J. Jance - Trial By Fire

“You’re saying someone’s framing you?” Ali asked.

“Yes, and it’s working.”

“Who would be doing that?” Ali wanted to know. “Why?”

“To get rid of me, maybe?” Sally returned. “I can’t let that happen. If I get laid off or fired, we lose our health benefits. Carston works as a bartender. Our health insurance is through my job, not his. He doesn’t have any, and with our daughter…”

She stopped talking abruptly and seemed to be trying to get herself under control.

“What about your daughter?” Ali asked.

“Our youngest daughter,” Sally answered finally. “Bridget. She’s only thirteen, but she was born with a heart defect. She had a dozen different surgeries before her first birthday. We’re on the waiting list for a heart transplant, but if I change insurance carriers, it probably won’t be covered because they’ll call it a preexisting condition. So you can see that I can’t lose this job. Do you understand?”

Ali did understand, but it seemed unlikely she could do anything about it.

“Look,” she said, “I’m on my way out of town right now, and things are really hectic at the moment. I still don’t see why-”

“It’s all about the union,” Sally interrupted. “The old one and the new one. That’s why they’re getting rid of me.”

“I’ve heard a little about this,” Ali admitted, “but it sounds like something you should be taking up with your shop steward so he or she can go to bat for you. What about Devon Ryan? Isn’t he in the same boat?”

Sally laughed outright at that. “Are you kidding?” she asked.

“Why would I be kidding?”

“He’s a guy,” Sally replied. “He’s also a sworn officer. All they have him up for is the conduct charge. If they really gave a damn, they’d be bringing up the names of all the other women he’s screwed around with over the years, but they won’t. He won’t lose his job or his benefits. They probably won’t let him back in Media Relations, but regardless of which union is elected, he’ll be part of it-one of the movers and shakers. I’m staff. I’m expendable, so I’m the one they’re throwing to the wolves.”

Ali glanced at her watch. Sheriff Maxwell had wanted her in Phoenix sooner rather than later.

“Sally,” she said, “I’m really sympathetic about your situation, but I’m in a rush right now. I really don’t see that I can do anything to help.”

“I just need to know that someone there knows the real story, that someone is on my side.”

“What about Holly Mesina?” Ali asked. “I thought she was your friend.”

“So did I,” Sally said bleakly.

She sounded so lost and alone that Ali’s heart went out to her, but she couldn’t delay any longer.

“I’m sorry, Sally,” Ali said. “I really have to go now.” The line went dead. Sally Harrison had already gone.

Ali had planned to drive back home to pack before heading for Phoenix. Now that her departure had been delayed, that no longer seemed feasible.

Connecting to her Bluetooth, she called home, where Leland Brooks answered. “I’m just now leaving Prescott,” she said. “I need to go down to Phoenix for a couple of days.”

“Would you like me to pack up a few things and meet you at Cordes Junction?” he asked. “That way you wouldn’t have to come all the way back here.”

That was something Ali had learned to appreciate about Leland Brooks-he always seemed to know exactly what was needed without ever having to be asked.

“Where will you be working?” Leland wanted to know. “How long will you be gone?”

“I’m going to Saint Gregory’s Hospital,” Ali answered. “Maybe one day, maybe two.”

“That’s at Sixteenth and Camelback, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Ali answered.

“Very well then,” Leland said. “I’ll meet you in Cordes Junction as quickly as I can. At the Burger King.”

Ali smiled at that. Her former associates in L.A. would have been appalled. “Great,” she said. “See you there, and thank you.”

Her eyes blinked open, fighting the light. A woman’s face, partially concealed by a white surgical mask, swam across her line of vision, hazy and out of focus. She fought to make her eyes work, searching for details that might help clarify the situation.

The eyes peering at her from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses brimmed with kindness and compassion. The woman attached to the eyes wore green surgical scrubs with a matching green cap perched on the top of her head. Over that she wore a gauzy-looking material that rustled like paper when she moved. Barely visible beneath it was a simple gold cross that hung on a chain around her neck.

The woman-was she a nurse? it was hard to tell-spoke then, her words soothing and quiet, while the patient strained to listen and make sense of any of this.

“There was a fire,” the nurse was saying. “A terrible fire.”

Yes, she thought. The fire. I remember that-all of it.

She had witnessed the fire from every angle, from inside the fire and from above it. She knew that what she had first thought to be a bed was really a stack of Sheetrock. The house had been unfinished, all studs and wires and pipes. That much she knew. The rest was a mystery.

Whose house was it? she wondered. What was I doing there? How did I get there? Why wasn’t I wearing any clothes?

Speaking softly, the woman continued her explanation. “A firefighter found you inside a burning house and carried you out. You were transported to a hospital here in Phoenix -Saint Gregory’s. Until we’re able to locate relatives, I’ve been asked to serve as your patient advocate.”

Phoenix , she thought. That sounds familiar. But where is it, and what am I doing there? Or here, if there is here? And what’s a patient advocate? I thought she was a nurse. Why not a nurse?

“You have second- and third-degree burns over fifty percent of your body,” the woman said. “You’re being treated in the burn unit at Saint Gregory’s.”

Never heard of it. Saint what?

“The kinds of injuries you have sustained are very serious and very painful. We’re keeping you heavily sedated due to the pain.”

She thinks I don’t know about the pain? Is she nuts?

“You’re on a ventilator because you also suffered inhalation injuries. You’re being given fluids as well as being treated with a morphine drip. Most patients are able to adjust their own pain-management requirements by pressing the pump and upping the dosage as needed, but the injuries to your arms and hands make managing your own pain impossible. That’s one of the reasons I’m here-to help with your palliative care. My name is Sister Anselm.”

Pal what? she wondered. What’s that? And Anselm. Isn’t that a man’s name?

“I’m a Sister of Providence,” Sister Anselm said patiently. “I’ll be monitoring your vital signs twenty-four hours a day. If I see warning signs that the pain is getting to be too severe, I’ll be able to increase the dosage. Do you understand?”

Yes, I understand. Of course I understand. There’s a button that I can’t push. I need to push it now. Because the pain is coming back. It’s coming.

“We need to find a way to communicate,” Sister Anselm continued. “Do you need pain medication now? If so, blink once for yes.”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

She was trying to blink with every fiber of her being. Trying. Trying. Trying. But nothing happened. Nothing.

Sister Anselm gazed at her face for a very long time. Eons. Ages, while the pain rose up and engulfed her. Finally the nun sighed and said, as if to someone else in the room, “Nothing. It’s too soon, I guess, and maybe that’s just as well.”