Disaster Status (6 page)

She glanced down the hallway, then lowered her voice. “It’s true? About the animals, the water?” Her eyes widened, and for some reason Scott was reminded of the aching vulnerability in Cody’s eyes when he’d inquired about the fishing trip. His question, too, was about frightening possibilities.
“If I can’t stand up, I can still go on the boat, can’t I?”

Scott took a breath. “Yes, but it’s fewer animals than the TV said. Probably drinking from the stock pond near the crash site. But it’s true that it’s close to a creek that feeds into the Pacific Point River. The rancher was stockpiling chemicals—far more than he’d admitted to last night. And in violation of county policies. Organophosphates, fertilizers, fungicides . . . No people seem to have been affected. But . . .”

“But?”

“They can’t be sure yet how widespread the contamination is. How much of the chemicals were destroyed by the fire, how much saturated the ground. We thought we’d be wrapping things up, but the truth is that this mess is just getting started.”

Erin shivered, then straightened her shoulders. “What’s the next step?”

“Water resources is already performing tests on the water, samples from every source including the river and bay. Meanwhile there’ll be public service announcements, and the Red Cross will provide bottled water. You can bet the stores are already running out.” He saw Erin’s brows scrunch. “Don’t worry. Your hospital keeps a three-day supply.”

“Actually, I was thinking of my grandmother. I need to call her.”

Scott nodded at her honesty and obvious concern. “Do that. But our primary focus right now is to avoid mass panic. The Office of Emergency Services will be coordinating a Crisis Management Briefing tonight at the town hall to provide information to citizens and control rumors. All services—police, fire, hospital, and so forth—will receive instructions regarding their own specific roles.” He offered a half smile. “There’s a book.”

Erin gave a short laugh. “Which I’m sure you’ve committed to memory, Captain.”

“Well . . . don’t lose your name badge.”

Chapter Six

Erin paused outside the doors to the ICU, noticing the large linen cart pushed against the corridor wall. The dust cover was rolled back and the cart’s metal shelves, usually stocked with neat stacks of freshly laundered patient gowns, pillowcases, and sheets, were now loaded with row after row of bottled drinking water.
“Don’t worry.
Your hospital keeps a three-day supply.
”

Though she had no doubt Scott was correct, right now she was concerned about far more than drinking water. As day-shift charge nurse, she was responsible for her staff. And to them. They counted on her for fair scheduling, to act as liaison between staff and administration, to keep them informed of policy changes, to roll up her sleeves and pitch in alongside them with patient care. And to promote and safeguard the morale of her team. Erin had a nagging feeling that something wasn’t quite right with Sandy. She needed proof her suspicion was wrong. Physically, the triage nurse was fine, but . . .

Sandy was sitting in a chair alongside the hospital bed, picking at the tape to her IV. She looked up as Erin tapped at the doorframe. “Oh, you caught me. I’m thinking about pulling this thing out myself. I want out of here in the worst way. All I hear are alarms beeping and people gagging and those ventilators.”

“I’ll bet.” Erin nodded in sympathy and stepped closer, glancing at the cardiac monitor overhead. Sandy’s heartbeat, in a fluorescent green tracing, marched across the black background in an organized, textbook display: short, rounded P-wave; tall and narrow spike of the QRS complex; followed by the small and tidy T-wave. Normal sinus rhythm at 70 beats per minute. Blood pressure reading: 113 over 62. Just what you’d expect for a healthy twenty-three-year-old.
In a situation she never
expected.

Erin studied her friend’s face. Flushed skin, dry lips, but pupils far less dilated than before. “Looks like the atropine’s worn off. Your heart rate’s normal.”

“Except that I still feel like I’m spitting cotton. My mouth’s so dry.” Sandy reached for the bottle of water on her table and hesitated. The dark centers of her hazel eyes were wide again, and Erin suspected it had nothing to do with drug therapy. “They took my water pitcher away this morning. They replaced everybody’s water with these bottles. That was weird. Is it true what Sarge said about the pesticides and the river?”

“Sarge?”

“I cornered him when he was emptying the trash outside my room. I’d overheard one of the visitors talking with a nurse, and I had to know.” Her fingers moved to the neckline of her gown. Then her voice lowered to a whisper. “Is our water supply contaminated?”

“No,” Erin said quickly. Then amended it; she wasn’t going to lie. “I mean, it’s doubtful. Several agencies are investigating. They have to. But the spill was nearest to a stock pond. It’s probably very isolated.” She took Sandy’s hand. “The important thing right now is that you’re okay. You’ll be back to work in the ER before you know it.” Her stomach plummeted as she caught the look in Sandy’s eyes. More than hesitancy. Fear?

“Sure,” Sandy said, blinking rapidly before looking away. “As soon as the doctor clears me. But I’ll need—”

“You’ll have as much time as you need,” Erin interrupted, giving her fingers a firm squeeze. “I’ve got plenty of coverage for the ER. Don’t give it another thought.”

Sandy’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she exhaled a staggering breath. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely sure. And I’m the boss. So there you go.”

“Thank you.” Sandy reached for her bottled water, raised it to her lips, then startled, jumping at the sound of Sarge starting up a vacuum cleaner outside the room. Water sloshed onto the front of her gown. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“Here, I’ve got the Kleenex,” Erin offered.

“Thanks. Sorry I’m a little jumpy. Don’t know why.”

“No problem.” Erin watched her dab at the spill, trying to tell herself that Sandy’s nervousness was a side effect of the medications and the ICU atmosphere. Just because she was a nurse didn’t mean she was immune to the disorienting effects of unnatural lighting, strange noises, the lack of sleep and privacy. It happened to almost every patient in every hospital. It was perfectly normal for a patient to feel jumpy. Even an unflappable nurse like Sandy. But if all of that were true, then why did Erin still have that nagging feeling something wasn’t right? She nodded to reassure Sandy but told herself to accept the truth:
She’s scared.
Scared to come back to work.

“And the little girl from the ER—our patient? Is she still in a coma?”

If ever Erin was tempted to lie, it was now. “Yes, but remember that Ana’s condition is the result of pneumonia more than the initial poisoning. Because her airway was compromised for so long. It’s not the same as your exposure.”

“I know.” Sandy’s pupils were huge again. “I’m the lucky one.”

Erin cut through the lobby on her way back to the ER, passing a cart filled with bottled water and Styrofoam cups standing alongside the drinking fountain. The fountain’s spout had been covered with a plastic bag. An attached note read,
Please use bottled water
.

She slowed her pace, watching as a young mother helped her child reach a bottle before joining a small group of other visitors gathered in chairs in front of the TV. Erin stopped, mesmerized by the news clip. It showed a little girl about five years old, crying, followed by a close-up of a marmalade orange cat, its tongue protruding and eyes glazed. Obviously dead. The camera panned across the surface of what appeared to be a small pond, the lens zooming in on dozens of fish floating belly-up.

One of the children turned to his mother. “Did that kitty drink the poison water?”

The TV clip faded to black and was replaced by what appeared to be an interview with Pacific Point city officials, backed up by several police officers and firefighters, including Scott. He’d changed into his uniform, and his expression was all business. One of the officials gave a reassurance that the pesticide contamination was likely limited to the immediate dump site. No further animals or people had been affected. Water sampling continued. “There is no reason for panic. We repeat: no reason for panic.” The clip finished with information regarding tonight’s town meeting.

Erin crossed the last stretch of carpet leading to the ER’s back doors, fighting the awful feeling that the dead cat and the bloated fish were only the beginning. And trying to forget the look of fear in Sandy’s eyes.

+++

“Slow breaths, Mrs. Alton. Try to relax . . . your hand too, please. Ouch.” Leigh grimaced.

“But I’m scared, Doctor. Please, you have to help me!”

“I’m trying. Nice, slow breaths. That’s better. Let go of me, please.”

The patient, a morbidly obese forty-eight-year-old blonde, dropped her death grip on Leigh’s arm to reach for a yellow plastic emesis basin. “Oh . . . no,” she continued, her moan interrupted by violent gagging. “Not again. I’m so sorry.” She wiped her mouth on the towel Leigh offered, belched loudly, and then moaned again. “My stomach hurts so much. Do you think it’s those pesticides, then? Have I been poisoned?”

Leigh glanced at the three patients on the other gurneys, hoping no one had heard. More panic was the last thing she needed; the hospital operator had been forwarding calls to the ER all morning. She’d moved to Pacific Point to find some much-needed peace in her life, distance from her problems. Dealing with citywide chaos wasn’t conducive to any of that.

She patted her patient’s arm, now damp with perspiration. “Show me again where it hurts. Put one finger on the spot where your pain is the worst.”

Leigh turned and mouthed a thank-you as Erin pulled the privacy curtain around the gurney, then hastily called after her, “Start an IV here, would you? Normal saline. Let’s give a half-liter bolus to start. Pull some blood for a CBC and chem-20. I’ll write the complete orders when I’m finished here. Thanks.” She turned back to her patient. “Now, where’s that pain?” Leigh lifted the hospital gown.

Mrs. Alton’s pudgy hand hovered over her abdomen for a moment, then indicated—with the tip of a raspberry-tinted acrylic nail—a spot at the base of her right rib cage.

Right upper quadrant abdomen. And
colicky in nature.
Leigh layered one hand over the other, then rocked her palm against the ample rolls of flesh, pressing her fingertips in as deeply as she could to palpate the organs beneath. “Deep breath, please.” Edge of the liver, gallbladder
. . .
She watched her patient’s face for a reaction and saw her pupils dilate.

Elaine Alton flinched with pain.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you. But tell me, why are you concerned this could be related to—” she lowered her voice—“a pesticide exposure?”

“The fish,” Mrs. Alton explained, attempting to smother another bilious belch.

“You mean the fish that died? In the TV news report?” Leigh suppressed a groan. Why on earth did the station keep rolling the tape of that poor little girl and her dead cat?
And when is the stable going to return my call about my horse?
“You got worried after you saw the report about all those dead fish?”

The woman shook her head as Leigh lifted her stethoscope to her ears. “I mean the fish I ate. Last night.”

Leigh stretched the earpieces away from her head. “You think you ate poisoned fish?”

“Maybe. How can I know? My hubby got it down at the pier, and he saw them taking water samples not far from there. The river runs to the ocean, you know.”

“Ah,” Leigh said as empathetically as she could.
Deep breath . . . Patience, patience.
“And exactly what kind of fish did you eat last night?”

“Rock cod. Battered and deep fried. And clams. We had our five children over for the annual Alton fish fry. The neighbors too. You’ve never seen so much food—homemade onion rings, buttered garlic bread, cheese fondue, Boston cream pie. Oh, please, it’s really hurting again.” She squirmed on the bed, her skin paling. “And it’s aching in my back now, up in my shoulder blade.” She clutched at the gown over her right breast. “It’s just like that pain I had a few years ago. Oh, Doctor, please help me.”

“Nice slow breaths.” Leigh lifted her stethoscope away from the woman’s abdomen. “Did you say you’ve had this pain before?”
And didn’t tell me or the triage nurse?

“Oh yes. From my gallstones. I have one of them at home in a little jar.”

Leigh nodded, trying not to imagine how someone would display a gallstone. HGTV would cringe. But the old med school gallbladder aphorism certainly fit here. The five Fs: fair, fat, forty, female, and fertile. Elaine Alton embraced them all with gusto—and a side of coleslaw.

The privacy curtain parted a few inches, and Arlene, the admitting office clerk, peeked in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Dr. Stathos, but you have a phone call on line one. It’s—”

“I know who it is,” Leigh interrupted before Arlene could reveal the details. “I’ve been expecting this . . . consultation.”
With the stable manager about my horse
. It wasn’t a complete lie. “Transfer the call to my office and ask them to hold for a few moments, would you? I’m going to order some medication for Mrs. Alton’s pain and nausea, and then I’ll take the call.”

Leigh exhaled softly, realizing that her call to Beachview Stables had little to do with serious concern over Frisco’s health; the boarding stable drew its water from a tank filled prior to the accidental pesticide spill. And the big bay gelding was strong and healthy and completely full of himself these brisk spring mornings. No, this call to the stables was more about a connection to the peaceful, pastoral world that was Leigh’s respite from the turmoil of her chaotic work . . . and her wounded heart. It had become a lifeline. After the events of the last twenty-four hours, she needed it more than ever.

In less than three minutes she was reaching for the phone, already imagining the sweet scent of alfalfa and pine shavings, the low snuffling of the stabled horses, and the chirps of barn swallows nesting in the rafters. Except that it wasn’t the stable manager on the other end of the line. It was . . .
Nick.
Leigh’s heart slammed against her ribs at the sound of her husband’s voice.

“Leigh?” he repeated, his voice low and sleepy as if he were a rookie coming off a bruising night shift. She could almost see his sleep-tousled black hair, those heavy-lidded brown eyes, and the dark shadow of beard stubble. “Are you there?”

“Yes.” She reached past her knitting tote and grabbed a bottle of water, hating that he had this effect on her. Still had the ability to turn her world upside down and fill it with a toxic mix of anger, pain, and hopelessness.
There is no hope for us.
“But I’m busy. Why are you calling?”

“I—hold on a minute.” There was a muffling of the phone as if he’d pressed it to his shoulder and then whispered voices, one deep and one very insistent . . . and unmistakably feminine.

She’s there with him?
Leigh’s stomach lurched until the familiar anger rose to shield her, like Nick’s police-issue vest that had hung in the closet next to her scrubs for three long years. Thick, insulating anger. It was all she had. “No,” she said after taking a sip of her water, “I won’t hold on. I can’t.”