Blink Of An Eye. Rexanne Becnel

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ next day we needed every helping hand we could get. Word had gotten around, as it always does, and the park was seeing a lot more people every day for food, water and medical help.

      “Where’s Ben?” I asked Tess after I finished bandaging a nasty cut that needed stitches. Unfortunately the wild-eyed old guy wouldn’t let me anywhere near him with sutures.

      “Ben went down to the Quarter, to that FEMA hospital set up in one of the hotels,” Tess answered. “It turns out they have lots of supplies but no patients. Everybody’s over here or going to that street clinic on St. Philip Street. He’s hoping they might share some of their supplies with us.” She rolled her eyes. “Like the feds are gonna cooperate with anybody.”

      “Maybe they could move their operation down here, you know, to where the people actually are.”

      She shook her head. “That’s way too logical for the organization that dithered while New Orleans drowned. They should have been here the minute the winds died down.”

      She had a point. Tess hadn’t had any connection to New Orleans prior to Katrina, and had only come down to help as a favor to Ben. But already she’d attached herself to the city with a vengeance, connecting to the people and our strong sense of community. I have to add also that she was suspicious of anything that any branch of government said or did. She thought Mayor Nagin was hopeless, Governor Blanco was a waste of time and you did not want to get her started on President Bush.

      I’ve never been all that political, but it was hard to remain neutral when weeks after the biggest natural disaster in American history, so little progress had been made.

      No, I take that back. Jackson Square had been cleaned up beautifully for the president’s visit. It was just everywhere else that remained a wreck.

      An hour or so later when Ben showed up, his expression said everything. There would be no sharing of supplies or personnel. If people wanted help from the FEMA clinic, they had to go to the FEMA clinic.

      “So here’s what we do,” Ben said as we gathered around him. “Anything that requires prescriptions or anything more invasive than stitches, we send to them. We need to assemble a fleet of cars so we can ferry people down there. Do you have a car?” he asked me.

      “Sorry. It drowned.”

      “I’ll ask around,” Tess said. “How about we make any patient who has a car promise to give us a couple of hours of cab service as payment?”

      Ben grinned at her. “Good idea. Another thing. Another group of doctors and nurses should be arriving tomorrow, assuming they don’t get turned away at the military checkpoints. Since a lot of you have indicated you’re staying for a while longer, we need to locate more places to put them up. We probably only need five or six beds.”

      “I have room,” I said. “A fold-out couch and a roof that doesn’t leak.”

      “Great.” He smiled at me.

      Great. I smiled back. Why don’t you come stay with me?

      Immediately I ducked my head. I did not need to be sending out “I’m available” vibes to this man. For all I knew the good doctor had a sweet little wife tucked away at home. And anyway, the last thing I needed right now was to get involved with some guy. Lucky was all the male I could handle these days.

      Still, it was nice to know that feelings I’d assumed long dead and buried—like sexual awareness—were still alive and ticking. It made me feel alive.

      I busied myself with setting up the exam area—more bandages and sterilized instruments—but I must have been smiling to myself, because Tess shot me a curious look. “You’re in a good mood.”

      “Yeah. I guess I am. I talked to my brother last night.” Now why had I told her that?

      “Really? He evacuated?”

      “Yes. But he’s doing fine in Baton Rouge.”

      “I guess he wants you to leave here, right?”

      “I decide where I go, not anyone else.”

      She grinned. “You go, girl. Say, what are you doing tonight? I know you always head to your place before dark, but there’s usually some cool music stuff going on around here after dark. Why don’t you stay tonight and bunk with us?”

      I started to say no, but I caught myself. Why shouldn’t I stay? It wasn’t as if I had much to go home to. Lucky was already here, so…why not? “Okay. Sounds fun, and I seriously need some fun.”

      “Good. Hey, Ben,” she called. “Jane’s staying at our place tonight.”

      Again our eyes met and held. “Great,” he said, and I could swear that this time it was him sending out the “I’m available” vibe.

      I ducked my head when my cheeks colored, then turned back to the task at hand. Ben Comeaux was a nice guy. That’s all. It was nice that he gave so freely of his time to others, and nice that he appreciated my rusty nursing skills. Beyond that, well…

      Suffice it to say, I smiled all day long—until a face from my past was carried into the medical tent, whining like a three-year-old and bleeding big time from a cut on his foot.

      CHAPTER 5

      “Jane? Is that you?” that unexpected, yet too familiar voice asked. “Jane! Thank God!”

      When I didn’t respond, Tess nudged me. “You know this guy?”

      Oh, yeah, I knew him. Or at least I once thought I knew him. But back then I hadn’t known that Tom Kinkaid was a liar and a cheat and a compulsive gambler. “My ex,” I muttered.

      To him I said, “When did you get out of jail?”

      “Hey.” He got this hurt look on his face. “Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”

      “You want me to take care of him?” Tess asked.

      “No. I’ll do it. Put him there,” I told the two guys who’d carried him in. It was weird. It was obviously Tom, my husband of six years, and yet in many ways it wasn’t him at all. He’d always been a sharp dresser and meticulous in his grooming. Now he was dirty and his face was lined with weariness and pain. Added to that, one of his shoes was covered with blood.

      I picked up a scalpel. “This shoe has got to go.”

      “Don’t cut it off!” Tom cried. “They’re Italian leather. Besides, they’re the only shoes I have left.”

      I shook my head. Italian leather. It figured. Only the best for Tom. But where did an ex-con get the money to buy expensive Italian leather shoes? I checked the sole to see if any foreign objects protruded, then started unlacing the shoe. “If you insist,” I said. “But this may hurt.”

      He squealed like a frightened pig, a good analogy, but his shoe came off fine. Except for the puncture in the sole and the puddle of blood inside, it was almost as good as new.

      I couldn’t say the same for him. I hadn’t seen Tom in over nine years, but he looked СКАЧАТЬ