Point Blank Read online

  It was just a party, and a rather lame one at that. Why did he think I was upset?

  The voicemails were both from Brock, but I was too tired to care. Besides, it was late. They could wait until tomorrow when the phone was recharged.

  While undressing, I caught a glimpse in the mirror of a bruise on the back of my shoulder in shades of deep purple. I massaged it gingerly with my fingers, sensing tenderness deep in the muscle tissues. Clearly, I’d injured it within the last few days, but I had no memory of it. Only a vague sense of unease at drawing a blank.

  What happened to me?

  An annoying buzz drew Lance Doyle from the deep comfort of sleep. He caught hold of the bedding and dragged it aside to sit up and study the clock. It silently displayed 1:24 a.m.

  The annoying sound repeated nearby in the dark where his phone also vibrated with a soft glow on its face. Was he on call? No. He grabbed the phone and swiped a finger against the screen just below the ID which read: Mercy Hospital ER.

  “Hello?” His tone didn’t completely hide his annoyance.

  “Dr. Doyle, I’m sorry to wake you.”

  He didn’t recognize the girl’s voice, but that wasn’t surprising. He hadn’t worked in the Emergency Department for at least a year. He scrubbed his scalp to chase away the cobwebs of sleep. “Well, you’ve got me up. What’s this about?”

  “There’s been a wreck out on Highway 16. A bus has rolled over on Granite Pass. Sierra Memorial in Wakeville can’t take them all, so they’re sending some patients here. Dr. Farthing said to bring you in.”

  A bus wreck. He stretched his back. “Do you know how many?”

  “I think they said eighteen total. Sierra’s taking the most critical, but ten or eleven are on their way here. A couple of them are expected to be critical but stable. They need extra hands in surgery.”

  “All right. Tell Farthing I’m on my way.”

  “Sorry again, Doctor.”

  “Me too.”

  He hung up and switched on the lamp, casting the room in sepia-toned light. If Marla were still here, he would tiptoe around in the dark, trying not to wake her. Not that he had ever been very successful at it. Too often, he’d stub his toe on the bedpost, and then she’d be up, shaking her head and cooing over his pain.

  Tiptoeing wasn’t necessary these days. Not since cancer took her away. He pressed a hand to his chest at the now-familiar ache that rose with every thought of her loss. The fact that life had gone on without her remained an injury he could not fix. Instead, he’d learned to push back against the tearing wound, especially when he woke during the night.

  Lance stood and hurried to get dressed. At least he didn’t need to stumble around in the dark anymore. He hadn’t stubbed his toe in four years.

  In the bathroom, he splashed water on his face and stared into the mirror. Two hours of sleep wasn’t enough to get by on, but he’d have to manage. After a quick tooth-brushing, he felt better. He combed his hair and tied his shoes.

  Within minutes, he strode into the garage, fumbling in the cold for car keys in his coat pocket. A veil of icy mist hung in the light of the streetlamp. Up on that mountain pass, it would be much worse, with deep snow hampering the efforts of rescuers.

  A silent prayer formed in his mind as he got in the car and headed out.

  Bright lights and urgent voices filled Mercy Hospital’s Emergency Department as Lance entered through the automatic doors. No sign of the ambulances yet. Hurrying to the nurse’s station, he found Shenan Hastings rifling through a stack of papers, and shaking her head hard enough to dislodge her tangled bun of micro braids.

  She called toward the back room. “No, it’s not in here, Liz. You better check again, and while you’re at it, talk to Colten about the bloodwork. We’re gonna—” She looked up as Lance approached. “Well, there you are. What took you so long?” Shenan’s mock chiding, as always, was accompanied by a smile of perfect white teeth contrasting with her mocha complexion.

  “Shenandoah Hastings. What has it been—maybe eight months since we worked the same shift?”

  “Welcome back to the Dark Side.” She chuckled at her term for the night shift, then refocused to the business at hand. “I’m sorry we had to call for you. I bet you were just settling into a nice deep sleep cycle when the phone rang.”

  Lance shrugged. “Isn’t that how it always goes?”

  “Sure seems that way. Hopefully, we can relieve you in a few hours, but until then, I’m glad you’re here. They’ve radioed in three head traumas, a couple cases of internal bleeding, and multiple fractures. We’re handling the minor injuries here too.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  She checked her watch. “I’m expecting the first of our patients to arrive any minute now.”

  He jogged to the locker room to prep and then grabbed his lab coat and stethoscope. An ambulance’s colored lights were flashing through the front windows by the time he came back up the hall. The first two gurneys wheeled into the triage area, where Shenan and another nurse waited.

  Time to get to work.

  Back-to-back procedures kept Lance focused through the night. Five hours flew by, and when the last was finally finished, he emerged from the surgical ward and swiped the cap from his head, thoroughly depleted.

  A nurse entering the ward gave his arm a quick congratulatory pat as she passed by. “Excellent work, tonight,” she said and continued on her way.

  Lance nodded and massaged his temples a moment before drawing his fingertips across his dry, fatigued eyes to the bridge of his nose. What a night.

  His first surgery had been a young woman with a punctured rental artery, and her family had arrived near the end of her surgery. She wasn’t out of the woods yet and would likely remain in a coma for the next twenty-four hours under close observation.

  The next patient had a ruptured spleen. Lance was hopeful for a good outcome, as long as the next few hours went well. His third patient was a nine-year old girl traveling with her family. She had a hip dislocation and fracture, but had arrived alert and in better spirits than her overwrought parents.

  On first seeing her, the child had reminded him of his own daughter when she was about that age. Penny had broken her leg while they were on a skiing weekend at Breckenridge. Marla had worked herself into a near panic before the ambulance arrived. Penny, on the other hand, already showed her strong independent streak—a quality further developed during the years after her mother’s passing.

  He crossed in front of an empty waiting room, not a surprise since most of the bus passengers were far from home. Although families had been notified, only a few had arrived. That would change tomorrow.

  Then he noticed a window in the corridor framing a view of winter’s pink dawn on the horizon. Correction. Tomorrow was already here. Perhaps he should stick around until his patients’ relatives arrived. He could catch a nap in his office and have a nurse call when he was needed.

  But first things first. Reports needed to be dictated.

  He continued up the hall, his paper-covered shoes shushing each tired step.

  “Lance,” Shenan’s voice called from a side door behind him. “Good work. Thanks for coming in.”

  Only Shenan could sound so chipper after such a long night.

  Lance pivoted to face her. “No problem.”

  “I wanted you to know that Dr. Holloway is here to relieve you.”

  “Good. I still have some charting to do.”

  Shenan stepped out of the doorway and put her hand on her hip. “Okay, but after that you go home. I saw Liz updating files, so she may have already recorded most of what you need.”

  That was no surprise. Liz was always efficient. He smiled and waved as he resumed his walk.

  Shenan piped up, “I’m serious, Lance. Go home.”

  She was right. Others could speak to the families as they arrived, and he would see them later, after he rested. “Yes, ma’am,” he called over his shoulder.

  The ele
vator took him up two floors to his office in the east wing. Once behind his desk, he eased into the swivel chair with a sigh, and leaned side-to-side to stretch his lower back. He logged onto the hospital system and searched for the files Liz had started. While scanning the list, he rotated a kink from his neck and worked the muscles with his fingertips.

  Clicking open the file from his spleen patient, he began to read, then pushed back into the cushioned black leather to relax his spine. He stretched his legs out under the desk. Dr. Farthing had been right when he recommended this chair.

  He yawned. Liz’s notes were out of focus to his tired eyes, even with the oversized monitor.

  A half hour later, he woke when Shenan tapped on his door.

  “Now, what did I tell you?” Her brows arched over piercing brown eyes.

  “Yeah, yeah.” He groaned and pulled himself up from the chair. “I’m outa here.” And back to my lifeless house.

  “Uh-huh.” Shenan nodded as she followed him out of the office.

  While basking in a hot morning shower I noticed another bruise. What’s going on here? I strained to examine the discoloration on my right hip while rivulets of soapy water streamed down my skin. Pressing fingers around the edges, I sensed tenderness deep in the muscle. Like my shoulder, it was dark purple—a recent injury. I should be able to remember how this happened.

  I finished rinsing my hair though my shoulder ache protested the effort. The two injuries must be connected.

  After wiping steam from the bathroom mirror, puffy eyes stared back at me. Why did I look as if I’d cried myself to sleep? Maybe it was all those long miles I’d spent on the bus. I dabbed at the bulges with a cool washcloth and then dug around in my makeup kit. Fortunately, cosmetics can hide a multitude of problems.

  After blow-drying my hair and snugging into fresh jeans and a warm fleece top, smells of sausage and coffee drew me downstairs. I let my hand slide along the dark, polished handrail and patted the lion head at its base. The old lady’s mansion felt less gothic in morning light, its furnishings gaining a bit of faded charm. A little fresh paint on the walls might be enough to draw more guests, not that the success of her business concerned me. Today, I would find a way out of this Podunk town and get back on track for the final leg of my journey.

  The parlor beckoned from the base of the staircase. The draperies had been drawn aside to let morning light filter through lacy sheers, casting soft scattered beams over the room.

  Behind the parlor’s faded green sofa, a wide arch opened to a formal dining area with a large oval table and vintage floral wallpaper. I headed in that direction just as Mrs. Wilton popped through a side door that apparently connected to the kitchen. She carried a pitcher and hummed to herself until my presence caught her attention.

  “Ah, Miss Doyle.” Her eyes twinkled behind her glasses. “I hope you like grapefruit juice. It’s all I have at present. Juice-wise, that is. There’s coffee right here—” She indicated a thermal pot on the table. “—or perhaps you would prefer tea or milk?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wilton, I don’t want to be a bother. The juice sounds great, and I’ve been eager for the coffee ever since the aroma reached me upstairs.”

  The old woman poured juice while I pulled out a chair. Delicate antique china adorned the table, the kind most people keep on display but never actually use. A small floral centerpiece graced the center of the table. “Everything’s so lovely, Mrs. Wilton.”

  “Thank you. Have a seat, and I’ll bring your breakfast.” She returned to the kitchen but was back again by the time I’d poured my coffee. The vintage porcelain held a steaming wedge of some type of egg, sausage and potato concoction. A toasted English muffin perched on its decorative rim. “It’s a Dutch Omelet,” she said, setting the plate in front of me.

  The aroma was heavenly. “I hope you’ll join me. I’d like the company.”

  “I’d love to. I’ve eaten already, but I’ll bring in my tea. Please don’t wait. Eat while it’s hot.”

  I took a bite and savored it while I buttered the muffin. “How long have you been doing this?” I asked, when she returned with her tea.

  “Oh, I’ve never kept track of that sort of thing.” She sat in an adjacent chair and smoothed out a wrinkle on the tablecloth before setting her cup down. “Seems as though I’ve been serving the Lord for about as long as I can remember.”

  “I mean this inn. Have you been here long?”

  “Not really. I just go when and where the Lord sends me.”

  “Hmmm.” I nodded, my mouth full.

  She seemed to study me for a moment. “You’ve kept yourself away from home quite a while now, Penny.” Her dainty fingers played at a small brooch near her collar. “Do you know why the Lord is sending you back?”

  I swallowed and wiped my mouth with a napkin. She spoke as though she’d always known me, which was unnerving enough without hearing everything filtered through her religious bias. I considered a gentle way to answer. “Actually, I think I made up my own mind about returning. If God has an opinion about it, He hasn’t let me know.”

  “Would you like to know what He’s told me?” Her expression remained as natural as if she’d asked about refilling my coffee.

  I stopped chewing and swallowed hard. “You really believe God talks to you.”

  “Oh yes, most certainly.”

  “Well…” I searched my mind for a suitable answer. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Him. If He has something to tell me, He should probably just say it.” I took another bite of the omelet. “Sorry, I hope my opinion doesn’t upset you, Mrs. Wilton.”

  “Not at all. Everyone’s entitled to an opinion.” She sipped her tea. “I’ve discovered, though, that many people say they want to hear from God, but then they ignore Him when He makes His wishes known.”

  I acknowledged the comment with a nod, but kept chewing. “Yummy sausage,” I said after a sip of coffee and swallowing. “You’ll have to write out the recipe for me.”

  “Of course, dear, if you like. But I still wonder, would you like to know what God has told me?”

  I wiped my mouth with the napkin. “About what again?”

  “The reason for your trip home.”

  I sat back and considered how kind she had been since I arrived. There was no harm in listening. “All right. What has He told you?”

  “I believe He has three words for you to consider: Remember, repent, and restore.”

  I had expected her to come up with something profound—some truism I could nod and smile over. Not three cryptic words. What did she expect me to do with that? Still, I had to admit that a memory boost might be helpful. “Oh … okay. I’ll … keep that in mind then.” Having finished, I laid my napkin aside and pushed away from the table. “You’re a marvelous cook, Mrs. Wilton. Thank you so much for the wonderful breakfast.”

  She watched me rise from the table without a word, only a look of sadness in her eyes. Or maybe it was concern. I couldn’t tell.

  “What time do I need to checkout? I feel like taking a walk this morning, and I still need to repack my suitcase.”

  “Oh?” Her eyes widened. “You’re not going to stay another night? You already paid for two.”

  Already paid? Although she was kind, the poor old woman was also rather batty. “I only have another week before classes resume. I need to get back on the road today.”

  She stood and began stacking the dishes. “Of course, if that’s what you wish. I know your father will be very glad to see you.”

  Though I wasn’t so optimistic about my impending visit with Dad, I didn’t counter. Easier to agree than explain my own expectations.

  When I returned to my room upstairs, my phone chimed with a new text from Cheri: You home yet? How’s it going? Be glad you’re not here. Brock was having fits.

  Fits? Why? Because I left town without giving him notice? I replied: Got stuck in Nowhereville last night. Home tomorrow. Wish me luck. Tell Brock to chill.

  Then I
remembered the voicemails Brock had left, so I grabbed my coat, went downstairs and out the front door with my phone.

  Bright morning sun had cleared the overnight frost and the crisp air was invigorating. I crossed the yard the same way I’d arrived and soon reached the edge of the sloping embankment. In daylight, the elevation afforded an extended view of the community.

  Dalton appeared to consist of a few random residential streets meandering behind one block of nondescript storefronts facing the highway. Passersby might overlook it if it weren’t for the surrounding peaks that lent it some picturesque charm. I couldn’t help drawing a deep breath of Rocky Mountain air and reveling in the sunshine and deep blue skies.

  Mrs. Wilton’s inn sat isolated on a large property dotted with old trees and overgrown shrubbery. The high embankment where I stood stretched along the highway with the road gradually rising to meet its level at the far end. I looked for a signpost but saw nothing to indicate Mrs. Wilton was officially in business. No wonder she didn’t have many guests.

  Rather than descend the slope I’d climbed last night, I followed the long cobbled driveway to the far end of the property. My bruised hip would protest against jogging, but a walk around the community would do me good and give me a chance to listen to Brock’s messages.

  The first was from mid-afternoon yesterday. “Hey, Penny. So, I hear you decided to go visit your dad. Seems kind of sudden. I just thought I’d check and make sure everything’s okay. I know you haven’t talked to him in ages.” He paused, as if gauging what to say next. “Maybe you’d rather not talk about Tuesday night...” Another pause. “And if so, that’s okay. I just wanted you to know I love you, babe. I’m here for ya.”

  An automated tone separated this from the next message, sent several hours later. The background noise sounded like the gym where he worked. “I’m taking some time off from Rico’s after I finish my shift tonight so I can come see you. Don’t know how far I’ll drive tonight, but I’ll call tomorrow to figure out where we can meet up. Can’t wait to see ya, babe. Later!”