Catherine Lanigan - California Moon

His head felt as if it was about to explode. His fingers wrapped around the disk.

Hide it.

His hand moved as if by its own will.

He knew now they were both going to die.

Palming the disk, he slipped it under the bloody rock where he’d hit his head.

No! No good. Think man, think. Your life is at stake!

He moved his hand away from the rock. Pain washed over him. He could barely see them, fuzzy figures looming over him. A booted foot kicked his ribs and shoved hard. He heard the man grunt, then walk away, leaves, twigs and pinecones crunching under his feet.

Adam’s screams rent the still night one last time, shocking him alert. He heard the sound of a muffled gunshot.

A silencer! God…Adam….

Suddenly, he was hauled to an upright position.

“Where de fuck eezit?”

“I don’t…”

Suddenly his vision was keen and clear. A man with pockmarked olive skin and brittle eyes gritted his teeth and pulled back his fist. The blow to his midsection knocked the wind out of him. He couldn’t speak.

They pounded his jaw, neck, shoulders. He folded and sank to the icy mud.

“Give it to me or I’ll keel you.”

Bastards! I’m dead either way.

The blow to his kidneys sent a searing pain throughout his body. His lungs burned as he gasped for air. The pain was unbearable.

He wanted to feel angry, feel the need for revenge, but that took more energy than he had. Still, if he could survive, he would find them and return the favor.

If I could stall them…get to the car…

Hope was a virtue he’d seldom utilized but right now it was all he had.

“Adam…where’s Adam?” he managed to groan.

“Dead. Jes like you will be.”

The other man laughed. “No, let’s have some fun. We think maybe you keel your friend. Ha!”

They laughed menacingly together.

Even though he knew it was true, the words shocked him. He felt terrible guilt, crucifying guilt. He should have saved Adam. He should have fought back.

His eyes were swelling shut. He flailed his fists at the air halfheartedly.

They just laughed at him. One of them had a quirky, high-resonating titter. Hatred sprouted mighty and fast inside him.

He would never forget that laugh. Never.

They dragged him to the car and shoved him inside, propping him behind the steering wheel. He heard the car door slam, then another door open and close. Scuffling sounds attenuated.

Unconsciousness descended quick and heavy like a steel door. As the world faded to black, he thought, It’ll be good to die.

Shreveport, Louisiana

Shannon Riley had pulled the worst float assignment of her career at St. Christopher’s Charity Hospital—the ER during a full moon, half the staff down with the flu and a green intern on duty.

“But I’m just a ward nurse,” she said to Helen Mayer, the senior administrator who was standing in the doorway to the staff lounge. “Besides, I just finished my shift. I want to go home.” She rubbed her bleary eyes.

“You? Home?”

“I miss my cat.”

“She’ll survive.”

“Aw, c’mon, Helen. I’m tired. I really do have a life.”

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

“I didn’t mean a guy.” Shannon dropped her face to her hand, cupping her mouth. “Does it always have to be a guy?”

“It couldn’t be anyone else. You don’t have any family.”

“I know this,” Shannon looked away and stared at the wall.

“Sorry.”

Shannon was silent for a long beat. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. You’re more than just an employee here. You’re a friend. And that was unkind of me,” Helen said. “Please help me, Shannon. I’ve always counted on you, my ace.”

A slow smile warmed Shannon’s face. “You’ll note this sacrifice on my record?”

“Sure,” Helen agreed. “Come with me. You may be young but you’ve got more experience than I do.” She wagged her finger at Shannon. “You never heard me say that.”

Shannon liked Helen. She’d been the one who’d hired her when Shannon came to St. Christopher’s six years ago.

“This place has been pandemonium,” Helen continued. “Thirteen babies were born before midnight and both the labor and delivery rooms are full. I don’t know where we’re going to put them all. Maternity is on double shift as it is. On Four an elderly cardiac ICU patient died with no apparent seizure even though his latest prognosis was that he’d be going home in forty-eight hours. On Two, a stroke case, paralyzed on his left side, reacted to his meds and ripped out his IV, got out of bed and tried to walk out the door. It took five staff to get him into restraints and in the process they broke his arm.

“ER has been plagued with that three car pileup on I-20 that was just on the news. God! I can’t tell you how I despise minicams! We actually ran out of cast plaster. But the worst part is this flu epidemic. Staff is dropping like flies. The doctors—”

“I’ve heard all your good news. Now give me the bad news.”

“Dr. Scanlon.”

“No way.”

“Sorry,” Helen said.

Rising from her chair, Shannon said, “I like it when you need me.”

“Take that grin off your face and promise me you’ll do me another favor.”

“I haven’t actually agreed to the first one yet.”

“We’ve got a coma and a gunshot to the head coming in from Sabine Pass. The ambulance just left Highway 79. They’ll be here in ten. I don’t have anyone but you. For the record, I’ll state that Chelsea Sikeston is taking this shift. That way, if anything goes wrong…”

“Or right, then she gets the credit.” Shannon didn’t mind the shell game all the administrators played when the situation called for it, but it galled her to no end that twenty-five-year-old Chelsea, fresh out of college with only a year on staff under her belt, out-ranked her because Shannon was only a practical nurse and not an RN. If it was the last thing she did, she would get her degree someday.

The fact that Chelsea used her affair with the wealthy and very married head of administration, Dr. Thornton, to gain special privileges for herself, incensed Shannon, though she pretended indifference.

Helen’s voice brought Shannon back from her musings. “Do I have to say please?”

“Yeah. It would help.” Shannon walked past Helen to the hall and headed toward the ER.

Dr. Bradley Scanlon was not only a new resident to St. Christopher’s, he was new period. After two weeks on staff he’d lost two patients, both in the past six hours. He was exhausted and wanted only to climb onto a cot in the lounge and sleep for two days straight.

“How could I be so unlucky as to pull another shift?” he complained to Shannon as they changed into fresh greens.

“Triple shift is nothing,” she said flatly, cramming her auburn hair into a paper surgical cap. Double wrapping the ties of the smock around her, she heard the ambulance siren at the emergency doors. Two paramedics rushed alongside a gurney bearing the male auto-accident victim the state troopers had dug out from the bottom of the river.

“Is this our John Doe?” Dr. Scanlon asked the paramedic as he quickly checked the chart he was handed. Shoving the clipboard into Shannon’s hands, he began inspecting the patient for internal injuries.

“One and the same, Doc,” the younger paramedic replied. “Collapsed lung. BP is 190 over 130 and coming down. Possible concussion. He’s been out since we found him.”

“Chest tube and intubate him. Seven point zero ET 2. Give him Manatol IV and hyperventilate him,” Dr. Scanlon ordered Shannon who instantly began assembling the proper dosages for the IV. “CAT scan and X rays,” Dr. Scanlon said as he passed his hands along the man’s rib cage. “Feels as if they’re all broken.”