Code Triage (6 page)

She took another deep breath, slowed to a walk, and squared her shoulders. Kept her eyes on the doors to the ER and calmly tried to recall the only photo she’d seen of Samantha Gordon. Online, in an old San Francisco County newsletter, an employee picnic. A fuzzy black-and-white shot of her playing beach volleyball: wavy blonde hair, big sunglasses, square jaw, compact body, muscular calves . . . nothing memorable. Except that she’d taken Nick. That was unforgettable. And left Leigh slogging through a depression as dark, thick, and visceral as a gastric bleed before it threw her into a lethal backdraft of searing anger that frightened her soul-deep. Made her stop praying, stuff her clothes in a suitcase, load her horse in a trailer, and run. But now, nine months later, she was better; she could handle it. “Uncomfortable” or not.

Leigh crossed the last few yards of parking lot and pushed the coded buttons to open the ambulance bay doors, stepping back as they whooshed open, and walked into her ER. She heard the familiar beeps and whirs of monitoring equipment, the far-off whine of a cast cutter, smelled the scents of iodine and surgical soap and someone’s breakfast of day-old pizza. The same, always.

She was a physician who’d taken an oath to heal, and there were patients to see and medical decisions to be made. She was a seasoned professional who had handled plenty of tough things before. Difficult people. This was her turf, same as Nick’s Mission District neighborhoods were his. She breathed in through her nose, exhaled slowly, and forced a smile as she passed Cappy Thomas in the hallway.
Nothing different about today.

Except that in a hospital where she’d saved dozens of lives, she was about to face the one person that she’d killed over and over in her nightmares.

Chapter Four

Sam pulled a sheaf of papers from her briefcase, scanned the top few pages, and then glanced up at Kristi Johnson. “I see that you’ve been busy since we last met. You’ve been working, attended Narcotics Anonymous support meetings, taken some church-sponsored parenting classes?”

“Everything I promised. All of it. You can ask Officer Nick if you don’t believe me.” Kristi peered over the top of her sleeping daughter’s head. She lifted her chin and tightened her arms protectively around her child.

Sam wasn’t surprised by the look in the young mother’s eyes; she’d seen it with parents countless times before—defensive, frightened, hostile sometimes. It came with the territory. In her years with Child Crisis, she’d received threatening phone calls, had her county car vandalized, and been called every vile name in the book. Didn’t matter. Didn’t scare her. Sam’s job was to protect children, the way she wished someone had protected her when she was Abby Johnson’s age. Bottom line: she did whatever she had to do to get results. At everything. Professional and personal.

“I did talk with Officer Stathos.” Sam thought of him, his fierce determination to protect his city, his “people,” so much like SFPD’s motto:
Gold in peace, iron in war
. Nick Stathos, same as Sam, had seen too much war in his life; he deserved some golden peace. So did she.

“You certainly have an advocate in him, Kristi.” She met the mother’s gaze. “And in me, too. Please believe that. It’s my intention to keep children with their parents. As long as it’s a safe and loving environment. I understand how difficult it is to raise a child alone. I’m a single mother too.” She reached into a side pocket of her briefcase and produced a snapshot, brushing her fingertip across its surface. The worn image of a chubby two-year-old wearing her uncle’s police hat. “This is my Elisa.”

She handed it to Kristi, the same way she’d done with countless other mothers before. Except that these days, these past months since Toby’s death, she thought of Nick whenever she did that. Of Nick taking Elisa from her arms at the funeral when Sam’s knees gave way and she sank down beside Toby’s flag-draped casket, her sobs mixing with the sad drone of bagpipes. And those other times, in the painful gray aftermath, when she sat, numb, in her brother’s lonely house and Nick kept her company. He put aside his own grief to make Elisa giggle, carried her on his shoulders, bought her a balloon at the zoo.
Then awakened beside me in bed.

But now, his guilt, his distance, the pain in his eyes . . . She glanced toward the doorway, at staff in scrubs in the distance. And at the female doctor in a white coat.
She’s divorcing him. I can wait another week.

“She’s cute,” Kristi said, the wariness in her eyes receding slightly. “When Abby was that age, her daddy took us to Disneyland, and . . .” She glanced down.

Sam lifted a page of her report, the rustling sound deafening in the awkward silence. “The restraining order is still in effect against Kurt Denton.”

“I haven’t seen him. I swear.”

Sam pulled her fingers through her hair, still surprised at the feel of the short tufts. “Having him in your home, around the children, is not an option. Having him deal methamphetamines out of that apartment, bringing strangers of all kinds into contact with those children—” she fought a shudder, ugly, shadowy memories of her own childhood trying to intrude again—“
cannot
happen. If I have even the smallest suspicion that it is—”

“It’s not!” Kristie blurted, causing Abby to open her eyes and whimper. She shushed her gently. “I swear. And I’m clean; test me. Go ahead. Test me.”

Sam smiled grimly. “They already did. And you are.” She spread her hands on top of the papers. “You’ve had no contact with Kurt Denton?”

Kristi kissed her daughter’s temple, then tucked the stuffed pony under the gurney sheet. “No. He’s gone. I don’t even know where.” She raised her eyes to Sam’s again. “I’m trying, Miss Gordon. I’m trying every day, with everything I have, to make this work. To be a good mother, and . . .” Her voice broke, tears welling. “Last night was a horrible mistake. My girlfriend was supposed to be there. She called me just before you came, to explain. She was sick and left a message on my cell phone, but I didn’t get it. Because I ran out of minutes. I don’t have a credit card, and . . .”

“You had to heat your apartment with a camp stove,” Sam added. It wasn’t the first time she’d heard something like that. It wouldn’t be the last. But excuses didn’t cut it.

“I have the money now.” Kristi lifted her chin. “My girlfriend’s coming to get my check. She’ll have my power turned back on. And buy me a phone card. This won’t happen again.”

“It can’t, Kristi. And even with your recent good efforts—your work record, the clean drug tests, parenting classes—I can’t promise what Child Crisis will decide. Your son remains in danger. And I still have to talk with Dr. Stathos.”

Kristi’s eyes darted toward the doorway and Sam turned. Nick leaned against the doorframe, black hair tousled, beard growth even more prominent, faint shadows under his eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, summoning a small smile for Kristi. His gaze returned to Sam, and she was struck again by the pain in his eyes—and something that looked impossibly like fear. It made her want to run to him, hold him, offer the comfort he’d given her so many months ago. It made her want . . .
so much more.
He nodded. “I’m leaving, I guess.”

She guessed that his wife had asked him to.

“Unless you need me for anything?” He raised his brows.

Don’t ask that.
“No.” She glanced at the young mother. “I’ve told Kristi that we talked. Temporary decisions will be made when she’s ready for discharge. And she knows that I still need to talk with Dr. Stathos regarding her son.” She could feel Nick’s tension even before she turned to look at him.

“Well . . . okay.” His lips pressed together for a moment. “I’ll check with you later, then.”

“Good.”

As she watched him walk away, Kristi spoke. “My doctor’s last name is Stathos. Is she his wife?”

“Yes,” Sam said, watching the white coat in the distance.
Until next Friday.

+++

Riley, stomach rumbling, waited impatiently for the hospital elevator and then smiled when the doors opened to reveal Caroline Evers. She hadn’t had many opportunities to talk with Leigh’s half sister. Although, seeing the lab tech’s sullen expression, she wasn’t entirely sure they’d find enough conversation to fill the short ride to the basement.

“Hi,” she said, stepping onto the otherwise-vacant car. “Are you headed down to the cafeteria too?”

“Already ate.” Caroline’s eyes, darkly lashed in contrast to her hair, were the color of gathering storm clouds. And empty somehow, sad. Riley thought of the few things Leigh had relayed about her sister’s stay at the treatment facility and their recent move back to Leigh’s home. A house now full of packing boxes. A lot of change in such a short time.
I know how that feels.

“I brought food from home,” Caroline added, her expression softening a bit. “Trust me, Nick Stathos lives to feed people. And still buys like he’s doing it for his restaurant. He stuffed that freezer with meals.” She glanced away, but not before Riley saw the sadness in her eyes. “Before he moved out.”

“I met him today.” Riley kept her voice casual. “He helped us out in the ER. Belligerent visitor. Your brother-in-law’s quite a mediator.”

“Good thing, I guess.” Caroline’s lovely mouth twisted into a pained grimace. “I’m sure you heard about the situation he’s falling into today.”

Riley kept silent. Listening was her job these days.

Caroline gathered her long hair into one hand at the back of her head. “How’d you like to
mediate
between your wife and your mistress in the middle of a jam-packed emergency department?” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t know who to place bets on, my big sister or that sorry home wrecker, Samantha Gordon.”

The Child Crisis investigator?

“Besides—” the empty look returned to Caroline’s eyes—“it looks like I’m going to have to give up on them. Whatever happens, happens.” She stepped through the doors, then glanced back at Riley. “Aren’t you coming?”

“I . . . forgot something,” Riley hedged. “I’d better go back.”

She leaned against the elevator wall, watching the doors close over one last glimpse of Leigh’s sister. She wondered if there was even a small chance she could convince her to come to a Faith QD meeting one morning before her shift. That young woman needed to fill her emptiness with something solid.

She started to push the floor button with her left hand, then frowned and edged closer, pulling her right index finger from the sling and pushing it against the button. No sensation, dull as a block of wood. Once the skilled hand of a working trauma nurse, now a teacher’s pointer against a blackboard. Riley sucked in her breath, pushed harder, and the button lit.

The elevator opened on the first floor and she stepped forward, nearly bumping into a young man hurrying aboard. Slight in build, shoulder-length brown hair, patch of a beard below his lower lip. Dressed in navy blue scrubs and a shiny gold 49ers jacket. His face was dotted with perspiration. “Oops, sorry ’bout that,” he said after stepping out of her way. “I’m . . . late.” He offered her a hasty, apologetic smile. Then sniffed and rubbed a jacket cuff across his nose. “I’m new here.”

“Not a problem,” she said, reaching out to hold the door as she exited. She smiled. “And welcome to Golden Gate Mercy. It’s a good place to work.”

“Yeah. Um . . . can you tell me which floor is pediatrics?”

“Sure,” she said. “Second floor, north.”

“Thanks.”

Riley headed down the corridor toward the ER, ignoring her growling stomach. If Leigh needed her, even just to sit quietly by, she’d be there. It wasn’t trauma nursing. But it was what she had to offer right now. And she needed to feel useful again.

+++

Nick slid his key into the lock, heard the click of the dead bolt, then turned to peer down the Richmond District block—
our block
. Rows of mismatched homes, mostly Victorians, some lovingly restored with fresh paint the colors of sherbets, leaded-glass windows, shingled turrets; some with sagging porches and peeling paint; most with wrought-iron entry doors. Trees rising from sidewalks; shrubs in planters hugged close to foundations; window boxes filled with purple bougainvillea, butter yellow chrysanthemums, and trailing orange nasturtiums. He cocked his head, taking in the timeless blend of sounds that was the voice of this neighborhood: shouts of children at play, pigeons on the wires overhead, honks, and the distant hum of buses moving along the crisscross tangle of electrical lines. Farther out . . . gulls, foghorns, and the faint whoosh of the ocean.

He drew in a breath of crisp, sea-scented air and peered farther down the steep slope of cracked asphalt where—when the fog rolled away—there was a barest glimpse of the majestic Golden Gate Bridge. Rising from its piers in the bay between huge towers, a breath-catching span of vermilion suspended over the ocean with scalloped cables like . . . frosting on a wedding cake. He remembered Leigh’s words:
“We don’t need a wedding cake, Nick. We have the Golden Gate . . . every morning and every night.”
And now she was at the hospital with Sam, while he was cleaning his things out of their house. He turned as a familiar voice called out to him.