Disaster Status (8 page)

“Good point.” Leigh looped Frisco’s reins over his head and stroked his crooked white blaze. “Dare I ask who will provide stress intervention for the rest of the city?”

Erin chuckled. “Not us. Don’t worry. That’s the county’s responsibility. But hold the good thoughts for your charge nurse, okay? I’m on my way to convince Scott McKenna that there are a few key chapters missing from his beloved book of rules. And I don’t think our gladiator is going to like it one bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, Leigh slid down from her saddle and ran up the metal stirrups. She led Frisco to the stable’s grooming area, empty except for a barn worker pushing a cart piled high with soiled shavings. Located in the breezeway between long rows of stalls, the grooming area was equipped with thick, rubber-matted floors and lengths of chain attached to railroad-tie posts in order to secure horses safely. Nearby were wash racks, also fitted with rubber mats and ties, and hot running water—something Leigh could use herself right about now. She glanced down at her muddy breeches and boots with a grimace. Then pressed her palm against the big thoroughbred’s chest and clucked, encouraging him to step backward into the cross ties.

Frisco did so obediently, and Leigh felt a rush of affection for the three-year-old bay, knowing that his earlier rowdiness was due to youth and inexperience and not any malicious streak. He was getting used to new surroundings, the same way Leigh was. Also not his fault.

She shook her head, wondering how many horsewomen she’d treated in the ER for everything from smashed toes to fractured ribs to a broken pelvis who’d insisted it was their fault, not their horses’. Only another horse lover could understand that logic
.
And then there was the paraplegic woman at the Santa Rosa horse show, reaching up to brush her horse from an electric wheelchair . . .

Nick’s words drifted back before Leigh could stop them.
“And you complain that what I do is dangerous?”

She complained because it
was
dangerous. But then Leigh didn’t so much complain as worry. Sweaty palms, pounding heart, and antacids-by-the-handful kind of worry. Lying awake at 2 a.m. listening to the police scanner, knowing Nick was headed for a methamphetamine bust, hostage standoff, or a freeway sniper arrest. Horrible, danger-fraught situations, but she knew Nick would be pumped from the moment he got the call, eager to go and right the wrong, make the neighborhood safe. She’d seen that need over and over in his dark eyes. He’d almost tremble with anticipation, like her horse under saddle tonight.

But she’d seen Nick bristle defensively, too, when Leigh begged him to ask for a transfer and told him she couldn’t bear the thought of getting a call saying he’d been shot, killed. She tried to explain that as an ER physician she’d been on the receiving end of too many tragedies and wouldn’t even consider bringing children into that anxious existence. He told her she would never understand what only another cop could understand.

They began a downward spiral of pleading and arguments, demands and ultimatums, slammed doors. Desperate need, aching loneliness. When Leigh finally mentioned separation, her indigestion turned to outright nausea and bone-deep fatigue. She had trouble concentrating at work. Then a fellow officer, Nick’s best friend, was killed in a high-speed chase. And not long afterward Nick finally found the understanding he was looking for. In the arms of the slain officer’s sister. During the humiliating and sleepless aftermath of that painful revelation, Leigh confirmed her suspicion that she was pregnant and then miscarried several weeks later. She didn’t tell him.

Leigh grabbed a splintered post, dizzy for a moment, and gritted her teeth, determined to push the memories down. No good could come from remembering the past. It was why she’d left San Francisco. No husband. No baby. No reason to stay. And now she had things more or less under control.

Leigh groaned as she reached for a buckle on her horse’s bridle.
Under control?
Right. Except for risking her neck on that fence, dealing with an ongoing chemical disaster, losing sleep over that child in the ICU, and watching her triage nurse collapse in the ER. And now she could be forced to participate in crisis counseling.
Crisis counseling.
She was laughing at the pathetic irony of that when her cell phone buzzed for a second time against the waistband of her breeches. What did Erin have up her sleeve now?

She smiled at a passing horse owner, then punched the button on the cell phone and leaned against Frisco’s warm shoulder. “Speak to me,” she growled dramatically.

There was a stretch of silence and then a familiar, deep chuckle. “Okay,” Nick said slowly. “I will, then. I wanted you to know that my Guard unit is on standby in case things get worse with your pesticide incident.”

Leigh’s brain stuttered. “Guard?”

“National Guard. I’m still a reserve; you know that. A memo came out today. If those national environmental activists decide to fly in, or if you end up having to do evacuations—”

“We won’t,” Leigh said, not even caring that she sounded like a fool.
Don’t come here
. “Why are you telling me this?”

There was another long stretch of silence, and Leigh hated that her hands trembled.

“Because I thought you should know there’s a chance I may be coming to Pacific Point, and . . .” Nick sighed. “And I thought maybe I could see you.”

Leigh wanted to throw the phone. To cry. But mostly she was afraid to know . . . “Why?” she asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

“Because it’s been more than three months since you left.” Nick’s tone sharpened. “You loaded your horse into that trailer and took off without telling me. You left our house.”

“I send you a mortgage check the first of every month.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Nick voice softened. “I’m trying to say that we never . . . talked. We never really talked about all this. We need to. And it would be better face-to-face. Even if the Guard doesn’t send me, I think I should come anyway. I want to see you.”

Leigh forced herself to take a slow breath. Her heart thudded in her ears, exactly as it had when she’d grabbed Frisco’s mane and prepared to face that terrifying fence.
I have to do this.

“Leigh?”

“Don’t come. I’m filing for divorce.”

Chapter Nine

When Erin marched toward him, Scott reached up to gingerly touch his shoulder. Not the injury from his ocean skirmish but the site where she’d given that tetanus shot—it ached like a son of a gun. And after tonight’s meeting, he sensed his discomfort had barely begun; this nurse could become a royal pain . . . Scott’s throat constricted.
Ah, man. Does she have to be so beautiful?

Tall and lean and dressed in jeans, with a sea green sweater over a simple white shirt, Erin looked fresh and wholesome. Like one of those women on the cover of a healthy living magazine. Or maybe a young mother headed to a PTA meeting. As she drew closer, her eyes narrowed.
Uh-oh.
Not PTA. And definitely not good for his health. But too late now.

“So,” she said, arriving at where he stood beside the table of county brochures, “exactly how irked are you that I added my two cents to your meeting?” She raised her gaze to his and then, to Scott’s relief, offered a slow smile. “On a scale of one to ten. Be honest.”

“Ten being if you’d actually called me an insensitive clod?”

“Ouch. Good thing I reconsidered that.” Erin crossed her arms, then seemed to think twice about it, letting her hands rest casually on her hips instead. “But you understand what I was saying? Psychological support is an integral part of disaster management.”

“I know that.” Scott glanced away for a moment and spotted a TV news camera panning in their direction. “Tonight’s meeting was a Crisis Management Briefing. Its function is to inform, to squelch rumors, and to identify community leadership.” He blinked as TV camera lights swept past them and toward the mayor, who lingered near the podium. “We weren’t here to offer any kind of psychological Band-Aid.”

“Band-Aid? Is that what you think that young mother was looking for? Her daughter’s afraid of poison rain!” Erin’s eyes flashed. “How many more children are worrying about things like that? How many elderly folks? And have you thought about—?” She frowned as camera lights nearly blinded them both.

A reporter extended a microphone. “Amy Carson, Action News, here with Pacific Mercy nurse Erin Quinn and Captain Scott McKenna of the Pacific Point Fire Department. And it appears that they—”

“Have no comment,” Scott interjected firmly. “We have no comment.” He glanced at Erin, relieved that she appeared to agree. “And we’re leaving now.”

He waited beside Erin until the news crew stepped away. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had all I can take from those people.”

“Me too. But I’d like to finish our discussion and maybe go over our disaster review. Are you really leaving now?”

“Actually, I said
we
were leaving. Meaning you and I.” He shrugged and his shoulder cramped with pain, very likely a warning he was about to do something stupid. “How about if we go somewhere and get some coffee?”

“Sure.” She looked around the room. “My grandmother and I drove separately, but I should find her and . . . Oh, there she is.” She clucked her tongue. “I knew it; she’s cornered that cute old gentleman.”

Scott easily spotted the elegant red-haired woman dressed in a long khaki skirt and boots. He chuckled. “Yes. His Chihuahua always draws the ladies. He’s taught it to sort of . . . yodel.” He saw Erin’s brows rise. “I’m serious. He yodels.”

“Well, regardless, I’m sure they’re talking about fish. He said he was some kind of expert, and Nana probably has the oldest living goldfish on earth. I warn her all the time about trusting strangers. But at least that guy looks pretty safe.”

Scott smothered a laugh. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I hear he comes from a long line of insensitive clods.”

“Huh?”

“That’s Dr. Hugh McKenna. My grandfather.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at Scott, a grin lighting her face. “You’re serious?”

Scott smiled back, enjoying her delight. “Swear. And don’t worry about your grandmother. Granddad is a far better man than I am.”

“So you’re saying I should be having coffee with him?”

“Probably. Except he thinks Arlo Popp has no business serving coffee.”

“We’re going to the bait shop?”

Scott’s face warmed as he realized what a fool he was. He’d invited the most beautiful woman he’d ever met to a place that sold live sardines. “No . . . I meant I need to stop by there to pick up a tide table.” He touched his bandaged shoulder. “Need to time my swims better so I won’t take up valuable space on your ER gurneys. But we’ll get coffee somewhere else.”

“Arlo’s is great. You can’t beat the coffee. It’s on my route home, and you live that way too. So we can meet there.” Erin motioned toward the clutch of lingering reporters. “Besides, meeting at Arlo’s means far less chance of being cornered by the media.” Her eyes met his. “Thank you for agreeing to talk with me. I really do want us to try to be on the same page with our disaster support.”

“No problem,” Scott answered, realizing that he’d almost forgotten the reason they were having coffee together. For the last few minutes he’d only been thinking about spending time with her.

“Good. Not only because we need to get our tactical efforts coordinated for future events, but because I’ve seen the effects that traumatic stress can have on people. In my last job at Sierra Mercy, one of my staff nearly lost her life as a result.” Erin winced. “You never know for sure who’s at risk or what’s the final straw for someone’s ability to cope. I don’t want that to ever happen here.”

+++

Liars and worse.
Sarge held the mop across his chest, shoulders squared and jaw tense as he gave the lobby TV his rapt attention. News clips from the town meeting, that blonde interviewing the mayor. The city official preened for the camera, his Adam’s apple bobbing above a carefully knotted polka-dot tie. “This was an isolated event,” he insisted, “and we have things well under control. My first priority is the safety of Pacific Point citizens.”

Isolated event?
A plane loaded with barrels of poison? Sarge’s fingers clenched against the wooden mop handle. Did it have to crash into a building before anyone paid attention? Did the body count have to rise? He turned his attention back to the final clip, a young mother pleading for a child terrified by the poisonings.
“What are you going to do about our children? Or don’t you care?”

They didn’t. But he did. The children had to be safe. Which was exactly why he’d be in that closet tonight, watching the boy. He turned at the sound of a voice.

“Hey, Sarge!” A male ICU nurse, wearing a fleece jacket over his scrubs, made his way toward the doors to the parking lot. He slowed his stride and tapped his watch. “Overtime again? You’re too easy. Day shift, night shift. When do you ever sleep?”

“No problem. Anyway—” Sarge forced a smile—“I hear sleep’s overrated.”
Especially when there’s a mission to
accomplish.
He gave the nurse a sharp salute and watched him walk away. Then he glanced toward the Little Mercies Gift Shop. A few packages of beef jerky would be good to have on hand in the closet upstairs. He’d buy some, go to the apartment, grab a few hours sleep, then head back to the hospital. Night watch. He knew it well.

+++

Scott climbed out of his truck and leaned against its door, waiting for Erin. He could smell the coffee. He’d called his mother on his cell, and she’d had a good visit with Cody, though she’d kept it short because Scott’s stepdad stayed home after all. Gary’s diabetes was getting harder to control. But she said Cody was upbeat despite having his IV changed and still dealing with some leg pain.

The kid was such a trouper. And so mature for his age. Thoughtful too. He’d insisted that he was big enough so no one had to stay overnight with him. Scott’s mother had been uncomfortable with the idea despite Cody’s plea, “Please don’t treat me like a baby.” So Scott finally intervened, reassuring his parents that Cody was a favorite with the Pacific Mercy pediatrics staff. He’d get plenty of attention.

Scott turned as Erin’s gray Subaru pulled up.

She rolled down the window and sniffed the air, then laughed, her eyes teasing. “Hey, Captain, think we can get a side of squid to go with that coffee?”