The Sisterhood - Michael Palmer [127]
Reluctant to take his eyes off Christine again, David began asking their location fifteen miles from the hospital without even trying to digest the information.
“Pulse: one ten and firm; respiration: twenty; B.P.: one sixty over sixty; pupils: four millimeters, equal and reactive.” The words became a litany, every two minutes. Dutifully, the paramedic repeated then charted them. There was no banter between the two men. No communication at all, in fact, other than the numbers, every two minutes. Pulse … respiration … B.P.… pupils.
As they entered the outskirts of Boston, the tension grew. David, constantly moving, checking, rechecking, rousing Christine. The paramedic, nervous in spite of himself, fingering the instruments of crisis. The driver, a burly young man with thick brown curls, growled a few words into the two-way radio and toyed with the control switches for the lights and siren. They were close enough now. Any sign of trouble in back and he would make a run for it, doctor’s order or not.
Suddenly the trip was over. The ambulance swung a sharp U-turn and backed up to the raised receiving platform. The rear doors flew open. A nurse burst into the ambulance and, with a glance at Christine, went straight for the intravenous bag. Right behind her, an orderly grabbed one side of the collapsible litter. A quick nod from the paramedic and they were gone, the nurse, running to keep up, holding the I.V. bag aloft.
David moved to follow, then sank back on the seat. He caught a brief glimpse of Margaret Armstrong as she met the team halfway across the cement platform and began her examination even before they reached the entrance. Her white clinic coat, unbuttoned, swung behind her like a queen’s cape. Her every movement, every expression exuded control and competence.
They had made it. They were home. The decision to move, however hasty, had held up. As relief swept through him, David began to shake.
He weaved his way across the busy receiving and triage area and headed straight for the trauma wing. Real or imagined, it felt as if everyone—staff and patients—was staring at him. Phoenix, rising from the ashes; Lazarus from the dead.
Pausing outside Trauma Room 12, he glanced inside. The room was empty. He shuddered at the memory of Leonard Vincent’s knife gliding across his throat. Then he thought about Rosetti. As soon as Christine was out of immediate danger and he had finished speaking with Dr. Armstrong, he would go see Terry.
As David approached Trauma 1, Armstrong emerged and beckoned him inside. Christine was awake. Through a sea of white coats—residents, technicians, and nurses—her eyes—sunken shadows—met his. For a moment all he saw was pain. Then, as he drew closer, he saw the sparkle—the flicker of strength. Her swollen, discolored lips pulled tightly as she tried to smile.
“We made it,” she whispered. David nodded. “Now you won’t have to do burr holes on me.”
David’s eyes widened. “You were awake during the trip?”
“Awake enough,” she managed. “I … I’m glad we’re here.”
Her eyes closed. A reed-thin surgical resident moved in, swabbed russet antiseptic over her right upper chest, and prepared to insert a subclavian intravenous line. As the man slipped the needle beneath Christine’s collarbone, David grimaced and turned away. He came face to face with Margaret Armstrong, who was standing several feet behind him, watching quietly.
“David, I’m so relieved to see that you’re all right,” she said. “The stories that followed your brief visit here the other night were quite frightening.’
“There’s some trouble in this hospital—in a lot of hospitals, in fact. I have a great deal to talk about with you, Dr. Armstrong,” David said. He glanced over his shoulder at the resident, who was calmly suturing the plastic intravenous catheter in place with a stitch through the skin of Christine’s chest. “What about Christine?”