Rescue Team (5 page)

Judith’s cheeks flushed. “I do try to keep a certain distance. We learned that in volunteer training. But until today, Trista’s baby wasn’t actually our patient. She’s so young and inexperienced. So I—”

“Kate?” The registration clerk leaned through the doorway. “Mr. Lyon’s here to see you.”

“Which Mr. Lyon?” Kate asked, hoping it wasn’t—

“Barrett.”

Kate suppressed a groan.

“I’ll go.” Judith retrieved her latte.

“Thank you again. For everything.” Kate had an irrational urge to ask the selfless volunteer to trade places with her. Stay here, meet with the hospital attorney, and let Kate handle the crowded waiting room. Right now, juggling tongue depressors sounded a lot more appealing than another rendezvous with legal. Especially with Barrett Lyon.

Much more of this and Kate might need rescue after all.

In less than twenty minutes, she was almost convinced of it.

“I’m not sure I understand what you’re suggesting,” Kate said, stomach churning. She leaned forward in her chair, staring across the desk at the youngest partner of the Lyon legal firm. “The police
are trying to locate the mother of that baby. It’s only been one day. No one’s blaming the hospital.”

“Except for our self-appointed community health care vigilante.” Barrett Lyon’s eyes, gray as his well-cut jacket, narrowed a fraction. “This person, Waiting for Care—”

“Compassion,” Kate corrected, suspecting the attractive attorney had none whatsoever. “Waiting for Compassion. But the letters and online posts have only alluded to medical settings. No specific hospitals have been named.”

“Correct. And any number of Austin-area facilities could have discovered a newborn infant on a bathroom floor yesterday.” Despite the obvious barb, Barrett’s eyes softened. He sighed, splaying his hands on the desk. “Kate, I know this is the last thing you need on your plate right now. Yes, it’s possible that the police will locate the mother who abandoned that baby and prosecute her. That would be good.”

Good?
Kate tasted bile.

“But we have to be prepared if someone who may have standing in the case comes forward and accuses the hospital of wrongdoing. We need to look at the possibility of shared liability.”

“Meaning the triage nurse.” Kate thought of Dana Connor.

“If she initiated care of that mother and accepted professional responsibility.” Barrett nodded. “It helps things that this nurse isn’t regular staff; given that she’s contracted with a nursing registry, she may be covered by outside insurance. We’ll be looking into that. And at the chain of command within the emergency department.”

Kate swallowed. “Including me.”

Barrett was quiet for a moment. “Again, this is all necessary preparation. On the whole, designed to protect the hospital and the staff. I’m here for you, too, Kate.” He slid back his sleeve to
check his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime.” The gray eyes met hers and Barrett smiled, perfect teeth against a flawless tan. “We could discuss this further, say at the Shore View Grill? Been there yet?”

“No,” Kate answered, uncomfortable on a whole new level. “I can’t leave. We’re short staffed. I really should go check on things out there.”

“Of course.” Barrett stood. “I’ll be in touch, and—oh, one last question?”

Kate waited.

“The man in the waiting room yesterday, the one who accepted the baby from the janitor . . .”

“Wes Tanner?”

“Yes, that’s the name. He’s an EMT, isn’t he?”

“He was here as a visitor,” Kate explained, beginning to have a bad feeling. “And a volunteer for search and rescue. But I think he did say he was also an EMT.”

“Which, of course, implies training, certifications. Hmmm.” Barrett reached for his briefcase. “Perhaps Mr. Tanner should have done more. I’ll see what I can find out about him.”

Kate opened her mouth, closed it. Pushed papers around on her desk until the hospital’s attorney was safely out the door. Then propped her head in her hands. Lunch? The only thing on Kate’s menu today was a handful of antacids.

-  +  -

Wes halted Duster along a deer trail that disappeared into dense cedar, waiting as Gabe came up alongside. His friend was riding the Tanners’ three-year-old Appaloosa mare, Clementine. She nickered at Duster, then stood quietly. “How’d Clem do when you crossed the creek back there?”

“If I say, ‘No problem,’ are you going to trot out a llama, then set off a string of firecrackers? Fire up a chain saw, maybe?” Gabe pulled off his orange Longhorns ball cap and wiped a beefy arm across his forehead. “You call me out for a missing person that ends up being a plastic toy, then expect me to train your horse along the way? You’re gonna owe me, Tanner.” He smiled. “I see Salt Lick barbecue in my future.”

Wes grinned. “When I get the green light on adding a mounted detail to our team, we’ll be that much more ready. You’ll appreciate riding, not walking.”

“
If
we get that grant for equipment, train some more volunteers, and—”

“We’ll do it.” Wes checked his watch. “Hey, I don’t know about continuing with this. We’ve been out here for nearly an hour and a half. Nothing. And it’s not like the old girl walked off.”

“Could be something dragged her off. Dog, coyote. That doll sits at more diners than I do. She probably smells like fried chicken.” Gabe squinted downhill. “There’s a renter down there?”

“In the trailer under the trees.” Wes lifted his field glasses, scanning the grove less than a quarter mile away. “No truck, though. Gone somewhere. Not that he’d answer the door if he was home, I hear.” He shook his head. “Look, I’ve got a pump to install and you’ve probably got . . .” Wes gave an exaggerated grimace, never missing a chance to bait his friend about his family’s funeral home. But Gabe knew the respect Wes had for the compassion that guided that business. And Wes could easily imagine the satisfaction this good man felt in being part of a team dedicated to finding people alive. “Don’t tell me what’s on your schedule today.”

“My lips are in rigor.” Gabe glanced at the stand of trees in the distance. “How ’bout we give it twenty more minutes? You follow
that sorry deer trail while I make a quick pass around the renter’s trailer. One last shot at putting a smile on our piano teacher’s face. If we come up empty, we’ll make up a story about Miss Nancy Rae taking the Greyhound bus to SeaWorld. Then con your mom into searching the thrift shops for her identical twin.” He shrugged. “It’ll give me a chance to take your mare over that creek again.”

“Sold. Meet you back here in twenty.”

But in less than ten minutes, Wes’s radio crackled to life with Gabe’s victorious whoop. “Guess who I found in the grove?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Swear.” Gabe laughed. “She’s sorta grubby, but I’d still call it a live find.” The radio was breaking up. “Got her tied . . . my saddle. And we’re headed—” Gabe smothered a curse. “What the . . . What’s . . . wire? Blast it, Clem’s tangled up in . . .”

“Gabe?”

A single, gut-wrenching blast echoed up the shallow gully—the unmistakable discharge of a shotgun. Clementine’s panicked snorts were followed in less than a heartbeat by Gabe’s shout: “I’m shot!”

“H
EEYAAH!”
Wes urged Duster into the gully, the horse’s hooves scrabbling on loose rocks and chest-high cedar branches flogging them both. No time to find a trail, no time to waste.
Shot? Hunters? Drug operation?
Wes carried a concealed Springfield pistol but had never had to use it. He’d given what little he knew to 911 dispatch before spurring Duster, but he sure wasn’t going to wait.

The ground dropped from under them and Wes grabbed a hunk of Duster’s mane as gravity pitched him forward.

“Gabe?” he huffed into the radio clipped to his vest. “I’m almost there. Answer me.”

Oh no.
Clementine trotted by a few yards below, riderless except for the doll tied behind the saddle. Then the terrain leveled out and the grove loomed not far ahead. He spurred Duster on.

“Gabe?” Wes’s lips met the radio again.

“Here . . .” There was a groan. “My leg . . . Shotgun rigged in a tree . . . Trip wire. Not a shooter. Can’t see one, anyway.”

Thank you, Lord. He’s alive.
“I see you now, buddy. Hang on.”

In seconds Wes had reined Duster to a skidding halt and vaulted to the ground. He looped the lead rope over a branch, grabbed his rescue kit, and ran toward where Gabe lay sprawled in the dirt. Pale as a fish belly, face contorted with pain. And on the ground beneath him . . . too much blood.

Wes dropped to his knees beside his friend, grateful for the faint sounds of sirens in the distance. He scanned the clearing around them, what he could see of the rusty trailer. Gabe was right; no sign of anyone else.

“I think I’ll be . . . okay.” Gabe tried to raise himself on one elbow.

“Don’t—don’t try to sit up. Stay down. Let me get some pressure on that.” Wes’s gaze moved over Gabe quickly. Head, neck, chest, belly, all without obvious injury. But all that blood . . .

“It caught me in the hip and leg.” Gabe’s face glistened with sweat. His expression was anxious. “Clem bolted. Don’t know if she got hit.”

“She’s walking. You’re first.” Wes pulled the rescue blanket and medical pouch from his pack. “I’m going to get some pressure on that wound while I update the police and medics. They need to know what they’re walking into here. Meanwhile, I’ll keep one eye on that trailer. We don’t need any more trouble.” Wes spread the foil blanket over his friend. “I’m sorry, buddy. You wouldn’t be out here if I hadn’t—”

“It’s okay.” Gabe smiled weakly. “Just promise you’ll get that doll to her mama.”

“Promise.” Wes tore open several heavy wound pads, pulled on some gloves. “This is going to hurt.”

In ten minutes the scene was secured, several armed deputies providing watchful cover while fire department paramedics attended Gabe, getting vital signs, starting oxygen and two large-bore IVs. Twenty minutes later, they hauled him uphill on a rescue litter to a waiting ambulance. Wes waited as they loaded him, his arms full of Gabe’s gear—including a very dusty Nancy Rae.

“I’m not gonna ask,” a deputy assured Wes, eyeing the doll with an amused look. “But don’t worry about the horses. Gary’s a posse member; he’s getting them watered and he’ll make sure they’re okay until your dad can get here to trailer them back.” He glanced downhill, where fellow law enforcement investigators swarmed, radios squawking. “We’ll be on scene awhile. At least until we locate Mr. Let’s-Jerry-Rig-a-Gun-to-an-Oak-Tree. Doesn’t even look like he had anything to protect down there. No pot farm or weapons arsenal.” The deputy shook his head. “There’s all kinds of crazy in this world. Glad your friend wasn’t hit worse.”

“Right.” Wes glanced at Gabe. His face was partially covered by an oxygen mask, eyes closed and color improved. Far more relaxed after a titrated dose of morphine. Wes shifted his grip on the doll, and a thought struck him with sickening clarity: it wasn’t only Gabe who’d been at risk. Amelia had dropped her doll in that grove, an old woman lost, confused, and stumbling in the dark. She could have tripped that lethal booby trap.

“Which hospital?” the deputy asked as Wes climbed into the ambulance beside Gabe.

“Trauma center’s packed,” Wes told him, reporting what he’d heard from the fire department a few moments ago. “Gabe’s vital signs are fairly stable, so dispatch will direct them to the closest hospital that can have a surgical team ready and waiting.”

An EMT jogged toward the rear of the idling transport rig. “Got our destination. Austin Grace ER.”

Austin Grace.
Wes glanced down at his clothes and forearms, sticky with drying blood despite the gloves. Second time in two days he’d be at that hospital in this condition. He thought of Kate Callison.
“No one here needs to be rescued.”

He wished that were true.

-  +  -

Lauren sat down opposite Kate at a table outside the ER. She eyed Kate’s paper plate. “What on earth is that?”

“Muff—
mmph
, excuse me.” Kate swallowed a couple of times, dabbed at her lips. “Sorry. Whole wheat English muffin. Peanut butter, cream cheese, and orange marmalade—as much as I could scrape out of the last little foil package in the staff refrigerator. I needed . . .”
Peanut butter . . . and peace.
She smiled sheepishly. “Comfort food. Don’t judge.”

“Cross my heart. I’ve seen the bottom of a few Blue Bell ice cream cartons myself.” Lauren tipped her head. “I figured things were bad when you asked the ICU if they could spare me for a few hours.”

“You can’t know how much I appreciate you helping out. And being the one friendly face in my hostile world.” Kate frowned. “Legal came to see me.”

“Can I assume that means Barrett Lyon?”

“He had the nerve to ask me to lunch minutes after describing his plan to defend the hospital from any possible litigation that might happen as a result of Baby Doe. Which could include pointing the finger at individual staff. Throwing any or all of us to—”

“The Lyons,” Lauren finished. “Pun intended. That man sure
does seem intent on proving my mom’s advice that good-lookin’ isn’t nearly good enough.”

Kate glanced around the tables, lowering her voice. “He even implied that Wes Tanner could have some responsibility for what happened. Because he was there. And because he’s an EMT. Lyon said he was going to see what he could find out about him.”

“Unbelievable.” Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “That completely fries me. A decent man steps up to help and . . .” She reached over and dabbed her finger at some muffin crumbs. “Maybe we should share that comfort food. I was in the waiting room too, if you recall.”

“He didn’t mention you. And he thinks that if the mother’s found, blame could fall on her. Even as far as prosecution.” Kate’s throat tightened unexpectedly as she recalled what she’d said to the young woman who was almost certainly “Ava Smith.”
“That’s why we’re here. To help.”
What kind of help was this?

“Lyon could be right about the mother.” Lauren pulled several sheets of paper and a stack of brochures from her tote bag. “I’ve been doing that research on Texas’s Baby Moses law—Safe Haven.”

Kate’s stomach quivered as Lauren nudged the brochure toward her. On its cover was a photo of an obviously distraught young woman. Below, in bold red letters, it read,
No one ever has to abandon a child again.

“The statistics will break your heart,” Lauren continued. “Out of a hundred babies abandoned each year, sixteen will be found dead. In parking lots, Dumpsters . . . bathrooms.” She tapped a sheet of paper with yellow highlighting. “Texas adopted the law in 1999—after thirteen babies were abandoned in Houston in a single year.
Thirteen
in one city—my city. Now all fifty states have similar laws to protect unwanted babies. And their mothers. Of
course, the ideal situation is to assist the mother earlier, arrange for adoption. There’s contact information for all that in the brochure. But with the Safe Haven law, a woman can anonymously surrender her infant after birth, no questions asked.” Lauren pointed to the brochure. “But it says right there that the baby has to be placed in the care of a designated Safe Haven site. Handed directly to a
person
. At a hospital, child welfare agency, EMS provider . . .”

Fire department . . . Oh, please. Stop.

“So,” Lauren sighed, “leaving a baby unattended on a bathroom floor, even in a designated hospital—”

The wail of sirens squelched her words.

Kate glanced toward the approaching ambulance, grateful for the first time in her career for incoming trauma. “Is that the shooting victim?”

“Thirty-four-year-old male. Shotgun blast to the hip and thigh. Relatively stable vitals after IV fluids. We’ve got everything ready to go. Surgery’s standing by.” Lauren stood and began stuffing papers into her bag. “Go ahead and keep that brochure,” she said as Kate tried to hand it over. “I’m going to run back to triage so my lunch relief can help in the trauma room.”

“Good.” Kate crumpled her paper plate, resettled her stethoscope around her neck. “Tell them I’ll be right there too.”

As Lauren jogged away, Kate tossed her garbage—and the Safe Haven brochure—into the trash can, then watched as the rig with lights still flashing backed into the ambulance bay. Followed by two sheriff cars. And a van with a TV news logo printed on the side. She grimaced. At least Barrett Lyon was gone, Lauren was here, and miraculously, Kate had a moment to sit down and eat something. A slice of peace slathered with peanut butter. Right
this minute she’d even go so far as to hope that despite these lights and sirens, her day could actually be turning around.

Then the doors of the ambulance opened. And Wes Tanner climbed out.

-  +  -

“Tanner, hold on.”

Wes turned and saw the medic gesturing from the ambulance. “Yeah?”

“You can follow us to the doors, but then you’ll have to go to the waiting room.” The young man attached Gabe’s oxygen tubing to a portable tank. “Security’s really strict. Nobody but staff goes in there, unless you’ve got some serious pull with someone. The doc or . . . ?”

Department director?
Wes almost laughed. “No. No pull.”

“I’ll let the ER staff know you’re waiting,” the medic offered, guiding the stretcher from the rig. The wheels dropped and locked into place. In seconds they were hustling toward the hospital doors with Wes alongside.

Gabe’s eyes were half-lidded above the oxygen mask. A portable monitor registered his vital signs in digital red. Blood pressure 106 over 48. After nearly a liter of normal saline.
How much damage did the gun blast do?
Heart rate 102. Respirations 20, oxygen saturation 100 percent. A telltale spot of blood, dark as a moonless search, seeped through the white sheet in the vicinity of his right hip.

IV tubing dangling, Gabe raised a hand toward Wes.

Wes clasped it. “Hang in there. I’ll be in to see you as soon as they let me,” he promised, hating the clammy feel of his friend’s fingers. “And I’ll keep an eye out for your family.”

“Thanks.” A faint but familiar smile appeared on Gabe’s pale
face. “Though the last thing a man in my condition should want is a visit from a mortician.”

“Right,” Wes managed, his voice trying to crack. “And don’t start dictating some cheesy eulogy. You’re going to be fine.”

“I know . . .’s a long way from my heart.” Gabe’s eyes closed for long enough to make Wes’s breathing stall. But then he opened them again. “You promised. Nancy Rae—don’t forget.”

“I won’t.”

They stopped the stretcher at the ambulance bay doors; a security guard hit the button from inside and they all disappeared down the corridor toward the ER. Out of sight.

Wes leaned against the cool stucco of the hospital wall and hunched over, his legs suddenly weak. He thought of his best friend wanting to search a little longer at the Braxton ranch.
“One last shot at putting a smile on our piano teacher’s face.”
So typical. No man had a bigger heart. And Gabe wouldn’t have been there—wouldn’t be here right now—if Wes hadn’t asked for a favor.
Please, Lord. Don’t let him die.

“Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes.” Wes looked up to see a woman in pink, the volunteer he’d met in the waiting room. The woman with the kind eyes. Judith.

She smiled. “You’re here with Gabriel Buckner.”

Wes nodded. “I was just going to the waiting room. The paramedics said they’d tell the staff I was here. And maybe I should—” he glanced down at his arms and shirtfront—“wash this off.”

“This way.” Judith pointed toward the doors Gabe had just entered. “I’ll show you where you can wash up. After I get you a scrub top.” She gave him an assessing glance. “Large, I’d say.”

“Uh . . . yes.” He followed her, not about to argue, thinking of what the medic had said about not getting past the ambulance
doors unless he had “pull.” Who’d have thought this volunteer was his ticket in?

“After you change,” Judith continued, keying in the door code, “I’ll check and see if the team will allow you to visit with your friend for a few minutes. Not more than a peek because they’re getting him ready for surgery. But I know you want a chance to wish him well. It’s important for a patient, too. Even with so many people bustling around, without a family member or a friend, a person can feel almost abandoned. That shouldn’t ever happen.” For a mere instant there was a look of sadness in her eyes. Then the doors opened and she led the way in. “Of course, I’ll need to check the timing with our department director.”