Acts of Honor (14 page)

Shank hesitated. “Maybe.”

“Maybe is not an acceptable answer, Captain.”

“Maybe,” Shank insisted, not at all intimidated by Foster’s icy tone. She was stuck at Braxton forever. What else could he do to her? “A few days ago, Koloski was on duty in Isolation, monitoring. He said Joe was on the verge of episodic rage, and he warned Dr. West to get out of his room.”

“He protected her?”

“That’s the report, sir, and she’s confirmed it.” Shank stretched to drop an EEG report on Ray into Beth’s stack. Sara West was thorough, checking to see if there was any oxygen-deprivation damage to Ray’s brain due to the sugar crash. “I didn’t witness this myself. But I’d say it’s encouraging.”

“Was this before or after ADR-30 choked her?”

“After.”

“So she went back to see him again, after the attack?”

“Yes, she did.” Shank grunted, thinking Foster sounded pleased with himself. As if someone he’d expected to behave or react in a particular manner hadn’t disappointed him. “Colonel, may I speak freely, sir?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Sara West was damn brave, going back in there.” If Foster intended to kill Sara, Shank couldn’t stop him, but she could let him know he’d be wasting a valuable resource. “It took two orderlies, Koloski, and me to pull Joe off her. To tell you the truth, sir, I doubt I would have gone back—at least, not so soon.”

“It’s not just bravery, Captain.” His tone turned crisp. “I warned you that she was sharp.”

What did he mean? Shank stilled, stiffened behind the desk, and stared at the fire alarm across from her on the far wall. “Sir?”

“She’s made him.”

Foster thought that Sara West had identified the Shadow Watcher? Shock streaked up Shank’s backbone. “Already?”

“Already.”

Remembering Sara’s questions, her intense observation of Joe, and her new orders, a sinking feeling swept through Shank’s chest and hollowed her stomach. She pressed a trembling hand over it. “Good grief, sir. I believe you’re right.”

“Now.” He sighed as if satisfied. “We only have to wait to see whether or not she admits it.”

And that, Shank realized, would determine if, when Joe was healed, Dr. Sara West lived or died.

The smell of rubbing alcohol burned Sara’s nostrils.

Twitching her nose, she sat down in the cubicle near the nurses’ station to dictate the mandatory incident report on Ray and Fontaine and the 70/30 insulin medication.

Except for Beth, the station was deserted. Glancing at her watch, Sara grasped why. Quarter of three—shift change. Like most everyone else around here, Beth still refused to look Sara in the eye. But rather than grating at her nerves, for once, Sara appreciated the reprieve. Still, she opted to silently key in the report rather than to orally dictate it.

She adjusted the computer terminal’s keyboard. As soon as her fingertips touched the keys, a sinking feeling hit her stomach, and she started trembling. She stared at the blinking cursor.

You have no choice. Just do it.

And she did. But for every key stroke she typed, it seemed she had to backspace two to delete errors. Fontaine wouldn’t take the report kindly, and it didn’t take a genius or a shrink to know it. The way her luck was running, she’d probably set a new standard for his legendary fury. That worried her. He would retaliate. But how?

Whatever he did, it would be bad. She swept her damp palms down her thighs, agonizing. The friction of brushing her nubby slacks’ fabric felt good. Bottom line was it didn’t matter what he did. She’d have to deal with it. Filing the report was mandatory and the right thing to do.

Finally finishing it, she hit the Save key and then forwarded a copy to Risk Management and—what the hell—a copy to Fontaine. He’d know about it momentarily, anyway. No sense giving him the illusion that she was ducking him.

After signing off the system, she noted that she had filed the report in Ray’s chart, and then gathered her things. Before she could leave the desk, the phone rang.

“Second floor,” Beth answered it. “One moment, please.” She called out to Sara. “Dr. West, you have a call.”

Dreading what was coming, Sara lifted the receiver. “Dr. West.”

“Report to Dr. Fontaine’s office, Major. STAT.”

Martha. And her stiff tone warned that she and her boss had read the incident report, and he was not happy. That, of course, meant Martha was miserable.

“Be right there.” Sara cradled the phone and headed down to the director’s office, reminding herself not to antagonize him further by forgetting the “sir” stuff. Fabulous Fontaine was big on the “sir” stuff. Huge on the “sir” stuff.

When Martha ushered Sara into Fontaine’s office, he glared at her until Martha retreated and shut the door. Sara imagined the woman scurrying like a rat back to her desk to tap the intercom and eavesdrop.

As if on cue, the light on the phone lit up. Fontaine was too intent on gearing up for an explosion to notice.

“Delete it, Major,” he said without preamble. “Delete it, and forget it ever happened.”

He had to be kidding. Sara stiffened, narrowed her eyes. He didn’t appear to be kidding, but he had to be. That, or he’d lost his grip. “That’s illegal, sir.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Not at Braxton.”

Sara stared at him a long moment, giving him time to cool down and think about that remark—which they both knew was a blatant lie. But when the twitch in his jaw muscle showed no evidence of slowing down, she accepted that the man was indeed an egomaniac and he wasn’t going to calm down, so she went on. “Dr. Fontaine, there is nothing personal against you in the report. If you’ll notice, your name doesn’t even appear. I only related the facts of the incident.”

“Everyone in this facility is aware that I handled all of the PTSD patients, Major.” He fisted a hand on his desk. His knuckles knobbed. “Delete the report. That’s a direct order.”

Sara clamped her jaw shut to keep from snapping back a sharp retort. He deserved it, but the costs of giving it to him were too high to pay. “If I delete that report, then this could happen again. The man could have died. Someone else could die. Do you want to be responsible for that? I certainly don’t.”

Fontaine jumped to his feet, sending his chair spinning into the credenza behind him. It crashed with a loud thud. “I issued you a direct order, Major. I strongly advise you to follow it—immediately.”

Sara stared at the man. His face was blood-red, twisted by rage, and the veins in his neck bulged. This was indeed Fontaine’s legendary fury, and he’d levied every outraged morsel directly on her head. She softened her expression and her voice. “With all due respect, I can’t do that, sir.”

Closing the gap between them, he leaned over the desk and grated out from between his teeth, “You have no choice.”

Every instinct in her body urged her to back down. But backing down was wrong. Sara locked her knees and stood firm. “Yes, sir, I do have a choice. I have an agreement with the Department of Defense on this project that gives me full authority over my patients. Ray is my patient, and I find it hard to believe that a man capable of attaining all of this”—she swept a hand toward his display of gold-framed, professional wallpaper—“would ask, or expect, me to jeopardize a patient’s health or my professional integrity.”

“I’m fully aware of the terms of your agreement with the DoD, Major.” He lifted a hand, snagging the end of his purple tie. “And I repeat my warning that this is a direct order. Delete the son of a bitch.”

Flustered, she dragged a hand over her head, shoving her hair back from her face. “For God’s sake, Doctor, doesn’t it bother you at all that you nearly killed a man?”

Fontaine’s voice exploded, and he jabbed at the air with his index finger. “You will
not
undermine my authority at this facility.”

“No, sir. I will not,” she agreed. “If you’ll read the report—without your defenses engaged—you’ll see that there’s nothing in it that even remotely undermines your authority or your competence.” And that had been damned difficult to manage. You’d think the man would be grateful. She could have crucified him.

“Lower your voice, Major, or I’ll charge you with insubordination.” Fontaine glared at her, openly hostile. “This isn’t a debate. There will be no negotiations. You delete the report, or I deem your work unsafe to the patients. The DoD will cancel your contract.”

He had screamed and pushed, and now he had threatened her. And she’d maxed. A little pushing back was not only warranted, it was long overdue. “Look, let’s get down to brass tacks, Doctor.” The “sir” stuff wasn’t working. Maybe reminding him of his Hippocratic Oath would get him to see reason. “I am not deleting that report. I’m required to file it, and we both know it. It’s filed. If you want to deem my work unsafe to the DoD, fine. Feel free. But when you do, I’ll be required to give a full accounting, and that accounting will require you to explain your own inefficiency in dealing with these patients.”

“My
inefficiency?” His jaw gaped, and incredulity flickered through his eyes.
“What
inefficiency?”

She stared deeply into his eyes for a long moment, clenched her jaw, and then dropped her voice even lower. “You’ll get to explain why you misdiagnosed these five men.”

The blood drained from his face. “Excuse me?”

Having seen more colorful cadavers, Sara stiffened her back, preparing for the fallout. “Only one of these men could possibly be PTSD.” She’d said it. Out loud. Oh, God, she hoped that wasn’t a mistake. “I haven’t yet diagnosed the others but odds are you have, even though your diagnoses aren’t in the charts.”

“You’re wrong, Dr. West.” Fontaine veiled his expression to a mask. “Each of those five men is suffering from PTSD, and that’s all I have to say on the matter.”

He was lying to her, and they both knew it. And he would make her pay for crossing him. Dearly. The question wasn’t if he would retaliate, but in what form. She lifted her chin. “My report stands, sir.”

“You’re going to regret this, Major.” His eyes glittered pure hatred. “For a long time to come.”

“I already do, sir.” She let him see her sorrow and her disgust. “If a conversation such as this one isn’t worthy of regret, then I don’t know what is.” She turned toward the door, leaving Fontaine glaring at her, his anger boiling and about to erupt.

Her hand on the doorknob, she paused and looked back over the slope of her shoulder at him. “For the record, sir, whatever consequences I suffer for filing a mandatory report had better not be as blatantly overt as another incident I’ve encountered at Braxton and not yet report—”

“Another incident?” he interrupted.
“What
other incident?”

“I was instructed to wear a white lab coat at all times when on the premises, including into Isolation, and it’s a known fact to the staff that the color white stimulates episodic rage in Braxton’s PTSD patients. That information was deliberately withheld from me, which makes it a criminal act.”

“I know nothing about this.”

Lying again. He really was lousy at it. His gaze darted like Ping-Pong balls being whacked during a masters’ tournament, and he looked through her, not at her. “Of course not, sir. But your secretary did, and she specifically informed me that wearing the coat was your rule. That act deliberately endangered the life of one of your staff members and, as I understand it, the facility director carries direct responsibility for the actions of everyone under his command—including his secretary and the physicians on his staff—even if the physician is a temporary staff member employed by a limited DoD contract. Is my understanding accurate, sir?”

“Theoretically, yes.”

“Deliberately endangering the life of a staff member carries steep penalties. It’d be a shame to see anyone at Braxton brought up on charges. Court-martials are so
 . . .
public.”

He gave her a blank look. As if he’d underestimated her and couldn’t quite absorb the fact that he had.