Читать книгу Out of Character - Diana Miller - Страница 11

The emergency room at Denver County Hospital was packed, every gray vinyl chair occupied, a half dozen kids propelling plastic toys around the floor. It was noisy, too—people chattering in a cacophony of tones and languages, kids shrieking, an obese man in one corner and a bird-like woman two seats away trying to out-moan each other, a shrill-voiced woman screaming at the calmly nodding secretary stationed behind bulletproof glass. A typical winter weekday, when the combination of colds and flu, snow and ice-related injuries, and simple loneliness resulted in a backup of patients worse than the planes at O’Hare the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

Jillian punched in a code then stepped through the door into the main exam area. Her co-workers, in their aqua cotton scrubs, hustled between exam rooms and the central desk. The familiar odors of antiseptic and coffee and the sounds of conversation, rubber soles slapping linoleum, and machines beeping loosened her back muscles. She’d felt as if her entire life had been upended and rearranged in some unrecognizable design, but it hadn’t. This important part still existed, unchanged.

Sarah Williams stopped mid-step when she spotted Jillian. A nurse in the ER, Sarah was also one of Jillian’s best friends. “How are you?” she asked.

“I’m happy to be here, which I think is a very bad sign. Hi, Mike.” Jillian greeted the assistant ER head, who was sitting at the central desk.

Mike looked up from the computer he was using. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.”

“Aren’t you still on vacation?”

“I’ll go insane if I stay home one more day.”

Mike nodded his shaggy head, his eyes on her face. “And you figured the craziness in here would keep you sane. Are you sure you’re okay?”

So the extra makeup she’d applied hadn’t helped. “You sound like Tom, who gave me his seal of approval, by the way.” Although it had taken a while to convince Dr. Thomas Binger, their egotistical ER chief, that she wasn’t a walking malpractice action.

“Well, if you can satisfy God, far be it from me to argue,” Mike said, “especially when we need the help.” He stood and picked two charts off the desk. “Since you’re doing us a favor, I’ll let you choose. Would you like door number one—” he waved a chart—”or door number two?”

“Two.”

Mike looked down at the chart in his left hand. “Wait until you see what you’ve won. Behind door number two is Mildred Taylor, a seventy-four-year-old female with belly pain. Room 7.”

* * * *

Jillian walked out of Exam Room 7 and slid both the striped curtain and glass door shut behind her. Even after examining Mrs. Taylor, she didn’t know what was wrong with her, which wasn’t that surprising. People were as bad at describing belly pain as they were at giving directions, not that a description would help much. Belly pain could be anything from cancer to gas to an ectopic pregnancy, although she could probably rule that last one out in Mrs. Taylor’s case. She ordered what she hoped was the right mixture of tests to diagnose the problem without pissing off Medicare, then headed to her next patient.

She skimmed the chart outside of Exam Room 13. A forty-six-year-old female with belly pain. Terrific.

Not that Jillian was complaining. She wasn’t here for fun. Coming back to work three days before the end of her vacation had been the last ditch effort of a desperate woman, desperate for something, anything, to take her mind off the past week and save her sanity.

Starting the day after Kristen’s funeral, Jillian had felt as if she was being followed. Even though she never saw anyone, she couldn’t shake the sense of eyes watching her whenever she left her apartment to run or do errands.

Last night had been the last straw. She’d returned from the grocery store, put away her two bags of food, and gone into the living room. The book she’d been trying to read was on the left sofa cushion, although she was positive she’d set it on the right cushion. That had convinced her someone had been in her apartment, even though a quick search confirmed nothing was missing and God knows she’d been agitated enough lately to be wrong about a stupid book. She’d still wasted nearly an hour sitting on the sofa hugging a pillow and agonizing over what to do about a break-in that had undoubtedly never happened.

Jillian hadn’t mentioned this to anyone because she knew it was simply stress making her imagination work overtime. Her last week would have shot anyone way off the stress meter. She needed something to take her mind off her grief long enough for her system to deal with it and heal. Work was the obvious something.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. Ironic, she’d lived eighteen years near one of Chicago’s worst neighborhoods without anyone close to her getting killed or even attacked, but on a nice, upper-middle-class skiing vacation, she got socked with both a shooting and a fatal explosion. She hoped they weren’t right about bad things happening in threes.

Although her experience with Mark could have been the third. Her pain about Kristen was so overwhelming she couldn’t tell if Mark’s leaving hurt anymore, but it certainly had at the time. Hopefully it satisfied her quota.

* * * *

Friday after her shift, Jillian stepped into the dusk. The flurry of the ER had done what she’d hoped. Since returning to work, she hadn’t imagined a thing.

The evening air was mild enough that maybe this year Mother Nature wouldn’t view the official beginning of spring as a joke and dump a foot of snow as the punch line. People crowded the sidewalks, rushing home with a speed and efficiency Jillian bet they rarely exhibited at work.

She turned left at the corner, toward the Carleton Parking Ramp three blocks from the hospital. She should start looking for a new car. Her agent said she’d get the insurance proceeds next week, and the company would stop paying for her rental soon afterwards. But she couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for a new car. She didn’t have a clue what kind she wanted, except not another Camry. Maybe Andy would help her.

Kristen would be pleased at how she and Andy were drawing together, even though she wouldn’t have been thrilled to have been the catalyst. Not that Jillian had made any decisions about Andy. If she was too stressed to analyze cars, she certainly couldn’t decide something infinitely more important.

The crosswalk sign flashed Don’t Walk. The crowd obediently stopped at the curb instead of rushing across the street the way they would have out East. Further support for her brother’s theory that despite its Wild West pretensions, Denver was basically a nice, polite Midwestern city. She hadn’t talked to Ian for a couple days, and she knew he’d been worried about her. She’d call him tonight and—

Something slammed Jillian’s back, and she plummeted into the street. The headlights and steel of a city bus raced toward her, but she couldn’t catch herself, couldn’t move out of the way. Diesel fuel fumes burned her lungs. The engine’s roar drowned out her hammering heartbeats.

An instant before she hit the blacktop, someone jerked her back. The bus whizzed by, so close its breeze touched her cheeks and chin. Then Jillian was standing safely on the sidewalk. Heart still racing, she looked for whoever had pulled her to safety.

A middle-aged woman, sturdy in a rust down parka and black Sorrel boots, grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Are you all right?” a man in a camel hair coat asked simultaneously.

“I’m fine. Thanks for rescuing me.” Jillian was uncertain whether she should be addressing the woman or the man.

“I think it was a man in a dark coat, but I don’t see him now.” The woman looked around. “Maybe it was your guardian angel.”

“Whoever it was saved my life. Did you see who pushed me?”

“Pushed you? I’m not surprised.” The man raised a brown leather finger. “These corners are a menace on Friday night, everyone rushing to be the first to cross when the light changes. They need more police and—”

“It wasn’t an accidental bump,” Jillian said. “Someone shoved me in front of the bus. I felt a hand on my back. Did you see anyone?”

The man and the woman both shook their heads, as did the rest of the small group who’d apparently decided the possibility of a good show was worth a slight delay in their weekend plans.

“Why on earth would anyone have done that?” another woman asked.

Jillian surveyed everyone, all eyeing her curiously. No witnesses meant no busy cop would believe it was other than an accident or her imagination. “It must have been an accident. I work in an ER, and I’ve had a long day.”

Everyone nodded.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the first woman asked.

“I’m fine, and my car’s a block away,” Jillian said. “Thanks for your help.”

Insides quivering, she crossed the street, sticking to the middle of the crowd. A McDonald’s lit up the end of the block. She hurried to it then headed for the restroom. Once inside, she locked the door, dug her phone out of her purse, and made a call. “Andy? Can I come to your office? Either I’m going crazy, or someone’s trying to kill me.”