notes of jubilee

Monarch Books (February 19, 2010)

  I awoke at dawn the ninth day of April, 1365.  Unlike French Malmsey, the day did not improve with age.

      There have been many days I awoke at dawn but remembered not the circumstances three weeks hence.   I remember this day not because of when I awoke, but why, and what I was compelled to do after.  Odd, is it not, how one extraordinary event will burn even the mundane surrounding it into a man’s memory.

     I have seen other memorable days in my twenty-five years.  I recall the day my brother Henry died of plague.  I was a child, but I remember well Father Aymer administering extreme unction.  Father Aymer wore a spice bag about his neck to protect him from the malady.  It did not, and he also succumbed within a fortnight.  I can see the pouch yet, in my mind’s eye, swinging from the priest’s neck on a hempen cord as he bent over my stricken brother.

     I remember clearly the day in 1361 when William of Garstang died.  William and I and two others shared a room on St. Michael’s Street, Oxford, while we studied at Baliol College.  I comforted William as the returning plague covered his body with erupting buboes.  For my small service he gave me, with his last breaths, his three books. One of these volumes was, Surgery, by Henry de Mondeville. How William came by this clumes I know not. But I see now in this gift the hand of God, for I read de Mondeville’s work and changed my vocation.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

     Was it then God’s will that William die a miserable death so that I might find God’s vision for my life?  This I cannot accept, for I saw William’s body covered with oozing pustules.  I will not believe such a death is God’s choice for any man.  Here I must admit a disagreement with Master Wyclif, who believes that all is foreordained.  But out of evil God may draw good, as I believe He did when he introduced me to the practice of surgery.  Perhaps the good I have done with my skills balances the torment William suffered in his death.  But not for William.

     I remember well the day I met Lord Gilbert Talbot.  I stitched him up after his leg was opened by a kick from a groom’s horse on Oxford High Street.  This needlework opened my life to service to Lord Gilbert and the townsmen of Bampton, and brought me also the post of bailiff on Lord Gilbert’s manor at Bampton.

     Other days return to my mind with less pleasure.  I will not soon forget Christmas Day, 1363, and the feast that day at Lord Gilbert’s Goodrich Castle hall.  I had traveled there from Bampton to attend Lord Gilbert’s sister, the Lady Joan.  The fair Joan had broken a wrist in a fall from a horse.  I was summoned to set the break.  It was foolish of me to think I might win this lady, but love has hoped more foolishness than that.  A few days before Christmas a guest, Sir Thomas de Burgh, arrived at Goodrich.  Lord Gilbert invited him knowing well he might be a thief.  Indeed, he stole Lady Joan’s heart.  Between the second and third removes of the Christmas feast he stood and for all in the hall to see offered Lady Joan a clove-studded pear. She took the fruit and with a smile delicately drew a clove from the pear with her teeth. They married in September, a few days before Michealmas, last year.                                                                                                                                   

    But I digress.  


      I awoke at dawn to thumping on my chamber door.  I blinked sleep from my eyes, crawled from my bed, and stumbled to the door.  I opened it as William the porter was about to rap on it again.

     “It’s Alan . . . . the beadle.  He’s found.”

     Alan had left his home to seek those who would violate curfew two days earlier.  He never returned.  His young wife came to me in alarm the morning of the next day.  I sent John Holcutt, the reeve, to gather a party of searchers, but they found no trace of the man.  John was not pleased to lose a day of work from six men.  Plowing of fallow fields was not yet finished.  Before I retired Wednesday evening John sought me out and begged not to resume the search next day.  I agreed.  If Alan could not be found with the entire town aware of his absence another day of poking into haymows and barns seemed likely also to be fruitless.  It was not necessary.

     “Has he come home?” I asked..

     “Nay.  An’ not likely to, but on a hurdle.”

     “He’s dead?”

     “Aye.”

     “Where was he found?”

     “Aside t’way near to St. Andrew’s Chapel.”

     It was no wonder the searchers had not found him.  St. Andrew’s Chapel was near half a mile to the east.  What, I wondered, drew him away from the town on his duties?

     “Hubert Shillside has been told.  He would have you accompany him to the place.”

     “Send word I will see him straightaway.”

     I suppose I was suspicious already that this death was not natural.  I believe it to be a character flaw if a man be too mistrustful.  But there are occasions in my professions – surgery and bailiff – when it is good to doubt a first impression.  Alan was not yet thirty years old.  He had a half-yardland of Lord Gilbert Talbot and was so well thought of that despite his youth Lord Gilbert’s tenants had at hallmote chosen him beadle these three years.  He worked diligently, and bragged all winter that his four acres of oats had brought him nearly five bushels for every bushel of seed.  A remarkable accomplishment, for his land was no better than any other surrounding Bampton.  This success brought also some envy, I think, and perhaps there were wives who contrasted his achievement to the work of their husbands.  But this, I thought, was no reason to kill a man.

     I suppose a man may have enemies which even his friends know not of.  I did consider Alan a friend, as did most others of the town.  On my walk from Bampton Castle to Hubert Shillside’s shop and house on Church View Street I persuaded myself that this must be a natural death.  Of course, when a corpse is found in open country, the hue and cry must be raised even if the body be stiff and cold.  So Hubert, the town coroner, and I, bailiff and surgeon, must do our work.

     Alan was found but a few minutes from the town.  Down Rosemary Lane to the High Street, then left on Bushey Row to the path to St. Andrew’s Chapel.  We saw – Hubert and I, and John Holcutt, who came also – where the body lay while we were yet far off. As we passed the last house on the lane east from Bampton to the chapel we saw a group of men standing in the track at a place where last year’s fallow was being plowed for spring planting. They saw us approach, and stepped back respectfully as we reached them.                                                                                                                                        

     A hedgerow had grown up among rocks between the lane and the field.  New leaves of pale green decorated stalks of nettles, thistles, and wild roses.  Had the foliage matured for another fortnight Alan might have gone undiscovered.  But two plowmen, getting an early start on their day’s labor, found the corpse as they turned the oxen at the end of their first furrow.  It had been barely light enough to see the white foot protruding from the hedgerow.  The plowman who goaded the team saw it as he prodded the lead beasts to turn them.

     Alan’s body was invisible from the road, but by pushing back nettles and thorns – carefully – we could see him curled as if asleep amongst the brambles.  I directed two onlookers to retrieve the body.  Rank has its privileges.  Better they be nettle-stung than we.  A few minutes later Alan the beadle lay stretched out on the path.

     Laying in the open, on the road, the beadle did not seem so at peace as in the hedgerow.  Deep scratches lacerated his face, hands, and forearms.  His clothes were torn, and a great wound bloodied his neck where flesh had been torn away.  The coroner bent to examine this injury more closely.

     “Some beast has done this, I think,” he muttered as he stood.  “See how his surcoat is torn at the arms, as if he tried to defend himself from fangs.                                                                                                                                                                                                 

     I knelt on the opposite side of the corpse to view in my turn the wound which took the life of Alan the beadle.  It seemed as Hubert Shillside said.  Puncture wounds spread across neck and arms, and rips on surcoat and flesh indicated where claws and fangs had made their mark.  I sent the reeve back to the Bampton Castle for a horse on which to transport Alan back to the town and to his wife.  The others who stood in the path began to drift away.  The plowmen who found him returned to their team.  Soon only the coroner and I remained to guard the corpse.  It needed guarding.  Already a vulture floated high above the path.

     I could not put my unease into words, so spoke nothing of my suspicion to Shillside.  But I was not satisfied that some wild beast had done this thing.  I believe the coroner was apprehensive of his explanation as well, for it was he who broke the silence.

     “There have been no wolves hereabouts in my lifetime,” he mused, “nor wild dogs, I think.”

     “I have heard,” I replied, “Lord Gilbert speak of wolves near Goodrich.   And Pembroke.  Those castles are near to the Forest of Dean and the Welsh mountains.  But even there in such wild country they are seldom seen.”

     Shillside was silent again as we studied the body at our feet.  My eyes wandered to the path where Alan lay.  When I did not find what I sought I walked a few paces toward the town, then reversed my path and inspected the track in the direction of St. Andrew’s Chapel.  My search was fruitless.

     Hubert watched my movements with growing interest.  “What do you seek?”  He finally asked.  It was clear to him I looked for something in the road.                                                                                                                                                                    

     “Tracks.  If an animal did this there should be some sign, I think.  The mud is soft.”

     “Perhaps,”  the coroner replied.  “But we and many others have stood about near an hour.  Any marks a beast might have made have surely been trampled underfoot.”

     I agreed that might be.  But another thought also troubled me.  “There should be much blood,” I said, “but I see little.”

     “Why so?” Shillside asked.

     “When a man’s neck is torn as Alan’s is there is much blood lost.  It is the cause of death.  Do you see much blood hereabouts?”

     “Perhaps the ground absorbed it?”

     “Perhaps . . . . let us look in the hedgerow, where we found him.”

     We did, carefully prying the nettles apart.  The foliage was depressed where Alan lay, but only a trace of blood could be seen on the occasional new leaf or rock or blade of grass.

     “There is blood here,” I announced, “but not much.  Not enough.”

     “Enough for what?” the coroner asked with furrowed brow.

     “Enough that the loss of blood would kill a man.”

     Shillside was silent for a moment.  “Your words trouble me,” he said finally.  “If this wound,” he looked to Alan’s neck, “did not kill him, what did?”

     “T’is a puzzle,” I agreed.

     “And see how we found him amongst the nettles.  Perhaps he dragged himself there to escape the beasts, if more than one set upon him.”                                                                                                                                               

    “Or perhaps the animal dragged him there,” I added.  But I did not believe this for reasons I could not explain.

     It was the coroner’s turn to cast his eyes about.  “His staff,”  Shillside mused, “I wonder where it might be?”

     I remembered the staff.  Whenever the beadle went out of an evening to watch and warn he carried with him a yew pole taller than himself and thick as a man’s forearm.  I spoke to him of this weapon once.  A whack from it, he said, would convince the most unruly drunk to leave the streets and seek his bed.

     “He was proud of that cudgel,” Hubert remarked as we combed the hedgerow in search of it.  “He carved an ‘A’ on it so all would know t’was his.”

     “I didn’t know he could write.”

     “Oh . . . . he could not,” Shillside explained.  “Father Thomas showed him the mark and Alan inscribed it.  Right proud of it, he was.”

     We found the staff far off the path, where some waste land verged on to a wood just behind St. Andrew’s Chapel.  It lay thirty paces or more from the place where Alan’s body had lain in the hedgerow.

     “How did it come to be here?” Shillside asked.  As if I would know.  He examined the club; “there is his mark . . . . see.” He pointed to the “A” inscribed with some artistry into the tough wood.

     As the coroner held the staff before me I inspected it closely and was troubled.  Shillside saw my frown.

     “What perplexes you, Hugh?”

     “The staff is unmarked.  Were I carrying such a weapon and a wolf set upon me I would flail it about to defend myself; perhaps hold it before me so the beast caught it in his teeth rather than my arm.”

     Shillside peered at the pole and turned it to view all sides.  Its surface was smooth and unmarred.  “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “Alan swung it at the beast and lost his grip.  See how polished smooth it is . . . . and it flew from his grasp to land here.”

     “That might be how it was,” I agreed, for I had no better explanation.

     As we returned to the path we saw the reeve approach with Bruce, the old horse who saw me about the countryside when I found it necessary to travel.  He would be a calm and dignified platform on which to transport a corpse.

     We bent to lift Alan to Bruce’s back, John at the feet and Shillside and me at the shoulders.  As we swung him up Alan’s head fell back.  So much of his neck was shredded that it provided little support.  I reached out a hand to steady the head and felt a thing which made my hackles rise.

     “Wait,”  I said, rather sharply, for my companions started and gazed in wonder at me.  “Set him back on the road.”

     I turned the beadle’s head and felt the place on the skull which had startled me.  There was a soft lump on the skull, just behind Alan’s right ear.  This swelling was invisible for the thick shock of hair which covered it.  I spread the thatch and inspected Alan’s scalp, then showed my discovery to reeve and coroner.

     John Holcutt was silent, but Shillside, after running his fingers across the swelling looked at me and asked, “How could a wolf do this?”

Today's Wild Card author is:

December 1, 2009

Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. (March 4, 2010)

Fire captain Scott McKenna bolted through the doors of Pacific Mercy ER, his boots thudding and heart pounding as the unconscious child began to stiffen and jerk in his arms. He cradled her close as her small spine arched and her head thumped over and over against his chest. “Need help here. Seizure!”

“This way.” A staff person beckoned. “The code room. Someone page respiratory therapy stat!”

Scott jogged behind a trio of staff in green scrubs to a glassed-in room, laid the child on a gurney, and stepped back, his breath escaping in a rush of relief. He swiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead and tried to catch a glimpse of the girl’s face. He’d swept her up too fast to get a good look at her. Now, with merciful distance, Scott’s heart tugged. Six or seven years old with long black braids, frilly clusters of hair ribbons, little hoop earrings, she looked disturbingly pale despite her olive skin. Her dark eyes rolled upward, unfocused, as the ER team closed in to suction her airway, start oxygen, and cut away her flowered top and pants.

The alarms of the cardiac monitor beeped as a technician attached gelled electrodes to her tiny chest. Thankfully, the seizure ended, although saliva—foamy as a salted garden snail—still bubbled from her parted lips.

Scott inhaled slowly, the air a sour mix of illness, germicidal soap, and anxious perspiration. He thought of his nephew, Cody, lying in a pediatrics bed two floors above.

The ER physician, a vaguely familiar woman, gestured to a nurse. “Get an IV and pull me some labs. I’ll need a quick glucose check and a rectal temp. Let’s keep lorazepam handy in case she starts up again. What’s her O2 saturation?”

“It’s 98 percent on the non-rebreather mask, Dr. Stathos.”

Leigh Stathos. Golden Gate Mercy Hospital. Scott nodded, recognizing her—and the irony. She left San Francisco. I’ve applied for a job there . . . and everywhere else.

“Good. Now let’s see if I can get a medic report.” Dr. Stathos whirled to face Scott, her expression indicating she was trying to place him as well. Her gaze flickered to his badge. “Oh yes. McKenna. Didn’t recognize you for a second there. So what’s the history? And where’s the rest of your crew? Are they sending you guys out solo now?”

“No. But no crew. And no report. I was here as a visitor, until some guy waved me down in the parking lot. I took one look at this girl and decided to scoop and run.” Scott nodded toward a woman crying near the doorway. “That could be family. They were in the truck with her.”

“Seizure history?”

“Don’t know. My Spanish isn’t the best. I think they said ‘sick’ and ‘vomiting,’ but—”

One of the nurses called out for the doctor. “She’s starting to twitch again. IV’s in, and the blood glucose is good at 84. No fever. How much lorazepam are you going to want? She weighs about 20 kilos.”

Dr. Stathos moved back to the gurney. “We’ll start with one milligram slowly. But let me get a look at her first, listen to her lungs, and check her eyes.” She looked up as a blonde nurse appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Sandy?”

“Sorry, Doctor. I couldn’t get much, but her name’s Ana Galvez. Six years old. No meds, no allergies, and no prior seizure history. I think. There’s a language barrier, and I don’t have an official interpreter yet. But thought you should know I’ve got a dozen more people signing in for triage, all with gastric complaints and headaches. The parking lot’s full of farm trucks, and—” She stopped as the child began a second full-blown seizure.

Two respiratory therapists rushed through the doorway.

Scott tensed. A dozen more patients? Then his Spanish was good enough to have understood one last thing the terrified family had said before he took off running with their child: “Hay muchos más enfermos”—There are many more sick people.

He glanced back at the child convulsing on the gurney. What was going on?

+++

Muscle it. Punch through it. Control it. Be bigger than the bag.

Erin Quinn’s fist connected in one last spectacular, round-winning right hook, slamming the vinyl speed bag against the adjacent wall. And causing a tsunami in her grandmother’s goldfish tank. Water sluiced over the side.

“Whoa! Hang on, buddy. I’ve got you.” She dropped to her knees, steadying the tank with her red leather gloves. Everything she’d done in the last six months was focused on keeping Iris Quinn safe, secure, and happy, and now she’d nearly KO’d the woman’s only pet.

Erin watched the bug-eyed goldfish’s attempts to ride out the wave action. She knew exactly how he felt. Her own situation was equally unsettling: thirty-one and living with her grandmother and a geriatric goldfish named Elmer Fudd in a five-hundred-square-foot beach house. With two mortgages and a stubborn case of shower mold. She caught a whiff of her latest futile bout with bleach and grimaced.

But moving back to Pacific Point was the best option for her widowed grandmother, emotionally as well as financially. Erin was convinced of that, even if her grandmother was still skeptical . . . and the rest of the family dead set against it. Regardless, Erin was determined to put the feisty spark back in Nana’s eyes, and she had found the change surprisingly good for herself as well. After last year’s frustrating heartaches, being back in a house filled with warm memories felt a lot like coming home. She needed that more than she’d known.

Erin tugged at a long strand of her coppery hair and smiled. The fact that her grandmother was down at the chamber of commerce to inquire about volunteer work was proof they were finally on the right track. Meanwhile, she had the entire day off from the hospital. March sunshine; capris instead of nursing scrubs; time to catch up with her online course work, jog on the beach, and dawdle at the fish market with her grandmother.

She turned at the sound of her cell phone’s Rocky theme ring tone, then struggled, teeth against laces, to remove a glove in time to answer.

She grabbed the phone and immediately wished she hadn’t. The caller display read Pacific Mercy ER. “Yes?”

“Ah, great. We caught you.”

“Not really,” Erin said, recognizing the relief charge nurse’s voice and glancing hopefully toward the door. “In fact, I was just heading out.”

“Dr. Stathos said she’s sorry, but she needs you here. Stat. We’ve got kind of a mess.”

Mess? Erin’s breath escaped like a punctured balloon. In the ER, a mess could mean anything. All of it bad. She’d heard the TV news reports of a single-engine plane crash early this morning, but the pilot had been pronounced dead on the scene, and there were no other victims. The hospital shouldn’t be affected. Then . . . “What’s going on?”

“Eighteen sick farm workers,” the nurse explained, raising her voice over a cacophony of background noise. “Maybe a few more now; they keep coming in. We’re running out of gurneys, even in the hallway.”

“Sick with what?” Erin asked. The sheer number of patients qualified as a multicasualty disaster, but only if it were a motor vehicle accident, an explosion, or a similar tragedy.

“Dr. Stathos isn’t sure. But she’s thinking maybe food poisoning. They’re all from the same ranch. Everyone’s vomiting, and—”

“It’s a real mess,” Erin finished, sighing. “I got that part. But how come the ambulances are bringing them all to us? Dispatch should be sending some to Monterey.”

“They’re not in ambulances. They’re arriving in work vehicles. A couple of guys were even sprawled out on a flatbed truck. They’re lucky no one rolled onto the highway. The police are at the ranch investigating, but meanwhile we’re overwhelmed. And of course the media got wind of it, so now we have reporters showing up. You know how aggressive they get. I’m sorry, but I feel like I’m in over my head with this whole thing.”

The nurse was new at taking charge, and Erin remembered how scary that felt when things went south in the ER. Monday shifts were usually fairly tame, but this sounded like . . . “Tell the nursing supervisor I’m on my way in and that we’ll probably need to go on disaster status and . . . Hold on a second, would you?” She yanked off her other glove and strode, phone to her ear, toward the miniscule closet she shared with her grandmother. “Close the clinic and use that for overflow. Get security down there to help control things, the chaplain too. And see if the fire department can spare us some manpower.”

Erin pulled a set of camouflage-print scrubs from a hanger, then began peeling off her bike shorts with one hand. “I’ll get there as soon as I can. Just need to take a quick shower and leave my grandmother a note.” And kiss my free day good-bye?

No, she wasn’t going to think that way. As a full-time charge nurse, the welfare of the ER staff was a huge priority. Besides, Leigh Stathos wouldn’t haul her in on her day off if it weren’t important. Erin had dealt with far worse things. Like that explosion at the day care center near Sierra Mercy Hospital last year. In comparison, food poisoning wasn’t such a big deal, even two dozen cases. Messy, yes. Life-altering, no. Central service would find more basins, she’d help start a few IVs, they’d give nausea meds and plenty of TLC, and they’d get it all under control.

“No problemo,” she murmured as she hung up, then realized the inarticulate phrase was pretty much the extent of her Spanish. She made a mental note to be sure they had enough interpreters. Interpreters, basins, more manpower, and a full measure of TLC to patients—and her staff. That should do it.

Ten minutes later she snagged an apple for the road, wrote Nana a note, and stowed her boxing gloves on the rack beneath the TV. She wouldn’t need battle gear for this extra stint in the ER. And then she’d be back home. In a couple of hours, tops.

+++

When Erin turned in to the hospital parking lot, she realized she’d forgotten her name badge. Good thing security knew her. Her eyes widened as she approached the ambulance entrance. She braked to a stop, her mouth dropping open as she surveyed the scene at the emergency department’s back doors: four dusty and battered trucks—one indeed a flatbed—at least three news vans, a fire truck, an ambulance, and several police cars. She quickly put the Subaru in park, then opened her door and squinted up at the sky. Oh, c’mon, was that a helicopter? A plane crash wasn’t big enough news today?

Several nurses stood outside the doors holding clipboards and dispensing yellow plastic emesis basins to a restless line of a least a dozen patients in long sleeves, heavy trousers, and work boots. Including one elderly man who seemed unsteady on his feet as he mopped his forehead with a faded bandanna. A young uniformed firefighter paramedic, the husband of their ER triage nurse, was also helping out. Good, Erin’s request for extra manpower had been accepted.

Reporters in crisp khakis and well-cut jackets leaned across what appeared to be a hastily erected rope-and-sawhorse barricade. It was manned by a firefighter in a smoke-stained turnout jacket with the broadest shoulders she’d ever seen. And an expression as stony as Rushmore.

Erin locked the car, grabbed her tote bag, and jogged into the wind toward the barricade, trying to place the daunting firefighter. Tall, with close-cropped blond hair, a sturdy jaw, and a rugged profile. He turned, arms crossed, to talk with someone across the barricade, so she couldn’t see all of his face. But he wasn’t a full-time medic; she knew them all. An engine company volunteer? Maybe, but she hadn’t met him. She was sure of that. Because, even from what little she’d seen, this man would have been memorable. Her face warmed ridiculously as she slowed to a walk.

But her growing curiosity about his identity was a moot point. There wasn’t time for that now. She needed to slip between those sawhorses, hustle into the ER, touch base with the relief charge nurse, brainstorm with Leigh Stathos, and see what she could do to help straighten out this mess.

Erin stopped short as the big firefighter turned abruptly, blocking her way. “Excuse me,” she said, sweeping wind-tossed hair from her face as she peered up at him. Gray. His eyes were granite gray. “I need to get past you. Thanks. Appreciate it.” She attempted to squeeze by him, catching a faint whiff of citrusy cologne . . . mixed with smoke.

“Don’t thank me. And stop right where you are.” He stepped in front of her, halting her in her tracks. There was the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile. He crossed his arms again. “No one can come through here. Those are the rules. And I go by the book. Sorry.”

By the book? As if she didn’t have policies to follow? Erin forced herself to take a deep breath. Lord, show me the humor in this. Called to work on her day off and then denied access. It was funny if you thought about it. She tried to smile and managed a pinched grimace. This was about as funny as the mold in her shower. She met his gaze, noticing that he had a small scar just below his lower lip. Probably from somebody’s fist.

“I work here, Captain . . . McKenna,” Erin explained, reading the name stenciled on his jacket. “In fact—” she patted the left breast pocket of her scrubs, then remembered her missing name badge—“I’m the day-shift charge nurse. But I forgot my badge.”

“I see,” he said, uncrossing his arms. He pointed toward the trio of reporters leaning over the barricade. “See that reporter over there—the tall woman with the microphone and bag of Doritos? Ten minutes ago she pulled a white coat out of one of those news vans and tried to tell me she was a doctor on her way to an emergency delivery. Premature twins.”

“But that’s unbelievable. That’s—”

“Exactly why I’m standing here,” the captain interrupted. “So without hospital ID or someone to corroborate, I can’t let you in.”

Her jaw tightened, and she glanced toward the ER doors. “One of your paramedics is back there somewhere; Chuck knows me. He’s married to my triage nurse. Find him and ask him.”

McKenna shook his head. “Can’t leave this spot.”

“Then call.” Erin pointed to the cell phone on his belt. “Better yet, ask for Dr. Leigh Stathos. Tell her I’m here. She’ll verify my identity. The number is—”

“I’ve got it,” he said, lifting his phone and watching her intently as he made an inquiry. He gave a short laugh. “Yes. A redhead in what looks like Army fatigues . . . Ah, let’s see . . . green eyes. And about—” his gaze moved discreetly over her—“maybe five foot nine?”

Erin narrowed her eyes. What was this, a lineup?

The captain lowered the phone. “Your name?”

“Erin Quinn,” she said, feeling like she should extend her hand or something. She resisted the impulse.

“Hmm. Yes,” he said into the phone. “I see. Okay, then.” He cleared his throat and disconnected the call.

She looked at him. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Well,” he said, reaching down to detach the rope from a sawhorse, “it seems you’re who you say you are. And that I shouldn’t expect a commendation for detaining you. Apparently it’s because of your request that I’m here. Not that I wanted to be. I still have men out on the plane crash, but . . .” He hesitated and then flashed the barest of smiles. Though fleeting, it transformed his face from Rushmore cold to almost human. “Go on inside, Erin Quinn. You’re late.” His expression returned to chiseled stone. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. But that’s the way this has to work.”

“No problemo.” Erin hitched her tote bag over her shoulder and stepped through the barricade. Then she turned back. “What’s your first name, McKenna?”

“Scott.”

She extended her hand and was surprised by the warmth of his. “Well, then. Good job, Scott. But going by the book isn’t always the bottom line. Try to develop a little trust, will you? We’re all on the same team.”

Twenty minutes later, Erin finished checking on her staff and rejoined Leigh Stathos in the code room. They both looked up as the housekeeping tech arrived at the doorway.

“You wanted these?” Sarge asked.

“Yes. Great. Thank you.” Erin nodded at the tall, fortysomething man wearing tan scrubs, his brown hair pulled back into a short ponytail and arms full of plastic emesis basins. “Put those in the utility room, would you? And I think we could use some extra sheets and gowns too. If you don’t mind.”

His intense eyes met hers for an instant before glancing down. “Yes, ma’am, double time.”

Erin smiled at Sarge’s familiar and somber half salute, then watched him march away, his powerful frame moving in an awkward hitch to accommodate his artificial leg. She returned her attention to Leigh and the dark-eyed child on the gurney beside them. The ventilator, overriding her natural breathing, whooshed at regular intervals, filling the girl’s lungs. “She had two seizures but none before today?”

“Looks that way.” The ER physician, her long mahogany hair swept back loosely into a clip, reached down and lifted the sheet covering the child. “But see how her muscles are still twitchy? And her pupils are constricted. I’ll be honest: I don’t like this. The only thing I know for sure is that the X-ray shows an aspiration pneumonia. Probably choked while vomiting on the truck ride in. I’ve started antibiotics. Art’s coming in,” she added, referring to the on-call pediatrician. “And I paged the public health officer.”

“Good.” Erin’s brows scrunched. It was puzzling; an hour after arrival, Ana Galvez remained unresponsive, her skin glistening with perspiration. Though Leigh had inserted an endotracheal tube and the child was suctioned frequently, she was still producing large amounts of saliva. Her heart rate, barely 70, was surprisingly slow for her age. She’d had several episodes of diarrhea. Poor kid. What happened to you?

Erin glanced toward the main room of the ER, grateful things appeared to be settling down out there. “I still don’t get this, though. Ana came from home? Not the ranch where everybody got sick?”

“Yes, but—” Leigh fiddled with the stethoscope draped across the shoulders of her steel gray scrub top—“she’d been there earlier. Felt sick after lunch and her father took her home.”

“So that goes right back to the food. But salmonella takes time. Still, the symptoms fit. Triage says most of the patients are complaining of headache, nausea, cramps, and diarrhea.” Erin checked the monitor: heart rate 58. Why so slow? “What did they eat?”

Leigh sighed. “Sack lunches. Every one different. That doesn’t fit at all. I wanted it to be huge tubs of chicken stew that everyone shared. That would make sense. But Sandy’s seen twenty-six patients in triage now, and the story from everybody sounds the same: picking strawberries since 6 a.m., lunch together around eleven, and—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but something’s . . . wrong.” Erin and Leigh turned at the sound of the triage nurse’s voice at the doorway.

Erin’s eyes widened. The triage nurse looked awful—pale, sweaty, teary-eyed. Sandy was holding her hand to her head, trembling. What happened?

Before she could ask, Sandy’s eyelids fluttered and her knees gave way.