“He just arrived, sir. They’re working on him now. If you’ll wait, I can check on how he’s doing—” She stopped to answer the ringing telephone. It was a technician calling with the new patient’s laboratory results. As she jotted down the numbers, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the man had turned and was gazing at the closed door to the trauma room. It suddenly swung open as an orderly emerged carrying a bulging plastic bag streaked with blood. The clamor of voices spilled from the room:
“Pressure up to 110 over 70!”
“OR says they’re ready to go.”
“Where’s that surgeon?”
“On his way. He had car trouble.”
“Ready for X rays! Everyone back!”
Slowly the door closed, muffling the voices. The nurse hung up just as the orderly deposited the plastic bag on her desk. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Patient’s clothes. They’re a mess. Should I just toss ’em?”
“I’ll take them home,” the man in the raincoat cut in. “Is everything here?”
The orderly flashed the nurse an uncomfortable glance. “I’m not sure he’d want to…I mean, they’re kind of…uh, dirty….”
The nurse said quickly, “Mr. Holland, why don’t you let us dispose of the clothes for you? There’s nothing worth keeping in there. I’ve already collected his valuables.” She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope labeled: Holland, Victor. Contents: Wallet, Wristwatch. “You can take these home. Just sign this receipt.”
The man nodded and signed his name: David Holland. “Tell me,” he said, sliding the envelope in his pocket. “Is Victor awake? Has he said anything?”
“I’m afraid not. He was semiconscious when he arrived.”
The man took this information in silence, a silence that the nurse found suddenly and profoundly disturbing. “Excuse me, Mr. Holland?” she asked. “How did you hear your brother was hurt? I didn’t get a chance to contact any relatives….”
“The police called me. Victor was driving my car. They found it smashed up at the side of the road.”
“Oh. What an awful way to be notified.”
“Yes. The stuff of nightmares.”
“At least someone was able to get in touch with you.” She sifted through the sheaf of papers on her desk. “Can we get your address and phone number? In case we need to reach you?”
“Of course.” The man took the ER papers, which he quickly scanned before scrawling his name and phone number on the blank marked Next of Kin. “Who’s this Catherine Weaver?” he asked, pointing to the name and address at the bottom of the page.
“She’s the woman who brought him in.”
“I’ll have to thank her.” He handed back the papers.
“Nurse?”
She looked around and saw that the doctor was calling to her from the trauma room doorway. “Yes?”
“I want you to call the police. Tell them to get in here as soon as possible.”
“They’ve been called, Doctor. They know about the accident—”
“Call them again. This is no accident.”
“What?”
“We just got the X rays. The man’s got a bullet in his shoulder.”
“A bullet?” A chill went through the nurse’s body, like a cold wind sweeping in from the night. Slowly, she turned toward the man in the raincoat, the man who’d claimed to be Victor Holland’s brother. To her amazement, no one was there. She felt only a cold puff of night air, and then she saw the double doors quietly slide shut.
“Where the hell did he go?” the orderly whispered.
For a few seconds she could only stare at the closed doors. Then her gaze dropped and she focused on the empty spot on her desk. The bag containing Victor Holland’s clothes had vanished.
“WHY DID the police call again?”
Cathy slowly replaced the telephone receiver. Even though she was bundled in a warm terry-cloth robe, she was shivering. She turned and stared across the kitchen at Sarah. “That man on the road—they found a bullet in his shoulder.”
In the midst of pouring tea, Sarah glanced up in surprise. “You mean—someone shot him?”
Cathy sank down at the kitchen table and gazed numbly at the cup of cinnamon tea that Sarah had just slid in front of her. A hot bath and a soothing hour of sitting by the fireplace had made the night’s events seem like nothing more than a bad dream. Here in Sarah’s kitchen, with its chintz curtains and its cinnamon and spice smells, the violence of the real world seemed a million miles away.
Sarah leaned toward her. “Do they know what happened? Has he said anything?”
“He just got out of surgery.” She turned and glanced at the telephone. “I should call the hospital again—”
“No. You shouldn’t. You’ve done everything you possibly can.” Sarah gently touched her arm. “And your tea’s getting cold.”
With a shaking hand, Cathy brushed back a strand of damp hair and settled uneasily in her chair. A bullet in his shoulder, she thought. Why? Had it been a random attack, a highway gunslinger blasting out the car window at a total stranger? She’d read about it in the newspapers, the stories of freeway arguments settled by the pulling of a trigger.
Or had it been a deliberate attack? Had Victor Holland been targeted for death?
Outside, something rattled and clanged against the house. Cathy sat up sharply. “What was that?”
“Believe me, it’s not the bogeyman,” said Sarah, laughing. She went to the kitchen door and reached for the bolt.
“Sarah!” Cathy called in panic as the bold slid open. “Wait!”
“Take a look for yourself.” Sarah opened the door. The kitchen light swung across a cluster of trash cans sitting in the carport. A shadow slid to the ground and scurried away, trailing food wrappers across the driveway. “Raccoons,” said Sarah. “If I don’t tie the lids down, those pests’ll scatter trash all over the yard.” Another shadow popped its head out of a can and stared at her, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Sarah clapped her hands and yelled, “Go on, get lost!” The raccoon didn’t budge. “Don’t you have a home to go to?” At last, the raccoon dropped to the ground and ambled off into the trees. “They get bolder every year,” Sarah sighed, closing the door. She turned and winked at Cathy. “So take it easy. This isn’t the big city.”
“Keep reminding me.” Cathy took a slice of banana bread and began to spread it with sweet butter. “You know, Sarah, I think it’ll be a lot nicer spending Christmas with you than it ever was with old Jack.”
“Uh-oh. Since we’re now speaking of ex-husbands—” Sarah shuffled over to a cabinet “—we might as well get in the right frame of mind. And tea just won’t cut it.” She grinned and waved a bottle of brandy.
“Sarah, you’re not drinking alcohol, are you?”
“It’s not for me.” Sarah set the bottle and a single wine glass in front of Cathy. “But I think you could use a nip. After all, it’s been a cold, traumatic night. And here we are, talking about turkeys of the male variety.”
“Well, since you put it that way…” Cathy poured out a generous shot of brandy. “To the turkeys of the world,” she declared and took a sip. It felt just right going down.
“So