Eye of the Nightingale Read online

  Eye of the Nightingale

  By R.D. Hunter

  Hunter / Nightingale / 1

  Chapter One

  She was the first rape victim Glen Falls had seen in nearly a decade. Gloria Lawson; twenty three years old, devoted housewife and mother of two. Her husband, Donald, found her bloody and broken on the floor of their trailer when he came home from work.

  The whole hospital was in shock as we waited for the ambulance to bring her in.

  Things like that just didn’t happen in our town. We were a small, quiet community where everyone knew everyone else and most folks left their doors unlocked at night. Even the emergency room was little more than a stop-and-go station for patching up boo-boo’s and setting the occasional broken bone.

  As a student nurse, I wouldn’t normally be allowed anywhere near this kind of patient. But a contaminated potluck supper had transformed our normally quiet E.R. into a beehive of activity. Nurses scrambled this way and that, bringing sick bags to those who needed them and collecting the ones that had already served their purpose. I’d just discharged my last patient and was getting ready to go home, so Gloria’s care fell to me.

  Hunter / Nightingale / 2

  And I was sweating bullets about it.

  It wasn’t that I thought I couldn’t handle it; that I would freeze or buckle under the pressure. I was close to graduation and was perhaps a little over-confident in my abilities. No, I was filled with a desire to run for the hills, change my identity and start a new life as a trucker’s girlfriend because I have a secret.

  My name is Ava Foster. I’m 24 years old, and I’m empathic (everyone say “Hi, Ava”).

  For those of you without doctorates in the freaky and weird, that means I have an annoying tendency to pick up on other people’s emotions around me. It may sound like a nifty trick, but believe me, it’s a real pain in the ass.

  For starters, I have to be very careful about the type of people I hang around. The last thing I need is to be close to someone with anger management issues or suffering from chronic depression. One time I was in the grocery store and had a nearly uncontrollable urge to rip the place apart with my teeth. After a little investigative work, I found out the guy on the milk aisle just caught his wife cheating and was going home to confront her about it.

  See? Pain in the ass.

  Strong emotions in particular tend to bleed through into mine. At times, it’s tough to tell where I begin and they end. It’s like I lose myself in someone else’s pain or jubilation, which is very disconcerting to say the least.

  That’s why I wasn’t looking forward to treating Gloria Lawson. She had been through hell in that little trailer and her emotional state was bound to reflect that. She would be angry, ashamed and humiliated, and I would be sharing that ride with her. I

  Hunter / Nightingale / 3

  didn’t want to feel what it would be like to have the sanctity of my home and body violated. I wanted to treat the ill, help people and make ouchies go by-bye.

  But I couldn’t run away. This is why I was in nursing school. Despite my

  ’abnormal condition’ I’d never once allowed it to dictate my actions. To give in now, to let my ailment win, would set a precedent that would haunt me for the rest of my career.

  Watch that first step. It’s a doozy.

  So I steeled myself and got to work setting up Trauma Room One for the ambulance’s arrival. Keeping busy helped. I set out bandages, gauze and even managed to scrounge up a dusty rape kit from the back of the supply closet. But the time I’d finished, my nerves were somewhat steady and I was able to focus on what else needed to be done.

  Just then, the attending physician walked in, and I had a whole new set of problems to deal with. Could this shift get any worse?

  Dr. Phillip Tomlin was barely out of his twenties and one of the youngest residents at King’s Mission Hospital. He was a pretty boy who came from money, with a double ration of ego and only a half-serving of common sense. He’d already made a name for himself by spending more time on his hair than he did on his patients. On top of that, he’d made it no secret that his sole ambition in Glen Falls was to bed as many of the hospital staff as possible and “get out of this shit kicker town.” There weren’t many who’d be sorry to see him go.

  He sauntered into the room like it was his own personal castle and eyed me like I was a serving wench. His perfectly pressed lab coat billowed behind him like a super hero’s cape and (I swear to God) he put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the room.

  Hunter / Nightingale / 4

  To be fair, he did have nice hair.

  He nodded with approval after a few seconds. “Nice job, Miss Foster. We’ll make a real nurse out of you yet.” He flashed me a wink and a grin I’m sure was meant to make me fall at his feet in a swoon, but the slimy tendrils of lust I felt coming from him made me want to jump in a hot shower and scrub with steel wool.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said stiffly.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Call me Phil. All my friends do.”

  “Right. Phil.” I didn’t want to be his friend. And I could tell from the way his eyes traveled up and down my scrubs he didn’t want to be friends either, unless there were benefits involved. Douchebag.

  I turned around to check on the suture kit and nearly jumped out of my skin when I felt his hands begin to knead my shoulders. His desire doubled in intensity and I had to grab on to the cart to keep my knees from buckling under the weight of it.

  It was disgusting. There was no soul to it. No heart. It was a pure animalistic need to release his seed and I had been chosen as a suitable repository. Like hell!

  I whirled around and fixed him with my best glare. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.

  He put up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “Relax. You looked tense. I just thought I’d ease some of the pressure.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He shrugged, which only added to my irritation. “Fair enough. You wanna grab some coffee after this? I have a great French roast back at my place.”

  Was he for real? We had an honest-to-God rape victim coming in, and instead of

  Hunter / Nightingale / 5

  coming up with a game plan as to how to treat her, this… douchebag was trying to get in my pants.

  I’ve never been a violent person. In a fight, emotions run so high that, for me, it’s a bit like chewing on razor wire. But right then, squirming under this creep’s lecherous glow, I wanted to shove my foot so far up his crotch that his testicles would be tickling his tonsils.

  Fortunately, the ambulance chose that moment to arrive before I could irreparably damage my career and score an assault charge in the process. It pulled into the sally port amid a fanfare of flashing lights and wailing siren. Staff and patients alike craned their necks for a better view as the paramedics unloaded the gurney and expertly wheeled it through the double doors.

  I took a deep breath and shoved Dr. Douchebag out of my mind. Okay. Here we go. Showtime.

  As they drew closer, I gritted my teeth and tensed, waiting for the force of Gloria’s emotions to hit me. To my utter amazement, they never did. No anger, no pain.

  Nothing.

  They passed the nurse’s station and were only two doors away now. Still nothing.

  The covered figure on the gurney might as well have been a store mannequin. It was unmoving and unfeeling in every way. Was she dead? Had she passed away in the back of the ambulance?

  No, she wasn’t dead, she just wasn’t here. Gloria had retreated from the world where innocent wives and mothers could be hurt and violated in their own home. She’d withdrawn so deeply that nothing from the outside could reach her. Seeing the
mess her

  Hunter / Nightingale / 6

  attacker had left her in, I couldn’t blame her.

  It looked like someone had taken a baseball bat to her. One eye was swollen shut.

  The other stared vacantly up at the ceiling. Her entire upper body was a mass of bruises and lumps. Dried blood from a dozen lacerations covered nearly every inch of her. Her angular face, once attractive and shapely, was swollen out of proportion and three of her front teeth were missing.

  For some reason that last injury was the hardest for me to swallow. Gloria always use to have the best smile. In high school, guys would do just about anything to have that smile flashed at them.

  I shook off the memory. There was work to be done. I took her vitals while Dr.

  Douchebag began his examination. Her signs were good. Pulse was strong. Blood pressure steady. Even her temperature showed a perfect ninety eight point six. In a normal state, this would be great. It was a sign of a strong will to live and a healthy constitution. Here, however, it was another indication how far Gloria’s mind was removed from her body.

  “Gloria, can you hear me?” Dr. Douchebag asked as he checked her pupil dilation. They constricted normally, which meant that brain damage was unlikely. But there was no reaction on any other level to our presence. We might as well have been made of cardboard.

  “Shit,” the good doctor said. “Now we’re going to have to run an MRI and CAT

  scan. Radiology is already backed up. It’ll take hours to get her results back, even if I put a rush on them.”

  His frustration came, not from the delay in treating his patient, but in the fact that

  Hunter / Nightingale / 7

  he’d be late getting off. Once again, I fought down the urge to knock his block off. It wouldn’t do any good.

  Gloria and I had never been close friends. We’d known of each other in high school. Nodded at one another in the hallways between classes. That was it. When I’d heard she’d gotten married and had kids, I was genuinely happy for her. While other girls our age were dreaming of going to Hollywood or college or making it on the modeling scene, Gloria only talked about becoming a mom and raising a family. I think it had something to do with her own home life, which was less than stellar. It was a simple dream, but one that carried profound meaning and happiness for her.

  Now, someone had tainted that. Polluted it with a vile and disgusting experience that would never wash away or fade in potency. It was beyond sickening.

  “Finish getting her cleaned up and I’ll put the orders in,” Dr. Douchebag said. He jerked off his gloves in disgust and began punching the keys on the little computer in the corner.

  “Yes, Doctor,” I said through clenched teeth. “Douchebag,” I added under my breath.

  “What was that?”

  “I said we need another saline bag.”

  “Oh.”

  “Jesus,” I breathed when I pulled away the thin sheet covering Gloria and got my first good look at the rest of her body. The attacker had meticulously beat every square inch of her, taking his time and working his way down to her slender ankles. Her left collar bone was obviously broken and it looked like three of her ribs were cracked. God

  Hunter / Nightingale / 8

  only knows what kind of internal damage she’d suffered.

  “Gloria! Where are you, Baby?” A bear of a man I assumed was her husband barged into the room and the thick scent of cheap soap followed him. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Gloria’s still form and I hastily covered her up. Horror covered his face.

  “Oh God, Baby. What did he do to you?”

  “Mr. Lawson?” Dr. Douchebag got up from the computer and put on an air of serious professionalism. It was a practiced façade meant to inspire confidence in his abilities. After seeing the real him, I didn’t have confidence in his ability to tie his shoes, but it was well done in any case.

  The man nodded. “Yeah. I’m Donald. Donald Lawson.”

  “Your wife’s been gravely injured, Mr. Lawson. We don’t know to what extent.

  We’re preparing to run a battery of tests and we’ll have more information for you shortly.”

  “Gloria. Can you hear me, Baby? Why isn’t she talking?”

  “That’s one of the things we don’t know yet,” Dr. Douchebag said. “There doesn’t seem to be any major head trauma so this could all be psycho-somatic. More mental than physical.”

  Her husband began to weep openly now. “Oh, God. I should have been there. I should have protected her.”

  Donald Lawson was the very picture of a grieving husband. Tears flowed down his face and collected in his thick beard. It was tragic. It was touching. It was also very fake.

  Hunter / Nightingale / 9

  One of the more useful side effects of my condition is a super sensitive BS

  detector. Even the most accomplished liar and deceiver sound hollow to me when they ply their trade. It’s come in handy on more than one occasion. This time, every word and gesture Lawson made seemed hollow and transparent. I knew without a doubt it was all an act, and the repercussions of that made me uneasy.

  I turned towards my empathic eye, something I don’t do very often, and directed it towards the sobbing giant. He was tense. That was to be expected. There was a vague anxiety around him, but nothing like what he was displaying or should be feeling. He was a kid who had stolen a cookie and hoped no one would find out. Nothing serious.

  Then he laid a large hand over his wife’s and I was bowled over by the first emotional response I’d gotten from Gloria since she’d arrived. A tidal wave of nausea and disgust hit me and I barely made it to the trash can before I threw up. I sank to my knees as my stomach convulsed again and again. I don’t know how long it went on before Donald Lawson’s angry voice brought me back to the here and now.

  “What the hell kind of place are you people running here?” he growled. “My wife’s in a fucking coma here and you send her a nurse that’s got the stomach flu. So help me, I’ll sue every one of you bastards!”

  “Please calm down, Mr. Lawson,” I heard the Douche say. Fear and agitation saturated his words. “I assure you we were unaware of Miss Foster’s condition and will take all appropriate measures to ensure your wife gets the very best care.”

  “She’d better. ’Cause if she don’t…”

  “It was you.” I spoke in little more than a whisper, but it was enough to make both men freeze in their tracks. I spit in the trash can once again before continuing. “It

  Hunter / Nightingale / 10

  was you. You did this to her. Your own wife. You monster.”

  Hunter / Nightingale / 11

  Chapter Two

  It took a few seconds for the mushroom cloud from the bomb I’d just dropped to dissipate. When it did, Dr. Douchebag was the first to speak up. “Miss Foster, you need to hold on and…”

  “You just got home from work but you smell like the inside of a soap box,” I said, ignoring him and gaining strength with every word. “Did you have to shower after you beat and raped her? Had to wash her blood and tears off before you called the cops and played the grieving husband?”

  Lawson’s dismay gave way to anger. He glared at me from behind thick eyebrows that held a dangerous fire. “Listen here, you little bitch…”

  “Then there’s the fact that your wife can’t stand your touch. That the slightest contact with your skin fills her with revulsion that makes her want to scrub the place where your flesh met hers.”

  Lawson took a menacing step forward, his hands curling into two meaty fists. All at once I became painfully aware of the vast differences in our sizes. He outweighed me

  Hunter / Nightingale / 12

  by at least two hundred pounds, a good percentage of which was hard muscle. Add in the fact that he was about a foot taller and you had me playing the role of David facing down a very pissed off Goliath. And I’d left my sling in my other scrubs.

  “Prove it,” he growled, his mouth turn
ing up into a nasty sneer.

  Dr. Douchebag stepped forward, not from any sense of chivalry but from a keen desire to protect his own interests. “Mr. Lawson, you don’t have to say anymore. I assure you that Miss Foster does not speak for this hospital or its staff. She’s not even a real nurse. She’s a student. And I’ll make sure she is severely reprimanded by her instructor.”

  My hero. While the Douche had Lawson’s attention, I used the distraction to get close to Gloria and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “You have to tell them, Gloria,” I urged. “Tell them who did this to you.”

  If I’d been expecting her to come around and start pointing a finger at her attacker I was sadly mistaken. There was no response. She lay there in a blank state, her mind so closed off from outside stimulus that she had no idea where she was or that I was even speaking to her. There was only one chance left, and I wasn’t crazy about it.

  I violated the number one rule of medical care by taking off my rubber gloves and placing one hand on her matted hair. Physical contact always intensified the feelings I picked up. It established a link between me and the other person that was uncomfortably intimate. It was one of the reasons I jumped so high when Dr. Douchebag moved in for the impromptu shoulder rub. I didn’t want that kind of closeness with him.

  I was hoping this connection worked both ways. That somehow, by touching Gloria, I could get my message through to her. I listened with my empathic ear.

  “Gloria,” I whispered. Was that a blip on her emotional radar? I couldn’t be sure.

  Hunter / Nightingale / 13

  It was too faint. “Gloria, you have to wake up. I know you’re scared. I know you’re hurt.

  But you have to come back to us now. We’ll take care of you, but you have to tell us who attacked you.”

  I focused on every word, not sure what I was doing but hoping some of what I was saying got through. Seconds passed that seemed like hours. And then I got my reward. A single tear slid down Gloria’s cheek from her one opened eye. It gained momentum as it fell and I watched with mixed horror and relief as Gloria Lawson returned from the dead.