Disaster Status (24 page)

“BP’s climbed some,” Judy said after reinflating the cuff. “It’s 210 over 98. Heart rate’s 58. Sinus rhythm. Oxygen’s good. Iris, I’m ready to move you in for the CT. Can you hang in there?”

“Nana?” Erin touched her grandmother’s face. Anxiety—and a sudden intrusive memory of Charlene Bailey’s fatal hemorrhage—made her legs weak. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, but I’m a little sick to my stomach.” She licked her lips and groaned.

“I’ve got something for that.” Judy released the brake on the gurney and nodded for Erin to open the door into the scanner room. “I’m rolling you in; then I’ll fix you right up.”

Her grandmother was in the scanner within three minutes and lay quietly after an IV dose of medication for nausea. They called the ER as soon as the tech was ready to start the films, and in mere minutes Erin was sitting between Judy and Leigh in the darkened imaging room. Behind a large window of viewing glass that looked onto the scanner. If she were a family member and not a nurse, she’d be pacing the waiting room. They were bending the rules.

“We’re scanning now, Mrs. Quinn,” the tech announced through the microphone. “Stay still, please.” He pressed a button, and initial gray and hazy images began to appear on the viewer in front of them. Impossibly, layers of her grandmother’s head peeled slowly away, skull to brainstem, like an onion readied for Sunday supper.

Erin watched her grandmother’s vital signs glow neon bright in the dim light of the scanner room, fighting a wave of dizziness. She’d had little sleep, nothing to eat, and every second that passed made her feel more and more . . . helpless
.
Not helpless, please, Lord
. The thought was foreign, frightening—she couldn’t let it happen. She’d keep herself together, be rational, clearheaded.
Stay strong. I can do it.

The images continued to fill the screen, slice by slice. Then Leigh hunched abruptly forward, pointing at an image and talking to the tech.

But Erin’s gaze was riveted on her grandmother. Something was wrong. She’d begun moving around.
Oh no. No!
“Stop scanning! She’s having a seizure!” She leaped to her feet and bolted from the room.

Leigh followed, shouting orders back to Judy and the tech: “Grab the crash cart and page surgery stat!”

The table slid electronically backward, moving her grandmother’s body out of the scanner, and Erin grasped her hand. The full body jerking had ceased, but . . . Erin’s breath caught at the sight of her grandmother’s eyes rolled back, mouth grimacing in spasm, the frothy sputum . . . “We need suction!”

“Here, I’ve got it.” Judy slid the rigid plastic suction tip into the corner of Nana’s mouth to clear away the saliva and protect her airway.

Erin reached for a high-flow oxygen mask and cranked up the liter flow, then replaced the nasal cannula . . . holding her breath as she watched her grandmother’s chest rise and fall and the color return to her face and lips.
Thank you, Lord.
“I think it’s stopped now.” She turned to Leigh as Judy began to take a set of vital signs. “What do we—?”

Her question was cut short by a shout from the CT tech. “Surgery’s on the line, Doctor!”

Erin’s heart wedged into her throat. “Surgery?”

Leigh nodded, her gaze holding Erin’s. “She has a traumatic brain bleed.”

+++

“Gunther, Richard M., sergeant, United States Army, 557-82-53 . . .” His words dissolved, tongue sticking to the dry roof of his mouth.
Where am I?

“It’s okay, Sarge. I got it the first time. Just relax. We’ll have you out of here real soon. You’ll get some help.”

Help?
He squinted in the dimly lit room, making out a figure of a man in uniform. Short and pudgy. Boyish face, peach-fuzz mustache. One of the men in his squad? No, the uniform was blue. Sarge tried to lift himself up on one elbow, but metal dug into his wrist. He shook it, and it rattled—metal against metal. Handcuffs? And leather restraints too. He thrashed and his stump flailed uselessly. His prosthesis was gone. He groaned, then swore.

“I hear ya, Sarge. I’m not one to cuss, but I can’t blame you this time.” The man in the uniform stepped cautiously closer. “Do you remember me now? Curtis. Pacific Point PD. We talk sometimes when you’re out having a smoke. You carried my boy in from the car last Christmas after he fell off his bike and broke—” He frowned. “Hey, don’t try to get up. I can turn the lights on if you want, but my orders are to call the nurse for more meds if you don’t stay quiet. I don’t want to do that.”

Nurse? Meds?
Sarge struggled to cram facts together, mushy as jigsaw puzzle pieces swollen by unexpected rain. He glanced around the room: sink, surgical light, wall monitor, overflowing linen bin, and his leg, propped against the wall by the door.
I’m in the ER
shackled to a gurney
. He groaned again.

Sarge lifted his head and felt the room swirl, then rattled the handcuff on his wrist. The pieces, beginning to fit now, made cold sweat bead on his forehead. His breath quickened. “Why?”

“Why are you handcuffed?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t remember?”

Sarge shook his head, and a rivulet of sweat ran down his temple. His heart thudded.

“Assault.” Curtis rubbed his hand across his mouth. “You hit a woman with a baseball bat. She’s in bad shape. And kidnap. A little boy from up on the third floor. You grabbed him, and—”

“No!” Sarge’s stomach heaved. He spit and struggled to sit, the restraints digging into his wrists. “You’re lying!” He flinched against a barrage of intruding images and then opened his mouth to shout again. But all that came out was a low, keening howl as the desert images rose again, followed by new truths . . .
the children, the boy.
No, please
. . .

Curtis shouted through the doorway, and people came rushing in. Arms held Sarge down, turned him sideways. A needle pierced his hip. There was burning, a woozy sensation of swimming, gray fog seeping into his brain, then gradually . . . darkness.

When he opened his eyes again, he was in a different room, a different place maybe. Smelled like a hospital; he wasn’t sure. And he didn’t care. He’d remembered what he needed to. He still couldn’t recall the details about that woman. But the boy was safe now. He knew that. Because the man he’d seen with the boy on the stairs was the same man who’d sat with him the night before. All night. Listening, like Sarge did. Something about that felt right. Like this man was on the same mission as Sarge . . . to save Cody.

He hoped it worked out. Maybe he’d help Cody pray again too. And he’d stop feeling so lost, so alone. Start feeling better about everything. Yes, the man would help Cody. He had to.

Because living with that kind of pain was the worst kind of poison. And harder than losing a leg.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Scott took the south stairs to get to the lobby; the investigators had closed the north stairwell, and truthfully he couldn’t have stomached being there again. Not after he’d kicked in the door, vaulted down those steps to find Cody huddled, trembling, and clutching the railing like a life preserver in a cold ocean. Scott shivered and descended the last flight of stairs, shifting the weight of the bulky pack he’d looped over his shoulder. The backpack that belonged to Sarge Gunther. Containing, among other things, a journal detailing his “rescue” plan, which according to his grandfather, showed evidence that he’d somehow had Cody’s welfare at heart.
“I think it’s possible that this man really cared for our boy.”

Scott clenched his teeth, biting back a curse. Granddad, as usual, was too kindhearted. Gunther was a kidnapper. And maybe even a murderer. His chest squeezed, remembering the rapid-fire overhead pages he’d heard earlier. For respiratory therapy stat to the CT scanner. Then for surgery staff and anesthesiology. He’d had a horrible feeling it had to do with Iris Quinn. In fifteen minutes he’d get Cody into the truck; there was time to drop the backpack off with the officers outside the ER and find Erin. After their last conversation, he had his doubts about whether she’d want to see him. But he had to know how she was doing.

He caught Judy outside the doors to the emergency department.

“Erin’s not here,” she explained in answer to his question. “She was waiting outside surgery, but . . . I’m sure it’s all over the news already. And you’re part of this whole awful thing anyway, so I guess privacy issues are hardly—”

Scott interrupted, his stomach sinking. “Her grandmother?”

“Yes. A subdural bleed, putting pressure on her brain. She had a seizure during her scan. Thankfully the neurosurgeon was doing rounds upstairs. He took her right to the OR. It gives her the best chance possible, but still . . .” Judy groaned. “This is all so unbelievable. Sarge, Erin’s grandmother, and your nephew, of course. How’s he doing?”

“Good, considering. I’m taking him to my parents’ in a few minutes, but I wanted to see if I could find . . .”

“You might try the chapel.”

+++

“I should be
doing
something,” Erin said, pressing her hands to her forehead. She rocked forward, then back, in the chapel chair. “Not sitting. Waiting feels so frustrating, so . . . fruitless, so . . .” She turned to Leigh.

“I know. But I also know that you’re exhausted. When did you sleep last?”

“I don’t know, don’t care.” Erin jumped, startled, as a page sounded overhead. Newborn nursery. Not surgery.
Get a grip. Stay strong.
“I don’t get it. How did this whole mess happen?”

“With Sarge?” Leigh shook her head. “I’ve been asking myself that too. When I examined him, he was ranting on and on about chemical warfare, missile strikes, and needing to save the children. And the police officers said he’d started reciting his name, rank, and serial number. So I’m thinking this has to be related to his military experience. Which would explain the uniform and the shaved head. I’ve called for his VA records.”

“So he thought he was saving Cody.” Erin winced, knowing how frightened the boy must have been. Scott too.
Where are you?

“I imagine so. And unfortunately, your grandmother happened to be there.”

“Happened?” Erin spread her palms with exasperation. “That’s another thing that’s making me crazy. She leaves me this note saying she’s needed at the hospital. And takes off—
with her goldfish
—to visit Scott’s nephew. And not for the first time, either, I hear. Why didn’t she tell me she was sitting with patients?”

Leigh was quiet for a moment, then looked into Erin’s eyes. “I think I remember you trying to discourage her from working here altogether.”

“Because I’m responsible for her. I was sure being here would be too hard on her after Grandy’s illness. I wanted to keep her—” Erin’s voice broke—“safe.” She pressed her hands to her forehead again, the irony making her queasy. “I promised my family I’d do that.”

“Have you called them?”

“No. Not yet.” Now wasn’t the time to admit that she was barely on speaking terms with them these days, because she couldn’t listen to anything they had to say. It was the reason she’d turned off her phone this morning. And missed the call after Nana was attacked. “It’s so hard to sit here waiting. There must be something I can do to help.”

Leigh laid her hand over Erin’s. “You can go home and rest.”

“What? Leave her? When she’s having a hole cut in her skull? I could never—”

“Easy now,” Leigh said, squeezing her hand. “I meant after she comes out. The last report was that there were no complications. So it shouldn’t be long. You’ll see her in recovery, give her a kiss—” she smiled—“count her fingers and toes if you want to. Talk with the doctors. Ask questions. But then I think you should go home for a little while. At least long enough to take a shower and eat something. It will be hours until she awakens from anesthesia. And she’ll need you then. Meanwhile I’ll be sitting there, knitting, until you get back. Right beside her. Watching everything myself. I’ve already arranged for the on-call doctor to take over the ER.”

“Oh, Leigh.” Erin fought tears. “I . . .”

“Don’t trust me?”

“Of course I do. But . . .”

“But nothing,” Leigh insisted. “You need a break, and your house is five minutes away. I’d call you stat if anything changed. Besides, didn’t your grandmother ask for her Bible?”

“Yes.” Erin tried to swallow a huge lump in her throat. “She did.”

“There you go, then.” Leigh glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to meet social services back in the ER. Of course your grandmother is your priority, but I’m certain they’re going to want your help in planning a full staff debriefing this go-round.” She sighed. “I understand Cody’s going home today. I hope he’ll be talking with a counselor too. After all that boy’s been through—”

Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. “I’m sorry. I need to return this call. It’s personal.” She pushed the phone back into her pocket, then wrapped her arms tightly around Erin, whispering against her ear, “Call me when your grandmother goes to recovery, and I’ll run right down.”

“Thank you,” Erin murmured, returning the hug, “for everything. You’re a blessing.”

“You’d do the same for me, my friend.”

“That call . . . You look worried. Is it a problem with your sister?”

“No.” Pain flickered across Leigh’s face. “It was Nick.”

Erin waited until Leigh left, then called the OR on the house phone. Her grandmother’s vital signs remained stable, and they were evacuating the last of the blood putting pressure on her brain. No further seizures. No signs of complications. They expected to send her to the post-anesthesia room within the half hour. They promised to call Erin immediately.

When she hung up, she realized her hands were trembling. Legs too. Leigh was right. She’d feel stronger after some food and a shower. And she’d do that after her grandmother was in the recovery room. Meanwhile she’d sit; she’d wait. She wouldn’t fall apart, even if this whole ordeal still seemed so incredibly unreal. For everyone involved. Social services was right; there should be a debriefing. Full scale, not simply peer counseling like she’d done with the pesticide scare. The pediatrics staff had been badly affected by this incident, and everyone knew Sarge. All his coworkers would be in shock. To have someone you know go completely off the deep end, start ranting about chemical warfare and . . .

Erin bit her lip as she remembered the height of community panic just last week during the pesticide incident. All that talk of chemical threats by the Safe Sky group. More than enough to give Arlene nightmares, frighten Sandy about pregnancy, and make that woman at the meeting fear for Pacific Point children.

Erin’s heart wedged into her throat. Sarge had seen all the media coverage, and he’d been in the ER when little Ana Galvez and all the other victims came in. He was always in the background. But always there. A Gulf War veteran who’d lost a leg. And maybe suffered other debilitating traumas no one realized. Post-traumatic stress very likely. Had the pesticide incident caused him to snap?

+++

Scott shifted the weight of the backpack and peeked through the chapel door, watching Erin. She sat near the front, hands in her lap and head bowed. Praying maybe. She’d said it helped her. He hoped that was true. Her grandmother was lying in surgery with a cerebral hemorrhage. Erin was strong; maybe sometimes she even
was
Wonder Woman. But right now . . . His heart ached at the sight of her tumbled hair and sagging shoulders. She looked alone and lost.

He took a slow breath, telling himself to risk it. To go in there and put his arms around her. Hold her. Tell her he understood how she was feeling; he’d been there too. And that she could count on him for . . . He flinched. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Last night she’d made it more than clear that she didn’t think he measured up to the kind of man anyone could possibly count on. And obviously not the sort of man she could really care for. Maybe that was true, but Erin looked like she needed a friend. Plain and simple. And he could be that for her. He could—

“Scott McKenna. East lobby. Scott McKenna, please.”

He glanced at the overhead speaker. They’d changed the location to pick up Cody because of the media, no doubt. He’d have to bring the truck around. He looked at Erin. He could still run in there and say . . . what?
“I’d like to be here for you, but I can’t stay?”
He shook his head and sighed. That would only prove her point. He didn’t measure up. She couldn’t count on him.

He slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed for the lobby.

+++

“Nana? Can you open your eyes for me?”

Erin’s voice was soft, hazy, faraway, and sweetly concerned. But the poor darling didn’t understand that it wasn’t necessary to have her eyes open. Iris saw everything very clearly. Clearer than ever before, and it was even more breathtakingly lovely than she’d imagined. Light, nurturing as morning sun on hollyhock seedlings, sweet and pure. Warm light that came from inside somehow—inside her very soul—and shone outward in an offering to others, until she felt transparent, glowing, completely lifted by it. Peaceful and loved . . .

“Do you need something for pain?”

Pain?
Iris tried to laugh but heard a groan. It couldn’t have been hers because there wasn’t any pain. No more headache. Not so much as even a twinge of her pesky arthritis. She was free of it all now, as if it never existed. Free to enjoy the light, the loving warmth, the peace and the beauty. Oh, the beauty, so much deeper when seen through a lighted soul. Colors—tabernacle hues—scarlet, purple, blue, sea foam white . . . She stared, awestruck at something coming into view. Was that really . . . ? It was. Delight filled her, and she was tempted to giggle as she watched. Elmer Fudd swimming, free of his bowl, fins swirling, young and sleek, body glinting with gold, piece by glittering piece, layered as if it were scales. But real gold, like the glorious streets of heaven. Warmth enveloped her, inside and out.

“There you go. Nice, warm blanket. Can you squeeze my hand, Nana?”

She thought about doing that for Erin, but then she saw him. Her breath shuddered, and a tear slid down her face.
Doug.
Healthy, strong, handsome as the day she’d married him. He watched her with love in his eyes, then stretched out his hand . . . asking her to dance. The light within her softened like the glow of candles. Her heart blossomed, and she wanted to reach out. But it wasn’t time yet to dance, because . . .
our granddaughter still needs me.

She opened her eyes as best she could, then heard Erin’s soft cry.

“Thank you, God. Oh, Nana, Nana, I love you so much. . . .”

Her granddaughter’s warm cheek, wet with tears, nestled against hers, and Iris sighed.

+++

Scott slammed the journal down, shoved it across his desk, and stood. Why had he brought the stupid thing in here? What sense had he expected from a deranged lunatic who set a fire in the hospital, bashed an elderly woman with a baseball bat, then snatched Cody? He fought an alarming wave of nausea and bit back a curse.
Could what he wrote be true?

He walked to the window, stared down at the orderly fire station compound. Engines gleaming, floors hosed, ambulances restocked, checklist complete. By the book, just as Scott always insisted. The same way Gabe McKenna had from this same office some twenty years ago. Everything was orderly, exactly as it should be. So why did Scott suddenly feel so restless, out of sorts—
out of control
? He crossed his arms and glanced at Sarge Gunther’s spiral notebook, lying facedown next to the enlarged snapshot of his family at the Monterey Bay Aquarium before the tragedy of Colleen’s death.

Not wanting the journal’s demented lies anywhere near his family, he marched back to the desk and snatched it. His fingers sank into the coil of metal holding the notebook together.
No, it’s not true. It’s not.
He wasn’t going to read any more of it. If he hadn’t had to hurry to take Cody home from the hospital, he’d have dropped the thing off with the police. Where it belonged. A prosecutor’s evidence of insanity. Not proof that . . .
Erin’s right about me. I’ve failed my family.