Plus, the last thing I wanted to do was relive the horrors of that night in the earthquake, whether I recalled them clearly or not.
I paused at the linens room to grab a clean pair of scrubs to place in my office for tomorrow. I had three surgeries scheduled, one right after another. People came from Reedsville, and from as far north as the border, to be my patients. No one else on earth besides Ms. Chandler was questioning my proficiency.
Still lurking nearby, DadJoke cackled. “Hotwell on a date. Picture it!” He snorted like a horse at a trough. “The misery on the woman’s face at being stuck in the sour patch!”
Hey. I wasn’t sour. I was sober. Serious. I had a serious job, a serious life. These jokers could just—
“Don’t look now,” Chortle said. “The Kook is coming.”
“Everything’s coming up roses.” Singing a show tune loudly, Dr. Cook walked up, a merry but dweeby look on his face. He paused in the lyrics. “Oh, hi, everyone.”
“We’re just leaving.” Dr. DadJoke grabbed Dr. Chortle’s sleeve. “And since you’re going to ask, no. We don’t want any of those keychains. None. Not even one.”
Chortle stage whispered, “So tacky,” and then they made a beeline for Labor and Delivery.
I exhaled in relief. It was as if Dr. Cook was jerk-repellant. I should’ve thanked him, not ignored him. Not that I particularly relished the staff psychologist and head injury specialist’s company—or wanted any of the weird keychains he always pushed on us.
I looked at my watch. “Heading out,” I said. “Have a good one.” I hurried away.
Psychology. So much babbling. That rude life coach would probably get along great with him.
“Oh, Dr. Hotwell.” Cook’s words brought me up short. “I was wondering if you’ve seen these keychains. A beautiful redheaded woman bought a dozen from me today, the whole stock that I had on hand, other than this sample. That’s the first time it’s ever happened. But I can get more by tomorrow, if you’re interested.”
“Gotta run, Dr. Cook.”
Close call. Inescapable keychain conversation averted. And that beautiful redheaded woman on a crusade to make me look bad could only be one person—the Redheaded Peril.
I marched back to the clinic, stuffed the scrubs where I’d find them in the morning, and grabbed my keys. In the elevator to the parking garage, the face of Ms. Chandler kept popping up in front of my eyes. Normally, I replayed a mental video loop of the surgery I’d just finished, evaluating where I could be more efficient and precise the next time. But not today.
I’m suing you for malpractice. You’d better watch out. No matter how many times my brain played back the words, they were accompanied by R&B music with a deep bass guitar and a come-to-the-bedroom beat.
Something was wrong with me.
The woman was a pill. And not the medical kind I prescribed every day.
“Dr. Hotwell.” A male voice echoed against the concrete of the dim garage.
I turned to see the face, but he wore a ski mask and came running at me, a heavy-looking object in his hand.
“Hey!” I ducked, but he still managed to clip me above the ear as he passed.
“You piece of—” He growled the name of a waste product. “I’ll get you!”
I ducked again, and pushed back as he came at me once more. I had to dodge his next swing of—was that a pipe wrench? Good night!
“Dude! Stand down!” I made a grab for his arm but missed. He was smaller-built, and if it weren’t for the weapon, I could’ve for sure taken him in a fair fight. He was wiry, though, and lean guys sometimes had a lot of strength.
“It’s your fault my brother is gone, and you’re going to pay.”
Voices came from the area of the elevator, but Crazy Wrench Dude was swinging at me again, and this time, he got me on the other ear. I wasn’t fast enough. Pain seared through me. Had he cut me? Broken my skull?
I didn’t stop to inspect. I was too busy trying to stay alive.
“Who is your brother? Let’s talk this out.” I should have been running, calling for security, but my vision was getting blurry. Blood loss? Or had I been hit harder on the skull than I realized? The guy had murder—or at least maiming—on the mind. From what I could see of his eyes through the ski mask’s slits, he still meant business beyond the first swings. Seeing me bleed wasn’t nearly enough.
“Anybody?” I hollered. “Watch out, people. There’s a guy with a weapon! Call security!”
The word security caught him up short. At last, the attacker hung back. In fact, he stiffened for a moment and then bolted into the darkness. I headed back toward the elevators, my head getting more and more fuzzy and my steps unsteady.