Nothing Sacred (FBI Agent Dan Hammer Series Book 1) (3 page)

“Good boy, Georgie.” She gurgled.

She felt George stiffen. Sandra knew the rules. She’d somehow created them.

Edna would never do this.
Never
. Never, never, never. Not in a million years! Edna didn’t do much of anything these days. She complained a lot about her weight.
Daily.
How she was gonna go on another diet.
Hourly.
How she needed to lose weight.
She just never let up
. How she wanted to get back into one of those old dresses hanging in the closet like dead memories. That wasn’t ever gonna happen. Ever.

What about me?
George asked.

“I don’t worry about you, George.” That’s all she would say. What the heck was that supposed to mean?

George came. A wave of built up frustration released as Sandra swallowed. George didn’t quite believe it himself, but for as long as he’d been coming here (no pun intended), Sandra always finished the exact same way. Every damn time. Somehow, George felt safe with Sandra.

Afterwards, she would always say, “Yummy, Georgie. You’re better than a facial.”

Whatever that meant.

George would chuckle, pass her a twenty, usually with a five dollar tip. Sandra would slowly stand up, push the cushion back under the bed with her toe, and hurry to the door. Before leaving, she’d turn around and give that little girl smile, the one George loved so much.

“See ya next week, Sugar.”

Then, she’d quietly slip out the door.

George listened to the silence for a second. The groan of the bed. The whirl of the fan moving overhead. It brought him back, crashing to the floor like broken glass. Reality. Suddenly, there was Edna. Only Edna. Edna waiting outside the church. Edna standing next to the palm trees on Meeting Street. Edna eating an ice cream cone because he wasn’t there on time. Blaming everything on George. Edna saying to George in that “Edna” way, “Have a good time, George.”

George pulled up his pants, buckled his belt and left. Quietly.

He stumbled, sex-drunk and light headed through the narrow corridor, back up the stairs and into the smoke-filled, pink neon-lit room.

Yeah, I guess I did, Edna. I had a real nice time.

“See ya’ next week, George.” Sonny waved goodbye.

A lot of
really
nice people worked here. George smiled back. “You too, Sonny. You’ve got one hell of a memory.”

George had to be honest with himself. Each time he left “Silk Stockings” he felt a sense of loss, some loneliness. Like a big black cloud pissed on him or something. He didn’t quite understand why he felt that way, he just did. He thought it might have something to do with his life. The way things were right now. The way things had turned out for him. And Edna. For a few minutes inside, George got a chance to escape. Pretend. Be somebody else. Somebody different. Then George wondered, what’s so bad about
your
life? He could certainly have it a hell of a lot worse.

He opened the car door and retrieved his oral douche kit from under the seat. He went about the routine of cleaning and spraying and disinfecting his mouth. There. All better. He smiled at himself in the mirror. He put his glasses on, turned over the ignition and, before he knew it he was headed back to Meeting Street. Back to Charleston. Back to Edna.

As George was driving on Old Towne Road, all those sour thoughts swimming around in his head like pregnant tadpoles, he wasn’t really paying much attention to the fact it was pitch black out. The road in front of him was looking more like a long piece of spent charcoal than a lit up landing strip. A speeding car approached from behind without warning, right up on his ass, nearly blinding him. “Son of a bitch!” George honked his horn several times until the asshole swerved fast around him. George’s heart was racing. His thoughts were jumpy. He readjusted his glasses on his nose. He squinted into the windshield to get a notion of where the road was turning when he saw it.

On either side of him were large trees. Plantation oaks, Edna called them. He didn’t care what the hell they were called, the mere presence of them was making him nervous. Spanish moss dripped like cobwebs from their branches. It reminded George of witch’s fingers. Being out here, right now, was downright spooky. Gave him the creeps. All those darting shadows were beginning to play tricks with his head. He pulled off to the side of the road. There wasn’t much of a shoulder. The car sat parked on top of high grass and low growing weeds. A choir of crickets and frogs serenaded him out the window. Swamps were out there. He must have taken a wrong turn. “Dammit!” He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He looked in the rearview mirror. Nothing. Just complete and utter blackness. Was it his imagination or was he feeling more drunk than usual tonight? Maybe it was his medications. He would have a talk with his doctor. Maybe he should just turn his ass around and call Edna from that gas station a ways back. Edna kept tabs on their only cell phone. There
was
a gas station wasn’t there? Yeah, right. What would he say to her? What would he tell her? Edna, honey, listen, I’m running a bit late…

Shit!

Then George caught sight of it again. The first time he tried to ignore it. But he couldn’t this time. A white thing kept darting in and out from behind the tree line.
What in Sam hill?
He tried to focus, cussing at his night blindness, straining to see more clearly. He wasn’t usually frightened, but this was making the hairs on the back of his neck sing “Dixie.” For a second, George thought it might be one of those alien abductions. Edna and him had watched repeats of that show every once and a while. What was it called?
Strange Planet
. He glanced at the blue-black sky. Stars and constellations and even more stars and constellations. From grade school, he located the Big Dipper.

He put his attention back to the woods. Pure black. He must have been seeing things. He wiped the sweat from off his forehead with a handkerchief. Thank you, Lord. Out there in the murky distance, the only thing he saw now were miles and miles of trees. And his overactive imagination. Then, it reappeared. Again. Like Tinker Bell from Disney. Instead of it flitting around, this sprite, or whatever the hell it was, would just fall down, only to get right back up and fall right back down again.

“Jesus, mother of God!” George screamed into the windshield, his face pressed into the glass. “It’s a person. Holy fuck. Somebody’s in trouble.”

He scrambled to grab the emergency flashlight from under the seat. In the process he upset his toothbrush and Thursday night paraphernalia kit. “Shit. Piss. Damn.”

He opened the car door, knelt down on the gravel road and rummaged through the under guts of the seat. There. Finally. He grabbed the flashlight, checked to make sure it was working and took off. He leaped over the ditch, filled with muddy water and briar weeds. He left the car door wide open. With the inside light on, he’d be able to find his way back.

George had never been one of those sporting kind of guys, but tonight, he did some mighty fancy footwork. He ran like a motherfucker until his sides ached and his heart was pounding. A cool mist had settled over the field. His boots were wet and soggy and heavy. George felt invigorated. Like he did during tactical maneuvers. When he was young and fit and back in the Army. When he had a job. A purpose. A mission. Something other than driving Edna around to a different restaurant every damn night.

The light from his flashlight cut through the low-hanging trees like a hacksaw. It poked and prodded at the black curtain of forest. He didn’t care. He wasn’t scared. He continued running, moving in the direction of that fallen white thing.

It was down when he got there, like a deer or a wounded animal. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl until he flashed the light on it. Tiny little toes had red nail polish on them. She wore a bathrobe. Not terrycloth like a towel, but white, cottony and long. It covered most of her body. The bottom half, down by her feet, was purple-red in color. The moonlight overhead made it appear crimson. Like a rainbow. He turned and vomited. He excused himself, wiped off his mouth with his sleeve and bent over her. He touched her shoulder and waited for a response. Nothing. He turned her over. He wiped the mud from off her face. Lord, there was an emptiness there. A horrible, horrible emptiness. He shone his light into her eyes. Nothing. He remembered from the military to check to see if the pupils got bigger, or smaller. Dilated. But, they didn’t. Oh, God, give him strength. Her hair was hanging down over her face and shoulders, a tangled, sweaty mess. He could barely make out the face. He pushed her hair back. It was a girl all right, a young one too, no older than twelve, thirteen tops. What should he do? He felt for a pulse. He put his head down close to her chest and listened for breathing. She was, but just barely. Her pulse was weak, a fragile thread, sprinting at a hummingbird’s frantic pace. He needed to get this girl to a hospital, lickity split. He picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. She was light, not even a hundred pounds. He started running. He could feel the jolt of adrenaline kick his ass as he headed back toward the car. He could barely see the glow from the inside light. Thank God, he left it on.

Edna would be waiting. Edna
was
waiting. What was he to do about Edna? He fought his way across the field through the tall grass. Briars stuck to his pants, his ankles. They stabbed at his skin. He could smell blood. And stale urine. He wanted to throw up again. But he kept running, trying not to think about it. How would he feel if this was his baby girl?

When he arrived back to his car, he would drive like a banshee to the nearest hospital in Charleston. With or without his damn night blindness. He would deliver this little girl close to where Edna was. He would tell the doctors exactly what happened. Every last detail. Everything. How he found this poor girl in a field off Old Towne Road. He would explain it all. He would. He would tell them he was on his way back from…

Oh, hell…

Almost everything
.

June 14
, 2007

11
:32 PM

Medical University of South Carolina

Charleston, South Carolina

3

Sleep had value.

Enormous, immense, larger-than-life value. And, as Chief Surgical Resident at one of the largest medical facilities in the south, to Dr. Sydia Garrison, sleep took on greater importance than money. Prestige. Even though she hated admitting it, food. Definitely sex. In fact, sex was something she hardly ever thought about any longer.

Ah, yes, the benefits of sleep.

She had often wondered why she specialized in surgery. How did a young, tender, idealistic mind like hers accept the terms and conditions of such a time-consuming, not to mention, grueling profession? And the answer that came back to her was always the same. Because “they” said, she couldn’t do it. It didn’t have anything to do with her being a black female, although she had to admit, in some instances, it had helped. When she applied to medical school, minorities were “in.” Affirmative action. She was the shimmering example of what an African American woman could do with direction, unwavering focus, and let’s not forget, cash. Hey, use what you got. Right?

Everybody told her it would be rough. She figured, “it couldn’t be that bad.” After all, she was a survivor. She’d beat the odds most of her life. And won. Besides, she tended to believe most people exaggerated anyway. Well, she would be the first one to enlighten anybody about the wonderful world of medicine. It was
that
bad.

So many crucial, critical life and death decisions depended on the coherency of a walking, talking, and breathing coffee urn dressed up in a white lab coat. Fortunately, she made assessments quickly and efficiently. Decaf need not apply. She gave credit where credit was due. The six packs of sugar she habitually poured into the bitter brew percolating morning, noon and night on each of the floor’s ward kitchens, helped out immensely. She honestly believed Starbucks should franchise in hospitals. They would make a bloody fortune on residents, interns and medical students alone. Marathon days like today, running late into the night and continuing well after morning rounds tomorrow, felt more like sleepwalking than practicing her profession. Only those never ending cups of java and the consistent hum of the elevator, which she’d designated as her own personal lullaby, helped save her.

There was an on call room for the residents in the basement. Next to Central Supply. Nothing special. A cot made daily with clean linens, some old worn out pillows, but more importantly, another coffee pot. This particular model, though, was no Mr. Coffee. The hospital kept it filled with water and it sat sadly, on a hot plate. Since staff rarely got the opportunity to use the room, hospital administration felt they were saving money. Pastel-colored Easter baskets sat beside it, jammed with an assortment of herbal teas, instant coffee packets and synthetic creamers. Underneath, a knee-high refrigerator held sodas, juices and outdated yogurts. Magazines, playing cards, and a television, complete with a CD player furnished up-to-date extravagant entertainment. The only problem -- she couldn’t remember the last time in five years she had stayed in the room and actually watched a movie. Come to think of it, she couldn’t even remember the last movie she saw.

What was it?

Her favorite accommodation was the private bathroom furnished with a single stall, a lock and a shower. Strong, hot water, soap, and a toothbrush had raised her soul to higher levels of coherency quicker than eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Yes… sleep!

Her preferred hiding place was on the second floor. In Radiology. Late at night, after being up for some twenty hours, give her that long, flat, black cold table. And darkness. In darkness, her mind went quiet.  She had, on occasion, settled into one of the narrow wooden pews that lined the hospital chapel. But each time she had used it, somebody in the middle of the night would sneak into the small, quiet sanctuary for a silent vigil and wake her up. Her head would droop, her shoulders drop and she’d be sprawled out like a human map in full view of the crucified Jesus hanging above the miniature pulpit. Embarrassed, she’d clean the drool from the side of her mouth and cross herself before exiting. And, she wasn’t even Catholic! Listening to the tranquil sound of water falling from the fountain outside in the hallway may be high on her list for meditation, but for sleeping? No, thank you. She’d take X-ray.

*   *   *

It was late. She checked her watch. Almost eleven forty and quiet. For a change. Deadly quiet.

A few hours earlier she’d assisted Dr. Stearns, the Senior Medical Resident on call in the ER, sew up a smartass, ten year old. Evidently, the brat had put his hand through a window, lacerating his left index finger. His mother gave that history. Luckily, the arterial blood supply wasn’t damaged enough for a skin graft. She was able to reattach the flap without surgery, but twenty four stitches later, the kid refused to cry. Not even a flinch. This boy was tough. She wouldn’t want to meet him in five years in a dark alley. While she was working on his finger, he kept staring at her with dazed, black eyes. In a creepy sort of way. She thought maybe he was on drugs or something. Or, maybe he’d never seen a female doctor before. But what bothered her the most, was after she’d completed the procedure, the kid’s mother; a trailer park trollop with a bad dye job and daisy ducks two sizes too small, grabbed the boys hand -- the one she’d just finished working on -- and pulled him out into the hallway. As he was leaving, he turned around and with that same strange look mouthed directly at her…
nigger.

Nigger!

After everything she’d accomplished, competed against and succeeded in, won, some white trash trailer park brat could still hurt her by calling her the “n” word.

She
had
gotten better. Before, she would have walked right out into that hallway and slapped his young white face, with or without the mother present. Now, she took it as a part of her oath. Everybody got sick. Everybody was entitled to treatment. Tonight, she was on call and had to take what they gave her. It was all a part of her job, her training. So, instead of slapping the little shit, she called him back into the examination room and gave him a painful tetanus shot.

And, as she administered it, she gave him an enormous, ear to ear smile.

She retreated from the ER, content with her revenge, and took the elevator back up to the fourth surgical floor. She would do quick rounds, go through some charts and chat with Brenda, one of her least favorite night nurses. She would grab another cup of coffee and quietly slip away to the second floor and Radiology. Sleep. She took the back stairway to consolidate time; after all, she needed exercise too. No sooner had she taken her first long sip of coffee and made it to the stairs, her beeper went off, her name reverberated over the loudspeaker.

“Dr. Garrison…”

She glanced again at her watch.

Wasn’t it too late to be using the paging system?

“Dr. Garrison to the Emergency Room. Dr. Garrison to the Emergency Room. STAT!”

It was the “STAT” that concerned her. She knew Dr. Stearns was down there. Stearns was an excellent intern, an exemplary resident, and would make a terrific doctor. She’d taken notice of him when he went through his surgical rotation. So whatever was happening in the ER must be something over his head. There was a good team playing down there this evening. Beth, the head nurse, who’d assisted her with the kid, knew her shit. One of the best trauma nurses Sydia had ever worked with. If she ever woke up staring into the ceiling of a moving ambulance, Beth would be the nurse she’d want waiting for her. Not much on sentiment, in fact, Beth could be downright abrasive at times, but the lady knew what to do in a crisis. And, as everybody knew, the ER was full of minor crises and major emergencies.

“Damn, you Beth.” She ran down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor. The intercom was calling a code. Somebody had stopped breathing. Somebody’s heart had just quit.
Somebody
was dying. The green tiles of the hallway went static. Electricity crackled as every available white coat headed in the direction of the ER. Whoever this player was had decided to expire. And, as a doctor, Sydia took
that
personally.

As she approached the ER, Hawkins, a third year medical student pushed through the double doors. Short and stocky, he reminded Sydia of Danny DeVito. His white lab coat grazed the floor. Even in a state of emergency, she couldn’t help but be offended by his slovenliness.

“You’re not going to believe this hit. I tried calling Davenport…”

“You’re kidding, right?” Sydia interrupted him. Every resident knew that Dr. Davenport, the Chief of Medicine at MUSC never picked up a call from the ER. Never. Especially when he knew the surgical resident on call was...Sydia. “What is it?”

“This one’s on her way to the OR. Or the box, whichever comes first.”

She hated it when medical students talked flip like that.

“She’s on support. I drew her labs. And a blood gas. Dr. Stearns wants her carbon load. I’ll be right back.” Stearns waddled away in the direction of the laboratory.

Sydia noticed Housekeeping. Usually, she would wave a perfunctory “hello” to the team of African American and Latino workers who methodically cleaned the floors, the tables, straightened up magazines and emptied the trashcans. Now, they stood together, leaning on their brooms, their carts. Silent.

She needed to accelerate. Pump up the volume. Get in there and take charge. And, yet another side of her wanted to stay outside. With Housekeeping. Be among them for once. Looking in. Let Dr. Stearns earn his stripes, take responsibility and bark out the orders. But, then again, he had paged her for a reason. Maybe this patient
was
on her way to the OR.

She entered into familiar grounds and pushed past the ubiquitous smell of rubbing alcohol, room deodorizer, blood, and bleach. Beth motioned from one of the trauma rooms. She was in the process of taking an electrocardiogram. Sydia passed by another examining room. It was hard to believe a young girl was getting her throat swabbed for a culture right next door to a life or death emergency. An ER nurse patiently dabbed at the girl’s tonsils. Beth grabbed Sydia’s coat and pulled her into the room. The resuscitation team was in full dizzying motion. Under her breath, Beth said, “I don’t know about this one, Doc.” She rubbed her nose with the backside of her hand.

Was this Beth?

Hard-driving, aggressive Beth, holding back tears.

“She must be all of twelve, if that.” Beth said.

Stearns was at the front of the examination table yelling commands at the patient. “Stay with us. Come on, honey, you can do it. Stay with us. Another milligram of Epi, please!” Even in pressure, Stearns maintained politeness. Control. She had to hand it to him, she wasn’t sure if she could.

The Respiratory therapist had inserted a tube down the girl’s throat. She was breathing, but only with the help of the respirator. Fluids were pushed through an IV line into her left arm at an increased rate. A blood pressure cuff was secured around a liter bag of Ringer’s lactate to help accelerate the liquids into her system. Technicians, nurses and interns, dressed in scrubs and white lab coats, hovered around her as if they were performing a séance. Sydia approached the table and, like Moses parting the Red Sea, everybody made room.

She had never seen Beth so visibly shaken. She expected the worse. “How much Epi did you administer?” Her position as Senior Resident was never finished. Always questioning. Always training.

“SDE.”

Stearns wanted to impress her. “What is it, Stearns?”

“She’s stabilizing. That’s what’s important.” Tension ignited in the room. “That’s not the reason I paged you.”

He was right. Sydia backed off. She checked the heart monitor, listened for ventricular arrhythmias. She grabbed the lead from the electrocardiogram and started reading it through her fingers. “Blood pressure?”

“Seventy over thirty, but coming back. Pulse is getting stronger, too.” Another junior intern piped in. He logged his findings into the patient’s chart. It appeared as if volumes had already been entered.