Natural Law(54)
“We’ll need to cut it off,” the EMT responded. “It’s got a key lock.”
“No,” Violet shouldered forward, yanked the key from the thin silver chain around her neck, snapping it. “I’ve got it.”
They gave her room, and she didn’t waste time, lifting his wrist and fitting the key to the discreet locking mechanism. Mac twisted his hand away, bringing up the other hand to fend her off. Even unconscious, he didn’t want her to take it.
The emotional reaction overwhelmed her, made her vision gray around the edges, the fear of losing him rushing into that vulnerable opening he’d torn in her heart. But she kept it together, leaned over him, shoving the nurse off her. “I’ve got it, baby,” she whispered. “It’s me. Let me take care of it.”
She felt the speculative looks of the medical personnel around her, but then Mac’s grip slackened and she had the bracelet in her hand.
“You’re going to have to stay out here, sugar.” The big black nurse was nudging her back with kind but determined intent. “Go give his information to the ER desk.
That’s how you can help now.”
“Don’t call me that,” Violet said, her voice trembling. But the nurse was already gone, behind swinging gray doors that sealed Mac away from her.
* * * * *
“I need to speak to a member of Detective Nighthorse’s family.” With his thinning hair and unfashionably plain black frame glasses, Dr. Hilaman looked more like a computer nerd than a surgeon, unless one looked through the lenses of those glasses and saw the hard, direct look to his eyes. They swept the waiting room, took stock of all the police waiting there.
“You’re looking at them,” Darla said quietly. “Mac doesn’t have any living family, doctor. I’m Sergeant Darla Rowe, his boss. I signed the surgical waiver. And this is Violet Siemanski. She’s his…” She looked toward Violet, standing next to her.
“I’m his,” Violet said simply. “Is he… has he…” She couldn’t force herself to finish it, not without a hint of hope visible in Dr. Hilaman’s countenance.
It had been eight hours since Mac had disappeared into the surgery. She felt Darla’s frozen stillness beside her, of those behind them. His immediate coworkers, Detectives 188
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Consuela “Connie” Ramsey and Martin Suarez, and a waiting room full of cops. It seemed like Mac’s entire squad had emptied out to share the vigil. As if by being present, they could convince Fate to swing in the fallen man’s favor.
“No,” Dr. Hilaman said, but there was no easing of his expression, no reassurance of any kind to be found there. He studied them, his gaze shifting between Violet’s face and Darla Rowe. “I’ll talk to the two of you, then, privately, about his condition. If you’ll follow me.”
Violet walked at Darla’s side, not looking at her, not doing anything but focusing on Dr. Hilaman’s back and putting one foot in front of the other. She didn’t want to hear his prognosis. She had a sudden, desperate and irrational thought that if she didn’t hear it, her will alone could make him survive this night.
Stop it, Violet. He needs you. Don’t lose it now.
She remembered the night Mac had held her in the tub, after the shooting. How he had kept the demons from taking her over. Well, she owed him the same. She’d hear Dr. Hilaman describe them, and then figure out how to put herself between Mac and whatever threatened him, drive them off and keep him with her.
Instead of taking them into one of the small anterooms, Dr. Hilaman took them down a hallway closer to the surgery, into an X-ray room, dim except for the series of films placed up on display on the lighted view screens. Dr. Hilaman stopped on the other side of them, leveled his somber eyes on Sergeant Rowe. “I know I don’t have to tell you that Detective Nighthorse is in extremely serious condition.”
“Violet is a police officer as well, Doctor. We both understand what kind of injury this is.”
He nodded. “All right then.” He directed their attention to an overlay chart of the human body, pinned up on the wall next to the X-rays. Violet had a difficult time shifting her gaze away from the stark black and white of those X-rays, the shadows and light of Mac’s body, to the garish colors of a cartoon-like depiction.
“This is the entry point, through the small intestine. The bullet came in at an angle, and it did significant trauma to the pancreas. The spleen was completely compromised.
We removed it. The pancreas are a difficult area to work on, because of the spongy quality of the organ, but we were able to stitch it back together. See this vein here?” He motioned with his pen. “This is the splenic vein. It’s a tributary into which a number of veins flow from the spleen, pancreas and parts of the stomach. It, too, was badly damaged and had to be repaired, as well as a whole series of smaller arteries.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet.” Darla spoke in a wooden voice.
“Not by a long shot.” It was clear that Dr. Hilaman had a learned opinion of Mac’s chances, and Violet watched, her tension building, as he measured their capacity to hear it.
“You don’t think he’ll make it,” she said. Her voice wasn’t her own. It was hollow, as if it echoed out of the aching chambers of her heart.
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“He’s tough, and in good condition, but the overall health of the body has little to do with the prognosis for this kind of injury. The bullet and the debris that it forced into his body—wood splinters, fiber stuffing—they made a mess of one of the most closely knit areas of the human anatomy. The next several days will be critical. If he comes through them, there will still be a long and difficult recovery period. A dangerous one.
With this type of injury, late complications could arise. Complications that could cause a serious setback, even death.
“If he makes it through post-surgery period,” Dr. Hilaman said steadily, “he will need home care, a nurse. A long period of recuperation, likely six months or more, time for his body to heal from the trauma.”
“He’ll have whatever he needs,” Violet said. “Can I see him? I want to see him.” Need to see him. Touch him.
The doctor looked toward Violet. She put everything she could into her expression to convince him. To make him understand that Mac needed her near, that the connection between them, her strength, her presence, was vital.
“You may sit with him,” he said at last. “And you—” He turned to Sergeant Rowe.
“—You may look in and satisfy yourself that he’s alive and getting the best of care.
Ordinarily I’d allow no visitors, but I suspect you both would be in there the moment I turn my back.”
“And we are armed,” Rowe pointed out, without a trace of a smile.
“There is that.”
* * * * *
Violet sat in the ICU, watching lights blink, listening to machines beep, to soft-soled shoes slap with varying levels of urgency up and down the hall. The stench of antiseptic filled her nostrils. She hated it. Hated the wait.
Her hand stayed on Mac’s, her fingers tight on his wrist, so every thready pulse beat was answered by the sure sound of her own. Though she didn’t trust the beeps from the machines, she marked every tone of them as well, jumping at the slightest variation.
The nurse came in as she did every half-hour, laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m going to need you to give me a few minutes with him this time, Officer. We need to take some readings. And you need a few minutes’ break. Go get some coffee.” Violet knew by the tone of the nurse’s voice she would brook no resistance. Since she was allowed here only as long as the nurses passed on good behavior reports to Dr.
Hilaman, she knew she had to obey.
Still, she had to set her jaw and firm her resolve for several moments before she could release his hand. The power and virility was leeched from his skin, making him 190
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look like he belonged in a coffin. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered to him, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead, savoring the taste of his skin, still living, albeit far too cool.
At the end of the hallway there was a cramped nook with a couple of chairs and a side table with old magazines. Violet assumed it was provided for those, like her, who were temporarily ousted from their loved one’s side for tests or procedures. Darla Rowe sat in one of the chairs. Violet didn’t want coffee, didn’t want to be any farther from Mac than she had to be, so she walked the twenty steps down the tiled hallway and took a seat across from her. “Are they all still here?”
“Some of them had to go back to work, or home to their families, but they’re taking shifts in the cafeteria on the third floor. I’ve been getting the reports when the nurse comes out, taking that down to them. How’s he look?” Violet met her gaze. “He’s still here.”
Rowe nodded.
The two women said very little, but as the moments passed, Violet felt the other woman’s regard become more intent upon her, and the weight of unspoken words building between them. She liked the look of Mac’s boss, and under normal circumstances would have gone out of her way to be nice, but she wasn’t really feeling nice at the moment. Perhaps it was that hostility emanating off of her adding to the rising tension, as much as something similar coming off of Darla Rowe.