The doors to the examining rooms on either side of the hall stood open, the tables covered with crisp white sheets, instrument trays gleaming. Flynn wheeled the stretcher into the treatment room and parked it next to the examining table in the middle of the bright, impersonal space. “I’ll go find Dr. King.”

“Wait.” Mica grabbed Flynn’s sleeve. “You’re leaving?”

Flynn stopped, acutely aware of Mica’s hand on her arm. Mica’s tough façade had slipped a little bit, and a note of panic in her voice bled through her usual bravado. She was tough, defensive, obviously used to fending for herself and depending on no one, but she was also hurt and scared. Flynn was used to seeing people who were hurt and scared. Her job was about more than just rendering emergency care and transporting the sick and the injured. Part of what made the job satisfying for her was being able to ease some of that pain and suffering. All the same—her interactions with patients were limited, which was exactly what she wanted. She wasn’t part of their lives. For a few critical moments in the midst of intense and often terrifying situations, she had the opportunity to make a difference, but there was very little chance for her to do any harm. And that mattered most of all. She’d found the distance she needed in this work, but she was having trouble maintaining the comfortable barriers with Mica. Mica’s belligerent independence in the face of what had to be a frightening and painful experience tugged at Flynn’s heart. She wanted to comfort her, despite all kinds of warning bells blaring in her head.

“I’m just going to find one of the docs,” Flynn said. “I’ll be right back.”

Mica dropped Flynn’s arm and her face took on a remote, shielded expression. “Whatever.”

“I’ll be right back.” Flynn walked down the hall and glanced in the open door of Dr. King’s office. Reese Conlon sat at the big oak desk, her feet propped on one corner, the chair tilted back, and her eyes closed. That explained the cruiser out front. The sheriff must’ve driven her wife to the clinic. Like all first responders, she could sleep anywhere. Flynn backed away.

“She’s in with Nita in one.”

“Thanks. Sorry to wake you.”

Reese dropped her feet to the floor and sat forward, her blue eyes alert, as if she hadn’t been asleep seconds before. “Anything I need to know?”

“I don’t think so. Allie and Bri were on the scene.” Flynn didn’t see any need to tell her something felt off, not about the accident, but about Mica. Mica was scared out of proportion to what had happened. She was hiding something, but it was only a feeling. And for some reason, Flynn felt protective of her.

“Good enough.” Reese leaned back and closed her eyes again.

Flynn walked back down the hall and tapped on the door to treatment room one. A few seconds later Tory King slipped out. Not that long ago, the doctor had been one of the patients Flynn had been called to see, and since then Flynn had regularly transported patients to the clinic. She liked and trusted both Tory King and Nita Burgoyne. “Hi, sorry to bother you, Doc. Just wanted to let you know I put the patient in two.”

“What’s the situation?” The dark green sweater Tory wore made her eyes even greener than usual, although right now they were dark with worry. The patient in one must be in trouble.

“She’s stable.” Flynn gave her a quick recap. “I can stay with her if you’re busy right now.”

Tory glanced at the closed door. “Nita is with Ned Framingham. Congestive heart failure—maybe secondary to an MI. He’s going to need transport to Hyannis as soon as we get him stable. Can you take him or should we call for another unit?”

“I’ll radio the base and tell them. We’re already here.”

“Great. Let me see to your patient, then.”

“I told her I’d stick around,” Flynn said, “if you don’t mind.”

Tory paused. “You know her?”

“No,” Flynn said quickly. “She’s just…She didn’t want to come. I think she’s kind of on her own. I sort of promised her…”

“Of course. As long as she’s all right with you in the room, I’m fine with it.” Tory smiled. “You’re pretty good at this small-town stuff.”

Flynn flushed. She didn’t think anything was further from the truth. “Let me just advise dispatch of the pending transport and I’ll be right in.”

A few seconds later she slipped into the room and moved just close enough to the stretcher so Mica could see her. Tory bent over her, listening to her chest with her stethoscope. Mica was pale, her dark eyes wide, the pupils dilated. She looked like a frightened animal caught in a trap, and Flynn wanted to take her hand, to say something to soothe her. She put both hands in her pockets and smiled what she hoped was a confident smile. “How are you doing?”

“Just great,” Mica muttered.

Tory straightened and gently removed the cervical collar. “Don’t move your head. I’m just going to feel the back of your neck. Tell me if anything hurts.”

“It doesn’t,” Mica said quickly.

“Good,” Tory said mildly and continued her examination. “Any numbness or tingling in your arms or legs?”

“No.”

“Vision problems?”

“No.”

“Head hurt? And don’t tell me no.”

Mica sighed. “Some.”

Tory smiled. “I’ll bet. You’ve got a goose egg on your forehead, and you’ll probably have a shiner by this afternoon.”

“Yeah. Feels that way,” Mica said, and Flynn had a feeling it wasn’t the first black eye Mica had ever had. Her stomach tightened. She hated to see anyone in pain, psychic or physical, but Mica’s pain and her obvious refusal to admit to it got to her more than usual. Maybe it was just Mica’s stubborn insistence she was fine and could handle anything when she was so obviously hurt that touched her. Or maybe it was the way Mica had reached for her in an unguarded moment.

“Your shoulder is swollen,” Tory said, “but I don’t see any evidence of fracture. However, to be sure, I should x-ray you.”

“No,” Mica said quickly. “It’s not broken. I know.”

“You’ve had a fracture before?”

Mica averted her gaze. “A couple.”

Flynn gritted her teeth. Mica was too familiar with trauma. The thought of someone hurting her made her insides burn. She stepped closer to the stretcher and gently clasped Mica’s hand. “Maybe you should let the doctor check.”

“Maybe you should lose your superhero cape too.”

“And give up looking so cool?” Flynn smiled. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s okay,” Mica said, her face softening. “Really. I can tell.”

Flynn rubbed her thumb over the top of Mica’s hand. “Okay. You know best.”

“I want to check your vital signs a few more times,” Tory said. “If everything stays the same, you should be—”

“Tory!” Nita Burgoyne pushed open the door and called, “I need you. He’s crashing.”

“Damn,” Tory murmured, and spun away.

Through the open door, Tory’s and Nita’s raised voices carried clearly. Blood pressure’s falling. Open the IV. Push the lidocaine…Is his wife here?…No. Charge the defibrillator…God, Tory, he asked me to call his minister. No time. Clear! No pulse.

Flynn would’ve known what was happening in the other room even if she hadn’t been a paramedic. But she was. That, and more. She crossed the hall and pushed open the door.

Tory glanced over at her, a question in her eyes.

“I’m a priest,” Flynn said.

“Then come in,” Tory said, starting chest compression. “We need you.”

Chapter Four

“Still no pulse.” Nita Burgoyne, her eyes fixed on the EKG monitor, had her fingers over the femoral artery in the patient’s groin. Her smooth mocha skin tightened at the corners of her mouth, drawing her lips into a narrow line, the only sign of strain in her elegant, composed features.

Flynn leaned over the head of the treatment table and looked down onto the face of the dying man. He might have been forty or eighty. Slight stubble darkened his slack jaw. Weather lines cratered his sunken cheeks. His skin was cool and gray, his eyelids closed and unmoving.

“Almighty God, look on this your servant, lying in great weakness…”

Tory pressed the heel of her hand to his sternum, delivering rapid compressions. “One, two, three, four…”

“…and comfort him with the promise of life everlasting…”

“Time?” Tory called.

“Four minutes,” Nita replied. “You’ve got good perfusion here.”

Though Flynn had no holy oil, the sacrament of Extreme Unction needed only her touch. She made the sign of the cross on the patient’s forehead with her thumb.

“Nita?” Tory asked, her arms starting to tremble.

“From all evil, from all sin, from all tribulation…”

“Nothing,” Nita said.

“…by the Coming of the Holy Spirit…”

Tory checked the clock. “Eight minutes. Come on, Ned.”

“That it may please you to deliver the soul of your servant…” Flynn rested her fingertips on his hand and repeated the sign of the cross.

Reese said from the doorway, “Tory, you need me to take over?”

“…mercifully to pardon all his sins.”

“Give us a second,” Tory said, never breaking her motion. “Nita, anything?”

“Our Father who art…”

“Hold up,” Nita said, “I think I’ve got something.”

“…forgive us our trespasses…”

Tory leaned back and brushed her sleeve over her forehead. Sweat pooled in the hollow at the base of her throat.

“…lead us not into temptation…”

“Pulse is sixty. BP a hundred palp,” Nita reported. “Nice going, Tor.”

“…deliver us from Evil…”

“How’s his rhythm?”

“…for Thine is the Kingdom…”

“Normal sinus. Occasional ectopy. His T-waves are flipped. Definitely an MI.” Nita adjusted the IV drip. “He needs to be in a cardiac care unit.”