“I caught a flight as soon as we heard. I’ve got him,” Pete Walter, head facility director for Chase Medical, said.
“Thanks, Pete.” Hunt gave report.
He returned to the surgeon’s locker room. Sitting heavily on the bench, he held his head between his hands.
Selma Bryant stepped from the showers, wrapped in a towel. “Hunter, are you alright?”
Hunt stood and walked toward her. “I will be.” He took her face between his hands, slanting his mouth as he kissed her with explosive intensity and pulled her towel free.
She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. She met his kiss with equal ferocity. He pressed her back into the showers.
An hour later, showered and dressed in fresh scrubs covered by his lab coat, he walked into the SICU. Pete Walter was changing out a unit of blood. “How’s he doing?”
“He’s producing urine. His heart is still irritable but manageable. His temp is rising. I sent cultures and started antibiotic therapy. Considering, he’s doing well. Have you spoken to Tim or Seth?”
“No.” Hunt’s expression grew cautious.
“All eight, intubated, GI bleeds. They were sedated with valdecoxib, alosetron, methaqualone,” Pete said.
Hunt leaned against the wall. “If they gave it to Kip, without fluids, that combination will tear him apart.”
Minutes later he walked into the clinical room, which was now a mini ICU. Harper looked up expectantly. “He’s in the SICU. Doing as well as expected.”
She put her hands together as if praying. Tobey advised Hunt they had no leads on Kip’s location.
* * *
Harper was not goingto let her parents get away with destroying her chance at love. They taught her to be consumed with irrational fears and live without hope for love. First Chantal, and then Kip, taught her what love felt like. Sitting at the nurse’s station, Harper dialed her home number. Turning around, she played with the cord as if it were any other conversation.
Rosalind Rousselle cheerily answered, “Bonsoir.”
“Not really.” Keeping her voice low, Harper kept the conversation in French. “Where is he?”
“Your father is downstairs. I’ll get him,” her mother replied.
“You know that’s not who I am asking about. Where is he?” Harper repeated.
“Nowwe are important enough to talk to. You want something. But whenwewanted something…” she huffed.
“What did you want? Me to marry Jerrold? To play bridge and make babies. To be so sweet on the outside and rotten to the core. Where is he?” Harper snapped.
“Hello, Harper,” her father got on the line.
“Pierre, Harper wants to know where her Mr. Brennan is.” Rosalind’s tone remained haughty.
“By now, dead from dehydration or suffocated. And, Harper, we decided it doesn’t matter if you tell the world what we did. The harmed and disgruntled will come after you. This is better than killing you. In a couple of hours, all of us will be gone for good.” Pierre hung up.
Harper slammed the phone down, shrieking in French.
Hunt turned to her. “Harper,quelle?”
She should have known Hunt spoke French. Now close to tears, she spoke in a combination of French and English, explaining the phone call.
“O’Mara.” When he answered, Hunt condensed what Harper told him.
Harper watched as he, Chad, and Zayne made simultaneous phone calls.
* * *
