“What was law enforcement’s ETA?” Eden asked.
Tori’s head came up, her gaze swinging toward the front door. “I think they’re here.”
“Thank God.” She grabbed one end of the board, Tori took the other, and they lifted the woman to the gurney. “Let’s go.”
On the way out, they found one police officer talking to the husband, who barely glanced at his wife on the stretcher. At the ambulance, another cop approached as they loaded her inside and handed Eden a piece of paper with notes on it.
“What’s this?”
“Her info. Name’s Margaret Baxter. Thirty-two.” His face was grim. “We’ve been here a number of times. Her husband won’t give you any information, and he makes sure she won’t wake up for a while. By the time this hits the DA’s desk, Baxter’ll have it all smoothed over with a handshake and a smile.”
Eden’s stomach plummeted, and her head filled with flashbacks of John and her father.
The cop shook his head. “I’m just waiting for the day I find the medical examiner’s rig in the drive instead of an ambulance.”
“We’re doing our part to make sure that’s not today.” Tori slammed one of the back doors. “You do yours to make sure that’s not tomorrow.” Then she cut off the view of the cop by slamming the other.
Eden’s mind fragmented a little. Tori hopped into the driver’s seat, turned over the engine, and flipped on the sirens.
That cleared Eden’s head. She picked up her radio mic with one hand and kept her fingers on the pulse at Margaret’s neck with the other. Monitoring Margaret’s breaths, Eden contacted the local hospital’s emergency room. “Capital to base.”
“Base. Go ahead, Capital.”
“We’ve got a thirty-two-year-old Caucasian female found unconscious at the scene.” She repositioned her fingers on Margaret’s neck to get a better heartbeat with dread sinking in her gut. “Initial exam showed lacerations and bruising to the face. Pupils uneven and nonreactive. Heart rate fifty-two and weak. Respirations ten and—”
Margaret’s chest stopped moving, and Eden broke off, waiting. After a second that felt like a minute, Eden grasped her arm hard and gave her a shake. “Margaret.”
No breathing. And the heartbeat beneath her fingers faded to nothing.
Eden dropped her radio and told Tori, “She’s coding.”
She pulled her shears from the holster on her waist and cut Margaret’s blouse up the middle, catching her bra on the way. She spread the fabric wide and found a series of bruises marring Margaret’s skin, some old, some new.
Tori picked up the radio from the driver’s seat and continued communications as she drove. “Capital to base, patient is coding. Administering AED.”
Muscle memory had Eden reaching for equipment without thought. She threw open the defibrillator’s case, hit the power button, and slapped leads on Margaret. Placing the paddles diagonally across the heart, Eden hammered the pulse button.
Zzzzap.
Margaret’s chest rose a fraction of an inch. Eden moved one hand to the woman’s carotid. “Come on, Margaret.”
The slightest thump tapped her fingers, and relief sagged Eden’s shoulders. “I’ve got a pulse. Still no respiration. Starting rescue breathing.”
Tori relayed the information while Eden covered Margaret’s mouth and nose with a mask and breathed for the woman. She checked for a pulse in between breaths.
“Almost there.” Tori’s words still hung in the air when too many milliseconds passed between beats in Margaret’s neck.
Frustration sang through Eden’s body. “She fucking coded again.”
“I’m pulling into the parking lot.”
“You’re going to have to take me with her.” No time for the defibrillator. Eden pushed to her feet, bent over Margaret, piled her hands on top of each other, and leaned her weight into the pump.
One, two, three… She counted silently to herself, more to keep focused, to keep her mind compartmentalized so she could function, than to keep track. Now, it was about keeping the blood flowing through Margaret’s heart, body, and brain until the docs could pull out the big guns.
“Come on, Margaret…” she told the woman as Tori came to a stop. Eden climbed onto the gurney, straddling Margaret with her knees while continuing compressions. “Don’t let him win.”
Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.