Читать книгу No Regrets - JoAnn Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Two

“Emergency department.” Impatience crackled in Molly’s usually calm and reassuring voice. She sighed and prayed, as she was so often forced to do, for patience.

“Hello?” There was a slight pause. “Is this Mercy Samaritan Hospital?” Molly thought the hesitant female voice sounded slightly slurred.

“Yes. You’ve reached the emergency department. How can I help you?”

“It’s my husband.”

Molly groaned inwardly, realizing this was going to be one of those calls in which she had to drag the information out one word at a time. Frustrated, she pushed a long jet curl that had come loose from the knot at the back of her neck.

“Has he been injured?”

“Not yet.” There was a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Although I’m thinking about cutting his prick off with the electric carving knife.” The words were definitely slurred.

“I’d advise against that, ma’am. The police frown on such things. Meanwhile, if your husband isn’t hurt right now, I’m afraid we’re very busy and—”

“He’s got the clap. And he didn’t get it from me.”

Molly rubbed unconsciously at her temples where a headache hammered. “I see.”

“And now I have this goddamn rash, which is the only reason the son of a bitch confessed to screwing around in the first place. So, I guess I’d better come in for a test.”

“That would be my suggestion. You need to be seen by a doctor and get started on antibiotic treatment,” she told the caller. “You should also have an AIDS test.”

“You think I have AIDS?”

Molly heard the sudden panic in the woman’s voice. “I’m only suggesting the test as a precaution,” she said as soothingly as possible. “Since your sexual relationship with your husband was not the monogamous one you believed it to be—”

“I’m not taking any AIDS test.”

“It can be done confidentially, if you’re worried about—”

“If you have AIDS, you die. And if I’m gonna die, I damn well don’t want to know it. I’m also going to kill the bastard if he gave it to me.” That said, the woman slammed down the receiver.

Her ears ringing, Molly took a deep breath, said a quick prayer for both the philandering husband and his angry wife, then returned to the fray.

Her next patient was a two-year-old child who’d been nipped by the family’s new German shepherd puppy.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Molly soothed as she cleaned the puncture wound, gave the little girl a tetanus shot and advised the mother to keep the child away from the puppy until things quieted down after the holidays.

“I need a prescription for a seven-day course of penicillin,” she told Reece, when he paused at the desk to pick up the next chart. “It’s for a dog bite.”

He pulled a prescription pad from a pocket bulging with tongue depressors, a pen light and ampoules of medications.

“I wish people would listen when the Humane Society tells them this is the worst time of year to try to introduce a new animal into the home.” He scribbled the order onto the pad. “Was that a VD call I heard you taking?”

“You’ve got good ears.” Molly wondered how he could have heard anything over the din.

“Nah. I’m just nosy.” He ripped the script off and handed it to her. “So, have you heard the county health department’s new venereal disease slogan?”

“I don’t think so. What is it?”

“VD is nothing to clap about.”

Although it was a terrible pun, an involuntary giggle escaped her lips. “You’re making that up.”

“That’s the trouble with working with you, Sister Molly,” he said on an exaggerated sigh. “You make it impossible to lie. But it’s still pretty good, don’t you think?”

“I think I should have Dr. Bernstein come down for a consult.” Alan Bernstein was the psych resident. “No one should remain this upbeat at the twenty-fourth hour of a thirty-six-hour shift.” Before he could answer, she was off to meet another paramedic who was wheeling in a woman on a gurney.

The patient was dressed for a party in a thigh-high, formfitting red sequined dress and skyscraper heels, one of which had cracked in two. Her hair, the color of a new penny, had been fashioned in an elaborate upsweep and Christmas trees had been airbrushed onto each of her long, scarlet fingernails. Her dress had been torn up one side, and one sleeve had been cut open to allow for an IV drip.

“She was crossing Sunset and got hit by a car,” the paramedic began. The man, whose badge read Sam Browning, had earned the nickname Big E his first night on the job when he’d excitedly radioed that he and his partner were bringing in a twenty-year-old male who’d been “ejaculated” from his Corvette.

“It was my fault,” the patient interrupted, struggling to sit up. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“Fault’s for the cops to decide,” Big E said. “Why don’t you just lie down, ma’am, and let me tell the nurse what she needs to know to treat you, okay?”

“I’m sorry.” The woman gave Molly an apologetic look through lashes coated with navy blue mascara. Molly was momentarily distracted by the thin row of rhinestones bordering her eyelids.

“That’s all right,” she soothed. “I can understand you’ve suffered a great deal of stress.”

“I just don’t want that poor driver to get in trouble. Especially on Christmas Eve.”

“The driver’s pretty shook up,” Big E told Molly. “He insisted on coming along. He’s out in the waiting room. You might want to talk to him after you’re finished.”

“I’ll do that.”

“You won’t be sorry. He’s very handsome,” the patient informed Molly, earning a glare from the paramedic who was obviously frustrated at having been interrupted again. “A girl could certainly do worse.”

“Anyway,” Big E doggedly continued, “according to witnesses, the patient suffered a brief period of unconsciousness—”

“I suppose that’s why I can’t remember what happened.”

“It’s possible you’ve suffered a slight concussion,” Molly said.

“She had some labored breathing in the vehicle coming over here, which suggests a cracked rib,” Big E said, grimly determined to finish his report. “We started her on glucose, thiamine and naloxone. As you can see, there’s no loss of verbal skills and her only other symptoms are retrograde amnesia and a few scrapes and bruises.”

“I skinned my leg when I landed,” the patient revealed as Molly took her blood pressure.

Molly observed the red-and-purple scrape along one firm thigh. The skin around it was darkly bruised. “Don’t worry, we’ll have the gravel cleaned out in no time.”

“But it won’t scar?”

“No.” Molly smiled reassuringly. “It shouldn’t.”

“I’m so relieved. I’m a dancer. My legs are my livelihood.”

“When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“My family couldn’t afford the lessons.”

“Oh.” The woman pursed her vermilion lips and thought about that for a moment. “That’s too bad.”

“Not really.” Molly began swabbing the wound while she waited for Reece to arrive. “Because I know now I was meant to be a nurse.” She didn’t mention being a nun, since that always seemed to lead to questions, and this patient was already talkative enough.

“I’ve always admired caretaker personalities,” the woman said. “Unfortunately, there aren’t enough of them in the world. Especially these days.”

“I don’t know about the world, but we could use a few more in here tonight.”

“Amen,” Reece agreed as he joined them in the curtained cubicle. “I’m Dr. Longworth. Looks as if someone had a close encounter with Santa’s sleigh.”

The woman laughed, as Reece had intended. When the laugh deteriorated into a wheezing cough, he and Molly exchanged a look.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to remove your dress, Ms....”

“Fuller. Dana Fuller,” the woman responded in a breathy voice that Molly suspected had little to do with a possible cracked rib.

Molly had seen this happen innumerable times. Reece Longworth was a devastatingly attractive man; whenever he appeared in the emergency room, women invariably took one look at his laughing emerald eyes, perpetually tousled chestnut hair, boyish smile and lean muscular body, and experienced an immediate increase in their heart rates.

“And I’ll be more than happy to take off anything you’d like, Doctor.”

The sexual invitation was unmistakable. Molly was amused by the flush rising from the collar of Reece’s white jacket.

As Molly helped Reece remove the sequined dress, he stared in momentary puzzlement at the flat brown nipples. As comprehension crashed down on him he lifted the sheet he and Molly were pulling up over the patient’s chest and viewed the penis nestled in the curly dark hair.

He’d learned in medical school never to make assumptions, and he assured himself that the only reason he hadn’t realized he was treating a man was because he’d already been working for twenty-four hours. Now, as he managed to keep a straight face and examine the patient’s breathing, Reece reminded himself again why he was hooked on the ER.

He enjoyed the action, the constant surprises. There was nothing worse, he reminded himself as he referred the patient to neurology for a CAT scan, than being bored. Fortunately, that damn sure wasn’t going to happen tonight.

The driver of the car that had struck the cross-dressing dancer was still pacing the waiting room when Molly came to assure him that the patient was going to survive with a minimum of injuries.

“Thank God.” He took both her hands in his. “I’ve been so worried.”

“I can certainly understand that.” Molly smiled her professional caretaker’s smile. “But you can go home now and sleep easy.”

“Sleep.” He thrust his hands through his hair. He was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties. “Lord, I doubt if I’ll sleep for a week, after this.”

“If you’d like, I can ask the physician on duty to prescribe a sleeping pill for you. Just for tonight.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll be all right.” He took another deep breath. “I want to thank you, Nurse…” He glanced down at her name tag, which, due to security measures lobbied for by the female employees of the hospital, had only her first name along with the alphabet soup of initials representing her numerous professional credentials.

He tilted his head and studied her. “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look much like a Margaret.”

“My friends call me Molly.”

“Molly.” He considered that a moment. “That’s much better. Do you have a last name?”

“McBride.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “I can see the emerald isle in your face, Molly McBride. My mother, Mary Keegan, was black Irish. I should have recognized those lovely blue eyes and dark hair right away.”

“You had other things on your mind.”

“True. But the day I fail to notice a beautiful woman is the day I need to reassess my priorities. My name is Patrick Nelson.”

The conversation was getting more than a little sticky. Molly pulled her hand out of his grasp. “Well, it’s a very busy night, Mr. Nelson, and I’d better get back to work—”

“Would you have a drink with me when you get off shift, Molly?”

“I’m sorry, but—”

“A cup of coffee, then. Or a glass of eggnog. It’s Christmas,” he reminded her. “I transferred down here from San Francisco last month and don’t know many people. I’ll also admit to being so desperate for company that I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”

Patrick Nelson seemed sincere. And nice. Which left Molly feeling a bit like the Grinch about to steal his Christmas. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“If you’re involved with someone, that’s all right. I’m not going to lie and say that I don’t find you very attractive, Nurse Molly, but if you just want to share some friendly, platonic conversation, that’d be great, too.”

From the flirtatious, masculine gleam in his eyes, she suspected he was looking for more than mere conversation. “Mr. Nelson—”

“Patrick,” he reminded her.

“Patrick.” She decided the best way to handle this was to just go straight to the point. “I’m a nun.”

“A nun?” His gaze swept over her, from the top of her unruly dark hair down to her shoes, stained with blood spatters. “Jesus—I mean, jeez,” he corrected quickly, “talk about a waste.”

This was not the first time Molly had heard that statement. She understood that much of the world found women who’d chosen to sacrifice worldly pleasures mysterious. What she’d never figured out was why so many men seemed to take a woman’s decision to live a celibate life personally.

“I’m afraid we’re in disagreement about that, Mr. Nelson.” She patted his arm. “Have a happy holiday.”

Two hours later, the shift had finally come to an end. After assuring Reece that she’d be at their house for Christmas dinner, Molly retrieved her coat from the nurses’ locker room and left the building.

Unlike the previous night, the street was quiet and empty in the midnight hour. A huge white galleon of a moon soared high in the sky, illuminating the men wrapped in sleeping bags, blankets or newspapers, sleeping in doorways, all their worldly possessions piled into purloined shopping carts.

Molly stopped in front of the crèche. As she’d feared, the towels intended to represent the baby Jesus had been stolen. One of the lambs and an angel were also missing and someone had painted gang signs on Joseph in seasonal red and green paint. A lingering scent of spray enamel blended with the aroma of garbage from the overstuffed Dumpsters and diesel fuel from the trucks that roared by overhead on the freeway.

As she continued walking to the bus stop, Molly thought it sad that those truckers were having to work on Christmas, the one day of the year they should be home with their families.

Families. As content as she was with her life, there were times Molly found herself wondering what would have happened if things had been different? If the police could have convinced her father to surrender, that long-ago Christmas Eve? Or if Tessa hadn’t been taken away from them and adopted by some unknown family. Not a day went by that Molly didn’t think about—and pray for—her missing sister.

She was standing on the corner, waiting for the light to change so she could cross the deserted street, when she became aware of someone coming up behind her.

She reached into her coat pocket, intending to give the poor beggar her usual referral to the mission, when a gloved hand came over her mouth and she was dragged backward, toward the alley.

She fought the man, flailing out with her arms, digging her heels into the sidewalk, trying to slow him down long enough to allow someone to come to her rescue. But he was strong. And so determined.

Her breath was trapped in her lungs, blood drummed deafeningly in her ears. Molly tried going limp, but all that did was earn a vicious curse and cause her hips to hit the pavement with a painful thump.

Her assailant tossed her onto a pile of boxes as if she were a rag doll.

Molly lay on her back, the man standing over her. She couldn’t see his face because of his garish black-and-purple ski mask. His clothes—camouflage printed shirt and pants topped by a faded army denim jacket—were ragged and filthy. His hair was long and stringy and unkempt.

She grabbed hold of the nearest box and flung it at him, but he knocked it away as if it was no more than a fly. And, to her amazement, he laughed. A rich roar of pleasure that was such a contrast to the menace in those black eyes that she almost believed she must be imagining it.

A nearby sound suddenly caused him to stiffen, as alert as an infantryman on reconnaissance. Taking advantage of his momentary shift in attention, she scrambled to her knees and on a half crawl, half stagger, tried to make her way over the tumbling, shifting pile of cardboard.

Unfortunately, he proved faster and, grabbing hold of her hair, yanked her back as the cat, who’d made the distracting noise, shot out of the alley.

He held her down with a booted foot that threatened to crush her chest. “What’s the hurry, honey?” His deep voice vibrated through her, sending icy fingers of fear zipping up her spine.

“You don’t want to do this.” She tried for a calm, reasonable voice, but the tremulous tone gave her away. “I can help you. I can help you find someplace to stay, some food—”

He struck her, a vicious blow to the face, cutting her off in midsentence. Seeming pleased with himself, he hit her again, with a backhanded slap that made her ears ring.

“Please.” Molly was not above begging, if that’s what it took to stay alive. “I’m a nun.”

Even as she said the words, Molly was infused with guilt. As if a nun was better than any other woman? More deserving to be spared the horror of rape? Yet she couldn’t help hoping that deep down inside this monster was a man who might respect her vocation.

She’d thought wrong.

“Even better.” As if to please himself, he hit her again. Harder. Her head was still spinning as she heard the sound of bone breaking and felt her cheekbone shatter beneath his fist.

A memory flashed through her mind, a memory of her father slapping her mother. Right before he’d put that gun to her head. Refusing to die as Karla McBride had, Molly managed to curl her fingers around a beer bottle and pushing herself up, slammed the bottle against the front of the mask.

“Bitch!” Her attacker roared like a wounded lion and swung his arm at her, sending her tumbling back into the boxes. She heard the beer bottle rattling as it rolled away.

He ripped off the mask and pressed the back of his gloved hand against his nostrils. When he took his hand away and viewed the black leather copiously stained with dark wine-colored blood, he screamed, “Fucking cunt!”

Molly felt him ripping away her clothes, exposing her to the chilly December air. But there was no longer anything she could do to stop him.

Through the swirling bloodred haze filling her head, she watched the heavily booted foot swing forward, then moaned as it landed with a bone-shuddering strength between her lax thighs.

His heavy demonic weight came crashing down on top of her, crushing her lungs, stealing her breath. Molly tried to scream as he battered his entry into her tight, dry virginal body, but the pained sound caught in her throat, choking her.

The back of her head kept banging against the asphalt as he pounded away violently at her defenseless body. Sometime during the seemingly endless assault, Molly vomited violently. Over herself and over the monster.

And then, as the crimson haze spread and she prayed silently to a God that seemed to have abandoned her, Molly finally surrendered to the enveloping darkness.