The Ransom -- part 6
Apr. 25th, 2009 12:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanStanley emerged from his office just as word came back that the buses were arriving, still running the electric shaver over his cheeks as he closed the door behind him. He'd put on a tie, Gonzo noticed, as he fell into step alongside, pacing himself to Stanley's still awkward gait.
"You shaved?" he asked.
"A clean chin inspires confidence," Stanley said, quotation marks in his tone. He'd run a comb through his hair, too. "Mine mostly. I hate looking like a derelict."
"You look fine, Stan," Gonzo reassured him. He offered the two packets he was carrying. "Triage or treatment?"
"Triage," Stanley said, taking the clipboard and the envelope of tags. "I think I'll do better if I'm busy -- really busy."
"Somehow I just don't think that that's going to be a problem," Gonzo said. The doors at the end of the corridor had opened, and the injured were being ushered inside by a dazed looking cop. Almost all adults, some being supported on each side. "Wheelchair!" he called, spotting one woman who was on the verge of fainting, and sprinted forward.
Stanley waded in, giving quick assessments and assigning tags. These were mostly turtles -- people who could wait for treatment -- although broken bones and heavy bruises hurt they weren't life threatening. He moved some people up in the queue when he saw signs of concussion or internal bleeding, but for the most part, he sent them to the holding area in the cafeteria, to keep the corridor clear as the more seriously injured began to arrive. Some of them looked at him oddly, and he wondered why until one woman asked, "Weren't you just kidnapped, Doctor?"
"Yes, that's right," Stanley said, trying not to look too startled. He remembered that Gonzo had said he was on the news. "Here, try to move your hand this way."
"Ouch," she said, and shook her head. "It just won't do it."
"Okay, nurse!" Stanley got the nearest body, "put a splint on this wrist and put her in the line for radiology, and give her 800 mgs of acetaminophen for the pain. You'll be fine, miss, but there will probably be a delay before we can treat you, so you'll have to wait in the cafeteria."
"That's all right," she said, with strained good humor. "The only reason I want to get to work today is to boast about being taken care of by the million dollar man."
"Didn't the news guys say he's married?" a woman in line asked, trying to see Stanley's hands.
"Very happily," Stanley confirmed, his face relaxing into the contented smile it tended to drift into every time he thought about how lucky he was to have EJ to love him.
"Just my luck," the woman joked. "I'm finally going to have an excuse to get a rich doctor to look into my eyes and it's too late to flirt."
Several people laughed, and Stanley glanced over to see if she was pretty. She was, in spite of the darkening bruise over her temple, and even at this distance, Stanley could see that her left pupil was dilated. He looked around to see who was available. "Gates?" Gonzo had just waved a stretcher on to the lab. "Grab a wheelchair, please. We've got a possible concussion here."
"Right, Stan," Gonzo said, looking around for the nearest available wheels.
"You can flirt with Dr. Gates," Stanley told the woman as he pulled her out of the line and started to fill in the tag. "He's the one who rescued me. He may not be rich, but he's one of the best surgeons in the city."
"Actually," Gonzo said, arriving with the wheelchair. "I'm one of the best surgeons in the state, but Stanley has very high standards." He laid a hand on Stanley's shoulder for a moment, like a benediction, before helping to get the woman into the wheelchair. "You holding up all right, Stan?"
"I'm fine," Stanley said, warmed by the concern. "Thank you." He turned to the next patient in line. "Now, what hurts?"
He had gotten the man's vital signs when he became aware of a figure hovering nearby. "What is it?" Stanley asked, not looking around.
"Dr. Riverside, I'm Henry Kwan, from the Chronicle. Can I ask you some questions?"
Stanley shook his head in disbelief and peered into his patient's eyes. "You can ask, Mr. Kwan, but I'm afraid this isn't the best time. I've got to get some initial evaluations done on these casualties. As near as I can tell the on-site people just threw everyone who could walk onto the bus without any kind of examination."
"I just followed the people in front of me," the patient confirmed. "And then there was a bus so I got on it. But now my neck and shoulder are really starting to hurt."
"Try not to move them," Stanley advised. "Mr. Kwan could you push that cart a little closer? Thank you." He put a cervical collar onto the man and signalled for an orderly. "Radiology, spine and shoulder series. Use a wheelchair."
"Sure thing, Dr. Riverside," the orderly said. "Glad to see you're back." He led the patient away and Stanley moved to the next person.
"Have you been working all night?" Kwan asked.
"No," Stanley said, moving to the next person in line. "Where does it hurt?"
"Just give me a green tag and I'll go wait in the cafeteria, doc," the man, a lanky youngster, said. "All I've got is a couple of busted fingers."
Stanley checked his eyes and pulse anyway. "You didn't hit your head or get any other bruises?"
"Nope. But you'd better look at this lady here, 'cause she started off real talkative and she's gone all quiet like," he indicated the small, elderly oriental woman next to him. "Mind you, I didn't understand nothin' she said, but she was talking a lot."
"Thank you," Stanley said, handing over the tag. He bent down to address her, wincing when his lower back twinged a complaint. "Ma'am, can you tell me where it hurts?"
She blinked at him and said something in sing-song chinese. Stanley felt a familiar wave of frustration. "I just need to check your eyes," he said, a little louder, hoping she would understand. Kwan, at his elbow, spouted a few musical words, and the woman relaxed, letting Stanley check her pupils, and pulse. Her skin was clammy, and her color wasn't good.
"I need a gurney here!" Stanley called.
The woman said something else and Kwan bent to catch it. "She says her left side is very painful," he told Stanley.
"She's shocky," Stanley said, writing out the tag as quickly as legibility allowed. "Where's that gurney?"
"Here, Stanley," it was Titus, newly arrived, with his coat still trailing fog. "Glad you're okay. What have we got?"
"Shock, pain in the left side. This is Mr. Kwan, he can translate." Stanley raised his voice to make a general announcement to the arriving staff. "The cafeteria has the greens, we've got yellows in the waiting room, and the reds are in the treatment rooms or labs. Be careful, some of the casualties had no on-site evaluation and we're finding concussions and internal bleeding in the walking wounded."
Titus had lifted the elderly woman onto the gurney and performed a quick check of her side. "Definitely internal injuries. Which room is clear?"
"Try two," Stanley said, turning to the next patient, while Kwan was dragged, not quite willingly, off with Titus. He was interrupted by a quick hug from Gloria Brancusi, who stood back again and smiled at him.
"I was so worried!" she said.
"Me, too," said Ernie Shoop, who had also just arrived, and she laid her hand alongside his cheek for a moment in a gesture that was half reassurance and half nurse's evalutaion of temperature and skin condition. "I'm glad you're on your feet, Stanley," she said, in the implacable, practical tone he knew best, "because there's a whole busload of people pulling up outside, and at least four ambulances."
Stanley wished that he had time to be flabbergasted. He put the image of their faces and their concern into his memory to be savored later and made himself think of the crisis, but it took a few breaths before he could decide on what to do. "All right. Thank you. Miss Brancusi, if you'll finish getting vitals on these last few patients, I think I'd better start doing triage outside, so the corridor doesn't get too crowded for the gurneys coming in. Mrs. Shoop, would you please assign some orderlies with wheelchairs to bring in the patients, as necessary?"
"Yes, doctor," Gloria said, taking a handful of tags and starting with the next patient.
"Right away," Ernie said, her eyes already choosing out possible people.
Stanley gathered up his clipboard and tags and started for the exit. "Jackpot!" he called, seeing his protege bending over one of the newly arrived gurneys. "I'm going to move triage for the walking wounded outside. Can you handle the ambulances?"
"Got it, Stan!" Jackpot said, waving him on.
---
Stanley started into the parking lot -- and froze when a voice called out to him. "Dr. Riverside, Dr. Riverside!"
This was how it started. He'd walked into the parking lot and a vaguely familiar man had summoned him to look at someone in pain. Panic rose in Stanley's gut, momentarily overwhelming his best intentions. The small man who had been calling him came to a halt, juggling a tape recorder, and a notebook. "Dr. Riverside, how did your father raise the one million dollars for your return?"
Stanley struggled with thought, speech. "I'm sorry?" he stammered.
"The money? Did the kidnapper's really get the money?"
"Uh... Yes... I mean, I saw them with money," Stanley began to backpedal away from the man's aggressiveness. "But the police must have it. They were caught right away."
"But where did it come from? Did your father sell any of his assets? In particular, did he put his shares of Nash, Peabody & Riverside on the block?"
"I really don't know," Stanley said, beginning to feel more than a little upset.
The security guard, Peterson, approached. "Hey, you, leave Dr. Riverside alone! We've got a crisis here!"
Stanley's perceptions widened again, and he grabbed at the straw with relief. "That's right. That's right." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I've got to work. That's right. Excuse me." He fled toward the bus that was starting to discharge passengers. "Wait! Wait! Don't get off the bus yet!"
"But I'm supposed to leave them here!" the driver protested.
Stanley clambered up into the bus. "Just a few minutes," he said. "Please, I need to talk to you, please sit down." The refugee commuters muttered as they sat, but at least they sat. "I'm Dr. Riverside," he began.
"Hey, weren't you on the news?" A woman asked from the nearest seat.
"Yes." Stanley was beginning to hate the news. "That's not important right now, though. Did any of you get examined by a medical person at the scene of the accident?"
"No," said several voices, and the woman near him added. "They said to get on the bus and someone at the hospital would look at us."
"Damn." Stanley looked out the door and saw one of the orderlies coming up with a wheelchair. "Michaels, go get an ortho cart, please. And make sure it has plenty of cervical collars."
"Sure, Doc!" Michaels said.
"Cervical collars?" One of the casualties asked.
Stanley looked at the uncertain expressions of the people in the bus and ran his hand through his hair. "It's all right," he said, trying to think of how to do this without unduly frightening anyone. "I just like to be cautious. You understand that there are certain kinds of injuries that need a faster response, so I'm going to ask some questions, and try to get the people who need care the most into the hospital first."
They were paying attention.
"Okay. If you're having trouble breathing, or the person sitting next to you seems to be having trouble breathing, raise your hand."
---
He'd sent four respiratory distress cases and a possible cardiac case in and was starting on the bleeders when Ernie climbed onto the bus. "Stanley? They need you inside."
Stanley took off his stethoscope and looked up at her, from where he was kneeling next to one of the seats. "Who's taking triage?"
"I am, on this bus," she said. "We've got some of the interns in, and they're covering the other two buses."
"Watch out for cervical injuries," he said, pulling himself up to his feet. "And shock. I've asked people to keep an eye on their seat partners." He handed her the clipboard and the tags, and bent down to try to scope out the parking lot before leaving the bus.
"Got it," she said, and then gave him a measuring look. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," he said, and took a deep breath and left the bus. He kept his head down as he crossed the asphalt, hoping no one would notice him until he was safely inside.
"Dr. Riverside!" A woman's voice. That might be safe. He looked. It was Nurse Andrews, her cap perched on hair that was still up in curlers, her face devoid of the light foundation and lipstick she normally wore. She took the last couple of steps to catch up with him as she tucked her car keys into her pocketbook. "I'm glad to see you're all right," she said, taking his arm momentarily, to negotiate the curb. "Who's coordinator?"
"Jackson," Stanley answered, automatically, and then glanced down and saw that her knee was wrapped in an ace bandage. "What happened to you?"
"Rheumatism," she said, shrugging her acceptance of it. "I usually have time to exercise out the kinks before I come to work, but..." she waved a hand at the chaos of the parking lot.
"Isometrics?" Stanley asked, grateful to indulge in inanities if it would keep his mind busy until he was safely inside.
"Karate," she said, flashing him a grin that said she knew exactly how incongruous that mental image appeared. "You might try it, Doctor. It's good for the lower back, you know."
Stanley surprised himself by laughing. "I don't think I'd be very good at it," he said, imagining the look on EJ's face if he were to start breaking boards in his pajamas every morning. It was nice to laugh. Nice to have a karate expert - or at least a karate student - escorting him past the ring of reporters and into the warm safety of ER. Jackpot was just inside the entryway, trying to get a clear look at a deeply wounded abdomen. Stanley went over to help hold down the patient, and Andrews slung her pocketbook over her shoulder and went around to help the EMT get the IV reestablished.
"Thanks, Stan," Jackpot said, as he tucked the pressure bandage back into place. "Pre-op!" he told the waiting orderlies. "Get the labwork done up there."
"Shoop said you needed me," Stanley said, wondering if Jackpot knew that he had a piece of gauze caught in his hair.
"Outside room three," Jackpot said. "I've got head wounds coming back from radiology and not enough doctors to read the pictures."
"Right," Stanley said, "there's something in your hair," he added, gesturing, but not waiting to see if Jackpot found it. He headed for the corridor outside of room three and found eight gurneys, and Gloria Brancusi trying to find a place to put a ninth.
Stanley went to the first gurney and picked up the x-ray envelope that had been left on the patient's chest. He held the x-ray against the light, and swore. "Skull fracture. Miss Brancusi?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"We're going to need to insert a cranial pressure monitor." He glanced down the corridor. "Probably more than one. Could you please fetch the trays?"
"They're on the counter," she indicated with a chin. "But I can't get the hair clippers to start."
One of the orderlies beat Stanley to the device and banged it gently on one end. It started to buzz. "I used to be a barber. Who do you want bald, doc?"
"This one," Stanley said, pointing and then moving down to the next gurney to look at the x-ray there while he had the chance. "No skull fracture. Looks good." There was a second x-ray. "But this arm is definitely broken. We've got one for ortho, here." He scribbled the diagnosis on the patient record, giving the patient a quick reassuring smile, "You'll be fine," and went to the next one. He had cleared six of the gurneys in one direction or another and was back at the first one, trying to find a cranial vein for the monitor, when Trapper went by, pushing a gurney so laden with monitors and and tubes it was hard to see the patient. Stanley met his eyes for a moment, and saw Trapper peer over his glasses, checking. Stanley flushed, pleased that Trapper cared enough to spare a moment to be concerned, and smiled to let Trapper know he was okay before he went back to inserting the monitor sensor.
He felt a curious duality. On the surface, he was busy, making medical decisions, doing delicate procedures, ordering tests and admitting patients. But part of him was tense with expectation, flinching away from canes and painfully aware of the holstered guns of the cops who occasionally came through with the casualties. He began to become inured to people calling him by name, though, as the morning wore on and so many of the arriving staff took a moment to address him, or lay a hand on his arm or shoulder as they passed. By the time they had cleared out the critical patients, and he was down to putting in stitches on the minor injuries, he was able to joke a little with the patients, and reassure them. Miss Brancusi stayed nearby, fending off the reporters who wanted to talk to him, and producing paper cups of water whenever she thought he could take a moment to take a drink.
By seven o'clock, they were able to start working on the patients from the cafeteria, and the other holding areas, and by eight o'clock, the specialists and private practice doctors were arriving to take over the patients who needed consults. Jackpot pulled Stanley off the floor and into his office long enough to wolf down a couple of donuts, and report on the situation status.
"We got 175 casualties, and have admitted 78 of them for treatment or testing, so far." Jackpot riffled though his papers. "The rest are minor cuts, broken bones, and sprains, and we're treating and releasing them as quickly as we reasonably can. From what I understand, Bay General has numbers that are about the same."
"Not too bad, considering." Stanley's planning had figured on twice that many serious casualties. "How many surgery cases?"
"Only fifteen," Jackpot pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Some of the head jobs may end up there later, but that's up to the neuros."
"Any DOA's?" Stanley asked.
"Not here. Bay General had a couple. We've got the driver of the second train, though, and he's critical -- Martin's operating on him right now -- and from what I saw I'd say his chances are pretty slim. But other than that I think we got off pretty lucky."
"I thought we'd lost Martin," Stanley said, startled.
"We did," Jackpot said. "But he hasn't had a chance to find another position yet, and he thought we could use the help. I wrote up the paperwork as a consult to keep the liability insurance people happy."
Stanley nodded and ate the last bite of his donut. "Good thinking."
"Thanks." Jackpot leaned agains the desk and let his eyes close. "What a lousy weekend," he sighed.
Stanley hadn't truly believed that anyone but EJ and John would miss him. Would care. He had hated every minute of being kidnapped. But it was almost worth it to discover that Gonzo would come to his rescue, that Ernie and Gloria had worried, and that Jackpot had had a lousy weekend because Stanley was in trouble. The small solicitudes of the other staff, the obvious concern of his friends, and the miracle of his father caring enough to arrange for the ransom from somewhere else in the world -- Stanley's astonishment welled up inside of him and burst out as laughter.
Jackpot blinked and blushed, realizing what he had just said, but then he started to laugh too, and it was a minute before he could catch his breath enough to say, "Sorry."
Stanley waved away the apology. "Lousy!" he repeated, with tired glee. "A lousy weekend!" He could tell that he'd have to stop laughing soon, or he'd end up crying, but it took Miss Brancusi poking her head in the door to give him enough of a reason to try to pull himself together. "Yes?" he asked, trying to look professional, while Jackpot choked down giggles.
"I'm sorry," Gloria said, torn between amusement and concern. "But we've got a car accident victim coming in -- we need you, Doctor."
"Coming," Stanley said, getting to his feet. He appropriated the checklist clipboard from Jackpot as he went past. "Why don't you go see what you can do about all those sprains, and I'll take coordinator until Titus is freed up. And when the waiting area is clear, sign out and go home. You look exhausted."
"Thanks, Stanley," Jackpot said, surprised, but clearly pleased by Stanley's show of consideration. "I'll do that."
"You shaved?" he asked.
"A clean chin inspires confidence," Stanley said, quotation marks in his tone. He'd run a comb through his hair, too. "Mine mostly. I hate looking like a derelict."
"You look fine, Stan," Gonzo reassured him. He offered the two packets he was carrying. "Triage or treatment?"
"Triage," Stanley said, taking the clipboard and the envelope of tags. "I think I'll do better if I'm busy -- really busy."
"Somehow I just don't think that that's going to be a problem," Gonzo said. The doors at the end of the corridor had opened, and the injured were being ushered inside by a dazed looking cop. Almost all adults, some being supported on each side. "Wheelchair!" he called, spotting one woman who was on the verge of fainting, and sprinted forward.
Stanley waded in, giving quick assessments and assigning tags. These were mostly turtles -- people who could wait for treatment -- although broken bones and heavy bruises hurt they weren't life threatening. He moved some people up in the queue when he saw signs of concussion or internal bleeding, but for the most part, he sent them to the holding area in the cafeteria, to keep the corridor clear as the more seriously injured began to arrive. Some of them looked at him oddly, and he wondered why until one woman asked, "Weren't you just kidnapped, Doctor?"
"Yes, that's right," Stanley said, trying not to look too startled. He remembered that Gonzo had said he was on the news. "Here, try to move your hand this way."
"Ouch," she said, and shook her head. "It just won't do it."
"Okay, nurse!" Stanley got the nearest body, "put a splint on this wrist and put her in the line for radiology, and give her 800 mgs of acetaminophen for the pain. You'll be fine, miss, but there will probably be a delay before we can treat you, so you'll have to wait in the cafeteria."
"That's all right," she said, with strained good humor. "The only reason I want to get to work today is to boast about being taken care of by the million dollar man."
"Didn't the news guys say he's married?" a woman in line asked, trying to see Stanley's hands.
"Very happily," Stanley confirmed, his face relaxing into the contented smile it tended to drift into every time he thought about how lucky he was to have EJ to love him.
"Just my luck," the woman joked. "I'm finally going to have an excuse to get a rich doctor to look into my eyes and it's too late to flirt."
Several people laughed, and Stanley glanced over to see if she was pretty. She was, in spite of the darkening bruise over her temple, and even at this distance, Stanley could see that her left pupil was dilated. He looked around to see who was available. "Gates?" Gonzo had just waved a stretcher on to the lab. "Grab a wheelchair, please. We've got a possible concussion here."
"Right, Stan," Gonzo said, looking around for the nearest available wheels.
"You can flirt with Dr. Gates," Stanley told the woman as he pulled her out of the line and started to fill in the tag. "He's the one who rescued me. He may not be rich, but he's one of the best surgeons in the city."
"Actually," Gonzo said, arriving with the wheelchair. "I'm one of the best surgeons in the state, but Stanley has very high standards." He laid a hand on Stanley's shoulder for a moment, like a benediction, before helping to get the woman into the wheelchair. "You holding up all right, Stan?"
"I'm fine," Stanley said, warmed by the concern. "Thank you." He turned to the next patient in line. "Now, what hurts?"
He had gotten the man's vital signs when he became aware of a figure hovering nearby. "What is it?" Stanley asked, not looking around.
"Dr. Riverside, I'm Henry Kwan, from the Chronicle. Can I ask you some questions?"
Stanley shook his head in disbelief and peered into his patient's eyes. "You can ask, Mr. Kwan, but I'm afraid this isn't the best time. I've got to get some initial evaluations done on these casualties. As near as I can tell the on-site people just threw everyone who could walk onto the bus without any kind of examination."
"I just followed the people in front of me," the patient confirmed. "And then there was a bus so I got on it. But now my neck and shoulder are really starting to hurt."
"Try not to move them," Stanley advised. "Mr. Kwan could you push that cart a little closer? Thank you." He put a cervical collar onto the man and signalled for an orderly. "Radiology, spine and shoulder series. Use a wheelchair."
"Sure thing, Dr. Riverside," the orderly said. "Glad to see you're back." He led the patient away and Stanley moved to the next person.
"Have you been working all night?" Kwan asked.
"No," Stanley said, moving to the next person in line. "Where does it hurt?"
"Just give me a green tag and I'll go wait in the cafeteria, doc," the man, a lanky youngster, said. "All I've got is a couple of busted fingers."
Stanley checked his eyes and pulse anyway. "You didn't hit your head or get any other bruises?"
"Nope. But you'd better look at this lady here, 'cause she started off real talkative and she's gone all quiet like," he indicated the small, elderly oriental woman next to him. "Mind you, I didn't understand nothin' she said, but she was talking a lot."
"Thank you," Stanley said, handing over the tag. He bent down to address her, wincing when his lower back twinged a complaint. "Ma'am, can you tell me where it hurts?"
She blinked at him and said something in sing-song chinese. Stanley felt a familiar wave of frustration. "I just need to check your eyes," he said, a little louder, hoping she would understand. Kwan, at his elbow, spouted a few musical words, and the woman relaxed, letting Stanley check her pupils, and pulse. Her skin was clammy, and her color wasn't good.
"I need a gurney here!" Stanley called.
The woman said something else and Kwan bent to catch it. "She says her left side is very painful," he told Stanley.
"She's shocky," Stanley said, writing out the tag as quickly as legibility allowed. "Where's that gurney?"
"Here, Stanley," it was Titus, newly arrived, with his coat still trailing fog. "Glad you're okay. What have we got?"
"Shock, pain in the left side. This is Mr. Kwan, he can translate." Stanley raised his voice to make a general announcement to the arriving staff. "The cafeteria has the greens, we've got yellows in the waiting room, and the reds are in the treatment rooms or labs. Be careful, some of the casualties had no on-site evaluation and we're finding concussions and internal bleeding in the walking wounded."
Titus had lifted the elderly woman onto the gurney and performed a quick check of her side. "Definitely internal injuries. Which room is clear?"
"Try two," Stanley said, turning to the next patient, while Kwan was dragged, not quite willingly, off with Titus. He was interrupted by a quick hug from Gloria Brancusi, who stood back again and smiled at him.
"I was so worried!" she said.
"Me, too," said Ernie Shoop, who had also just arrived, and she laid her hand alongside his cheek for a moment in a gesture that was half reassurance and half nurse's evalutaion of temperature and skin condition. "I'm glad you're on your feet, Stanley," she said, in the implacable, practical tone he knew best, "because there's a whole busload of people pulling up outside, and at least four ambulances."
Stanley wished that he had time to be flabbergasted. He put the image of their faces and their concern into his memory to be savored later and made himself think of the crisis, but it took a few breaths before he could decide on what to do. "All right. Thank you. Miss Brancusi, if you'll finish getting vitals on these last few patients, I think I'd better start doing triage outside, so the corridor doesn't get too crowded for the gurneys coming in. Mrs. Shoop, would you please assign some orderlies with wheelchairs to bring in the patients, as necessary?"
"Yes, doctor," Gloria said, taking a handful of tags and starting with the next patient.
"Right away," Ernie said, her eyes already choosing out possible people.
Stanley gathered up his clipboard and tags and started for the exit. "Jackpot!" he called, seeing his protege bending over one of the newly arrived gurneys. "I'm going to move triage for the walking wounded outside. Can you handle the ambulances?"
"Got it, Stan!" Jackpot said, waving him on.
---
Stanley started into the parking lot -- and froze when a voice called out to him. "Dr. Riverside, Dr. Riverside!"
This was how it started. He'd walked into the parking lot and a vaguely familiar man had summoned him to look at someone in pain. Panic rose in Stanley's gut, momentarily overwhelming his best intentions. The small man who had been calling him came to a halt, juggling a tape recorder, and a notebook. "Dr. Riverside, how did your father raise the one million dollars for your return?"
Stanley struggled with thought, speech. "I'm sorry?" he stammered.
"The money? Did the kidnapper's really get the money?"
"Uh... Yes... I mean, I saw them with money," Stanley began to backpedal away from the man's aggressiveness. "But the police must have it. They were caught right away."
"But where did it come from? Did your father sell any of his assets? In particular, did he put his shares of Nash, Peabody & Riverside on the block?"
"I really don't know," Stanley said, beginning to feel more than a little upset.
The security guard, Peterson, approached. "Hey, you, leave Dr. Riverside alone! We've got a crisis here!"
Stanley's perceptions widened again, and he grabbed at the straw with relief. "That's right. That's right." He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop. "I've got to work. That's right. Excuse me." He fled toward the bus that was starting to discharge passengers. "Wait! Wait! Don't get off the bus yet!"
"But I'm supposed to leave them here!" the driver protested.
Stanley clambered up into the bus. "Just a few minutes," he said. "Please, I need to talk to you, please sit down." The refugee commuters muttered as they sat, but at least they sat. "I'm Dr. Riverside," he began.
"Hey, weren't you on the news?" A woman asked from the nearest seat.
"Yes." Stanley was beginning to hate the news. "That's not important right now, though. Did any of you get examined by a medical person at the scene of the accident?"
"No," said several voices, and the woman near him added. "They said to get on the bus and someone at the hospital would look at us."
"Damn." Stanley looked out the door and saw one of the orderlies coming up with a wheelchair. "Michaels, go get an ortho cart, please. And make sure it has plenty of cervical collars."
"Sure, Doc!" Michaels said.
"Cervical collars?" One of the casualties asked.
Stanley looked at the uncertain expressions of the people in the bus and ran his hand through his hair. "It's all right," he said, trying to think of how to do this without unduly frightening anyone. "I just like to be cautious. You understand that there are certain kinds of injuries that need a faster response, so I'm going to ask some questions, and try to get the people who need care the most into the hospital first."
They were paying attention.
"Okay. If you're having trouble breathing, or the person sitting next to you seems to be having trouble breathing, raise your hand."
---
He'd sent four respiratory distress cases and a possible cardiac case in and was starting on the bleeders when Ernie climbed onto the bus. "Stanley? They need you inside."
Stanley took off his stethoscope and looked up at her, from where he was kneeling next to one of the seats. "Who's taking triage?"
"I am, on this bus," she said. "We've got some of the interns in, and they're covering the other two buses."
"Watch out for cervical injuries," he said, pulling himself up to his feet. "And shock. I've asked people to keep an eye on their seat partners." He handed her the clipboard and the tags, and bent down to try to scope out the parking lot before leaving the bus.
"Got it," she said, and then gave him a measuring look. "How are you doing?"
"I'm fine," he said, and took a deep breath and left the bus. He kept his head down as he crossed the asphalt, hoping no one would notice him until he was safely inside.
"Dr. Riverside!" A woman's voice. That might be safe. He looked. It was Nurse Andrews, her cap perched on hair that was still up in curlers, her face devoid of the light foundation and lipstick she normally wore. She took the last couple of steps to catch up with him as she tucked her car keys into her pocketbook. "I'm glad to see you're all right," she said, taking his arm momentarily, to negotiate the curb. "Who's coordinator?"
"Jackson," Stanley answered, automatically, and then glanced down and saw that her knee was wrapped in an ace bandage. "What happened to you?"
"Rheumatism," she said, shrugging her acceptance of it. "I usually have time to exercise out the kinks before I come to work, but..." she waved a hand at the chaos of the parking lot.
"Isometrics?" Stanley asked, grateful to indulge in inanities if it would keep his mind busy until he was safely inside.
"Karate," she said, flashing him a grin that said she knew exactly how incongruous that mental image appeared. "You might try it, Doctor. It's good for the lower back, you know."
Stanley surprised himself by laughing. "I don't think I'd be very good at it," he said, imagining the look on EJ's face if he were to start breaking boards in his pajamas every morning. It was nice to laugh. Nice to have a karate expert - or at least a karate student - escorting him past the ring of reporters and into the warm safety of ER. Jackpot was just inside the entryway, trying to get a clear look at a deeply wounded abdomen. Stanley went over to help hold down the patient, and Andrews slung her pocketbook over her shoulder and went around to help the EMT get the IV reestablished.
"Thanks, Stan," Jackpot said, as he tucked the pressure bandage back into place. "Pre-op!" he told the waiting orderlies. "Get the labwork done up there."
"Shoop said you needed me," Stanley said, wondering if Jackpot knew that he had a piece of gauze caught in his hair.
"Outside room three," Jackpot said. "I've got head wounds coming back from radiology and not enough doctors to read the pictures."
"Right," Stanley said, "there's something in your hair," he added, gesturing, but not waiting to see if Jackpot found it. He headed for the corridor outside of room three and found eight gurneys, and Gloria Brancusi trying to find a place to put a ninth.
Stanley went to the first gurney and picked up the x-ray envelope that had been left on the patient's chest. He held the x-ray against the light, and swore. "Skull fracture. Miss Brancusi?"
"Yes, Doctor."
"We're going to need to insert a cranial pressure monitor." He glanced down the corridor. "Probably more than one. Could you please fetch the trays?"
"They're on the counter," she indicated with a chin. "But I can't get the hair clippers to start."
One of the orderlies beat Stanley to the device and banged it gently on one end. It started to buzz. "I used to be a barber. Who do you want bald, doc?"
"This one," Stanley said, pointing and then moving down to the next gurney to look at the x-ray there while he had the chance. "No skull fracture. Looks good." There was a second x-ray. "But this arm is definitely broken. We've got one for ortho, here." He scribbled the diagnosis on the patient record, giving the patient a quick reassuring smile, "You'll be fine," and went to the next one. He had cleared six of the gurneys in one direction or another and was back at the first one, trying to find a cranial vein for the monitor, when Trapper went by, pushing a gurney so laden with monitors and and tubes it was hard to see the patient. Stanley met his eyes for a moment, and saw Trapper peer over his glasses, checking. Stanley flushed, pleased that Trapper cared enough to spare a moment to be concerned, and smiled to let Trapper know he was okay before he went back to inserting the monitor sensor.
He felt a curious duality. On the surface, he was busy, making medical decisions, doing delicate procedures, ordering tests and admitting patients. But part of him was tense with expectation, flinching away from canes and painfully aware of the holstered guns of the cops who occasionally came through with the casualties. He began to become inured to people calling him by name, though, as the morning wore on and so many of the arriving staff took a moment to address him, or lay a hand on his arm or shoulder as they passed. By the time they had cleared out the critical patients, and he was down to putting in stitches on the minor injuries, he was able to joke a little with the patients, and reassure them. Miss Brancusi stayed nearby, fending off the reporters who wanted to talk to him, and producing paper cups of water whenever she thought he could take a moment to take a drink.
By seven o'clock, they were able to start working on the patients from the cafeteria, and the other holding areas, and by eight o'clock, the specialists and private practice doctors were arriving to take over the patients who needed consults. Jackpot pulled Stanley off the floor and into his office long enough to wolf down a couple of donuts, and report on the situation status.
"We got 175 casualties, and have admitted 78 of them for treatment or testing, so far." Jackpot riffled though his papers. "The rest are minor cuts, broken bones, and sprains, and we're treating and releasing them as quickly as we reasonably can. From what I understand, Bay General has numbers that are about the same."
"Not too bad, considering." Stanley's planning had figured on twice that many serious casualties. "How many surgery cases?"
"Only fifteen," Jackpot pushed up his glasses to rub at his eyes. "Some of the head jobs may end up there later, but that's up to the neuros."
"Any DOA's?" Stanley asked.
"Not here. Bay General had a couple. We've got the driver of the second train, though, and he's critical -- Martin's operating on him right now -- and from what I saw I'd say his chances are pretty slim. But other than that I think we got off pretty lucky."
"I thought we'd lost Martin," Stanley said, startled.
"We did," Jackpot said. "But he hasn't had a chance to find another position yet, and he thought we could use the help. I wrote up the paperwork as a consult to keep the liability insurance people happy."
Stanley nodded and ate the last bite of his donut. "Good thinking."
"Thanks." Jackpot leaned agains the desk and let his eyes close. "What a lousy weekend," he sighed.
Stanley hadn't truly believed that anyone but EJ and John would miss him. Would care. He had hated every minute of being kidnapped. But it was almost worth it to discover that Gonzo would come to his rescue, that Ernie and Gloria had worried, and that Jackpot had had a lousy weekend because Stanley was in trouble. The small solicitudes of the other staff, the obvious concern of his friends, and the miracle of his father caring enough to arrange for the ransom from somewhere else in the world -- Stanley's astonishment welled up inside of him and burst out as laughter.
Jackpot blinked and blushed, realizing what he had just said, but then he started to laugh too, and it was a minute before he could catch his breath enough to say, "Sorry."
Stanley waved away the apology. "Lousy!" he repeated, with tired glee. "A lousy weekend!" He could tell that he'd have to stop laughing soon, or he'd end up crying, but it took Miss Brancusi poking her head in the door to give him enough of a reason to try to pull himself together. "Yes?" he asked, trying to look professional, while Jackpot choked down giggles.
"I'm sorry," Gloria said, torn between amusement and concern. "But we've got a car accident victim coming in -- we need you, Doctor."
"Coming," Stanley said, getting to his feet. He appropriated the checklist clipboard from Jackpot as he went past. "Why don't you go see what you can do about all those sprains, and I'll take coordinator until Titus is freed up. And when the waiting area is clear, sign out and go home. You look exhausted."
"Thanks, Stanley," Jackpot said, surprised, but clearly pleased by Stanley's show of consideration. "I'll do that."
