Читать книгу Nightwatch - Jo Leigh - Страница 11

RACHEL HELD the plastic bin tightly, as if it would drop any second. It wasn’t a special bin, except that inside it were all the worldly goods of an eighteen-year-old who’d died on Rachel’s watch.

She’d gone over the medical procedures in her mind a hundred times, reread her notes six times, maybe seven. And still, she couldn’t think of a thing she’d have done differently. She’d taken extraordinary measures to save Heather’s life. And still, she’d failed.

It happened. Rachel had also heard that Bruce Nepom had died this morning, which didn’t make things better. God, she’d tried so hard. The damage that had been done to that man’s skull…

She reached her office and kicked the door shut behind her. Then she put the bin on the table, wincing at the grooves embedded in her palms.

Going through Heather’s things was a breach of protocol, but in this case, it was done out of kindness. If there was anything disturbing in the meager belongings, she wanted to see it first, then tell Guy. Since the death wasn’t suspicious, there would be no police involvement. And since Guy was acting as next of kin, there was no harm here, only help.

Heather’s coat was on top. It wasn’t in good repair, and there were stains on the poor-quality wool. The blue color had faded, leaving it washed out and sad looking. There was one piece of paper in her pocket, and on it were two phone numbers. Rachel recognized the one for Courage Bay Hospital. The other had a 213 prefix. Los Angeles. She carefully put the paper, wrinkled and still a bit damp, in her jacket pocket.

After folding the coat, Rachel picked up Heather’s dress. Another thrift-store bargain, she imagined. Yellow, with little green flowers. No pockets. Next was Heather’s purse. It was a large cotton tote, with lots of pockets inside. Unfortunately, they didn’t hold much of consequence—breath mints, a hairbrush, dark glasses, a faded ticket stub to a movie. But then Rachel found a small notebook. She opened it to the first page. The handwriting was small, tight.

I’m here, finally. Away from all of them. Safe. Well, not now, because he’s not here. But he’ll be back soon, and then it will be dinner and maybe we’ll watch an old movie on his crappy TV. I won’t care because we’ll be together. It was so easy. I still can’t get over that. Mom didn’t even check. Dad was busy with his bimbo of the month. And I disappeared, like on that TV show where someone’s there one second, and gone the next. Only, no one’s looking for me. And it feels…

Rachel turned the page, but it was a new entry, written with a different pen. Leaning back in her chair, Rachel wondered if she should go immediately to find Guy, but something kept her in her seat. Fear. Protectiveness. She turned back to the book.

We went to his friend’s house last night, but I don’t remember all that much. I got totally wasted, and this chick, Perry, scored some Ecstasy, which I’d never done before. Mixed with the Southern Comfort, it was so cool. I like his friends, although Perry’s boyfriend scared me a little when we were in the kitchen together. He touched me, but then Perry came in so it was cool again. After, S and I made love until, like, four in the morning. Then he went to sleep, and I think if it had been quieter, I would have, too, but the sirens went on and on, and then there was this helicopter. I could see the light, really bright, on the walls. They’re cracked between the posters, and the paint is really chipped. I wonder if this is where we’ll always live, or if he’ll get that job, and then we can move somewhere nice, where the carpet isn’t stained, and we can have a washer and dryer, ’cause I hate going to that skeezy Laundromat. We’d have a new bed, too, one that didn’t make my back ache every morning. And I could buy new sheets and a comforter and stuff. I really want to decorate my way for a change, and have all the money in the world to buy whatever I want. He says we’ll have everything, and I believe him. I just have to wait. But I don’t know how long to wait. I said I should look for a job, but he got really pissed, and so I didn’t mention it again. He’s going to take care of me. He promised. I know he will, ’cause he loves me. More than anything on earth. He loves ME.

Rachel’s chest constricted with pain for this child. She did a little elementary math. Heather had to have been pregnant nine months ago, yet she didn’t appear to be when she’d written this. How long ago would that have been?

Flipping through the pages, Rachel saw that the entries were made in different colors of ink, mostly black, but some in blue, red, and a few in purple. The handwriting got even smaller toward the end, which was probably where Rachel should have looked to start with.

She found the last entry more than three-quarters of the way through the small notebook.

I’ve been gone for almost a week. Does he think I’m dead? Hit by a car, or mugged, or maybe he thinks I had the baby? I still don’t understand what happened. How it all went to hell. He loved me. He told me so over and over. Loved me, and he would take care of me, and take care of our baby. And then he wouldn’t let me out of the house. I thought it was because he was worried about me. But even when I wanted to go, when I felt fine, he kept me locked up. Got mean. He wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t explain. And when I tried so hard to understand, he just hit me. It hurt so bad.

And then he left, and it was three days before he got back. I tried to get out, but he’d done something to the door. He took his cell phone and didn’t leave me any money, so what was I supposed to do?

And then, yesterday, when he was gone again, that guy from the apartment came. I couldn’t believe it at first, but then I started screaming and I didn’t stop until he’d gotten the door open. He didn’t want to help me, but I guess he felt sorry for the baby. He got me out, took me to the bus station, gave me some money. And now I’m waiting for the bus.

The scariest part is the headaches. They’ve gotten so much worse. The baby keeps kicking so I haven’t slept, and I have to keep going to the bathroom.

I don’t want to call my mom or dad. But Guy will help. He was the best, when he was there. I wonder if he’s forgotten me. I remember the times we went on the boat together. That was cool. I wish he could have been my real father. Then he might have stayed home more, and we could have been a real family. I guess I’d

That was it. The last entry. Rachel closed the book and got up, put the lid back on the plastic bin and headed for Guy’s office.

Connie was on the phone in the outer office, but she waved at Rachel to go inside.

Rachel knocked lightly, then opened the door enough to see Guy at his desk. His head rested on his hands, his shoulders were slumped, and he didn’t look up.

“Yes, Connie.”

“It’s me,” she said. “May I come in?”

He raised his head, and smiled at her. God, he looked like hell, red-rimmed eyes, his dark hair unkempt and spiky. For the first time she could remember, Guy looked every one of his forty-three years. But in his sad smile was a welcome that she took to heart.

“I have something,” she said, holding up the notebook. “It was in Heather’s things.”

He changed instantly, becoming fully alert. The intelligence that made him so appealing lit up his eyes.

She went to his desk and handed him the book. He took it anxiously, but when he opened it randomly, somewhere in the middle, he glanced up from the small script to her.

“I’ll leave you,” she said. “You should read it.”

“Have you?”

“Just a bit,” she told him, embarrassed. “I hoped there would be something obvious.”

He nodded, looked down at the page again. “Are you on shift?”

“Yes.”

“Are there patients?”

“Yes. Nothing too urgent.”

His gaze met hers. “Come back.”

She took in a great breath of air, trying to steady herself, to mentally step back, get some room, but there was no place she could go. He needed someone, and she was it. “As soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She didn’t reply, but at the door she turned back to ask, “Have you eaten?”

“Now you’re sounding like Connie.”

“Good. Someone needs to look after you.”

“I’m fine.”

“And the baby?”

Guy didn’t speak, and his gaze went to the window. “He’s in trouble. I was just up there. They think it’s Noonan’s syndrome, but they’re not sure. We need to find the father.”

“Maybe that will help,” she said, looking at the notebook.

“I hope so. I still haven’t heard from Walter.”

“I have to go,” Rachel said, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Guy?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m off tomorrow. After that, I switch to days. So whatever help I can offer, count on it.”

His lips tightened, and he was staring at the window again. Rachel closed the door quietly behind her.

BY THE TIME Guy finished reading Heather’s diary, it was nearly nine-thirty. He looked at his desk and saw the piles of reports neatly laid in his in-box. He hadn’t even heard Connie come in or leave for the day.

When he rubbed his face, he was startled that his eyes, his cheeks were wet. He’d cried? God, he was falling apart. Everything felt surreal—Heather’s death, this book of sorrows, Heath.

Heath.

He stood up, carefully putting Heather’s notebook in his top drawer, and headed for the NICU. Again, the staff treated him diffidently. Gave him more room in the hallways, smiled with that tinge of sympathy that made him want to punch through a wall. He retreated into familiar behavior, acting as if nothing had happened, nodding but not speaking.

The elevator held only strangers, and for that Guy was grateful. On the fourth floor, he listened to the soft strains of Bach wafting beneath the bustle of nurses and orderlies. On this floor, aside from the NICU, was the nursery. If he walked to his left, he would see the healthy babies, the exultant parents. Just past the nursery was a waiting room, and then there was the delivery room.

He knew that Heather had been in the right place last night, and because of Rachel’s deft handling of the delivery, Heath was alive today. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder what if.

What if he’d called Heather more often? What if he’d paid attention? What if he hadn’t been such a selfish prick for the last five years?

He felt the blood beneath his skin and was aware of his rapid heartbeat. His breath became shallow and harsh, and he ducked into the men’s room. Alone, he went to the sink and threw cold water on his face. Tried for calm, settled for nonpsychotic.

He leaned on the granite counter, stared into his own wild eyes. He’d gone through the looking glass this morning, and it had just turned into a mirror again. He didn’t like what he saw.

Who the hell was he? A doctor, but why? Did he even care about the people he helped? Or was it all self-aggrandizement? Had he ever loved Tammy, or was it just that she was beautiful? That she thought he was God’s gift? That she fit into the pretty little picture he’d created that represented his life. Only, where was the life part?

The moment he’d held that boy in his arms, the facade had shattered. But now that Guy was broken, what was he supposed to do about it? How was he going to pick up the pieces? That baby needed him, and he was useless. Stripped bare and without any of his shiny protective coating.

“Okay, Giroux. Get it together. This is not about you.” He turned off the water, then dried his hands and face, balling the paper tightly before he threw it in the trash. Then he went to look in on his grandson.

As he walked into the unit, his gaze went to the far corner. Heath’s incubator. And Rachel Browne.

Instantly, as if a switch had been flipped, his anger disappeared. Gone, just like that. He studied her. Her long, dark hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail that fell to the middle of her back. The white coat, prim, professional, hid the curves that had burned themselves into his brain. Her navy skirt came down to just above her knees, and below that were remarkable legs, the kind of legs that launched ships, that wars were fought over. Her shoes—black, with one-inch heels—were as perfectly groomed as the rest of her. That was Rachel. Always put together, always fresh and beautiful, even if she’d been working twenty-four hours straight.

She instilled confidence in her patients, had complete control of even the most complicated cases. And she never lost her cool. Altogether, she was an extraordinary doctor.

Right this second, he needed her, more desperately than he could ever remember needing a woman. But not for sex or even a kiss. He needed her to calm him. When Rachel was near, the world stopped caving in on him.

He went to the sink first and prepared himself to hold the baby. It was second nature, this washing routine. He’d done it so many times, hundreds, thousands, that it had become a ritual.

Rachel was looking at him when he turned toward Heath. God, her face. It was the best part of her, really. Incredibly large dark eyes, dark eyebrows, and lips painted a perfect red. She had a fascinating beauty, but more important, she was a born healer, in the best sense of the word. And in his eyes, that made her looks a detail. An afterthought.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate how attractive she was. He simply put her beauty in proper perspective.

“Guy,” she said, her soft voice carrying clearly across the room.

He walked toward her, the stirrings of hope quickening his step.

“He’s doing a little better,” Rachel said. “He’s been sleeping peacefully. No arrhythmia, and look—” she handed him the chart “—his kidney function is up.”

Guy read everything, then reread it before he spoke. “He’s still not out of the woods.”

“No,” Rachel said. “But what this tells me is that even if we don’t find his father, we can get to the bottom of his condition. We’ll find out everything. His blood work has gone to the lab in San Francisco.”

He knew what that meant. DNA sequencing, as fast and as accurately as it could be done. It cost him a fortune and was worth every penny. But it still wasn’t magic. Getting the results would take time. Time he could use finding the bastard that had impregnated his stepdaughter. “His name is Stan,” he said. “I think he might still be in Los Angeles.”

Rachel stepped closer and put her hand on his sleeve. “When’s the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well then, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to spend a few minutes looking at that beautiful boy. Then I’m going to take you down the street and force-feed you, if necessary.” She caught his gaze. “We’ll talk.”