What We Find (29 page)

Trucks were moving, doors were slamming, rotor blades were spinning. She shut down her ears. She could only hear one thing, the inside of her head. She carefully turned him, lifting his shoulder and upper torso and holding him there, immobile. She fit a bit into the drill. The bit was bigger than she liked but she’d had patients in surgery with bullet holes in their head and pulled them through.

Zurrr
, the drill said.
Zurrr
.
Zurrr
. Three tidy little burr holes. Thank God the current fashion was buzz cuts. She noted the discharge and crossed her fingers. She covered the holes with clean gauze, then a few seconds later, checked it. She was never so happy to see blood. Red blood.

And then his eyes popped open; pressure relieved.

“Jackson, do not move. We’re going to get you out of here but do not move.”

“Maggie?” he whispered, not understanding. He probably didn’t even know where he was.

“It’s me. You fell. Do not move.”

“Stay put, Maggie!” Tom yelled. “Help on the way!”

And exactly where was she going to go?

Jackson moaned and despite instructions, began to try to turn his head. Her duct tape brace held him in place. A swivel on the neck could be disastrous, so she put her palms against his cheeks and held him still with all her might.

“Jackson, listen to me. Jackson, you can’t move. I’m here, I’ve got you. We’re going to get you out of here. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Be still, honey. Still, still, still.”

It was the longest five minutes of her life, waiting. She kept whispering to Jackson, checking his pulse and respirations, watching the bleeding and soaking it up with gauze.

Finally, someone was on that ledge with her, down by Jackson’s feet. “Maggie, what the hell you doing?” Connie Boyle asked. He handed her a neck brace and she actually sighed in relief.

“I think you’re better off hoisting him up with my duct tape brace in place. You can cut it off in the helicopter and replace it, but I think it’s risky to do that here. Do you have airlift support?”

“Fifty yards up the road,” Connie said. “We can’t pull him off this shelf via cable to the helicopter. We’re going to have to take him up this way. First, I have to get rid of you. You go up,” he said, handing her a harness.

“Connie, I can’t get this on,” she said. “We have about a three-foot width here. I’ll never make it. Can’t they pull me up on this rope?” she asked, tugging on the rope.

“I don’t know what you were using for a brain, sliding down on that stupid rope tied around your waist. Stand. Back to the hill. Easy does it. Don’t make me step over Jackson to dress you.”

“Oh, Jesus,” she said. She hugged the wall, carefully attaching the harness. It seemed to take her forever and while her hands had been steady to drill holes in Jackson’s head, they shook as she tried to fasten her harness.

“Take your time,” Connie said.

“Got it,” she said. “I hope.”

He disconnected the rope from his harness and she clipped it on hers. Then he yelled for them to haul her up. And with a jerk, she was lifted upward, her butt dragging along the hillside. The second she got to the top, a paramedic was lowered, along with an emergency basket and another cable.

With shaking hands, she began removing her harness. Cal was instantly beside her, helping her out of it. “If anyone tells you I passed out while you were being lowered to that little ledge, they’re lying,” he said.

“You okay now?” she asked.

“I’m better with you up here. Honey, you have blood on your hands,” he said.

“Damn, I left the backpack down there with Jackson,” she said. “I’ll get a hydrogen peroxide from the paramedics for my hands...”

“Forget it—it’s all over you,” he said.

“Is he all right?” Tom asked.

“He’s alive and has to be taken into surgery right away. I’ll go with him in the helicopter. I’ll make a couple of calls to get a room in the OR ready and call another surgeon, get a CT so we have a better idea of what we’re doing. Time to hope for the best, Tom. His vitals are steady and he’s semiconscious. He was lucid. He’s got a chance. A good chance.”

“I’ll go with,” Tom said.

“We need room to work, Tom. We’ll be busy until you and Cal get to Denver—we’ll have to take him to the hospital there. If anything changes, anything at all, we’ll be in touch by phone.”

Someone handed her a rag, hydrogen peroxide and a bottled water and she rinsed and washed off her hands.

“It’s taking them too long,” Tom complained, watching the edge of the ridge, waiting.

“It’s all right, I think the immediate danger is past,” she said. “I relieved the intracranial pressure. I’d like more information, but we can’t get that until we get him to Denver. There isn’t any place closer.”

“Isn’t Colorado Springs closer?”

“It’s a tie,” she said. “And I know the hospital and staff in Denver. I know who to call.” There was a shout and the basket was lifted over the lip of the cliff. The men carrying the basket to the helicopter were moving quickly and carefully. She jogged after them. “I’ll be in touch. Drive safely.”

She jumped into the helicopter behind her patient.

* * *

Her hands only shook when she was being lowered down a steep hillside or trying to get into a harness on a thin shelf. When she was with her patient, she was steady.

Terry met her in the OR. “You’re on call?” Maggie asked.

“Hell no, it’s a holiday weekend. I was having time off. I got a call that you were coming in with a critical patient you’d rescued off a cliff. I decided I could party later.”

“I didn’t rescue him,” she said, hurrying to the locker room. “I did drill a couple of burr holes in his cranium with a shop drill, however. Go prep him, Terry. We need a CT. And thanks for coming in. I need all the help I can get.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “Good to have you back.”

“I’m not back,” she said. “I’m just helping out.”

“Me, too,” Terry laughed, her short round form jogging off in the direction of the OR.

She came in for me
, Maggie thought. She was probably hosting a barbecue at her house for her grown kids and grandkids. No one would have scheduled surgeries for a holiday weekend, but there would always be emergencies. One of her favorite colleagues, Jake Morris, was the neurosurgeon on call and he joined her at the sink to scrub. “Your case, Maggie. I’ll be in there with you if you need anything.”

“I need this kid to be okay,” she said.

“Rumor is you shimmied down a mountain to get to him,” he said.

“Mostly true,” she admitted. “That was a lot more terrifying than this. I think he’s stable. Let’s go see what the CT says.”

“Did you notice his hands are scraped almost raw?” Jake asked.

“I did. I’m hoping that means he was able to lessen the impact of his fall because the kid got a bad head knock.”

* * *

Two hours later Maggie walked into the OR waiting room. Tom and Cal both jumped to their feet.

“He’s stable, Tom. He’s still unconscious and we’re not rousing him right away. We won’t know the extent of his injuries until he wakes up and has a little recovery time but I like his chances for a full recovery. There was a second small epidural hematoma and that’s all that showed up on the CT. His brain was slammed around inside his skull—there will be issues. Hopefully issues rehab can resolve. But he’s stable, his reflexes are good, he’s going to make it.”

“Thank God,” Tom said, sinking to the chair and holding his head in his hands as he wept.

“Someone’s going to take you into the recovery suite so you can see him, though he isn’t awake and he won’t be for a while. You can sit with him, if you want to. I’ll stay with him until he’s out of the woods.”

Tom looked up at Maggie, tears running down his cheeks. “How’m I ever gonna thank you for this?” he whispered hoarsely.

“That’s not even an issue,” she said. “You’re my friend. You have to know I’d do whatever possible.”

“Come with me, Mr. Canaday,” a nurse said.

Maggie was left looking at Cal.

Cal smiled at her. “Long day, Maggie?”

“The Canaday boys tried to get the best of me but I was one step ahead of them, I think.”

“I think you were.”

“I’m going to be stuck in Denver for at least a couple of days.”

“I’ll check on Sully, get you some clean clothes and a couple of overnight supplies and come back. I’ll stay with you, if you like.”

“I might be mostly at the hospital, but I’d like it if you were in Denver. If I have any time at all, I want to spend it wrapped around you.”

He grinned largely. “I don’t have any pressing appointments.”

“This,” she said. “This is who I am. I have to find a way to be this person.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve a lot of cliff scaling, it’s doable,” Cal said. “It’s just details. I’m really good with details.”

* * *

The leaves began to change in mid-September and by the second week in October, the hillsides were resplendent with color. The crossing had just about twenty weekend guests in residence, most in RVs and cabins. They were seasoned leaf peepers, all. They toted around their cameras, binoculars and wore thick sweaters and socks.

Most people regarded spring as the fresh new start but Maggie didn’t. Her favorite season had always been the fall—the color, the crisp air, the new snow on the tallest peaks. She loved it this year, more than ever before because she had started her life over, something she had wanted to do for quite a while and didn’t really understand was possible. But California Jones, as it happened, was an expert. He showed her the devil is in the details.

As they were driving back to Sully’s after a couple of days in Denver, Maggie described each case she’d handled. She was seeing patients on Wednesday and Thursday mornings in her friend Dr. Morris’s office. There were several neurosurgeons in the practice and they were more than happy to add her name to the marquee, even though their contracted agreement was still being studied by Maggie’s lawyer, one very detail-oriented California Jones. Maggie would see patients and operate from Wednesday to Friday afternoon, two to three days a week. She would be on call for emergencies one weekend a month. It was a very manageable part-time schedule, leaving her plenty of time off. But there were a couple of doctors in the office who were spending some time in small towns that served rural areas, seeing patients who didn’t have any other access to neurosurgeons. They provided services at a reduced fee scale, giving back. Maggie knew at once she’d like to be involved in that.

Filling the well.

Cal was taking a few clients besides the eminent Dr. Sullivan. A variety of simple cases—things like real estate sale and purchase, rental agreements, one prenup, a couple of wills and a couple of misdemeanor defenses. His office was Sully’s front porch or kitchen table. Now that fall was here, he went to Denver with Maggie whenever he could, which was most of the time.

He did snag a weekend to fly to Minnesota to visit his youngest sister, who agreed to speak with him. As it happened, her issues were limited mostly to addiction. Their family life and dysfunction certainly didn’t help, but she didn’t suffer from schizophrenia. In fact, Sierra had been in touch with Sedona and together they had laid down the family roots—it seemed probable Jed Jones was among that number of schizophrenics, some 63 percent, who had no family history.

“Tom told me Jackson is getting along great,” Cal told Maggie as they drove to the crossing. “You’d never know he had some whacko woman drill holes in his head out in the wild.”

“Did Tom ever get his drill back?” she asked.

“I have no idea. But Jackson is the star of PT. He’s taking a semester off from school, maybe two. He wants to get caught up. He’s still having some memory and cognitive issues. Not serious though. He’s about as infirm as someone who had a very mild stroke and it looks like full recovery is just around the corner. You do good work.”

“That’s my first and last time doing something like that,” she said.

“You were never sexier.”

“How would you know? You fainted!”

“That’s a lie!” he said. “I got a little woozy. That’s all.”

“Hey. You turned too soon,” she said. “You’re lost.”

“I’m not lost, I want to show you something,” he said. “Have you ever been out here?”

“Probably,” she said. “We’re not all that far from Sully’s. Nothing much out here.”

“Pretty though,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

“You can’t find a part of Colorado that isn’t pretty.”

“Did you know Tom was raised in this area? His dad was a rancher. Tom said when he was a kid he expected to grow into that job, but then his life took a different turn and in the end it was probably better because he said his dad had to sell the property.”

“I didn’t know all that,” she said.

He turned down a pretty, tree-lined lane and followed it until it opened up into a pasture with a big barn. He stopped the car. “Are we on private property?” she asked.