Desperate Girls (Wolfe Security #1)(87)
“No. Why?”
The marshal moved, and Erik saw the crimson-tipped blade.
“Then who the hell’s blood is that?”
ERIK PLOWED through the doors and searched the emergency room.
He didn’t see her. He checked the hallways, the doorways, the vending-machine alcove. He cut through the rows of chairs, scanning the faces of everyone sitting and standing.
He spied her near the intake desk, arguing with a woman in blue scrubs, and Erik’s heart lurched as he saw the blood on her white blouse. He moved toward her like a guided missile.
“I want to talk to your supervisor,” Brynn was saying.
The woman looked pissed. “He’s on break.”
“Then I want to talk to his supervisor. Right now.” She fisted a hand on her hip. “I’ve been here twenty-two minutes, and I demand to speak to someone in charge.”
The woman glared at Brynn, then turned and disappeared through the double doors.
Erik stepped up to her, feeling like someone had two hands clutched around his throat.
“Erik, thank God! Hayes is back there.”
“Are you okay?” He could barely get the words out as he took in all the blood on her. Her snowy white blouse was stained with it. Ditto her skirt and shoes.
“Corby came at us in the parking garage,” Brynn said. “Keith shot him, and Hayes pushed me to the ground, but then Corby took a swipe at me, only he hit Hayes, and—”
“Keith shot him?” Erik took her arm, trying to calm her. Or maybe himself.
“He missed, Erik. And then Corby took off, but Hayes is wounded. It looks bad.”
The doors opened, and the woman in scrubs was back, followed by a man in a white lab coat. The stethoscope around his neck told Erik he was a doctor, but the zits on his face suggested otherwise.
“I’m Dr. Heuer.” The young man looked from Brynn to Erik. “What seems to be the problem?”
Brynn stepped closer. “The problem is that you have a twenty-six-year-old patient back there who was the victim of a vicious stabbing. His face is sliced open, he’s heading into surgery right now, and I’m being told there isn’t a plastic surgeon on staff in this entire hospital! How can that be possible?”
He turned to the nurse, and she stood on tiptoes and whispered something in his ear.
“There are, in fact, several on staff,” the man said, “but no one on call at the moment—”
“That is unacceptable.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Do you mean to tell me, if your wife was in there under the knife, you couldn’t find a plastic surgeon to come stitch up her face? We are in Dallas, Dr. Howser.”
“It’s Heuer.”
“There is a country club ten minutes from here, and I bet I could find half a dozen plastic surgeons on the nineteenth hole! You get on the phone and get someone over here. Now.”
He frowned at Brynn. “I’m sorry, and you are . . . the patient’s wife?”
“I’m his lawyer! And I guarantee we will be suing this hospital if my client receives substandard care while in your facility. Now, do you want to get on the phone before one of your first-year residents botches up this man’s face?”
The doctor started to say something, then changed his mind. He turned to the nurse. “Page Dr. Glenn. Tell him it’s urgent.” Another glance at Brynn, and he went back through the doors. Brynn turned to the nurse, who walked off in a huff.
“I swear to God, I’m going to punch someone.” Brynn turned to Erik. Tears welled in her eyes. “Erik, I hate it that he was hurt protecting me.”
He pulled her into his arms. He wanted to know what happened. But first he needed to hold her and convince himself that she was really okay.
Erik kissed the top of her head and looked around. Keith stood in the hallway, talking on his phone—probably to Jeremy, who was on his way over with Skyler. The rest of the team was stationed in another wing of the hospital with Ross.
Brynn pushed away and looked up. “What happened to you? Where’s Corby? Keith said something about an arrest?”
“Corby’s in custody.”
She stared up at him, those blue eyes swimming with angry tears. “You’re sure?”
Erik could tell she didn’t believe she was safe and probably wouldn’t for a very long time.
“I’m sure.”
Brynn refused to leave the hospital until Hayes was out of surgery and in recovery. The ER doc had tracked down a plastic surgeon, who put fifty-two stitches in Hayes’s face between his forehead and his left ear. Brynn felt sick just thinking about it but also deeply grateful that Hayes had pulled through the surgery and hadn’t lost an eye.
At the insistence of a tall, extremely pushy U.S. marshal, Brynn had then gone to a DPD substation with Erik for a debriefing with various investigators whose names she was too tired to remember.
It had been more of an interrogation than a debriefing. Brynn had sat alone on one side of a table for nearly three hours, recounting the same series of events. Fortunately, she was good at dealing with people who covered the same ground repeatedly, trying to ferret out inconsistencies. But being good at it didn’t make it any less of a pain.
She stood in front of a vending machine now, hungry, thirsty, and too bleary-eyed to even read the labels on the buttons. She fed a few dollars into the machine and gave the top button a jab. Nothing happened.