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Chapter 3

The E.R. doctor jotted a note on a clipboard, set it aside, then gave Paige a scrutinizing look. “You’re still pale. But your breathing is good and your heartbeat’s back to normal.”

“I feel fine now.” Fully dressed again and sitting upright with her legs dangling off the gurney, she sent the young intern a hopeful look. “You’re releasing me, right?”

Without comment, he hooked a finger under her chin and nudged her head from side to side. “No swelling in your face now, except around the bruise on your right cheek.” His forehead furrowed. “The nurse said you got mugged?”

“I’ve had a lousy day.”

“Sounds like it.” He released her chin. “It would have been lousier if you’d swallowed that bite of banana.”

A low whisper of suspicion sounded in the back of her brain. “I still can’t believe I had a reaction to a banana. I’ve eaten them all my life with no problem.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “The way I had to fight to breathe, the hives, the headache, the dizziness. Everything felt like the reaction I have to peanuts.”

“A person can develop a sudden allergy to a food they’ve never had a problem eating. That might be what happened.”

Having a vague memory of her own allergist telling her the same thing, Paige studied the intern. His wiry brown hair needed serious combing. His eyes were bloodshot. The cast of his skin was a little too close a match to his pale green hospital scrubs. Looks aside, the guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

“This type of allergic reaction can encompass more than food,” he added. “Like sex.”

“What?”

“When you have intercourse, does your partner wear a condom?”

Paige blinked. “Excuse me?”

Mouth twitching, he held up a hand. “Sorry, I tend to get ahead of myself. A person who’s allergic to bananas has a tendency to have an allergy to latex. That’s because bananas and latex have some of the same proteins. If you’ve experienced any discomfort while engaging in sex with a partner wearing a latex condom, that could explain why.”

“Oh. No discomfort.” No way was she going to admit that the last time she’d had sex was three years ago. With the husband she booted out of her life shortly thereafter.

“What about avocados and chestnuts? They have some of the same proteins as bananas.”

“I was in California last week teaching a workshop. I ate a salad with avocados for lunch one day. Zero reaction.”

“Well, you’ll want to discuss all this with your allergist.”

“He’s in Dallas where I live. Is there a way you can test me now to see if a banana caused the reaction?”

“No, we dosed you with steroids and antihistamines. Allergy testing can’t be done until you’ve been off antihistamines for a while.”

“How long is ‘a while’?”

“Approximately two weeks.”

Rubbing her thumb over her numb scar, Paige thought about Edwin Isaac. If he was behind the theft of her briefcase, he was now in possession of her doctor’s memo that outlined the severity of her allergy to peanuts.

With his medical training, Isaac would readily realize her allergy could prove fatal. A sense of unease pressed in around her as if the E.R.’s disinfectant-scented air had suddenly become more dense.

She might be experiencing a cop’s innate paranoia, but she didn’t intend to wait to find out if she’d nearly wound up in the morgue because of a sudden allergic reaction or something nefarious. She couldn’t be tested, but the fruit could. And until the results were back, the fruit bowl in her suite had to be treated as evidence. Which meant she needed to turn it over to a cop.

Let’s just say I have this thing about escaped serial killers showing up in my city.

She remembered what Nate McCall had said and gave herself another mental kick for letting her personal baggage get the best of her that morning. Putting herself on the wrong side of McCall didn’t exactly open the door to asking him to submit the fruit bowl to OCPD’s lab. Still, he was the type of cop who cared about what happened on his turf. And he had quite possibly saved her life tonight.

For the first time since she’d arrived at the E.R., the memory of what had happened after she’d crawled back to the phone came crashing back. Fighting to get enough air into her lungs to stay conscious, all she could manage was to gasp that she needed an ambulance. He must have had another phone available, because she remembered hearing him alert police dispatch to send an ambulance and a patrol unit to the Waterford. He’d also instructed the dispatcher to call the hotel and send their own security people to her suite. That’s who’d reached her first, Paige remembered now. Two armed security guards had bypassed the lock with a passkey and used some sort of tool to release the U-shaped swing bar that prevented the door from fully opening.

During all that time, McCall had stayed on the phone, assuring her help was on the way. His voice had been a calm, soothing lifeline holding her steady, pushing back the ragged black edges of panic.

“I’ll write you a prescription for a refill of your epi-pen,” the doctor said, drawing Paige back.

“Does that mean you’re releasing me?”

“Yes.” He pulled a pad from a pocket. “If you were going to have further symptoms, they would have shown up by now.”

Relieved, she pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. It wasn’t just the fatiguing aftereffects of the allergic reaction that fueled her impatience to get out of the E.R. The cloying, antiseptic air, spotless white enamel walls and squeak of rubber soles against the tiled floor flashed her back three years to an almost identical E.R. in Dallas. The current pitching in her stomach was due to a desperate need to escape the sterile surroundings and all the memories.

She eased off the gurney and slid her shoes on. When she retrieved her suede purse, she saw it had an overstuffed look. Opening it, she instantly realized why. After the EMTs arrived at her suite, she’d asked one of the security guards to shove the belongings she’d dumped out back into her purse so she could take it with her. The guard apparently crammed everything off the floor into her purse, including the workshop assignments.

“Everything okay?” the doctor asked.

“Yes.” She turned to face him. “I need to call a cab. Where can I find a phone book?”

“The nurses’ station.” He handed her the prescription. “If the cop made it back by now you won’t need a cab.”

“What cop?”

“I didn’t catch his name, but he said he was on the phone with you when you had the reaction. He was very insistent on finding out what had happened to you.”

“Oh.” McCall was looking less like the jerk she’d pegged him to be. She was starting to feel guilt. “You said he had to leave?”

“He had to interview a witness in a homicide. I told him you were going to be fine, but it would be a while before I knew if I’d have to keep you overnight for observation. He said he would try to make it back.”

“Thanks,” Paige said, then slipped through the opening in the privacy curtain that circled the gurney.

She passed a waiting room and glanced inside. The majority of the plastic chairs lining the room were occupied. McCall was nowhere in sight.

Not a surprise, she thought. She understood why he came by after she’d been admitted—he’d listened to her fighting to stay alive. When she worked patrol in Dallas, she’d spent her share of time trying to calm and soothe victims of crime and people injured in accidents. Despite the wall cops put around their emotions, a personal bond often formed during those adrenaline-pumping moments. When that happened, she’d always made a point to stop by the hospital to check on a victim. Still, there wasn’t any real reason for McCall to make a return visit to the E.R., especially when he was working a homicide.

And since he hadn’t shown up again, her only hope of contacting him about the fruit bowl tonight was to leave a message for him with police dispatch. She would make the call when she got back to her hotel. And she intended to find out exactly who from the manager’s office had sent the fruit bowl, and the name of the person who’d delivered it to her suite.

At the nurses’ station, Paige got the phone number for a cab company. Half an hour later, she pushed through Waterford Hotel’s revolving door and stepped into the lobby’s gilded silence. Her low flats tapped against the gleaming marble floor as she made a beeline for the reception counter. She identified herself to a twentysomething male clerk dressed in a red blazer with a white carnation in the buttonhole of its lapel.

Upon hearing her name, he looked duly concerned. “Are you okay, Ms. Carmichael? I was on duty when you got sick.”

“I’m fine now, thanks.” She checked the brass name tag on his blazer. “Robert, I’d like to send a note of appreciation to the person who arranged to have the fruit bowl sent to me from the hotel’s manager. Can you tell me who that is?”

“Of course.” He entered data on a keyboard, then frowned. “We show you received a fruit bowl, but it was delivered here from an outside vendor, and left at the bell captain’s stand.”

A chill threaded through her. “The fruit bowl didn’t come from your boss?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“Is there a record of which company delivered it?”

He tapped more keys. “The Epicurean. They deal in flowers and gift baskets. Would you like their phone number?”

“And their address. Also the person at the bell captain’s stand who logged in the bowl.”

“Certainly.”

Damn, Paige thought while an elevator whisked her to the top floor. Damn, damn, damn. Could she have been wrong about the message on the card that came with the fruit bowl? She’d given it only a cursory glimpse when she got back to her suite after the mugging. Both her head and body had ached; all she’d wanted was a couple of aspirin, a glass of wine and a long soak in the tub. She had received obligatory fruit bowls from the management of a dozen other upscale hotels where she’d stayed—maybe she had looked at the message on the card that had been with this bowl and her distracted mind had failed to input the right data.

She stepped off the elevator. As she’d done since learning about Isaac’s escape, she paused to check in both directions along the otherwise deserted-looking hallway while straining to listen for any sound of another presence. Nothing.

She locked the door of her suite behind her, tossed her purse on the bed, then crossed to the sitting area. The card was where she’d left it on the table beside the silver bowl of fruit.

Compliments of the Waterford. Feel free to contact me if we can be of any assistance.

John W. Greenhaw, Manager

Paige pursed her mouth. The only thing suspicious about the card was that Mr. Greenhaw made it sound like he was urging a guest to contact him personally for assistance. However, his switch from using “me” to “we” in his second sentence told Paige the man’s subconscious had been at work. In truth, a guest would have to work his or her way through several layers of assistants before ever getting to talk to the hotel’s head honcho.

She shifted her gaze to the fruit bowl. She supposed it was possible cards could have been accidentally switched if a number of baskets and bowls wound up on the bell captain’s stand at the same time. If that was the case, Mr. Greenhaw’s card could have been meant for someone else. Who, then, had sent her the fruit bowl from The Epicurean?

Knowing she couldn’t get that question answered until morning, she glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was after midnight. If she had any hope of contacting McCall tonight, she had to make the call now.

On her way to the phone she glanced toward the door to make sure she’d set the swing bar. A flash of white against the dove-gray carpet caught her eye. Moving to the door, she realized the white shape was a small envelope. Had it been there when she’d walked in? Entirely possible, she thought. With her mind so focused on the manager’s card, she’d apparently missed seeing the envelope that someone had slipped beneath the door while she’d been at the hospital.

Nothing was written on either side of the envelope. Paige unsealed the flap, peered inside and felt her heart stop when she saw the mug shot of Edwin Isaac. The data at its lower edge identified the Dallas Police Department as the arresting agency. The date was the day Paige and her partner arrested Isaac.

She had seen this very mug shot that morning when she slid Isaac’s file into her briefcase.

Hands and legs unsteady, she moved to the bed, upended the envelope and watched the mug shot flutter to the mattress. It landed facedown, revealing the typed label affixed to the back.

We’ll be together soon. I promise.

Gentleman Jim

Nausea shot into her throat. Closing her eyes, she saw the bodies of five women, their flesh sliced, the wounds charred from being cauterized with a red-hot knife blade. Each victim’s head had been wrapped in plastic that camouflaged the ghoulish makeup applied to their battered faces. During the months she’d hunted their killer, she had sometimes imagined she heard his victims’ screams. Deep inside her mind, she still did.

Paige forced herself to take slow, deep breaths to calm herself, trying to control the mix of fear and adrenaline pumping through her system. She would not allow herself to panic. If she panicked, she wouldn’t be able to think rationally. Which she knew was Isaac’s goal.

The memory of his oh-so-polite voice during their extensive interviews rippled across her nerve endings.

Once I take possession of a person’s mind, they are powerless to defend themselves against me.

As a psychiatrist, Isaac was a master at mental manipulation. After he targeted a victim, he knew exactly how to terrify, was keenly aware of the value of breaking down by exhaustion, had become expert at exploiting a victim’s thinking until she was thoroughly ripened by fear.

“Devise a plan,” Paige whispered. First, she had to talk to McCall. Receiving a personal note from an escaped serial killer was one step from a face-to-face encounter. Second, she needed to pack. No way in hell could she sleep in this room knowing that Isaac, or someone sent by him, had been just outside.

Third, she—

A sharp rap on the door had her nearly jumping out of her skin. Heart in her throat, Paige moved around the bed and grabbed the asp off the nightstand.

She knew that even if a stranger was on the other side of the door, she couldn’t let down her guard. Not when Isaac was a master at disguise.

And if it was him who’d knocked, how was he planning to make a run at her? Fire a bullet through the peephole if she was careless enough to look through it? Mace her? Toss acid in her face, like he had one of his victims?

Tightening her fingers on the asp, Paige flicked her wrist. A silver wand shot out of the short black cylinder, transforming it into a solid steel tactical baton as she eased toward the door.

Chapter 4

Barely breathing, her palm sweating against the asp’s handle, Paige positioned herself at one side of the door.

“Who’s there?” Her voice sounded like chipped glass.

“Nate McCall.”

Relief rose in her like a wave. She shoved back the U-shaped safety bar, unlocked the deadbolt, then opened the door.

He wore an unbuttoned black trench coat over his black suit; his hair looked rumpled, a shadow of dark stubble on his jaw gave his olive skin a swarthy look. She wasn’t too proud to acknowledge how glad she was to see him.

“I called the E.R.,” he said. “A nurse said they released you, so I…” His eyes flicked to her right hand and narrowed abruptly. “You planning on trying to take me down with that man-tamer baton, Carmichael?”

Paige realized she must look paranoid standing there gripping the thick, silvery asp that could drop a heavyweight in round one.

“Not you. Someone else.” Stepping back, she pulled the door open wider and gestured him in.

He moved past her, then turned, waiting just behind her as she rebolted the door. “Who?”

“The slime who boosted my briefcase.” She twisted the asp’s spring then shoved the telescoping chrome shaft back into the black handle. “He paid me a return visit.”

“He came here?”

“When I was at the E.R. He left me a present.” Stepping to the bed, she motioned toward the facedown mug shot. “That typed note is on the back of a mug shot of Edwin Isaac. It was in my briefcase.”

“‘We’ll be together soon,’” McCall read. “‘I promise. Gentleman Jim.’” He looked up. “Is that a nickname the Dallas cops gave the shrink?”

“The media. When Isaac was in disguise trolling for hookers, he acted meek. Mild. Like there wasn’t a threatening bone in his body.”

“Let me guess. After Isaac got a hooker alone, he turned into Jack the Ripper.”

“Worse. The Ripper killed his victims within hours of their initial contact. Isaac kept each one alive at least a week.”

“For sex?”

“No. To destroy them psychologically while convincing them they were useless sluts and unworthy of living. He brainwashed them. Coerced each victim to perform self-mutilation by slicing her own flesh with a scalpel. Then he used a hot knife to cauterize the wounds to prevent them from bleeding to death.”

“Christ.” McCall shoved a hand through his hair. “How’d the bastard get so twisted?”

“His stepmother, mostly,” Paige answered. “She was an actress who played roles in dinner theater productions. The woman was superdomineering. From what we could find out, she had numerous affairs with various actors, stagehands, theater owners. Even after she married Isaac’s father, the affairs didn’t stop.”

“What happened to his real mother?”

“She died when he was a baby. The stepmom craved the spotlight. Having a child around took some of the attention away from her, and she resented him. Isaac did enough hanging around the theater to learn about costuming and how to use makeup as a disguise.”

“So, little Eddie grows up into Edwin the killer who knows how to camouflage himself. To hide in plain sight.”

“Exactly. It took us nearly a year to get him because each time he trolled for hookers his appearance changed. But we knew it was the same guy because of witnesses who overheard his unique voice. And the real Isaac is polite. Almost genteel. Even in interrogation when he threatened he’d someday get out and we would meet again on his terms, he was polite about it.”

“What kind of guy was the father?”

“He was a genius computer geek who spent his life walking three steps behind his wife, saying, ‘Yes, dear.’ If he even noticed her affairs he didn’t do anything to stop them.”

“Two less-than-stellar role models for a kid.”

“That about sums it up.”

McCall pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, used its tip to flip the mug shot over. “Not bad-looking for a perverted serial killer.”

Paige stared into the face of the man who, with one squeeze of a trigger, spun her life onto a path she never would have imagined for herself. Isaac was in his early forties, his thick blond hair carefully styled and feathered back. His forehead was broad and unlined, his eyes deep-set and startlingly blue. His nose was narrow, his chin square, his complexion pale but healthy. His mind was anything but.

“Did you touch the mug shot?” McCall asked.

“Just the envelope it came in.”

“Yours are probably the only prints that will show up, but I’ll have the lab check.” He dipped a hand into another pocket and pulled out a small plastic evidence bag.

She’d done that, too, when she worked Homicide, Paige thought. Constantly carried around evidence bags in her purse and car. There’d been no way to predict from one minute to the next when she’d wind up working a crime scene.

“Let’s go with the assumption it was Isaac who slipped this mug shot under your door,” McCall said. “How would he know you’re in Oklahoma City?”

“My employer, the Lassiter Group, maintains a Web site. The dates and locations for my workshops are listed so students can enroll online.”

“To do that, Isaac would have to know you’re working for Lassiter. He’s been in prison, so how would he find out?”

“My partner and I suspected Isaac had an accomplice working with him during his killing spree. We could never find enough evidence to prove it. But if we’re right, that person could have been feeding him information the past three years. I suspect that’s how Isaac got my cell phone number.”

“He called you?”

“Yes, hours after he escaped. I was on another call so he left a message on my voice mail.”

“What did he say?”

“That we’ll be together soon.”

McCall looked at the mug shot. “Same message he sent tonight. Anybody check to see who visited Isaac in prison?”

“I checked. During the entire time he was locked up, his attorney was his only visitor. The accomplice could have sent information through him.”

“You told me on the phone your instincts tell you Isaac isn’t who mugged you. Maybe he hooked back up with the unknown accomplice after he escaped? That could be the guy who snatched your briefcase.”

“That theory feels more right.”

McCall’s gaze settled on her cheek. “I take it you got that in the mugging?”

“Yes.” She fingered the edges of the bruise. With all that had happened since then, she’d forgotten about it. She glanced up, noting he continued to inspect her intensely. “What?”

“I’m thinking what the mugger gained was minimal compared to the effort he put out, especially since he didn’t try for your purse. If he had, he would have at least gotten some cash, credit cards. Is there anyone other than Isaac who’d have reason to come after you like that? Rough you up a little? Then drop off Isaac’s mug shot, just to mess with your head?”

“I’ve been asking myself those same questions. There’s no one.” She shifted her gaze back to the bed. “When you knocked on my door I was just about to call dispatch and leave you a message.”

“About the mug shot?”

“That’s one thing.” She watched him use the pen to nudge the photo and envelope into the plastic bag. “I need a favor.”

He slid the bag into his coat pocket. “What?”

She gave him a rundown on her allergy to peanuts, the E.R. doctor’s theory that she could suddenly be allergic to bananas, the information she’d found out about the fruit bowl from the hotel desk clerk and the contents of her briefcase. Then she added that the meds pumped into her at the E.R. prevented her from being tested for two weeks. While she talked, she watched McCall work the information, taking it in.

“You can’t be tested, but the fruit can,” he said. “You want me to submit it to the cop lab.”

“Yes.” Paige eased out a breath. “After this morning, I’m not in the best position to ask you for a favor.”

“Submitting evidence of a possible crime isn’t a favor. It’s my job.” Moving around the bed, he grabbed a pillow, pulled off its case, then walked to the sitting area where the fruit bowl sat. “I’ll write a supplement to the mugging report that Vawter wrote. That’ll help push the testing on the fruit.”

Paige watched as he eased the bowl and fruit into the pillowcase. It hit her then, how close she’d come to dying only hours before. Her legs went unsteady as the enormity of that sank in.

She lowered onto the edge of the bed, fisted her hands that had suddenly begun to shake. “I had one more reason for leaving you a message.”

He flicked her a look as he knotted the ends of the pillowcase. “Was it to admit your theory about lights and sex is a load of crap?”

Paige’s mouth twitched. The humor was unexpected, and welcome. “The theory’s solid, McCall.” She shoved a hand through her hair. “I wanted to thank you for getting help here when I had the reaction. And for staying on the phone.” Though her voice had taken on a barely perceptible quake, she continued. “One second my throat was fine, the next it had nearly swelled shut. I thought…” I might die. She took a deep breath. “Just your telling me the ambulance was on the way, that I was going to be fine, helped me focus. So, thanks.”

Leaving the pillowcase on the table, he strode across the suite to stand in front of her. “I was scared, too,” he said quietly.

She saw sympathy, concern and something more in his expression. She saw a cop’s perception of how hard it was for her to think of herself as a victim. “The doctor said you came by the E.R.”

“To find out for sure what had happened to you. And check your condition.”

“I hate being scared. It pisses me off. I felt the same way when I read the label on the back of Isaac’s mug shot. Spooked as hell.”

“He’s a scary guy.”

“At least I can do something about getting myself off his radar screen.” She rose, moved to the closet, grabbed her suitcase and plopped it on the bed. “I’m getting out of here tonight.”

“And going where?”

“To some hotel where I can check in under an alias and pay with cash.” She scooped up everything out of a bureau drawer, dumped it into the suitcase. “Can you recommend a place?”

He nodded. “It’s a little less plush than this, but still on the five-star scale. The manager is a pal of mine. If I give him a call, he can have you registered and a room ready by the time you get there.”

She glanced at her watch. “He must be a good pal if you can call him this late at night.”

“His name’s Burke Youngblood and he won’t mind.” McCall’s mouth quirked as he pulled his cell phone off his belt. “Burke lives on-site and he likes to play cop. He’s cut me a good rate in the past just so I would house a couple of witnesses under protection there. Burke keeps a good eye on things.” He angled his chin. “What alias do you want to use?”

“You pick,” Paige said as she emptied another drawer. “That way, it won’t tie to me.”

“Will do.” While McCall punched buttons on his cell, she stepped into the bathroom and gathered her toiletries.

“Burke will have everything taken care of by the time you get there,” McCall said when she carried her tote into the room. “Your alias is Fiona Shepherd.”

“Fiona?”

His mouth curved. “It’s a family name. The place you’re staying is the Ambassador Arms, about a five-minute drive from here. You can follow me there. That way I can make sure you don’t pick up a tail.”

“All right.”

“I’m sure this has occurred to you, Carmichael, but I’m going to point it out anyway. If someone’s looking to find you, all they have to do is wait for you to show up at the training center tomorrow.”

“I know. If I pick up a tail when I leave there, I’ll make sure I lose it.”

“The homicide I snagged today is political, so there’s a lot of pressure to get the case wrapped up fast. That means I won’t be back at your workshop. I’ll call Steve Kidd, brief him on what’s happened tonight. He and Henderson can back you up when you leave the training center. If you do get tailed, they can close in and grab him.”

“Thanks.” Paige checked all the drawers to make sure she hadn’t left any belongings behind.

McCall gave her a scrutinizing look. “It hasn’t been that long since you were a cop, so I figure you’ve still got federal contacts. Are you getting flagged for NCIC off-line searches on Isaac?”

“Yes.” As a high-profile escapee, Isaac was listed with the National Crime Information Center, the national database operated by the FBI that was the world’s largest collection of information on known criminals. If someone thought they recognized Isaac in Des Moines, Iowa, and contacted NCIC, Paige would receive a message on her cell phone.

“The note on the back of his mug shot is enough reason for me to issue a ‘be on the lookout’ to local cops,” McCall said. “If Isaac is here, he’ll need a place to lie low. Food and transportation. For all that, he needs money.”

“We never found all his money. He had tons of it, not just from his psychiatric practice, but an inheritance from his grandmother.” Paige pulled her cleaned coat out of the closet and stripped off the plastic bag. “My partner and I always suspected he’d stashed funds in numbered accounts in various locations. In and out of the country. If that’s the case, he will have made sure he can get that money easily and safely.”

“That’s going to make him a lot harder to find.”

“If he’s found at all. Right now he could be overseas while his pal performs the dirty work here.” Paige slid her laptop into its leather case. She didn’t want to think about the prospect of having to watch her back for all eternity.

“Ready to get out of here?” McCall asked after she shut the lid on her suitcase and set the locks.

“Yes.” She shrugged on her coat, then reached for her purse. A thought had her hesitating.

“Something wrong?”

“It just hit me. I didn’t ask why you showed up at my door. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

“You’re under pressure to solve a homicide. You could have just called instead.”

“Could have.” Gripping the pillowcase holding the fruit bowl, he moved back across the suite. “Look, Carmichael, here’s the deal. I’ve got three younger sisters who are all OCPD cops. It would take a hell of a lot for any of them to admit they have a problem dealing on their own with whatever comes their way.”

Her chin angled, she said, “Maybe that’s because they can deal with it.”

“Female cops,” he muttered. “Even former ones work hard to act tough.”

“It’s no act, McCall. We are tough. And proving it is the only way to get macho male cops to take us seriously.”

“Trust me, Grace, Carrie and Morgan have delivered that message loud and clear.”

“Good for them.”

“Here’s a news flash from a brother’s perspective. If one of my sisters was out of town and had some escaped psycho killer after her, not to mention getting mugged, then almost checking out while having an allergic reaction, I’d hope to hell some local cop would care enough to lend her a hand.”