but everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
The pilot launched the boat forward. The River Rescue divers slapped on their regulators and had the dive door open as they prepared to jump into the water. Trey and Gecko leaped into action, Trey talking into his radio as they both opened trauma kits and got ready for their patient.
Somehow, even as all of this kaleidoscope of action was happening in Gina’s periphery, what she registered was the look of shock, then terror, chiseled onto the man’s face. He swung his arms and legs, but as he fell backward, his head was below his feet.
His solitary hank of hair was now streamlined, plastered across his face. His tie, a hideous shade of purple shockingly vivid against the gray sky, billowed out.
His scream lagged behind his body, then gained momentum, like a freight train roaring through a tunnel.
She didn’t just hear the slap of his body hitting the water, she felt it slam through her body and almost fell as she stumbled back. She staggered against the railing. In that fraction of a second, the man had vanished below the surface.
“Where? Someone give me a twenty!” Gordon called out, waves slapping against his body.
“Gina!” Trey’s voice penetrated her awareness. He yanked the binoculars away from her face and she blinked, blind for a moment. “Where did he go in? You were tracking him.”
She shook her head, unable to admit she hadn’t been tracking him—only watching him, too mesmerized to be of any help. Her hesitation lasted only a second, but it was a second too long.
“I don’t know,” she mumbled.
It was too late. Trey had already turned away and was taking coordinates from the first mate, who had been doing his job and had tracked the man’s fall. The divers splashed overboard, and Trey watched them through the binoculars.
Gina strained to see, but all she could make out were the bright yellow air tanks bobbing through the water. Thunder clapped overhead and rain began to pelt her.
Then a diver’s head appeared, followed by another. The man, pale and limp, the boat’s spotlights gleaming on his bald head, was ferried back to the boat by the divers, kicking hard. Gecko pushed Gina aside to climb up to the cabin roof, grabbing a backboard equipped with flotation devices. He and Trey maneuvered the backboard vertically into the water, and the divers positioned the man above it. The board floated up to meet their patient at the diver’s door, and Trey snapped a cervical collar into place around his neck.
Together the men leveraged their patient on board without risking further injury. They laid him out on the aft deck and began working on him immediately.
“Left pupil’s blown, respirations irregular,” Gecko called out as Trey grabbed the bag-valve mask and handed it to him.
“Pulse good. How’s his airway?”
“Clear. Any pneumo?”
Trey listened to the man’s lungs as Gecko breathed for him. “Nope, nice and equal.” He grabbed an IV as one of the divers ripped open the man’s shirt. The boat made an abrupt turn and began to speed back toward the dock and the waiting ambulance. Gina clutched the railing, not for balance, but to keep her upright, afraid that without that grip she’d hurtle backward into the water just as the man had.
AMANDA SLOWLY CHANGED INTO A PAIR OF clean scrubs, her movements hampered by muscles already knotting with pain. She slid her lab coat on, but the added weight from her brimming pockets acted like a yoke on her neck muscles. Rubbing her trapezius, she tried to massage away the coiled knot of tension that had settled into the muscle. She’d always thought whiplash was just a ploy for sympathy until now.
“Moist heat tonight.” Lydia Fiore’s voice came from behind her. “I can write you a script for some PT—ultrasound, hot tub, massage. And you won’t be wearing this for a while.” Without asking, Lydia slipped the heavy lab jacket from Amanda’s shoulders. “Damn thing weighs twenty pounds.”
“I need that.”
So typical of Lydia—no knocking, just waltzing in and doing what she damn well pleased, taking charge … oh, and damn it, being right about the weight of the lab coat making things worse.
Lydia laid the jacket on the gurney and began sorting through the contents of its pockets. “You get checked out?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Good. I heard Boyle say someone did this on purpose? You’re not going home alone, are you?”
Why did everyone assume she couldn’t take care of herself? Amanda stopped herself before she could stamp her foot in irritation. This whole situation was too bizarre—it was all some kind of crazy mistake. It had to be. “Yeah, he said that. But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone want to hurt me?”
“You’re working with Jim Lazarov this month. You know he gave Nora a hard time when he was in the ER.”
“Jim’s an ass. That doesn’t make him homicidal. Besides, he was with me all morning.”
Lydia said nothing as she grabbed a clipboard hanging on the wall, stripped it of its inventory sheets, and replaced them with Amanda’s stack of research papers and patient notes. She clipped a pen to the top and returned the clipboard and the now lighter-than-whipped-cream lab coat to Amanda. “Try that.”
“Better,” Amanda admitted, shrugging into the coat, now burdened only by a spare pen, reflex hammer, pen-light, and stethoscope. “But I need those.” She pointed to the tower of pocket manuals.
“No. You don’t. Especially not with Lucas—he loves teaching. If you don’t know something, just ask. Besides, these were outdated before they were even printed. You’ll learn much more by watching Lucas.”
Amanda gave a grudging nod. Lydia was right. Again. She was only five years older than Amanda, but Amanda had the sinking feeling that she’d never achieve Lydia’s sense of confidence or half of the attending’s abilities, no matter how many questions she asked.
“I’ll go put these in your locker,” Lydia said, gathering the books into her arms and exiting with one last concerned glance over her shoulder.
Another knock on the door, and Jerry Boyle appeared again. At least he knocked first. “Good news. Kind of. We found a bunch of other cars that appear to have been vandalized as well. All parked on the same level as yours.”
“So I wasn’t the target.” Relief swept through her, steadying her. She knew it had to be a mistake.
“We don’t know who or what the reason was. Traffic will be taking over the investigation, but if you see anything out of the ordinary—”
“I’ll give you a call.” She straightened her lab coat—time to get back to work, to her normal life.
Jerry didn’t look entirely convinced.
“I’m going to follow up with Traffic myself.”
Amanda gave him a hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “Seriously, I’m fine. I have to get back to my patients. Thanks, Jerry.”
She left the exam room and hadn’t gone more than a few steps down the hall when she ran into Dr. Nelson. He was rushing down the hallway, pausing to look in each patient’s bed space, whisking curtains aside, leaving them swinging in his wake. Then he saw Amanda and skidded to a stop, his face suffused with color.
“Amanda!” He sped forward, pulling her into a bear hug. “They said you were hurt in an accident. Are you okay? What happened?”
Amanda inhaled his citrusy scent, felt his strong arms encircling her, and the roller coaster of emotion created by the morning’s events overwhelmed her. Tears seeped from her eyes as she returned his hug. Dr. Nelson never went anywhere in the hospital except the clinic—at least not in the two years she’d known him. Since his baby boy died, he had plunged his energy into his research.
“Norman, give the girl room to breathe.” Faith’s voice came from behind him, sounding tight, choked with emotion as well.
Reluctantly, Amanda pushed free, swiping tears from her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she blubbered. “I just need a moment.”
“Dear, you take all the time you want,” Dr. Nelson said even as Faith took her hand and led her into a vacant suture room. “We were so worried.”
“Are you okay?” Faith asked.
“I’m fine. Just a few bruises.”
“You had us scared to death,” Dr. Nelson said in a tone that sounded like a child’s even though his face had more wrinkles and shadows than ever. He shook his head, saying nothing more, shoving his hands into his pockets.
Amanda leaned against the counter and used a paper towel to clean her face. Then she glanced up at the two of them, both looking so worried. Surely they hadn’t both left their busy clinic just to check on her. Unless … there was bad news? Had something horrible shown up on her lab tests?
Icy fingers skittered their way down her spine. She sucked in her breath, but it didn’t fill the sudden emptiness that had hollowed out her chest. “What is it? What did the tests show?”
