Keith?” Zelda’s soft green eyes held only respect. “What are your instincts telling you?”
“Dissecting aortic aneurysm. A tear in the wall of the aorta—”
“What do you need for a positive diagnosis?”
“I need to see if he has mediastinal widening, and for that, I need a chest X-ray.”
“You’ve got no tech scheduled?”
Jama shook her head. “As I said, we’re not open yet.”
Zelda’s frown finally showed her age. “Well, folderol. I knew I should’ve taken that course at the university.”
“If we treat him for a classic MI with blood thinners of any kind, and this is a tear in the aorta—”
“I know,” Zelda said. “He could bleed to death.”
“I’ve called for airlift to St. Mary’s.”
“How long do we have?”
Jama looked at the large wall clock. “They should be here in ten minutes.”
“I’ll contact the hospital for an accepting physician.”
“I need someone to clear a landing space for—”
There was another shout from the waiting room—one Jama recognized. For as far back as she could remember, that voice had meant comfort, friendship and much, much more.
And now? Tyrell Mercer’s voice stirred conflicting emotions, but she didn’t have time to deal with anything but Monty.
“There’s our man,” Zelda said with a wink. “Just in time, as always. Go put him to work, and tell him his daddy’s being well cared for by the best doctor and nurse in River Dance.”
Jama rushed to intercept “our man” and fill him in.
Tyrell was in the middle of the large waiting room, his six-foot-three broad-shouldered bulk cutting a swath across the polished wooden floor and area rug toward the treatment rooms.
He stopped when he saw Jama, his expression apprehensive. “What happened?”
Jama felt drawn to his comforting strength. She wanted nothing more than to step into his embrace and let it engulf her. Today, however, she needed to be the strong one.
She stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. “It’s his heart.”
Chapter Four
D oriann mustn’t throw up. If she did, Deb would for sure kill her—though nothing could make this truck stink any worse, so it shouldn’t matter to Deb. Doriann tried to focus on the white dotted line in the center of the road, and on the distant hilltops, not the trees that raced past on both sides in a blur of spring green.
Think, Doriann. Got to think! Where are we?
She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-two miles per hour.
Speedometer…speed. That was what Aunt Renee had been teaching about during Social Studies lessons for the past month. Speed was a nickname for an illegal drug. Doriann would probably know all this stuff so much better if she attended public school and had friends besides her cousins and other homeschooled kids at church.
Mom and Dad always worried about the development of Doriann’s social skills in a homeschooling environment, but they wanted her to be able to learn at her own pace. In public school, she’d be in sixth grade, not ninth. Who would have thought teaching her about illegal drugs might save her life?
If her life got saved.
There was a drug that stank like dirty socks—the way this truck stank—when it was being cooked, and one of the words for it was speed. Methamphetamines. Meth. Crank. It made sense. Had these people been cooking meth? Dopeheads? All kinds of terms for that drug. Missouri outranked every other state in the country for meth lab busts per capita.
Doriann felt that could be a good thing, or a bad thing. If the busts were because the police in Missouri worked harder than police in any other state to find the meth labs, then that was good. But it could also mean there were more meth labs to be busted.
Aunt Renee said that someone on meth would do anything for another fix. Since this truck had nearly turned over when they left the interstate before waiting for an exit ramp, Doriann bet that either these two freaks were crazy or high on something.
Think, Doriann! How do you get out of this mess?
Aunt Renee said more than once that Doriann was the smartest kid she’d ever known. More like a little grown-up than a kid. Of course, Aunt Renee believed in positive reinforcement. But still.
Aunt Renee had made that statement yesterday, right after Doriann had told her cousins a scary story and made Ajay cry. That meant the statement wasn’t being made in a positive way, but to heap on the guilt.
Mom said Aunt Renee was good at guilt trips. Mom should know that about her twin sister.
So if Aunt Renee says I’m a great storyteller, tell Clancy a story. He does everything Deb tells him not to do. He’s a lot like my cousins, and I know how to handle them. What do dopeheads want most in all the world? More dope, right? And what do I want most in all the world? Out of this truck!
Clancy blasted through an intersection without even slowing at the stop sign, or checking for traffic. Had to be scorched on speed. Right?
“You missed the turn,” Deb said. “94. That’s the road that’ll take us to St. Louis.”
Doriann perked up as Clancy stomped the brake with a screech of tires. They were taking Highway 94. Thank you, Jesus! She suddenly felt less like crying. If she could get Clancy to take the exit to River Dance…Uncle Tyrell was there, and Grandpa and Grandma, and even Aunt Jama, who was supposed to start her new job today.
Uncle Tyrell was big and tough and could take on a dinosaur. He wasn’t afraid of anything. And Grandpa wouldn’t let anybody hurt her, over his dead body. But how was a kid supposed to get Clancy to take River Dance Road?
She cleared her throat. “We’re going the wrong way.”
“Shut up,” Deb snapped.
Doriann braced herself to be slapped again. “I’m just warning you, is all.”
Deb didn’t slap her, but she looked as if she was about to.
“I have to warn you about one of the towns we’ll be passing,” Doriann continued. “River Dance. It’s a bad place. W-we don’t want to go there.”
Clancy’s jaw tightened, and he flexed his right arm. “That’s not where we’re headed.”
“This road will take us right past the turnoff to—”
“Why don’t we want to go to River Dance?” Clancy growled.
“Don’t talk to the brat,” Deb said. “Don’t listen, and don’t talk.”
“Why not? If she knows something about this place—”
“She’s a kid, and she doesn’t know anything. Who takes directions from a stupid kid?”
“I might be a stupid kid, but I know somebody who’s been to River Dance, and you don’t.” Doriann braced herself.
Still no slap.
“They have a lot of drugs in that town,” she continued. “That’s always been a problem there.” Her family would kill her for slandering their hometown this way…That was the word, wasn’t it? Slander. Yes. Not libel. Libel was slander in print.
“My friend says it isn’t all bad,” she said. “I mean, there’s this great winery on top of the hill, and there are some cellars below the main building where wine barrels are stored, and some of the high-school kids sneak in and steal