Michael Palmer - Fatal

Just outside White Sulphur Springs, he glanced down at his pager, which he kept in a plastic holder on the handlebars of the Harley when he was riding, and transferred to his belt loop when he wasn't. It had been on the bike since the evening he followed Bill Grimes up to the mountain cabin. The light indicating a page was flashing. He had no idea how long that had been the case. He pulled off the highway and called the ER at the hospital.

"Dr. Rutledge," the ward secretary exclaimed, "we've been trying to find you. There's a disaster drill in progress, only it's not a drill."

Matt's pulse quickened.

"What's going on?"

"I really don't know. It's confusing. I think there's trouble at the mine. Maybe a cave-in, maybe an explosion. The first two cases are due to arrive by ambulance any minute."

"Tell whoever's in charge that I'll be there in about an hour."

Fifty minutes later, Matt swept around a wide, left-hand curve — one of his favorites to ride — and saw the lights of Belinda nestled in the valley below. So beautiful; so deceptively peaceful. Main Street was quieter than usual, but the hospital more than made up for that. One ambulance was in a bay, having just been unloaded, a second, also now empty, stood off to one side of the tarmac, and a third, flashers on, was just rolling up the drive. Matt parked the Harley and hurried over to help.

"I've never seen anything like it. Never," one of the EMTs was excitedly telling ER nurse Laura Williams. "We pulled these people out through a hole way up on this rock wall. There were flares marking the entrance to a cave and a rope on the ground leading in to where the trouble was, but no indication who put them there."

"I know," Williams said. "The other crew's still talking about it."

"And those barrels of chemicals. God, what a stench. That can't possibly be legal. What made those mine people think they could get away with such a thing?"

"Need a hand?" Matt asked, battling back the urge to answer the EMT's question, and peering into the ambulance at the two stretchers.

"Sure. The guy on the left is a load."

Fred.

Matt stood on his tiptoes and determined that the occupant of the other stretcher was Sara Jane Tinsley.

"How did you guys know where to go?" he asked.

"One of the cops who was on duty when the anonymous call came in knew the area the guy was talking about. We all went out in a caravan."

Matt took one end of Carabetta's stretcher, hauled it onto the cement platform, and helped pull it up into position to be rolled inside. The OSHA bureaucrat, moaning continuously and lolling his head from side to side, appeared to be in no immediate danger. Matt moved to speak to him, then just as quickly pulled back and

(raced into the crowded ER. There would be time for Fred. He easily spotted orthopedist Brian O'Neil, half a head above any of the disaster team.

"Hey, Brian," he called out, hurrying over.

"Well, Matthew, don't you look like shit. Where were you, at some sort of motocross?"

"Believe it or not, I was in the cave with all of these people when it blew."

"But — ?"

"Later. Are you taking care of Nikki Solari?"

"The doc?"

"Yes."

"Sweet woman."

"Behave. She hurt bad?"

"Trimalleolar fracture. A little displacement, but nothing that a bit o' time in the OR and a few well-placed screws won't fix."

"Promise to do a good job, and I promise not to tell her your degree is in veterinary medicine. Where is she?"

"Ortho. Please let her know I'll be in with her in two minutes."

"Make it five," Matt said.

Eyes closed, an IV draining fluid and antibiotic into her arm, Nikki lay on a stretcher, her swollen, discolored foot and ankle propped up on pillows in a transparent air cast. Her face and arms had been washed clean, but dust and small shards of stone filled her hair. Still, she looked absolutely beautiful.

"Hey you," Matt whispered, "lady doctor."

Nikki smiled broadly before opening her eyes. Matt kissed her on the forehead, then on the mouth.

"Did you make it in time?" she asked.

"No shots today, missy," he said. "Come back some other time. So sorry."

"That's great news. Nice going."

"It was my Uncle Hal all the time, Nik. He owned most of Columbia Pharmaceuticals. Grimes and the others worked for him."

Her expression darkened. She immediately understood the implications for him and for his mother.

"I'm really sorry," she said.

"Yeah. Well, it's quite possible even John Dillinger and Attila the Hun had nephews."

"I suppose," she said sadly.

"How did you get out?"

Nikki shrugged. "While the Slocumbs were doing their thing, I decided to drag myself back into the cave to look after Fred and Morrissey and the rest. A lot of time passed. I was getting worried. Then, all of a sudden, there was noise, then powerful lights shining in, and a few seconds later the Calgary Stampede of EMTs, policemen, and firemen began."

"The Slocumbs?"

"I have no idea where they are."

Matt kissed her again.

"I'm worried," he said. "I think I'm going to let you rest and go see if I can learn something about what might have happened to them. Brian O'Neil, the orthopedist who's taking care of you, is terrific."

"Why, Gunner, I didn't know you cared," O'Neil boomed from the doorway.

"Okay, I care, I care. Just don't make the mistake of thinking my judgment is flawed in other areas as well." He pressed Nikki's cheek tightly against his. "I'll be back soon, baby," he whispered. "Be brave."

"After what we've been through, how could anything be scary?"

"We've got an OR right now," the orthopedist announced, "and I think we should take it so long as no one else is ready."

"Might as well get it over," Nikki said.

"I want you to recuperate at my place," Matt whispered in her ear.

"You still in the back-rub business?"

"We never close."

Matt patted O'Neil on the arm as he passed, and wandered out into the bustling ER, looking beyond the busy nurses and physicians at their charges. Sid, the security guard, was in Bay 3, the curtained-off area next to Fred. Two bays down, Sara Jane was being cleaned off by an aide, and next to where she lay, Evan Julian, the ENT surgeon, was huddled over Colin Morrissey. Julian was the most meticulous, compulsive physician on the hospital staff, and never started a case unless every instrument was perfectly aligned on the scrub nurse's tray. Matt grinned at the notion of Nikki, her shattered ankle in a bulky makeshift splint, performing a successful emergency tracheotomy by lantern light in a cave filled with dust and toxic fumes.

Matt anxiously checked the other bays and rooms. The woman he had called Tarzana was in a side room, thrashing about wildly, restrained to her litter by leather straps. But no Slocumbs.

If there was dire need for his help with any of the patients, Matt knew he would have pitched in. But at the moment, he was feeling totally drained and more than a little fearful about Frank and Lewis. He left the hospital through the waiting room and headed across to his bike. As he was approaching the Harley, he noticed a tan Mercedes sedan parked not too far away. The driver, his face obscured in the shadows, was beckoning to him. He took several steps in that direction and froze. The car was Hal's.

"Doc, it's me, Frank," the driver called out in a loud whisper.

Matt hurried over and jumped into the passenger seat. Lewis Slocumb was stretched across the back, apparently none the worse for wear.

"You all right?" Matt asked, gesturing at Lewis's chest tube.

"Ah'm okay," Lewis said grimly. "Bastard kilt Lyle."

"I know. I was there. I'm really sorry, guys. I am. Lyle died saving our lives. And a lot of other lives, too. He was a real hero. How'd you get out and… and to Hal's?"