Sheltering Dunes (4 page)

Flynn said it as if she believed Mica wouldn’t bolt. And Mica wasn’t certain of that at all. Being questioned and probed by strange doctors was bad enough, but if the police were here, she’d have to run. Somehow.

“Don’t make me do this,” Mica whispered. She never asked anyone for anything, not even when silence only brought her more pain, but she asked Flynn. Maybe because Flynn let her search her eyes for a lie, a lie she couldn’t find. The word was unfamiliar to her, but she said it anyhow. “Please. You don’t know…”

Flynn leaned closer, so close a cool draft of mint and cedar drifted over Mica’s face. “Whatever you’re afraid is going to happen to you in there is not going to happen. No one is going to hurt you. I promise.”

“You can’t make that promise.”

“Yes, I can. I know these people.” Flynn lightly squeezed Mica’s hand. “These doctors are great. You can trust them.”

Mica tightened her lips, refusing to argue when the woman was obviously clueless. Flynn had no idea who she was or what she might have done. Why did Flynn just assume she was good, or innocent? What kind of person thought that way? “You’re crazy.”

Flynn smiled. “I’ve been told that before. But I’m harmless.”

“Yeah, right.” Mica tried to settle her breathing, tried to tamp down the panic. The more she protested, the more questions she was going to raise in people’s minds. Maybe the best way not to draw attention to herself was just to go along with what had to be done. She could do this. She’d done harder things. She could lie her way through if she had to. She’d gotten away from tougher situations than this. One thing was for certain. She wasn’t counting on Flynn or anyone else for help. And she didn’t plan on trusting anyone. “Okay.”

“No matter what happens,” Flynn said, “it’s going to be all right.”

Mica didn’t answer. She recognized a lie even if Flynn didn’t.

*

Philadelphia, PA

Hector Guzman stretched out his arm along the back of the sofa and punched in a number on his burn phone with his thumb while watching the girl kneeling between his legs suck on his cock. She was one of the new girls, paying her respects. She was fifteen, maybe sixteen, and as good with a knife as she was with her mouth, which was pretty damn good. She had all the moves—she knew what to do with her lips and her tongue and her hands—but his balls felt numb as ice. He ought to be feeling the tension about now, she’d been working him over for a good five minutes, but his hard dick might have been wood for real. He listened to the ringtone, frustration fueling his temper. He didn’t need his cock to turn on him too. “Suck it, bitch.”

“Yo, boss,” his senior lieutenant Carmen said over the air.

Hector sighed inwardly. Maybe the diversion would get his cock back on track. “What’s the word on the shipment?”

“Everything’s set for the transfer tonight.”

“Make sure we have plenty of backup. Tell them to get there early and hide well.” He gripped the girl’s black hair in his fist. Thick and long like Mia’s, but not as soft. “I don’t trust these Russians not to double-cross us.”

“You got it, boss.”

“What about the other thing?” As soon as Hector asked the question, Mia’s face took shape in his mind. When he looked down, he didn’t see the straining, tear-filled eyes of the young initiate, but the dark, fathomless eyes of the one woman he had never really owned. His ass tightened and pressure built in his balls. He gripped the back of the girl’s head harder, forcing her mouth up and down his cock.

“Nothing for sure,” Carmen said. “We’ll find her, though. Our friends put out the word.”

“Soon,” Hector grunted, his hips rising and falling as he forced his cock in and out of the hot, wet throat. Mia. His woman. His. No one walked out on him. He twisted the silky hair in his fingers, felt his cock swell in Mia’s mouth. She moaned, a desperate choking sound, and he came with a harsh groan. Pumping into the girl’s throat, he growled, “Find her. The bitch is mine.”

*

“Can you radio our twenty?” Flynn said as she and Dave maneuvered the stretcher into the empty clinic waiting room. Regular patient hours didn’t start for another two hours. “I’ll take her back.”

“Got it,” Dave said and went back outside.

Flynn braced her arms on either side of the stretcher and leaned over, looking down at Mica. “How are you feeling?”

“I’ve got a headache. A little one.”

“Everything else feels okay?”

“It’s kind of hard to tell, considering I can’t move anything.”

Flynn laughed softly as she guided the gurney down the hall on the far side of the vacant reception desk. “Good point.”

The doors to the examining rooms on either side of the hall stood open, the tables covered with crisp white sheets, instrument trays gleaming. Flynn wheeled the stretcher into the treatment room and parked it next to the examining table in the middle of the bright, impersonal space. “I’ll go find Dr. King.”

“Wait.” Mica grabbed Flynn’s sleeve. “You’re leaving?”

Flynn stopped, acutely aware of Mica’s hand on her arm. Mica’s tough façade had slipped a little bit, and a note of panic in her voice bled through her usual bravado. She was tough, defensive, obviously used to fending for herself and depending on no one, but she was also hurt and scared. Flynn was used to seeing people who were hurt and scared. Her job was about more than just rendering emergency care and transporting the sick and the injured. Part of what made the job satisfying for her was being able to ease some of that pain and suffering. All the same—her interactions with patients were limited, which was exactly what she wanted. She wasn’t part of their lives. For a few critical moments in the midst of intense and often terrifying situations, she had the opportunity to make a difference, but there was very little chance for her to do any harm. And that mattered most of all. She’d found the distance she needed in this work, but she was having trouble maintaining the comfortable barriers with Mica. Mica’s belligerent independence in the face of what had to be a frightening and painful experience tugged at Flynn’s heart. She wanted to comfort her, despite all kinds of warning bells blaring in her head.

“I’m just going to find one of the docs,” Flynn said. “I’ll be right back.”

Mica dropped Flynn’s arm and her face took on a remote, shielded expression. “Whatever.”

“I’ll be right back.” Flynn walked down the hall and glanced in the open door of Dr. King’s office. Reese Conlon sat at the big oak desk, her feet propped on one corner, the chair tilted back, and her eyes closed. That explained the cruiser out front. The sheriff must’ve driven her wife to the clinic. Like all first responders, she could sleep anywhere. Flynn backed away.

“She’s in with Nita in one.”

“Thanks. Sorry to wake you.”

Reese dropped her feet to the floor and sat forward, her blue eyes alert, as if she hadn’t been asleep seconds before. “Anything I need to know?”

“I don’t think so. Allie and Bri were on the scene.” Flynn didn’t see any need to tell her something felt off, not about the accident, but about Mica. Mica was scared out of proportion to what had happened. She was hiding something, but it was only a feeling. And for some reason, Flynn felt protective of her.

“Good enough.” Reese leaned back and closed her eyes again.

Flynn walked back down the hall and tapped on the door to treatment room one. A few seconds later Tory King slipped out. Not that long ago, the doctor had been one of the patients Flynn had been called to see, and since then Flynn had regularly transported patients to the clinic. She liked and trusted both Tory King and Nita Burgoyne. “Hi, sorry to bother you, Doc. Just wanted to let you know I put the patient in two.”

“What’s the situation?” The dark green sweater Tory wore made her eyes even greener than usual, although right now they were dark with worry. The patient in one must be in trouble.

“She’s stable.” Flynn gave her a quick recap. “I can stay with her if you’re busy right now.”

Tory glanced at the closed door. “Nita is with Ned Framingham. Congestive heart failure—maybe secondary to an MI. He’s going to need transport to Hyannis as soon as we get him stable. Can you take him or should we call for another unit?”

“I’ll radio the base and tell them. We’re already here.”

“Great. Let me see to your patient, then.”

“I told her I’d stick around,” Flynn said, “if you don’t mind.”

Tory paused. “You know her?”

“No,” Flynn said quickly. “She’s just…She didn’t want to come. I think she’s kind of on her own. I sort of promised her…”

“Of course. As long as she’s all right with you in the room, I’m fine with it.” Tory smiled. “You’re pretty good at this small-town stuff.”

Flynn flushed. She didn’t think anything was further from the truth. “Let me just advise dispatch of the pending transport and I’ll be right in.”

A few seconds later she slipped into the room and moved just close enough to the stretcher so Mica could see her. Tory bent over her, listening to her chest with her stethoscope. Mica was pale, her dark eyes wide, the pupils dilated. She looked like a frightened animal caught in a trap, and Flynn wanted to take her hand, to say something to soothe her. She put both hands in her pockets and smiled what she hoped was a confident smile. “How are you doing?”

“Just great,” Mica muttered.

Tory straightened and gently removed the cervical collar. “Don’t move your head. I’m just going to feel the back of your neck. Tell me if anything hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” Mica said quickly.

“Good,” Tory said mildly and continued her examination. “Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs?”

“No.”

“Vision problems?”

“No.”

“Head hurt? And don’t tell me no.”

Mica sighed. “Some.”

Tory smiled. “I’ll bet. You’ve got a goose egg on your forehead, and you’ll probably have a shiner by this afternoon.”

“Yeah. Feels that way,” Mica said, and Flynn had a feeling it wasn’t the first black eye Mica had ever had. Her stomach tightened. She hated to see anyone in pain, psychic or physical, but Mica’s pain and her obvious refusal to admit to it got to her more than usual. Maybe it was just Mica’s stubborn insistence she was fine and could handle anything when she was so obviously hurt that touched her. Or maybe it was the way Mica had reached for her in an unguarded moment.

“Your shoulder is swollen,” Tory said, “but I don’t see any evidence of fracture. However, to be sure, I should x-ray you.”

“No,” Mica said quickly. “It’s not broken. I know.”

“You’ve had a fracture before?”

Mica averted her gaze. “A couple.”

Flynn gritted her teeth. Mica was too familiar with trauma. The thought of someone hurting her made her insides burn. She stepped closer to the stretcher and gently clasped Mica’s hand. “Maybe you should let the doctor check.”

“Maybe you should lose your superhero cape too.”

“And give up looking so cool?” Flynn smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s okay,” Mica said, her face softening. “Really. I can tell.”

Flynn rubbed her thumb over the top of Mica’s hand. “Okay. You know best.”

“I want to check your vital signs a few more times,” Tory said. “If everything stays the same, you should be—”

“Tory!” Nita Burgoyne pushed open the door and called, “I need you. He’s crashing.”

“Damn,” Tory murmured, and spun away.

Through the open door, Tory’s and Nita’s raised voices carried clearly.
Blood pressure’s falling. Open the IV. Push the lidocaine…Is his wife here?…No. Charge the defibrillator…God, Tory, he asked me to call his minister. No time. Clear! No pulse.

Flynn would’ve known what was happening in the other room even if she hadn’t been a paramedic. But she was. That, and more. She crossed the hall and pushed open the door.

Tory glanced over at her, a question in her eyes.

“I’m a priest,” Flynn said.

“Then come in,” Tory said, starting chest compression. “We need you.”

“Still no pulse.” Nita Burgoyne, her eyes fixed on the EKG monitor, had her fingers over the femoral artery in the patient’s groin. Her smooth mocha skin tightened at the corners of her mouth, drawing her lips into a narrow line, the only sign of strain in her elegant, composed features.

Flynn leaned over the head of the treatment table and looked down onto the face of the dying man. He might have been forty or eighty. Slight stubble darkened his slack jaw. Weather lines cratered his sunken cheeks. His skin was cool and gray, his eyelids closed and unmoving.

“Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness…”

Tory pressed the heel of her hand to his sternum, delivering rapid compressions. “One, two, three, four…”

“…and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting…”

“Time?” Tory called.

“Four minutes,” Nita replied. “You’ve got good perfusion here.”

Though Flynn had no holy oil, the sacrament of Extreme Unction needed only her touch. She made the sign of the cross on the patient’s forehead with her thumb.