“Always use soft pink lightbulbs in your bathrooms dear, especially the guest bathroom. The subtle pink color coating enhances everything with a slightly warmer tone that detracts from flaws and compliments any face, delighting your guests.”
Looking down at Hemingway’s lacerated body she knows full well the lighting isn’t complimenting anything, and it can’t come close to easing the harshness of the situation.
“Is he going to be okay?” Libby asks Dr. Sutton, watching his rough, old hands feel through Hemingway’s blood-soaked, wiry coat and then insert the bevel of a needle into a vein in his neck.
Hemingway flinches slightly but holds his doe-eyed gaze—filled with trust—on Libby’s face as the vet’s calloused thumb slowly pushes the plunger down the syringe barrel, easing sodium pentobarbital into the bloodstream where it travels swiftly throughout his system. Eyes too heavy to keep open, Hemingway closes his lids and drifts off to sleep.
“He’ll be much better off anesthetized while I wash and tend to his wounds. And so will we for that matter,” he says, his eyes smiling through craggy brows. “You’re holding up well,” he continues encouragingly. “Care to help me get him cleaned and stitched up?”
“I’m at your service. Tell me what to do.”
The hospital is shockingly bright compared to the storm-tossed evening outside. Mick can’t seem to sit still. He needs to do something. With a thin green ambulance blanket draped over his shoulders, he wears a path in the highly buffed linoleum floor of the emergency waiting area, his limp more pronounced than usual. Frustration mounting, Mick realizes that repeatedly checking his watch doesn’t make its hands move any faster. As he walks, he clenches and unclenches his hands. Just hours ago, they’d been holding Emma’s.
Taking another lap around the waiting area, his mind replays Cynthia’s voice. “It was Jason. He fell over the cliff, and he’s dead.”
Using the combined processes of experience and elimination, Dr. Alice Zimmerman approaches Mick, her low heels tapping across the worry-paved flooring as she enters the waiting room.
The space is designed to calm. Neat and tidy, of course, but with a comfortable, open style, quiet colors, and soothing music meant to tranquilize frayed nerves.
As she extends her hand, she asks, “Are you the person who escorted Cynthia Winters in the ambulance?”
“I am. I’m Sean McPherson,” he answers, noting the doctor’s firm, professional handshake. “Is she going to be okay?”
Seeing the deep lines of worry creased in his forehead, she asks kindly, “Are you a relative?” as she guides them toward two overstuffed chairs angled companionably toward each other and they sit. Her lap is holding a no-nonsense clipboard stayed by the flat palms of her hands. His lap is supporting two fists that he clenches and unclenches in an unconscious effort to relieve anxiety.
“No. Cynthia’s one of our guests at Pines & Quill.”
“The writers’ retreat out by the cliffs,” she says, more as confirmation than a question. “I’ve heard of it. First let me say, Ms. Winters is going to be okay. But in addition to suffering from a cluster headache, she’s lost a lot of blood from the wound on her thigh. Thankfully, her femoral artery was only nicked instead of cut or severed. Can you tell me about the circumstances around that?”
“I don’t understand, what’s a cluster headache? Is it like a migraine?” Mick asks.
“A cluster headache is one of the most painful types of headaches there is. In fact, they’ve been described as ‘suicide headaches,’ a reference to the excruciating pain and resulting desperation that has culminated in actual suicide. They can be debilitating and last from weeks to months, or vanish as quickly as they arrive and stay in remission for months, even years before recurring.”
“How do you know that’s what she has? Can you help her?”
“When I was stitching her leg, she came to long enough to tell me before passing out again.” Cool, calm, and collected, the doctor continues. “Unfortunately, there’s no cure for cluster headaches, but they can be treated with medication to decrease the severity of pain and reduce duration. Right now, we’re treating Ms. Winters with pure oxygen through a breathing mask. The effects of this are usually felt within minutes and provide dramatic relief for most patients.
“Once she comes around, we’ll get an accurate medical history. If we can rule out high blood pressure and heart disease, we’ll give her an injection of triptans. But Mr. McPherson, you still haven’t told me why Ms. Winters arrived looking like she was tattooed in blood, and how she sustained the trauma on her thigh.”
“Dr. Zimmerman, all I know about the gash in Cynthia’s leg is that Hemingway”—noting her quizzical look under raised eyebrows, he explains—“he’s my dog,” and then continues, “came and got me. I called my brother-in-law and told him to bring the ATV,” and we took Cynthia back to the main house where an ambulance was waiting to bring her here. That’s the extent of what I know.”
“What was Ms. Winters doing out in the storm?”
“I have no idea, but I’m just as anxious to find out as you are.”
“We’re going to keep her overnight. She’s been through quite an ordeal, and there’s always a potential for shock. Plus, I want to keep an eye out for infection in her leg, and also see if she’s a potential candidate for triptans. By the way, that was some pretty impressive work you did with the sleeve tourniquet,” she says, pausing to look pointedly at his missing shirt. “I’m grateful I didn’t have any resulting complications to clean up after someone who doesn’t know what they
