Striker explained the situation, her reply caught
him off guard. ‘Dr Owens? Oh yes, she’s in.’
‘She’s
in
? Why the hell did no one call me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I told that last nurse that this was a police emergency and to get Dr Owens to call me the moment she walked in – she’s flagged on CPIC, for Christ’s sake.’
The girl flustered. ‘I-I . . . don’t know who you dealt with, Detective. But Dr Owens probably didn’t call you back right away because of the sick baby that got rushed
through.’
Striker closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you telling me Dr Owens is there now?’
‘Yes. She’s in the trauma room. With the baby.’
That was all Striker needed to hear. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere. I’m heading up.’
Not ten minutes later they arrived on scene.
The moment Striker walked into the admitting ward of St Paul’s Hospital, he found himself swallowed up in the crowd. A bad smell filled the stuffy air, one of sweat and cleaners and
sickness. Murmurs and sniffs and sneezes played louder than the Muzak filling the waiting room, and in the corner, a drunk was crying openly.
Striker swept his eyes around the room. A lot of memories of this place bombarded him – all of them bad. This was where he had come so many times before. With his wife, Amanda, during her
depressions. With Courtney after the school shootings. And most recently, with Mike Rothschild, following the death of his wife, Rosalyn.
He hated this place.
Surprisingly, Rosalyn’s memory hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because she’d been so good to him over the years, ever since Amanda’s death, or maybe it was because Striker
was the godparent to her children. Probably, it was because the memory of Rosalyn was the freshest – she’d passed away just four months ago.
Not a long time for the grieving process.
‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.
Striker blinked and looked at her. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing there, looking down at a family that was seated in the waiting area. A little boy around six, a little
girl near eight, and their father. It reminded him of Mike Rothschild and his children, Cody and Shana.
‘I should have been there this week,’ he said softly.
Felicia shook her head. ‘Where?’
‘Helping Mike and the kids move into their new home. I
promised.
But this goddam job – it just kills every plan you ever make . . .’
‘Mike understands that, Jacob. He’s a cop.’
‘Maybe he does. But Cody and Shana don’t.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘They’re six years old, Feleesh, and all they know is that I’m the godparent who
never shows up for anything. Not for the move. Not when he took them sleigh riding at Whistler last Christmas—’
‘You were a little busy saving people from The Adder, Jacob.’
‘—and not tonight for the barbecue. Hell, I’m lucky I even made their mother’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
Striker broke away and approached the triage nurse. She was pretty. Long brown hair and big doe eyes. She looked dead tired – a fact that didn’t surprise Striker in the least. Nurses
had just as bad shift schedules as cops. Given the fact it was now going on five-thirty p.m., the nurse was probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. Who knew, maybe she was already working
overtime.
She looked at Striker as if she had been warned he was coming, and offered him a wary smile.
‘Hello, Detective,’ she said.
Striker tried to be cordial. ‘I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens.’
‘Sharise?’ The triage nurse narrowed her eyes, then looked back at the large whiteboard behind her. ‘Just . . . one moment, please.’ She disappeared into the back, and
when she returned five minutes later, an uncomfortable expression marred her pretty features. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But there’s been a bit of a mistake here . . . Dr Owens
isn’t in – and she hasn’t been all
him off guard. ‘Dr Owens? Oh yes, she’s in.’
‘She’s
in
? Why the hell did no one call me?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I told that last nurse that this was a police emergency and to get Dr Owens to call me the moment she walked in – she’s flagged on CPIC, for Christ’s sake.’
The girl flustered. ‘I-I . . . don’t know who you dealt with, Detective. But Dr Owens probably didn’t call you back right away because of the sick baby that got rushed
through.’
Striker closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Are you telling me Dr Owens is there now?’
‘Yes. She’s in the trauma room. With the baby.’
That was all Striker needed to hear. ‘Don’t let her go anywhere. I’m heading up.’
Not ten minutes later they arrived on scene.
The moment Striker walked into the admitting ward of St Paul’s Hospital, he found himself swallowed up in the crowd. A bad smell filled the stuffy air, one of sweat and cleaners and
sickness. Murmurs and sniffs and sneezes played louder than the Muzak filling the waiting room, and in the corner, a drunk was crying openly.
Striker swept his eyes around the room. A lot of memories of this place bombarded him – all of them bad. This was where he had come so many times before. With his wife, Amanda, during her
depressions. With Courtney after the school shootings. And most recently, with Mike Rothschild, following the death of his wife, Rosalyn.
He hated this place.
Surprisingly, Rosalyn’s memory hit him the hardest. Maybe it was because she’d been so good to him over the years, ever since Amanda’s death, or maybe it was because Striker
was the godparent to her children. Probably, it was because the memory of Rosalyn was the freshest – she’d passed away just four months ago.
Not a long time for the grieving process.
‘You okay?’ Felicia asked.
Striker blinked and looked at her. He realized he’d stopped walking and was standing there, looking down at a family that was seated in the waiting area. A little boy around six, a little
girl near eight, and their father. It reminded him of Mike Rothschild and his children, Cody and Shana.
‘I should have been there this week,’ he said softly.
Felicia shook her head. ‘Where?’
‘Helping Mike and the kids move into their new home. I
promised.
But this goddam job – it just kills every plan you ever make . . .’
‘Mike understands that, Jacob. He’s a cop.’
‘Maybe he does. But Cody and Shana don’t.’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘They’re six years old, Feleesh, and all they know is that I’m the godparent who
never shows up for anything. Not for the move. Not when he took them sleigh riding at Whistler last Christmas—’
‘You were a little busy saving people from The Adder, Jacob.’
‘—and not tonight for the barbecue. Hell, I’m lucky I even made their mother’s funeral, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
Striker broke away and approached the triage nurse. She was pretty. Long brown hair and big doe eyes. She looked dead tired – a fact that didn’t surprise Striker in the least. Nurses
had just as bad shift schedules as cops. Given the fact it was now going on five-thirty p.m., the nurse was probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. Who knew, maybe she was already working
overtime.
She looked at Striker as if she had been warned he was coming, and offered him a wary smile.
‘Hello, Detective,’ she said.
Striker tried to be cordial. ‘I need to speak to Dr Sharise Owens.’
‘Sharise?’ The triage nurse narrowed her eyes, then looked back at the large whiteboard behind her. ‘Just . . . one moment, please.’ She disappeared into the back, and
when she returned five minutes later, an uncomfortable expression marred her pretty features. ‘I’m sorry, Detective. But there’s been a bit of a mistake here . . . Dr Owens
isn’t in – and she hasn’t been all
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