Everywhere She Turns (2 page)

Forty-two patients in fourteen hours.

A twelve-car pileup on Interstate 695 had kept the ER buzzing for the final three hours of her too-long shift. Half a dozen cops were still attempting to interview the victims capable of answering questions.

“Just another Saturday night in Charm City.” She reached for the door, but something she saw out of the corner of her eye snagged her attention. “Oh, damn.”

Flat tire.

The second one this week. CJ heaved a disgusted breath. She had to get new tires.

Another reality hit on the heels of that one. She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Double damn.”

Who’d had time to get the other flat tire repaired? Certainly not a third-year resident who worked ten or more hours most days and who spent the rest of her time studying for boards.

Damn. Damn. Damn. Plowing her fingers through her hair,
she pulled her ponytail free, glanced around the gloomy parking garage, and considered her options. Getting someone here to repair one or both tires would take hours on a Saturday night.

“Forget it.” She did an about-face and headed for the nearest exit. There was always a cab or two waiting within hailing distance of the ER entrance on East Monument Street. She’d get a ride home and deal with this in the morning when she’d had some sleep. Tomorrow was her first day off in two weeks. Too bad it was Sunday, because she had a million things to take care of and the business world of nine-to-fivers had no appreciation for her frenzied schedule.

She pushed through the north exit of the staff parking garage into the muggy night air. Someday, when she had money, she might actually have a decent ride. One with good tires. And reliable air-conditioning.

Such was the life of a medical resident—every aspect of one’s personal life was about the future.

Sweat had dampened her skin by the time she reached East Monument. At the ER’s street entrance she stopped and stepped back from the curb before an arriving ambulance mowed her down. Lights and sirens, not good. Hard as she tried not to linger, her efforts were futile. Two of her colleagues rushed out to connect with the emerging paramedics and the patient strapped to the gurney.

CJ forced her attention back to the taxi a block or so beyond the ER’s drop-off point. The arriving patient was in good hands. CJ’s shift was over.

She had to learn that even the most committed physician needed boundaries. She couldn’t save the world alone. Especially without sleep.

At the passenger side of the taxi, CJ opened the rear door and gave her home address to the driver. She collapsed into the seat, tossed her purse aside, and snapped her safety belt into place. Blessed relief hissed past her lips.

Finally.

“Tough night?” The driver lowered the volume of the jazz radiating from the taxi’s speakers as he rolled out onto the deserted street.

“Long, long night,” CJ explained. But that was the reality of choosing a career in emergency medicine. The ER was not the place for those who preferred banking hours and neatly scheduled appointments. Strange. Maybe the reason she loved the adrenaline-charged life of an ER physician was related to her drama-filled childhood. Wasn’t all that one did connected to the environment of the formative years?

Obviously she’d been lunching with the psych residents way too much.

The driver had his own theories about tonight’s chaos. He offered a lengthy discourse of how the full moon always made the crazies come out. CJ didn’t bother telling him just how right he was.

The full moon—

Tires squealed. Metal crashed. CJ’s head jerked, then banged the window as the taxi absorbed the momentum of an oncoming car crossing the intersection against the light.

For an endless, paralyzing moment there was no movement, no sound, other than the murmur of the jazz still whispering from the speakers.

“Son of a bitch!” The driver whacked his fist against the dash.

CJ shook off the shock, released the safety belt and rubbed at the dull ache in her right temple. The other car had broadsided the taxi. Both vehicles now sat in the middle of the intersection, steam rising from the hood of the offending vehicle.

Swearing profusely, the driver scrambled across the seat and out the passenger-side door.

CJ shoved that hot bath out of her mind for the moment and flung her door open. She caught up with the furious taxi driver as he confronted the driver of the other car.

“You didn’t see the light? What are you? Blind?”

CJ looked from the dazed driver climbing from behind the steering wheel to the passenger emerging from the backseat. “You two okay?” Both occupants were male. Caucasian. Young, twenty, twenty-one.

“We gotta get to the hospital,” the passenger shouted at no one in particular. He turned all the way around, staggering drunkenly, as if he needed to get his bearings.

An instant mental inventory of causes for his imbalance, from illegal substances to head injuries, quickened CJ’s pulse. “Call nine-one-one,” she instructed the taxi driver, who was still cursing and stomping his feet.

“Is either of you having difficulty breathing? In pain? Light-headed? Nauseous?” Moving toward the passenger, CJ visually assessed the car’s driver, who looked a little dazed and confused, as if he wasn’t sure if this was real or just a bad dream. No apparent injuries. “Any head or neck pain?”

The passenger wore a black Bob Marley T-shirt. Now that she was closer, CJ could see that the T-shirt and his hands were as bloody as hell. Her pulse quickened. His inability to regain his equilibrium persisted.

“Is he calling the cops?”

CJ ignored the driver’s question. “Where’d the blood come from?” she asked the Bob Marley fan, who appeared focused on her blue scrubs. No visible signs of injury. Eyes were glassy. His long dark hair was stringy but not wet or sticky. Where the hell had the blood come from?

“My brother.” He grabbed her arm, tugged her around the open passenger door. “He needs help.”

There was another passenger?

CJ pushed the guy aside and maneuvered her way into the backseat.

Damn
.

Blood. Lots of blood.

Third passenger was a kid, not more than nine or ten. His pajama top was saturated in crimson. She tugged the top up and out of the way to get a look at his torso. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t moan.

Penetrating chest wound.

Shit
.

She needed more light. Bracing her hand on the seat, she leaned closer. Something wet oozed up between her fingers. Blood.
Shit. Shit. Shit
. The seat . . . She checked the knees of her scrubs, the damned floorboard—blood was everywhere.

Instinct kicked in and training overrode emotion.

Patient had no other visible injuries.

Not breathing.

Oh, hell
.

No pulse.

Adrenaline detonated in CJ’s veins, sharpening her senses. “Help me get him out of here!”

The older brother stuck his upper body into the car. “What?”

“You and your friend,” CJ commanded, “help me get him out of the car and on the ground. Hurry!”

The two men scrambled into unsteady action. CJ cradled the boy’s head and neck as the brother and his friend lifted him out of the backseat.

“Put him down over there.” She jerked her head toward the front of the taxi. The headlights would help her see what she was doing. Streetlights weren’t enough.

“You! Taxi guy!” CJ shouted at the man still on his cell phone. He stopped explaining their circumstances and stared at her in question. “Tell them I need an ALS unit. We have full trauma arrest.” She turned back to the boy. The battle was very nearly over. “Tell them to hurry!”

“You can help him, right?” The older brother dropped to his knees on the pavement next to her.

“We have to control the bleeding.” CJ needed this guy focused on his little brother, not distracting her.

“You know what this means?” his friend yelled as he paced back and forth in the middle of the street. “The cops are coming. We gotta get outta here.”

“Shut up!” the brother screamed.

“Give me your hand.” CJ reached out to him. His eyes were wild with fear and whatever had him buzzed. His hand shook as she gripped his wrist and covered the wound with his palm. “Keep pressure there. It slows the bleeding.”

Not that this kid had much left to leak.

CJ started chest compressions.

“They’ll take us to fucking jail,” the friend railed. “I ain’t going to jail. This is your fault, not mine!”

“I said,” the brother warned, “shut the fuck up.”

CJ tuned out the heated exchange. Focused on keeping the
boy’s heart pumping. She had no idea how long he’d been in full arrest, but he didn’t have a chance in hell of surviving if—

Blood seeped from beneath the kid’s left shoulder, spreading ominously over the pavement.

Shit
.

She stopped the compressions.

“What’re you doing?” the brother demanded. “Keep . . .” He motioned with his free hand. “Doing whatever. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

CJ didn’t answer. She carefully rolled her patient onto his right side. Her breath fisted in her throat, refused to fill her lungs.

Exit wound: left scapula. Major blood vessels, the heart . . . all lay smack in the middle of the path the bullet had taken. The puddle of blood on the pavement indicated that every chest compression she’d executed had sent more of what little blood remained in his slim body out that exit wound.

“Do something!” the brother wailed.

Where the hell was that ambulance? “Did you tell them to hurry?” CJ shouted to the taxi driver.

He nodded frantically. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

“Help him, goddammit!” the brother shouted in her face.

CJ flinched but kept her focus on the kid. She lowered him onto his back. “We need pressure on that wound!”

The brother obeyed the order and she resumed chest compressions. The kid would likely die anyway, but he would damned sure die if she didn’t try.

Just hang in there, kid
.

“Don’t you get it?” the brother’s paranoid friend yelled. “The kid’s dead. Nobody loses that much blood and lives. She’s only doing that”—he waved wildly at CJ with both hands—“to keep you from freaking out. The kid’s fucking dead, man.”

Big brother shot to his feet. “If you don’t shut—”

“Gun!” the taxi driver screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

Don’t listen
.
Don’t look
.
Focus
.

The distant shrill of sirens accompanied the screaming between the three men.

“Tell him,” the friend shrieked at CJ, “that you can’t save the kid!”

“Is that true?”

She ignored the brother’s demand. Mentally marked the necessary rhythm.

He stuck his face close to hers.
“Is that true?”
he screamed in her ear.

“I’m doing all I can,” CJ admitted without looking up. She braced for his reaction but didn’t stop the only option she had available to help the patient.

“If he dies,” the brother warned, “you die.” He jammed the gun in her face.

Fear bumped against her sternum.

Ignore the fucking gun! Pump, pump, pump
.

The sirens grew louder and louder.
Nearly here. Thank God
. Her shoulders and wrists were tired, aching.
Keep pumping!

The friend started backing away. “I’m out of here. I’m not going to jail.”

A police cruiser skidded to a stop on the other side of the taxi and the low-life driver took off.

“He’s running!” the taxi guy bellowed to anyone listening. “The driver is running. Stop him!”

Pump, pump, pump
.

“Drop your weapon!”
Cop
.

The unloading paramedics were shouting questions at CJ. “Full arrest,” she called back. “Deep penetrating entrance wound midtorso. Exit wound left scapula. Massive blood loss.”
Get that advanced life support unit over here!

“Drop your weapon!” the cop repeated.

“He’s only nine years old,” the brother pleaded, his words directed at CJ and barely audible amid all the shouting. “You can’t let him die.”

CJ couldn’t help herself. She lifted her gaze to his. No matter that the gun was still pointed at her, there was nothing reassuring she could say. The resignation that claimed the brother’s posture and his eyes warned of his intent a split second before he acted.

There was no time to react.

The explosion from the gun shattered the night.

Sunday, August 1, 12:48
AM

CJ swiped at her damp cheeks with the backs of her hands. She stared at her fingers . . . her palms. Blood. So much blood. Her hands trembled.

The man had turned the gun on himself and fired.