Fuel the Fire (Southern Heat Book 8)

by Jamie Garrett

  Information about the damage had trickled in along with the patients. The tornado had cut a northwest to southeast past over the northern section of the county, damaging and sometimes obliterating entire homes, farms, and businesses. Though busy inside, Rachel kept looking outside every time she passed by a window, constantly gazing up at the sky. She’d never forget that ominous bluish purple sky, made even deeper with angry thunderclouds. But other than a near-continuous wind that sometimes gusted up to fifty miles an hour, nothing foretold another tornado, although it wasn’t unheard of. She’d heard some of the visitors whispering about the news forecasts, about the possibility of a tornado cluster. She hoped to God the forecasters were wrong.

  Though she kept herself busy, over the next couple of hours, Rachel couldn’t shake the thought that something was going on at the hospital, or someone was screwing up big time. However, if she wasn’t careful, she would end up getting herself completely suspended or fired. She’d learned that the hard way when she had broached the topic to one of the other surgeons on staff, Dr. Boley. She could still hear his response to her query about the flurry of deaths and the possibility that someone was neglecting their duties or making careless mistakes rattling around in her brain.

  “Nuts. Why would anyone do that, especially in the middle of a disaster? Your concerns are unfounded and can ruin someone’s career overnight.”

  He’d also warned her that such aspersions without any proof was not only damage her own reputation, but may very well serve as grounds for her dismissal.

  Rachel sighed, moving on to strip the next bed. She should’ve known better than to approach a surgeon, even if he was still a resident. Residents reported to their attendings. Shit. Was Dr. Boley one of Moeller’s residents? While she was supposed to go up the chain of command, and attending surgeons generally listened to their nurses, she knew that some of them didn’t consider her a real nurse even though she was. Staff here accepted and respected her as a physical therapist, but there might be some that didn’t realize she was registered and certified. Even if they did, she’d never been truly counted as one of “them.” Even rural hospitals had their cliques—nurses, surgeons, and management. You didn’t rock the boat.

  She placed the pillow on the bed, perhaps fluffing it back into shape a little too vigorously. Damn it! She was frustrated. Her shoulders slumped. Dr. Boley was probably correct. She did need proof if she was to pursue such a line of inquiry. But how? David’s autopsy wouldn’t be performed until the following morning. And what about the other fireman’s autopsy? George McPhearson. And she still had questions about Brian’s unexpected death. But how could she find any information? After Dr. Moeller had reported her to the director of nursing and the assistant administrator, her computer access would most certainly be monitored. Wouldn’t it? Maybe not. It was still all hands on deck, and even management staff members were frantically busy doing what they could to help with patients. They were even taking patients in their wheelchairs or on gurneys up to private rooms, to Radiology, or if they didn’t have to do personal transfers, to the bathroom. All of it helped.

  Rachel quickly made her way back to her department, blessedly quiet now. Empty. Even so, she felt a little put out that not even overflow patients were being sent there anymore. Dr. Moeller’s orders? Or was it just a coincidence and the fact that hospital staff had gained control over the situation? She shook her head. She was growing paranoid. She had to get a handle on herself—

  “Rachel! There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Rachel turned, surprised to find the director of Nursing, Madge Henderson, rushing into the room with two slim folders. Was the DON going to call her task about Dr. Moeller’s accusation? Was she going to be suspended? Would she—

  “Look, Rachel, I just want you to know that I don’t want to believe you made a mistake on David Kendrick’s medications, but as you know, we do have to conduct an investigation.”

  Well, that was something. At least her boss believed her. Any relief was quickly washed away when she processed Madge’s words. There was still going to be an investigation. Her boss hadn’t told Dr. Moeller to go to hell. She wasn’t immediately dismissing the idea that Rachel could have killed a man. That hurt, even though the logical part of her brain knew it was nothing personal. She said nothing.

  “I know Dr. Moeller doesn’t want you in the ER or near any of his patients, but we need some help, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but . . .” She paused and glanced around the empty room. “But since you’ve obviously rescheduled any therapy treatments with your current patients, we thought that maybe you could help.”

  “Of course,” Rachel said. “What do you need?”

  “A couple of patient transfers,” Madge said. “Unfortunately, the ambulances are still tied up, but we have our van parked behind the building, and it’s not damaged.”

  Rachel was familiar with the van. She’d driven it herself a time or two, usually to transfer patients between the hospital and doctor’s offices, or patients to other hospitals when families were not able to provide transportation, and if needed, to dialysis. So Madge wanted her to take a couple of patients to another location? Would the roads be passable for the hospital’s van? While Jeremy’s truck had made it from his house to the hospital all right, the van was by no means as tough as Jeremy’s truck.

  She frowned. “Well, of course, I’ll help however I can, but where do they need to go?”

  “They’re not critical cases, but a couple of the patients are in serious condition with burn injuries, and our small unit is already overcrowded. We called ahead, and St. Mary’s can take them. The tornado didn’t touch that place, and they’re in good shape to take overflow. It’s just a matter of getting patients there that’s the problem.”

  Rachel nodded. Moeller might be an ass, but she was determined not to let his accusations get in the way of helping people. St. Mary’s was just over the county line, maybe fifteen miles away. “How are the road conditions?”

  “One of the Radiology nurses just came in from that way. The roads are clear.”

  “All right, I’ll do whatever I can. Are they ready to go? Do you need me to help load them in?”

  “Being done as we speak. Thank you, Rachel.” Madge paused. “I know the situation is tough, but with all the chaos, the high emotions, it’s not particularly surprising. I appreciate you staying to help out, in spite of Dr. Moeller’s accusation. We will get to the bottom of this, I can assure you of that.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel said. Maybe the situation wasn’t completely screwed up after all. “Let me just grab my purse, and I’ll head out.”

  Madge nodded and handed her the two folders containing the transport information. In a matter of minutes, Rachel stood behind the open back doors of the van, watching as the patients were settled into it. Her two charges were bundled up in soft white blankets, sitting in wheelchairs that themselves were buckled into safety harnesses in the back of the van. They both looked oriented and alert, despite obviously being in some pain. She couldn’t tell where they’d been burned, bundled up as they were, but she assured them that she’d get them to St. Mary’s safe and sound and with a minimum of bumps along the way.

  The trip was uneventful, the road clear; a few trees downed but not in the road. In fact, if she hadn’t endured those terrifying minutes in the storm cellar, she never would have known the tornado had swept through the area. Then again, over the last couple of days, she’d learned firsthand about the hit-and-miss aspect of tornadoes, their indiscriminate paths, and their even more indiscriminate ability to do damage.

  Rachel reached the hospital without incident. Her patients were unloaded, and she turned around and was on her way back to the hospital within an hour. Throughout the drive, her mind was still wound up and confused with the question of whether someone had screwed up not only David’s medical care, but perhaps Brian’s. What if?

  And then an even more alarming thought crossed her mind. What if, a
nd she was crazy for even thinking it, someone was deliberately hurting first responders? But why? What would be the point? And why now? Every hospital had deaths. Every hospital had unexpected events that occurred to patients. Not all of them could be explained, and many never would be. After all, as highly trained as they were, none of them were God. They might act like it, but they were only human. All of them.

  She sighed and tried to push such thoughts from her mind as she pulled away from a four-way stop sign and continued on her way. From out of nowhere, something slammed into the left rear fender of the van, jolting it sideways, the front of the van veering toward the edge of the road and the tree line just beyond. A startled cry erupted from Rachel’s throat as her head jerked forward, her forehead banging against steering wheel. With a gasp, Rachel gripped the steering wheel tightly, quickly yanking on the wheel and righting the van. No longer in immediate danger of hitting a tree, she looked into the left side mirror.

  She frowned, puzzled. An old truck, with faded white primer paint spotting its surface was right on her rear end, weaving erratically. She glanced ahead. The long length of the two-lane asphalt highway stretched into the distance, on a downslope, then another rise, hemmed in on both sides by trees and shrubs. There was barely any shoulder to speak of. She took another glance into her side mirror, and she saw the truck attempt to pass as it moved into the left lane of the two-lane asphalt highway.

  Rachel expected the driver, whom she couldn’t see with a hat pulled low, to gesture for her to pull over so that they could exchange insurance information. Instead, the driver jerked his steering wheel and once again, the right side of the truck slammed into the left side of the van. Without any kind of warning, she felt a sudden jolt in the side of the rear panel of the van, prompting a squeal of surprise. Her head jolted forward again, nearly slamming into the steering wheel, but the seatbelt stopped her this time, locking into place, burning into her shoulder, prompting a cry of pain. She quickly glanced in the rearview mirror, then the side mirror. All she could see was the right front fender of what looked to be an old truck.

  “What the hell?” she shouted. A drunk driver?

  She pressed her foot down on the accelerator, trying to get away, give the moron room to pass, although he had the entire highway. There was no one in front of her, no oncoming traffic, a downslope of the asphalt offering a straightaway for at least half a mile until the slow rise of another slope in the distance up ahead. She slowed slightly. There was still no oncoming traffic.

  She should just stop, let them pass. But what if they didn’t? There was no way she was killing the engine entirely and making herself a sitting duck. “Pass, you bastard, pass!”

  Crap. Should she speed up or slow down? She tried to get over as far to the right as she could, and then once again felt a hard jolt, the crunch of metal against metal, her head once again jolting forward. Heart pounding, she tightly grasped the steering wheel, trying to keep the van headed in the right direction, on the road and not veering sideways into the trees. Again, she glanced at her rearview mirror, pissed off now, trying to identify who the hell it was behind her.

  She still couldn’t see who was driving. A heavy coat, along with a cap, hid their body shape, but the hits kept coming. The truck made contact with the van again, kept pushing against the side of the van, pushing it again toward the side of the road. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that they burned as she glared at the driver of the truck, shouting, even though she knew her voice wouldn’t carry past the closed windows of either vehicle.

  “Fucking idiot! What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

  She kept her eyes on the road, her heart in her throat, her pulse racing so fast she felt a pounding in her temple. Why didn’t the idiot pass already? What was wrong with him? Was he purposely trying to hit her?

  The truck’s engine revved again, then a shifting of gears, a higher-pitched whine. She glanced into the left side mirror again, the truck moving alongside the van now. She still couldn’t get a good look at the driver, but her blood chilled. This was no drunk driver. This was no accident. This was someone trying to push her off the road. But why?

  She slammed her foot down on the accelerator, and the van surged forward, but it was a van. It didn’t have much power. Plus, it was old. Beside her, the truck kept pace with the van, once again trying to ram into the side of it. The crunch of metal against metal, scraping, grinding, again filled her ears. She screamed again. That impact nearly propelled her off the side of the road, the right tires skidding on dirt and gravel, then some pine tree branches and shrubs scraping against the right side of the vehicle, tires churning up dirt and gravel. She slammed on the brakes, tightly grasping the steering wheel, her eyes wide with panic.

  “What the hell?” she shouted.

  Who was trying to run her off the road? Panic threatened to take over, but she had to keep calm. If she didn’t . . . speeding up hadn’t helped, nor had slamming on her brakes helped. She pressed down on the accelerator again, the truck disappearing for several moments from her side view mirror. To prevent the truck from catching up to her again, she wove back and forth across the blacktop. Still, she had to be careful. The van was not only old and clunky, it wouldn’t take much to topple it if she wasn’t careful. Frightened, her gaze darted from one mirror to another while at the same time trying to keep her gaze on the road. She shot down the downward slope, then leveled out. The truck once again revved its engine and came alongside her.

  Rachel prayed that nobody was coming up the hill on the other side. A sharp swerve and the truck slammed into the van again, this time crunching against the driver side door, pushing it up against her left arm. Did the van have airbags? Of course, it would, but if they went off, she would certainly lose control.

  She focused on driving, kept trying to swerve without over-correcting. She couldn’t flip the van. If that happened, it would all be over, if she wasn’t dead already. Her jaw tightened so much her teeth ached as her hands gripped to the wheel like letting go meant her life. She gasped. It probably did.

  She straightened the van out as she neared the top of the slope, cringing, her shoulders pulled up toward her ears, squinting, grimacing, praying that nobody was coming up on the other side. She had increased her speed to about seventy miles an hour, slightly surprised that the old vehicle could even pick up that much speed as she shot over the top of the hill. The truck swerved at the last moment and pulled up behind her as she shot down the slope, another one just like the one she had just traveled opening up ahead. The woods on either side of the blacktop shot by at a blurring speed. In the rearview mirror, through the large windows at the back of the van, she saw the truck speeding up again. Dammit! Grateful that she had no passengers at the moment, she her anger grew until she was furious. What if she’d been returning to the hospital with other patients? Who was this person following her? Why was he trying to push her off the road?

  Suddenly, the truck shot forward, past the van and continued on, its engine roaring, deep, growling, and angry. The truck must have been moving at close to one hundred miles an hour, and quickly pulled ahead, increasing the distance between them. Rachel slowed the van, her heart still pounding even as she sighed with relief. Damn it, she hadn’t thought to look for a license plate number.

  She slowed down to fifty miles an hour, searching for that damned truck, but as she topped the next rise and didn’t see it, she frowned in confusion. Had it turned off somewhere? There were lots of small dirt lanes branching off of the highway. Where had it gone? Was it over? She topped the next rise, passed over, and continued downward, her gaze constantly searching the mirrors.

  “Shit!” Her heart sank when from behind, she saw the hood of the truck emerge from the woods maybe fifty yards behind. Again! He was there!

  The truck picked up speed, so close, getting closer, and then another hard jolt hit against the rear doors of the van, pushing it forward. Rachel almost slammed her forehead against the steer
ing wheel again, and was too scared to even think as she desperately hung onto the steering wheel, focusing on the asphalt ahead. A couple more rises and then she’d be approaching a country gas station and convenience store. If she could just get there, if she could pull in there, then call the cops . . .

  Who was she kidding? She was totally out of her element. She had no idea how to shake her pursuer, let alone even imagine why he was after her. Loud pinging sounds echoed around her, her brain taking a few seconds to realize what they were. He was shooting at the van! A bullet hit the metal. Was he trying to shoot out her tires? A shattering crash sounded from behind her.

  “Shit!” She screamed as the back window of the van blew out and the windshield in front of her cracked, a bullet hole neatly centered in the middle of the windshield. “Oh my God!”

  Another ping, this one on the left panel. The truck was easing from behind her again, trying to pull up alongside. She pressed down on the gas pedal, inching the van up to a steering wheel-shuddering seventy-five miles an hour. She didn’t dare go any faster. If she lost control, if he blew out a tire, she’d be dead.

  There! Up ahead was roof of the gas station and convenience store! Just a little further. A half mile and she could pull in—

  Suddenly, as before, the engine of the truck roared. The sound of grinding gears met her ears, and then the truck shot forward once again. The driver kept going, shooting past the gas station and continuing along the blacktop, belching exhaust.