Chapter Three Raine
Chapter Three
Raine
Charlottesville, Virginia
Wipers swished away thick rain droplets heavy with the fall chill. A quarter moon dripped light over wet, Halloween-bright oranges, browns, and yellows. Puddles gathered and grew deeper on the shoulders.
Fall was my least favorite time of year. The days grew too short too fast. The air turned too cold. It was a time of endings and regrets.
I took the second Charlottesville exit and merged into light local traffic. My GPS directed me toward the hospital, but I knew the way. I’d been to the medical center too many times.
It took another fifteen minutes before I turned right on Lee Street and then into the parking deck.
The low ceilings contracted the space above me, tempting me to duck even though that wasn’t necessary.
I drove past car after car, wove around several sharp turns, and found a spot on the fourth level.
Purse and coat in hand, I climbed out of the car, locked the door, checked the handle. Twice. Paranoia, I now said, wasn’t a quirk if danger was real and present.
The tight space and the rain dripping outside intensified the shadowed corners. A car door opened and closed. I hurried to the elevator and pressed the button.
The doors opened, and I stepped inside. As they closed, a hand reached in and reopened them.
A tall man with dark hair entered the elevator.
Black T-shirt stretched over thick, wide shoulders.
He looked me over and selected the first floor.
I nodded, gripped my purse a little tighter, and pressed the third-floor button. The doors closed.
I’d defended people who looked like this one. I’d always preached to judge and jury that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. But in the animal kingdom, smaller creatures avoided big predators. No self-respecting rabbit trotted into a metal box with a wolf.
The doors opened at the main lobby, and two more people, looking as disheveled as I felt, stepped onto the car. No one came to the hospital in the middle of the night for a casual visit. We were all dealing with crises.
At the third floor, I hurried to the nurses’ station and caught the attention of a young woman in scrubs sitting behind a computer.
“I’m here for Maria Cooper Durant. She’s my cousin. Dr. Webber told me she’s in the ICU.” I showed her my identification. “How is she?”
The nurse reviewed my driver’s license. “She’s on a ventilator. I’ll page Dr. Webber.”
Most nurses in critical care units were calm, accustomed to crisis—hard to read. But this nurse appeared nervous. She didn’t look fresh out of nursing school, so not her first time at the show. She must’ve known Maria’s condition.
“Can I see her?” I asked.
“Agent Blackwood wants all visitors cleared with him.”
“Blackwood? Judson Blackwood?”
“Yes.”
Agent Judson Blackwood and I had dated in our senior year of high school. We’d been part of a little group: Maria, Gabe, Ken, Judson, and me. We were a merry band for a long summer and short fall and winter. Despite life and its issues, we’d found a way to be happy.
Judson and I were together nearly ten months, and I remembered him more vividly than I probably should have.
He’d played football on a scholarship at James Madison University, but an injury at the end of his junior year had ended hopes of the NFL.
He’d joined the Virginia State Police after graduation.
I hadn’t thought about him regularly for the last seventeen years.
But whenever his name crossed my mind, the sadness wasn’t far behind.
“Where’s Agent Blackwood?” I asked.
“He’s still talking to Dr. Webber in the hospital lab.”
“Lab. What happened to my cousin? Dr. Webber said a heart attack.”
“I’ll let the doctor and agent explain.”
The wall clock put the time close to two forty-five a.m. Gabe’s mom, Edith, must’ve been caring for his and Maria’s daughter, Molly. I searched for Edith’s number on my phone.
“Raine.” Judson Blackwood’s deep voice echoed behind me. He was standing a few feet away. Brown eyes caught my gaze.
Tall, lean with broad shoulders, the football player’s body had filled out with more muscle, but he still had the high school athlete’s edge.
Thick patches of gray peppered his hair.
He wore jeans, a flannel shirt, boots. Strapped to a thick leather belt was a gun holster.
The knuckles on his right hand were scraped.
He moved as if he owned the space he occupied.
“Judson.” I slipped the phone in my pocket. “What’s going on here?”
After several nurses and orderlies had passed, he took my arm and escorted me to the waiting area, filled with old magazines, puzzles, and televised health tips.
He towered over me but didn’t dip his head toward me as he once had.
“Gabe Durant called 9-1-1 at approximately eight p.m. He reported his wife had passed out and wasn’t breathing.
He attempted CPR, which kept her alive until the paramedics got there.
When Maria Durant arrived here, Dr. Webber determined she’d suffered a cardiac arrest. If Dr. Webber hadn’t been in the emergency room, there’s a good chance Maria would’ve died. ”
His tone was clinical.
But the way he looked at me?
That felt like an accusation.