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“I can’t answer that. His breathing’s not right. He’s got multiple injuries and almost no pulse. Do yourself a favor and don’t look at his left leg.”
And then of course he looked. “Oh, Jesus.”
“Keep pressing and don’t let up. And don’t disturb his upper thigh.”
This was bad. Faith knew she was way out of her depth. She had plenty of training in trauma situations, but hadn’t put those skills into practice since Dennis. Pulling her mind away from her late husband, she stayed focused on the victim. “I’m losing his pulse,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt. “I need to begin chest compressions.”
“Losing...what? Ah, Christ...”
“You sure the EMTs are on their way?” she asked the guy.
“Positive.” He spoke through gritted teeth.
“Did they give you an ETA?”
“The dispatcher said they’re ten minutes out. That was almost ten minutes ago, so—”
“Okay, I need to concentrate here.” Faith knew it was better to perform a few unnecessary chest compressions for someone with a beating heart, rather than withhold compressions from someone in cardiac arrest. Holding her hands one over the other, she leaned over his bare chest and got started. Everything else fell away as she pushed hard and fast, counting out thirty compressions at a hundred beats per minute. She visualized the heart, such a fragile organ beneath her hands, being forced to pump again and again, oxygenating the victim’s blood.
“Ma’am, are you sure—”
The rest of his words were drowned out by the welcome yip of a siren.
“They’re here,” the guy said.
“Don’t let up,” she ordered him. She was covered with sweat and blood, keeping up the rhythm of the chest compressions.
“Not letting up,” he said.
The EMTs swarmed from the truck. “I’m Joseph Kowalski,” one of them said, putting on protective gear. “Did you see what— Christ.”
“A male in his forties,” Faith rapped out, knowing they needed information fast. “I came upon him about fifteen minutes ago. He’s bleeding from the right brachial artery. Compound fracture of the left leg and there’s an impalement in his upper right leg. Possible trauma to the head, pupils dilated. I started chest compressions as soon as this guy showed up.”
The team of EMTs got down to work, draped, shielded and protected—a reminder that Faith and the other guy were not. The medical team took over the CPR and bleeding control with swift efficiency. One of the guys radioed in the incident, repeating essentially the information Faith had relayed.
“Who was the first responder?”
“That would be me,” she said, trembling from the rush of adrenaline. “I just happened by. I’ve got training. LPN,” she explained.
The well-dressed guy swayed a little on his feet, regarding his bloodstained clothes. “Deep breath,” she told him. “You’ll be all right.”
“Ma’am, are you familiar with BBF exposure protocol?” One of the guys handed Faith a wad of antiseptic wipes. He offered the same to the guy in the suit.
“BBF exposure?” asked the guy in the suit.
“Blood and body fluids,” she translated. “We’re going to have to get a post-exposure evaluation.”
He swallowed visibly and swayed a little on his feet. “For...?”
“Blood-borne pathogens.”
His face turned an even paler shade of gray. “Oh. Damn.”
“We’ll go in as soon as we can,” she said as the EMTs finished their work. She used the antiseptic wipes to scrub her hands, getting the worst of the blood off.
The local police showed up after that, two squad cars forming a parentheses around the wreck. Faith moved toward the van, eager to check on Ruby.
“Good work,” an EMT said to her as the team secured the backboard. “The guy’ll live to ride another day. He probably would have bled out if you hadn’t stopped.”
Cara showed up, out of breath from running. Her gaze flicked from her mother to the stranger in the suit, eyes widening at the sight of all the blood. “Oh, man.”
“Ma’am,” said a police officer, eyeing the blood. “I’ll need to get a statement from you.”
“I don’t have time at the moment,” she said, speaking over the wail of the departing ambulance siren. “My name is Faith McCallum.” She dictated her phone number.
He wrote it down. “But, ma’am—”
“Sorry. I need to check on my younger daughter, I have to get to the ER for BBF exposure and I’m already late for an appointment,” she said. Maybe, just maybe, Mrs. Bellamy would understand. “I’ve got a job interview.”
“Actually,” said the guy in the suit, “you don’t.”
She paused, checking the area for her belongings. “I beg your pardon.”
At the same time, Cara glared at the man. “What the hell?”
“The job interview.” He still looked shell-shocked as he turned to Faith. “It’s not going to be necessary.”
“And why would that be?” she asked in annoyance.
He loosened his collar, further smearing himself with the motorcyclist’s blood. “Because you’re already hired.”
6 (#ulink_ad0d2afe-6def-597a-b5ec-522fcf9fc962)
It turned out the useless guy was actually Mr. Mason Bellamy, the son of her potential client and the person in charge of hiring Alice’s caregiver. And clearly he’d seen something he liked in Faith at the scene of the bloodbath.
The van backfired three times as she followed his sleek, silent car down a long, winding drive toward the house, where he said they could get cleaned up before the ER. Slender poplar trees lined the winding lane, the spring-green leaves filtering the late-morning sunlight and dappling the beautiful landscape.
As they rounded a curve in the private drive, the historic mansion came into full view in all its glory. The house was a breathtaking vintage Adirondack lodge of timber and stone, with a wraparound porch, a turret on one end, mullioned windows and walkways draped in blooming vine pergolas. Surrounding the main house was a broad lawn featuring a grass tennis court and swimming pool, a gazebo on a knoll and a boathouse with a long dock jutting out into Willow Lake.
“We’re not in Kansas anymore,” Faith murmured, studying the place over the shiny roof of Mr. Bellamy’s car. One of the EMTs had given her sterile draping for the car seat and a microfiber cloth for her hands, so she didn’t slime the steering wheel with the stranger’s blood. She was going to need buckets of soap and water to get cleaned up. Mason Bellamy had promised there were ample facilities at the house.
“I knew you’d say that.” Cara propped her feet on the dashboard. “You always say that.”
“It’s from The Wizard of Oz,” Ruby informed her.
“Duh.”
“I say that whenever we enter a new world that’s nothing like the place we came from,” Faith explained to her younger daughter.
“I know, Mom,” Ruby said.
“The driveway’s a quarter mile long,” Cara said. “I ran the whole way.”
“How do you know it’s a quarter mile?” asked Ruby.
“Old lady Bellamy said.”
“You met her?” Faith glanced over at Cara. “What’s she like?”
“Cranky.”
“Cara—”
“You asked. So are you going to take the job?”
“We’ll see.”
“You always say that, too,” Ruby pointed out.
“Because we will see. I need to meet with Mrs. Bellamy—who, by the way, should never be called old lady Bellamy—and see if we’re a good match.”
“That guy already said you’re hired,” Cara pointed out. “I heard him.”
“The client is his mother, so she gets final say,” Faith explained. “Frankly, I’d pay them just for the chance to scrub this blood off me.”
“It’s really gross,” said Ruby. “But this place is like a castle,” she added softly, leaning forward in her seat. “If you take the job, do we get to live here?”
“That’s what the job description said—that it’s a live-in position.” When she had replied to the posting, Faith had been open about her situation. She had explained that she had two girls, and that the younger one had special needs. The reply, which had come from a woman named Brenda—“Assistant to Mr. Bellamy”—had stated that they would still like her to interview for the position. To Faith, that meant the Bellamys were either very open-minded or very desperate.
“I want to live here,” Ruby said, scanning the arched entrance at the end of the driveway.
“If we did, then we wouldn’t have to change schools,” Cara pointed out.
Faith caught the note of yearning in her elder daughter’s voice. She was just finishing her junior year at Avalon High School and longed to graduate with her friends. Since Dennis had died, they had moved at least six or seven times; Faith had lost count. It was rough on the girls, always being the new kid and having to start over at a new school every time their mom changed jobs.
Cara coped with the situation by adopting an edgy, rebellious attitude. She had a mouth on her that sometimes reminded Faith of Dennis—sarcastic, but never truly mean. Cara was a lot like her late father in other ways, too. She was scrappy and smart, cautious about whom she let in. Dennis’s doctors said he had outlived his prognosis by several years simply because he was such a tough guy, and Faith could see this trait in her elder daughter.
Ruby, by contrast, went the opposite direction, retreating into her books and toys, hiding behind a bashful facade. Even as a toddler, she’d been far more cautious and fearful than Cara ever was.
It would be nice to offer the girls a sense of security. From the looks of this place, security was assured. The compound looked as if it had sat here forever at the water’s edge. Large enough to billet a small army, it seemed like a lot of real estate for one woman.
That was Faith’s first clue to the high-maintenance quality of Alice Bellamy.
She parked in front of a multibay garage with an upper story that ran the entire length of the building. Mr. Bellamy’s car glided silently into one of the bays, and the door automatically rolled shut. A few seconds later, he joined them.
“Welcome to Casa Bellamy,” he said as they got out of the van. He’d removed his tie and opened his shirt, and the cuffs were rolled back, but he still looked decidedly uncomfortable in his blood-spattered clothes.
“This is Ruby,” said Faith, gesturing at the little girl.
“Hiya,” he said affably. “I’m Mason. I’d shake your hand, but I’m a mess.”
“That’s okay.” She pressed herself against Faith’s side. “Mom, you’re a mess, too.”
“And you’ve already met my other daughter, Cara.”
“I did. Between you and your mom, you saved that guy’s life.”
Cara merely stood back with her arms folded across her middle. She’d never been the type to be easily won.
“Tell you what,” said Mason. “We’ve got some major cleaning up to do.” He eyed her skirt and top, which were covered in blood, sweat, dirt and grass stains. It was her one decent job interview ensemble. She’d forgotten the ruined jacket at the scene of the accident.
“I have a change of clothes in the van,” she said.
“Okay, the girls can go inside for a snack or something while you and I use the showers in the pool house.”
There was a pool house. With showers. Definitely not Kansas anymore.
“You remember the way in?” he asked Cara.
She nodded.
“Tell Regina we’re back, everything’s going to be okay with the guy and that your mom and I will be in after we get cleaned up.”
“Sure. Okay. Come on, Ruby.”
Ruby towed her Gruffalo along. She clung to the threadbare plush toy in times of stress.
Faith grabbed a bag with a clean dress in it.
Mason briefly checked out the van. “This a paratransit vehicle?”
She nodded. “It’s pretty old, but the lift still works.” Noting his inquisitive expression, she said, “It hasn’t been used for paratransport in quite a while.”
“Is it for clients?” he asked.
“My late husband was in a wheelchair.”
“Oh. I’m... I see.”
She could sense him processing the information. People didn’t expect a woman in her midthirties to be a widow, so that always came as a surprise.
“He passed away six years ago,” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Awkward silence. No one ever knew what to say to that.
Faith gave a brisk nod. “Let’s get cleaned up.”
The pool house had separate showers, the space divided by weathered cedar boards in a louver pattern.
