My heart fills with my love for you.
We have a lifetime of things to do,
But all you need is to rest without dismay.
Martin continued, and with each stanza, Elizabeth decreased her struggle. Her head soon rested against his chest. "Shh, I’m here." He ran his hands up and down her arms. Pete, Tuck, and Miles released one limb at a time.
"Vitals?" Miles’s eyes locked on hers as he pressed the head of his stethoscope over her heart and neck. Pete cycled and reset the monitors. Everything appeared stable.
Tuck washed his hands and gowned to access the arterial line. "I'll send the 08:00 bloods a little early." He turned back to his patient. "Well, hello, darlin'." Tuck waved his hand in front of the two open violet eyes with no response. "Miles?"
Miles pulled out his penlight. When the light hit her face, Martin grabbed her hand before she connected with Miles's cheek. "Not nice, Beth,” Miles cautioned. She swung again when the light caught her second eye. Martin stopped her.
"Hey, behave yourself." Martin used a teasing voice, "Didn't anyone tell you not to hit people?"
"Mar...ty," a raspy whisper vibrated against him.
"Beth?" She didn't respond to Pete.
"Elizabeth? Talk to us," Martin asked.
"Where's my momma?"
"I’m Miles. Your momma isn't here. Elizabeth, where are you?
She looked around. "Mary Greeley Hospital." Elizabeth seemed unaware she was resting against Martin. As soon as she touched her flat belly, her screams ripped through the entire ICU. "WHERE'S MY BABY?"
This time, there was only one thing that could calm her. Pete flooded her body with a sedative.
Martin was devastated. Pete, Tuck, Miles and the neurosurgery fellow tried to explain that this was not unexpected behavior when waking from a coma. "I can't bear her living through it again. Her mother's death, our baby's loss, the betrayal. Me."
"This may be temporary. I would suggest, until we assess where she’s at when she wakes, you stay clear of her room.”
Martin walked away before anyone could stop him.
Off-balance, Martin headed outside to inhale the morning air. A text vibrated advising that Paul Young was heading into the hospital. Martin intercepted the cancer-stricken police officer. "Young?"
"They told you I was coming?" Martin's flat nod made him swallow hard. "How's Dr. Reed? And Austin...?" Paul wrung his hands. "I'm sorry."
Cutting him no slack, Martin asked, "Is that all?"
"Bailey, I want to help. I don't think Slater or Hahn is the bomber."
"Why?"
"They like suffering. Think about what they put Elizabeth through and those around her. A bomb is efficient and impersonal."
Martin opened his hand toward the seat beside him. "I'm listening. What's your theory?"
"First Slater: a gullible kid who got in over her head. She believed his promises. Slater leads you to Ullman. She's mental, with major crazy added on. No residue of explosives at either woman's home. Take the bomb—it came back as homemade C-4. Blasting cap, det cord, and shock tube. Ullman could make the explosive, but again, no suffering. A master shot triggered that bomb. I would put my money on a male, late forties, early fifties, military background."
"Why are you turning on your crew?" Martin grimaced, arching his brow.
"I'm dying—the cancer is all over. When I found out what Logan, Blake, and Riggs did, I didn't have the fight."
"Why didn't you take time off?" Martin shook his head.
"My work is my life. My folks are gone. I'm divorced. My kids are grown and live all over the country. I just need to last a few more months for a pension worth leaving them. I'm not making excuses. I made mistakes, but I’m a good detective."
