Q is for Quarry (Kinsey Millhone 17)

He shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Tightness across here. Hard to breathe. Feels like an elephant sitting on my chest.”

“Oh, shit.” I picked up the phone and dialed 911.

16

The Emergency Medical Services crew seemed to take forever, though in truth it was no more than six minutes. I alerted the front desk and then waited in the parking lot so I could flag them down. I heard the sirens before I saw the Fire Department Rescue van speed into view. I waved and the vehicle veered toward me and pulled in with a chirp of brakes. The woman driver and two other EMS techs emerged, wearing bright yellow jackets with FIRE DEPARTMENT written across the backs. They carried their equipment with them as they followed me into Dolan’s room.

I stood to one side, watching as the two guys moved the furniture aside, clearing space to work. Their manner was efficient but conversational, taking care not to further alarm Dolan, who was doubtless already aware of the depth of trouble he was in. One tech loosened his shirt and then placed a stethoscope against his chest. He took Dolan’s pulse and jotted notes on his clipboard, then attached a blood pressure cuff, pumped it, and took a reading, his gaze fixed on the dial. He asked Dolan a series of questions designed to assess the symptoms and events preceding the episode. I was surprised to hear Dolan admit he’d experienced something similar the night before, though the feeling had been less pronounced and had passed within minutes. The woman tech stepped in. She administered two sublingual tabs of nitroglycerin, and then started an IV line while the third technician secured an oxygen cone across Dolan’s nose.

I went outside. A minute later, the crew emerged from the room. Dolan had been loaded onto a gurney. They rolled him as far as the back doors of the ambulance, which they opened to slide him into the rear. A few people passing through the parking lot paused to stare, but most moved on as soon as they realized what was happening. I appreciated their discretion. It’s hard enough to be ill without feeling as though you’ve made a spectacle of yourself.

One tech climbed into the van with Dolan. The rear doors were slammed shut. The hospital was seven blocks away. I got directions from the second tech before he got in the cab of the van on the passenger side. The woman took the wheel again. She backed out and made a beeline for the street, sirens warbling, bar light flashing. I made sure Dolan’s motel room door was locked and followed in his car.

When I arrived, the ambulance had already pulled into the emergency entrance. I parked in the main lot and by the time I entered the waiting room, he’d been rolled into the rear. I spoke to the desk clerk, telling her who I was. She asked me a few questions about Dolan, making me aware how little I really knew about him. I told her he had insurance coverage through the STPD and she said she’d pick up the remaining data from him. She got up and left her desk, clipboard in hand, indicating that the ER doctor would be out as soon as she was finished with him.

I took a seat in the waiting room, which was spare and reasonably pleasant: pale green carpet, fake plants, and piles of tattered magazines. An assortment of children’s toys was scattered on the floor. Lines of interlocking chairs had been arranged, cotillion-fashion, around the edges of the room. In the corner, the face of a television set was blank. Someone had brought in Easter decorations; a basket filled with plastic eggs nestled in impossibly green paper grass. I wasn’t even sure when Easter fell this year, but it was doubtless coming up soon, unless these were left from last year. Two patients came in while I was waiting: a man with superficial contusions and abrasions from a bike accident (judging from his shaved legs and his bun-hugging Spandex shorts), and a woman with her right ankle sandwiched between ice packs. Both were taken into examining rooms in the rear, but probably placed on hold while the doctors dealt with Dolan.

Outside, the sun was shining and the town of Quorum was going about its business as though nothing unusual had occurred. It was odd having a medical emergency in the middle of the day. Somehow, in my life, crises of this sort always seem to happen in the dead of night. I couldn’t tally the number of times I’d been sitting in waiting rooms like this one while outside, city streets were deserted and shrouded in darkness.

Restless, I left my seat and wandered into the hall, where I asked a passing nurse for the nearest pay phone. I was directed to the hospital lobby, two long corridors away. I dialed Stacey’s home number, charging the call to my credit card. Two rings later, he was on the line and I was filling him in.

“How’s he doing?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t talked to the doctor yet. I wish I’d busted into his room when I first got there. I’m telling you, Stacey, his face was gray. He should have dialed 911 himself, but I think he was in denial. You know him.”