The EMT had put a compression pack on her right leg and arm along with two pneumatic splints to keep the limbs stabilized. Sara lifted the sterile dressing on the leg, seeing bright bone. The pelvis felt unstable beneath her hands. These were recent wounds. The car must have hit Anna from the right side, folding her in two.
Sara took a pair of scissors out of her pocket and cut through the tape that kept the woman immobile on the gurney, explaining, "Anna, I'm going to roll you onto your back." She braced the woman's neck and shoulders while Mary took care of the pelvis and legs. "We'll keep your legs bent, but we need to—"
"No-no-no!" the woman pleaded. "Please don't! Please don't!" They kept moving and her mouth opened wide, her screams sending a chill up Sara's spine. She had never heard anything more horrific in her life. "No!" the woman yelled, her voice catching. "No! Please! Noooo!"
She started to violently convulse. Instantly, Sara leaned over the stretcher, pinning Anna's body to the table so she wouldn't fall onto the floor. She could hear the woman grunt with each convulsion, as every movement brought a knife of pain to her side. "Five milligrams of Ativan," she ordered, hoping to control the seizures. "Stay with me, Anna," she urged the woman. "Just stay with me."
Sara's words did not matter. The woman had lost consciousness, either from the seizure or the pain. Long after the drug should have taken effect, the muscles still spasmed through the body, legs jerking, head shaking.
"Portable's here," Mary announced, motioning the X-ray technician into the room. She told Sara, "I'll check on Sanderson and the OR."
The X-ray technician put his hand to his chest. "Macon."
"Sara," she returned. "I'll help."
He handed her the extra lead apron, then went about preparing the machine. Sara kept her hand on Anna's forehead, stroking back her dark hair. The woman's muscles were still twitching when Sara and Macon managed to roll her onto her back, legs bent to help control the pain. Sara noticed that Will Trent was still in the room and told him, "You need to clear out while we do this."
Sara helped Macon take the X-rays, both of them moving as fast as they could. She prayed that the patient would not wake up and start screaming again. She could still hear the sound of Anna's screams, almost like an animal caught in a trap. The noise alone would set up the belief that the woman knew she was going to die. You did not scream like that unless you had given up all hope on life.
Macon helped Sara turn the woman back on her side, then went off to develop the films. Sara took off her gloves and knelt beside the gurney again. She touched her hand to Anna's face, stroking her cheek. "I'm sorry I pushed you," she said—not to Anna, but to Will Trent. She turned to find him standing at the foot of the bed, staring down at the woman's legs, the soles of her feet. His jaw was clenched, but she didn't know if that was from anger or horror or both.
He said, "We've both got jobs to do."
"Still."
Gently, he reached down and stroked the sole of Anna's right foot, probably thinking there was nowhere else to touch her that wouldn't cause pain. Sara was surprised by the gesture. It seemed almost tender.
"Sara?" Phil Sanderson was in the doorway, his surgical scrubs neatly clean and pressed.
She stood up, lightly resting her fingertips on Anna's shoulder as she told Phil, "We've got two open fractures and a crushed pelvis. There's a deep incision on the right breast and a penetrating wound on the left side. I'm not sure about the neurologic; her pupils are nonresponsive, but she was talking, making sense."
Phil walked over to the body and started his examination. He didn't comment on the state of the victim, the obvious abuse. His focus was on the things he could fix: the open fractures, the shattered pelvis. "You didn't intubate her?"
"Airways are clear."
Phil obviously disagreed with her decision, but then orthopedic surgeons didn't generally care whether or not their patients could speak. "How's the heart?"
"Strong. BP is good. She's stable." Phil's surgical team came in to prep the body for transfer. Mary returned with the X-rays and handed them to Sara.
Phil pointed out, "Just putting her under could kill her."
Sara snapped the films into the lightbox. "I don't think she'd be here if she wasn't a fighter."
"The breast is septic. It looks like—"
"I know," Sara interrupted, putting on her glasses so she could read the X-rays.
"This wound in her side is pretty clean." He stopped his team for a moment and leaned down, checking the long tear in her skin. "Was she dragged by the car? Did something metal slice her open?"
Will Trent answered, "As far as I know, she was hit straight on. She was standing in the roadway."
Phil asked, "Was there anything around that might have made this wound? It's pretty clean."
Will hesitated, probably wondering if the man realized what the woman had been through before the car had struck her. "The area was pretty wooded, mostly rural. I haven't talked to the witnesses yet. The driver had some chest complaints at the scene."
Sara turned her attention to the X-ray of the torso. Either something was wrong or she was more exhausted than she'd realized. She counted the ribs, not quite trusting what she was seeing.
Will seemed to sense her confusion. "What is it?"
"Her eleventh rib," Sara told him. "It's been removed."
Will asked, "Removed how?"
"Not surgically."
Phil barked, "Don't be ridiculous." He strode over, leaning close to the film. "It's probably . . ."He put up the second film of the chest, the anterior-posterior, then the lateral. He leaned closer, narrowing his eyes as if that would help. "The damn thing can't just drop out of the body. Where is it?"
"Look." Sara traced her finger along the jagged shadow where cartilage had once held bone. "It's not missing," she said. "It was taken."
CHAPTER TWO
WILL DROVE TO THE SCENE OF THE CAR ACCIDENT IN FAITH Mitchell's Mini, his shoulders slumped, the top of his head pressed tightly against the roof of the car. He hadn't wanted to waste any time trying to get the seat adjusted—not when he had taken Faith to the hospital and especially not now that he was driving to the scene of one of the most horrific crimes he'd ever seen. The car was holding its own on the back roads as he traveled down Route 316 at well over the posted speed limit. The Mini's wide wheelbase hugged every curve, but Will backed off the gas as he got farther away from the city. The trees thickened, the road narrowed, and he was suddenly in an area where it was not uncommon for a deer or possum to wander onto the road.
He was thinking about the woman—the torn skin, the blood, the wounds on her body. From the moment he'd seen the medics wheeling her down the hospital corridor, Will had known that the injuries had been wrought by someone with a very sick mind. The woman had been tortured. Someone had spent time with her— someone well-practiced in the art of pain.
The woman hadn't just appeared on the road out of thin air. The bottoms of her feet were freshly cut, still bleeding from a walk through the woods. A pine needle was imbedded in the meaty flesh of her arch, dirt darkening her soles. She had been kept somewhere, then somehow managed to walk to her escape. She must have been held in a location close to the road, and Will was going to find the location if it took him the rest of his life.