Monday's Child by Patricia Wallace Read Free Book Online

one.
    All had abnormally low pulse rates when first seen in the emergency room.
    All showed sluggish reflexes, and slowed neurological responses for at least an hour after being injured. Eye exams revealed that their pupils were not adequately reactive to light.
    In most instances, the medical personnel had ascribed these abnormalities to a form of shock, although at least one doctor had ordered a drug screen when an eight-year-old boy, had a mild seizure after suffering a dislocated right shoulder while at school.
    “Rule out ingestion of unknown substance,” the doctor had written.
    Houston had sought out the doctor involved, finally reaching her by phone. But although she knew immediately to which case he was referring, she had no answer for him.
    “It was odd,” she’d told him, “I wasn’t sure what was going on with him. He had no history of seizures, no known head injury. I kept him for observation and his condition improved. That’s all I can say.”
    “What about your impressions.”
    “I’ve just said—”
    “Not medically. Emotionally. What made you suspect drugs?”
    For a moment she’d been silent. In the background he heard a beeper go off. “Listen, I’ve got to call my service—”
    “Please.”
    “I don’t know,” she sighed. “These days an eight-year-old on drugs isn’t uncommon.”
    “In LA, maybe.”
    “Even in the small towns. He just looked drugged to me. Hell, he looked anesthetized. Or hypnotized.”
    Yes, he thought.
    “And to be honest, I was covering my ass. Defensive medicine, you understand?”
    He understood.
    Then yesterday afternoon, after all the years he’d been coming to Winslow, he’d had a chance to see first-hand what he’d only read about.
    They’d brought in Kevin Browne, age seven, with a compound fracture of the right radius and ulna. The boy was unable to talk, nearly stuporous, but the fire department medic related a history of non-traumatic injury.
    “The teacher said he was just standing there and all of a sudden his arm broke.”
    And Houston knew he had one.
    He could track this injury back to its cause.
    As much as he wanted to remain objective, he already knew what he’d find.
    Jill.
    He showered and dressed, then went to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. He’d bought a couple of apple Danish at the bakery in town, and he warmed one in the microwave, trying not to think about what his patients would say if they saw him indulging in the pastries he’d warned them to give up.
    It was still early, not yet seven a.m., so he relaxed, having two cups of black coffee and finishing the Danish before going to the front room to take his position.
    He drew back the drapes and the morning sunlight flooded the room. The fog had dissipated, and the sky was a crisp blue.
    The child wouldn’t be leaving for school for a while, but he was prepared to sit and wait.
    He didn’t want to miss her. Not when so much was at stake.
     
     
     

Eleven
     
    Georgia went out in her bathrobe to get the paper, breathing in the fresh, sweet air. The grass was damp—last night’s fog had been the worst yet—but the sun promised warmth for later.
    It was going to be a beautiful day.
    She returned to the house and took the paper with her into the front room to read while having her tea, but then found herself putting it aside. The morning was too perfect to spoil with news of this or that tragedy, and that was all the newspapers seemed to print of late.
    Even the local Winslow Gazette went out of its way to import bad news, reporting on drug busts, gang warfare, and the almost nightly drive-by shootings that plagued Los Angeles. It made her anxious for her sister Beverly. And Katy, who at eight could hardly be expected to understand the violence around her.
    Georgia sighed and shook her head. She really didn’t want to think about any of that. She took a sip of tea and contemplated the day ahead of her. If only it would stay this peaceful.
    And it was blissfully