Everywhere She Turns Read online

  “You know what this means?” his friend yelled as he paced back and forth in the middle of the street. “The cops are coming. We gotta get outta here.”

  “Shut up!” the brother screamed.

  “Give me your hand.” CJ reached out to him. His eyes were wild with fear and whatever had him buzzed. His hand shook as she gripped his wrist and covered the wound with his palm. “Keep pressure there. It slows the bleeding.”

  Not that this kid had much left to leak.

  CJ started chest compressions.

  “They’ll take us to fucking jail,” the friend railed. “I ain’t going to jail. This is your fault, not mine!”

  “I said,” the brother warned, “shut the fuck up.”

  CJ tuned out the heated exchange. Focused on keeping the boy’s heart pumping. She had no idea how long he’d been in full arrest, but he didn’t have a chance in hell of surviving if—

  Blood seeped from beneath the kid’s left shoulder, spreading ominously over the pavement.

  Shit.

  She stopped the compressions.

  “What’re you doing?” the brother demanded. “Keep . . .” He motioned with his free hand. “Doing whatever. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right?”

  CJ didn’t answer. She carefully rolled her patient onto his right side. Her breath fisted in her throat, refused to fill her lungs.

  Exit wound: left scapula. Major blood vessels, the heart . . . all lay smack in the middle of the path the bullet had taken. The puddle of blood on the pavement indicated that every chest compression she’d executed had sent more of what little blood remained in his slim body out that exit wound.

  “Do something!” the brother wailed.

  Where the hell was that ambulance? “Did you tell them to hurry?” CJ shouted to the taxi driver.

  He nodded frantically. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  “Help him, goddammit!” the brother shouted in her face.

  CJ flinched but kept her focus on the kid. She lowered him onto his back. “We need pressure on that wound!”

  The brother obeyed the order and she resumed chest compressions. The kid would likely die anyway, but he would damned sure die if she didn’t try.

  Just hang in there, kid.

  “Don’t you get it?” the brother’s paranoid friend yelled. “The kid’s dead. Nobody loses that much blood and lives. She’s only doing that”—he waved wildly at CJ with both hands—“to keep you from freaking out. The kid’s fucking dead, man.”

  Big brother shot to his feet. “If you don’t shut—”

  “Gun!” the taxi driver screamed. “He’s got a gun!”

  Don’t listen. Don’t look. Focus.

  The distant shrill of sirens accompanied the screaming between the three men.

  “Tell him,” the friend shrieked at CJ, “that you can’t save the kid!”

  “Is that true?”

  She ignored the brother’s demand. Mentally marked the necessary rhythm.

  He stuck his face close to hers. “Is that true?” he screamed in her ear.

  “I’m doing all I can,” CJ admitted without looking up. She braced for his reaction but didn’t stop the only option she had available to help the patient.

  “If he dies,” the brother warned, “you die.” He jammed the gun in her face.

  Fear bumped against her sternum.

  Ignore the fucking gun! Pump, pump, pump.

  The sirens grew louder and louder. Nearly here. Thank God. Her shoulders and wrists were tired, aching. Keep pumping!

  The friend started backing away. “I’m out of here. I’m not going to jail.”

  A police cruiser skidded to a stop on the other side of the taxi and the low-life driver took off.

  “He’s running!” the taxi guy bellowed to anyone listening. “The driver is running. Stop him!”

  Pump, pump, pump.

  “Drop your weapon!” Cop.

  The unloading paramedics were shouting questions at CJ. “Full arrest,” she called back. “Deep penetrating entrance wound midtorso. Exit wound left scapula. Massive blood loss.” Get that advanced life support unit over here!

  “Drop your weapon!” the cop repeated.

  “He’s only nine years old,” the brother pleaded, his words directed at CJ and barely audible amid all the shouting. “You can’t let him die.”

  CJ couldn’t help herself. She lifted her gaze to his. No matter that the gun was still pointed at her, there was nothing reassuring she could say. The resignation that claimed the brother’s posture and his eyes warned of his intent a split second before he acted.

  There was no time to react.

  The explosion from the gun shattered the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sunday, August 1, 12:48 AM

  CJ swiped at her damp cheeks with the backs of her hands. She stared at her fingers . . . her palms. Blood. So much blood. Her hands trembled.

  The man had turned the gun on himself and fired.

  Right in front of her.

  She pushed away from the closed bathroom door and dared to look in the mirror hanging over the sink.

  Dark circles underscored her eyes. Her hair was a wreck. Probably full of tissue fragments. Blood splatter from the older brother had trickled and soaked into her scrub top, leaving a trail of crimson tears to join the swath of the younger brother’s blood across the hem of her top.

  She ripped off the top, flung it to the floor. The legs of her scrub pants . . . her knees . . . she was covered in blood.

  Desperation rising in her throat, she rinsed her hands, pumped frantically at the soap dispenser, then scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed.

  Over and over she washed her face, hands, and arms until her skin felt raw.

  She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

  Her lips quivered. “Hold it together.” Her body shuddered as if to defy her command.

  The image of the boy lying on the pavement, his older brother crumpled in a motionless heap next to him, would not be erased. She squeezed her eyes shut again and again. The picture just kept reappearing.

  The runaway driver had been captured scarcely a block away. He’d spilled his guts. He and his deceased friend had been drinking heavily all evening when they were supposed to be babysitting. A beer run had left the older brother’s new toy, a Beretta 9 millimeter, unattended at the house with the kid, who was supposed to be asleep.

  Now the mother had two dead sons.

  She didn’t even know yet. The cops hadn’t been able to track down her place of employment.

  CJ swayed, sagged against the wall, and slowly slid down to the floor.

  Closing her eyes, she let the sobs erupt.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t lost patients before, patients she’d been fighting to save with every ounce of knowledge and skill she possessed. The kid had pretty much bled out before he got to her. It wasn’t her fault.

  The older brother couldn’t live with the guilt.

  A no-win situation for all involved.

  The cell phone on CJ’s hip vibrated.

  She ignored it.

  Calls at this time of night were either work, and she was at work, or Shelley.

  She couldn’t deal with her sister’s problems right now.

  Maybe that was selfish, but CJ had spent the better part of her life picking up the pieces for Shelley and, before that, for their mother. These days, on the rare occasions when CJ bothered to go home for a visit, she stumbled over her sister’s self-inflicted misfortunes and the resulting disasters everywhere she turned.

  Right now CJ didn’t care what her sister needed. She didn’t possess the energy to care. There was nothing left inside her except utter exhaustion and regret.

  The insistent tremor against her waist warned that the caller wasn’t giving up.

  I am not answering.

  She’d ignored Shelley’s call the night before. It hadn’t been easy. Definitely out of character for CJ. But she’d don
e it. Shelley had obviously conveniently forgotten that their last conversation had resulted in their worst argument to date. Shelley had told CJ in no uncertain terms to stay out of her life. CJ had done just that. Her sister couldn’t have it both ways.

  When her cell shook with a third attempt to get her attention, CJ couldn’t hold out any longer.

  “Dammit, Shelley.” CJ snatched the phone from its holster. She read the number on the screen. Huntsville area code and prefix. Not her sister’s number.

  CJ opened her phone and tucked it against her ear. “Patter—” She cleared her throat. “Patterson.”

  “CJ?”

  A frown tugged at her throbbing forehead, then recognition flared. “Braddock?” Why the hell would he be calling her? CJ was reasonably sure she’d made herself very clear the last time she and the detective had spoken. If Shelley was in trouble again, CJ didn’t want to hear about it. And she damned sure didn’t want to hear from him under any circumstances.

  “I hate like hell to have to make this call.”

  What was he talking about? Where was the cocky tone he typically used with her? The slow-motion replay of the anguished older brother firing that weapon, sending a significant portion of his scalp, skull, and brain spraying through the night air, reeled before her eyes even as realization unfolded in her weary mind. Dread kinked into a thousand screaming knots in her gut.

  Taking her silence for the shock and uncertainty it was, Braddock went on, “CJ, I am so sorry to have to inform you . . . Shelley’s dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Huntsville

  2:00 PM

  CJ shoved the gearshift into park, turned off the ignition, and stared at the two-story house she’d called home for most of her life.

  The entire structure leaned to one side as if it were weary of standing this last hundred or so years. What little cheap green paint that remained on the century-old wood siding was faded and peeling. The numerous patch jobs on the once-white roof were so old they had blended into a dirty variation of grays and blacks. Gutters sagged, their downspouts dented and dangling precariously. The grass stood high enough that passersby likely thought the place was deserted.

  And it was . . . now.

  Her sister was dead.

  Emotion abruptly resurrected and churned deep inside CJ. She lifted her chin in defiance and, just as suddenly, it settled back into that numbness that had consumed her since receiving Braddock’s call.

  In half an hour she would identify the body.

  The body.

  Not just a body . . . her sister. The only family CJ had left.

  The connecting flight from Atlanta had arrived in Huntsville a few minutes early. So she’d come here as if doing so would change the outcome of what surely was a bad dream. She’d get out of her rented car, go inside, and discover the call had been a terrible mistake.

  Shelley couldn’t be dead.

  Climbing out of the rental, CJ remembered to grab her purse and lock the doors. In this neighborhood she’d be lucky if the hubcaps were still on the wheels ten minutes from now.

  Oppressive humidity immediately closed in around her.

  Home sweet home.

  What had once been a white picket fence surrounded the overgrown yard. The rickety, lopsided gate creaked when she opened it. She’d meant to do something about that the last time she was here. But she hadn’t stayed long enough to tackle anything on the ever-growing “big sister” list she mentally maintained.

  Just go away, CJ! I don’t need you interfering in my life!

  You never change, Shelley. It’s the same stupid mistakes every time I come back here. You’re hopeless.

  CJ closed her eyes and banished the voices. She took a deep breath and forced back the tears. Blinked and focused on the house that had never felt like home. That hadn’t once provided the safe haven most people associated with their childhoods. Other voices, from that dysfunctional time in her life, attempted to strong-arm their way into her head, but she exiled those as well.

  A dog barked somewhere down the block. Otherwise the mill village was uncharacteristically quiet for a Sunday afternoon. Too hot to get out and move around, forget about working up the energy to make noise. But that would change come dark. All sorts of activities would go on then . . . few pleasant and even fewer legal.

  Basically nothing had changed.

  It never did. Not around here.

  At the door CJ reached for the knob; her hand shook.

  No more rushing to Huntsville to get her sister out of one jam or another.

  No more sending money.

  No more screaming at each other.

  No more tearful hugs and promises to do better.

  Shelley was dead.

  Deep breath. Get it over with. CJ twisted the knob. The door opened. God, why didn’t that girl ever lock the door? Anyone could just walk in.

  The too-familiar smell tugged at her senses as she stepped inside. Stale cigarettes and cheap perfume. Her sister’s signature scent.

  Memories whispered, tugged at her emotions. Her father coming home drunk and slamming the door, then kicking anything that got in his way. Her mother passed out on the kitchen floor, while the dinner she’d started burned on the stove. And Shelley hiding behind the door of their room upstairs, playing with her favorite doll.

  Come play with me, CJ. Mommy’s sick again.

  CJ pushed aside the memories and reached for the switch next to the door. The single working bulb in the overhead fixture made a pathetic attempt at chasing away the darkness. The windows were covered with shades that had once been white, but years of nicotine-infused air had stained them an ugly shade of yellow.

  Stunning, uncharacteristic silence echoed the emptiness.

  It felt weird being in this house without the television blaring. Her whole life that had been the one constant. Some insignificant channel advertising products they couldn’t afford to buy or broadcasting a life they would never live. An open portal to the fantasy that would never be.

  CJ pushed a couple of empty beer cans aside and sat down on the battered coffee table. She stared at the tired sofa with its faded flowers and broken-down frame. The cushion where Shelley always curled up had a permanent indentation that marked her spot. CJ reached out, smoothed her hand over the tattered upholstery.

  How had she let this happen?

  She should have answered her sister’s call night before last. Two AM the call had come. CJ had just gotten to sleep after a twelve-hour shift. Absolute mental and physical exhaustion had rendered the decision easy to make.

  She’d known how it would go if she had answered. Shelley would be drunk or high. She’d cry about her wretched life with its endless cycle of failed attempts at change. Then she would beg CJ to help her, big sis would electronically transfer money, and all would be right in Shelley’s world once more.

  But CJ hadn’t reacted the way she usually did this time.

  She pulled out her cell phone and played the voice mail she hadn’t bothered to listen to until after Braddock’s call.

  “CJ! Oh, God, you’re not going to believe this! Okay, wait . . . don’t worry! It’s not like you think. I know it’s two in the morning, but I’m clean. Six weeks and counting. No drugs. No bullshit.” She squealed! “You need to call me. I have something really, really important to tell you.” She sighed, the sound steeped in happiness. “I know I’ve never been good at anything. I’ve been nothing but trouble. But I promise it’s gonna be different now. You’ll see. Call me! Hey . . .” There was an extended pause, then, “I don’t say it enough, but . . . I love you.”

  CJ had made a terrible, terrible mistake. Her eyes closed to contain the brimming emotion. She’d thought standing firm was the right thing to do. For years her one trusted confidant had been telling CJ that she had to stop enabling her sister’s destructive behavior.

  Now her sister was dead. Murdered.

  CJ greatly appreciated the overwhelming numbness that allowed only inte
rmittent bouts of the emotional storm she knew was coming. It wouldn’t last. Reality would sink in and she would have to deal with the ramifications of her decision not to answer that call. She recognized the aura of denial. She’d seen it on hundreds of faces in the ER.

  But maybe the numbness would get her through the next couple of hours.

  Right now, she pushed to her feet; she had to identify her sister’s body. And face the fact that she’d failed the one person who’d counted on her to always be there.

  CJ walked out the door, closed and locked it behind her.

  She stalled on the porch, surveyed the run-down neighborhood. Her whole life she couldn’t wait to get away from this dead-end place. She had dreamed of escaping to something better . . . to something that mattered. Now there was no reason for her to ever come back.

  Funny. While dreaming of and planning that grand escape, she’d never once considered the price.

  Now she knew.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “She’s here.”

  He’d expected her sooner. Must’ve been hell getting a flight out of Baltimore on short notice.

  His gaze cut from the foot soldier who’d reported the arrival to the window overlooking all that belonged to him. He reached up, traced the scar on his right cheek. Winced as if the knife blade had only just now sliced open his flesh. Fury roared inside him.

  He had a news flash for that snobby doctor bitch. She’d better watch her step. He hadn’t forgotten what she’d done to him. Thirteen years or thirty, she would get what was coming to her if she got in his way.

  “What you want me to do?”

  “Watch her.” He braced his hands on either side of the window and leaned closer to scan the rows of streets that made up the mill village. His village. “I want to know where that bitch goes and who she talks to. She might think she’s coming back here and gonna do some superhero shit, but she better think twice.”

  “What about the cops? You know she’ll talk to Braddock.”

  Fuck the po-po. And fuck Braddock. He shoulda learned his lesson already. “Course she’ll talk to the cops.” He knew what Braddock was up to. Maybe the law round here thought he was born yesterday and got this big today, but they were bad wrong. “They don’t know nothing. Ain’t a one of ’em can find his dick with both hands.”