Urgent Care (19 page)

“You’ve worked in this hospital for three years,” LaRose said, acting as if Gina had been exiled to a dungeon for a life sentence. “Surely you know where a teenager might run off to.”

Gina knew a lot of places—the medical center had two large towers built onto the original infrastructure, which dated back more than one hundred fifty years. “The guys in security know this place even better than I do.”

“But we’re—
I’m
—asking you to help. It’s not like they don’t have other doctors around here. This is Catherine’s son we’re talking about.” LaRose laid her hand on Gina’s arm, the closest she got to an affectionate hug.

And, like always, Gina found herself seriously considering abandoning her duties to do her mother’s bidding. She didn’t want to—in fact, the impulse to tell her mother to go to hell was almost as strong. A few months ago that was exactly what she would have done.

But neither was the right thing—for her or her patients. Ken Rosen was right. She needed to start acting like she had her own life to live, not someone else’s. Even if it meant screwing up the always tenuous relationship she had with her parents.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

When she opened her eyes, Mrs. Trenton was staring at her with eyes welling up, smudging her mascara. LaRose merely shook her head in dismissal, removed her hand from Gina’s arm, and straightened. “Very well.”

Before Gina could try to explain or apologize or do anything to wipe the look of outrage from her mother’s face, Rachel, the charge nurse, interrupted. “Gina, we need you in Trauma One. They’re bringing in a cop who’s critical.”

Shit, a cop. Jerry was working today—detectives were usually safe from danger, but a few months ago he’d been stabbed by an angry pimp he’d been questioning. “Did they say who?”

“Said it was an officer named Boyle. All I know is blunt-trauma injury and a GSW to the head.”

What? No, no. Boyle was a common name, there had to be more than one on the police force. It wasn’t Jerry. It couldn’t be. All of this passed through her in a flash as she dropped the chart she held, abandoned her mother and Mrs. Trenton, and grabbed a gown and mask from the cart beside the trauma room. She dashed down to the ambulance bay, the gown flapping behind her.
Focus. ABCs, ABCs. You have a job to do, you can’t lose it, not now.

Sirens screamed the arrival of the ambulance. Gina ran out, wrenching the rear door of the ambulance open before it stopped. The December wind sliced through the thin Tyvek gown, but all her attention was on her patient. She couldn’t see his face because the paramedic doing CPR blocked the way.

“What’s his name?” she asked. The second medic glanced at her—the patient’s name wasn’t the first question an ER doctor wanted or needed answered on a fresh trauma.

“Jerry Boyle.”

Ice flooded Gina’s veins, flash-freezing her heart in mid-beat.
No!

“Found in his town house over in Friendship,” he continued as they hauled the cot out of the ambulance. “Looks like a victim of a home invasion, beaten to a pulp, then shot. We had agonal respirations and a pulse when we arrived, but just lost both.”

Gina forced herself to step forward so that she could see clearly. The man on the gurney had been beaten so badly that she doubted his own mother would recognize him.

But he definitely was not
her
Jerry.
This
Boyle’s hair was red; he had a beer belly and on his right deltoid was a tattoo of an eagle clutching a flag.

“Let’s get him into Trauma One,” she ordered, back in command. “Any penetrating injuries other than the head wound?”

“No. But bruises from here to Philly and back again. This guy took one hell of a beating.”

As they rushed the stretcher down the hall, Gina wondered what kind of idiot robber would pull a home invasion on a cop’s house?

 

 

She froze, her breath trapped in her throat as his knife rasped against the back of her neck. There was a tug and then the
snick
of her halter strap parting. Followed by the soft shiver of fabric sliding to the floor. His hands left her and she was suddenly disoriented, not certain where to face, where danger might attack from.

It had taken all her energy not to flinch as she imagined herself somewhere, anywhere else. . . .

Lydia’s hand squeezed hers, and Nora jerked back to the here and now: a small cinder-block office reeking of gunpowder and testosterone. Jerry was still crouching before her, leaning close, too close.

Nora shook herself, pulling away from Jerry. He seemed to understand, stood up straight, his joints creaking, and settled against the desk a few feet away from her.

“Anyway, he kept me there for two days and nights. Long enough that he fed me—microwave burritos, some pop. I remember when I had to use the bathroom, that embarrassed him, he wouldn’t help me or touch me, even though I was blind and my hands were tied. He kept the door open, but I’ll bet he didn’t watch. And he had to be using Viagra or something because every time I thought it was over, he’d . . . well, he’d be ready again.”

“All this time he acted like you were on a date?” Jerry asked.

She nodded, her gaze fixed on the frayed edges of his pants cuffs. “Like we knew each other, were lovers.” Her voice drifted off. “Then it all changed. He couldn’t—perform anymore, blamed me. Screamed that I’d wasted his precious time. Began to hit me, hurt me. He stopped talking, and that was the scariest part of all.”

Her body shook as she rushed to finish before she lost her courage. “He threw me naked into the trunk of his car. We drove and drove, and then he made me get out, walk barefoot through the snow and ice up some steps and into a building. It smelled so bad I almost threw up, but he told me if I did he’d kill me.

“He made me walk up more steps; they were old and creaky and I could feel the dirt and trash beneath my feet. Then he began to hit me, kick me. He chopped off my hair and grabbed some spray paint. I think it must have been left there because I don’t remember him carrying anything except his knife. He held one hand around me and had the knife in his other. Anyway, he sprayed the paint on me; it got in my mouth and burned. Then he found a piece of plastic and put it over my face, suffocating me. I’d pass out, then come to, and he’d do it again and again and again.”

She dropped her gaze, now concentrating on Jerry’s polished leather loafers and his hideous green and purple tartan socks. Only Gina could have persuaded a man to wear those socks.

“That’s when I thought I was going to die. I passed out one more time, and when I woke up he was gone. I worked my hands free of the duct tape, pried my eyes open, used some old newspapers and trash bags to cover myself, and ran home in the dark.”

“You never reported it?”

Nora shook her head. “He said he’d kill my family—he knew their names, where they lived, everything. He laughed about how easy it would be. I was so scared and ashamed, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I never told anyone until I told Seth. I couldn’t risk him targeting my family or coming after me again.”

Tears threatened to overwhelm her and she buried her face in her hands, trying to pull it together. Damn it, there had to be a statute of limitations on crying, didn’t there? She hadn’t even cried this much when it happened or when she’d told Seth the barest of details, letting him draw the wrong conclusions.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Jerry said.

“We always blame ourselves, it’s human nature,” Lydia replied, even as she circled an arm around Nora’s shoulders protectively. “That’s why you became a sexual assault examiner, isn’t it? Because you felt guilty.”

Nora nodded, surprised Lydia understood. She raised her head. “Then when I found Karen—I knew. If I had told someone, back then, maybe—”

“Probably not,” Jerry said. “You never saw him. He disguised his voice, used condoms. Made you bathe in bleach. I doubt he intended to use the spray paint to destroy evidence, although it’s pretty damn effective. That feels like an afterthought, at least the first time with you.”

“How did you know about the bleach and condoms?” Nora asked, now facing Jerry straight on. Her stomach did a slow, curdling flip-flop. “I didn’t tell you that. And ‘the first time’—you mean there were others after me, before Karen?”

He met her gaze, his lips pinched. She saw the ugly truth in his eyes before he nodded. “At least two more that we know of. So far. I’m waiting to hear back from the FBI’s ViCAP. One was attacked last year, the other seven weeks ago.”

Guilt slammed down on her, stealing her breath. “Are . . . are they alive?”

“Yes. Both found naked, abandoned, spray-painted with graffiti. One in a Dumpster in Uniontown and the other near the old Rolling Rock plant in Latrobe. No usable forensics from either case. Both blitz attacks and only held for a few hours, as we suspect Karen was.”

Nora hugged herself, desperate to feel warm again, desperate to feel anything. “Two more. But I was the first.”

“And he took a lot more time with you,” Jerry continued. “I haven’t interviewed either of the other victims yet—we just learned about the Uniontown victim this morning, in fact, but the investigating officers said both victims worked at health care facilities. One in the kitchen, the other as a secretary. If they’d all been within Allegheny County, we would have figured it as the same actor from the start. But three different jurisdictions—”

“Uniontown, Latrobe. And now he’s back here in Pittsburgh,” Lydia said.

“Now he’s back.”

Friday, 8:02 A.M.

AMANDA LEFT THE PICU AND IMMEDIATELY headed down to peds. She had a pretty good idea where Tank might be and wanted to get to him before any nurses spilled the beans to Dr. Frantz and all bets were off. She had no doubts that Dr. Frantz would renege on his deal and kick Narolie out if he found Tank before she did.

She pushed through the stairwell door and jogged past the clump of peds residents making rounds, finally reaching Narolie’s room.

The bed was empty. As was the bathroom. No signs of Narolie anywhere—nothing except an IV pole with the bag of fluid hanging empty above the pump and the intravenous line dangling over the side of the bed rail.

“Sugar!” Amanda swore. She would have said what she was really thinking—words she’d learned by listening to her older brothers—except this was the pediatric floor and you never knew who could be listening. She spun around in a circle once more, as if Narolie and Tank would magically appear, then tapped her foot in an irritated staccato as she thought.