Michael Palmer: Fatal

Oh, no, here we go again. Another goddamn crusade by Dr. Do Little. Well, go ahead and try causing us more trouble, asshole. No one pays any attention to you anyhow…

LeBlanc shook his head derisively, and Matt responded with a cheery thumbs-up. As long as Matt continued his efforts to make BC amp;C own up to its safety shortcomings and corner-cutting, they would be enemies.

Brian O'Neil, the orthopedist on team B, reached the cast-room door simultaneously with Matt. At six-three, O'Neil was two inches taller than Matt was, and a couple of years older. He had added two or three dozen pounds to the hard-nosed linebacker he had been at WVU, but at forty he was still a hell of an athlete. He was also a top-notch surgeon and Matt's closest friend on the medical staff.

"You first," Matt said. "I take enough of a pounding from you under the hoop."

"Since when did Gunner Rutledge ever mix it up under the hoop? You'd need a map just to show you where under the hoop is, Get a line in please, Laura. Normal saline. Usual bloods. Type and cross-match for six units. Portable films of his chest and leg. As soon as Dr. Gunner here has finished examining him, give him seventy-five of Demerol and twenty-five of Vistaril I.M."

"We're on it," Laura Williams replied, unflappable as always.

"You know, pal, Laura and some of the other nurses were betting that you'd sleep through this one."

"They may still be right. Seeing you here on time makes me think I might be dreaming."

Together, they moved to the bedside and assisted the nurse in cutting away the young miner's clothes. He might have been nine-teen or twenty, with reddish hair and wide, feline eyes. His narrow face was etched with pain, but he forced his lips tightly together and took the jostling to his shattered leg without a sound.

"I'm Dr. O'Neil, the orthopedist," Brian said. "This is Dr. Rutledge. He's a veterinarian, but he's a damn fine one. We're going to take good care of you."

"Th-thanks, sir," the young man managed. "I'm Fenton. Robby Fenton."

"What in the heck happened down there, Robby?" O'Neil asked as Matt began a rapid physical assessment.

"It was Darryl Teague, sir. He… he went berserk. He's been actin' a little tetched for a while, but tonight he was operatin' the C.M. an' he jes went off. You know what a C.M. is — a continuous miner?"

"That monster machine that scoops up coal and puts it onto the conveyor belt?" Matt said.

"Exactly. Twelve ton or more every minute."

"You never cease to amaze me, Dr. Rutledge," O'Neil said. "No wonder you don't date even though people tell me you're the prime catch in the region. You scare all the women away with your vast knowledge."

"Don't pay any attention to him, Robby. He's lucky he's a darn good bone doctor, or no one would even talk to him. Go on."

"Well, early on in the shift Teague got into a shovin' match with one of the guys, Alan Riggs. I don't know what it was about. Teague's been like that for a while — pickin' fights, complainin' that people were out to get him, that sort of thing. Well, a bunch of us broke it up between him and Riggs. Then, a little while later, Teague goes after Riggs with the C.M. He runs right over him, I mean right over him. Then he goes on an' takes out maybe half a dozen supports. That's when the roof caved in. How are the rest of the guys?"

"We don't know yet, Robby. You're the first arrival."

"Alan's got to be dead. You shoulda seen it. Blasted Darryl Teague. I don't usually wish nobody no harm, but I hope he got hurt but good."

"Dr. Rutledge, we need you," Laura Williams said from the doorway.

Matt had been so mesmerized by Robby Fenton's account that he had completely forgotten about the deluge that was about to hit.

Now the ER was in beehive mode. Six of the beds were occupied by miners in varying degrees of distress and pain. Technicians, nurses, and physicians were in constant movement, but the chaos seemed organized and nothing looked out of control.

"We don't need your internist skills right now," Laura said, "but we sure could use your ER talent. There's a lac in three. A beauty. I've ordered skull films, but they're going to take a while. He's low on the triage totem pole."

Matt stopped in the on-call room and quickly changed into scrubs. He was on his way to room 3 when Elaine LeBlanc intercepted him. A New Yorker with a dense accent, LeBlanc was a fit fifty, just an inch or so shorter than Matt, and broader across the shoulders. His thick, jet hair was slicked straight back and held in place with something from a tube. His trademark white stripe, an inch and a half across, glistened beneath the fluorescent overheads.

"What did that kid in there tell you?" he asked.

"Nice of you to inquire after the lad, Elaine. He has a compound fracture of his femur. That's when the ol' thighbone is sticking out through the skin. He won't be pushing coal for you for a while."

"Back off, Rutledge. What did he tell you?"

Matt met LeBlanc's icy stare with one of his own. The man was potentially dangerous. Of that, Matt had no doubt. It was possible that before Ginny died, he had held his contempt for LeBlanc and BC amp;C in better check. But with her gone, he simply didn't care. A lifelong health nut and nonsmoker, Ginny had no family history of lung cancer. She was only thirty-three when the diagnosis was made, and her tumor was an unusual cell type — the kind of unusual cell type that might, might, have been caused by some sort of toxin.

No one could deny that BC amp;C's coal processing plant was awash in carcinogenic chemicals. Whether they were handling and disposing those toxins in a safe, legal manner was another story. Matt had plenty of theories and some hearsay about illegal dumping or storage, but no proof. There was never any proof. Still, he was certain that if there were shortcuts in any aspect of mine safety or toxic waste disposal, the directors of BC amp;C would choose to take them. It had been that way when his father was killed, and Matt felt certain it remained that way today.

Over the years he had kept up a steady stream of letters to MSHA — the Mine Safety and Health Administration — demanding investigations and spot inspections. Once, two years ago, they had actually responded to his demands by sending a man in. Nothing — absolutely nothing except some minor maintenance log omissions. Now his credibility was at an all-time low. The folks at the agency either refused to return his calls or, when they did, as much as laughed at the notion of acting on his "information" with another surprise intrusion.

Despite his contempt for Elaine LeBlanc, Matt could see no reason why the safety officer shouldn't know what had happened in his mine.

"Fucking Teague," LeBlanc said when Matt had finished the account. "Stupid fucking Teague."

Mickey Shannon, the miner Matt had been sent in to suture, was fifty-four — positively ancient for mine work. In fact, he actually remembered working the coal face with Matt's father.

"Good man… Real good man… Stayed one of the guys even after they made him a foreman."

A sharp chunk of rock from the tunnel roof had glanced off Mickey's forehead right below the hairline. Three-quarters of an inch higher would have meant a direct hit on his skull, and his name might have been added to the list of fatal mine casualties kept on the wall of The Grub Pit Bar and Grill. Instead, the rock had peeled a five-inch-wide flap down over the bridge of his nose and across his eyes.

"I'm going to put some Novocain in to numb this thing up," Matt said.

"Don't bother, Doc. Just sew me up an' get on to someone who needs your help more'n I do."

Matt knew from experience that this was no false bravado. Mickey Shannon and the rest of the miners had been dealing with physical punishment and pain nearly every day of their adult lives. Caring for them and folks like them was one of the main reasons he had returned home to do medicine. It was the rugged, scramble for every dollar, help your neighbor even though you hardly ever have time to speak with him type of mountain people who made up much of his practice.