Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 21

I sit on the bench seat beside Santos so I can take a blood pressure and get vitals, but I hesitate. He's encased in a Kevlar vest, thick jacket, and laden duty belt. I, on the other hand, feel defenseless. The sharpest thing I have on me is a pair of trauma shears and I'm so famished, I feel faint.

Santos looks as tense as a lion ready to spring. We're not going to fight, I tell myself. For all he knows, I'm a paramedic and we're just taking a short ride to the hospital.

There's something about her that's not right. She's not normal.

I brace for his accusations, afraid any move will open the floodgates.

Finally, I pick up a blood pressure cuff and reach for his arm.

"Don't touch me," he whispers.

I drop the cuff beside me on the seat and draw a hurt breath. I would never harm a patient. Ever. Patients trust me. The one thing I have going for me as a female paramedic is the trust that comes from looking young and harmless. The most hardened criminals, suspicious of any touch, relax beneath my hands. Somehow, despite the lives I have swallowed, there is still an innocence about me.

It is an illusion.

A sensation of being studied crawls across my skin. He's watching, observing my body language, trying to examine my face beneath the cap and glasses. This is the closest we've ever been to each other and in the brightest light. How did I end up in this situation? I should be driving! I should be leaving. Why isn't Santos saying anything? Demanding explanations for my unnatural behavior?

Curious, I look at him, but he looks away. Cops may be good at reading people, but so are paramedics and there is an uneasiness to him that is more than pain. Then with a start, I understand.

Santos is afraid of me. It's not anger that has rendered him silent, it's an undercurrent of fear that only a Night Walker could smell.

I should say something to reassure him. I've done this for thousands of patients, but with him I'm at a loss for words. Then I remember how he confronted me last night in my home. How frightened I was. And angry. Instead, I pick up my report.

"Any meds?" I ask.

"No."

"No psych meds?"

He looks at me like I'm insane.

"Allergies to medications?"

"No."

"Medical history?"

"No."

"Injuries? Surgeries?"

"Nope."

"No knee or shoulder surgeries?" I ask skeptically. Twelve years in the military and no injuries? I find that unlikely. I wonder how many head injuries he's had. That might explain his infernal temperament.

"Nothing."

"Have you ever been in the hospital?" I'm kind of prying, but this time it's my turn to ask the questions. Let him see how it feels to be cornered like an animal.

He sighs. "Twice with a TBI. Traumatic Brain Injury. From an IED. Improvised Explosive De—"

"I know the acronyms."

"I was only in a few days. I have a hard head."

I start to make a note of it when he reaches out and grabs my wrist. "Wait, Bell. Scratch that. I don't need that in my records."