Sam gave a weak and apologetic smile to the nurse. It was the fourth time in rapid succession that she'd tried to draw blood, with no success. The nice young woman grew increasingly nervous with each blunted or bent needle and finally muttered a reluctant, "Excuse me," and left the room.
Once in the hallway, she spoke with a Mountie and with the suited man who stood beside him. The three took turns glancing at him through the door.
Sam got that look on his face and began to think. A few hours' sleep in the examination room of a Canadian hospital had done him wonders. But now he was worried. Neither he nor the girls had had any papers or documents when another Mountie had found them slumped and unconscious along a highway in the wee hours of the morning.
Sam had only a cloudy memory of how they'd even gotten to that spot after the fight at the stream the previous day, but it soon had become apparent to the Mountie who found them that Sam had suffered a gunshot wound. An ambulance soon rushed him and the girls to the hospital, where, for obvious reasons, he initially had refused treatment. But helpless and exhausted, the Chicagoan straightaway had yielded to sleep on the examination table.
Once he'd regained consciousness, his first fear had been for the girls, who weren't in the room when he woke. No one would give a straight answer about their whereabouts, so he very nearly had jumped from the table to look for them, before spying the top of Celia's tiny head peeping through the glass that covered the upper half of the examination room door.
The girl had smiled, waved, and turned down the hallway on what looked like some important errand. He thereafter had relented, even agreeing to some blood tests after doctors came up with the suspicious story that he was in "medical isolation until further notice."
That was an hour ago, and though the Mountie standing outside would not let the girls enter the room—and Sam clearly wasn't free to leave—the girls at least moved about the hospital freely, clad in clean new hospital scrubs.
Something wasn't right. Even under the best of circumstances, the situation would have been bad. He clearly was an American on the wrong side of the border, and a sudden coldness came over Sam when he wondered what replies the U.S. government would give to official RCMP enquires about his identity and status. Perhaps he was a wanted felon? A kidnapper? Or worse ...? The reaction of the nurse told him, "worse," was the likely outcome.
"Shit."
A deep fear for the children gripped him. He had to get them out. Sam was savvy enough in the law to know that he, at least, would get an extradition hearing before being removed to U.S. custody. The girls likely would be repatriated immediately and turned over to whoever the feds could concoct as their guardians. They hadn't come all this way for the two kids to be scooted back off to their doom in some new government hellhole.
He had to get them out. But therein lay the problem.
The nurses had so far refused to allow him a phone, claiming it was "doctor's orders," which seemed unlikely, unless phone signals could transmit pathogens. Clearly, Sam and the girls were at the mercy of Canadian authorities, unable even to contact Tommy, or anyone else, for assistance.
And at that moment, there was little Sam could do in protest. He was confident he could walk, doubted he could run, and was certain he could fight nothing larger than a common house cat—not with any hope of success. They had no car, no money, and no clear idea even where they were.
"Psst..." came a tiny noise to his right. Lydia's lean face and enormous head of black hair showed from a partly opened door, one that appeared to lead to an adjacent examination room. "We're busting outta here and going on the lam," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "Are you coming?"
Her offbeat choice of words and that slight hint of impatience smacked of Celia. From down the hall came a sudden shout.
"You wanna get your dick-beaters offa me, buddy?!" cried Celia in her loudest and toughest voice.
Sam jumped up, intending to rush to the child's side, when Lydia hissed at him. "No! This way." The exasperation in her voice was even thicker.
It hit him that Celia was creating a diversion. He hesitated only an instant before following Lydia out of the room and through several other empty examination rooms. They emerged onto an unlit hallway. Taking a right, they turned twice more before reaching a glass security door that looked onto a parking lot. It was then he saw that the girl carried a large ring of keys in her slender hands. Pulling them up, she tried two in rapid succession, and then a voice sounded behind them.
"I told you it was the red one."
"I know, I know. There's three red ones."
The third key did the trick, and within seconds Sam, Lydia, and the recently arrived Celia were walking the 30 feet of sidewalk to the parking lot, where a mid-sized green SUV was pulling to a stop.
"Nailed it!" Celia hissed triumphantly. A goofy smile lit her face.
Camille hopped from the car, took five long steps, and threw herself at Sam, very nearly knocking him down. A smiling and greatly relieved Sam returned her embrace.
"We ain't got time for that," squeaked an outraged Celia. "Get in the fucking car!"
"Get in the motherfucking car," Lydia echoed, opening the back door and diving in headfirst.
Scant seconds later, they were driving down a narrow residential street, away from the hospital, with no sign of pursuit.