Authors: Vicki Hinze
Staring at his image in the monitor, she silently promised,
I can’t let you out, Joe. Not yet. But I will help you and protect you. I swear, I will.
Her conscience tugged at her.
Stop it, Sara. This isn’t healthy. You can’t help him if you’re too involved. It’s unprofessional. What about doing the right thing? This is wrong and you know it. You’ve got to stop this.
It was wrong. Human, but wrong. She gave herself a two-second lecture on the value of not becoming emotionally attached—a lecture she rendered and ignored with monotonous regularity in less offensive, less guilt-inducing situations—and followed it with another lecture to squelch her physical attraction to him. In her practice, she never before had encountered this complication. Why now, when so many had so much to lose? Why him?
A metallic noise sounded behind her. She glanced back. Shank barreled up the corridor, pushing a wheeled cart filled with medications and charts. Her heavy footsteps sounded dull on the drab gray carpet. For the first time, Sara slowed down long enough to notice it was growing threadbare. How many of the patients were feeling that way, too? Worn and frayed, threadbare and hopeless? How many of the staff?
Shank stopped beside her, just outside the station desk. “How did it go with Joe this time?”
“I’m not sure,” Sara answered honestly, beginning the walk back to her office to get out of Koloski’s earshot. “I’m still on distant observation.”
“A good deal of it in the past few days, I hear.”
“A fair amount. Building trust takes time and effort.” Outside her office, Sara paused and leaned a shoulder against the door frame, smelling hot buttered popcorn. Someone at the nurses’ station had put the microwave to use. “You know, when he told me to leave his room the other day, I’m certain he was fighting the urge to keep from attacking me again.”
“If he protected you, then that’s a first.” Shank stopped the rolling cart, leaned against it, and locked the med tray closed. Looking troubled, she dropped the key into her pocket. Its long and curly red cord dangled against her hip.
“What’s wrong?” Sara asked.
“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me, Doc.” Shank shrugged. “’Course, I’m a nurse and not a doctor, so a lot doesn’t make sense to me.”
A good RN often knows a patient better than the doctor. Shank was a damn good RN, and they both knew it. “What are you talking about?”
Assuring herself she wouldn’t be overheard, Shank glanced up and then down the hallway. Not another soul was in sight, but she dropped her voice to a whisper, anyway. “Joe goes berserk when he sees white. So why lock him up in Isolation where everything is white? Other patients get violent, and we restrain them. We don’t straitjacket and isolate them. So why isolate Joe?”
Sara thought about it a long moment. But her instinctive reaction remained the same at it had been before hearing Shank’s comment. The isolation was just one more shovelful in the heap of mounting evidence that Joe belonged to Foster. Sara crossed her arms over her chest. “Who was Joe’s primary doctor before me?”
“Dr. Fontaine treated all of the PTSD patients.” Shank hesitated, clearly on the verge of saying something and silently testing the wisdom of it before mentioning it. “He’s good. I’m the first to admit it. But I don’t understand why he’s got Joe isolated in a white room.”
“After Joe attacked me, you mentioned that all of the PTSD patients react to white with rage. Is that so, or were you just upset?”
Clearly thinking about it, Shank frowned. “I was upset. Him choking you scared the hell out of me. Not all of them react violently, but some, like ADR-22—”
“Fred,” Sara corrected, identifying the one patient of hers she’d yet to run down and evaluate.
“Fred,” Shank repeated, “doesn’t. The poor man doesn’t know what planet he’s on, much less the color of things in his room.”
“What about Michael?” Sara asked.
“Of the five, I’d say he’s the least damaged. I can’t say flat out how he’d react to white. So far as I know, he’s never been isolated or exposed to it. He’s pretty good-natured, but that’s easy when you’re in denial, and he’s in major denial.”
Sara nodded her agreement. “And Ray?”
“He has reacted like Joe at times, though not consistently. But white sheets drive him right over the edge. Only made that mistake once before I figured it out.”
“Did you note it in the chart?”
“Of course.”
So Shank’s warnings had been removed. Fontaine’s peacock-blue notes swam through Sara’s mind. Obviously, he’d elected not to include the warnings in his edited version. What else had he left out?
Shank chewed on her lower lip. “You know, Doc, I’m wondering if a lot of Ray’s problems aren’t actually with his medications.”
“That’s a distinct possibility.” Shank’s comment niggled at something in Sara, and she let her mind drift from patient to patient, mentally reviewing their charts and comparing them with what she’d actually seen and observed.
The truth hit her like a sledge. In both the charts and the patients—with the possible exception of Joe—what she’d seen and observed were huge inconsistencies between the symptoms and behavioral patterns of PTSD patients and Braxton’s PTSD patients. Huge inconsistencies.
Shank reclaimed Sara’s attention. “And Lou, bless his soul, is gone. Well, his mind is gone,” Shank amended. “Sad to see a thing like that happen.”
It was sad. Sara hated to agree with Shank’s evaluations, but she couldn’t disagree, and she was more convinced than ever that Joe
had
to be Foster’s operative. He could be isolated due to the outbursts of rage. But it could also be due to those worrisome-to-Foster “lucid moments.” Time would tell.
“I wrote some new orders in Joe’s chart,” Sara said. “Will you implement them as soon as possible?”
“Sure.” Shank leaned a hip against the med cart. “What are they?”
“Nothing major. I want to avoid sedation.” All of her patients were too heavily sedated. She couldn’t treat them if they were kept in drug-induced stupors. Had that been deliberate to keep them quiet? Or was it just easier on Fabulous Fontaine? “I’m including relaxation exercises, meditation, and hot baths in Joe’s physical therapy,” she told Shank. “I want music in his isolation room—Celtic music.” Soft and soothing. “And I’d like his diet loaded with foods like warm turkey, cream-based soups, and baked potatoes.”
Shank looked surprised, but not opposed. “Are these foods significant?”
“Indirectly. They’re significant to producing the lethargy I want him to feel.”
“I don’t get it.” Shank scratched her head. “Is this some new ideology?”
“Actually, it stems from an old tradition.” Sara hiked her brows. “Think back to last Thanksgiving. How did you feel after you ate your feast?”
“Lethargic.” A slow smile spread over Shank’s stern face. “You know, Doc. I think you might just be good for the PTSD patients. Especially Joe.”
She’d better be. If he proved to be Foster’s operative and she failed, he was dead. More accurately, he was dead, Lisa and Brenda were in deep trouble, and Sara’s private-practice patients were screwed because she’d be out of a license and in deep trouble, too.
Will I be canceled?
The moment you become a risk, yes, you will.
Sara bristled. Why hadn’t she asked Foster what specifically would have him classifying her as a risk?
Maybe she hadn’t asked because that was the one question she feared he would answer.
Unsalvageable.
Deep trouble? She grimaced. Steeled herself. She’d better follow the advice she had given Foster, and call a spade a spade. She’d be dead.
Shank waited.
When the elevator door closed with Sara inside it, Shank reached for the phone, depressed the secure-line button, and then dialed a number she had long since committed to memory.
A man answered on the first ring. “Foster.”
Popping the top on a canned cola, she paused to tuck her pencil behind her ear and waited until the drink stopped fizzing to take a sip. “I’m not sure this was a good idea, Colonel. Three days ago, she damn near got killed.” Shank’s mouth went stone-dry. Maybe Foster wanted Sara dead.
“How?”
“Patient attack. ADR-30—Joe, she calls him—choked her.”
“Is she all right?”
Shank frowned into the receiver at his clinical tone. She should be used to Foster’s detaching to assess damages by now, but she wasn’t, and she resented it. Couldn’t he bend his professional code of conduct enough to even pretend a mild concern? She straightened a stack of orders Beth needed to key into the computer when she returned from lunch. “She hasn’t complained, but her throat is bruised, and it has to be sore because she sounds as raspy as a smoke-inhalation victim.”
“And Fontaine’s reaction?”
“As expected. He’s riding her hard, but she’s handling him, too. She’s tough. I’ll give her that. But she doesn’t know spit about the military. Lucky for us, she blew it with me and not one of the unfriendlies.”
“She was briefed.” Resenting her unspoken reprimand, Foster’s tone turned crisp. “What did Fontaine do to her?”
“He caused the incident, so naturally he’s been mum about acknowledging one occurred. I meant, he’s riding her hard overall.”
“How did he cause the attack?”
“He sent her into Isolation wearing a white lab coat. With Joe, that’s a known trigger for episodes of rage.” Shank had to work at it to keep her disdain from her voice. It was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Traditionally, as soon as Foster detected the first trace of emotion, he quit listening.
“Interesting.” Foster paused, then asked, “Does she realize the act was intentional?”
“Oh, yes, sir. She realized it right away and pegged Fontaine as the source.”
“Has she confronted him, then?”
“Not yet.” Shank thought about it, took a swig from the can of cola, then set it down on her desk. “She wanted to, but she held back.” The can formed a wet ring on the desktop. Shank swiped at it with her hand. “I’m not sure why.”
“No problem. I know why.”
How could he know? “Dr. West has been a little busy, sir. Her focus has been
. . .
splintered.”
“In what way?”
Shank dropped her gaze to the desktop, stared blindly at a chip in its white Formica, and grimaced. “Dr. Fontaine tried to kill Ray—er, ADR-36—with 70/30 insulin. If Dr. West hadn’t intervened, he would have succeeded.”
“Very interesting.”
“I thought so, sir.” Interesting and scary. Shank’s hand grew sweat-slick against the receiver. It always did, when talking to Foster. He wanted that star on his shoulder, and nothing standing between him and it would remain standing. With his power, that would scare the sandals off the Apostles, much less her.
“She’s got him on the run.” Foster sounded as thrilled as a deer in rut picking up on a doe’s scent. “Is she playing it by the book?”
“It’s too soon to say, sir.” Shank grimaced at the pencil holder, tapped it with her fingertip, and withheld a threatening sigh. “So far she is, but she hasn’t yet filed the incident report.”
“When she does, e-mail me a copy.”
What made him so certain she would file it? “Yes, sir.” Shank hated to ask, but she had to know. After all, she’d warned Sara not to do anything to antagonize Fontaine. “And if she elects not to file the report?”
“She’ll file the report. It’s mandatory.”
“But—”
“She will, Captain,” Foster said sharply. “Sara West might delay and agonize over it, but eventually she’ll file the incident report.”
Shank licked at her dry lips. “Sir, I don’t mean any disrespect, but Dr. Fontaine is already making her miserable. She’s got to know if she files that report, he’ll only get worse.”
“She knows,” Foster said. “But she can’t not file the report.”
He sounded so certain. Shank couldn’t see the reason. “May I ask why?”
“Sara West does what in her mind is the right thing.”
“Always?”
“For the past five years, yes. I’d say that makes her behavior predictable.”
So would Shank. “Yes, sir.” She shouldn’t be surprised. Actually, she should have expected he’d know precisely what Sara West would or wouldn’t do. Foster left as little as possible to chance in every situation that affected his career. He always had. For that tunnel vision and single-mindedness, Shank both respected and hated him.
Foster shifted topics. “Any signs of attachment surfacing in our patient?”