Mount Mercy

Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me through the curtain into Exam Two.

I yelped and slammed into a big, warm body. I jumped back and looked up, but I’d already recognized that vanilla and sandalwood scent.

“Shh,” said Corrigan before I could speak.

I stood there open-mouthed. I was furious at the way he’d grabbed me but the glowing aftershock of the contact was still throbbing through me: the way his pecs had pressed into the upper slopes of my breasts, the way one of his thighs had pressed right between mine….”What?” I hissed.

He moved me further away from the curtain and spoke quietly. At first, I thought it was just because people were trying to sleep. His Irish accent was even more magical when he spoke softly, like silver silk caressing my ears. “That head injury case you worked on?” he began.

I nodded that I remembered.

“He didn’t make it.”

My eyes snapped wide, my mind full of all the things I might have done wrong.

He raised a placating hand. “Nothing you did. As far as I can tell, he just stopped breathing.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “His monitors were switched off.”

I blinked. I’d never heard of that happening. “It was crazy,” I whispered cautiously. “Everyone was running around… people are strung out. Maybe a nurse made a mistake?”

He crossed his arms. “You know the nurses here better than me. You think one of them could have messed up like that?”

I thought about it. “No.” My stomach knotted. Now I knew why he was speaking so quietly, why he’d pulled me in here, out of sight. “You think someone killed him?”

“I think Colt killed him. Or sent someone to kill him. He really didn’t want us talking to that guy.”

I imagined Colt creeping through the ER, right next to us, but unseen, and wanted to throw up with fear. I was right there. Jesus, Rebecca was right there! “What do we do?”

“I don’t know. We need an autopsy and an investigation and an APB for Colt. That’s all state police stuff and they can’t get here.”

We heard the electronic hum of the main doors sliding open. “That’s probably Earl and Lloyd,” whispered Corrigan. “I called them. Can you grab them?”

I slipped out of Exam Two and looked across the room towards the doors. It was Earl. The setting sun was behind him and I’d have recognized that big, cuddly silhouette anywhere. And behind him was the lean outline of Lloyd, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. I started forward to say hi.

Just at that moment, Maggie emerged from the basement, lugging a huge bag of tools and muttering something about cheap pipes that weren’t worth a damn. She nodded towards the doorway. “Earl.”

Earl came to attention and whipped off his peaked cap. “Ma’am,” he said, breathless. His eyes tracked her as she walked away. His gaze only broke off when it crossed my own disbelieving stare.

“Maggie?” I mouthed silently at him.

He flushed crimson and looked at his feet, wedging his cap back on his head.

That’s why he was always dragging Lloyd to the hospital? I hurried over and pulled him forward. “Earl, you have to tell her how you feel!”

He shrugged and mumbled. He was pushing sixty, but suddenly he was a teenager, more nervous and awkward than Lloyd. “Ah, I don’t—She might not—”

“She would!” Both of them had been single for at least a decade. Both of them were lonely. “Earl, you have to say something!”

He shook his head. Behind him, Lloyd caught my eye and shrugged helplessly: welcome to my world. He must have figured it out months ago and he’d had no luck convincing his mentor, either.

I brought them to Exam Two. “Beckett agrees with me,” Corrigan told Earl. “It wasn’t an accident. That guy was murdered, most likely by Colt.”

Earl looked queasy. The worst thing he normally had to deal with was a couple of drunks or a fender bender. “I got worse news. I found something on Colt. He pulled a printout of a newspaper clipping from his uniform pocket and unfolded it. “Told you I recognized the name.”

It was a front page story from a Denver newspaper. The man in the picture was much younger and looked less bitter, but he was definitely the same man. “Colt Blackwood,” I murmured. “Sentenced for... oh my God.”

Colt had led an ultra-right militia called the Colorado Guardians of Freedom, or CGF. It had grown over the years from a small band of extremists into a statewide movement suspected of multiple counts of arson, murder and extortion. Colt himself had become quite rich and owned a sprawling ranch...until the FBI raided it, confiscated everything, and sent him to federal prison. “Why did I never hear about any of this?” I asked.

“Look at the date,” said Earl.

I focused on the tiny numbers at the top of the page. Colt had been sentenced twenty years ago.