Solemn Oath (4 page)

The secretary continued, “The nurse with Air Care just radioed us, and they'll be here in a few minutes to pick up Mrs. Collins.”

“Thanks, Judy.” Lukas ripped open one of the sterile packs of 4x4s and a roll of elastic gauze, then regloved and dressed the wound. He looked over at the policeman. “Officer, you can do your interview now. Looks like I'll have my hands full.” He turned and followed the secretary out of the room. “Judy, I need a right shoulder X-ray in five, and he's going to need a surgical consult. Is Dr. Wong on call? He usually is when Cowboy gets hurt.”

“Yes, Dr. Wong's the lucky guy today.” Judy grinned at him. “Cowboy won't want a surgeon, he never does. Dr. Mercy will be here soon.” Her expression turned serious. “One of the patients they're bringing in is our part-time EMT, Buck Oppenheimer. He got hurt in a fire.”

“Buck! How bad?”

“Haven't heard yet. There was an explosion at the Pride of Knolls out by P Highway, and his buddies are bringing him in so he won't have to wait for an ambulance. I sure hope he's okay, and I hope his wife doesn't kill him when she finds out he played hero again.”

Lukas nodded, then went in to check on Alma again and read her X-rays. There were no pneumothorax or rib or pelvic fractures, but the X-ray of her right tib-fib confirmed his worst fears. Both bones of the lower leg were shattered. If the blood vessels and nerves were as badly damaged as the bone, they would be doing an amputation in Springfield instead of a vascular and orthopedic repair.

Someone cried out in Spanish in one of the rooms, and Lukas hoped the interpreter would arrive soon. That patient was the one who reportedly had driven the car into Arthur and Alma's tour group.

One of the most frustrating things in emergency medicine was treating those responsible for the pain and suffering of others—and one of the most difficult things to do was to have compassion for everyone involved.

Lord, give me strength and wisdom. Give Alma and Arthur Your peace, and use me as a vessel of healing. And, Lord, would You please slow things down a little?

I
f this was another disaster drill, Mercy Richmond was going to make someone pay dearly. She kept her white lab coat on to protect the pink-and-blue bunny scrubs she wore underneath—her family practice consisted mostly of women and children. After apologizing to the six long-suffering patients in her waiting room, she marched out the front door and down the block toward the hospital.

Mercy's stomach growled. Monday afternoon was the worst time to get called out. There'd been no time for lunch. Everyone in this town of ten thousand must have developed strep, flu or pneumonia over the weekend. She shouldn't have agreed to be E.R. backup today. Her patient volume had increased to the point that she was going to have to stop seeing new patients or start keeping the office open an extra day a week.

This spring she might have considered that possibility, but she'd won custody of her eleven-year-old daughter a few months ago, and she wanted to spend more time at home with Tedi. Since she no longer had to make two house payments, two car payments, and cover the bills her ex-husband had run up, she didn't need the income she made from E.R. shifts. She hoped Theo never got out of that detox
unit in Springfield. Her life was going so well with him out of the way…and with Dr. Lukas Bower taking more of an interest in her and in Tedi. Everything was looking good.

As she stepped across the parking-lot curb and strode toward the E.R. entrance, the distant, thrusting rhythm of a helicopter in flight reached her for the first time. She noticed that the landing pad on the parking lot had been cleared of cars.

Okay, so this time it probably wasn't a drill.

She looked down. That probably wasn't fake blood on the concrete, either. In the back rooms of her clinic, she had never been able to hear the ambulances when they pulled into the E.R. Always before, she had considered that to be a good thing. Today, though, she could have used a little warning.

She rushed through the sliding glass doors to find the waiting room filled with people in various stages of fluster. A patient with a splinted arm was being helped inside by a friend. The buzz of voices and the aura of worry greeted her like a familiar coworker. A group of three middle-aged women and two elderly men stood in the west corner by the vending machines with their hands clasped, praying.

That happened a lot around here. It didn't matter what you thought about God the rest of the time, when you faced life and death in the emergency room, you begged Him to give you another chance. Mercy had done it herself when her own daughter nearly died from a life-threatening allergic reaction to a bee sting—she who had always prided herself on her self-reliance. She'd even considered herself an agnostic until Lukas Bower exploded into her life last spring with his gentle humor, strong compassion for others and his vibrant faith. Nothing in her life had been the same since.

A moan and a tormented shout reached her from one of the exam rooms, but she couldn't understand the words. The
mingled scents of antiseptic, body odor and diesel exhaust from the ambulance bay drifted through the room.

“Thank goodness, Dr. Mercy,” Judy called from the emergency desk. She pulled off her reading glasses and picked up a clipboard with a T-sheet already attached. Her short salt-and-pepper hair spiked out on the right side, where she'd been keeping her ink pen tucked behind her ear. “Dr. Bower's in Trauma One trying to save the leg of a lady who got hit by a car. Her husband's in Trauma Two in stable condition, and the guy who hit everybody is in exam room three.” She shoved the clipboard across the desk. “There's lots more, but Dr. Bower wanted you to see about the man in Two. Name's Arthur Collins, and he's really upset about his wife. They just took him off the backboard. Nice guy. Never complains about his own pain. Wish my husband treated me like that.”

Mercy took the chart, then paused as the patient in Three—or so she presumed—shouted something again. The words were slurred, and they sounded Spanish. She raised a brow at Judy. “Who did you say that was?”

Judy waved a dismissive hand. “That's the drunk driver who hit them. He drove right up onto the courthouse lawn and mowed over a bunch of people from a tour group. He doesn't even speak English.”

“Has he been checked?”

“Dr. Bower ordered some tests and a trauma panel, but they've been busy with the other patients, and nobody's gotten to him yet except to put him on oxygen.”

“Get to him.”

Judy shrugged. “Okay, but I hope we can find somebody who can speak Spanish. So far the translator hasn't come in.”

The thumping of the helicopter rotors grew louder as the Air Care helicopter descended to the landing spot outside, the loud
whomp-whomp-whomp
of the rotors vibrating the windows.

“Oh, good, they're here for Alma Collins,” Judy said.

“How many patients do we have, and how many more are coming?” Mercy asked, glancing at the T-sheet.

“We've got six in and two more coming that I know about, but Dr. Wong's on his way over to take care of our favorite exotic-animal rancher.”

“Cowboy's hurt again?”

“He sure is. His neighbor shot him.”

Mercy wasn't sure she'd heard the secretary correctly. “
Shot him!
”

Judy shook her head. “Nobody's going to tell me human beings aren't meaner than any other mammal. Looks like we'll all be busy for a while.”

Mercy suppressed a sigh. “Call my office, then. Tell Josie to do a triage and find out who really needs to see me today. Let her know what's going on here. She'll have to send some people home.”

“Don't worry, Dr. Mercy. They'll come in here looking for you if they have to.”

Mercy carried her clipboard into Trauma Room two, where Claudia Zebert, a stout fifty-year-old RN with twenty-five years of E.R. experience, took the blood pressure of a slender forty-seven-year-old man in a pressure turban. The view box on the wall held two shots of a dislocated right shoulder. Not broken. That made things a lot easier.

Mercy stepped up to the exam bed. “Mr. Collins? I'm Dr. Mercy Richmond. My patients call me Dr. Mercy, and you just became one of my patients.”

He looked up at her with troubled hazel eyes. “Dr. Mercy…that's a good name for a doctor.”

“My father was a physician, and he named me. When I got my license, our shared last name confused patients, so we both started using our first names. We were Dr. Cliff and Dr. Mercy.”
Were
. Dad was dead now.

“You can call me Arthur. You'll have to excuse me. I'm so worried about my wife that I'm not very good company.”

“I understand, Arthur. Your wife is in good hands. Dr. Bower is one of the best.”

Claudia reached down and squeezed his left arm. “See there, Arthur, I told you Dr. Bower will take good care of Alma.” The nurse's brisk, familiar manner almost always calmed frightened patients. She gestured toward the turban. “We need to get this fixed up and get that shoulder back in shape so you can be there for Alma. The helicopter's here now to pick her up and take her to the trauma center in Springfield.”

Arthur caught his breath and reached up toward the side of the bed, as if he might try to get out. “I don't want her to go alone.”

“There's no room in the helicopter for any passengers, but she won't be alone once she gets up there,” Claudia soothed. “I saw half your tour group climbing into one of the vans to drive up and meet her there. The rest are staying here to pray for you. They seem like good people.” She squeezed his arm once more before leaving the room to check another patient.

Mercy read Claudia's notes on Arthur, then did her own assessment. He was a little tachycardic from blood loss, but IV fluids were already running into his uninjured left arm, and his pressure was already rising. Good sign. His heart would slow down naturally.

Another shout reached them from the next room, and Arthur laid his head back against his pillow and sighed. “That poor man's sure hurting. Can you do something for him?”

Mercy frowned. She had heard the drunk driver had no obvious injuries. “Someone will be getting to him as soon as possible.”

“He's not drunk, you know.”

Mercy looked up from her chart and studied Arthur's green-gold eyes. “How can you tell?”

“I speak Spanish. Alma and I are missionaries in Mexico. He's making some sense. He's saying over and over again how sorry he is, and that he doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs.”

Mercy didn't comment. She heard that a lot.

“He's also confused and hurting,” Arthur added.

“Isn't he the man who hit you and your wife?”

Arthur nodded, then worry marred the fine features of his face once again. “My wife…I wish I could be with her.”

A light, warm baritone voice reached them from the doorway. “I came over to give you an update, Arthur.”

Mercy silently caught her breath and let the calm strength of that familiar voice settle over her like a blanket. She and Arthur both looked up at the same time to see Lukas Bower walking in to join them, his trauma shield in place over his gray framed glasses. His short brown hair was disheveled as usual. Lukas stood a couple of inches taller than Mercy's five feet eight. In her eyes he had grown at least a foot since she had first met him last spring. Her gaze met his, and she smiled. The smile he returned was only for her, and the brilliance of it heated her cheeks. One of the nurses had told her once that when she entered the E.R., Dr. Bower's face looked as if he'd just received a special gift.

He stepped up to the bed, his blue eyes calm and reassuring behind the glare of glasses and shield. “Arthur, your wife is awake and talking, and she's worried about you. I told her you'd be fine.”

Arthur raised a hand toward him. “Will you let me see her before they take her away? Please. I want to talk to her a second. I just want to tell her I love her.”

Lukas looked at Mercy, then looked back at Arthur and nodded. “I think we can do that. They'll be wheeling her out in just a moment, and we'll roll you into the hallway and
let you rendezvous with her there. No, don't try to get up. We don't want you bleeding on us again before Dr. Mercy can get you stitched and get that shoulder fixed.” He gestured to Mercy and laid a hand on her arm briefly. She released the brake on the exam bed, and together they rolled the bed out into the open space as the flight nurse and paramedic wheeled Alma past.

At the sight of Alma's bandaged and IV-tubed body, Arthur's eyes filled with tears once again. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Hi, sweetheart. I love you. I'll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she cried softly, “I can't believe this is happenin'. I'm just so glad you're alive. For a while, I thought…”

The flight nurse placed a gentle hand on Alma's shoulder. “Mrs. Collins, we need to get you into the helicopter now.”

Alma nodded. Arthur drew his hand back, then kissed his fingertips and reached out and touched Alma's cheek with his hand. “I'll be praying with every breath.”

Mercy allowed Lukas to help her push Arthur's bed back into the room. “Thanks, Lukas.” She laid a hand on his arm, as she had found herself doing often lately without even thinking about it, as if a physical connection to him might anchor their friendship more securely. “Lukas, Arthur doesn't think the man who hit them is drunk. He also says the man's in pain.”

Lukas turned his attention to Arthur. “What kind of pain? Where? We're waiting for the interpreter to arrive, and we can't communicate with him. My college Spanish died of disuse.”

Arthur wiped leftover tears from his face. “I speak Spanish. Why don't you let me try to talk to him? I can—”

“We need to take care of you,” Mercy said. “We'll get an interpreter.”

Arthur looked up at her and sighed. “Give him a chance,
Dr. Mercy. What if he's hurt worse than I am?” He raised his voice enough to be heard over the din of the E.R. and spoke a few phrases in Spanish, then winced, as if the extra exertion and sound hurt his head.

There was no reply.

He repeated the phrases, and seconds later he received an answer. He looked back at Mercy. “It's his mouth.”

Mercy glanced sharply at Lukas. “A fracture from impact?”

Lukas shrugged, his attention focused on their patient. “Arthur, we aren't going to hold you liable as an interpreter, but will you please ask him if he had the pain before the wreck?”

Arthur did so, and they all understood part of the answer. “
Sí
.” Lukas and Mercy did not understand the remainder of the words, but the expression on Arthur's face told them it was significant.

“Does toothache medicine make you drunk?” Arthur asked them.

“How much toothache medicine?” Mercy asked.

Arthur asked the man, then interpreted. “He's used a bottle today.”

Mercy caught her breath and turned to Lukas. “That could be—”