Chapter Text
Sunset, between 5 and 6 p.m.
It is some consolation to Gillian that if she’s going to be dragged into the woods to be murdered, he’s at least picked a beautiful place. Based on how long it took them to get here and the gorgeous mountains, they’re somewhere in Shenandoah National Park.
In retrospect, it’s a little surprising that it’s taken this long for the tables to be reserved. After all, this sort of thing happens to Cal at least once, if not thrice, a year.
It didn’t make Gillian any more prepared, though, for being dragged through the office hall shortly after 9 in the morning, an elbow around her throat crushing her windpipe.
She shuts her eyes and tries to forget the look on Cal’s face, the tightness of fear around his eyes, the sound of his voice, jagged with rage and worry, as he’d called her name.
Not Foster. Not love. Gillian. The name he only uses when he really wants her to hear him.
She’s always wondered what her name would sound like on his tongue in a myriad of situations (moaned in pleasure, whispered as a late-night love confession, laughed with joy), but never like that (an apology, a plea, a goodbye).
“Get up,” Peters orders, roughly dragging her out of the trunk of the car by her upper arm.
Wearily, Gillian complies. She knows that she should struggle, but all the fight left her hours earlier. How long has it been? 6 hours? 7? Either way, she’s spent the entire day running errands for this man, convinced that his friends, colleagues, and community have pinned the disappearance of his wife on him, while every piece of evidence Gillian found for him points to the opposite.
Peters shoves her forward. “Walk.”
She takes some stumbling steps (heels aren’t ideal hiking shoes). Shouting for help crosses her mind, but there aren’t any other cars parked nearby and she can’t hear anything but the crunch of gravel and the call of birds. It’s late autumn, past tourist season, and they seem to be pretty deep into the park. There likely isn’t anyone else for miles around.
Unsatisfied with her slow pace, Peters pushes again, and Gillian loses a shoe in the process.
“I can’t—” she protests as the forest floor jabs into the soft undersides of her feet.
“We aren’t going very far,” he growls. “I’ll carry you if I have to.”
No, thank you, absolutely not. Gillian hobbles along, kicking her other shoe off. She’s trying not to think about it, but that might be the only trail investigators will have to lead them to her body.
Gillian is going to die.
It’s a thought she’s had multiple times today, but now it’s becoming imminent. There isn’t a rescue or a clever plan or empathetic thing she can say to this man that will end in a different result. Her heartbeat picks up valiantly, but her adrenal glands have barely anything left to give. She thinks futilely of escape, but outrunning him or overpowering him has never been a viable option. He’s much bigger than her, about Eli’s size but probably twice the weight, and she’s going no where fast either barefoot or in heels on this terrain. Her fate is sealed.
They stop at the edge of a cliff, where the forest stops abruptly and gives way to an eroded hillside, steep as the victim of a landslide years ago. Ahead of them, the setting sun has bathed the hillsides in brilliant oranges and reds.
“Take one last good look, Foster,” he says, voice resolute. “If the fall doesn’t kill you, they hypothermia will.”
Gillian gulps and looks down the precipice. It’s a long way down. “We can talk this out. Just wait—”
Peters pushes.
Gillian screams.
9:12 a.m.
Cal runs around the corner, having heard shrieking from his office and nearly trips over himself when he finds the scene of the commotion.
Gillian.
Her eyes are wide and wild, terrified as she fights against the arm around her throat. Cal takes a half-step towards her.
“Nobody move!” the man shouts, waiving his gun with his free arm. “Step any closer, and I’ll shoot.”
Every word of it is true, and Cal is forced to obey. Slowly, he puts his hands up. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. There’s really no need for this, Mr. ... What’s your name?”
“Jason Peters.”
“I’m sure we can resolve this peacefully, Mr. Peters. Just put the gun down and let her go.” Cal steps cautiously towards them.
The arm around Gillian’s neck tightens as she lets out a soft gasp, and Peters presses the barrel of the gun against her temple.
“Take another step, she dies,” Peters says firmly. “I’ve read up on you people. I know that she’s the shrink and the voice expert. That’s what I need. You’ll do exactly as I say.”
It’s almost word for word what Matheson said in the same spot two years ago. That’s good, on the one hand, because they know how to deal with this sort of thing. On the other hand, it’s a terrible omen because Cal himself almost didn’t survive that incident.
Peters continues. “No law enforcement of any kind. Everybody else goes home. She stays with me in the lab. You can pick one staff member to help with things on the outside.”
“Two,” Cal bargains. “I can help from here, but if anything needs to go out into the field, they work best in a pair.”
“Two,” Peters concedes.
“And I want to be in the lab with you and Foster.”
“Not a chance,” he snarls. There’s a click of the gun cocking, and he pushes it harder into the side of her head.
Cal feels his heart stop and restart, and, oh, now he understands why she gets so angry at him for repeatedly putting himself in danger because this is awful.
He shifts his eyes from Peters’s to Gillian’s. They’re scared, but a silent agreement goes between the two of them. Capitulation is her best chance for survival.
“It’s okay,” she chokes out. “I’ll be fine. Just do as he says.”
Sunset, a few seconds later
Gillian’s read enough books, romance or otherwise, to know that her life is supposed to be flashing before her eyes, but she can’t stop screaming. Her limbs flail wildly, some long-distant instinct attempting to fly or, at the very least, right herself and determine up from down.
She isn’t sure how long she falls, but it’s long enough to think about falling which is never a good sign.
Impact happens too quickly for her to process it, but it goes something like this: foot, knee, then everything else all at once, and suddenly she’s log rolling at a nauseating speed.
Gillian thought that hitting the ground would be a short and sudden stop (to her life and gravity), but she isn’t slowing down.
If anything, she’s gaining speed.
What’s that sound?
Oh, right.
Gillian is still screaming. Has she taken a breath? How long has it been? Can Peters (or anybody) still hear her?
She hits something, hard, and yes, there’s that sudden stop, a dull thud accompanied by a loud pop, like a tree branch snapping, and then darkness.
10:41 a.m.
Cal feels sicker by the minute. Peters has disclosed a history of domestic violence, and Gillian is locked in the lab with him. So far, she’s played it like they did with Matheson: keeping the guy calm and patching the rest of the crew into the videos and audio so they can keep an eye and ear on everything.
Helplessness isn’t a feeling Cal is accustomed to. He’s a man of action, not one to take things lying down or sit around and wait to see how things turn out, but there’s nothing else he can do. Every instinct in him says to grab the gun in the safe and go in, guns literally a blazing, but that could very quickly spiral out of control (more so than they are already right now).
God, he misses Ben Reynolds. He would know what to do. He would keep a clear head and even temper. He would be able to get Gillian out of this, no bloodshed required.
“Sometimes,” Gillian says, voice slightly distorted through the microphone, “the things people do to protect you are the things that hurt you the most.”
Guilt and regret sit heavily on Cal’s chest. All the things he had done to protect her—withheld secrets, spied on Dave and Alec, slept with other women to keep her away from him—served only to hurt her. It’s a lesson he’s learned but doesn’t understand, that, for some reason, she wants all of him, not just the good parts.
Even still, he can’t seem to let her in, let her close.
Now, he may never get the chance.
Twilight, between sunset and dusk
Gillian comes to and desperately wishes that she hadn’t. Everything hurts, but especially everything on her right side. Her wrist, rib cage, knee, and ankle throb with enough violence to make her head fuzzy. Or maybe her head just hurts on top of everything else? It’s hard to say.
Gillian begins to piece things together. Peters pushed her off a cliff. She fell a distance (she doesn’t even want to think about calculating how far), hit the ground, rolled a bit, and then hit a …
Boulder. A giant rock. That’s currently still supporting her.
Using her left arm, Gillian tries to push herself into sitting and screams at the pain.
Okay. No. Definitely not doing that.
She’ll just … wait here.
For rescue or death.
Whichever comes first.
1:35 p.m.
Torres and Loker come back from the field with nothing. Peters has been looking for his wife, but it’s becoming increasingly likely that Peters killed them, buried them, and is in some sort of awful denial about it, using Gillian to prove his nonexistent innocence.
He’s asking them to pull a rabbit out of a hat, and Cal is starting to feel like they’re out of rabbits.
Peters, predictably, goes into a rage, trashing the lab. Once that’s a mess, he turns his ire on Gillian, shouting expletives and threats on her life to her and to the rest of them.
“You know, If you’d really wanted leverage, you picked the wrong person,” Gillian says calmly.
That stops Peters’s tirade, at least momentarily. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“No one needs me.” She shrugs, like it’s a simple fact, and admission not worthy of fanfare. “Cal’s got his daughter, Eli’s got his father, and Ria’s got her little sister. But me? I’m alone. There isn’t anyone that can’t live without me.”
The three of them crumple at hearing that through the audio feed.
“She believes that,” Torres says softly.
Loker threads his hands together and puts them on his neck, leaning his head back. “Jesus Christ.”
Cal says nothing. What is there to say? Everything he needs to say, he can’t, because the person he needs to say them to can’t hear him.
“That’s not true,” Peters says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Gillian, incredibly given the situation, laughs. “Who? Cal? He looks at most women that way. Attraction is a physiological response. It’s not something people control. Increased heart rate, elevated blood pressure, dilated pupils.”
Cal has always wondered whether or not she’s seen it. It doesn’t surprise him that she has; it’s not like he tries to hide it, but she’s never mentioned it even once before now.
“Besides,” she continues, “I’m not his type.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Yeah, sure, he finds a wide variety of things attractive, but Gillian ticks all the boxes, as far has he’s concerned. Does she think he’s been ignoring her? Or overlooking her? Or never seen her in the first place?
“Bullshit,” Peters says, verbalizing Cal’s own thoughts.
Gillian redirects everyone’s attention. “Let’s stay focused on finding your wife, shall we?”
Twilight, but a little darker
Somewhere in the distance, a pack of wolves howl.
There is a part of Gillian that wants to laugh hysterically. She always thought that she would die normally, at an appropriate age, either in a care facility or the privacy of her own home.
Falling to her death, breaking what feels like all the bones in her body, and then being eaten by wild animals had not been anywhere close to being on her bingo card.
On the other hand, Gillian thinks as her teeth clack together, hypothermia is always an option. Peters had been right on that account. He had, funny enough, not given her the opportunity to grab her coat before dumping her in the woods, and her sleeveless dress, while fashionable, is not at all suitable for the late autumn chill.
Her urge to laugh is quickly replaced by an urge to cry. She does a bit of both. It’s not nearly as cathartic as she needs it to be.
4:23 p.m.
This situation has officially gotten out of control.
The scene that played out this morning is happening in reverse, minus the very important part of Gillian being free, safe, and unharmed.
Peters drags her through the halls once again, gun to her head, elbow around her neck. Cal, Loker, and Torres meet at the intersection of the main hallway and the one that leads to their offices.
There isn’t a doubt in Cal’s mind that Peters will shoot Gillian if any of them moves so much as a muscle. Gillian, for her part, looks utterly exhausted and resigned.
“Any last words for Foster here?” Peters’s words imply before I kill her.
Cal doesn’t know what to say. He knows what he wants to say, what he needs to say, but the words won’t form on his mouth. All he can say is, “Gillian.”
“I know,” she says. “Me too, Cal.”
“Touching,” Peters says, and drags her away backwards. He keeps his gun trained on the three of them, then back to Gillian.
“Now what?” Loker asks when they’re left alone in the office without Peters (and, most importantly, Gillian).
“Time to call it in,” Torres says. “I checked the security feed and got the plate. He, uh, put Foster in the trunk.”
Cal’s blood boils. “That bastard.”
“He won’t get away with this,” Loker promises.
“Don’t call it in,” Cal says, finally processing the first half of what Torres said. “Call Reynolds on his direct line. We need someone that can keep it quiet. If Peters catches wind of law enforcement following him, I’m worried he’ll send the car off a bridge with Gillian in the boot.”
Dusk
The last glow of sunlight leaves. In its place, stars twinkle. The waning crescent moon feels oddly poetic. It’s maybe a day or two before the new moon, the empty moon, the end of the cycle. Sort of like Gillian.
Except she won’t be reborn the next day. She doesn’t believe in reincarnation and she’s not as Catholic as she was raised, but even for her faith in God, He feels quite distant in this moment.
Is heaven real? If it is, is that where she’ll go? Gillian likes to think that she’s lived a pretty upstanding life, but she’s far from perfect. Or maybe it’s all predestination anyway and what she’s done in life doesn’t matter.
Perhaps this is all just grief for herself and the life she won’t get to live. Like any good psychologist, Gillian knows that the step model of grief isn’t perfect, that grief is often messy and its supposed stages all run together. She’s been angry and accepting, in denial and in despair plenty today. Maybe this is the bargaining stage.
Above, the stars continue to shine.
5:45 p.m.
“We got a hit on the plate!” Torres shouts.
Loker shoots up from the couch. “Finally! Where?”
He and Cal clump to her side. She puts the phone on speaker.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Reynolds says. “The car was found in Bentonville, just outside of Shenandoah National Park. It ran out of gas, and it was abandoned on the side of the road. Security cameras on a nearby gas station have footage of him fleeing on foot, alone. Police are checking the car, but there’s no sign of Foster. Anyway, we reverse engineered some security footage, and the car was seen entering and exiting the park. Chances are, that’s where Foster is.”
Cal consciously unclenches his teeth from where they’ve been grinding for the past eight and a half hours. “That sounds like all bad news, Ben.”
“Well, then, I’ve got more for you. Your boy, Peters? That isn’t his real name. His actual name is Jeffery Gladstone. He’s been wanted by police and FBI ever since his last four wives have gone missing under mysterious circumstances.”
Silence follows that bit of information. Gillian hasn’t just been in the hands of one unhinged man on a mission. She’s been in the hands of a serial killer.
“So what now?” Loker asks.
“I alerted search and rescue. They’re looking for Foster. FBI agents are pursuing Gladstone,” Reynolds says.
Torres sighs. “Thank you, Reynolds. We miss you.”
He laughs with a hint of sentimentality. “You know, I miss you all sometimes too. Keep me updated about Foster.”
“Now what?” Loker asks once they’ve hung up.
“Everybody in my car,” Cal says, grabbing his keys. “We’re going on a road trip.”
Night
It’s gotten very, very dark. Gillian hasn’t tried, but she’s pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to see her own hand in front of her face.
She is also pretty sure that she’s reached the depression stage of the grief speed run. Her thoughts have turned as dark as the sky, that it would have been better if Peters had just shot her or pushed her off a higher cliff to ensure a fatal drop.
All Gillian can feel is pain and cold. Parts of her body have gone numb, either from the chill or lack of circulation from the awkward way she’s propped up by the boulder. Every breath is accompanied by a stabbing sensation deep in her lungs.
A low buzzing sound echoes through the valley. A swarm or cicadas? It gets louder until it morphs into the unmistakable sound of a helicopter propeller.
That’s nice. Gillian went on a helicopter once. It was with Alec for their honeymoon in Hawai’i. The valleys there were so lush and green and the pilot talked about all the flora and fauna—
Wait. A helicopter. At night.
That’s no tourist cruise.
Could it be that they’re looking for her? Even if they’re looking for someone else, they might be able to find her as well.
“Hey!” Gillian yells. “I’m here! Help!”
It’s pointless, of course. Even without the sound of the chopper blades, she would be too far.
Even still, hope is an irrational thing that burns like fire.
7:07 p.m.
Cal white-knuckles the whole drive, speeding at least 15 over the whole way. Torres and Loker sit silent in the back. When they arrive at the gate to the park, the ranger attempts to turn them around.
“I’m sorry, sir, but there’s—” they start.
“I’m Cal Lightman,” he says. “Foster’s my partner.”
They buzz the gate open. “Agent Reynolds said you’d be coming. Park at the ranger’s station. First building on the right.”
Cal parks haphazardly and doesn’t check to see if Loker and Torres are following. The ranger’s station is a mess of activity. A map on the wall shows a search radius that seems too big to cover.
“Hi.” A ranger in a vest that seems to be in charge approaches them. “Are you the Lightman Group?”
“Where’s Foster?” Cal asks.
“We’re still looking. The issue is that we don’t know exactly where she was taken. There are only so many places they could have gotten to in the time frame the car was in the park, but that’s still a lot of ground to cover,” she explains with the authority of a person who’s handled missing persons cases before. “We’ve got sniffer dogs, thermal drones, and helicopters. We’re doing everything we can.”
“Would it help the dogs if they could smell something of hers?” Loker asks. “I brought her coat from the office.”
The ranger looks pleasantly surprised. “Yes, actually. Thanks.”
“This is Eye-In-The-Sky to Base, over,” a radio crackles.
“This is Base, I copy you. Over,” the ranger says.
“I’m seeing nothing on the south side. I’m heading back until we’ve got more info.”
“Got it. I’ll keep you updated.” The ranger switches channels and radios the dog team. Once she’s done, she turns back to the three of them, awkwardly huddled together. “Why don’t the three of you have a seat? We’ve got coffee and hot chocolate.”
Night, colder and darker
Gillian is getting very sleepy. Maybe sleep won’t be such a bad idea. Rest is good for all bodily injuries, right?
A part of her knows that if she closes her eyes, she won’t wake up.
Gillian shuts them anyway.
7:53 p.m.
Cal is pacing. Loker is fidgeting. Torres is fretting.
It’s been almost an hour, and there’s been no news. Over and over, the radio calls report nothing. The ranger (who’s name is Kari) updates the map, crossing out various areas.
“This is Dog Team 3 to Base, over.”
“I copy you, Dog Team 3,” Kari says. “What’ve you got?”
“A body.”
Not a person, a body.
All at once, they stop moving. Cal hasn’t thrown up since his last big bender after the divorce, but he thinks he might sick up on the floor if it’s Gillian.
“Can you make a positive I.D. on the body?” Kari asks.
“Negative. This one is at least a few years old at this point. Nothing but bones.”
Cal exhales.
“That might be one of Gladstone’s previous victims,” Torres whispers to them. “I mean I don’t know how many people die in Shenandoah per year, but serial killers often have a favorite dumping ground. It might be a sign that they’re getting closer.”
Before Cal or Loker can respond, another radio call comes through.
“This is Dog Team 6 to Base, over. I also found a body. Mine’s the same age if not older, only a mile away from Dog Team 3.”
Kari runs her hands through her hair. “Got it. Tell me your coordinates, please. Gladstone has five victims. Let’s concentrate our search in that area, say a five-mile radius.”
Five victims. Kari’s including Gillian in Gladstone’s kill count.
Loker catches Cal’s eye. “Don’t give up on her yet. Gillian survived everything else Peters/Gladstone threw at her. She’s smart and tough. If anyone can get through this, it’s her.”
Night (or maybe heaven?)
Somewhere, a dog barks.
Gillian smiles. Is she dead? Does that mean there are dogs in heaven? She brushed off the suggestion when Cal mentioned adopting a puppy, but she does love dogs. A dog in the afterlife sounds like a nice thought.
8:04 p.m.
“Dog Team 2 to Base, over.”
“I copy,” Kari says. “What’s up?”
“Found a shoe that matches the sniff test.”
“What shoe?” Cal asks. Kari relays the question.
“It’s black, 3-4 inches of heel. Over.”
“That’s hers! She’s got to be nearby,” Cal says excitedly.
“I need all teams in the vicinity to head towards Dog Team 2,” Kari orders.
“Found a second shoe. The dogs are leading me to a cliff edge and signaling there. Might need a chopper. I can’t see anything, and yelling hasn’t gotten any response. Over.”
Cal doesn’t like a word of what that sounds like. He doesn’t want to think about Gillian going over a cliff or a recovery crew instead of a rescue crew or having to identify a bashed and broken version of her.
Kari nods solemnly. “Copy. Sending a thermal drone and chopped your way. Over.”
A few minutes later, another call comes in.
“This is Heat Wave to Base, over.”
“I copy,” Kari says.
“I’m by the cliff. There is a heat signature. I can’t tell if it’s a person or not, but whatever it is isn’t moving. The temp is also low, either hypothermic or recently deceased.”
“Copy. A chopper is on the way.”
Night (or maybe hell?)
Gillian is in agony. She’s pretty sure of two things: she’s either dead and in hell, or she’s about to be. The numbness from earlier is gone, and so are the dogs. It’s possible she was hallucinating. Another buzzing sound passed overhead, or at least she thought it did. A swarm of bees, perhaps? Do bees even fly at night?
A louder thumping makes her head pound. It reminds her of the folklore of the thunderbird, the bird who’s wings are responsible for the sound of thunder. It’s accompanied by a strong downward wind that sets off another round of bone grating shivers and a bright light.
Is this the bright light they talk about? Is it finally time? Gillian is ready; she’s been ready for hours.
Something descends from the noisy light. A human, or human-like thing. They land next to her, a long braid flapping in the wind.
“Gillian Foster?” the voice shouts. “Is that you?”
“Are you an angel?” she asks.
There’s a laugh. “No, my name is Maria. Wow, and I glad we found you. You’re going to be okay, Gillian. We’ll get you out of here.”
Gillian starts to cry. She’s alive? Still? And rescue is here?
“I’ve got her. She’s alive and conscious, maybe altered mental state. Looks like at least a couple of broken bones, possible spinal injury. Send down another medic and a board. Let the hospital know we’re coming.” Maria taps her shoulder. “Gillian, can you hear me? Can you tell me what month it is?”
“End of October,” she says.
“Good, okay. Can you tell me what hurts the most?”
Gillian whines. Everything hurts, especially the right side. She’d been trying not to think about it, but now that she does, it’s like opening a floodgate. Her wrist aches, and her ankle and knee cap feel like they’ve split in half. It’s possible they actually have. Her chest isn’t doing to well either, each breath becoming more difficult than the last.
“Right leg,” Gillian says. “But everything.”
“Got it.” It’s a new voice, this time. “Hey Gillian, my name is Dennis. We’re going to put you on a spine board. It’s going to require us to move you, and that might cause you some pain.”
More pain? She doesn’t think she can take more pain.
“We’ll get you some pain meds as soon as we’re up there, okay? This won’t take long, I promise.” Maria touches her right shoulder (ouch) and right hip (also ouch). “You’re probably going to want to cry out, and that’s okay. Just try to stay with us.”
There’s a count down, and then Maria and Dennis start to roll Gillian’s body away from the boulder that’s been propping her up. There’s some readjusting, and then they hoist her up.
All at once, it’s agony, the dial turned up from a 10 to a 12. She can feel the broken bits of her bones grinding against one another. Bile burns in her throat (when’s the last time she ate?) but retching hurts her chest and her vision narrows to a tunnel and there’s this ringing in her ears that just won’t go away.
“Gillian,” Maria shouts over her screaming. “Come on, girl, stay with us.”
Gillian does not stay with her. Instead, she succmbs to blissful darkness.
8:13 p.m.
“Eye-In-The-Sky to Base, over.”
“I read you. What’s the news?” Kari asks.
“Package acquired, delivering to Winchester Trauma Center.”
“Package?” Loker asks. “Is that Foster?”
Kari doesn’t respond outright but gives a sharp nod. “I’ll call ahead. What’s her status?”
“This is Medic 1. Package is alive. Obvious trauma to right leg and chest, possible spinal and internal injuries. Vitals aren’t great, but they’re stable. Weak thready pulse, blood ox of 92. Giving IV fluids and morphine. Over.”
“Copy that, will relay to Winchester. Good work, team.” Kari turns to the three of them, all standing and anxious. “Did y’all get that?”
“Foster’s alive,” Loker says, sounding to be in a state of disbelief.
“Winchester Trauma Center,” Torres repeats. “I have directions. Thank you so much, Kari.”
Cal can’t say much of anything with the lump in his throat. Instead, he crosses the room in four long strides and wraps Kari in a hug. A hand comes up to pat his back.
“You’re welcome,” she says, with emotion of her own. “Now go get your girl.”
Night (still)
“Gillian, you with us?” Maria is peering down at her, shining a light into her eyes.
She blinks blearily. “I think so.”
“How’s your pain on a scale of 1-10?” It’s Dennis.
Gillian tries to think. Nothing feels like anything now, which is an improvement. She tries to sit up, but something holds her back.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He puts a hand on her shoulder to keep her down. “Don’t try to move. But I take it you’re feeling more comfortable?”
“Yeah.” It’s brighter here, but still loud. She flicks her eyes around, unable to turn her head, and remembers the helicopter. “Where are we going?”
“Hospital. We should be pulling in any minute now.”
Maria swipes something hard across her forehead that beeps. “Body temp is almost back up to normal.”
“My chest feels weird,” Gillian says, then coughs. Something wet dribbles down the side of her mouth.
“Shit,” Dennis says in a tone that isn’t good. “Give her oxygen. Possible lung injury. How much longer do we have?”
“Pulling in for a landing now,” the pilot says over the intercom.
Gillian feels the helicopter touch down, and then the cabin becomes a rush of activity. She’s lifted once again and transferred to a gurney.
“This is Gillian Foster, 41 year old female,” Dennis shouts. “She fell approximately 15 feet, rolled about 50 feet, then took an impact to a boulder. Suspected fractures to patella, tibia, fibula, and ribs. Possible lung injury.”
“Got it, thanks!” It’s a new voice, and there are a handful of new faces but all wearing masks. Their only distinguishing features are scrub colors, either black or light blue.
Maria squeezes her left hand one final time. “Good luck, Gillian.”
“I’m Dr. Zhang, I’ll be doing your intake,” Mask number 1 says. “You’re going to need some x-rays. Any chance you could be pregnant?”
Gillian almost laughs. “No.”
“Okay. We’re going to get a good look at your arm, leg, back, and chest.” Mask number 2 says.
There’s some rearranging of her (very tender) limbs and at some point her clothes get cut off (it’s fine, the dress was getting old anyway and her dignity plunged off a literal cliff along with the rest of her hours ago).
Gillian’s starting to feel pretty fuzzy again. Maybe they hit her with more pain meds? Not that she’s complaining. Meanwhile, a whole conversation in medical lingo goes on over her head.
“Good news, looks like her neck and spine are intact. Her leg isn’t looking so great, though. Compound ankle, comminuted patella. She needs surgery.”
“Agreed. I’m seeing a lung contusion and 3 transverse fractures plus some possible hairlines. No flail chest, but I don’t want to FAFO.”
“Chest takes priority. Her wrist is greenstick and stable, it will be fine with just a cast.”
“Put her on oxygen and take her down to the O.R.”
Mask 1 leans over her. “Hey, Gillian. It’s Dr. Zhang again.”
“Hi,” she wheezes.
“You’ve got a lot of broken bones that we need to fix right away. We’re taking you to surgery.”
There’s a sensation of going downward. When did they get in an elevator? How are all these people plus her and the bed get into this elevator? Can they have an elevator like this in the office building?
“Any allergies to medications or metals?” Zhang asks.
With effort, Gillian focuses on him. “No.”
The evaluator dings. A whole new set of people join the group she’s with already.
A new voice and face and scrub color (green) joins the conversation. “Before you go under, is there someone we can call?”
“Cal,” she says. “Cal Lightman.” His cell phone number rattled off her tongue twice in a row. They need to call him, she needs him here.
“Got it. You’re in good hands, Gillian. We’ll see you when you wake up.”
“I’m going to sedate you so we can perform the surgery,” someone off to her right says. “Can you count back from ten for me?”
“Ten,” Gillian says. “Nine, eight—”