Turning the vehicle around was usually a slow business; I’d turn on the video camera that had a spectacular view of the rear bumper and inch my way backward and forward, backward and forward, until I’d made a twenty-eight-point turn.
This time, I glanced in the side mirrors, cranked the steering wheel around, pressed my foot firmly on the gas pedal, and roared back. A hard stomp on the brake, then back to the gas pedal as I spun the wheel in the opposite direction, and off we went up the hill we’d come down—I eyed the dashboard clock—not even ten minutes ago.
We roared up the hill and when we reached the asphalt of the county road, I took a look over my shoulder. The woman was still on the floor next to her husband, cradling his head in her arms, protecting him from the bounces of the bookmobile.
“The hospital in Charlevoix is the closest,” I called back. “Or I can take you to Petoskey or… ?”
She didn’t look up. “Whatever is fastest.”
Charlevoix, then. It would take half an hour to get us there, which was probably far too long for a stroke victim, but it was the best I could do.
No. There was one other thing.
I broke another bookmobile rule and took one hand off the wheel. My backpack lay on the console between the seats and I dug through it for my cell phone.
Please let there be coverage, I thought as I turned it on. Please.
I glanced at the screen. Cell phone reception was tricky in this part of the county; its hills and valleys had a way of creating dead zones that was extremely annoying, not to say frustrating. But for now there was a signal. I scrolled through the listing, found the name that I wanted, and pushed. One ring, and someone picked up. “Charlevoix Area Hospital, how may I direct your call?”
“Emergency room, please.”
“One moment.”
I tried to keep my concentration in front of us, scanning the road, shoulders, and forest edges. Now would be a truly bad time for a deer to wander into our path.
“Emergency, how may I help you?”
“I’m bringing in a stroke victim,” I said. “We’ll be there in half an hour or less.”
“Can you hold, please?” There was a short pause; then another voice came on the line. “This is Rita. I’m the ER nurse today. You said you’re bringing in a stroke victim?”
Rita? Who was Rita? “Yes,” I said. “He lives out on the lake road and his wife flagged me down. I figured it was better to get him there as fast as possible than to wait for an ambulance.”
I’d hoped for an assurance that I’d done the right thing, but instead she asked, “How long ago was the stroke?”
“Hang on.” Keeping my gaze on the road, I turned my head and called back the question.
“I… don’t know,” the woman said. “What time is it?” After I told her, she said, “It couldn’t have been more than half an hour. Maybe less.”
I relayed the information into the phone.
“Okay,” Rita said. “How old is the patient? Does he have any medical issues? Diabetes, high blood pressure, high cholesterol, history of cancer?”
More information was exchanged inside the bookmobile. “He’s fifty-six,” I told Rita. “The only health problem he has is osteoarthritis.”
“Medications?” Rita asked.
“Just multivitamins and ibuprofen for the arthritis every once in a while.”
“And what is the patient’s name?”
I almost laughed. I’d been in this guy’s house, touched parts of him (through clothes) that were typically reserved for family and close friends, dragged him across his driveway, and was using the bookmobile to get him to emergency care, but I had no idea what his name was.
“Just a second,” I told Rita. “One more question,” I said to the rear of the bookmobile. “The hospital needs to know his name.”
“Yes,” the woman said quietly. “I suppose they do, don’t they?”
At this odd response, I turned my head halfway around, but I couldn’t see her face; she had her back to me as she tended to her husband. “His name is Russell McCade,” she finally said.
I faced front. Russell McCade. Why was that name familiar? I would have sworn on a stack of Nancy Drews that I’d never met either him or his wife before, so why did I know the name?
“Ma’am?” Rita asked. “The name?”
“Russell McCade,” I said.
“Sorry?” she asked. “You’re breaking up out there. Can you repeat that?”
I spoke louder. “Russell. McCade.” And that’s when the name suddenly made sense to me.
Rita’s voice started cutting out. “Okay, his first—Russell. What—name?”
“McCade,” I said forcefully. “McCade! And tell Tucker that it’s Minnie bringing him in.”
The line went dead and I had no idea if she’d heard me or not. Mechanically, I put the phone back in my backpack as my mind ran around in tiny, panicked circles. Russell McCade. Russell McCade was in the bookmobile, suffering from a stroke. Russell McCade, who went by the name Cade, who was one of the country’s best-known and most successful artists.
It was all making sense. The paintings in the hallway were early works, created before he’d established his trademark style that I’d heard described as impressionism meets postmodernism. While I had no idea what that meant, I knew that I’d loved his paintings for years, and even more so since I’d seen an original hanging in a local art gallery.
Cade had a magical ability to appeal to consumers and critics alike. Sure, some critics dismissed his work as sentimental schlock, but most agreed that it was quality schlock, and the prices on his works had long ago reached the point where owning one was considered an investment.
Though I’d heard he had a place up here, I’d had no idea where it was. Easy enough to shield ownership of property by setting up a limited liability company that would purchase your home for you. And easy enough to avoid talking to neighbors if you didn’t have any close by.
I flicked another glance back. Easy enough to do all that if you wanted to avoid gawkers and stalkers and unwanted intrusions, but it sounded like a lonely existence.
“How much farther?” Cade’s wife asked, her voice cracking.
“Not far,” I said. Maybe this guy was internationally famous and fabulously wealthy, but right now he was a suffering man with a wife who was worried sick about him. I pressed a little harder on the gas pedal and we rocketed down the road.
• • •
We sped down the highway, over the Charlevoix drawbridge, through the side streets of town, and, accompanied by the massive bulk of Lake Michigan that lay west of the hospital, we pulled into the emergency entrance.
Half the ER staff was waiting for us. As soon as we stopped, two ER workers were up the bookmobile steps and inside with a gurney. They hefted Cade with a calm competence that was reassuring.
Dr. Tucker Kleinow, the good-looking blond, and tall, but not too tall, ER doctor who was scheduled to work that day, waited outside. “Minnie. Are you all right?” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
“Sure. Did…” I didn’t want to ask, but I had to. “Did I do the right thing? Bringing him here myself instead of waiting for an ambulance?”
“Absolutely.” My love interest of less than a month squeezed my hand again. “Time is a crucial element for stroke victims.” The gurney came down the steps and Tucker left my side. “All right, guys,” he said. “Let’s get him in.”
Cade’s wife was clutching the side of the gurney. “I’m going with him. I’m his wife.”
Tucker made a come-along gesture and the small group started to move away fast toward the white lights of the ER.
I trotted after them. From my back pocket I pulled out a small rectangular piece of cardstock. “Here,” I said, sliding my business card into the woman’s hand. “Let me know how he is, okay? And I won’t… I won’t tell anyone anything.”