Trauma Plan, page 26
She smiled, wiggling her feet in the bubbles. California Kate with Tex-y toes. Something about that felt like firefly magic.
* * *
The air was thick, cloying, and the darkening sky rumbled with thunder. The grackles had their eyes on it.
Ugh. Riley plowed through a stubborn flock of the birds gathered at the side door of the hospital, shuddering as a feather brushed her ankle.
Stacy Paulson’s condition had deteriorated overnight. And despite a prescription for sedatives, Lorna Collins slept poorly and was having a rough time. Riley promised the nurses that she’d offer whatever she could. She pressed her numb fingers against the door’s security pad and headed for the elevators.
The ICU charge nurse greeted Riley like she was there to heave a life preserver to drowning victims—always a bad sign. And the sad scene at Stacy’s bedside confirmed it.
Lord, help this family . . .
“Stacy’s having a hard time breathing,” Mr. Collins said, watching his wife sponge their daughter’s face. “Lorna thought that if she kept her lips moist, it might help.” He flinched as a monitor alarm began a muffled but insistent dinging.
Heart rate . . . 39.
“Yes.” Riley stepped closer. “That will be a comfort.” She glanced toward the IV equipment, glad to see the morphine pump in place. Chemical comfort, too. Thank heaven.
“Father Ned was here,” Lorna said, barely above a whisper. Her eyes met Riley’s. “Everyone’s been so kind.” She winced, face paling as her daughter drew in a deep, snoring breath. “She was croupy as a baby. I think we wore out half a dozen humidifiers. But Stacy never wanted a night-light—such a brave girl.”
Brave. Riley thought of her grandfather. He’d said that about her.
Lorna reached for Stacy’s hand as the hungry breath was followed by a second and third. And then by shallower ones until there was an agonizing moment of apnea. Broken by another deep breath as the painful cycle began again.
Cheyne-Stokes breathing from the head injury . . . and impending death.
Riley ached for them all. She stepped up beside Lorna, touched her arm. The woman turned to her, eyes shimmering with tears.
“I tried . . .” Lorna’s voice dropped to a whisper. “To keep her safe. Protect her. All of her life—even before she was born. I was so careful.” Her eyes seemed to plead for Riley to understand. “Maybe I tried too hard . . . should have given her more freedom. Maybe then she wouldn’t have run away. But I was afraid. I worried . . . loved Stacy so much. I couldn’t bear the thought of something bad happening to her. A mother is supposed to protect her child.”
Riley struggled against a rush of emotion. And a truth that she’d never seen before. Lorna Collins was watching her daughter die and giving voice to the same soul-rending pain that Riley’s parents had lived with since the death of her older sister. And then lived through again when Riley was attacked.
“She . . . knows,” Riley said, voice choking. “I don’t have any doubt that your daughter knows you were trying to protect her. Just as I believe—” she swallowed—“Stacy knows you’re here now.”
Lorna held Riley’s gaze, her chin trembling. “You do?”
“I believe that with all my heart,” Riley whispered. “As a nurse and a chaplain . . . and a daughter.” She glanced at Mr. Collins, nodded. “Your being here is a huge comfort for Stacy. A blessing.”
“I . . . oh, thank you . . . thank you.” Lorna grasped Riley’s hand, tears spilling down her cheeks. She let Riley lead her to a chair, sighed as Riley settled a blanket around her shoulders. Mr. Collins pulled a second chair close and sat, his big shoulders stooped.
Stacy began another series of deep, irregular respirations, eclipsing the mechanical bleeps of the monitoring equipment.
“Now,” Riley told them, “I’m going to the cafeteria to get some soup and whatever else looks good down there. I’ll set it up in the lounge—” she pointed through the doorway—“right over there, not far. Then I’ll sit here with Stacy while you two take a break. I insist.” Her heart ached at the weariness and loving loyalty on their faces. “And after that, I’ll be here for you. For as long as you need me.”
* * *
Jack slipped into the back of the library conference room twenty minutes after the start time, surprised at the number of people who’d shown up. He hoped it was because Gretchen’s aunt was a talented caterer, but . . .
Jack hunkered down in his chair as Rob Melton entered from a door nearer the front of the room. The sergeant took a seat in the first row of chairs next to a man who looked suspiciously like the reporter who’d asked for Jack’s statement regarding Stacy Paulson. And there were several other people Jack recognized: the owner of the dress store with the recent Dumpster fire; the president of homeowners’ association; Ross Payton, the developer with the plan for a condo project; and . . . Jack squinted, trying to place the man sitting next to him. Younger, tall, and powerfully built . . . reddish hair. Bandy had pointed him out. Payton’s son, a contractor.
There was no mistaking Andrea Nichols, either. Or her obvious pleasure at the size of the turnout. She preened from behind the podium.
“Well, then . . .” Her chuckle puffed against the microphone. “I’m glad I doubled that order for the garlic shrimp skewers. What I’m seeing from here is proof positive that this community is ready to take action!” Andrea raised her arms, beckoning for a response. “Am I right, Bluffs citizens? Am I right?”
There was a smattering of applause and then enthusiastic hoots from two teenage boys, one of whom brandished the wooden skewer from his appetizer. Jack frowned, easily imagining the two of them stuffing beer cans into a cocker spaniel planter. Or . . . snatching a purse?
He clenched his hands, turned his attention back to Andrea Nichols.
“And here are just a few of our concerns.” She dangled a poster-board collage of newspaper clippings over the podium. “A fire started by a homeless person, a pregnant teenager beaten nearly to death, theft, and several counts of malicious vandalism all within two weeks’ time. Each vile act—” her finger poked the air—“can be directly linked to one single element. An atrocious blot on our beautiful community.”
“That clinic!” the teenager with the skewer shouted. The room rumbled with sudden conversation. Andrea crossed her arms, smiling.
Rob Melton stood. “Please, folks—listen,” the sergeant insisted, replacing Andrea at the microphone.
Jack’s teeth ground together. He told himself to hang back and let Rob handle it, forced himself to remember that look on Riley’s face. “When you get angry like that, it . . . worries me.” He’d felt awful about that. But . . . he thought of the boy filming Gilbert DeSoto as he burned, of Hector falling from that roof with no offer of help . . . and of the private detective they’d hired to dig into his past. Jack’s stomach churned; he wasn’t sure hanging back was an option.
* * *
Riley gathered her papers from the chapel table and slid them into her briefcase. She was going home at last. She felt drained but was glad that she’d stayed until Lorna Collins’s sister arrived. The two women seemed close, and though seeing Stacy had brought on another wrenching deluge of tears, the sisters would be a comfort for each other during the remaining vigil. Family.
Riley sighed as she remembered how deeply Lorna’s words affected her. They’d made sense of the struggles she’d had with her own family—those smothering efforts to protect her. Riley understood it better now. She hadn’t changed her mind about wanting her independence, but . . .
She smiled, thinking of how she’d do it. Tell her parents about . . . Jack. Her stomach did the dip she’d come to expect, and she glanced at her watch. He was at the clinic until eight. She could bring dinner, and . . . The dip did an encore as Riley imagined them sneaking a quick kiss when no one was looking. And then later she’d tell him she was finally going to be honest with her parents, explain to them that once she got the medical clearance, she was going to apply for a full-time position at the Alamo Grace ER. Riley would take Jack up on his offer to help her with her skills. She would make it clear to her parents that while she loved them dearly—and respected all they’d done to help her—she wasn’t moving back to Houston. She’d visit and they’d come here. Her breath snagged as she imagined them at the church in Boerne—with Jack there, too. That was still a hurdle. But it could happen. All of it. She was certain, no doubts. After such a miserable year, everything was finally feeling good.
She glanced toward the stained-glass window with the white dove and then at the cross on the chapel wall. Thank you, Father. Thank you for this beautiful blessing of hope.
Riley grabbed her briefcase and headed out the door, mentally ticking off a list of to-dos: call Kate, check with Vesta Calder, and stop by Central Market for some takeout. That rosemary grilled chicken and crusty French bread, a house salad with their incredible lemon dressing. Jack would love that.
She waved at an ER tech pushing an EKG machine and then slipped out through the exit door, mind still a whirl of plans.
The outside air was humid but no longer threatened rain. The grackles were still there, but who cared? Even those miserable doomsday birds weren’t going to spoil—
Riley’s phone buzzed in her pocket and she slid it out. Her mother. She glanced heavenward, smiling. Okay, Lord, I understand. No time like the present to make good on my promises.
“Mom,” she said, stopping outside the door. “I was going to call you. How are—?”
“Oh, thank heaven I caught you, Riley,” her mother said in a rush, the anxiety in her voice unmistakable. “I need to tell you something.”
Riley’s heart stood still. “Is it Poppy? Dad?”
“No, darling.”
“Then . . . what?”
“It has to do with that free clinic where you volunteer.”
“Mom . . .” Riley groaned, dread replaced by irritation. She turned away for privacy as a coworker passed by. “The newspapers have it all wrong about the clinic. Anything you heard—”
“He’s a murder suspect.”
What? Riley blinked. “Who?”
“That doctor. Jackson Travis.”
Riley gasped. “That’s . . . not possible.”
“I have the information right here. ‘Fredericksburg resident Jackson Travis . . . held for questioning in a grisly murder-arson claiming the life of TCU freshman—’”
Oh . . . please . . . no.
“‘Abby Parrish.’”
29
Riley had no idea how she got home. Only that she was tripping the motion sensor lights, opening door locks, disarming her security system—actions that had become routine this past year, each designed to protect her. Except now nothing felt routine . . . or safe? Her hand trembled as she locked the door behind her, thoughts staggering. Logic and reason told her to stay calm, but her mother’s words ran in an endless loop through her mind. “We felt we had to warn you . . .” Riley had trusted Jack, and he hadn’t been truthful. About Abby’s death. Or about . . . Was her mother right about that too? Please, God. Don’t let this be true.
Riley reset the security alarm and fixed a glass of iced tea. In minutes she’d settled onto the couch where only yesterday she’d been wrapped in Jack’s arms. She brought up her cell phone’s search engine, tapped in murder arson Fredericksburg Texas. And held her breath.
Instantly, Abby’s name cascaded down the small screen—paired with Jack’s.
* * *
“All I’m asking,” Jack insisted, standing beside the podium and struggling to keep anger at bay, “is to be heard.” He shot a look at Andrea Nichols, who was clutching the microphone to her jacket as if keeping an assault rifle from the hands of a terrorist.
“This is a private meeting, Dr. Travis.”
“In a public place.” Jack saw Rob Melton move a few discreet steps closer, the look on his face saying he wouldn’t intervene. Yet.
The reporter stood. “I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”
“Shut up—you don’t live here, buddy.” The angry shout from the back of the room set off a chain reaction of comments and hurled insults. Several people rose to their feet.
“He’s right. You don’t have low-life bums trying to torch your neighborhood!”
“Or exposing your children to prostitutes.”
“What’s the matter, Doc—respectable folks won’t let you touch ’em?”
Respectable? Jack’s teeth clenched, blood rising to his face. “If you’ll give me the courtesy of listening, I’ll explain . . .”
There was a bellowed curse, and a man in the second row stood so quickly that his chair tipped over. People gasped; the teens eagerly raised their cell phone cameras.
“Courtesy?” the man shouted, lumbering forward. “That’s rich. You endanger our good people and ask that we respond with courtesy?” He glanced around the room. “Ask Herb about his house being vandalized. Ask Jody Bader how he feels about someone ripping off his son’s bike.” His face reddening, the man ignored Rob’s signal to sit. “Ross Payton had his golf clubs stolen—”
“Golf clubs?” Jack glared as the reporter pressed close and ignored the fact that Rob was now giving him the cool-it look. “You’re going to stand there and moan about property—things—when half a block away people are struggling to get through the day . . . to even live?” He trembled with anger, realizing he’d somehow closed the short space between himself and the man. Close enough to smell the garlic shrimp on his breath.
“Jack.” Rob’s voice was calm behind him despite the buzzing crowd. “Hold it.”
Jack narrowed his eyes. “What kind of ‘good people’ stand around doing nothing when an old man’s burning alive?”
“Doctor, please,” Ross Payton said, stepping close behind. “Let’s not do this.”
Jack whirled, shot him a look. “Why? Afraid I might mention something about a roofer who nearly bled to death while your ‘good’ neighbors looked the other way? In fact, aren’t you having some roofing work done, Payton?” Blood pounded in his temples as the words hissed through his teeth. “I have never seen so many pathetic hypocrites. And I will not stand by while—”
Rob grabbed his arm. Jack pulled it away.
Then someone shoved Jack. Hard.
Any thought of restraint was gone.
* * *
Riley exited the Internet browser. How long had she been sitting here? Long enough that sunlight was waning. And way past the time it took to feel completely sick. She shivered, squeezed her eyes shut against the images prompted by the horrific details surrounding Abby’s death. And Jack’s undeniable connection to it.
Her mother had been right. He had been a “person of interest” in this girl’s murder, enough so that he’d been initially detained and then called in over and over for questioning.
Jackson Travis, son of popular high school football coach Hadley Travis, admits to having been under the influence of alcohol . . . was a passenger in the murder victim’s car . . . The vehicle was found torched with the young woman’s body in the trunk.
Riley hugged her arms around herself. Jack had said that Abby was a kidnapping victim. Not that he’d been with her when it happened.
Travis continues to insist that he was knocked unconscious by carjackers. Three young men wearing ski masks kidnapped the girl . . . claims he tried to flag down a car on the rural highway . . . Police are trying to locate the owner of a Toyota sedan . . .
There had been guarded statements from the Parrish family, from Jack’s mother, and from a neighbor who’d said, “He’s a good boy. But he’s having a rough time with his daddy’s illness and all . . .” Plus a quote from a Fredericksburg biergarten coworker who threw in, “Dude had a serious anger problem.”
There had been countless photos of Abby. And Jack. And one of Abby and Jack attending a picnic at the Sunshine Center, where Abby had apparently volunteered on a regular basis. Riley’s throat constricted at the memory of her morning there.
There were reports of Jack’s futile attempt to describe the alleged carjackers. A medical description of Jack’s head contusion, his mental state at the ER, and confirmation of a .07 blood alcohol result. There was conjecture that the head injury could have been self-inflicted to cover a murder committed in a drunken rage—with a sidebar containing statistics on underage drinking and violent crime and a statement from MADD Texas. And some speculation that perhaps the victim had rebuffed unwanted physical advances, that Jack had wanted more than she did from the relationship. Motive for his murderous rage. It was followed by a statement from Jack that Abby was a friend, not a girlfriend. They hadn’t fought; he’d been drinking that night because he was upset about his father. And Abby was trying to help him.
But the hardest thing to read was the report from the medical examiner. The beautiful young woman’s body had been burned beyond recognition. Her godfather, a San Antonio dentist, provided the records that confirmed her identity. Mercifully, all that happened to Abby prior to being placed in the trunk of her car would remain a mystery. It was assumed, however—because articles of clothing had been found in nearby shrubbery—that she’d been sexually assaulted. And . . . Riley struggled against a wave of nausea. A bone in Abby’s neck was fractured. An indication that she was . . . strangled.
Riley closed her eyes against the memory of her Houston assailant’s hands around her throat, then shivered at an overriding image of Jack confronting the purse snatcher—
She jumped, heart pounding, as her TV came on and the news blared. Her automatic security measure at dusk. She reached for the remote to shut it off, then stopped, recognizing the voice. Jack. At the library? She held her breath, watching.
“I won’t let you do this to me!” Jack grabbed the collar of a man, shouting at him nose to nose. “I swear, I’ll—” A police officer pulled him back. The camera bobbed and there was a disjointed pan over faces in the crowd: Andrea Nichols, that developer Mr. Payton. Then a shot from the exit, a reporter trying to get statements from folks leaving the library.
