Authors: Vicki Hinze
“According to the Uniform Code of Military Justice,” she added, “the persons responsible could do time in Leavenworth and lose their pensions. That would be extremely unfortunate.”
His jaw went slack. Before he could bellow at her, Sara left his office and, feeling plenty angry herself, slammed the door. “Chew on that, you sorry bastard.”
Martha sat at her desk, looking stunned and more than a little frightened. Her finger slid off the intercom button. In the dead-silent office, it clicked loudly.
Sara spared her a glare, then marched out of the office and down the hallway. She’d probably said too much and gone too far. The penalties for what he’d done were severe, but for what she’d done, they could be catastrophic. Fontaine couldn’t kick her out of Braxton, but he could slap her with conduct unbecoming, insubordination, disrespect to a superior officer, refusing to obey a direct order, and only God knew what else he could find in the Uniform Code of Military Justice. She hadn’t yet read the whole thing. But he had deserved everything he’d gotten, and then some.
Turning down a deserted corridor, she thought of Ray and muttered. How could Fontaine sleep at night? How could he meet his own eyes in the mirror? He hadn’t shown so much as a speck of remorse, regret, or shame. Only pride. Ray’s life or Fontaine’s pride—that’s what he’d been asking her to choose between protecting. And he had seemed honestly surprised that she had chosen Ray’s life. In choosing between pride and a life, where was the challenge?
There wasn’t any challenge, or any dilemma.
She stopped and leaned back against the wall, hoping her heart rate slowed down before her whole chest exploded. Fontaine beat all she’d ever seen. God, but she despised egomaniacs. How could he show no remorse? He’d made a life-threatening error. Didn’t he place any value on Ray’s life, or on anyone else’s? Could he really only be concerned with his own reputation? And what fool would put such a self-centered jerk in charge of anything—much less Braxton? The whole place was one huge security risk.
That truth smacked her like an unexpected blow to the stomach. All of Braxton
was
a security risk. With the military, exactly what did that mean?
Sequestered.
Will I be canceled?
The moment you become a risk. Yes, you will.
She stared down the empty hall, at the white walls and worn tracks in the gray carpet, and the truth settled over her like a shroud. She was in a place that didn’t exist, treating patients that had been sequestered. All of Braxton
was
a
risk.
And that worrisome niggle, warning that her leaving Braxton was going to be a challenge, sharpened to full-fledged fear.
Michael, Keith, Kevin, Adam.
He tested each of the names, but none struck a chord. Rolling over on the floor, he switched from crunches to push-ups. He needed to exercise more. He was getting soft, being locked up in here.
After a couple of sets, he stood up, then began running in place. He closed his eyes, visualized the sun, the fresh smell of the air after a summer shower, the tickle of the wind breezing over his heated skin. As he ran, he let his mind wander, and it wandered to Sara. He might be a damn fool, but he trusted her. She kept coming back, watching him. But she wasn’t like the enemy with its camera. The enemy watched him. Sara watched over him.
A vision flitted through his mind. Him talking with a man in uniform who seemed familiar, like a friend or a well-known associate. “Sara West called again,” he heard himself say. “Third time this morning.”
The familiar man clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Three times?”
The paddles of a ceiling fan clopped overhead. He could see them, but not his own clothes. Was he wearing a uniform, too? “She’s definitely persistent.”
“She is that,” the familiar man said. “I’ll tell you one thing. If I ever get into a serious jam, I want her on my side, bailing me out.”
He felt himself smile. “So she’s finally wearing down the opposition.”
“Hell, no.” The familiar man denied it. “But she never forgets, and she never gives up. Sara West just keeps on coming.”
The vision disappeared.
Having worked up a respectable sweat, he switched from running in place to cool-down exercises. If he could trust the vision, he hadn’t known Sara West before coming here, but he had known of her. His instincts on that had been right. And whoever the familiar man was, he’d been right, too. Even threatened and nearly choked to death, Sara West didn’t give up, and she did just keep on coming.
The elevator door slid open.
Shank stood waiting and, gauging by her expression, the news wasn’t good. “What’s wrong?” Sara stepped out. “Is it Ray?”
“Ray’s fine.” Shank straightened Sara’s name badge. “William, on the other hand, is pissed to the gills. Give him a wide berth tonight.”
Sara had encountered William fairly often. The second floor, night-shift RN was a strapping man in his late twenties with rough-hewn features, a booming voice, and a disposition as frosty as everyone else’s around here. The difference with William rested in his eyes. He’d hated Sara on sight. According to Shank, he and Fontaine were staunch allies, so of course William would. At least the man wasn’t a hypocrite. He made no effort to conceal his feelings, and Sara respected that, even if it made a tense environment even more intense. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Fontaine deleted the order for the 70/30 insulin in Ray’s chart.”
“What?” Surprise streaked up Sara’s spine. “He can’t do that.”
“He can, and did. Hold still.” Shank unclipped Sara’s name badge, bent something on it, and then cupped it in her hand. “I told you. Fontaine has all the clout at Braxton.”
“But that makes it look as if William injected Ray with the 70/30 without a scrip.” No prescription, no order. No order, and no Fontaine involvement in the incident. Sara thought she might just be sick.
“Yeah, it does.” Shank nodded. “Which is why William has just been demoted to lieutenant and fined a month’s pay.”
“This is absurd.” Sara swiped at her head with her hand. “It’s outrageous.”
“It’s typical.” Shank shrugged, snapping the clip of Sara’s badge with her thumbnail. “Someone had to take the fall, and it damn sure wasn’t going to be Fontaine. It never is.” She leaned closer, her gaze burning into Sara’s. “Understand? It
never
is.”
Fontaine had screwed up before. From the intensity in Shank’s eyes, often. And he’d never accepted responsibility.
Maybe Foster could fix this.
Somebody
had to fix it. Even if Fontaine stopped short and required surgery to get William’s nose out of his backside, William shouldn’t be penalized for Fontaine’s mistake.
Shank rubbed at her forehead and dropped her keys into her pocket. They jangled. “I warned you not to antagonize him, Doc.”
Sara walked past two men in the hallway, tripped over the edge of the scale against the wall, and stumbled to her knees. Pain streaked up her thigh.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Sara slapped her hand against the rough wall for balance and hauled herself to her feet. “No, damn it, I’m not fine. I’m ticked.” She rubbed at her stinging kneecap. “Right is right, and this is wrong, Shank. Another mistake like that one, and we’re talking about a dead patient and us notifying next of kin.”
Shank’s face paled.
“What? Did I say something wrong?” Sara frowned. “Don’t we notify next of kin?” In a military installation, who knew how many layers of red tape had been inserted into the process?
Regret and remorse burned in the depths of Shank’s eyes. She fidgeted with her keys. Her hand wasn’t steady. “No. Actually, we don’t.”
“Well, why not?” Sara couldn’t figure it. Of all her medical duties, she found losing a patient most difficult. But notifying the family ranked a close second. She hated both with passion and conviction.
No answer.
Sara held off a sigh by the skin of her teeth. “Shank, there are two hundred twenty-seven patients in this facility. Are you trying to tell me that none of them—not one of them—has a next of kin? Because if so, I don’t believe it.”
Shank slid Sara a “sooner or later you’ll figure it out” look that had the little hairs on her neck standing on edge. She kept forgetting that this was Braxton. Military. High-risk security. “Some of these men must have families. So if we lose one, why don’t we notify them?”
Orderlies wheeled two men down the hallway on gurneys. When they passed, Shank still didn’t look Sara’s way, but she did answer. “I couldn’t say.”
The elevator bell chimed, and the clanking of the gurney wheels soon faded. “I know their identities are secret,” Sara whispered, “but you’re telling me something special about this, aren’t you? It isn’t just that some cleric notifies them.”
“No.” The thumbnail clicking of the name-badge clip grew more rapid. “No chaplain calls on them.”
“Well?”
Shank sighed and stared at the wall.
“Whatever your message is, I’m not getting it.” Frustration etched Sara’s tone, and she clasped Shank’s upper arm. “Just tell me.”
Shank stared at Sara’s fingers, avoiding her gaze. “Nothing to tell, Doc.”
There was something to tell. There was plenty to tell. “Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
That was the biggest something of a nothing Sara had ever heard in her life.
David. Shadow Watchers. Top Secret information at risk.
Butterflies swarmed in Sara’s stomach. “Shank, do the families of these people know the patients are here?”
Shank looked at her then, her eyes shiny and wet and overly bright. A muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Braxton doesn’t receive visitors.”
“Ever?”
Surprise sent Sara’s pulses racing.
“Ever.” Shank dropped her keys back into her pocket and fingered them. They clinked together. “Considering everything, I’d say that makes the possibility of their families knowing anything highly unlikely, wouldn’t you?”
Sara answered that question with one of her own. “Well, where
do
the families believe these men are?”
“Think about it.” Shank swallowed hard and shoved Sara’s badge into her hand. “Just
. . .
think about it.”
Unsalvageable.
The word popped into Sara’s mind and stayed. They report the men dead and then sequester them at Braxton? She shuddered, rebelling against going to the dark place her thoughts were taking her. No. No, not even the red-tape-loving military would do something that god-awful. Would it? “Shank, are you telling me—”
“I’m not telling you anything.” Shank lifted her chin, defiant. “I’m just saying you might want to check it out.”
Shank walked away, and Sara stared at her retreating back.
Check it out?
How did she do that?
First Foster and now Shank. They thought Sara could just snap her fingers and find a way to do any—She rolled her gaze, and it lit on the computer.
It’s standard operating procedure at Braxton. On admittance, patients are assigned a number and, thereafter, they’re addressed only by it.
Foster had told her about this. The patients had permanent admission records. The military definitely kept tabs on who was where—secret assignments, or not. Sara worried her lip with her teeth. Accessing those records would be a violation of the Privacy Act and probably a fistful of military regulations. She’d be fined, demoted, and whatever else Fontaine could manage to destroy her reputation and career. Yet this patient information could be a key to what happened to them and to David, and Sara needed that key to help Brenda and Lisa, Joe, and her other patients. And, damn it, their families deserved the truth, too.
She thought it over, weighed the pros and cons, the risks and potential rewards, and decided. The scales tipped heavily toward the cons, but she still had to take the risks. She couldn’t
not
take the risks. Outside of Braxton, the families of 227 patients had no idea what was happening to people they loved. Inside Braxton, 227 patients were surviving without the comfort of their families.
Loving her family, craving one of her own, and imagining them in this situation stomped her Achilles’ heel. Hard.
Tapping into the computer held a firm bottom line. Sara would be doing the wrong thing, but for the right reason. The families and her patients needed each other. She had to turn every stone to help them. Not because of Foster. Well, indirectly due to Foster. He’d wanted her to know this—about the records. He’d anticipated she would need the information, and he’d given her the means to get it—without being overt, of course. Foster never did anything overt. But about one thing, he had been right.