The Common Thread (23 page)

Jet had already helped her so much today—by staying calm, and offering her refuge, and then by helping her to arrange a memorial for Billy. A service would be held at Katie’s church, even though Billy hadn’t seen the inside of a church since his baptism. The ritual would give Katie some measure of comfort, though, and one day she supposed Chloe and Andre would appreciate it, for they were learning the rites of Christianity and would understand the importance of a Christian burial for their father.

It was a short ride from the funeral home to her attorney’s office, and they had made the drive in relative silence, broken only as Jet asked for or Katie gave directions. They’d allowed themselves enough time for traffic, but most of the cars were heading opposite them, taking commuters from their jobs in the city back to their homes in the suburbs, and so they were twenty minutes early when Jet parked behind the office. Katie hoped that meant they’d finish twenty minutes sooner and she could get back to her children.

“Let’s get this over with so we can go home,” she said to Jet. Jet’s place, and her parents’ place, felt like home to her.

At the top of the stairs, Katie made a left turn toward the front of the house, where the receptionist guarded the little office lobby. She caught Katie’s eye and smiled, and suddenly Katie felt a sense of relief to be here. Mr. Smick had taken care of her through all her legal troubles, and he’d help her again. Reassurance from Jet and Jeannie had helped her build enough courage to face the law and make her case, but she’d need Mr. Smick’s help.

She was halfway through the room when she heard a voice behind her, calling her name, and she turned to find the source. She didn’t have time to register fear or surprise before a bullet hit her in the abdomen.

Standing before a mirror, a floss stick in hand, Louis tried and failed to remove a piece of chicken that had found a home between two of his mandibular molars. He’d learned early in his residency that the correct tools made every job easier, and he wondered what he might find in the OR to extract the offending sliver. It had to come out. He’d go mad otherwise.

Louis had grabbed dinner when he had a chance, and ate alone, thinking about the dinner date Rae and Nic would be enjoying this evening. He hadn’t wanted them together, hadn’t wanted his abrasive best friend to hurt the woman he’d come to respect and admire over the past year. Rae was a gem, and she deserved someone wonderful, and he didn’t think that someone was Nic. He’d tried to prevent their meeting, and then had done what he could to make them both realize what a disaster they’d be together, but he failed. They’d figure it out eventually, though, and then Louis would forever find himself in an uncomfortable position between them. If he and Nic visited Philly, how would he manage to meet Rae for dinner without offending Nic? And if he met with Rae when she was home in the mountains, would Nic be jealous to learn of the plans? Probably.

No matter the details, Rae and Nic were a recipe for disaster. He only hoped they’d figure it out tonight and spare him any more worry.

The ever-present pager attached to his hip interrupted his thoughts with a loud beep. He glanced down and read the screen as he silenced it with the press of a button.
Trauma alert, five minutes.

Throwing the floss stick into the garbage, he grabbed his lab coat from the hook on the door and slipped his arms through it, the chicken in his molars and his concerns over Nic and Rae already forgotten as he prepared for what lay ahead.

Most likely there would be one victim, but possibly two. Any other victims from a fight or a shooting or a car wreck would be sent to other hospitals. Each place had only a limited number of surgeons, so the OR cases were almost always spread out around the city, where they could all get the medical care they needed. Other than the knowledge that it wasn’t a mass casualty (his beeper would have said so if it was) he had no idea what to expect. Young or old? Male or female? Blunt trauma or penetrating? The mystery of what would come through the ER doors was one of the most exciting and challenging aspects of his job. He skipped down the stairs to the ER, knowing he’d find out soon enough.

The ER was typically chaotic as the staff prepared for the arrival of the trauma patient. It was one victim, he’d heard, a female with a gunshot wound to the abdomen, and Louis joined the show, donning a gown to protect his scrubs and booties to protect his sneakers. They hadn’t lied about their arrival time; he’d come directly from his call room, and already the ambulance crew was wheeling the stretcher through the doors of the trauma bay.

He approached and glanced at the portable monitor positioned between his patient’s feet. The vital signs—rapid heart rate and low blood pressure—indicated blood loss and shock. He glanced at the head of the stretcher, looking for a breathing tube. That would be one of his first orders. Instead of an order, though, all that came from his mouth was a gasp, a sharp intake of air. Then he rushed to the side of the bed, no longer the surgeon but now the concerned friend.

“Nic! Nicole! Look at me!” he shouted, and turned her face toward him. She stared back with unseeing eyes, not seeming to recognize him, an indication that the shock was at a dangerous stage.

“Doc, hey, Doc. Easy.” The medic pulled on his arm, and Louis turned to face him, ready to punch him for allowing this to happen to his best friend. “This isn’t Dr. Coussart. This is the girl who shot her boyfriend last night. Her name is Kathleen Finan. I saw the resemblance to Dr. Coussart myself, but it’s definitely not her. We had a positive ID on the scene from her people who know Finan.”

It hit Louis, then—the phone call from Nic earlier that day, the case of mistaken identity that had landed her at the police station. Seeing this woman lying there, he quite understood the police’s confusion. He’d known Nic for a dozen years and would have sworn this was her.

Sensing his anxiety, the chief resident stepped in, examined Katie, and began issuing the orders, preparing to take her to the operating room. Louis understood then every doctor’s fear—to look down at that stretcher and see the face of someone you love. He stepped away, splashed cold water on his face, and took some deep breaths.

A few minutes later, when Louis had regained his composure, he gently tapped the chief on the arm. “I’ve got it. I’m good.” It wouldn’t do to give his surgical family the idea that he could be so easily shaken. He led his team to the operating room and, once there, was caught up in the rituals of surgery—scrubbing his hands, donning his gown, grasping his scalpel. With the calm, orderly efficiency that made him a great surgeon, he forgot the face of his patient and did what he was trained to do. He cut skin and tissue and blood vessels, placed sutures and tied knots, and removed the macerated spleen that would have caused his patient a fatal hemorrhage if left in place.

Every so often he glanced at the monitor that beeped in tandem with Katie’s heart and saw that it was beating more slowly now, a good sign. Her blood pressure was higher, too, mostly because of all of those bags of blood that had been pumped under pressure into her circulatory system. The catheter in her bladder was draining urine, indicating that the kidneys were doing their job, that they were confident enough in Katie’s stability to let go of a little fluid instead of keeping it in the bloodstream.

Louis inspected the abdominal cavity, confident that no tiny, leaking vessel would force him to bring his patient back to the OR later that night, and then began the process of closing it, one layer of tissue at a time.

When he was done, he stepped away from the table even as everyone else cleaned up and prepared the patient for transfer to the intensive-care unit. Reaching to his waist, with a sharp tug he ripped the string that held his blue disposable surgical gown closed. He gripped the thick paper at his chest and tugged the gown open and off his shoulders. As he peeled it down both arms with a practiced rhythm, both gloves slipped off as well, caught up in the elastic of the sleeves. He rolled the garment into a ball, holding it by the clean, interior surface, and deposited it into a hazardous-waste bag near the operating-room door. Using his back, he leaned into the door to open it and walked backward into the hall. The surgical mask was still in place; he pulled it below his chin and scratched the whiskers that were growing there, despite the razor he’d applied to them just that morning.

Relieved, he collapsed into a chair. He was glad to have finished the case. It wasn’t a technically difficult one; the spleen had absorbed both bullets, which made his job easy. He didn’t have to repair the stomach or resect the bowel; he’d simply detached the spleen from the connective tissue holding it in place and severed the blood vessels going into and out of the organ. All in all, the surgery had gone very well, and although he couldn’t have guaranteed that Katie Finan would be alive tomorrow when she was wheeled through the ER doors ninety minutes earlier, he was relatively sure now that she would. He’d done a good job, but this patient’s haunting resemblance to Nic made him want to walk away now and not come back.

Pulling an index card containing patient information from his breast pocket, Louis placed it on the desk before him and picked up the phone. He dialed the number that connected him to the dictation system, then followed with his personal ID code and began dictating his operative report. “This is Dr. Louis Pirro dictating an OR report on patient Kathleen Finan.” He picked up the index card, which had been thoughtfully stamped and given to him by an attentive medical student, and spelled Katie’s full name for the benefit of the transcriptionist who would put his words to paper. “Date of birth is six, fourteen…Oh, my God.”

Louis dropped his hand to his lap, the phone still in it. June fourteenth was the next day. It was Nic’s birthday. It was also Katie Finan’s.

Katie Finan, lying on his OR table, hooked up to monitors and catheters and IVs, looked just like Nic. Identical, he could argue. She had the same birthday as Nic. Either Katie Finan was Nic and she was living some sort of sordid double life, or they were identical twins.

He dialed Nic’s number instantly. “Shit,” he said, when her voice clicked in. “Nic, this is an emergency. I need you to come to the hospital, now. Come to the SICU, they’ll find me. Oh, and Nic, I love you.”

They’d managed to lose each other in the museum. As Nic searched for Rae, she clearly understood why Rae visited so often. Katie would come to the Barnes every day if she still lived in Philly. She’d be content to take her lunch break here, to just sit and be still, staring at the works of the greatest painters in history. She would need a year at the Barnes to view all the thousands of pieces to her satisfaction.

They’d split up upon entering the museum, allowing both of them to enjoy it as they preferred. Nic had been content to wander and get an overall feel for the place, while she knew Rae had wanted to look at a few specific pieces. She found her sitting in front of a Matisse, simply staring.

Even as Rae studied the picture, Nic studied her. The purple of her shirt was vibrant, reflecting all the red tones in her skin and Rae looked so alive wearing it. Her arms were behind her, supporting her weight, and her legs were crossed at the ankles. The pose was relaxed, and she couldn’t have looked more comfortable had she been sitting in her own home.

Out of respect for the other patrons, Nic had turned her cell phone to the vibrate mode when they entered, and the frantic rattling in her purse told her she had a call. Slipping the phone from her bag, she saw the caller ID and headed to the ladies’ lounge, but before she reached her destination, the call went to voice mail. Her return call to her godmother, Jeannie Bennett, went unanswered. Nic waited a minute and then checked her messages. Frowning as she listened to Jeannie’s words, she paced the floor. Jeannie was canceling their dinner plans. She’d explain later.

That’s odd, Nic thought as she returned the phone to her bag. She hoped nothing was wrong. While Jeannie’s message was benign enough, her voice carried a noticeable strain. She’d spoken with Jeannie over the weekend, and they were both looking forward to their dinner. What would make her cancel at so late an hour, and without an explanation?

Returning to find Rae, she sat beside her and looked not at her, but at the painting, an oil on canvas of a nude woman. In greeting, Rae moved her hand slightly and gently scratched the outside of Nic’s manicured finger with hers and then, just as suddenly, moved it back to where it had been.

“Dinner’s canceled,” Nic whispered.

“What? Why?” Rae looked puzzled.

“I’m not sure. Jeannie called and left a message. She can’t make it.”

“Oh.” Rae frowned and then looked toward Nic. “Well, we can still get something, can’t we?”

Nic smirked. “Well, I suppose I have to eat.”

Rae sucked in a breath. Their playful banter had been fun, and at times flirtatious, but Rae knew that didn’t mean a thing, that Nic had probably only spent the afternoon with her in gratitude for the free legal services Rae had provided. But she liked Nic, in spite of the numerous challenges she presented, and she wanted to know what Nic was thinking. It was time to find out. “But you don’t have to eat with me.” Rae stared at her, her eyes piercing, challenging, but allowing a hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth.

To her surprise, Nic neither backed down nor met her challenge, but rather presented one of her own. She held Rae’s gaze, though. “That’s true. So how about if we do this—let’s each decide what we’d want to eat if we were eating alone, say top three choices. You don’t have to be specific about what place. For instance, you can just say ‘Italian.’ And if we can agree on anything that would be palatable to both of us, we can continue our afternoon. If not, you can be on your way and I’ll grab a cab.”

After thinking over the suggestion for a moment, Rae responded. “That’s a great idea. Do I have to write down my preferences?”

“Why, do you think you’ll forget your answers?”