It was well into the darkest part of the night when a frantic rattling at the clinic doors startled Katie out of her half-doze, sending her battered advanced chemistry textbook flying across the counter, landing with a loud thud.
"Coming, coming," she half-shouted. There were only a couple of patients, one recovering from a broken arm and the other a nasty sinus infection—they'd agreed any sort of transmissible illness was best quarantined right away—but she was still careful not to wake them, though the insistent rattling, now a pounding, was a more likely culprit than her own voice.
"I'm coming," she said again, more sharply, rolling her neck to work out the kink from falling half-asleep while reading.
At the door, she gasped. A man she'd never seen before, tall, boyishly handsome despite his short graying beard and frantic eyes, was cradling a thin, pale woman in his arms. She looked unconscious. Had blood on her face, her clothes.
"Get her inside," Katie barked, her sleepiness gone. "Room 1, first door."
She followed the man in, helping him gently lower the woman to the exam bed. "What happened here?"
"Accident," the man huffed, trying to get his breath back. "We hit a patch of black ice or something about three hours south of here. She hit her head on the window pretty hard, she's been in and out since."
"And the blood?"
"I always tell her how hard-headed she is, but I never thought she'd test it out." He smiled wanly. "Though it could've been when we hit the tree."
"Okay," Katie said, her voice flipping into the calm softness she'd honed through working with Maura. "We're gonna get you all fixed up, honey." She probed gently at the ugly lump on the side of the woman's head, carefully avoiding the cuts and scrapes. "Can you hand me—"
But the tall man was already next to her, holding out a roll of gauze and a bottle of disinfectant.
"Thank you," she murmured, wondering for a moment how he'd found them so quickly.
"I've been talking to her, trying to keep her awake. She was lucid for a while, but about twenty minutes ago she stopped answering." His voice broke slightly on the words.
"All right," Katie said. "That's not too bad, she's here now, you got her here. Okay honey," she whispered to the woman, thin and pale and tiny on the bed, blood dripping from her temple, her fingers. "Now we'll get you patched up." She dabbed at the wound on her head, breathing a soft sigh of relief when it appeared superficial.
"Where are your shears?" the man asked. "I think we'll need to cut her out of these clothes, I'm pretty sure she's got some injuries from the seatbelt."
Katie was even more curious at that, but questions could wait. "Second drawer," she said, pointing at the heavy tool chest.
He was back in moments, scissors in hand. "Do you want me to—"
"Go ahead, she said, still working on stopping the bleeding. The man expertly sliced up the center of unconscious woman's sweatshirt and the tank top under it, then another smooth slice up her bleeding arm, neatly arcing the blunted blades around until the tattered fabric slipped away. "Oh Jesus," Katie muttered. Though it hadn't fully formed, wouldn't for a couple days, she could see the outlines of the deep bruise, and, high up on her shoulder, a thin black line that was almost certainly a break in her collarbone. There was more blood, but Katie couldn't tell from where.
"Her arm," the man murmured in the same low voice Katie used around patients.
"Got it," she said, pressing a clean gauze pad to the bloody gash on the woman's forearm. "Can you clean and wrap her hand? It looks like she's got some cuts there too."
He nodded, moving back to the supply chest.
Once Katie had stanched the bleeding on the arm and applied butterfly strips to the woman's temple she returned to gently probing the lump on her head, running her fingers along the woman's neck, her jaw, carefully feeling for invisible damage. Leaned close, listened for her breath, a bit shallow but slow and even. She sighed, relieved, and reached for a soft piece of tightly-rolled foam, slipping it under the woman's neck.
"All right," she said, stepping back slightly. The man was still leaned over the woman's body; it looked like he was suturing the cut on her arm with the kit he'd taken from the chest. "Hey!" Katie cried, furrowing her brow. "You the doctor now?" She moved to interrupt him, stopping when she saw the row of tight, perfect stitches. "Are you a doctor?" she asked again, curiously.
"Technically, yes." the man said, carefully tying off the last suture and ghosting his hand over the seam. "There. Not my best work, certainly, but at least not my worst."
"What do you mean, 'technically'?" Katie asked as she pulled a thin cotton gown from a tall cabinet, laid it over the woman who still hadn't so much as winced.
The man straightened up, flashed a charming smile. "Dr. Fernando Morales, Los Angeles County Medical Examiner," he said, reaching out his bloody hand. "A pleasure. Well," he shrugged, drifting off.
"I'm Katie," Katie said, taking his hand in her own, not reacting as the woman's warm blood caused their fingers to slip slightly.
"Just Katie?" he grinned. "Not Doctor Katie?"
Katie smiled faintly, the expression not reaching her eyes.
"Well no," he said softly, almost sadly. "You wouldn't be, would you." Then, more brightly, "what are you, fifteen?"
"Twenty-five," she grinned, moving to the sink, rinsing her hands under the slow trickle. "Are you okay? I haven't even asked."
"Not a scratch on the old girl," he said, straightening his sweater. "Stiff neck tomorrow, but what else is new?" He crossed to her, rinsed his own hands. "So, Not-Doctor Katie, where did you learn to triage like that?"
"I had a very good teacher," she said, blushing slightly.
"I'll have to thank him," Dr. Morales said as he turned back to the woman, still scuffed and bloody but breathing steadily now.
"Her," Katie said. Dr. Morales blinked. "Thank her."
"Yes, of course," he said.
"She'll be here in the morning. Dr. Isles."
"Isles?" Dr. Morales echoed, his voice lifting.
"What, you know her or something?"
Dr. Morales shrugged. "No. No, that does seem unlikely." He looked back down at the pale woman on the table, gently stroked the back of her thin hand with his fingertips.
"Do you think she'll be all right?" he asked gently.
"I feel like I should be asking you that." Katie squeezed a disposable cold pack, feeling the chill seep across her hands as she laid it gently on the woman's broken collarbone.
"Oh honey," he gave her a wry little smile. "My expertise isn't with the living."
"Neither was Dr. Isles', but she's kept everyone alive for almost a decade."
"Philosophy professor, huh?" he teased.
"A medical examiner, actually," she said, watching the man's jaw drop for a brief moment. "Like you."
"Isles," he muttered. "Isles. First name?"
"Maura," Katie supplied.
"Massachusetts!" Dr. Morales cried after a beat. "She was the Mass CME, right?"
"How—"
Dr. Morales smiled, a real one, wide and joyful. "It's a small world, hon, and even smaller when you're in our line of work. Maura Isles! What a riot," he said, still smiling. "She was the keynote at our annual conference what, a decade ago? Incredible hair. Great shoes."
"The hair, yes. Shoes . . . maybe not."
"Honey, I'd kill for some Ferregamo loafers but it's been hideous hiking boots for the past eight years."
"I think she'll be all right," Katie said, her expression shifting suddenly, glancing down at the bed. "I want to wake her up, though, see if she's lucid, see if I can get some painkillers into her."
"Good idea." He knelt next to her, still stroking her hand lightly with his thumb. "Honey?" he whispered. "Honey, I need you to wake up."
Nothing.
"She's unconscious," Katie sighed. "I was hoping she was asleep but you started suturing and she didn't even flinch—"
"Do you have salts?"
Katie frowned. "Dr. Isles doesn't like to use them."
"Well, she's a smart woman. Not my favorite either, a rough way to greet the day, but maybe just this one time?"
Katie sighed, nodded, retrieved the tiny tube. Cracked it, wafted it under the woman's nose. She jerked suddenly, eyes flying open as she gasped. "What—"
"Rise and shine, Brenda Leigh," Dr. Morales said, soft and sweet.
—
Maura frowned as she approached the clinic, pulling her wool coat more tightly around her shoulders. The drizzle had started weeks ago, ushering in a dim, chilly winter. She wasn't used to seeing anyone out this early anyway, and the cold weather had kept people home more than usual.
Plus, she knew everyone in Seabrook by sight, every bicycle and skateboard and scooter, but, she thought, frowning more deeply as she approached, she did not know this man leaning against the small, battered vehicle parked haphazardly in front of the clinic doors.
"Hello?" she said, keeping her voice flat.
"Dr. Isles?" The man stood upright, grimacing slightly as he rubbed at his neck. "Oh my god, it is you!"
"Yes?" she replied, trying to mask her confusion. To tamp down the sudden bolt of fear. It had been so long since they'd come to this town, it had taken so long to believe they were finally safe. But Maura had never entirely stopped watching, listening for men in the night.
The man crossed over to her with long, eager strides, reached out to embrace her, then paused.
"I'm so sorry, how rude of me," he said.
"I know you," Maura said uncertainly; certain that she did but with no idea from where, or what. A good man, or a bad one. She took a step back.
The man frowned slightly, then took a small step back himself, held out his hand to her. "Fernando Morales, Los Angeles County Medical Examiner," he said, smiling kindly.
"Dr. Morales?" she said, her voice still flat, disbelieving, and then a second later, "oh my god, Dr. Morales!"
"The very same," he grinned, and this time Maura was the one flinging her arms around him.
"How did you—"
"Gently—"
She pulled back. "Are you hurt? Oh god, is this your car? Were you in an accident? How do you have a car? Are you all right?"
"First, only a little neck strain. Second, yes. Third, a little black ice about three hours south of here. Fourth, the wonders of technology," he said, indicating the array of mostly-smashed solar panels bolted to the car's roof. "Solar batteries and having plenty of time to learn a truly depressing amount about automobile maintenance."
"I—" Maura gaped at him. "I can't believe this. I can't believe you're here. How did you find us? This is so—"
"Dr. Isles, I'm beyond thrilled myself, but I'm afraid this isn't entirely a social call. I'm traveling with a friend, and she took a lot more damage than I did. Maybe more than the car," he shrugged, looking at it. "Mmm, probably not as much as the car."
"Someone's hurt?" Maura cried. "Why didn't Katie get me? Where's the patient? Let me—" she turned to rush toward the clinic.
"Dr. Isles," Dr. Morales said calmly, placing his hand on her arm. "Your young protege has taken excellent care of her. A nasty concussion, some cuts and bruises, possibly a fractured collarbone, but she was lucid when we woke her a few hours ago, and she's stable and sleeping now." He smiled, almost fondly. "Your Katie's been at her side since we made our, uh, rather dramatic entrance, so she hasn't had time to go get you, and I thought it might be rude of me to wake you before we'd been properly reacquainted. Plus I don't know where you live."
"Thank you," Maura murmured, placing her hand on his. "But I do want to examine her as soon as possible."
"Of course, Doctor," he said, following behind her, then pausing for a moment. "God, how do you do it?"
"Do what?" Maura said, brow furrowing slightly.
"That skin, that hair, you'd think a global apocalypse would've dulled the shine a little, but look at you, as gorgeous as you were on the dais of Marriott Conference Room B, talking about decomp."
Maura blushed. She remembered Dr. Morales clearly now, charming, brilliant, funny. Remembered how he'd come up after one of her panels to slip his hand through her arm and announce he was buying her a drink 'because you obviously need a break from all these horny old men,' as he nodded back toward her fellow panelists, at least two of whom had brushed their hands against her legs under the table more times than was coincidental.
"Some things change," she said, lifting the end of her long silver-gray braid.
"Honey, if Clairol could patent that you'd never have to work again."
"If it was a patent I'd have to own it to make any money," she said before she could stop herself.
Dr. Morales laughed. "It's odd to realize you haven't missed a person until you see them again," he said, tucking his hand through her arm as they went into the clinic.
"I know just what you mean, Doctor."