If he survived, how was she going to explain what happened to him when she was completely mystified herself? Maybe none of the adventures of the last few days really happened. Maybe she’d never left the reenactment. Maybe she’d slept through the last few days dreaming of being captured and meeting Abraham Lincoln.
Really? Then how did she explain the man attached to oxygen, IVs, and monitors with a Civil War-era minié ball, of all things, in his gut?
There would be consequences for bringing him home with her. When Jack heard her story, he would jump into the middle of the mystery wearing combat boots.
“Are the antibiotics in yet? Call OR and see if they’re ready for us,” Ken told a nurse before turning to Charlotte and extending a professional courtesy. “Do you want to observe?”
“Yes.” She pushed off the wall. Until she scrubbed away the grime, she wasn’t going anywhere, especially into the OR. “I’ll join you in ten minutes. Where’s the closest shower? I’ve spent two days in the field and I’m way too dirty for the OR.”
“Second floor call room,” a nurse said. “You’ll find clean scrubs in the cabinet.”
Stress, sweat, and dirt melted away under the hot spray. Although she was tempted to linger, she didn’t. Returning to her patient preempted her physical needs, including food. Her empty stomach growled. She hoped Ken still had steak and wine left.
As soon as Ken finished surgery, she planned to invade his house, eat, drink, and soak in the hot tub. She also had to call Jack to fill him in. If McCabe survived, he would need someone with him who knew his identity and could answer his questions. She had a full day of surgeries and office appointments scheduled for the next day, which meant returning to Richmond in the morning by six. After all she had been through, she needed to return to her normal life, to structure and safety. Jack would be psyched to babysit a nineteenth-century Union cavalry officer who also happened to be a spy. Perfect story material.
She dressed in scrubs and hurried off to the OR.
Two hours later, Ken had removed the bullet, repaired the bowel, and copiously irrigated the major’s abdominal cavity. The police would want the bullet for evidence once it was released by pathology. When they questioned McCabe, what would he tell them?
Two police officers were waiting when she and Ken exited the OR. One man was tall and lean with close-cropped brown hair, and the other was a broad-shouldered blond with a grouchy face. She disliked them both on sight.
“Doctor Mallory?” thin man asked, approaching Ken.
“I’m Doctor Mallory.” Charlotte glared at the man with an exasperated shake of her head. She was exhausted and not in the mood to be interviewed, but she knew from personal experience that if she ignored the police, they could be more problematic than the press. She would stick to the truth as much as possible.
The grouchy looking officer said, “We’d like to ask you a few questions about the man you brought in earlier.”
“Have you learned anything about him?” she asked, hoping to deflect some of the attention from her.
“We were hoping you could tell us,” thin man said.
“When we finished late this afternoon, I got in my car to go back to Richmond but decided to close my eyes for a few minutes before making the drive. The next thing I knew it was three hours later. I didn’t realize I was so tired. Glad I didn’t try to drive.”
Heat crept up her neck as a ripple of tension went through her. Lying made her uncomfortable. She would not pass a polygraph test today. “Anyway, I pulled out of my parking space and spotted someone lying on a bed. I jumped out of the car and approached cautiously. I asked his name. He was still alert enough to answer, ‘Major McCabe.’ I saw his abdomen and realized he’d been shot. I called 911.”
The tall officer made notes. Grouchy just glared. If they were trying to intimidate her, good luck. She had been trained by surgical professors who had perfected the art of intimidation.
Thin man flipped a page in his notebook. “Have you ever seen him before?”
She shook her head. “He’s a pretty good-looking guy. I would have noticed him.”
“He told you his name was Major McCabe,” thin man said. “Is that his rank or first name?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Thin man wrote in his notebook. “Why’d you call Doctor Thomas? The ER docs could have handled the case.”
“No, the ER docs would have had to call a surgeon. Dr. Thomas is the best. He’s my friend, and I thought he’d find it an interesting case. Besides, he would have been pissed if he had missed this one.”
Thin man tapped his pen against the notebook. “Is that right, Doctor Thomas?”
Ken gave her a wry grin. “That I’m the best? Yes.”
“Did you see anyone else? There was a chair next to the bed as if someone had been sitting with him,” Grouchy said.
Charlotte shook her head. “No.”
“The bed and chair looked old. Very old. Have you seen them before?”
Charlotte gave him a what-the-fuck look. “Are you saying I’m old like the furniture?”
He had the decency to blush. “No, ma’am. I meant that the bed and chair looked similar to ones I’ve seen in Civil War books. You’re a Civil War reenactor. I thought you might have seen the furniture in someone’s tent during the weekend’s events. That’s all.”
“What happened to the rest of his clothes?” thin man asked.
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Grouchy shifted his squeaky leather duty belt. The clatter from his attached equipment sounded like a Roman Army on the march. “We’d like to talk to him as soon as he wakes up.”
“Fine. Check back tomorrow,” she said. She wanted to tell him to put a little saddle soap on his Sam Browne to keep it from
