Born To Die mtd-3

by Lisa Jackson

  “All right, let’s take a look at him.” Kacey pushed her chair away from the desk.

  “He and his dad are in exam three. I’ve set up his preliminary info on the computer.”

  “Good.” Kacey was already slipping her arms through the sleeves of the lab coat she’d just shed. She’d gotten used to having her life interrupted at the most inopportune of moments. All part of the job of country doctor. “You said you talked to someone at the school?”

  “The nurse, Eloise Phelps.” Heather peeled off toward the front desk as Kacey made her way to the examination room, tapped lightly on the door, and pushed it open.

  She found a slim boy sitting on the examination table. With a shock of unruly dishwater blond hair, he was whitefaced, blinking hard against tears and sniffling as he cradled his left arm, which was supported by a sling.

  His father, expression grim, stood next to the exam table.

  Dressed in battered jeans, plaid shirt, and worn boots, which were a staple around this part of Montana, he was tall, maybe six-two, with a rangy build and wide shoulders. A day or two’s worth of dark hair covered a square jaw, and he stared at her with deep-set, angry eyes. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he looked about to spit nails.

  “I’m Dr. Lambert,” she told the boy and, glancing at the chart on the laptop Heather had left, added, “You must be Eli.”

  The kid nodded and pressed his lips together. He was trying to be brave and, she guessed, might be more scared than hurt.

  “Trace O’Halleran.” The cowboy introduced himself, extending his hand, his gaze focused on the name tag on her lab coat, which read: DR. ACACIA LAMBERT. His hand was big. Calloused and strong. His face was tanned, weathered from the sun, his brown hair showing streaks of blond, again, she assumed, from hours outside. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, his jaw hard, his nose appearing to have been broken at least once, probably twice, and he couldn’t scare up the ghost of a smile. “I’m Eli’s dad.”

  She shook his hand, then let it fall. “So, what happened?”

  “Playground accident,” Trace said. “Tell her,” he said, prodding the boy gently.

  “I got pushed off the jungle gym.” Anger flared in the boy’s brown eyes.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it while I look at your arm? That’s okay, right?”

  Eli glanced at his dad, who nodded. “I guess.”

  After quickly washing her hands at the small sink located in the room, she dried them with a paper towel, then pulled on a pair of latex gloves as she stepped closer to the boy. Gently, she removed the sling and splint, some cotton padding, and a small ice pack, all the while watching as he blanched even further. “Hurts, huh?”

  Eli couldn’t speak but nodded, his eye filling with tears, which seemed to embarrass him further.

  “So how did the accident happen?”

  “Cory Deter pushed me off the jungle gym.” Eli was blinking rapidly now, and his jaw tightened. “He’s a jerk!”

  “Well, I guess so, if he did this,” she agreed. “So, then what happened?”

  “I fell! And… and I put my hands out like this. .” He extended his arms, winced, and sucked in his breath. His left arm fell back to his side as he turned ashen again.

  “Okay, so you broke your fall by stretching out your arms.” She was nodding. “When?” She glanced at the dad.

  “Don’t know exactly,” Eli’s father said. He was staring at her hard, as if trying to figure her out. “I got the call about forty minutes ago, so I assume it was right after it happened.”

  “Okay.” She said gently to Eli, “Now, I’m gonna need to take a look at your arm a little more closely. Okay?”

  From beneath his beetled eyebrows, the boy glared up at her suspiciously.

  “It’s okay,” his father said, placing a big hand over the kid’s, but his expression was as concerned as his son’s.

  “ ’Kay,” Eli finally said.

  Gently she examined the boy. Testing his movements, running her fingers along the muscles and joints, watching his reaction. All the while, Trace hovered.

  “I don’t think it’s broken,” she said finally, “but we can’t be sure without X-rays. There’s always the chance of a stress fracture.”

  A muscle in Trace’s jaw worked. “That’s what the nurse at the school said, and she also said he was running a fever. He’s had a cold he hasn’t been able to shake.”

  “Since you’re here,” she said to Eli, “let’s double-check that temp, then take a look at your throat and maybe your ears.”

  Reluctantly, Eli agreed. His temperature was 100.1, his lymph nodes were slightly swollen, his eardrums were red, and his throat was so inflamed, she swabbed it to check for strep. “Looks like you probably need some antibiotics,” she said. “I’m betting your throat is pretty sore.”

  “Really sore.” Eli bobbed his head emphatically.

  Trace frowned. “You didn’t say anything.”

  “Didn’t hurt before,” his son said.

  “It can come on fast. Looks like a double ear infection, and I’m betting on strep throat,” Kacey said to Trace before moving her gaze to his son. “But you, Eli, should feel better in a couple of days,” she promised. “So, now, let’s get an X-ray of that arm, okay? The lab is in the next building.” She turned to her laptop and made a note, then said to Trace, “You can take him over there and have the X-rays taken. They’ll send them over, and I’ll look at them. It won’t take long. We’ll meet up here again, after I check them. If I think you should see an orthopedist, I’ll let you know and set up an appointment with Dr. Belding in Missoula. Or whomever you want.” She offered a reassuring smile, which wasn’t returned. “I’ve worked with Dr. Belding. She’s good.”

  Trace nodded curtly. “Thanks.” To his son, he said, “Let’s go, bud.”

  Heather appeared with the request forms for the lab just as Trace was helping Eli from the examination table. “Do you need anything else?” she asked Kacey.

  “I think we’re okay. Thanks.”

  As Heather returned to her desk, Kacey handed Trace the request forms, then, to make the boy feel more at ease, said to Eli, “Look, I know a shortcut, so I’ll walk you over. Is that okay?” She smiled at Eli. “Just in case your dad gets lost.”

  “He won’t! He was an Army Ranger.”

  Trace snorted and held the door open. “That was a few years back.”

  “But you were!” Eli insisted.

  “Back in the Dark Ages,” he admitted as they headed through a series of short hallways and out a back door, where the wind knifed through her lab coat and snow was collecting in the planters.

  “Right here,” she said, holding her coat closed with one hand while hurrying down the short walkway. Before she could reach the door, Trace pulled it open and waited for her and his son to walk inside.

  The heat was blasting, of course, Christmas music drifting down the hallways.

  “Okay, from here on in, you’re on your own,” she said as she dropped them off with one of the lab technicians. “I’ll see you in about an hour, after we get the X-rays back.”

  “Got it,” he said, and when his eyes met hers, she saw something dark and undefinable in his gaze.

  Just your imagination.

  Maybe Trace was just worried about his boy, but there was something more to the guy’s reaction, an undercurrent of distrust that seemed out of line with the situation, almost as if he didn’t trust her. Or maybe it was doctors or the medical profession in general. Not that she had time to worry about his hang-ups, whatever they were.

  She and Randy, her nurse, spent nearly an hour with other patients: Cathy Singer was dealing with adult acne; two kids came in with flu symptoms; Kevin Thomas’s mother was certain he had head lice as there had been a case at school; and even Helen Ingles, having apparently found a replacement babysitter for her nephew, returned to have her own health and diabetes monitored.

  An hour after being sent to the lab, the O’Ha
llerans were back in exam room three with the X-rays, which proved there was a small fracture in Eli’s left ulna. “Looks like we’re going to need a cast,” she told father and son as she showed them both the tiny hairline fracture in the bone. “So you can have your pick of colors. Pink or blue.”

  “Pink?” Eli looked stricken. His nose wrinkled in disgust. “No way!”

  “Blue it is,” she said with a grin as Randy found the appropriate colored kit from a supply closet and helped her apply the cast. For his part, Eli was a trooper, didn’t flinch too much, tried to be as stoic as his father.

  Once the cast was in place, and Randy was cleaning up the extra packaging, Kacey gave them instructions. “The main thing is that you don’t reinjure it. So you”—she eyed the boy—“have to take it easy for a while. No more climbing on the jungle gym, or being pushed by Cory Whoever.” She leaned down so that she was eyeball-to-eyeball with him. “Can you do that?”

  Eli nodded, then looked down at his cast. “Maybe you tell him that? He’s a butthead.”

  Trace was long-suffering. “I thought that was our secret. Remember?”

  “Everybody knows,” Eli said.

  “I guess the secret’s out,” Kacey said with a grin, then told Eli, “But I wouldn’t worry about Cory. . uh. .”

  “Deter,” Trace supplied.

  “Right. I think your dad will handle any trouble you have from him. I heard that he was an Army Ranger. From what I understand, those guys are pretty tough.”

  “They are!” Eli declared, and Trace looked as if he wanted to fall through the floor.

  “I think that’s enough,” he said, reaching for his son’s jacket when the boy blurted, “You look like Miss Wallis.”

  Kacey glanced up at the father, who visibly winced. “Is that a good thing?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Trace nodded without a lot of conviction.

  “Great.” First Shelly Bonaventure, now the unknown Miss Wallis. It seemed to be her week for resembling someone else.

  Eli announced, “She’s my dad’s girlfriend.”

  Every muscle in Trace’s body appeared to stiffen. “Eli, I told you that Miss Wallis and I — we’re not dating. She’s not my girlfriend.” Totally abashed, he said, “Sorry. Miss Wallis was Eli’s teacher last year, when he was in first grade.”

  “And you went out on dates!” Eli glared up at his father.

  He gazed apologetically at Kacey. “She and I did go out a couple of times, and yes, you do look a little like her.”

  “I must have a face that looks familiar.”

  He closed his eyes for half a second and shook his head, the overhead light catching in the blonder strands of his hair. “So, now that I’m completely embarrassed, can you tell me how to slow an active seven-year-old down?”

  “It’s probably impossible, but you, Eli, remember to take it easy. No roughhousing. Got that?” She leaned down to meet the boy’s gaze, eye-to-eye once more.

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Promise? Scout’s honor?”

  “I’m not a Cub Scout.”

  “Okay, I’ll believe you,” she said, raising her eyebrows as if she really didn’t trust him, not quite.

  “I will!” Eli was completely earnest.

  “Good. ’Cuz your dad’ll be reporting to me.” She smiled at Trace, who started to smile back, then thought better of it when she told him that if the pain in his son’s arm was so great that over-the-counter pain medication didn’t help, he should call her. He nodded grimly.

  As she wrote out the prescription, she added, “I’ll call about the throat culture. I’ll want to see you again”—she pointed her pen at Eli—“in about ten days. Can you do that?” The boy was nodding vigorously. “Good.” She ripped off the prescription and handed it to his father. “He’s going to be okay, though I think he should stay home from school for a couple of days.”

  “Yessss!” Eli said and pumped his good arm, which suggested to Kacey that he was feeling better.

  “Anyway,” she said to Trace, “call me if he’s in a lot of pain or something looks wrong to you. You’ll know. My service can reach me twenty-four-seven, and either Dr. Cortez or I will call you back ASAP.”

  Trace tucked the prescription into his pocket and seemed a little less uptight than when she’d first examined his son a couple of hours earlier. He dropped Eli’s jacket over the boy’s shoulders.

  “Now, Eli, you be good, okay? Do as your father says, and don’t give him any trouble. And, oh, stay away from bullies,” Kacey advised.

  “Thanks.” Trace’s intense blue eyes were sincere, and when he shook her hand again, she thought the clasp lasted a bit longer than normal. Then again, maybe she was imagining things.

  She exited the room as Randy made notes on the computer and followed her into exam room two. Attempting to push all thoughts of the rangy cowboy from her mind, she turned her attention to Delores Sweeney, a mother of four who was always battling a cold, the flu, or a yeast infection. . or something….

  CHAPTER 5

  “ The drawing for Secret Santas was this morning!”

  Joelle scolded as Pescoli walked into the lunchroom to fill her coffee cup in the early afternoon. The entire cafeteria area was what Pescoli had termed “Joelled.” Christmas lights winked around every surface, the tables all had little snowmen centerpieces, fir boughs festooned with ribbons had been swagged over the doorway, and the regular white napkins in the coffee station had been replaced with red and green.

  Even so, Pescoli suspected, the decorating wasn’t yet finished; it would soon spill into the hallways, offices, and reception area, where already a ten-foot, yet-to-be-adorned tree stood near the bulletproof glass that had been installed over the counter this past spring.

  “I was here at seven, then had work out of the office,” Pescoli said, then gave herself a swift mental kick. She didn’t need to explain her whereabouts to the receptionist.

  “Well, you’re not the only one who missed out.” Joelle’s eyes twinkled, and Pescoli inwardly groaned, knowing she hadn’t escaped. “So here. .” She picked up a basket decorated with candy canes and held it high over her head, as if she truly expected Pescoli to cheat and look at the names she’d scribbled on the scraps of paper.

  “Seriously? Everyone’s doing this?” Pescoli asked suspiciously.

  “Of course!”

  “Including the sheriff?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about Rule?” Pescoli asked, mentioning Kayan Rule, a strapping African American man who had no use for any kind of silliness. One of the more independent of the road deputies, Rule was as unlikely as anyone to be involved in Joelle’s stupid games.

  “Already drew his name this morning, as did Selena.”

  Great, Pescoli thought but, deciding she had been accused too many times of not being a team player, lifted her arm and reached into the basket, where she plucked one of the few remaining scraps of paper with her fingertips.

  “Wonderful!” Joelle was pleased with herself. “Now, don’t forget to leave him or her little gifts at least one a week, until Christmas!”

  Pescoli unfolded the piece of paper, and her stomach dropped as she read the name scrawled across the small scrap:

  Cort Brewster.

  “I have to draw again!” she blurted.

  Joelle snatched back the basket and raised a condescending, if perfectly tweezed eyebrow. “There are no doovers, Detective. That’s what happens when you come late to the party.”

  Pescoli wanted to argue the point but decided she couldn’t stoop to groveling over something so trivial. She nearly forgot her cup of coffee as she left the lunchroom, with its festive snowmen and sparkling lights, and made her way to Alvarez’s cubicle.

  Her partner, as usual, was bent over paperwork. “Trade with me,” Pescoli said.

  “What?” Alvarez glanced up.

  “For the Secret Santa thing. Trade with me.”

  For once, Alvarez actually laughed. “No wa
y.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “The whole thing is ridiculous,” Pescoli grumbled.

  “So don’t worry about it. Just buy some candy or a DVD or something, leave it on Brewster’s desk, and call it good.”

  “You know?”

  “I am a detective. No one else’s name would get you so agitated.” Her smile was knowing. “You could have some fun with this, you know.”

  “It’s not that easy,” Pescoli said, thinking of how the undersheriff and she hadn’t gotten along since the debacle last year, when Jeremy had been arrested. At the time he’d been with Heidi Brewster, and her father had intervened. Pescoli hadn’t, and her son hadn’t really ever forgiven her. Nor had Cort. He seemed to blame Pescoli for her son’s and his daughter’s bad behavior.

  “Sure it is. Or opt out.”

  “Joelle said—”

  “That it was mandatory? Seriously? The Secret Santa thing? I don’t think so, but I’ll double-check the personnel policy manual.”

  “Do that,” Pescoli said, annoyed.

  Alvarez’s grin widened, and she slowly shook her head. “Since when do you listen to Joelle?”

  “Since I don’t want to appear to always be bucking the system.”

  “Then quit bitching, okay?” Alvarez turned her attention back to the stack of papers in front of her. “I hate it when you start whining like a baby.”

  “I can’t believe you bought into it,” Pescoli declared, then noticed her partner’s expression turn more serious, her eyes darken a bit. “Is this a sheriff’s department or a damned bridge club?”

  “Maybe we could all use a little Christmas spirit,” Alvarez said, adding, “Don’t you have something more important to worry about?”

  “Only about a million things.” Not only her work, but there was that meeting at the school later today to discuss Bianca’s waning interest in anything to do with Grizzly Falls High School. Then there was Jeremy. . always Jeremy.