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The warm, acrid smell of urine wafted up as he wet his pants, and the convulsions intensified, his limbs banging against the hardwood floor with enough force to split his skin.
When the seizure refused to abate after two minutes, the nurse scurried off to call an ambulance.
When it passed the five-minute mark, Je
Twenty-three minutes later, when the ambulance finally arrived, the nurse and Sha
The ride to the hospital was a blur, Sha
She left a monotone message that Mort had had an accident. She was on her way to Blessed Crucifixion Hospital, and he'd have to pick her up there.
Then she wept.
Arriving in Durango two months ago, Sha
When Mortimer had hired her to research the Dracula skull, searching for its pedigree, she'd had no idea he'd actually bought the thing. For the past two months, Sha
Mort had taken her failures in stride, encouraging Sha
Mort jerked against his restraints, making the cart rattle. The paramedics had pumped enough drugs into him to kill an elephant, but the convulsions hadn't abated. Sha
How could he have done something so ghastly? Senile dementia? Reduced mental capacity because of the morphine? Or had the old man pla
The whine of the ambulance siren faded as the vehicle shuddered to a stop. An intern opened the rear doors and slid out the gurney with one of the paramedics. Je
Je
Sha
"I've been doing this for a decade," Je
Sha
"You could've fallen apart." Je
"His name is Clay."
"No offense. That's just what my ex used to call him. No love lost between those two, let me tell you."
"I had no idea."
"Before your time. Randall would drink too much in town, and I'd wind up bailing him out, seemed like every other week. Think Clay'll give me a lift back to Mort's? I need my car."
"I'm sure he will."
And then what? Sha
But she felt so drained right now. She didn't know if she had the energy to tell him. Or was she just making an excuse?
Maybe. Because Clayton Theel was one of the good guys, and she knew he genuinely cared for her. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him. But their heads were in such different places. The gun thing, for instance. Guns frightened the hell out of her. But Clay loved them--lived for them. If he wasn't shooting one, he was modifying one or inventing one. She could not take another gun show, and she might claw her own eyes out if she had to watch Dirty Harry or Unforgiven again.
"Son of a bitch."
Both women turned to the paramedic, who was squinting at his finger.
"What's wrong?" Je
"I think the old bastard bit me."
Je
JENNY Bolton entered the ER through the automatic doors four steps behind the paramedics pushing Mortimer's gurney. Though Je
Seeing Mort so near death, weeks before his diagnosed time, brought a lump to her throat. This lump was made even bigger by her uncomfortable surroundings.
Once upon a time, Je
But last year she'd gotten into a disagreement with one of the holier-than-thou physicians on staff, and his lies and bullshit had led to her dismissal.
God, she hoped that prick Dr. Lanz wasn't working tonight.
"Dr. Lanz! Code blue!" the intercom blared.
Shit.
Je
While Lanz barked orders at his cringing staff, Je
She reached for the handset, then paused.
Should I call him?
Her ex-husband, Randall, had left no fewer than thirty-eight messages on her cell phone since being admitted two days ago for a job-related injury. Her brain-deficient, former significant other--a lumberjack--had somehow managed to cut the back of his own leg with a chainsaw. She wondered if he'd been drinking on the job. He'd fallen into drinking far too much off the job. Drunk on the job seemed the natural next step. He'd sworn time and again that he was off the sauce, but he'd made many such promises during their marriage, only to relapse.
Aside from the occasional glimpse of his bright red Dodge Ram Hemi driving through town, she hadn't seen Randall since their divorce was made final two years ago. Je