Passion's Bright Fury Page 6

  “Thanks,” Jude said, but Sinclair had already turned her back and was leaning over the wife. She introduced herself and asked the woman if she were having any pain. Jude couldn’t hear the faint reply, but she could hear the anxiety in her tone.

  “We haven’t finished examining the three of you yet,” Sax said calmly, “but everyone seems stable. Your husband will need some tests, and I’ll let you know about your little girl in a few seconds. Now I want to take care of you.”

  There was something familiar in the surgeon’s compassionate tone that struck a chord in Jude, and as she struggled with the half-memory, her pulse accelerated and her ears buzzed faintly. God, not now! She forced her attention back to the scene before her and, thankfully, her head cleared.

  “Pull back a little bit to catch both the mother and daughter,” Jude instructed Melissa hoarsely. She just needed to focus on the work and she’d be fine.

  The photographer, who had been moving back and forth between the three stretchers, trying to record the various stages of treatment, grunted her assent. Just as Jude had spoken, the little girl called for her mother, and mother and child each reached out a hand, joining their fingers across the narrow space between the two beds.

  “Are you getting this?” Jude whispered, practically climbing onto Mel’s shoulder to check her angle of view.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got it. Don’t worry,” Melissa said distractedly, trying to keep one eye on the scene at large so as not to miss some developing event and, at the same time, concentrating on the intimate details that made the proceedings so very human. “You could give me an inch or two to move, Jude,” she muttered as she followed behind Deb, working to keep the heavy camera steady against her chest. Even with the body rig to help support the weight, her arms would be shaking before too much longer.

  Next to them, Sinclair gave detailed instructions about lab tests and X-rays for the mother to one of the nurses and finally joined Deb beside the little girl. Both Jude and Melissa moved in close behind her, but she seemed not to notice them.

  “Anything?” Sax asked, studying the small patient.

  “Neurologic exam is intact. No evidence of airway or hemodynamic instability. She has the obvious laceration, but I can’t palpate a skull fracture. No bruising on the chest or abdomen to suggest blunt trauma, and she’s moving all four extremities to command. She’ll need a head CT to rule out a fracture or any associated intracranial injury, and then she’s going to need that laceration repaired.”

  As Deb reported, Sinclair bent close and murmured something that Jude couldn’t quite make out, but she hoped the mike on the camera would pick it up. Then, the trauma chief began her own assessment—listening to the little girl’s heart and lungs, probing her abdomen, running her hands over each extremity. She checked the child’s pupils and ears, nodded agreement with Deb’s evaluation, and murmured, “Nothing to suggest evidence of bleeding or increased intracranial pressure. Looks like her only significant injury is that fairly straightforward soft tissue injury on the scalp. Do you want to repair it yourself after the CT or call plastics?”

  “It looks pretty routine,” Deb remarked. “As long as nothing else is going on, I might as well do it.”

  Sinclair appeared about to answer when a heavyset policeman, flushed and breathing heavily, barged into the trauma admitting area. He skidded to a halt and stared at her, struggling to get his words out.

  “There’s an ambulance pulling in right now...with a guy who crashed his motorcycle in the pileup. He was underneath one of the cars...and we just found him.” He held out a large black trash bag, which he had secured under one arm. “This...this is...his.”

  Jude wasn’t certain what she was watching, but she tapped Melissa on the shoulder and said urgently, “Get this.”

  “Put it down on this,” Sax said, rolling a steel cart forward. As the policeman deposited his package, she looked at Jude and Melissa pointedly. “This may be...difficult.”

  “It’s okay.” Jude tried to ignore the escalating roaring in her head. The shape of the package gave her a pretty good idea of what was inside, but she was certain she must be wrong. Her heart was hammering as she continued, “Go ahead.”

  Sax peeled back the edges of the black plastic.

  “Oh fuck.” Melissa struggled to hold the camera steady, and it wasn’t because her arms were tired.

  Jude put a hand on Melissa’s shoulder and fought a dizzying wave of nausea.

  “Stein,” Sax said curtly as she surveyed the perfectly preserved leg lying in the bag surrounded by ice. It had been severed at the hip and a portion of the pelvic bone was visible, still attached to the cut end. The rest of it looked perfectly normal, including the lower leg and foot. “Call the OR and tell them we have a level one coming up. Notify vascular surgery and orthopedics that we have a possible limb replantation.”

  Even as she was speaking, the doors slid open yet again and four paramedics came crashing through with the owner of the severed limb. For the next few moments, it seemed to Jude that Sinclair was everywhere at once. Nurses and residents descended upon the motorcyclist, cutting off clothes, inserting tubes into his nose and into his arms and down his throat. Sinclair and Stein removed a large pressure bandage that covered his lower body, at which point Jude commanded hoarsely, “Stop the camera, Mel.”

  Melissa was about to protest, but when she got a clear look at the gaping wound she realized Jude was right. The terrible injury was far too personal and private to be revealed without the victim’s permission. “Yeah.”

  July 2, 6:29 a.m.

  “Do you want to look at the dailies now?” Melissa asked, trying valiantly to hide her weariness. She hadn’t thought anything could bother her anymore. She’d filmed children starving in African nations so impoverished it was impossible to believe such conditions existed in the modern world, and she’d documented the last moments of young men and women dying of AIDS in the most technologically advanced society ever known. She’d witnessed the gamut of human emotions from grief and horror to joyous celebration, and with the filter of her camera between her and the events she recorded, she’d been able to maintain her psychological equilibrium. Last night, she’d almost lost it.

  “Let’s do it later,” Jude said dully. She glanced at the round, institutional clock, amazed at how much time had passed. Four hours swallowed up in a blur of noise and motion and blood. She surveyed the littered floor, the aftermath of battle strewn everywhere—wads of gauze soaked with blood and other fluids, discarded surgical gloves, clear plastic wrappers that had encased sterile tubing and intravenous catheters, a portion of a pair of denim pants. “God.”

  “We’re not going to be able to show much of that, are we?” Melissa commented. Her throat was so dry it almost hurt to speak. Without looking at Jude, she stowed her equipment methodically, needing to restore order and sanity by repeating familiar tasks.

  Jude twisted in the swivel chair in front of the counter and stared at the chessboard. Miraculously, it had remained undisrupted throughout what felt to her now like a tornado of barely contained chaos. Absently, she replayed Black’s last six moves. Nicely done.

  “We can’t show him,” she said at last. She didn’t need to review the videotape to know what she wanted to use from what they had just witnessed. “The network censors would never let it pass. Besides, I don’t want this to be about satisfying morbid curiosity. There’s still a lot there. We’ve got great shots of Deb and Sinclair, though.”

  Mel mumbled something affirmative. The dazed lassitude of her every movement told Jude how drained she felt.

  Gently, she said, “Go home, Mel.”

  Finally alone for what seemed the first time in hours, she pressed her fingers to her aching temples. Her heart was still racing with the aftermath of tension, but what left her nerve endings so raw and her skin so hot were the images seared into her memory. Saxon Sinclair. Doing all she did. Being who she was.

  Jude wanted to think about almost an
ything else, but all she could see were Sax’s blazing blue eyes, intent and focused in the midst of chaos, and her hands, so quick and sure and tender.

  July 2, 9:54 a.m.

  Sax walked into the trauma admitting area and stared in surprise at Jude Castle. “What are you still doing here? I saw your photographer leave just before I started making rounds a couple of hours ago.”

  “I sent her home,” Jude replied. “I think she earned her salary last night.”

  “So did you.” Sax pulled out a chair and sat down opposite the filmmaker. She had expected Jude to want to get away for a while after the previous night’s events. An injury like that was tough on all of them, even the most seasoned trauma veteran, but it must be nearly impossible for a civilian to assimilate. She had to work at not thinking too much about it herself.

  It hadn’t escaped her notice that Jude had looked as if she were about to faint when the severed leg was uncovered, not that Sax could blame her. She had a feeling, though, that it wasn’t because Jude was weak-willed or squeamish. Her reaction had seemed very much like the one she’d had when she’d first walked into the trauma admitting area—a purely involuntary, autonomic response to a stressful event. Or the memory of one. Even now, she still looked pale and shaky.

  “Are you okay?” Sax asked. “It was a long night.”

  Jude flushed, embarrassed, wishing that the surgeon wasn’t quite so astute. “Yes, thanks.” She knew where the unwelcome physical reactions were coming from, and she knew that she actually was fine, but she was troubled nonetheless. It was uncomfortable, disconcerting, and damned inconvenient to be suddenly awash with terror—no, the memory of terror—when she least expected it. She forced herself onto another track, because thinking about it only made it more of an issue. “How is...the boy? God, I don’t even know his name. I don’t even remember what his face looks like. I don’t think I ever looked at him.”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes, wondering at the rapidity with which she’d distanced herself from the horrors of human frailty. If it could happen to her in barely two days, how could anyone seeing it day after day possibly feel anything and still remain sane?

  “His name is Stephen Jones, and he’s twenty years old. He has a lovely girlfriend and a very devoted family. At the moment, he is still alive—against all odds—and he’s going to need all their support if he’s going to make it in the long run.”

  “You met with the family?” How did you find the time? How did you find the strength?

  “Briefly,” Sax replied. “Deb is with them now explaining what they can expect over the next few days. A big part of her training is learning to coordinate the various specialties that are involved in a trauma patient’s care. Just as important as orchestrating the medical care is keeping the family informed and putting them in touch with support staff who can help with finances, insurance, and things like that.”

  Jude sighed. “Damn. I should have gotten that.” She smiled wanly. “To tell you the truth, I needed a break.”

  “Understandable.” Sax meant it. She studied the other woman, concerned by the faint tremor she noted in Jude’s hands. She leaned forward, and asked again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m not as fragile as you might think, Dr. Sinclair,” Jude said more harshly than she intended. It bothered her that the seemingly undauntable surgeon might think she couldn’t handle the intensity of the trauma unit.

  “Would you like to tell me now what’s causing the flashbacks?” Sax asked mildly. “Or would you rather I find out when you finally faint and end up with a laceration on your forehead that I have to close?”

  Jude stood up suddenly, not the least bit dizzy any longer. She was too angry at Sinclair’s presumption, and too unnerved by its accuracy, to have even a faint memory of how ill she had felt just moments before. “You needn’t worry that I’ll be requiring your services in any fashion, Dr. Sinclair. I assure you, I’ll have no problem doing my job.”

  No, I’m sure you won’t. But is there any reason that you have to suffer so much while you’re doing it?

  Sax did not attempt to stop Jude from leaving the room, but she was disturbed to think of her struggling in silence. And it disturbed her even more to realize that she was breaking one of her own rules by caring.

  Chapter Eight

  The quietly elegant woman in the expensively tailored slacks and plain cotton blouse stood on the porch in the bright summer sunlight and listened to the sound of the motorcycle approaching. The unpaved lane that wended its way through the quiet countryside in front of her nineteenth-century farmhouse was lined on either side by wildflowers, and the stone path leading from it to her front door was edged with a collection of vividly colored petunias and marigolds.

  As she watched, a figure clad from head to toe in black—T-shirt, jeans, and boots—pulled up on a huge Harley-Davidson and dismounted by her front gate.

  Sax removed her helmet and propped it on the seat of her Harley. She ran both hands through her dark hair and started up the walk, grinning faintly at the woman waiting for her.

  “Hey, Maddy,” she said by way of greeting, taking the stairs up to the wide wooden porch two at a time. She slipped her arms around the woman’s waist and hugged her, bestowing a light kiss on her cheek. “You look splendid, as always.”

  It was said lightly, but it was true. Madeleine Lane was possessed of a timeless beauty born of good bones and fine skin, and a figure that artists had attempted to render on canvas and carve from stone for centuries. She would have been beautiful at any age, in any time.

  “You might have called to tell me you were coming,” she admonished Sax fondly, ignoring a compliment that had long since lost all meaning to her. “I would have gotten a list of chores together. Are you staying?”

  “Until tomorrow.” Sax kept her arm loosely around Maddy’s waist. “I don’t suppose there’s breakfast?”

  “It’s noon, Saxon.”

  Sax grinned. “I came straight from the hospital, but you always tell me not to speed, so it took me a while.”

  Madeleine regarded her granddaughter with a critical eye. She knew very well that Saxon’s unpredictable visits were usually prompted by a need to escape from something—too much work, too much horror, too many of life’s disappointments. There were faint shadows under her eyes now, and she looked thinner and more drawn than the last time she’d been here.

  That had been nearly two months ago, in the middle of the night. Her granddaughter had arrived in a driving rain, drenched and shaking from far more than the cold. As had so often been the case, they had talked until dawn about nothing of consequence, and when Saxon finally departed on her motorcycle, Maddy had still had no idea what had made her come. Saxon’s silences didn’t matter to her. They never had. All that mattered was that she always returned.

  “Have you been to bed?” Maddy asked as they walked arm in arm through the dimly lit living room. Lace curtains were pulled across the windows to filter the sunshine and keep the room cool. The house was not air-conditioned because Maddy had never liked the way that felt.

  “I’m not tired.” Sax avoided a direct answer. She was seething with too much restless energy to sleep, and she hadn’t been able to face the thought of returning to her expensively appointed but undeniably cold apartment. It wasn’t for lack of a good decorator that her apartment lacked warmth; it was just because there was nothing of her in the place.

  She hadn’t even thought about her destination when she’d climbed onto her bike and headed north out of the city. The humid air had blown cool around her face at sixty miles an hour, and she’d soon shed the lingering pall of sadness and death that had seeped past her defenses. In less than an hour and a half, she had reached home. She hadn’t grown up on the out-of-the-way farm, but it was home nevertheless—because it was where Maddy lived.

  “Did you work all night?” Maddy tried again.

  “Hmm?” God, what a night. I can’t remember the last time we had
one so bad. Sax caught herself just as she began to think about Stephen Jones and his missing leg and his ruined life. She couldn’t afford to remember the look on his parents’ face when she told them of his injuries or to imagine what the future would hold for him. Treat them. Don’t live with them. Keep your sanity.

  But sometimes the utter madness of it all crept up on you, and you went a little mad yourself.

  “Oh, yes, I did,” she answered off-handedly. “We were a little busy.”

  They had reached the large kitchen that ran almost the entire length of the rear of the farmhouse. Two years earlier, Sax had replaced the small rear porch and adjoining mudroom with a large glass-enclosed solarium that connected to the kitchen through double French doors. She had built it after Maddy had admitted that the nagging arthritis in her right hip bothered her less when she could sit in the sun. There, Sax had declared, you can sit in the sun all winter long and still be warm.

  “Sit down while I make you some breakfast. Waffles okay?”

  “Waffles are always okay,” Sax said as she stretched her legs out under the broad oak tabletop.

  Maddy set a cup of coffee by her granddaughter’s right hand. As she removed items from the refrigerator and cupboards, she asked casually, “How are things at the hospital?”

  Sax cradled the coffee mug in her hands and shrugged. “As crazy as they always are in July. New residents to keep an eye on, more people on the streets to get shot or mugged, more cars on the road to run into each other. It’s the busy season.”

  “Uh-huh,” Maddy responded noncommittally as she mixed ingredients.