“Sam, you need to see a doctor—”
“We have a lot of people here who need a doctor.” He glanced around at the street. “I can wait.”
Nina, too, focused on the chaos surrounding them. “We’ve got to get people triaged for the ambulances. I’ll get to work.”
“You feeling up to it?”
She gave him a nod. And a quick smile. “This is my forte, Detective. Disasters.” She waded off into the crowd.
Now that she knew Sam was alive and safe, she could concentrate on what needed to be done. And one glance at the scene told her this was the start of a busy night. Not just here, in the street, but in the E.R. as well. All the area hospitals would need to call in every E.R. nurse they had to attend to these people.
Her head was starting to ache worse than ever, her scraped elbows stung every time she bent her arms. But at this moment, as far as she knew, she was the only nurse on the scene.
She focused on the nearest victim, a woman whose leg was cut and bleeding. Nina knelt down, ripped a strip of fabric from the victim’s hem and quickly wrapped a makeshift pressure bandage around the bleeding limb. When she’d finished tying it off, she noted to her satisfaction that the flow of blood had stopped.
That was only the first, she thought, and she looked around for the next patient. There were dozens more to go….
* * *
ACROSS THE STREET, his face hidden in the shadows, Vincent Spectre watched the chaos and muttered a curse. Both Judge Stanley Dalton and Norm Liddell were still alive. Spectre could see the young D.A. sitting against the lamppost, clutching his head. The blond woman sitting beside him must be Liddell’s wife. They were right in the thick of things, surrounded by dozens of other injured theater patrons. Spectre couldn’t just walk right over and dispatch Liddell, not without being seen by a score of witnesses. Sam Navarro was just a few yards from Liddell, and Navarro would certainly be armed.
Another humiliation. This would destroy his reputation, not to mention his back account. The Snowman had promised four hundred thousand dollars for the deaths of Dalton and Liddell. Spectre had thought this an elegant solution: to kill both of them at once. With so many other victims, the identity of the targets might never be pinpointed.
But the targets were still alive, and there’d be no payment forthcoming.
The job had become too risky to complete, especially with Navarro on the scent. Thanks to Navarro, Spectre would have to bow out. And kiss his four hundred thousand goodbye.
He shifted his gaze, refocusing on another figure in the crowd. It was that nurse, Nina Cormier, bandaging one of the injured. This fiasco was her fault, too; he was sure of it. She must’ve given the police just enough info to tip them off to the bomb. The usher’s uniform, no doubt, had been the vital clue.
She was another detail he hadn’t bothered to clean up, and look at the result. No hit, no money. Plus, she could identify him. Though that police sketch was hopelessly generic, Spectre had a feeling that, if Nina Cormier ever saw his face, she would remember him. That made her a threat he could no longer ignore.
But now was not the opportunity. Not in this crowd, in this street. The ambulances were arriving, siren after siren whooping to a stop. And the police had cordoned off the street from stray vehicles.
Time to leave.
Spectre turned and walked away, his frustration mounting with every step he took. He’d always prided himself on paying attention to the little things. Anyone who worked with explosives had to have a fetish for details, or they didn’t last long. Spectre intended to hang around in this business, which meant he would continue to fuss over the details.
And the next detail to attend to was Nina Cormier.
* * *
SHE WAS MAGNIFICENT. Sam paused wearily amid the broken glass and shouting voices and he gazed in Nina’s direction. It was ten-thirty, an hour and a half since the explosion, and the street was still a scene of confusion. Police cars and ambulances were parked haphazardly up and down the block, their lights flashing like a dozen strobes. Emergency personnel were everywhere, picking through the wreckage, sorting through the victims. The most seriously injured had already been evacuated, but there were dozens more still to be transported to hospitals.
In the midst of all that wreckage, Nina seemed an island of calm efficiency. As Sam watched, she knelt down beside a groaning man and dressed his bleeding arm with a makeshift bandage. Then, with a reassuring pat and a soft word, she moved on to the next patient. As though sensing she was being watched, she suddenly glanced in Sam’s direction. Just for a moment their gazes locked across the chaos, and she read the question in his eyes: Are you holding up okay?
She gave him a wave, a nod of reassurance. Then she turned back to her patient.
They both had their work cut out for them tonight. He focused his attention, once again, on the bomb scene investigation.
Gillis had arrived forty-five minutes ago with the personal body armor and mask. The rest of the team had straggled in one by one—three techs, Ernie Takeda, Detective Cooley. Even Abe Coopersmith had appeared, his presence more symbolic than practical. This was Sam’s show, and everyone knew it. The bomb disposal truck was in place and parked nearby. Everyone was waiting.
It was time to go in the building. Time to search for any second device.
Sam and Gillis, both of them wearing headlamps, entered the theater.
The darkness made the search slow and difficult. Stepping gingerly over debris, Sam headed down the left aisle, Gillis the right. The back rows of seats had sustained damage only to the upholstery—shredded fabric and stuffing. The farther they advanced the more severe the damage.
“Dynamite,” Gillis noted, sniffing the air.
“Looks like the blast center’s near the front.”
Sam moved slowly toward the orchestra pit, the beam of his headlamp slicing the darkness left and right as he scanned the area around the stage—or what had once been the stage. A few splintered boards was all that remained.
“Crater’s right here,” observed Gillis.
Sam joined him. The two men knelt down for a closer inspection. Like the church bomb a week before, this one was shallow—a low-velocity blast. Dynamite.
“Looks like the third row, center stage,” said Sam. “Wonder who was sitting here.”
“Assigned seating, you figure?”
“If so, then we’ll have ourselves a convenient list of potential targets.”
“Looks all clear to me,” Gillis declared.
“We can call in the searchers.” Sam rose to his feet and at once felt a little dizzy. The aftereffects of the blast. He’d been in so many bombs lately, his brain must be getting scrambled. Maybe some fresh air would clear his head.
“You okay?” asked Gillis.
“Yeah. I just need to get out of here for a moment.” He stumbled back up the aisle and through the lobby doors. Outside he leaned against a lamppost, breathing gulps of night air. His dizziness faded and he became aware, once again, of the activity in the street. He noticed that the crowds had thinned, and that the injured had all been evacuated. Only one ambulance was still parked in the road.
Where was Nina?
That one thought instantly cleared his head. He glanced up and down the street, but caught no glimpse of her. Had she left the scene? Or was she taken from it?
A young cop manning the police line glanced up as Sam approached. “Yes, sir?”
“There was a woman—a nurse in street clothes—working out here. Where’d she go?”
“You mean the dark-haired lady? The pretty one?”
“That’s her.”
“She left in one of the ambulances, about twenty minutes ago. I think she was helping with a patient.”
“Thanks.” Sam went to his car and reached inside for his cellular phone. He was not taking any chances; he had to be sure she was safe. He dialed Maine Med E.R.
The line was busy.
In frustration he climbed in the ca
r. “I’m heading to the hospital!” he yelled to Gillis. “Be right back.”
Ignoring his partner’s look of puzzlement, Sam lurched away from the curb and steered through the obstacle course of police vehicles. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a parking stall near the hospital’s emergency entrance.
Even before he walked in the doors, he could hear the sounds of frantic activity inside. The waiting area was mobbed. He pushed his way through the crowd until he’d reached the triage desk, manned by a clearly embattled nurse.
“I’m Detective Navarro, Portland Police,” he said. “Is Nina Cormier working here?”
“Nina? Not tonight, as far as I know.”
“She came in with one of the ambulances.”
“I might have missed her. Let me check.” She punched the intercom button and said, “There’s a policeman out here. Wants to speak to Nina. If she’s back there, can you ask her to come out?”
For a good ten minutes, he waited with growing impatience. Nina didn’t appear. The crowd in the E.R. seemed to grow even larger, packing into every available square inch of the waiting area. Even worse, the reporters had shown up, TV cameras and all. The triage nurse had her hands full; she’d forgotten entirely about Sam.
Unable to wait any longer, he pushed past the front desk. The nurse was calming down a hysterical family member; she didn’t even notice Sam had crossed into the inner sanctum and was heading up the E.R. corridor.
Treatment rooms lined both sides of the halls. He glanced in each one as he passed. All were occupied and overflowing with victims from the bombing. He saw stunned faces, bloodied clothes. But no Nina.
He turned, retraced his steps down the hall, and paused outside a closed door. It was the trauma room. From beyond the door came the sound of voices, the clang of cabinets. He knew that a crisis was in full swing, and he was reluctant to intrude, but he had no alternative. He had to confirm that Nina was here, that she’d made it safely to the E.R.
He pushed open the door.
A patient—a man—was lying on the table, his body white and flaccid under the lights. Half a dozen medical personnel were laboring over him, one performing CPR, the others scurrying about with IVs and drugs. Sam paused, momentarily stunned by the horror of the scene.
“Sam?”
Only then did he notice Nina moving toward him from the other side of the room. Like all the other nurses, she was dressed in scrub clothes. He hadn’t even noticed her in that first glimpse of blue-clad personnel.
She took his arm and quickly tugged him out of the room. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
“You left the blast site. I wasn’t sure what happened to you.”
“I rode here in one of the ambulances. I figured they needed me.” She glanced back at the door to the trauma room. “I was right.”
“Nina, you can’t just take off without telling me! I had no idea if you were all right.”
She regarded him with an expression of quiet wonder, but didn’t say a thing.
“Are you listening to me?” he said.
“Yes,” she replied softly. “But I don’t believe what I’m hearing. You actually sound scared.”
“I wasn’t scared. I was just—I mean—” He shook his head in frustration. “Okay, I was worried. I didn’t want something to happen to you.”
“Because I’m your witness?”
He looked into her eyes, those beautiful, thoughtful eyes. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. This was a new feeling for him and he didn’t like it. He was not a man who was easily frightened, and the fact that he had experienced such fear at the thought of losing her told him he was far more deeply involved than he’d ever intended to be.
“Sam?” She reached up and touched his face.
He grasped her hand and gently lowered it. “Next time,” he instructed, “I want you to tell me where you’re going. It’s your life at stake. If you want to risk it, that’s your business. But until Spectre’s under arrest, your safety’s my concern. Do you understand?”
She withdrew her hand from his. The retreat was more than physical; he could feel her pulling away emotionally as well, and it hurt him. It was a pain of his own choosing, and that made it even worse.
She said, tightly, “I understand perfectly well.”
“Good. Now, I think you should go back to the hotel where we can keep an eye on you tonight.”
“I can’t leave. They need me here.”
“I need you, too. Alive.”
“Look at this place!” She waved toward the waiting area, crowded with the injured. “These people all have to be examined and treated. I can’t walk out now.”
“Nina, I have a job to do. And your safety is part of that job.”
“I have a job to do, too!” she asserted.
They faced each other for a moment, neither one willing to back down.
Then Nina snapped, “I don’t have time for this,” and she turned back toward the trauma room.
“Nina!”
“I’ll do my job, Sam. You do yours.”
“Then I’m sending a man over to keep an eye on you.”
“Do whatever you want.”
“When will you be finished here?”
She stopped and glanced at the waiting patients. “My guess? Not till morning.”
“Then I’ll be back to get you at 6:00 a.m.”
“Whatever you say, Detective,” she retorted and pushed into the trauma room. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her as she rejoined the surgical team, and then the door closed behind her.
I’ll do my job. You do yours, she’d told him.
She’s right, he thought. That’s exactly what I should be focusing on. My job.
From his car phone, he put in a call to Officer Pressler and told him to send his relief officer down to Maine Med E.R., where he’d be the official baby-sitting service for the night. Then, satisfied that Nina was in good hands, he headed back to the bomb scene.
It was eleven-thirty. The night was just beginning.
* * *
NINA MADE IT THROUGH the next seven hours on sheer nerve. Her conversation with Sam had left her hurt and angry, and she had to force herself to concentrate on the work at hand—tending to the dozens of patients who now filled the waiting area. Their injuries, their discomfort, had to take priority. But every so often, when she’d pause to collect her thoughts or catch her breath, she’d find herself thinking about Sam, about what he’d said.
I have a job to do. And your safety is part of that job.
Is that all I am to you? she wondered as she signed her name to yet another patient instruction sheet. A job, a burden? And what had she expected, anyway? From the beginning, he’d been the unflappable public official, Mr. Cool himself. There’d been flashes of warmth, of course, even the occasional glimpse of the man inside, a man of genuine kindness. But every time she thought she’d touched the real Sam Navarro, he’d pull away from her as though scalded by the contact.
What am I to do with you, Sam? she wondered sadly. And what was she to do with all the feelings she had for him?
Work was all that kept her going that night. She never even noticed when the sun came up.
By the time 6:00 a.m. rolled around, she was so tired she could scarcely walk without weaving, but at last the waiting room was empty and the patients all sent home. Most of the E.R. staff had gathered, shell-shocked, in the employee lounge for a well-deserved coffee break. Nina was about to join them when she heard her name called.
She turned. Sam was standing in the waiting room.
He looked every bit as exhausted as she felt, his eyes bleary, his jaw dark with a day’s growth of beard. At her first sight of his face, all the anger she’d felt the night before instantly evaporated.
My poor, poor Sam, she thought. You give so much of yourself. And what comfort do you have at the end of the day?
She went to him. He didn’t speak; he just looked at her with that expression of weariness. She put
her arms around him. For a moment they held each other, their bodies trembling with fatigue. Then she heard him say, softly, “Let’s go home.”
“I’d like that,” she said. And smiled.
She didn’t know how he managed to pilot the car to his house. All she knew was that a moment after she dozed off, they were in his driveway, and he was gently prodding her awake. Together they dragged themselves into the house, into his bedroom. No thoughts of lust crossed her mind, even as they undressed and crawled into bed together, even as she felt his lips brush her face, felt his breath warm her hair.
She fell asleep in his arms.
* * *
SHE FELT SO WARM, so perfect, lying beside him. As if she belonged here, in his bed.
Sam gazed through drowsy eyes at Nina, who was still sound asleep. It was already afternoon. He should have been up and dressed hours ago, but sheer exhaustion had taken its toll.
He was getting too old for this job. For the past eighteen years, he’d been a cop through and through. Though there were times when he hated the work, when the ugly side of it seemed to overwhelm his love for the job, he’d never once doubted that a cop was exactly what he was meant to be. And so it dismayed him now that, at this moment, being a cop was the furthest thing from his mind.
What he wanted, really wanted, was to spend eternity in this bed, gazing at this woman. Studying her face, enjoying the view. Only when Nina was asleep did he feel it was safe to really look at her. When she was awake, he felt too vulnerable, as though she could read his thoughts, could see past his barriers, straight to his heart. He was afraid to admit, even to himself, the feelings he harbored there.
As he studied her now, he realized there was no point denying it to himself: he couldn’t bear the thought of her walking out of his life. Did that mean he loved her? He didn’t know.
He did know this was not the turn of events he’d wanted or expected.
But last night he’d watched her at work in the wreckage of the bomb site, and he’d admired a new dimension of Nina, one he saw for the first time. A woman with both compassion and strength.