“I’ll get to the bottom of this, Sloan. You have my word,” Rebecca said stonily. “For now, we have to assume that no one is above suspicion.”

Ali Torveau slid the CAT scan onto the view box and pointed. “Linear nondisplaced skull fracture, right here in the occipital area. Big scalp laceration over it. Brain looks okay, although I’m sure there’s a significant contusion.”

Catherine studied the scan, nodding. “What about systemic injuries?”

“In addition to the head injury? Bilateral pulmonary effusions, fractured left renal pelvis, and a hemarthrosis of the left knee. Basically, she got bounced around pretty good, but most of the major organ systems were spared long-term damage.”

“What about the kidney injury? Is it going to require surgery?”

“Probably not,” the trauma surgeon said. “We’ll repeat the CAT scan in six hours and follow her hemoglobins, but the perirenal space is so tight, hemorrhage usually stops on its own. Fortunately, her pulmonary status is stable right now and I took out the endotracheal tube. There’s always a possibility that she could develop acute respiratory distress syndrome, but we’ll cross that road when we come to it.”

“What about the intracranial injury?” Catherine inquired. “Any idea what to expect in terms of her regaining consciousness?”

Again, Torveau shrugged. “She’ll wake up when her neurons recover from being shaken all to hell. I can ask neurology to come and see her, but you know damn well they’re going to say they can’t tell us anything.”

Catherine smiled. She was well aware that surgeons had little regard for medical specialists who generally were unable to give a hard and fast prognosis. “If you’re confident that there’s no surgical problem, I’m sure her family will be, too. Can I see her before I talk to them?”

“Sure,” Torveau said, “She’s in trauma bay one. Bring them in whenever you want. I’ve got to go—there’s a spleen that wants to be liberated waiting for me upstairs in the OR. They can catch me later if they have questions.”

“Go ahead, and thanks for letting me take up your time.”

“No problem.” And then she pushed through the double doors and was gone.

Catherine walked through the brightly lit treatment area to one of the cubicles where stabilized patients awaited transfer to a regular hospital room. Nodding to a nurse who was busy charting the events of the resuscitation, Catherine approached the bed where Michael lay. On the far side of the small room, a rack of monitors gave continuous readouts of her status while IV poles hung with resuscitation fluids stood silent sentinel.

“Michael,” Catherine said softly, bending down close to her. It was impossible to tell what an unconscious person heard, or stored in their memory to be recalled weeks, months, or even years later. She always assumed they were listening, and she always spoke to them as if they would remember. “My name is Catherine Rawlings. I’m a friend of Sloan’s.”

To her surprise, Michael’s eyelids fluttered and her left hand twitched. Reaching for her hand, Catherine cradled the slender fingers in hers. “Michael?”

Michael opened her eyes, her pupils wide and unfocused. “Sloan?”

“She’s just fine. I’ll bring her right in.”

Catherine thought she saw a flicker of a smile before the other woman drifted away again. “And she’ll be much, much better now,” she whispered, gently releasing Michael’s hand.

Rebecca and Sloan walked out of the consultation room and the first person they saw was Avery Clark. Rebecca wasn’t even aware of Sloan moving, but in the next instant the security expert had the federal agent up against the wall with her hands fisted in the folds of his jacket.

“It’s about time you told us what the fuck is going on,” Sloan snarled, inches from his face. “Justice is famous for keeping secrets, and one of your secrets almost got my lover killed.” She punctuated each word with a shove that bounced him against the wall.

For an instant, Clark looked stunned, and then Rebecca saw his hand move under his jacket toward his weapon. In all likelihood, it was an automatic response to Sloan’s unexpected attack, but Rebecca wasn’t about to let weapons come out. “Sloan,” she barked, “let him go.”

Sloan appeared not to hear and pushed Clark’s body hard against the wall again. Rebecca moved to separate them, grasping Sloan’s left shoulder with her right hand and wedging herself between them. “Back off, Sloan.”

This time, Sloan might have heard, because she appeared to loosen her grip on Clark’s jacket. Apparently, that had been the opening he was waiting for, because he brought both arms forcefully up between Sloan’s, breaking her grip and pushing her back at the same time. The force of his blow deflected off Sloan’s arms as she let go, and his swinging fists caught Rebecca in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Rebecca rocked back on her heels, pain exploding in her chest.

By that time, they had drawn a crowd. Jason was between Clark and Sloan and the two men were shouting. Sarah was at Sloan’s side, gently but firmly pushing her away. Rebecca sagged against the wall, one hand pressed to her chest, struggling to get her breath.

“For God’s sake,” Catherine exclaimed, having seen the last of the altercation as she approached down the hall. “Have you all lost your minds? Sarah, take Sloan back to the waiting room. I’ll be there in a minute.” She kept walking until she reached Rebecca, her heart in her throat. Pain was carved into every line of the detective’s body, and for one terrifying second, Catherine saw her as she had been the night in Sandy’s apartment— gasping for breath, one lung down, on the brink of full arrest. Oh no, not again.

Rebecca forced herself to focus and took a slow, shallow breath. “I’m okay,” she managed, reading the panic in Catherine’s face. Taking another shaky breath, she repeated, “I’m okay. He just…surprised…me, that’s all.”

“You need to sit down,” Catherine said in a voice which she hoped sounded calmer than she felt.

“Okay, right. Just… give me a minute,” Rebecca said, uncertain that she could actually make it across the room. She looked around, putting together the events of the last few furious minutes. “Where’s Sloan?”

“Sarah has her. Rebecca, please,” Catherine said, slipping her arm around Rebecca’s waist.

“What about Clark?” Rebecca said through gritted teeth. God, her chest hurt.

“With Jason, I think.” Catherine gave up trying to keep her quiet and simply guided her slowly across the room to the row of orange plastic molded seats. “Sit. I mean it.”

Rebecca sank down willingly and leaned her head back against the institutional tan wall. “What a fuck up.”

“I’ll be right back,” Catherine murmured, returning a second later with a stethoscope borrowed from one of the trauma nurses. Unbuttoning Rebecca’s shirt, she slipped the bell under the material and murmured, “Breathe.”

Rebecca took a breath, and then another. It hurt, but she was getting air. “I’m…oka…”

“Shh,” Catherine admonished, moving the stethoscope over both sides of Rebecca’s chest. Finally satisfied, she sat back and slipped the instrument from around her neck. “You sound okay. We should probably get a chest x-ray just to be sure.”

For a moment, Rebecca looked as if she might protest, then she nodded. “Can it wait until I get everybody settled down here?”

Catherine didn’t want to negotiate where Rebecca’s wellbeing was concerned, but she recognized the attempt at compromise. Inwardly, she was still trembling, but Rebecca was trying to meet her half way, and she needed to try, also. “All right, that’s a deal. But not more than an hour.”

“Good enough,” Rebecca said, getting just a bit shakily to her feet.

“Promise?”

Rebecca brushed the wisps of hair back from Catherine’s temple gently. There had been too much fear for one evening. For one lifetime. And she couldn’t swear it wouldn’t happen again. But this she could do. “Yes. I promise.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

LESS THAN AN hour later, Sloan, Rebecca, and Avery Clark gathered in yet another unmemorable conference room at University Hospital. They had to meet there, because Sloan wouldn’t leave until Michael’s repeat Cat scans were done and Torveau decided if surgery was needed on her fractured kidney. Rebecca watched warily as Clark and Sloan eyed each other across the ten foot space, ready to dive between them yet again if the tension in the air became physical.

“If I’ve got some reason to apologize,” Sloan said flatly, watching Clark’s face, “I will. But I’m not convinced that I do. You find out in the morning that I’m close to nailing someone and that evening a car tries to run me down. That seems just a little too neat.”

Clark looked from Sloan to Rebecca, judging the battle lines and allegiances. Shrugging as if to acknowledge that he was outnumbered, he sat down and gestured with a hand for them to do the same. “Look,” he began resignedly, “I can tell you what I know, but I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.”

“Any answers would be a start,” Rebecca interjected sharply. “There are holes in this investigation big enough to drive a truck through. What’s the real purpose behind what you’ve got us doing?”

“This is a legitimate attempt to expose the child pornography ring that we believe is operating in this area,” he insisted. “We don’t know yet how deep or how far this kind of Internet crime extends, but it’s much broader and already more technologically sophisticated than we ever dreamed—and the dispersion of the actual pornography is just one small piece of it. It ties closely to child prostitution, and that ties strongly to organized crime. Because of that, it’s a priority with any number of federal agencies as well as your own department. We’re the advance team, in a sense.”