Code Triage (24 page)

“No.” The surgeon, balding and with eyes as dark and kind as a cocker spaniel’s, folded his hands across his chest. “I’m sorry. But the injury was very extensive, disrupting the ventricles. And the blood loss . . .” He glanced at Leigh.

“The second-floor staff raced to get your husband to us as fast as possible, Mrs. Thomas. Even so, he lost his pulse right after he arrived. We did CPR, gave him a breathing tube and IV fluids, drugs to stimulate his heart. We got him to the operating room very quickly.”

Mrs. Thomas pressed her hand against her chest. “Was he awake? Did he say anything?”

“Not in the ER, but . . .”

Riley’s throat tightened. “I talked with Cappy upstairs when he responded to our call for help. He said he wanted to keep his hospital staff safe. But that he’d be careful because he had plans with you.” Mrs. Thomas’s tears began to spill over. Riley walked closer, touched her arm. “Your husband told me more than once that you are a blessing from God, Mrs. Thomas.”

Cappy’s wife nodded mutely over and over. Then she lifted her chin and smiled. “Yes. That’s my husband. That would be what my dear man would say.” She looked between the surgeon and Leigh Stathos. “I know you did everything you could. And I’m so grateful. I am. It’s just . . .” Her voice shuddered. “I wanted to have him with me a little longer. Not forever. That’s what heaven is for—only the Creator can promise that. But I wanted a little . . . longer.” She closed her eyes, swaying, and Riley and the pastor eased her into a chair.

Riley sat down beside her, and the pastor took the chair on the other side.

He opened his Bible. “Shall we have a prayer, Esther?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her shoulders shaking, “before I go to see him. Yes, please. Cappy would want that. He would want all of you included. He loved you like family.”

The surgeon stepped forward, folded his hands, and bowed his head. Leigh sighed and closed her eyes.

“Merciful God,” the pastor began, “look with compassion on all who are bound by sorrow and pain. . . .”

+++

“Wait.” Sam peered up at the technician pushing her gurney toward the doors to the OR. “Please, stop for a minute.”

“They need to get you in there,” Nick said, hustling alongside.

“And I need . . . to talk with you, just for minute.” She blinked up into the fluorescent hallway lighting, seeing Nick in a blur of motion, his dark blue uniform and badge beyond a tangle of swaying IV bottles and plastic bags of blood the color of spilled cabernet. The portable monitor beeped close to her ear as her surgeon’s name was paged overhead.

“I need to tell you something, Nick. I need to . . .” The gurney jolted to a rattling stop, and the tech’s head, topped by a blue surgical cap, loomed over her.

“Miss Gordon, we’re here. I’m going to step aside for just a minute and let you talk to this officer. But I’ll have to ask you to make it short, okay? There’s no time.”

“Okay,” she breathed, wincing as the nasogastric tube tugged against her nostril. The tech adjusted the slack and stepped aside. “Thank you.”

Nick stepped close and bent down, his dark eyes clouded with concern. “If you’re worrying about Elisa, don’t. I talked with your babysitter and the woman at the preschool; she’ll keep her busy until I get there. She said something about the neighbor’s cat having a new litter of kittens.” He tried to smile. “Don’t cry, Sam. She’ll be fine. I’ve already left a message in Sunnyvale, and—”

“I love you,” she blurted. “I wasn’t going to tell you yet, but in case something goes wrong . . .” Her heart sank at the immediate discomfort in his eyes.

“It won’t,” he said, glancing toward the technician, then taking hold of her hand. “You’re going to be fine. But you’ve got to let them get you in there.” He gave her hand a small squeeze.

“I always wished I’d had a chance to tell Toby that I loved him. One more time. You know?”

“I know,” he said, his voice a thick whisper.

“I love you, Nick. I need you to know that.”

He shut his eyes, swallowed, and nodded.

She tightened her fingers against his, told herself she shouldn’t expect him to say anything. . . .
Tell me you love me. Say it, please.

“We’re rolling, Miss Gordon.” The tech hit the button on automatic doors to the surgical suite. “Let’s get you well.”

Nick stepped back as the gurney started to move. Sam held on to his hand for as long as she could, then felt his fingers slip away. She craned her head to peer back at him as they rolled forward, saw his lips forming words. Not “I love you.” Maybe “Don’t worry” or . . .

Sam closed her eyes against the bright overhead lights inside the surgery suite and flinched with a cruel snarl of pain that had nothing to do with the bullet wound in her abdomen.

She refused to accept that Nick had whispered, “I’m sorry.”

+++

Nick hunched forward on the chapel chair, aware suddenly in the empty stillness of the room that he was bone tired. Barely noon and he wasn’t sure if he’d have the strength to walk out to the parking lot, get into the lieutenant’s car for the drive back to the station—to a debriefing and required psych evaluation.
I shot those kids’ father.
It had been his shot, not his partner’s, that caused the massive brain injury. Kurt Denton would probably die. Nick’s first time to fire his weapon on duty, and he’d killed a man. He’d had no choice; Denton shot three people, refused to put down his weapons. Then took deadly aim at officers.
Looked me in the eyes. He looked me right in the eyes. Almost like he wanted me to shoot.
He’d done the only thing he could do and expected the investigators would agree. It was just that . . . how had everything turned into such a mess so fast? when today had started out filled with more promise than he’d felt in months?

Nick shook his head, remembering how he’d lain awake again last night thinking of Leigh’s willingness to give him another chance, how they’d planned to meet tonight. And then he’d decided to jog the park just after dawn, found himself on Divisadero Street at the bakery that was once Niko’s. It had felt unexpectedly good to see that new beginning, those hopeful shopkeepers. Full circle, part of a bigger plan, maybe. Then he’d brought the gingerbread pig to Oly at the flower stand, even toyed with the idea of buying a bouquet for—

Nick leaped to his feet, mind racing. The man at the flower stand this morning, in sunglasses and scrubs and the 49ers jacket . . .
with the flowers.
Was that Kurt Denton? Could he really have been there, already setting his deadly plan in motion? Nick had met him before. If only he hadn’t had that glimpse from such a distance; if he hadn’t been wearing those sunglasses. Maybe Nick would have recognized him, stopped him, ended the ugly chain of events that unfolded just hours ago. He groaned, knowing he was being an idiot. Arrest a guy for buying flowers? Guess, somehow, that he was headed to Golden Gate Mercy? The fact was, it was too late now, regardless.

Cappy Thomas was dead. Kristi’s children might soon be fatherless. A future with Leigh was more of an impossibility than ever before. And Sam . . .
“I love you.”
He shut his eyes against the memory of her words.

Nick walked around the table someone had prepared with juice and crackers and boxes of Kleenex and toward the chapel’s modest altar. He stared up at the window, a contemporary stained-glass nativity: kneeling parents, blessed child, sheep, donkey, and a radiant star—lemon yellow from the light streaming through.

“I’ve made a mess of things, Lord. I can’t seem to get it right. But I’m not giving up. I can’t. You know I can’t. Help me, please. Help me to make things right.”

+++

“Leigh—oh, thank heaven!”

Leigh stepped away from the doorway at the sound of Caro’s voice, then nearly stumbled backward as her sister threw her arms around her. “Easy there,” she said against the thick tumble of Caro’s hair. “I’m fine. It’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” Caro leaned away, searching Leigh’s face. “Your message was so short, and the officers at the door wouldn’t tell me who the victims were. The TV news is barely catching up. The radio reported that there was a second incident out in the employee parking lot. That the shooter had taken aim at two patrol officers, and—” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no, Nick!”

Leigh grasped Caro’s hand, drew her a few steps forward. She pointed through the doors of the chapel to where Nick sat, head bowed, in the chair closest to the altar. “There,” she whispered. She felt tears threaten and cleared her throat. “I asked you to meet me here because Riley set it up as a respite area with food and things. But now with him sitting there . . .”

“It doesn’t matter,” Caro said, watching Nick. She turned to Leigh, her eyes shining with tears. “I only needed to know that my family is okay. That’s all I need.”

Chapter Eighteen

The ICU charge nurse slid the suction catheter from the corner of her patient’s mouth, inspected the display of vital signs on the monitor overhead, then pulled off her gloves. She turned to Riley. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure I can do this.” Her voice was barely audible over the insistent, sucking hiss of the rigid plastic tube in her hand.

Riley nodded, knowing full well that the fiftysomething nurse didn’t doubt her ability. Her name badge was studded with Mercy Hospital service pins; Barbara had been at the helm of this particular unit for more than a decade. Her whispered honesty had nothing to do with clinical skills and everything to do with the identity of the patient lying comatose on the bed.

Kurt Denton, scalp bandaged in Elastoplast, eyes purple and swollen shut, lay with the head of the bed elevated and an endotracheal tube protruding from between his lips. A ventilator expanded his chest, filling his lungs in a monotonous rhythm of hollow clicks and raspy, phlegmatic whooshes. IV fluids, one with a potent diuretic, infused into his arms via tubes attached to metering pumps. His wrists were secured to the bed by soft, protective restraints to prevent him from reaching up and dislodging the breathing tube, endangering his life—a precaution as unnecessary as the handcuffs that tethered him to the bed. And the armed police officer standing watch outside the ICU door. This young man wouldn’t be causing anybody any more trouble. Nick Stathos’s bullet had traversed two lobes of his brain.

Barbara’s fingers moved to the stethoscope around her neck. “I worked eight years on the p.m. shift before I became charge nurse and moved to days. Sometimes it was past midnight when I got out of here. I’m scared of the dark, even with the new parking lot lights.” Her forehead furrowed. “You never know if someone’s hiding somewhere.”

Riley fought a shiver.
This isn’t about Houston. . . .

The charge nurse continued. “Cappy worked nights then; he’d stop by the desk around eleven thirty. He’d say something like, ‘I’ve got to check that parking lot out yonder. Old Cappy’s a big chicken and I’d be grateful if you’d walk my way, ma’am. Keep me safe.’” She blinked against tears. “He was there, every night, walking me to my car. Insisting I was doing him the favor. He always had a story about his grandkids or a silly fishing adventure. His wife, Esther, was in my Bible study class last spring.”

“It must be hard to think of all that while you’re caring for Mr. Denton,” Riley said, hearing the ventilator give its patient a long, programmed sigh.

“Pia was assigned to him, but her cousin is the nurse who was shot in the leg.” The charge nurse winced. “Pregnant. What if she’d been shot in the abdomen, like that Child Crisis investigator?”

Riley watched as Barbara twisted her hands together. She had no doubt that a long list of terrifying what-if scenarios was running through the minds of most of the staff, patients, and family members. She thought of Caroline, of how anxious she’d looked hurrying to meet her sister at the chapel. All of this was part of the initial stress reaction to a critical incident. “Did I understand that you’ll be receiving help from some outside staff?”

“Yes, even with the lockdown still in effect. I was told I’d be able to relieve all my nurses who feel they need that. And—” she reached for her gloves as saliva gathered at the corner of Kurt Denton’s mouth—“I’ll keep reminding myself that no matter how I feel about what this man’s done . . .” She looked at Riley, discomfort and confusion flickering across her face. “In all my years, I’ve never felt this way. I’m asking God to help me see him only as a human being in need of help, but I keep remembering the photos those visitors sent to the TV news station from their phones. Cappy lying there and this man aiming guns at our staff. How do I do this?”

“How do I do this?”
For some reason, Riley thought of the stairs.

“One step at a time,” she said gently. “Keep praying; remind yourself that it’s normal to feel this way. As caregivers, we sometimes hold ourselves to impossibly high standards.” She caught Barbara’s gaze, made sure she understood. “If you need respite, ask for it. There’s no weakness in accepting help. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be working with chaplain services and social services—probably the police chaplain as well—to offer individual counseling. Then we’ll plan a Critical Incident debriefing. To help bolster coping skills, bring some closure.” She reached out and touched the nurse’s shoulder. “I’m here for whatever you need. We’ll get through this, Barbara. I promise.”