Born to Die - Lisa Jackson [44]
The muscles in her torso tensed as she stared down at the patient’s swollen face. Kacey saw the resemblance despite the contusions and probable broken nose. High cheekbones, deep-set eyes, which were now closed, a heart-shaped face, a few freckles still visible were like her own. The patient’s hair was a deep auburn hue, and it fell in unruly waves to her shoulders, just as Kacey’s did, even though a part of Jane’s head had been shaved to allow an intracerebral pressure catheter to be inserted into her skull. The ICP monitored pressure inside the skull and drained off excess fluid.
Not a good sign. Heart monitor, ICP, IVs, urinary catheter were just a start. Jane Doe’s body was draped beneath a sheet, one leg splinted, but Kacey already knew from Rosie and Anita the patient was a similar size and body type.
She touched the woman’s hand. Who are you?
An eerie whisper swept over the back of her neck, and she told herself she was being foolish and unprofessional. Just because Rosie, who wasn’t known for being rock steady, thought there was a resemblance, so what? Yet, as she looked at the comatose woman, just for a second she imagined her own self in this woman’s place. In her mind’s eye she saw herself helpless, comatose, on the cusp of death, while nurses and doctors scurried around to try and save her life.
“See what I mean?” Anita asked.
Kacey lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she does look a little like me.”
“Try ‘she looks a lot like you.’” Anita straightened the sheet, but her gaze was focused on her patient. “Pretty compromised. Just when we think we’ve got her stabilized, she starts to crash.” She bit at her lower lip as she concentrated. “Some of her symptoms aren’t consistent with her injuries, and Dr. Henner is still trying to figure out what’s going on internally. X-rays, MRIs, CAT scans, but . . .” She glanced at the laptop computer that was also hooked to all the monitors. “Since she’s comatose, we can’t ask her what happened, and no one was with her or has come forward. She can’t give us any information on her pain or if she was on some kind of drug or had a seizure ... lots of unanswered questions, but the lab work should come back this morning. Then we’ll know a little more. A couple of detectives were here last night and said they’d be back in the morning.”
“Detectives?” Again, that tiniest of shivers.
“Yeah, two women who were checking out the accident.” She glanced at the clock mounted on one wall. Frowning, her eyebrows drawing together, she added, “They’ll probably show up soon, so I’ll double-check with the lab. Maybe they’ll know something more. You’d think someone should be missing her. She came in wearing top-end jogging clothes, jewelry, and had an iPod in her pocket. It’s not like she was destitute. Trust me, someone’s missing Jane.”
Kacey, too, saw the time. “I’ve got to get going. Tell anyone who might still think I’m lying in that hospital bed that I’m alive and kicking and I’m definitely not the Jane Doe.”
“Will do,” Anita said. She was just walking back to her station when the ICU buzzer announced a visitor.
Anita hit a button that unlocked the doors, and they were immediately pushed open as Trace O’Halleran, his face a grim mask, strode into the unit. Unshaven, hair mussed, wearing work clothes under a heavy jacket, he looked shaken and none too happy about being at the hospital. Two women were with him, just a step behind. The taller of the two was a redhead, mid- to late thirties, who introduced herself as Detective Pescoli. Her partner was shorter, Hispanic, and said her name was Alvarez. Both wore the no-nonsense attitude of cops on duty.
Anita wasn’t impressed with their credentials. “We can’t have more than one visitor at a time in ICU. What’s he doing here?” She pointed at the rancher.
O’Halleran’s gaze met Kacey’s, and she noticed a spark of recognition in those deep-set eyes. What was it his son had said? That she looked like his girlfriend? A little drip of trepidation slid through her bloodstream.
“This is Trace O’Halleran,” Pescoli said. “He thinks he might