Mercy 6

“Not that,” she said. “I can see that. How did you know to come here? You’ve never been in here.”

“Not physically, no.”

She gazed at a single handprint, the highest one. The fingers were fully splayed, the thumb smeared along in a series of adjustments, a stop-motion effect. Mullich enhanced the effect by angling the light.

“In about an hour,” he said, “there will be a few more.”

“Or it will just be open.”

“That would be impossible. All lower-floor windows were replaced. We don’t use glass anymore. These windows don’t slide anymore. They don’t break.”

“Are the blueprints in your head, or do you have to check?” She motioned to the tablet in his lab-coat pocket. “With that.”

“I don’t have to check.” He evened himself to her, dousing the flashlight. The room became amber. “It’s not that difficult, Doctor.

Much less than what you have memorized. In your fingertips. How quickly do you go to the throat of a patient? Or the right kidney, a certain spot beneath the ribs, beneath an arm, into the ear? Without thinking, your hands moving on their own, two fingers ready?”

He illuminated the handprint again, singling out the highest one.

“I’ll go in and get that answer for you.” He lifted his face closer to the print, seeing something new. “If you make the fight about blood.”

“It’s never that simple. Sometimes you have to use paper. When paper trumps blood. And I’m good at faking when I need to get something from a patient. But I’m not good at fooling myself.”

In the dimness, she could still see his gaze. He was looking at her face, her eyes, her mouth, back to her eyes. She was being honest. He remained silent.

“When you go in there,” she told him, “she’ll be scared. You’ll be another doctor. You can’t approach her like this. Like this, with me. She’ll swear she didn’t even touch Verdasco. She won’t listen to your question. She’ll want answers first. She’ll want to know why things are attached to her.” Mendenhall wiggled her index finger at Mullich. “Why this?”

She pointed to the range finder hanging from his neck. “And take that off before you go in.”

14

Mullich left the file room, pausing to offer the window to her, the space, kept the light off, softly closed the door. She watched the door eclipse his long shadow on the linoleum. The outside light from the loading bay reminded her of hard candy. Now that she knew where to look, she could see the four handprints on the window, the cluster of smudges where they tried to slide the pane.

She could see them only with averted vision, her focus the supply truck beyond.

She was testing the effect, letting the handprints vanish and reappear, when a message pinged. Anything from outside her hospital life chimed that particular way. It was her aunt.

Cortez?

He misses you.

Not fair.

Take him back.

You see why I cant.

Then when this is over.

Then no.

Are you ok in there?

Yep.

Safe?

And sound.

She slung the cell in its holster and pressed her wrists to her temples, rolled her jaw. She leaned against the wall and was about to let herself slide into a sitting position, stare at the window, when Pao Pao buzzed her. The zap on her hip made her clench her thigh, trailed the sciatic path. She let Pao Pao record her message. The nurse worked best that way, uninterrupted, no questions, no false assurances.

Mendenhall picked up when she saw that Pao Pao had finished.

They had four new arrivals, all high fevers and pain. Mendenhall counted three even breaths in the resinous light before she left the file room.

* * *

Pao Pao had the four gurneys arranged in order of arrival, the EMTs kept at bay. Only one other nurse was working with Pao Pao, like her dressed in gloves, mask, and glasses. Patients in the beds lining the ER walls watched Mendenhall’s approach. An EMT offered her a fresh protection kit. She took the gloves and waved off the rest as she headed to the arrivals.

Arrival one was a nurse, her expression widening as Mendenhall neared. Mendenhall looked at the nurse’s eyes, then her fingers, then her length on the gurney. She eyed Pao Pao. “Let me guess.

Third Floor. Pain …” Mendenhall palpated the sternum. “Here.”

Arrival one gasped. Mendenhall checked herself, took a breath.

The EMTs had formed a line. Within this line gathered some of the ER nurses. Mendenhall wondered how they gauged their distance.

What possible piece of medical knowledge had they gleaned that told them that twelve feet was safer than ten? What was gathering now in their sympathetic little nerve bundles?

She turned to Pao Pao.

“Fever 102, sudden fatigue,” said Pao Pao. “Chest pain.”

Mendenhall surveyed the three other arrivals, resting her hand on the sternum of the nurse from ICU. All three were focused on her, lips parted, heads lifted. One was an EMT; two were nurses.

Mendenhall moved away, tried to disguise her anger in quickness, and conferred with Pao Pao.

She raised a finger to stop Pao Pao from speaking. “Listen to my guesses first. If I’m right — pretty much right — then we’ll know.”

Pao Pao nodded once, jaw firm.