Rescue Team (22 page)

“I hear dogs. Where are you?”

“K9 meeting. I’m filling in with Hershey. Helping Jenna get ready for . . .” Wes seemed to hesitate. “Training.”

“Hiding or searching?”

“Huh?”

Kate smiled. “That’s what Dylan said when he explained the K9 demonstration out at your parents’ ranch, remember? He asked me whether I’d be hiding or searching.”

“Ah, right.” She heard a warbling whine that had to have come from Hershey. “I should go. But I want you to think about something.”

She shifted, floral tissue rustling. “What?”

“Thanksgiving. It’s next week. Smoked turkey this time, probably hickory. Mom’s already shelling pecans for pie. I’ve been the potato man since I was eleven. Peeling duty, as long as I don’t carve on the barn. My sister and her family will be at the in-laws’ this year, but the Braxton ladies are coming. Amelia isn’t supposed to travel, so they’d be alone. Which means we can expect Nancy Rae in a booster chair and that Pilgrim hat.”

Kate laughed. “It sounds like you’ll be having a full day.”

“Always. Dylan’s captain of the annual pasture football game. He recruits every able-bodied person. General warning: there have been cows in that grass. We have Team Tanner shirts in all sizes. So . . . ?”

Her throat squeezed. “You’re inviting me?”

“Yes. Unless you changed your mind about going to California.”

“No.” She closed her eyes against the memory of her father in this room.

“You aren’t working that day.”

Kate glanced toward the muddy windows. “You’re inviting me like you invited the Braxtons. Because I’m alone.”

“I’m inviting you . . . just because.” Wes sighed against her ear. “I want you there, Kate. You. With me.”

“Oh.” The thieving cupid made a grab for her heart.

“Think about it?”

“I will,” Kate promised.

“Great.” Wes’s good-bye was smothered by Hershey’s eager whine.

Kate disconnected, once again catching the scent of cinnamon on her fingers. She smiled. Not the birthday-cake scent of her ballerina sweet peas, but still . . .

“You. With me.”
She cradled the autumn bouquet in her arms
and let herself imagine wearing one of those football jerseys. And spending a day with the Tanners, good people who gathered family and friends around their table and joined hands, giving thanks for blessings.

Her throat tightened at the memory of that other time. Her hands linked with Wes’s and her dad’s. The love in Paul Tanner’s voice as he spoke of their expected grandchild and the wistfulness in her father’s when he said, “
I’d love to have grandchildren.”
Kate had taken that from him. No blessing there. If her father knew the truth, would he still want . . .
“a chance to be part of your life
”
? For that matter—she shivered, rustling the tissue again—how eager would Wes be to see her in a Tanner football jersey?

No. Kate sat upright, put both feet squarely on the wood floor. She wasn’t going down that remorseful path any more than she was going to hit the greenbelt jogging trail before it was safe. The only truth that mattered now was that she was starting a new life. Today had proven it. She had flowers in her arms, an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner, and—Kate smiled at Lauren’s words—
“an official ‘attagirl’”
from the Austin Grace CNO. As well as a nod from the chair of the board of directors. Tomorrow Kate would have sparkling-clean windows, the mud washed away, starting fresh. And if Evelyn predicted correctly, maybe even some good press for her department. Everything was finally looking up.

-  +  -

Judith peered through her reading glasses and scrolled down the list of e-mails again: reverse mortgage information, a discounted cruise vacation, free muffins at Mimi’s, and a fourth “final notice” that she’d inherited millions from a stranger in Nigeria. All typical mishmash aimed at a fiftysomething widow. Except for the
cute animal video forwarded from her daughter in San Antonio—penguin babies. But nothing at all from Trista Forrester.

Nothing . . .
Only that read receipt last week for the e-mail that Judith sent with the shots she’d snapped of Harley at the hospital. Including one that caught a rare, precious smile from the tiny girl. Trista had received the photos, yet there had been no response. Judith had planned to send the photos she’d taken of the Barton Creek trail too, along with information on activities at the park. But maybe she should wait. . . .

She reached for her flowered Spode teacup, swiped her other palm across a moisture ring on the cherrywood desk. She’d finally stopped shivering yesterday; Lauren said it was an expected reaction from the adrenaline rush during her effort to save Mr. Beck. But her fingers trembled again as the image of his face returned: gray, eyes vacant, froth on his lips—lying still as death on the bathroom floor only moments after she’d pleaded his case to the ER clerk.

Judith gripped her cup, took a deep swallow of the honeyed brew, and made herself recall Harley’s smile instead. Innocent, trusting. A life beginning. She looked at a silver-framed photo on her desk of her husband holding their daughter when she was near the same age.

Trista was clearly distressed the last time Judith saw her. The night her father signed out AMA. And she hadn’t been back. It was troubling. There was no phone listing for a Trista Forrester; she’d checked. But this morning when Judith helped in the mail room, there had been a card marked for forwarding to Trista’s father.
Blue Meadow Way.
She couldn’t remember the house number, but she knew she’d recognize that Dodge sedan Trista drove. Crumpled rear quarter panel and an old gubernatorial campaign sticker on
the bumper. Would there be any harm in just driving by? And taking a little something for the baby?

Judith made herself stop, get back to what she’d been doing when she let e-mail interrupt her. She opened the medical book she’d borrowed from the library, scanned the notes she’d made in the spiral pad that she kept in her uniform pocket. Then she closed her e-mail screen and brought up the Word file. She was nearly finished. And in the long run, this part of her volunteer work was even more important than what she’d tried to do for Mr. Beck.

She took a slow breath, remembering what she’d said to Wes Tanner the day that baby died:
“If more folks took the responsibility to help where they could, this would be a healthier community—and a kinder world.”

Judith felt the truth of that clear through to the marrow of her bones.

“I
T COULDN’T BE WORSE,
L
AUREN,”
Kate told her, expression anxious as she stared at the
Statesman’
s editorial page on her digital tablet. She lowered her voice as visitors passed by the hospital gazebo. “Not only does it condemn our handling of the Beck case, but it compares it—apples to apples—with what happened to Baby Doe.” She tugged at her bangs. “Did you see how many people have shared this on Twitter and Facebook? This horrible person has a cult following.”

“Mr. Beck’s stable after his stent placement,” Lauren offered like an eye-watering whiff of smelling salts. She hated to see Kate so distraught. That she was here at the hospital on a Saturday was proof of her level of concern. “His wife brought huge boxes of Lammes chocolates. For the ER, too—you’re eating one now.”

Kate lowered the half-nibbled Longhorn cluster. “She hasn’t seen this letter yet. She’ll be throwing pralines at our heads. While
she’s phoning a cutthroat attorney.” She traced her finger down the screen. “I quote: ‘Insensitive neglect that required a hospital volunteer to initiate resuscitation for a cardiac victim. An effort that took place on a lavatory floor, the exact location where a night custodian recently discovered an abandoned newborn. The infant boy who subsequently died. Both this heart patient and the laboring young mother waited, suffered, worsened—unnoticed and unattended. Where was the professional staff in each of these instances? Where was their compassion? Who is to blame?’”

Lauren groaned with empathy. “Warm fuzzies from administration, followed immediately by a public lashing in the paper. That has to feel awful.” She smiled grimly. “A little like spending a rough week with my sister. But seriously, the hospital’s name isn’t mentioned.”

Kate pinned her with a look. “I remember arguing that same point with our favorite attorney. Who made a sarcastic remark about the possibility of so many other ERs finding a newborn wrapped in paper towels in an emergency department bathroom.” She pushed the device aside, lifted the piece of candy. “I may as well have a last meal.”

“You really think there will be repercussions from that letter?” Lauren asked. “All signs point to Mr. Beck having a good medical outcome.”

“Thankfully. And strictly speaking, guidelines were followed in his early care. Prompt triage, appropriate assessment, good documentation of history, normal vital signs—not even an excessive wait time. He didn’t tell staff he was feeling worse. He just crashed.”

“And Judith found him.”

“Yes. It’s not so much that this Waiting for Compassion letter criticizes all that,” Kate said, anxiety on her face again. “But it
dredges up the Baby Doe event. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard administration voice hopes that everything related to that incident will—” she grimaced—“die down.”

“Hate the choice of words. But it will. Eventually. The local stations will stop showing that photo from the security camera. That baby will become another sad abandonment statistic that proves the importance of early intervention and the value of Safe Haven. It will end, Kate.”

Misery flooded into her friend’s eyes. “Unless they find her. That mother.”

“Right.” Lauren sighed. “I don’t know which would be worse: finding that poor girl or having her stay lost. She needs help, support. I can’t even imagine how awful it would be to live with that burden on my heart. Some things don’t ever die down. You know?”

“Mmm.” Kate glanced at her watch, reached for her things. “I need to get back to the office.”

“Wait. I wanted to talk with you about Thanksgiv—” Lauren’s phone buzzed and she held up a finger. “Let me just check this.” She scanned the message, then clucked her tongue. “Looks like it’s finally happening.”

“What?”

“It’s from my friend in ICU. There was an announcement on TV a few minutes ago. About a multiagency ground search. Early next week.” She met Kate’s gaze. “On a ‘reliable tip’ regarding new evidence in Sunni’s case.”

-  +  -

“Careful, Son. No grease on my baby things.” Wes’s mom smiled at him over a pile of Target shopping bags, sharing table space with her Bible and a huge bowl of half-shelled pecans. “Big preholiday sale.”

“More things for Kyra, Bridget . . . Chelsea?” he asked, proud he’d remembered the narrowing list of names for his newest niece.

“A few.” She touched a fingertip to the train embroidered on a blue terry sleeper. “But most of these are for the nursery here. My stock of Onesies is looking a tad worn. I’ve given so many things away.”

“And you’re hoping you’ll have another foster baby to rock.” Wes wiped his hands on an old towel, then straddled the oak chair beside her. The air in the kitchen smelled of coffee and the faintest hint of baby lotion. It could easily be Miranda Tanner’s signature perfume. “You can’t fool me. I recognize that look in your eyes.”

“Hoping?” She sighed. “I can’t call it that. Not when these babes come to us out of so much tragedy. Neglect, abuse, abandonment. This is the time of year when those cases rise. The holidays. Such a sad irony. A time when most families gather and there’s opportunity for unexpected blessings. But—”

“Life isn’t a Hallmark movie,” Wes finished, echoing Kate’s words. He let new warmth dissolve the troubling memory. “I went ahead and invited Kate for Thanksgiving. With a disclaimer about cow-pie football.”

“I’m glad. She accepted?”

“I didn’t push, told her to think about it. I’m seeing her Sunday night.” He frowned. “Unless they decide to start that search earlier.”

“I saw the announcement on the news. Do you know anything about this new evidence in Sunni’s case?”

Wes’s jaw tensed. “Only that they’re asking for dogs. Hershey will be there.”

“Human remains.” His mom brushed her hair back, released a deep sigh. “I can’t be surprised by that. But my heart hurts for her family.”

“Yeah. Still, it’s better to know. Waiting for months and months is . . .” He shook his head.

His mom was quiet for a while. “Besides worrying about you, that was the hardest thing for your father. Waiting and not knowing during that long year before they found your mother. Not understanding why she went out that night. He used to go over and over the possibilities: she needed milk for your cereal, got a call from a friend in trouble. Had cabin fever from all those rainy days. Or it was one of her ‘blue days’ . . .”

Wes hated the deep tremble in his gut. “None of that explains why she left me in the woods.”

She reached over her Bible, found his hand. “Your mother loved you, Wes. You were the center of her life.”

He swallowed, ashamed of the anger that bound his pain like baling wire. “I don’t understand how a mother can abandon her child.” His eyes moved over the soft pile of baby clothes to the face of a woman who only wanted more and more children to gather close. “What gets messed up in her head?” Anger choked his voice. “‘Center of her life’? I’m sorry, Mom, but if I was the center of her life, she wouldn’t haul me out of bed in the middle of the night and leave me lost and crying in those woods.”

“Son . . .” Tears shimmered in his mom’s eyes. “We can’t always understand. Good people have desperate moments. Make mistakes.”

“Mistakes?” Wes hated that he’d made her cry but couldn’t stop the words from tumbling like a child down a well. He plucked at the tiny foot of the terry sleeper. “Tell me you didn’t wonder if you might be rocking Baby Doe if his mother hadn’t abandoned him on that bathroom floor.”

“Wes . . .”

“It’s true.”

“Yes. But being angry and placing blame don’t help.”

“I know,” he managed around the ache in his throat. “I’m sorry, Mom.” Wes leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you—you’re a huge blessing in my life. It’s just that . . .” His sigh puffed her hair. “It’s hard to get past this.”

-  +  -

“What are
you
doing here?” Kate asked, not caring that she sounded curt. This man had no right to be standing on her porch unannounced.

Barrett Lyon’s amused smile said,
“Feisty. I like it.”

“So . . . ?” Kate hoped her anxiety didn’t show.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“No.” She fought a ridiculous memory of a fairy tale.
“I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll . . .”
This house was made of stone. She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “I was on my way out. To jog.”

His gray eyes skimmed her Pilates tank and leggings. A little too slowly. She wished she were wearing a jacket.

“Those flood barricades are still up if you were thinking of the greenbelt or Zilker Park.”

“Right now I’m only thinking,
What’s so urgent that you had to come to my house?
”

He was quiet for a few moments, an unnerving silence that felt rehearsed. Kate knew she’d never want to face him in court. “Dana Connor walked off her shift thirty minutes ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“She arrived for the p.m. shift and refused a triage assignment. The clinical coordinator insisted. Then someone mentioned today’s letter to the editor, suggested it referred to her.” He
shrugged. “Or so I heard; I make it a point not to speculate on workplace gossip.”

The words in the letter came back with a vengeance.
“Where was their compassion? Who is to blame?”

“She went to the p.m. supervisor,” Barrett added, “to say she’d be canceling her scheduled shifts and terminating her contract with the nursing registry.”

Kate leaned against the wall of the house, stunned. “How do you know all of this? It’s a Saturday—you don’t work weekends.”

He smiled. “I have contacts. People who know what information might interest me.”

Staff you’re pressuring?
Kate’s stomach churned. “She has a small child and a husband with serious medical needs. You don’t mean she’s leaving nursing altogether?”

“I have no idea. Frankly, I don’t want to know that much. I’m looking at this from a legal perspective. Right now, I have to say it’s an encouraging view.”

“Encouraging?” Kate couldn’t believe her ears.

“You need to remember that my job is not to look at these things personally, Kate. I see the facts. Sort them for what benefits a legal case. Or potential case. The facts are that Dana Connor abandoned her duties today. And very recently took time off from her job to attend the memorial service for a baby who died at the hospital where Dana works. After she quite possibly neglected to properly assess—and assign emergent priority—to that baby’s laboring mother.”

“The girl Dana triaged, Ava Smith . . .” Kate’s voice cracked. “She never said she was preg—”

“Was never asked, according to the electronic record.”

Kate pressed her shoulder harder against the stone wall, hoping
to stop her trembling. “No one knows for sure that Ava Smith really is that baby’s mother.”

“But I think we will. Soon.”

Kate could hardly breathe. “What does that mean?”

“Tips in response to the TV photo. Dozens. And information gleaned from video surveillance at the church.”

“She . . . That girl was there?”

“It’s possible. Everything’s being processed as we speak. Which brings me to the reason I stopped by.” His expression assumed courtroom seriousness. “It’s important that you stay consistent with the story you told the detectives. The truth as you know it.”

Truth.
Kate was afraid she was going to be sick.

“If they locate Ava Smith,” Barrett continued, “you stick to that story no matter what. You saw her in the dark and exchanged a few words. She said nothing to indicate she was in distress. You went for coffee with Lauren.” He tipped his head. “Kate?”

“I hear you.”

“And if we need to use Dana Connor . . .” Barrett shrugged. “I’ll deal with that. First things first.” His eyes took uncomfortable liberties again. “Like your application for department director. I hear Dub Tarrant dropped a good word.”

-  +  -

Lauren stood next to her Volkswagen in the hospital parking lot, listening to Jess’s apartment phone ring. For some reason she wasn’t answering her cell. Lauren had left a message on it, but—

A beep heralded her sister’s newest greeting: “It’s Jessica. I’m not here. Y’all know what to do. Be advised: If you’re a telemarketer, my minimum rate for listening is thirty-five dollars an hour, so . . .”

Lauren rolled her eyes and decided to leave another short message, but then the recorded greeting was interrupted by a click.

“Lauren?” The voice was deep, too familiar.

“Eli . . .” She leaned against the car, her legs suddenly unsteady.

“I thought I recognized your number,” he said. “It’s been a long—”

“Is my sister there?” she asked, cutting him off.

“You missed her by a few minutes.”

“Oh . . . uh, I wanted to ask her about Thanksgiving.” Lauren frowned—there was no need whatsoever to explain herself. She resisted the urge to disconnect. “She’s at the hospital? School?”

“I have no idea. But I’d skip asking her about Thanksgiving if I were you.” There was a short huff and she could easily imagine his dark smirk. “We were having that discussion right before she stormed out. She said something about not being able to get on board with a holiday that’s all about people gorging themselves ‘like pigs at a trough.’”