Body Search

Then she heard movement on the stairs behind her and Dale’s quiet, level voice. “Churchill.”

She glanced back and her mouth dried to dust when the sight of Dale dressed in jeans and a homespun sweater drove home just how strange a situation she was in. The borrowed denim clung to his long thighs and lean calves, and rode low at his flat waist. He cocked a hip against the stair handrail and fixed the older man with a look. “How did you get in here?”

A parade of emotions passed across Churchill’s face, too quick, too deep for Tansy to read. Finally, he sighed and said, “The kitchen door was open, so I let myself in. I’ve never needed an invitation before.”

Dale flushed and rubbed his unshaven jaw. “Sorry. I’m in a mood. It’s good to see you, Churchill.”

Tansy had thought herself beyond shock. She was wrong. “Dale? You know this man?” That was a foolish question. Of course Dale knew the stranger, it was becoming clear that he knew everyone on the island.

“Yeah.” He glanced down at her. “I promised you an explanation. Well, here’s the short version. I was born here. My parents and my aunt died in a boating accident when I was seventeen, and my uncle Trask took it out on me. Churchill was a friend of my parents. He helped me escape to the mainland and put me through college and med school, for which I am eternally grateful.”

Yet Tansy noticed little warmth on Dale’s face when he scowled down at the older man. She waited a heartbeat. Then another. Tell me, she wanted to scream, tell me more. Let me in! But the words had never worked before. They weren’t likely to now.

Finally, she turned back to the medical instruments. “Fine. Nice to meet you, Mr. Churchill.” She slapped the cases shut. “Come on. Let’s get over to the clinic.”

Ignoring the men, she grabbed two equipment cases at random and hauled them to the front door. She paused at the sight of the shiny new black SUV in the driveway.

Someone on this island had money, it appeared.

“Frankie will get the rest of your boxes,” Churchill murmured behind her as the driver’s door opened and an enormous woman in chauffeur’s livery emerged to tower over the vehicle. She didn’t say a word as she brushed past Tansy and picked up the remainder of the equipment cases in a single load.

The word Amazon came to mind. So did bodyguard.

Who the hell was this Churchill? Tansy shot Dale a look, but he avoided her silent question by bending to shift one of the cases in the trunk. She scowled and ducked into the SUV when Frankie held the door open. The black interior smelled of new leather and money. A lethal-looking Doberman sat in the front, between the seats. It faced the passengers and curled a tan lip when Tansy slid inside.

She would have preferred a white VW Rabbit with plates that read I’m late. That, at least, she would have understood. The feeling that she was headed to the worst sort of tea party intensified, as did the nagging fear and her headache, though the cut on her head had scabbed without needing stitches.

As the vehicle bumped back the way they’d come, Churchill spoke as though resuming an interrupted conversation. “This outbreak business is bad, Dale. Bad. The docks are losing money every day we’re closed, and my customers on the mainland are finding other places to buy their lobsters.”

Tansy remembered the name Churchill on the bow of the lobster boat. Though it surprised her that Mickey and Churchill both seemed more concerned with the lobstering than the patients, she supposed the inhabitants of Lobster Island must live—and die—by their catches.

“That’s why I’m here, Walter. The outbreak isn’t typical. There shouldn’t be new cases, or as many fatalities. But I’m curious.” Dale leaned forward to address the man in the front. As he did so, his hard thigh brushed against Tansy’s leg and she moved away, hating the flush of contact. “Why did I hear about this from Mickey? You knew where to find me, and you know I’m a doctor. An outbreak specialist. Why didn’t you call me for help?”

Churchill glanced back. “Because until three people died this morning, I thought it was under control. And because I didn’t want you coming back here.”

Dale cursed. “Because of Trask.”

The older man shook his head. “Because of you, Dale. You don’t belong here. You never did.”

The SUV pulled into the motel parking lot. Anticipation, and perhaps relief, surged through Tansy when she saw an agitated, gesturing crowd gathered around a windowless Jeep. An older woman in wrinkled scrubs dashed out of a motel door and hurried to the crowd.

The scene screamed medical emergency! Tansy’s pulse jolted. Medicine. Knowledge. She could do this.

Here, she could be in control.

She had the door open before the vehicle stopped rolling, HFH training kicking in when nothing else made sense. “Come on, Dale. We have work to do!” Feeling naked without her field rucksack, which had gone down with the plane, she sprinted across the parking lot to the growing crowd.

Behind her, Churchill yelled a question and Dale called back, “Yeah. Call the FAA about the crash and call Zachary Cage at Boston General. Tell him I need more field equipment, clothes and another plane. Pronto.”

Intent on the patient, Tansy ignored her partner and pressed through the crowd. When she saw the man at its center, she stopped dead.

Mickey.

She held up a hand to stop Dale, but she was too late to spare him the sight of his cousin cradling a small child to his chest. Tears ran down the lobsterman’s wrinkled, wind-burned cheeks.

“Mick, you have to give Eddie to me now.” The older woman in the scrubs— Tansy guessed she was Dr. Hazel—pried at the lobsterman’s fingers. “He’s in respiratory arrest. You have to let me help him breathe.”

Dale made a low sound, almost that of an animal in pain. Hurting for him, hoping it wasn’t too late, Tansy stepped forward. Hands outstretched, she waited until Dale’s cousin focused on her. “Mickey, remember me? I’m Dr. Whitmore. We’re here to help. You need to let us help Eddie now. He needs to be on a respirator.” She refused to admit it might already be too late for the little boy who’d complained of stomach pains not an hour earlier.

She’d missed it. How had she missed it?

The torture in Mickey’s face clawed at her heart. The lobsterman shook his head. “I’ve got to protect him. He’s mine.”

Then Dale nudged her aside. “I’ve got him, Mick. I’ll fix him for you. I promise. Trust me.” He reached for the limp body and Mickey finally handed the boy over.