Snow Day -- part 2

[rabidsamfan]

Friday morning dawned foggy and chilly, and Gonzo ducked back into the Titanic for a sweater before starting across the lot to the hospital entrance. Halfway there, he saw Stanley pulling into his parking space, so he waited.

Stanley, parked, picked up a bundle from the seat next to him, bit his lip, put it down, picked it up again, put it down again... Gonzo came to the rescue by tapping on the passenger window. Stanley jumped, but smiled when he saw who it was and hit the automatic window control to lower the glass. "Oh, good morning, Gates."

"Hi Stanley. Is that your stuff for the cabin?"

"Mmm. Yes. Turtlenecks and sweaters, John said. And pajamas and a robe. And a shaving kit, of course."

"Sounds like you thought of everything," Gonzo said, taking hold of the bundle cheerfully. "I'll stash it in the jeep. That'll save you the trouble of carrying it in just to carry it out again."

"That's not necessary," Stanley protested faintly, but Gonzo ignored him and put the bag into the jeep anyway. The best way around Stanley, as far as Gonzo was concerned, was to go ahead and do what you had planned doing regardless. He came back to join Stanley for the walk inside.

"I'm really looking forward to this, aren't you, Stan? A chance to get out of town, and enjoy some peace and quiet doesn't show up every week."

"The radio said something about snow at the higher elevations," Stanley offered uncertainly.

"That's great!" Gonzo said with relentless enthusiasm. "It will give you a chance to try out those new webs you found at Murphy's."

As they reached the front desk, Nurse Cato, supervisor of the night shift nurses, was briefing the incoming shift. She looked up from her clipboard at Stanley. "Are you back already, Dr. Riverside? I thought you were going to go home and get some sleep."

"That was hours ago," Stanley said, gathering his dignity hastily. "Good morning Miss Brancusi, Mrs. Shoop. Is there anything that needs my attention, Miss Cato?"

"No, Doctor. It's been quiet since you left."

"Thank you. I'll be in my office, then."

Gonzo waited until the door had closed on Stanley's pride before asking Cato. "What time did he go home?"

"Oh it was about two, I think, when I chased him out. But I think he had had a nap on the couch in the doctor's lounge earlier in the evening."

"Why was here? Did Izbecki call in sick again?"

"No. Izbecki came in drunk again. Dr. Riverside took him home, and came back to make sure that Peterson and Wilder would have a backup if they needed one. Fortunately, Dr. Baker came in too a little after midnight."

"Did I hear someone take my name in vain?"

"Hey, Tim," Gonzo said, turning to see Tim Baker, night supervisor for Emergency Services, hobbling up to the desk. The cane and the bandaged foot were new additions, and Gonzo inquired of them with a raised eyebrow.

"Kicked a suitcase in the dark last night," Baker explained. "Broke my big toe. And when I came in here for an x-ray, I found the place had fallen apart without me so I stayed. Is Dr. Riverside here?" he asked Cato.

"In his office."

"I'll check in with him and then go home and get some sleep. Come on, Gonzo, you can escort me, and fill me in on all the gossip."

"I'll do better than that," Gonzo said, collaring a wheelchair and presenting it for Baker to sit in. He waited until they had started before he asked. "What's going on with Izbecki?"

"He's been beating himself up over losing a patient. It's all right. Stanley sicced Dr. Sandler on him last night, and I'll be keeping an eye on him, so don't noise it all over the place. We all hit rough patches."

"It's not going to keep Stanley from coming with me tonight is it?"

Baker snorted. "Naw. I've got eight residents who are trying to pile up extra hours so that they can take some time at Valentine's Day -- and I'd made sure I was going to have Collins and Madwezi on call before I left, since I thought Stanley was going on that big trip with Riverside Senior this weekend. What happened to that anyway?"

"Riverside Senior went to New Zealand."

"Typical. I just can't like that man. Thanks for the ride, Gonz. I'll be sure to come in a little early tonight to help you pry Stanley out of his office."

"Thanks, Tim."

---

Mike picked up the heavy cast iron lid and gave the chili in the big old Dutch oven another quick stir before bringing up the spoon for a quick taste. "Almost warm enough." He tossed the spoon into the sink and put the lid back on. "We should be able to eat in fifteen minutes or so."

"How many times have you reheated that stuff?" Trapper asked, laughing, because he had watched Mike bring the pot in frozen solid from the back porch an hour earlier.

"Only a few. There's still plenty in the pot."

"When you make it in five gallon batches, I expect it lasts a while," Trapper agreed, his eyes twinkling.

Mike laughed back. "I get into the habit in the summertime when I never know when a smoke chaser is going to wander in, looking for a meal. Those boys can go through five gallons of chili real quick after fighting a spot fire for two days."

"I expect so."

"Besides, it's just as good, better even, the next day. Your friends both like chili, don't they?"

"Gonzo does, and I know Stanley goes to Mexican restaurants pretty often. I wanted to thank you for inviting him up, by the way. With his father in New Zealand, he would have probably stayed in ER all weekend. He'll get a real kick out of this place. You saw him in Murphy's."

"Aw, I figured it was better for your blood pressure. I could tell you were worried about him. And I remember some of the crap he told me about his father. Has his old man ever given him a break?"

"Only broken promises. I have to admit, though, watching the two Stanleys has made a real difference in how I get on with my own kids."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Whenever I have a conflict I ask myself, what would Stanley Riverside Senior do? And then I make damn sure I do something else. But Stan's a good doctor and a good friend. Emergency work's not very glamorous, or profitable, but I've had a hell of a lot of patients who would never have made it as far as the operating table if Stan hadn't kept them alive long enough to get there. And he's a sharp diagnostician. He's the one who spotted the lung problem I was having after the accident, you know, even though it was Gonzo who did the work. The only real problem I have with him these days is getting him to take a break."

"Well, we'll make sure that Stan has a good time this weekend. I can even introduce him to Mehitabel. From a safe distance that is."

"Who's Mehitabel?"

"The moose who kicked me. She's in the herd up on Big Snow..." Mike paused. "Did you hear that?"

Trapper listened. "Gunfire."

"Poachers. Rats. I'm going to have to go out there, John." Mike shoved the pot onto the back of the stove. "Do you want to wait here, or are you up to a short snowmobile ride?"

"If I can try to surf, I can ride a snowmobile. It'll be hours yet before Stan and Gonzo get here. Are you sure I won't be in the way?"

"I doubt it. The poachers will probably be long gone. I'm just going up to make casts of their tracks before the snow covers them up. Last time we caught these guys, the judge claimed we didn't have enough physical evidence and let them slide, so we're trying to get as much as we can."

"You know who the poachers are? Can't you stop them?"

"Not without a little cooperation from the legal system." Mike pulled on his coat and hat. "Come on. This time of day and weather like this, the deer will have been down by Carson's meadow." He paused long enough to call the District office of the Forest Service on the radio, and report where they were going, and then led Trapper out to the shed. Trapper followed, happy and excited. The snow was coming down in gentle swirls, and the light was fading, but the snowmobiles were equipped with brilliant headlamps, and Mike seemed pretty confident as he filled the gearbox with plaster of Paris and arcane jars and cans. In a very few minutes, they were on their way, with Trapper riding rear guard while Houlihan led the way.

---

"Look, Gates, I'm waiting to get some results back from the lab," Stanley said, not looking up from his clipboard. "Why don't you just go on up there without me. Enjoy yourself."

"Because Trapper will be seriously disappointed if you stiff him, Stan. He told me that he was really glad you'd be able to come up. Besides, Houlihan invited you -- I was just the afterthought." Gonzo took the clipboard and dropped it into Baker's hands and put the package of long underwear into Stanley's. "Here. Why don't you change into the new clothes you got from Murphy's? The heater on the jeep isn't as reliable as it could be. I'll finish tossing my gear into the back and then I'll meet you at the door. We can get started before it gets really dark."

"But..."

"Go on, Stanley," Baker said. "We've got things covered here."

"Izbecki?"

"Here, and sober."

"Well, then, I suppose it's all right." Stanley conceded fretfully, and began to pull off his lab coat. Baker and Gonzo left the office hastily.

"All right. That gives me a five minute window before he changes his mind again. Jackpot!" he called to the young man putting on his winter coat and ready to leave. "Did you get the beer?"

"It's in the jeep. And the pretzels, too."

"And here are the sandwiches and drinks you asked for," Gloria Brancusi said, handing him a paper bag.

"Thanks. If we have to stop for supper we'll never get out of here." Gonzo took the bag, blew her a kiss and headed for the Titanic at a trot. It was still drizzling, and from the light he guessed that the sun would be setting soon. Once in the trailer, he dug through the drawers for a pair of heavy corduroys and a thick turtleneck, grateful for the shower he had already grabbed in the surgeons lounge. He hadn't had time to pack at lunchtime, the way he had planned to, not with two emergency surgeries thrown on top of the three he had scheduled. It hadn't gotten as bad as the meatball surgery he remembered from 'Nam -- not even as bad as Wednesday night, for that matter -- but it had still made for an awfully hectic day. He hoped that Stanley wouldn't waffle again. It wasn't entirely fair of Trap to expect him to take on that responsibility too. But then again, Trapper wasn't above maneuvering Stanley into a position to help Gonzo now and then, so he wasn't going to grumble. Not with a chance to get out of town like this one! He started stuffing extra clothes into his duffel bag, wincing when he saw that the laces on his combat boots had broken. Put 'em in the bag, buy laces on the way up. He jammed his feet back into his sneakers and tugged on a sweater and his duffel coat. Hat. Gloves. Was he forgetting anything? Oh yes, the sandwiches. He banged out the trailer door and gave it a quick check to be sure it was locked before glancing at his watch. Six minutes flat. Not bad.
Stanley was waiting by the jeep, holding the bag from Murphy's in one hand, and the snowshoes awkwardly under the other arm. He looked stiff and uncertain in his new clothes, like a kid being sent away to a distant relation. He made the effort to pick up his chin when Gonzo reached him though, and made a little bow. "How do I look?"

"Like you're ready for anything," Gonzo answered. He opened the back and stashed his gear on top of the case of beer. Stanley did the same, settling the snowshoes in carefully. "How do the new threads feel?"

"Very comfortable," Stanley admitted. "And warm."

"The more layers the better," Gonzo averred, climbing in and leaning over to unlock the passenger door. He passed the bag of sandwiches to Stanley when he got in. "Dinner. Or at least something to tide us over for a while. Do you want to go up on I-5 or 101?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Well, on 101 we avoid Oakland, and the traffic. It means a few extra miles up at the end of the trip, because we'll have to swing over to I-5 and come south again to get to the right road, but timewise I'd guess it's probably six of one, half a dozen of the other."

"It doesn't matter to me," Stanley said, absently, investigating the bag. The warm smell of meatballs wafted up to his nose. "How are you going to manage to eat?"

"With the traffic on the bridges? We'll be sitting still long enough for a three course meal."

---

Trapper pulled his snowmobile up next to Houlihan's and cut off the motor. The headlights showed the trampled snow, and a great smear of red. "This must be the place."

"Yep. They're messy bastards." Mike got off the snowmobile and started forward, then stopped, and checked something on the ground. "Uh-oh. John, keep your eyes open. This is cougar sign."

"Cougar?" Trapper checked the trees quickly. "I thought we heard shots."

"We did. The tracks are all mixed up, but I see deer, human and cat. The deer ran off that way. The cougar went after them, and the human... I think we'd better follow this. Grab the flashlight out of the kit, will you?"

A hundred yards along, they found the poacher. He'd gotten the worst end of his meeting with the cougar, but he was alive. Trapper looked at the great lacerations and found himself taking charge. "We need to get him down to a hospital as soon as possible. Can you call up a chopper?"

"At night? In snow? With a ceiling this low? Dream on. Can you keep him from bleeding to death?"

"I'll try."

"Good. I'll go back and get a stretcher and the Jimmy. Then we can get him down to the fire road. You'll be all right here?"

"Leave the flashlight."

"Got it."

---

Darkness had really settled in by the time they got clear of the city traffic, and the white lines defined the road in front of the jeep as they flashed by. Gonzo had been able to eat not one, but two sandwiches sitting in traffic jams, and he rotated his shoulders gratefully, mentally stretching out to the welcome space to maneuver. They were definitely on the way now.

Stanley, who was wearing more layers than were strictly necessary, blinked sleepily at the windshield wipers as they made their hypnotic trip back and forth across the glass. He'd stuffed himself on sandwiches too, and now a yawn escaped him. "Why don't you catch a few Z's," Gonzo suggested, pleased that the minor subterfuge of warmth and food had worked it's magic on Stan. "That way you'll be fresher if I need to you switch over."

"All right." Stanley closed his eyes. He knew he was being managed, but he didn't have the energy to resent it, and besides, there was something pleasant about suspecting that John had "leaned" on Gates for the sake of having the company of Stanley Riverside II for a weekend. John wanted him, and that was a good thought to take with him into the soft cotton wool of sleep.

---

The clinic in Willow was tiny, and the equipment looked like army surplus, but at least they had plenty of O-neg on hand, and the nurse who had opened the door knew her way around the block. Trapper scrubbed at the little sink and pulled on some gloves. "Mike, can you round up another doctor?"

"Doc's down in Sacramento tonight," the nurse said. "His god-daughter's wedding. You can knock on Steve's door, though. He's always glad to help."

"Right." Houlihan went out the door.

Trapper began to work. "Who's Steve?"

"Steve Jackson. He's our vet."

"A vet?"

"And ex-medic. Navy. He knows anesthesia, too. I'm Terry Hancock."

"John McIntyre. Trapper. We'll have to take care of the chest first. Let's get some blood into him and these clothes off of him and see what we can do."