Chapter 92

CHAPTER 92

IN SPITE OF her protests, paramedics wheeled Helene Grey into the ER at St. Michael’s. There were closer hospitals, but Poe had insisted on taking Grey to a place he knew—even if it was a place he’d almost been tossed out of.

He walked alongside the rolling gurney, squeezing Grey’s hand. “How are you feeling?” he asked over and over. “Are you in pain? Does anything hurt?”

Grey turned her head toward him. “You look worse than I do,” she said.

He knew it was true, and it was all from worrying about her. If Oliver Paul hadn’t sensed the police outside his town house and taken off, Helene could be dead by now.

As soon as Grey was lifted from the gurney onto the ER bed, three sturdy nurses crowded Poe to the side. A few seconds later, a doctor in scrubs entered the cramped room and whipped the curtain shut behind him.

“What have we got?” he asked curtly.

One of the paramedics recited the bullet points. “Pregnant patient, thirty-eight. Blunt force contusion to the left parietal. Probable pistol butt. Mild ecchymosis and second-degree abrasion. No loss of consciousness. Pulse 80 and steady. BP 130 over 80.”

“What’s your name?” asked the doctor. He walked to the head of the bed as the paramedics backed out with their gurney.

“Helene. Helene Grey.”

“Helene, I’m Dr. Farnham. I’m going to check a few things, okay?”

“She’s having twins!” said Poe, his voice cracking.

Farnham leaned over and looked into Helene’s pupils with a penlight. “Is that true, Helene?”

Grey nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“How far along?”

“Thirteen weeks.”

He glanced over at Poe. “Is this your husband?”

Grey rolled her head from side to side. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m the father,” said Poe.

“Hold still, please,” said Farnham.

The curtains parted again. Poe looked up. It took a second for the face to register. “Dr. Revell Schulte!”

“Mr. Poe.” Dr. Schulte stepped up next to Farnham, almost bumping him aside. “Is she stable?”

Poe could see that Farnham was intimidated. The young doctor cleared his throat and tugged on the stethoscope around his neck. “Stable and responsive. But we need a CT, and I think we—”

“Unit 4,” said Schulte. “Now.”

The young doctor blinked, then nodded. He stepped back and barked at the nurses. “You heard her.”

Schulte leaned in. “Helene, I’m Dr. Revell Schulte, remember? I’m chief of maternity. We met the night of the kidnappings. You’re with me now.”

In seconds, two nurses started pushing the bed out of the ER bay and down the hall, with Dr. Schulte leading the way. Poe followed alongside as the wheels hummed across the smooth linoleum floor. They passed through a set of metal hospital doors, then another.

Poe was getting frantic. Unit 4? What the hell was that? Operating room? Intensive care? Had Schulte noticed something the others had missed?

At the end of the next corridor, Schulte held up a key card. Another door opened, this one sliding cleanly into the wall. Schulte turned to the nurses and put her hands on the back of the bed. “I’ve got her.” She wheeled Grey through the entrance herself. The door glided shut behind them with a cushioned whoosh.

And suddenly everything was quiet.

Poe looked around. They were in a high-ceilinged reception area with elegant potted palms and expensive art on the walls. There was no frantic activity here. No raised voices. Just soft light and gentle beeps in the background. The air was scented with sandalwood. It was as if they had left the ER and rolled into the lobby of a Four Seasons Hotel.

A nurse appeared out of nowhere. She looked like a spa attendant. “Welcome to Unit 4, Helene,” she said. “We’re going to take very good care of you.”

“What’s happening?” asked Grey. “Did I die and go to heaven?”

“What is this?” asked Poe. “Where are we?”

“It’s our special-patient wing,” said Schulte. “Every hospital has one.” She dipped her voice to a whisper. “Ours is just a little more special.”