5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
R issa woke from her uneasy doze on the breakroom couch, just as tired as she was when she went to sleep. She moaned, rolling to a sitting position and pushing her hands back over her hair to smooth the tickling strands away from her face.
After tending to as many of the bombing victims who needed to see a doctor as she could—as well as playing nurse to many of them—she extracted a promise from Maria and Tomas, nurses who had just gotten off break, that they would check in on Elio. Then, she crashed and tried to get a couple of hours of sleep herself.
She squinted up at the clock—10:30 a.m. The first shift technically started over two hours ago, but with the city-wide lockdown, it was still all third-shift crew shuffling the floors and trading out with each other to catch a few winks before diving back into work.
Her thoughts returned to Elio. His sculpted chest and six-pack abs that glistened beneath her fingers as she sutured the gaping gash in his skin. His hands, large and skillful looking, restless as they worried the edges of the mattress and rattled the chains of his handcuffs.
She remembered the strange thrill his voice had given her as he asked, “What’s the matter?”
And she had told him—as if some mesmerizing force emanating from him made her unable to resist him. Warmth stirred between her legs as she thought of the way his eyes had lingered there in their slow, sultry perusal of her body. She realized with a shock that she was aroused.
Wait a minute. Did I dream about him? I did!
The fragmented fantasy her brain had thrown together for her enjoyment in a 90-minute nap on the breakroom couch came back to her in a rush. She had entered his room naked except for a lanyard around her neck, the chart clutched against her front—and her socks.
Gross but not as gross as being barefoot in a hospital. Thanks, I guess, dream brain.
He had not been wearing handcuffs. When she stopped beside his bed, embarrassed and apologetic that she had not had time to get into her scrubs, he had reached for her. His hands slid over her burning skin, pulling her down beside him on the bed, teasing her thighs apart, and. . .
Rissa bolted up from the couch, drawing a startled look from another resident who was slouched in a chair across the room, apathetically picking nuts out of a bag of snack mix. She hurried into the staff bathroom and closed the door, meeting her own pale, tired gaze in the mirror.
“You are going straight to hell,” she advised herself. “Thirsting over a patient ? A potential mass bomber, no less? Having hot sex dreams in the middle of a city-wide emergency? Straight. To. Hell.”
The whole situation appeared even more ludicrous, staring at her exhausted face, frazzled hair, and—ugh, vomit-splattered scrubs. She had forgotten about the poor other patient’s lost dinner and how it hadn’t all found its way into the bucket she had been holding for her.
After splashing water on her face and finger-combing her hair back into some semblance of a decent ponytail, Rissa exited the bathroom and beelined for her locker. She rummaged through her bag and found a second set of scrubs. She only needed the top, but even that wasn’t ideal. It was a scrub set she had meant to return long ago because it was a size too small and not her preferred style. She felt uncomfortable—unprofessional—with the way the garments hugged her curves.
But of course, she had never made time to drop them back at the uniform store.
I guess I should be grateful, she thought as she shimmied out of the vomit-stained scrub top into the tighter, lower-necked replacement. Great. Just perfect. This will totally help with the weirdly sexual para-relationship I’m forming with my possible bomber, handcuffed patient.
“Not that it makes you look any better,” she told her reflection, offering herself the chance to laugh it off. Her scrub top and bottoms were both impossibly wrinkled and slightly different shades of blue. The vigorous water splashing had washed off the last of her mascara, leaving her makeup-less.
Somehow, Rissa knew it wouldn’t make any difference to the vibratingly powerful patient waiting for her in room 230. He would still look at her exactly the same way—and how was she going to respond with that dream still fresh in her mind and body?
Straight to hell, she thought again and made a dive for the door before she could talk herself out of it. She was still a doctor, and he was still her patient. He needed to be seen by her at least once every shift.
She strode down the hallway, nodding to the coworkers that deigned to nod to her, trying to look strictly medical as she tapped on the door of 230 and then stepped inside.
Immediately, she knew something was wrong. The room smelled of cigarette smoke—had one of the cops been smoking ?—and the dazed expression Elio turned toward her was one of intense pain. She crossed the room in two strides, ignoring the police officer’s pointless greeting, and checked the IV bag. Empty.
She turned immediately to her patient, all sexual fantasies vanishing as she assessed him with practiced skill. His eyes were unfocused, his skin hot and dry. He had had no care, she realized. Absolutely no care since she had last walked out of the room.
Anger gave her fingers wings as she went to work replacing the IV, dosing him with morphine, flipping his pillow, and adjusting his blanket. He was still and quiet. He sometimes followed her ministrations with a slow, seemingly-reflective gaze and other times seemed to drift off into some distant place.
Okay, he is getting that CT scan if I have to sign the paperwork myself, Rissa vowed. She finished her work and spun to the police officer by the door. She stalked over to him and held out her hand, snapping her fingers when he reacted with a blank stare.
“Cigarettes and lighter. Right now,” she said. “Or I will absolutely report you to whomever you least want me to report you to.”
The man’s face sagged, and, after a moment, he dug into his pocket and handed over the battered pack of Camels and a cheap, tarnished lighter. Rissa snatched them and marched out of the room.
Ironically, Maria was the first person she saw in the hallway. Rissa grabbed her sleeve, pulling the scowling nurse to the side.
“You promised me you would check in on my patient in 230,” Rissa snapped. “Why didn’t you do it?”
Maria’s face darkened even further as she responded in a low voice. “Because, Doctor, unlike all of his victims—” she gestured sharply to the rooms around them “—that piece of shit deserves whatever he gets.”
Rissa blinked, taken aback by the woman’s venom. So far, reminding anyone that Elio was only a suspect, not a convicted killer, hadn’t helped.
“That’s not for us to decide,” she reasoned instead. “Our job is to ‘apply, for the benefit of the sick, all measures that are required.’ The Hippocratic oath specifically denounces playing God.”
“Don’t quote the Hippocratic Oath at me,” Maria retorted. At the same time, Tomas passed them in the hall and gave Rissa a disparaging glance. Maria snatched her sleeve from the doctor’s grip and swept down the hall after him without a backward glance.
Rissa stood rooted to the ground, her emotions in turmoil.
Am I in the wrong? she wondered. Blinded by some stupid sexual attraction to a murderer?
But she couldn’t bring herself to believe it. There was an element to Elio that almost frightened her, she admitted. A deep, coiled energy simmering below the surface of his composure—like he was a panther just waiting for his prey to pass close enough.
But at the same time, she couldn’t just accept that he was evil without evidence —a killer. There was a gentleness to him as well. A warmth in his hazel eyes and smile. A sensitivity to her changing moods even though he hardly knew her.
She took another step down the hall, not yet decided if she was going to head to the cafeteria to fetch something for Elio to eat or to finally pin down Dr. Bernhard and get a CT scan ordered as soon as possible. Before she could take another step, two familiar voices drifted from around the corner, and she froze.
“I don’t understand why we even had to come back here and try to question him again.” It was the gravelly voice of the female detective from the night before. “We already know there’s no second bomb.”
“Gotta keep up appearances,” the male detective rejoined. “We can’t let some little ‘question about the investigation’ foul things up if he goes to trial. We want this sucker going straight to prison.”
“You really think we’ve got enough evidence stacked against him?” the woman asked quietly, and Rissa took a step closer to the corner and strained to hear the man’s equally quiet reply.
“If there’s one thing a jury’s going to believe, it’s a videotape,” the detective said, the sound of a sneer in his voice. “Cameras don’t lie.” His chuckle following the statement made Rissa’s skin crawl.
She backed up a few steps before turning and heading back down the hall to the break room vending machine. Something about the conversation she overheard did not sit right with her at all. It sounded almost like they were talking about some kind of setup.
I’m not delusional, Rissa told herself, her steps quickening as she caught another cold glance from one of her fellow residents. Maybe Elio was telling the truth when he said he didn’t do it.
Passing a supply closet, Rissa suddenly veered into it, pulling the door almost closed behind her. Surrounded by mops and gauze and bedpans, she dragged her phone from her pocket and dialed Reagan.
Her friend answered on the first ring.
“Girl, what is going on?!” Reagan cried without introduction.
“Hi, how was your date?” Rissa asked, allowing herself a crooked smile.
“A hot mess,” Reagan said. “Unfortunately. We weren’t anywhere near where the bomb went off—unlike you—but of course, I had to cut things short to find out what was going on. Turns out he was mostly swagger anyway. But never mind my stupid date!” She interrupted her monologue. “What’s with the cryptic texts? Who’s giving you trouble? And how are you holding up with the back-to-back shifts?”
Rissa waited somewhat less patiently than usual for Reagan to run through her litany of questions and finally pause to wait for an answer. Sometimes, Reagan’s investigative journalist tendencies hit a little too close to home. But other times, they were invaluable. Her shoulders relaxed slightly with her friend’s final question.
“I’m okay, Rea. And I’m sorry about your date and for being so cryptic, but—I’m not sure I’m ready to talk about this yet.”
“Wait, are you kidding me right now?” Reagan’s voice crackled with banked excitement. “There actually is a guy—and he’s shaking you up? Rissa, this is huge! The timing is maybe not the best, but—”
“Reagan, please,” Rissa interrupted, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “It’s not like that. I mean, I promise I’ll tell you all about it when I get a chance. For now, I have a name I’m wondering if you can chase down and find out what you can about it.”
“Oh, more and more mysterious,” Reagan exulted. “All right, I’ve got my investigative journalist hat on. Shoot.”
“I need you to find out what you can about someone named Elio Accardi,” Rissa said. She hesitated. “Any criminal records, in particular. Will you do that for me?”
“You got it, girl,” Reagan said. “Talk soon?”
“Cross my heart,” Rissa said and ended the call. She stood for a second longer, her hand over her heart as she waited for it to steady. Then, she slipped out of the closet and down the hall.