Urgent Care (25 page)

Friday, 11:23 A.M.

NAROLIE’S FACE APPEARED CALM AS THE SEDATIVES finally took effect. Amanda only wished she felt as calm. She hated coming down to MRI ever since one of her patients, a little baby, had almost died there. No one blamed her, but she couldn’t shake the guilt or the sense of doom that settled on her every time she watched a patient enter the MRI chamber.

Lucas leaned forward, squinting into the computer screen as the machine chugged and clanked and clanged. Views of Narolie’s brain appeared.

“Anything?” Amanda asked, knowing Lucas could pick up subtleties that no computer ever would.

“No,” said the radiologist sitting beside Lucas.

“Yes,” said Lucas. “Hyperintensity in the hippocampus.”

The radiologist frowned, glanced at where Lucas was pointing the tip of his pen, then slowly nodded. “You’re right.” New images appeared, magnified, and the radiologist twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “Damn it, Stone, I hate it when you do that.”

“What is it?” Amanda asked, her hand wrapping around Lucas’s arm, forgetting all about protocol or propriety. Lucas didn’t seem to mind; he covered her hand with his and gave her a quick squeeze.

“Encephalitis,” he said.

“Right,” the radiologist agreed. “Definite signs of men ingeal enhancement. Usually I see this with herpes virus, but there are others.”

“West Nile, Rift Valley, Eastern equine, Chikungunya,” Lucas supplied. The litany of diseases sounded like a death knell.

“Is there a cure?”

Both men swiveled in their chairs to stare at her. “No.”

 

 

LYDIA PULLED THE ESCAPE INTO HER DRIVEWAY and took her gun case out of the back with regret. Shooting something would feel so good right now. Much better than this pent-up, churning anxiety—all about things she had no control over.

She jogged into the house and tossed the case onto the kitchen table, startling Ginger Cat, who was sprawled out napping in the center of the empty dining room floor. Ginger Cat deigned to flick an ear at her, then closed his eyes again.

The expression on Nora’s face still haunted her. Was there a word for
more than terrified
?
More than exhausted
? The closest she could come was
despair
.

Lydia banged around in the kitchen, more for the chance to make noise than actual cooking. She ended up chopping up an avocado and a tomato and tossing in some shredded carrots and cheese for her own version of guacamole and ate it scooped onto some Black Russian bread from the bakery down on Penn.

She ate standing up, as usual, wandering through her house, plate in hand. The empty corner of the dining room beckoned to her. Her long board used to stand there, a Ka lama eight-foot, six-inch board with a polycarb tri-fin. If she closed her eyes she could feel the wind and surf on her face, the roll of the board beneath her feet. . . . She’d been here only a few months, but already L.A. seemed a distant memory.

She wished some of those memories would stay buried. Like the memory of the day her mother was murdered. Reading the LAPD’s report, going to that crack house today . . . she couldn’t stop the memories from resurfacing. Somehow Nora’s torment and her mother’s were becoming all tangled up, screams and pain and terror mangled together, and all Lydia could do was stand by and watch, helpless.

She shuddered and stepped into the center of the empty room. Why was everyone saying she needed more stuff? she wondered as rain-cast shadows played over the polished red oak floors and the bare vanilla-apricot plaster walls. More stuff just meant more things you could lose, more stuff to be taken away from you, mourned over. . . .

Ginger Cat sensed her restlessness and wound between her legs, brushing his body against her. She sat down on the bare floor, scratched him behind his ears, and was soon rewarded with a jangled rumble that was his version of a purr. Even that was no comfort. When she’d first come to this house and found Ginger Cat, he was an exotic creature, a graveyard cat that resembled a wild panther.

But now he seemed to have adopted her—had even come to accept Trey—and was spending more time inside the house. If she was around he wouldn’t let her out of his sight, as if he’d anointed himself her protector.

Domesticated.

Caged in. By walls, by people, by duty.

“This was a mistake,” Lydia said, standing up, disrupting Ginger Cat’s purr-fest. She opened one of the French doors, ignoring the frigid wind that sliced through her still-damp clothing. “Go on, shoo, you don’t belong inside.”

The cat sat back on his haunches and looked at her as if she were the crazy one.

“You should be running around, free, not caught up here—” She waved her hand at the empty space, the empty walls that created Ginger Cat’s prison. Her prison? Maybe she was the one who’d made a mistake. Maybe she was the one who wasn’t compatible with domestic life.

Maybe she was the one who needed to return to the wild.

Instead of leaving, Ginger Cat padded over to her, wound his body around her legs, placing himself between her and the door, and nudged her away from the opening with his head. Herding her. Away from danger. Back to comfort and safety.

She let go of the door, a final gust of wind swirling through the room, whistling like a banshee as it slammed the door shut. Leaning her forehead against the chilled glass, she ignored the winter wind rattling through her body and stared out at the gray.

“Why won’t you leave?” she pleaded with the cat, who answered by rubbing the side of his face against her leg. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, and she blinked furiously. Everything she’d seen and heard today and it was a damn cat who finally made her cry?

 

 

“SO I DON’T HAVE THAT MENINGO THING?” TANK asked as Gina led him from the family room. “I’m not going to die?”

It had to say something hopeful about the boy that his first thought had been about Narolie and only now was he worried about himself. Gina smiled at the skinny teen, taking care not to touch him—not now that she knew what he had.

“No, Tank. If I’m right, you’re going to be just fine.” A screeching noise down the hall made her look up. It was Tank’s mom along with LaRose, both clattering as fast as their heels would take them. “Shit.”

“Harold!” Mrs. Trenton’s exclamation points hit mezzo soprano as she launched herself at her son, half-hugging him, half-hauling him away from Gina. “What have you done? I was so worried!”

“He’s fine,” Gina said firmly. “Come in here, please. I’ll explain everything.” She pulled the curtain back on an open bed space. Mrs. Trenton balked at the less-than-executive-suite surroundings, so Gina added, “I’m sure you don’t want to discuss this in the middle of the hallway.”

That did the trick. Tank’s mother practically shoved him behind the curtain. LaRose tried to follow, eyes gleaming at the prospect of insider info, but Gina intervened, blocking her path. LaRose relented and turned away.

As LaRose walked toward the nurses’ station, Gina spotted Ken Rosen.

“Gina, have you seen Narolie Maxeke? Lucas Stone called me in to consult on her case.”

“Last I heard, they were still down in MRI. What did Lucas find?”

“Looks like encephalitis.”

“Really? That stinks. Hey, can you give me a hand with Harold Trenton? I think I figured out what’s going on with him.”

“What’s he doing back down here? I thought he was in the PICU.”

Instead of answering, Gina ushered Ken inside the curtained space and pulled the curtain shut behind her. Tank sat on the bed, legs dangling, hands clenching the mattress with a death grip. His mother hovered alongside him.

“I’m not going back up there,” Tank was saying. “Not until I know Narolie’s okay.”

“Harold, you’ll do as we say. You’ve caused enough trouble already. If your grandfather hears of this—”

“I’m sure you remember Dr. Rosen, our infectious-disease expert,” Gina interrupted. “I’ve asked him to confirm my findings. Tank, show Dr. Rosen your palms.” As Tank complied, she handed Ken a pair of gloves. “You’ll want these.”

“Findings?” Mrs. Trenton said. “What findings?”

“Tank doesn’t have meningococcemia,” Gina said, while Ken examined the area between Tank’s fingers and then used a scalpel and slide to take a small scraping. “In fact, I think Dr. Rosen will be able to give us the answer in a few minutes.” Ken nodded at her, then left, taking the slide with him.

“But Dr. Frantz, everyone said—”

“Dr. Frantz was mistaken. Misled, actually. You see, Tank uses marijuana. And I’m not sure what other drugs.”

“How dare you! My son doesn’t—”

“So I toke up? What’s that got to do with anything?” Tank said, straightening up and giving his mother a rebel stare.

“Harold!”

Gina continued, keeping her tone professional. She wanted to feel some satisfaction, at least a little, but instead she felt sad. For Tank. “Because of the marijuana use and maybe some other factors, Tank couldn’t remember how long he’d had the rash and told us it wasn’t itchy. Given the fever, and because none of the adults in his life could say when it started, the nurse jumped to conclusions. But if I’m right, Tank’s rash has been there several days rather than the few hours we’d see with meningococcemia.”

“What about the fever?”

“Probably a virus,” Gina explained.

“So all this is for a case of the flu?”

“No, there’s more.”

Ken returned, right on cue. “You’re right, Gina. Mites were present on the wet prep.”

“Mites? What’s going on here?”

“Tank has scabies.”

“Scabies!” Mrs. Trenton jumped away from her son and gave him a look of horror. “That’s like lice! People like us can’t get scabies!”

 

 

LUCAS AND THE RADIOLOGIST TOOK THEIR TIME, getting more views of Narolie’s brain after giving her some intravenous contrast. As they nattered on about FLAIR intensity and attenuation versus enhancement, Amanda pressed her face against the window separating them from Narolie. How was she going to explain to Narolie that she was going to get worse, that there was no cure, that she was dying?

It was wrong, all wrong. Anger seeped into Amanda’s veins, chasing away her doubts. There had to be something they’d missed. She wasn’t about to let some nameless disease steal a girl’s life.

Finally the machine stopped clanking and the tech wheeled Narolie out of the magnet’s field. Amanda rushed out to meet her. The sedation was beginning to wear off. Narolie’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. She looked around, eyes wide, pupils dilated.

“It’s okay, Narolie,” Amanda said, leaning over the stretcher so that Narolie could see her better. “I’m here.”

“What—” Narolie’s gaze darted to and fro. “Who are you? What do you want?” She yanked against the restraints holding her in place. “You want to kill us! Help! Stop!”

Lucas came running from the control room just as Narolie managed to get one hand free and grabbed Amanda’s throat with deadly force. Amanda clawed at her, but Narolie seemed possessed with an unimaginable strength.

“I won’t let you hurt my brother.” Narolie spit the words through clenched jaws in a tone that resembled a growl. Then she began to scream in another language—Swahili?

Amanda’s vision dimmed as she struggled. Narolie’s screams pounded through her brain in time with her pulse. Then Narolie slumped back. Amanda blinked, saw Lucas holding a syringe, standing near the IV on the opposite side of the bed.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.” Amanda massaged her neck and swallowed twice. It hurt, but no more than a bruise. Before she could say anything else, Narolie’s monitor sounded an alarm. “Blood pressure dropping.” She turned to Lucas. “What did you give her?”

Lucas was shaking his head. “Only another two of Versed. It shouldn’t have this effect.”

Amanda listened to Narolie’s heart. Its rhythm was slowing, and then there was silence. “No pulse!”

Friday, 1:31 P.M.

NORA SPENT THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON WITH Jerry, dissecting every moment of her attack. Somehow she choked down a chicken salad sandwich that tasted like paste, but she barely noticed. It was as if talking about those two days, reliving them, had transported her mind back in time. Occasionally as she spoke, she’d forget Jerry was even there, could instead almost smell, hear, and feel the rapist with her.

Once Jerry’s cell phone went off, startling her so badly that it triggered a panic attack. She’d excused herself, somehow making it to the bathroom before breaking down, then sat in the stall, knees drawn to her chest, rocking back and forth until she could breathe again. When she shakily emerged, the bright light reflected in the mirror seared her vision just as it had after those two days when she’d been blind to the world, her eyelids sealed shut, the glue scratching her corneas.

She’d washed her face, wiped away some of the sweat and stench of terror that covered her, rinsed the acid taste from her mouth, and finally exited to find Jerry waiting.

“You sure you’re up to this?” he’d asked, even as he steered her back into the interview room.

What choice did she have? She’d simply nodded and resumed her seat, beginning to describe once more the details of the two days she’d tried her best to erase permanently from her memory.

Finally, they finished. She’d answered all of Jerry’s questions, at least all the ones she had answers to. He looked wrung out, his hands hanging lifelessly between his knees, his expression grim, and she knew that after everything she’d been through, it still wasn’t enough.

“None of that helped, did it?”

He shook his head. “Of course it did. Even if it doesn’t give me any concrete evidence about where to look for this guy, it gives me an idea about how he thinks.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good thing. Understanding how his mind works.”