Lori Wilde - Racing Against the Clock

She shrugged.

He swept his gaze over her body, befuddled at the suddenness of her physical transformation. A short time ago she had been immobile, barely conscious. Her face had been lacerated and her blood pressure low. She had come into contact with an unknown chemical that was quite possibly toxic and she had acute upper-right quadrant pain. Now, she presented the picture of health. Her pasty color had been replaced by a lively pink sheen. Blond hair that had been damp and matted with blood now hung soft and luxuriant down her back. Plus, she was placing full weight on the bone that supposedly had a hairline fracture.

Something didn’t jive. He had seen Olympic athletes that hadn’t looked as good.

Then he remembered the results of the woman’s blood work. The low white blood cell count, the elevated platelets, the numerous lymphocytes. She didn’t look like an advanced cancer victim, either. Tyler narrowed his eyes and stroked his chin as he contemplated the evidence.

Maybe the chemicals she’d absorbed through her skin during the accident had altered her blood values, mutating her cells in some bizarre manner that resembled cancer. It was possible, although rare, to see such a change so quickly after exposure, but then again nothing about this woman seemed normal or predictable.

He had to get to the bottom of this anomaly. He had to find out how she could go from obtunded to robust in the span of half an hour.

What exactly had been in those vials?

“Get back on the gurney,” Tyler commanded, pointing a finger at the stretcher.

Jane Doe raised her chin and glared at him defiantly. “No.”

“I will not allow you to leave this hospital until I’ve examined you.”

“You can’t stop me.” Her blue eyes flashed fire.

He folded his arms over his chest and moved to block the doorway. “Maybe not, but the police can. Shall I call them?”

“This is an outrage.” She frowned. “It’s blackmail.”

“Sit,” he commanded again and pointed at the bed. This time, she obeyed.

Jane Doe scooted herself up onto the gurney but instead of lying down, she stayed sitting on the edge, her feet dangling inches above the floor. She looked like a disgruntled kid forced to eat her broccoli before being allowed to have chocolate cake.

“Has it occurred to you that something isn’t quite kosher here?” Tyler asked, stepping closer to the stretcher.

“What do you mean?”

“Your leg. It should be causing you terrible pain.”

He could explain away her irregular lab values in the face of renewed health, and it was within the realm of possibility that her spleen had stopped bleeding on its own without surgical intervention. But he could not, no matter how hard he tried, come up with an explanation for why she could bear weight on her fractured leg.

“I’ll tell you what’s not kosher,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him. “Your diagnosis. Admit your mistake, Doctor. You were wrong about the fracture. Obviously, my leg is not broken.”

“Let’s check the film.”

He stepped to where her X rays were clipped to a fluorescent, wall-mounted box and switched on the backlight. The bulb flickered a minute, then illuminated the view of her right-upper leg.

“See that,” he said, pointing to the thin dark line that ran almost the entire length of her long bone. “That’s what we call a capillary fracture. The mildest fracture, but a fracture nonetheless. You should be in considerable pain.”

“It simply isn’t my X ray,” she denied.

“It’s got your name on it.”

“And what name is that?”

“Jane Doe.”

“Yes. A name you give all unknown female patients. Correct?”

“There have been no other Jane Does admitted tonight,” Tyler replied.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” But her statement caused him momentary doubt. Could it be true?

“Then someone mislabeled the X ray,” she insisted. “You’ve got me mixed up with another patient. That’s all there is to it.”

“I want to X ray your leg again.”

“No need. It’s fine. You saw me walking on it.”

“Appease me.”

“I see no point. Clearly if I can bear weight on the leg it can’t be fractured.”

She had a valid argument. Their gazes caught and he couldn’t help but feel a flare of heat low in his belly. Her eyes were sharp, intelligent. Nothing got by this one.

“You still can’t remember your name?” he asked, flicking off the light under her X ray and coming back to stand beside her.

“No.”

“I want to check your neurological signs.”

“All right.”

At least she hadn’t fought him on this. He removed a penlight from his pocket and flashed it in first one pupil and then the other. Equal and reactive.

“Do you know what day it is?” he asked, testing to see if she was oriented to time and place.

“Thursday. November, the seventh,” she replied.

He nodded. “And where are you at?”

“St. Madeline’s Hospital in Houston, Texas.”

“Here,” he said. “Squeeze my hands.”

She stared at him. “What for?”

“So I can check your grip.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“I don’t bite.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

Why was she so reluctant to touch him? He wriggled his fingers. “Come on.”

Slowly, she took his fingers in her hands and squeezed.

“Harder,” he said.

Her hands were soft and warm and fit perfectly in his. Delicate and feminine hands. She smelled nice, too. Like sunflowers.

“How’s that?” she asked, squeezing with all her might.

“Good.” He met her challenging glare and swallowed back his awkwardness.

“Sure you don’t want it harder?” Her voice held a note of sharp sarcasm. Her stare was disconcertingly intense. His gut knotted.

“That’s fine. You can let go now.”

She released his hands and although Tyler was relieved, he felt vaguely dissatisfied.

“Lie down,” he said. “I want to examine your abdomen again.”

“May I leave after this?”

“Perhaps.” Boy, was she a tough cookie. He had to admire her doggedness.

Sighing, she stretched out on the gurney, crossed her legs at the ankle and propped the back of her head in her palms.

He moved to her side and palpated her spleen. “Is that tender?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be lying simply to get out of here, would you?” he asked.

“I’m not above fudging the truth in order to get dismissed,” she admitted and Tyler suppressed a smile at her honesty. “But I’m sincere. It really doesn’t hurt.”

When he had examined her previously she’d had marked guarding of the area and had moaned in pain. Now, she seemed unaffected by his probing. Weird. Her spleen must have stopped bleeding spontaneously. He’d never seen it happen, but he’d heard it was possible. He took her blood pressure—116/78. Textbook normal.

“I really think you should be admitted for observation,” Tyler said. “We don’t know for sure that your spleen isn’t still leaking. What happens if you get down the road a few hours and start hemorrhaging internally?”

“Guess that’s a chance I’ve got to take.” She shrugged.

Concern kicked him hard in the heart. If she wanted to take that risk, why should he care?

He didn’t care.

Yes, you do.

No, I don’t.

Come on, you’ve got to stop being such a crusty old goat eventually. The contrary voice in his head was pure Yvette, goading him to rise to the occasion. She’d always kept him on his moral toes and since she’d been gone he’d slid far down the slippery slope to indifference.

I don’t, he mentally argued.

Yes, you do. Because once upon a time you were self-destructive and your friends stepped in. Right now this woman needs all the friends she can get. Whether she recognizes it or not.