Burning Bright (Peter Ash #2)(37)
June found the emergency entrance, pulled the car into a short-term spot, and turned off the engine. Her lip was throbbing, but she was still wired from the near-robbery. The gun was in her lap.
Peter hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Are you going to take that into the hospital?”
She pretended to consider it. “I don’t know, what do you think?”
“I think you’re astounding,” he said. “Where have you been all my life?”
She tucked the gun under the seat. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said, and got out of the car to hide her smile. She’d never been called astounding before.
Emergency reception was the usual antiseptic anteroom, with easy-mop floors and vomit-proof chairs. A scattering of people waited for their turn or for friends or family, focused on their own problems, uninterested in the newcomers. A fresh-faced young woman in pink scrubs and pigtails sat at the intake desk, flirting with an ambulance driver, but she quickly turned her attention to June and Peter.
“We were in a car accident earlier today,” said June. “We went off the road. My friend’s a little banged up. His leg and his ribs, and he cut his head, too.”
The intake nurse was looking at June’s fat lip, now black and blue. “You look a little beat up yourself,” she said. “Anything else other than the lip?”
June held out her arm, starting to bleed again from the cuts of the window glass. “This probably needs a look,” she said. “Plus I’m sore all over.”
“That’ll happen,” said the nurse. “Insurance cards?”
“We don’t have insurance,” said Peter.
“How about some ID?”
June and Peter had talked it through, how they would navigate the questions. Peter thought it was possible that the hunters would have people checking the hospitals. He’d come up with a plan to make it harder for the hunters to gain information.
“We don’t have that, either,” he said. “We were robbed, hitchhiking back from the accident.”
The nurse looked at June, her face devoid of expression. June figured she’d worked the night shift long enough to have heard all kinds of excuses. They hadn’t fooled this woman one bit.
“Names?”
Peter jumped in before she could say anything. “I’m Peter Smith. This is my friend Marian. Last name Cunningham.”
June gave him the hairy eyeball. The mom from Happy Days was a long way from Debbie Harry.
“We’ll pay our bill,” he said. “I promise.”
“I sincerely hope so,” the nurse said politely. “Although federal law requires us to treat everyone, unpaid emergency room charges raise the cost of treatment for everyone. Billing address?”
Peter gave them the address of the motel where they’d showered.
Typing, the nurse nodded, then pressed a button under the counter. The door to the treatment area popped open. “Ma’am, I’ll take you back now. Sir, someone will be out to help you in a moment.”
The nurse escorted June to a seat in an open exam area, then stepped to a nearby workstation and spoke to another woman in blue scrubs, who came over and pulled up a rolling stool.
“Hi, I’m Sandra. I’m a nurse practitioner. I’m just going to take a look at your lip and your arm, okay?”
“Listen,” June said quietly. “I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
Sandra was mid-forties, with strong hands, a no-nonsense salt-and-pepper haircut, and deep lines etching her face. She was calm but intent. “Is it the man you came in with? Should I call the police?”
“Oh, God no, please don’t call the police. The man I came with is trying to help me. The problem is my ex-husband.” This was part of their plan, to provide a more reasonable explanation of their secretive behavior. June had added the embellishments. “He’s been stalking me. He’s a lawyer, a powerful man, and he knows a million cops. Somebody drove us off the road this morning, and I’m afraid he’s getting ready to do something worse. I’m trying to disappear.”
“Have you talked with the police?”
“I have a restraining order, but my ex-husband doesn’t care about that. He might send people to look for us. Please don’t tell them anything you don’t have to.”
“You’re certain he didn’t do this to you? The man you’re with?”
“No way,” said June. “He’s one of the good guys.”
Sandra put a warm hand on June’s shoulder. “Wait here a minute, okay? We’ll take care of you.”
When she came back, Sandra walked June to an exam room with a hospital bed and a clutter of noisy medical equipment. The nurse practitioner asked the usual questions, but the only truthful answers June gave were about her physical symptoms. She was tempted to give the woman her real cell number. She didn’t know why. Maybe she wanted someone to know how to find her, even if it was just a nurse practitioner in Springfield, Oregon.
For the rest of the world, she’d fallen off the map.
When Sandra touched June’s swollen lip with an alcohol swab, June flinched. “Sorry,” Sandra said, dabbing only a little more gently. “It hurts, I know. It’s actually started to split at the impact point. You could use a few stitches and ice to bring the swelling down, twenty minutes every two hours, through tomorrow. Might as well start now.”