As Kacey went about her rounds, she wondered just how “okay” she was. For the second time in a week she’d heard that someone who looked like her was either dead or fighting for her life. Weird. But until she saw the woman in the ICU, she couldn’t be certain that Rosie’s imagination wasn’t working overtime.
An hour later, after she’d finished checking on the few patients who were under her care in the hospital, she made her way to the ICU.
Anita Bellows was the nurse on duty. Barely five feet, Anita, at forty, was as lithe and agile as a woman half her age. A gymnast in college, she now ran marathons and trained year-round to keep in shape. With short brown hair, a quick smile, and large eyes surrounded by lashes caked in mascara, she had moved from Missoula when St. Bart’s opened this past year, giving the aging Pinewood Community Hospital a run for its money.
Today, like Rosie Alsgaard, Anita, spying Kacey push open the door to the ICU, was visibly relieved. Anita was situated at the large circular desk from which private, curtained “rooms” radiated, much like the petals of a sunflower. “Oh, thank God,” she whispered, making a quick sign of the cross over her thin chest, where a tiny gold cross was suspended on a fragile chain. “I thought ... I mean, I was worried that . . .” She sighed and hitched her chin toward a woman lying in one of the two occupied beds. “I’m just glad she’s not you.”
“She’s the Jane Doe?”
“Uh-huh. Brought in last night.”
Kacey approached the private, curtained area for the patient.
The muscles in her torso tensed as she stared down at the patient’s swollen face. Kacey saw the resemblance despite the contusions and probable broken nose. High cheekbones, deep-set eyes, which were now closed, a heart-shaped face, a few freckles still visible were like her own. The patient’s hair was a deep auburn hue, and it fell in unruly waves to her shoulders, just as Kacey’s did, even though a part of Jane’s head had been shaved to allow an intracerebral pressure catheter to be inserted into her skull. The ICP monitored pressure inside the skull and drained off excess fluid.
Not a good sign. Heart monitor, ICP, IVs, urinary catheter were just a start. Jane Doe’s body was draped beneath a sheet, one leg splinted, but Kacey already knew from Rosie and Anita the patient was a similar size and body type.
She touched the woman’s hand. Who are you?
An eerie whisper swept over the back of her neck, and she told herself she was being foolish and unprofessional. Just because Rosie, who wasn’t known for being rock steady, thought there was a resemblance, so what? Yet, as she looked at the comatose woman, just for a second she imagined her own self in this woman’s place. In her mind’s eye she saw herself helpless, comatose, on the cusp of death, while nurses and doctors scurried around to try and save her life.
“See what I mean?” Anita asked.
Kacey lifted a shoulder. “Maybe she does look a little like me.”
“Try ‘she looks a lot like you.’” Anita straightened the sheet, but her gaze was focused on her patient. “Pretty compromised. Just when we think we’ve got her stabilized, she starts to crash.” She bit at her lower lip as she concentrated. “Some of her symptoms aren’t consistent with her injuries, and Dr. Henner is still trying to figure out what’s going on internally. X-rays, MRIs, CAT scans, but . . .” She glanced at the laptop computer that was also hooked to all the monitors. “Since she’s comatose, we can’t ask her what happened, and no one was with her or has come forward. She can’t give us any information on her pain or if she was on some kind of drug or had a seizure ... lots of unanswered questions, but the lab work should come back this morning. Then we’ll know a little more. A couple of detectives were here last night and said they’d be back in the morning.”
“Detectives?” Again, that tiniest of shivers.
“Yeah, two women who were checking out the accident.” She glanced at the clock mounted on one wall. Frowning, her eyebrows drawing together, she added, “They’ll probably show up soon, so I’ll double-check with the lab. Maybe they’ll know something more. You’d think someone should be missing her. She came in wearing top-end jogging clothes, jewelry, and had an iPod in her pocket. It’s not like she was destitute. Trust me, someone’s missing Jane.”
Kacey, too, saw the time. “I’ve got to get going. Tell anyone who might still think I’m lying in that hospital bed that I’m alive and kicking and I’m definitely not the Jane Doe.”
“Will do,” Anita said. She was just walking back to her station when the ICU buzzer announced a visitor.
Anita hit a button that unlocked the doors, and they were immediately pushed open as Trace O’Halleran, his face a grim mask, strode into the unit. Unshaven, hair mussed, wearing work clothes under a heavy jacket, he looked shaken and none too happy about being at the hospital. Two women were with him, just a step behind. The taller of the two was a redhead, mid- to late thirties, who introduced herself as Detective Pescoli. Her partner was sh
orter, Hispanic, and said her name was Alvarez. Both wore the no-nonsense attitude of cops on duty.
Anita wasn’t impressed with their credentials. “We can’t have more than one visitor at a time in ICU. What’s he doing here?” She pointed at the rancher.
O’Halleran’s gaze met Kacey’s, and she noticed a spark of recognition in those deep-set eyes. What was it his son had said? That she looked like his girlfriend? A little drip of trepidation slid through her bloodstream.
“This is Trace O’Halleran,” Pescoli said. “He thinks he might be able to identify the woman who was brought in last night.”
Anita wasn’t persuaded. “Only one at a time.” She held up a hand as if to physically halt the two officers. “There are several patients here, and we’re not going to disturb them.” As if to enforce her authority, she glanced toward Kacey. “This is Doctor Lambert. She can take Mr. O’Halleran to the patient’s bed, and you two can wait here, by the door.”
The officers looked as if they wanted to argue but held back, and Kacey managed a smile she didn’t feel. She was suddenly cold as ice inside. O’Halleran and the Jane Doe? “Over here,” she said and led the way, slowly drawing back the curtain so that he could view the patient.
He visibly flinched at the sight of her, his jaw tightening, his eyes closing for the briefest of seconds before he opened them again and took a long look.
“Jesus,” he whispered under his breath. Then more loudly he said, “It’s Jocelyn,” turning away from the bed to face Kacey. “Jocelyn Wallis. The teacher Eli was talking about.” He didn’t explain any further to the detectives, and Kacey figured they’d already covered that ground. He looked once more at the battered woman lying, unmoving, in the hospital bed. The corners of his mouth twisted downward. “How the hell did she fall?”
“That’s what we want to find out,” Pescoli said. “We’ll need you to tell us everything you know about her.” The taller detective was moving toward the newly identified patient, but Anita stepped between them.
“Uh-uh. You can handle this interview outside the room.” The smallest person in the area, she was still very much in command as she faced off with the cops. “I mean it. Out. But ... I’ll need to get some information, too.” She glanced at O’Halleran. “Medical. Family.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t know her that well.” He rubbed a hand behind his neck, and Kacey wondered how much he was covering up. How involved was he with Jocelyn Wallis? “I think she has a sister somewhere in California.”