stepped around him again and walked up to the front door of the fire station.
Katherine McGowan sat up groggily in bed, thinking it was still too early for the alarm, realized it was her phone ringing insistently. She had a full roster of patients due in the morning, and that was on her mind as she lifted the phone, put it to her ear and grumbled, “McGowan here.”
“Katherine,” her father said. She didn’t need him to say, “It’s your father.”
The clock showed a little past midnight, so she realized it must be something important. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No! No! Well ya, something is wrong. But no, I’m not hurt. No one’s hurt. Well, there’s a young man I know, and I think he’s hurt, but Colleen and I are just fine.”
“Colleen’s in town?”
“Ya, she came to help me with something. And I need your help.”
If Colleen had come to town to help her father with something, it would be something arcane and very important. “What can I do to help?”
Her father spoke in a breathless rush. “A young friend of mine, name of Paul Conklin, we think he’s been hurt, probably assaulted. He’s probably going to wind up in an ER somewhere, either stagger into it on his own or riding in an ambulance. I’d like to know as soon as he shows up.”
“I don’t know that much about the city’s ERs.”
“But you’re a shrink. You know people.”
She’d tried for years to get him not to use the word shrink . But yes, as a psychiatrist, she did know people. She asked, “Where did this happen?”
“Far north end of Pacific Heights.”
She wracked her brains to dredge up what little she knew about ER locations. “Up at that end of town I think California Pacific and Saint Francis Memorial are the only facilities with twenty-four hour ERs, but I’ll have to confirm that. Let me make some calls. I can probably arrange to get a call if he checks into one of those facilities.”
“If you hear anything, call me right away.”
“I will, father.”
Katherine was well known at both hospitals. But it still took several phone calls to locate a neurology resident she knew at California Pacific, and a surgery resident she knew at Saint Francis, both of whom had pulled a night shift. They promised to spread the word to their ER staffs, so she went back to bed.
The windows on the second floor of the fire station were lit so someone must be up. Next to the giant garage doors for the big trucks was a normal sized house door. Paul leaned against it and pounded on it for a good two or three minutes, was still leaning against it when a large fellow opened it. Paul stumbled into his arms and collapsed.
“Carlyle, Baksh,” the fellow shouted, “get down here. This guy’s hurt.”
The fellow laid Paul gently down on a concrete floor as two of his station mates rushed up carrying large kits. They pulled on surgical gloves as they knelt down over him. “What happened, buddy?” the big guy asked.
As one of the paramedics started cutting away his shirt with scissors he grunted out, “Big guys, with guns . . . and accents . . . in my apartment.”
The other paramedic, who was busy attaching some sort of monitoring devices to Paul’s chest, looked up at the big guy and said, “Fucking home invasion.”
“Are you shot?”
Paul shook his head. “Not shot. Least I don’t think so. Blew the door off its hinges. Splinters . . . in my leg . . . my side.”
“Some in your face too. An inch higher and you’d’ a lost the eye.”
The big guy said, “Can’t believe it, fucking home invaders using explosives to blow doors now.”
“Not home invaders,” Paul said. “Russians . . . wizards . . . giant bat things . . . a hippie with lightening.”
A crowd of their station mates had gathered, and Paul caught several of them sharing sidelong looks and raised eyebrows. One of the paramedics grumbled, “Probably concussion,” and Paul realized he’d
Katherine McGowan sat up groggily in bed, thinking it was still too early for the alarm, realized it was her phone ringing insistently. She had a full roster of patients due in the morning, and that was on her mind as she lifted the phone, put it to her ear and grumbled, “McGowan here.”
“Katherine,” her father said. She didn’t need him to say, “It’s your father.”
The clock showed a little past midnight, so she realized it must be something important. “Is something wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No! No! Well ya, something is wrong. But no, I’m not hurt. No one’s hurt. Well, there’s a young man I know, and I think he’s hurt, but Colleen and I are just fine.”
“Colleen’s in town?”
“Ya, she came to help me with something. And I need your help.”
If Colleen had come to town to help her father with something, it would be something arcane and very important. “What can I do to help?”
Her father spoke in a breathless rush. “A young friend of mine, name of Paul Conklin, we think he’s been hurt, probably assaulted. He’s probably going to wind up in an ER somewhere, either stagger into it on his own or riding in an ambulance. I’d like to know as soon as he shows up.”
“I don’t know that much about the city’s ERs.”
“But you’re a shrink. You know people.”
She’d tried for years to get him not to use the word shrink . But yes, as a psychiatrist, she did know people. She asked, “Where did this happen?”
“Far north end of Pacific Heights.”
She wracked her brains to dredge up what little she knew about ER locations. “Up at that end of town I think California Pacific and Saint Francis Memorial are the only facilities with twenty-four hour ERs, but I’ll have to confirm that. Let me make some calls. I can probably arrange to get a call if he checks into one of those facilities.”
“If you hear anything, call me right away.”
“I will, father.”
Katherine was well known at both hospitals. But it still took several phone calls to locate a neurology resident she knew at California Pacific, and a surgery resident she knew at Saint Francis, both of whom had pulled a night shift. They promised to spread the word to their ER staffs, so she went back to bed.
The windows on the second floor of the fire station were lit so someone must be up. Next to the giant garage doors for the big trucks was a normal sized house door. Paul leaned against it and pounded on it for a good two or three minutes, was still leaning against it when a large fellow opened it. Paul stumbled into his arms and collapsed.
“Carlyle, Baksh,” the fellow shouted, “get down here. This guy’s hurt.”
The fellow laid Paul gently down on a concrete floor as two of his station mates rushed up carrying large kits. They pulled on surgical gloves as they knelt down over him. “What happened, buddy?” the big guy asked.
As one of the paramedics started cutting away his shirt with scissors he grunted out, “Big guys, with guns . . . and accents . . . in my apartment.”
The other paramedic, who was busy attaching some sort of monitoring devices to Paul’s chest, looked up at the big guy and said, “Fucking home invasion.”
“Are you shot?”
Paul shook his head. “Not shot. Least I don’t think so. Blew the door off its hinges. Splinters . . . in my leg . . . my side.”
“Some in your face too. An inch higher and you’d’ a lost the eye.”
The big guy said, “Can’t believe it, fucking home invaders using explosives to blow doors now.”
“Not home invaders,” Paul said. “Russians . . . wizards . . . giant bat things . . . a hippie with lightening.”
A crowd of their station mates had gathered, and Paul caught several of them sharing sidelong looks and raised eyebrows. One of the paramedics grumbled, “Probably concussion,” and Paul realized he’d
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