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  "My service knew where I was. You should have waited for all the test results including the lung scan before starting treatment."

  Mendoza rose. "I do not agree. The complaints of the patient, the assessment of the nurse and myself and my own examination were enough." He thrust the EKG strip and the lab slips at De Witt. "You will read these and know I was right."

  De Witt grabbed the chart. "She's my patient. I'll order treatment."

  Mendoza stepped back. "I will miss your uncle. He was a gentleman and a good doctor. When this patient returned from surgery, he would have ordered the prophylactic doses of heparin. The weight, the age, the immobility make this necessary. I am thinking the wrong doctor is dead and I am believing he did not have the accident."

  Susan strode to the doctors' desk. "Gentlemen, this is not the time and place for this discussion."

  Mendoza nodded. "Mrs. Randall, you are correct. My apologies."

  "Not so fast," De Witt said. "What did you mean by your last crack?"

  "The nurse says you shoot a gun real good."

  "One of these days, you'll push that white Porsche too fast and it'll be all over." De Witt whirled to face Susan. He raised a hand as though he planned to hit her. "Just what do you know about my shooting ability?"

  "Nothing and I never mentioned them." She turned to Mendoza for confirmation but the house doctor had left.

  "Just make sure you don't or you'll be sorry." De Witt tucked the chart under his arm. "From now on, no house doctor to see any of my patients. Do I make myself clear?"

  "I'll inform the supervisor." Susan walked to Kit. "Let Ms. Vernon know about Dr. De Witt's latest order."

  Kit's eyes danced with excitement. "Told you there'd be sparks."

  "You should have called the supervisor the instant they started. What's wrong with you tonight?"

  "Sorry, but De Witt jumped Mendoza before I knew what was happening. Good thing Julie's off. What would she think of her hero if she had seen him? Wait until I tell her."

  Susan hurried to find Faye. A good thing Julie was off. Though the younger nurse would have seen another side of De Witt, Susan wasn't sure Julie would have recognized that De Witt had been in the wrong. In Julie's eyes, the man was perfect.

  Chapter 7

  The next afternoon when Susan arrived in the lounge, the atmosphere crackled with hostility. She tried to catch the door before her retreat was blocked but her attempt to escape failed.

  Julie stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips. "I don't want to hear your opinions. You're making this up."

  In a pose reminiscent of Barbara, Kit lounged on the loveseat. Trish moved from the window. "He's using you," she said. "He always finds some innocent to corrupt. Back off before you get hurt."

  "You're jealous," Julie said. "Just because he dropped you doesn't mean he'll do the same to me."

  "Jealousy is the furthest thing from my mind. You have no idea about the wonderful experiences he'll induce you into sharing, except, he cheats."

  "Name one."

  "You wouldn't want to know."

  Kit undulated from the loveseat. "It's a good thing you weren't here last night. De Witt raked Mendoza but good when the man hadn't done a thing except give excellent care to a patient. He was way out of line."

  "I don't want to hear this," Julie said.

  "Susan was there. I thought he was going to hit her." Kit joined Susan at the credenza. "Tell her what happened. Maybe she'll believe you."

  Susan heaved a sigh. "Stop this, all of you. I thought the pettiness around here had expired with Barbara." She ignored the quick intakes of breath. "If things don't change, I'll request a transfer." She picked up her coffee and strode to the door.

  Julie followed. "Why are they trying to make Larry look like the bad guy?"

  "You're asking me when you know how I feel about him?" Susan turned to the younger nurse. "What I do know is if things continue to escalate the way they are, Meg will step in and we've all seen her solutions."

  "Too often," Julie said. "Why did they say he attacked Mendoza? Larry wouldn't do a thing like that without a good reason."

  Susan halted outside the utility room. "He verbally abused Mendoza and Mendoza retaliated in kind. Neither man looked good."

  "I bet Larry didn't start it."

  "I've no further comment. What's wrong with you? Just the other night, was it you or your twin who didn't think she could trust De Witt?"

  Julie quickly glanced around. "You're right, but when he's around, I can't think of anything but him. What am I going to do?"

  "Start thinking about your own goals for a change."

  "I guess so."

  With only five staff members on duty that evening, Susan ate dinner at the desk while she picked up orders. The atmosphere from the nurses' lounge invaded the station. By the end of the evening, she felt as though she had been trapped in a city under siege. When the night staff arrived, she still had charts to complete.

  At five to twelve, she left the unit and hurried to the ER exit. The sound of angry voices startled her. One belonged to Mendoza. Was the other De Witt?

  "Calm down, Ramon. So I owe you a couple of hours."

  Susan turned the corner. Mendoza and Zeller, another house doctor, stood near the doors.

  "I was doing you the favor," Mendoza said. "You should have been here by eight. The time is almost midnight."

  "I got tied up. What's pending?"

  "The house is quiet."

  "Then what's the big deal. Don't burn the roads on the way home. You can't afford another speeding ticket."

  "This would not be the worry if you had been on time. In my country, the police would never give the ticket to the doctor."

  Zeller shrugged. "Different countries, different rules. I'll cover for you one evening next week. Just let me know when."

  Susan attempted to edge around the pair. Mendoza turned. "Mrs. Randall, what has kept you here this late?"

  "Too many patients and not enough help. I had tons of paperwork to complete."

  He nodded. "For me as well. How is the lady I saw last night?"

  "She's improving." She groaned and saw the security guard had left the desk.

  "Your husband, is he late?"

  "No." Susan shook her head. "I have to wait for a security guard to walk me to my car."

  He held out his arm. "May I be the escort?"

  "I'd appreciate the company." Susan stepped outside into a swirl of snow. "I hope this doesn't keep up all night."

  As they crossed the street, Mendoza held her arm. "Since you work on the orthopedic unit, you should have the happiness. The snow will be good for business."

  "The unit is full but I guess if there are accidents, we can transfer some of the medical patients to other units." She held the metal railing with one hand. "I'm on the second tier."

  "I have parked there as well. The doctor's lot was full from the meeting."

  When Susan reached her car, she turned and smiled. "Thanks."

  "To escort you was my pleasure." He grinned. "I would challenge you to the race."

  She laughed. "You've never seen me drive. There would be no contest. You really shouldn't drive so fast."

  "That is my nature. I have never had the accident."

  Before she pulled out of the parking space, Susan let her car warm. She stopped at the gate behind Mendoza's white Porsche. He waved a challenge. The thought of a race brought memories shimmering to the surface. She motioned him on.

  "I'll beat you home." As they had left their summer cottage, Jim had called the challenge. Since that night, she had become a cautious driver.

  * * *

  He stood between two maples at the edge of the earth embankment overlooking the Thruway. The wind gusted and drove fat snowflakes against his face. Branches of the barren trees creaked in a skeleton's dance. He stared through the falling snow and felt satisfied with his choice of tonight for Susan's death.

  The wet roads made the possibi
lity of a fatal car accident believable. He looked at his watch. She was late. Could he have missed her sporty white sedan?

  He shook his head. His vigilance had been constant. No cars had passed his hiding place for ten minutes. Susan was late, but she often was. If he remained patient, she would come.

  Thankful for the arctic jacket that shielded him from the biting wind, he left the shelter of the trees and squatted on a ground cloth. After adjusting his cap, he raised the rifle and peered through the telescopic lens. Aloud he repeated the number of her license plate. "709AMO."

  The intensity of his concentration was so strong, he nearly forgot to breathe. Headlights approached. A white car. He saw the M and fired. A split-second too late he realized he had shot at the wrong car. Susan didn't drive a Porsche. He dropped the rifle.

  For several seconds, he thought his marksmanship had failed. Then the right front tire disintegrated and the speeding car spun out of control. The sound of the car's impact against the overpass abutment reverberated like the roar of a crowd cheering a spectacular athletic event. He reveled in the applause for a hand of seconds. Then he walked to the edge of the embankment and stared at the crumpled car.

  Not Susan's car. It should be. Why had he failed? She led a charmed life. Three times he had tried and failed. Three deaths and she was still here and not with Mommy. Barbara Denton. Dr. Barclay. Now a stranger. Had they died to keep Susan safe? That must be the answer.

  The sound of sirens alerted him. He stepped behind a massive oak. Two police cars with lights revolving and sirens blaring pulled off the road. The officers left their cars and converged on the Porsche. One spoke into a microphone.

  He stared without really comprehending the scene. Susan was alive. Mommy, why? Are you protecting her? Wind whistled around him. He had to find a different plan. Maybe he should listen to Mommy.

  * * *

  As Susan approached the tollbooths, a police car flew past. A second followed before she paid the toll. Snow swirled through the air. Fat flakes melted as soon as they touched the ground. When Susan left the toll plaza, afraid the snow had made the roads slick, she cautiously increased her speed.

  Less than a half mile beyond the booths, she saw red flashes from the domes of two police cars. Convinced there had been an accident, she slowed and shifted lanes. When she saw the white Porsche against the abutment, she gasped. Mendoza's car.

  Her car slowed to a crawl. She eased into the right-hand lane and pulled onto the shoulder just beyond the second police car. An officer approached. Susan rolled down her window. "I'm a nurse. Is there anything I can do?"

  He shook his head. "The driver's trapped. I've sent for the Jaws, but I think it's too late."

  Susan bit her lip. "I think I know the driver...from the hospital...one of the house doctors. He walked me to my car. Are you sure there's nothing I can do?" She pressed her lips together to stop the hysterical scream that crept into her voice.

  He shrugged. "Go ahead. If you can identify him, that's a start."

  As she got out of the car, she looked toward the wooded area above the road. Her eyes narrowed. Was someone there?

  "Lady, what's wrong?"

  "I thought I saw someone up there." She waved her hand toward the trees.

  "Shadows." He shone the beam of his flashlight over the area.

  Must have been my imagination, she thought.

  Susan followed the officer across the rubble-strewn shoulder. When they were a few feet from the abutment, she saw the way the front end of the Porsche twisted to fit around the concrete barrier. Nuggets of glass from the shattered windows glittered among the gravel and on the near lane of the highway.

  Her footsteps faltered. She had walked this way before. Though the season had been summer and there had been no police cars, the similarity of the situation stirred ghosts. Jim's smashed car had been empty. Identification of his body had been delayed until she had found a phone and learned where he had been taken. She paused beside the Porsche and blinked her eyes to clear away the memories that blocked her from the present.

  Carefully, she slid her hand through the jagged mouth of the side window and probed Mendoza's throat for a pulse. His skin felt cold. The revolving lights created an abnormal ruddiness on his cheeks. She found no heartbeat.

  "He's dead." She withdrew her hand. The officer rose from a crouch beside the right front tire. His face wavered. Susan's knee buckled. Strong arms guided her away from the wrecked car.

  She leaned against the door of her sedan and gulped air the way an asthmatic sucks oxygen. The officer spoke into a hand mike.

  "Send someone to check the patch of woods above the Thruway. Found a bullet in the tire."

  His voice faded in and out. When her head cleared, Susan straightened.

  "Is he the doctor you mentioned?"

  The officer's deep voice made her jump. "Dr. Mendoza. We left the hospital at the same time."

  He flipped open a pad. "When was that?"

  "Around midnight. The security guard was gone. He... Dr. Mendoza walked me to my car. He always drove too fast but he never had an accident...What do you think happened?"

  The officer looked away. "Too soon to tell. Must have been hitting better than eighty. When the tire blew, he spun out of control."

  Had the officer mentioned a bullet or had she imagined the word? Should she ask?

  "Do you know anything about him?" the officer asked. "His address, phone number, anything?"

  The clump of fear lodged in her chest forcing Susan to close her eyes. She thought about her knowledge of Mendoza. When he didn't allow petty problems to annoy him, he was an excellent doctor. At some point during the past five years, he had alienated most of the nurses at the hospital. Speeding tickets angered him. Slights from other doctors evoked bitter complaints. These weren't the sort of details the officer wanted.

  "He was a house doctor. We weren't friends. I'm sure the supervisors at Bradley Memorial will have the information you need." As she opened the car door, a siren sounded in the distance.

  "Thanks for stopping. Sorry you couldn't help." The officer walked to the edge of the road and guided her car from the shoulder.

  A bullet, she thought. Fear spread through her body. Last night De Witt and Mendoza had quarreled. Mendoza had practically accused De Witt of killing his uncle. Should she have mentioned this? But the words had been spoken in anger. Mendoza had no way of knowing what De Witt had done.

  As Susan drove away, she saw an ambulance and a tow truck arrive. The officer waved. Her thoughts reverted to the hospital parking lot and Mendoza's jaunty wave. The roll of memories continued until she saw her husband's car shattered almost beyond recognition.

  She bit her lip to staunch the tears that burned her eyes. She gripped the steering wheel. Her car swerved toward the middle lane and back again. Stop it, she told herself. Exhaustion swamped her. If she pulled off the road to wait until the memories vanished, she might still be there in the morning.

  Her car crept past several exits before she reached her turnoff. Relief that the trip had nearly ended allowed her to grip the wheel with less than a wrestler's hold. A short time later, she pulled into the driveway at home.

  The lights from Patrick's side of the house were like a lighthouse beacon promising safety and peace. Susan bit her lip. Was she so conditioned to dependency that she couldn't face her memories alone? Was it fair to lean on Patrick when she wasn't sure she could promise anything? A crisis in their friendship approached and she feared she would hurt him.

  When Patrick saw Susan's car pull into the driveway, he rose from the couch. In hopes she would stop by, he walked to the door. Five minutes later, her headlights still shone through the darkness. What was wrong?

  He grabbed his jacket and opened the door an instant before the headlights went out. Susan stood beside her car. The night the Denton woman had been murdered, Susan had stood with the same forlorn posture. Had another nurse at the hospital died?

  He left the porch.
"What's wrong?"

  "There was an accident on the Thruway."

  He gathered her into his arms. "Were you involved?"

  "No." As she shook her head, her hair brushed his face.

  He kept his arm around her waist and guided her up the steps to the porch. She shivered. From the cold or the accident? His lips found hers. His tongue traced the curve of her mouth. Slowly, her tension ebbed and her response to him began.

  He freed her and trailed kisses across her chin and neck. Her arms lightly circled his shoulders and her fingers toyed with the hair at his nape. His lips met hers again.

  He felt a current of energy sizzle along his nerves. His body responded to her nearness. Just as the other time they had embraced, her body molded to his. She rocked against him. He slid his hands beneath her uniform shirt and released the clasp of her bra. Her tongue clashed with his, thrusting and probing. She was all he had imagined and more.

  Patrick lifted his mouth from hers. "Susan." He stepped back and drew her with him toward the living room and the couch.

  She shook her head. "Patrick, I'm sorry. I can't." She broke free and walked to the kitchen door. "This is so much like the night..."

  Had her response been driven by memories of the night she'd found solace in his arms? If so, what chance did they have to find a time for themselves?

  "Did you stop at the accident?" The words emerged like a groan.

  She nodded. "I knew the driver. One of the house doctors. Just tonight, he walked me to the parking lot. He challenged me to a race."

  "You didn't?" Patrick blurted. That might explain the intensity of her reaction to his kiss. Jim had challenged her. Patrick remembered how guilt had colored her grief. He leaned against the kitchen counter.

  "Of course not. You know how I feel about speeding." Susan's voice shook. "He drives--drove like the devil clung to his tailpipe. I followed him to the Thruway where he took off."

  Patrick listened to the remainder of her story. During the recitation, a short hesitation made him wonder if she had left something out. "Stopping took a lot of courage."