Free Mercy by Daniel Palmer Page A

filled the second syringe as well, but at a normal rate.
    Julie used a towel to wipe some blood off her face. The ambulance smelled like a slaughterhouse as it rocketed through the darkening night.
    Soon they reached White Memorial. The ambulance came to a hard stop and Ashley pushed the back doors open. The team waiting to receive Sam gasped at the ghoulish sight within. Sam’s blood had splattered the walls, floor, and equipment, and it covered Julie like a gory second skin.
    “I did a pericardiocentesis en route,” Julie said to one of the doctors on the scene.
    The doctor grimaced and returned a sympathetic look.
    “The OR is prepped,” the doctor said. “We’re moving him to trauma first. We’ll take good care of him.”
    Sam was wheeled through the emergency doors and whisked down a hallway, out of sight. Julie, alone, stood for a moment at the back of the ambulance. Then she sank to her knees and began to sob.

 
    CHAPTER 11
    Julie was a spectacle, a true sight to behold, on her march through the hospital waiting area to the ER trauma room. A boy in his basketball jersey, his wrist encased in a bag of ice, huddled close to his mother as Julie passed. A woman with a hacking cough stopped long enough to fix Julie with an open-mouthed stare. Another woman, baby clutched to her chest, turned away, but not before Julie caught her eye. How she must have appeared to them! Blood splatter across her face, in her hair, soiling her clothes. What had happened to this poor woman? Whatever scenarios they conjured, surely they were thankful for their own conditions over Julie’s.
    Inside the ER, Julie drew more shocked looks from nurses and doctors who knew one of their own had been involved in a terrible accident. A nurse dressed in blue surgical scrubs, her long blond hair locked in a tight ponytail, came rushing over.
    “Dr. Devereux, I heard. I’m so very sorry. Can I get you anything? I’ll grab you some scrubs to wear. You need something to drink. Some water?”
    Julie nodded numbly. She did not know this nurse by name, but recognized her face.
    “Where is he?” Julie asked. Her voice came out as a rasp, barely audible. Physically her body was inside the ER, but her thoughts were still on that bloodstained road, still in the ambulance.
    “He’s in trauma room two over there,” the nurse said, pointing.
    Julie handed the young woman her phone. “Please call my ex-husband, Paul Devereux. Tell him what happened. His number is in my contacts. Tell him where I am.”
    The nurse took the phone and nodded. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back with some clothes.”
    Julie approached the trauma room with trepidation, heart pounding, arms dangling limp at her sides. The space, twice the size of a typical ER suite, was crowded with people from the rapidly assembled trauma team. She noted, with a huge sigh of relief, that Dr. Wendy Benton was among them. Dr. Benton, a highly skilled trauma surgeon, conducted her primary survey while the phlebotomist scoured Sam’s body for areas undamaged by impact so she could draw blood for labs. Had Sam not worn his helmet, the only people attending to him would be down in the hospital morgue.
    At the foot of Sam’s bed stood Dr. James Gerber, a slender ER doc with silver hair whom many nurses considered to be among the very best of the staff. His voice was calm but commanding, bringing order to the chaos. The triage team worked independently yet functioned essentially as a single organism, with Dr. Gerber taking in all the information while he performed his own exam.
    Sam had been transferred to a hospital bed, where he remained lashed to that board. The cervical collar and cushioned blocks were both still in place. From the head of the bed, a nurse, her identity concealed beneath a surgical mask and head covering, spoke in a loud, clear voice.
    “Sam, can you hear me? Give my hand a squeeze. Can you wiggle your toes?”
    The nurses had already dressed Sam’s palms in light