of whom were rushing to pull other staff in for rotation or prep the operating rooms.
Right. It was a community event. Their community.
“Who,” he’d demanded.
Goldberg had glanced back at his support troops and that was when Manny had guessed. And yet even as his gut had gone ice cooler on him, he’d held on to some irrational hope that the name about to come out of his surgeon’s mouth would be anything but—
“Jane. Car accident.”
Manny hadn’t lost a beat. “What’s her ETA.”
“There isn’t one.”
At that, Manny had said nothing. He’d just ripped the mask off his face, wadded it up, and thrown it into the nearest bin.
As he’d passed by, Goldberg had opened his mouth again. “Not one word,” Manny had barked. “Not. One. Word.”
The rest of the staff had stumbled over themselves to get out of the way, parting as sure and clean as fabric torn in half.
Coming back to the present, he couldn’t remember where he’d gone or what he’d done after that—no matter how many times he played that night back, that part was a black hole. At some point, however, he’d made it to his condo, because two days later he’d woken up there, still in the bloody scrubs he’d operated in.
Among the galling shockers of the whole thing was the fact that Jane had saved so many people who’d been in car wrecks. The idea that she’d been taken in that very way had seemed like Grim Reaper payback for all the souls she’d snatched out of the bony-handed reach of death.
The sound of another train whistle made him want to scream.
That and his cocksucking pager going off.
Hannah Whit. Again?
Who the hell—
Manny frowned and glanced at the headstone. Jane’s younger sister had been Hannah, if he recalled correctly. Whit. Whitcomb?
Except she had died young.
Hadn’t she?
Mad. Pacing.
God, she should have brought her track shoes for this, Jane thought as she marched around Manny’s place. Again.
She would have left his condo if she’d had a better idea of where to go, but even her brain, as sharp as it was, couldn’t seem to throw out another option—
Her phone ringing was not exactly good news. She didn’t want to tell Vishous that forty-five minutes later she still had nothing to report.
She took out her cell. “Oh . . . God.”
That number. Those ten digits that she’d had on speed dial on every phone she’d owned before this one. Manny.
As she hit send , her mind was blank and her eyes filled with tears. Her dear old friend and colleague . . .
“Hello?” he said. “Ms. Whit?”
In the background, she heard a dim whistle.
“Hello? Hannah?” That tone . . . it was just the same as it had been a year ago: low, commanding. “Anyone there?”
That quiet whistle sounded again.
Jesus Christ . . . , she thought. She knew where he was.
Jane hung up and flashed herself out of his condo, out of downtown, out past the suburbs. Traveling in a blur at the speed of light, her molecules went through the night in a twirling, swirling rush that covered miles as if they were but inches.
Pine Grove Cemetery was the kind of place you needed a map of, but when you were ether in the air, you could case a hundred acres in a heartbeat and a half.
As she came out of the darkness by her grave, she took a halting breath and nearly sobbed. There he was in the flesh. Her boss. Her colleague. The one she’d left behind. And he was standing over a black headstone that had her name carved in its face.
Okay, now she knew she’d made the right decision not to go to her funeral. The closest she had come was reading about it in the Caldwell Courier Journal —and the picture of all those surgeons and hospital staff and patients had all but snapped her in half.
This was so much worse.
And Manny looked exactly how she felt: ruined on the inside.
Jesus, that aftershave of his still smelled good . . . and in spite of having lost some weight, he was still handsome as sin, with that dark hair and
Right. It was a community event. Their community.
“Who,” he’d demanded.
Goldberg had glanced back at his support troops and that was when Manny had guessed. And yet even as his gut had gone ice cooler on him, he’d held on to some irrational hope that the name about to come out of his surgeon’s mouth would be anything but—
“Jane. Car accident.”
Manny hadn’t lost a beat. “What’s her ETA.”
“There isn’t one.”
At that, Manny had said nothing. He’d just ripped the mask off his face, wadded it up, and thrown it into the nearest bin.
As he’d passed by, Goldberg had opened his mouth again. “Not one word,” Manny had barked. “Not. One. Word.”
The rest of the staff had stumbled over themselves to get out of the way, parting as sure and clean as fabric torn in half.
Coming back to the present, he couldn’t remember where he’d gone or what he’d done after that—no matter how many times he played that night back, that part was a black hole. At some point, however, he’d made it to his condo, because two days later he’d woken up there, still in the bloody scrubs he’d operated in.
Among the galling shockers of the whole thing was the fact that Jane had saved so many people who’d been in car wrecks. The idea that she’d been taken in that very way had seemed like Grim Reaper payback for all the souls she’d snatched out of the bony-handed reach of death.
The sound of another train whistle made him want to scream.
That and his cocksucking pager going off.
Hannah Whit. Again?
Who the hell—
Manny frowned and glanced at the headstone. Jane’s younger sister had been Hannah, if he recalled correctly. Whit. Whitcomb?
Except she had died young.
Hadn’t she?
Mad. Pacing.
God, she should have brought her track shoes for this, Jane thought as she marched around Manny’s place. Again.
She would have left his condo if she’d had a better idea of where to go, but even her brain, as sharp as it was, couldn’t seem to throw out another option—
Her phone ringing was not exactly good news. She didn’t want to tell Vishous that forty-five minutes later she still had nothing to report.
She took out her cell. “Oh . . . God.”
That number. Those ten digits that she’d had on speed dial on every phone she’d owned before this one. Manny.
As she hit send , her mind was blank and her eyes filled with tears. Her dear old friend and colleague . . .
“Hello?” he said. “Ms. Whit?”
In the background, she heard a dim whistle.
“Hello? Hannah?” That tone . . . it was just the same as it had been a year ago: low, commanding. “Anyone there?”
That quiet whistle sounded again.
Jesus Christ . . . , she thought. She knew where he was.
Jane hung up and flashed herself out of his condo, out of downtown, out past the suburbs. Traveling in a blur at the speed of light, her molecules went through the night in a twirling, swirling rush that covered miles as if they were but inches.
Pine Grove Cemetery was the kind of place you needed a map of, but when you were ether in the air, you could case a hundred acres in a heartbeat and a half.
As she came out of the darkness by her grave, she took a halting breath and nearly sobbed. There he was in the flesh. Her boss. Her colleague. The one she’d left behind. And he was standing over a black headstone that had her name carved in its face.
Okay, now she knew she’d made the right decision not to go to her funeral. The closest she had come was reading about it in the Caldwell Courier Journal —and the picture of all those surgeons and hospital staff and patients had all but snapped her in half.
This was so much worse.
And Manny looked exactly how she felt: ruined on the inside.
Jesus, that aftershave of his still smelled good . . . and in spite of having lost some weight, he was still handsome as sin, with that dark hair and
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