THANKS TO HELEN’S DRIVING skill and knowledge of all the back roads that are too rough to transport a patient over, she’s at the hospital by the time I get out of the ambulance.
I wrap my arms around her as she says, “How’s Mae?”
“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “Martin looked—I don’t know.”
“She’s in good hands,” Helen says. “We both know that.”
I nod. “Was it Dale? What’s he saying?”
Helen hesitates before saying, “Not now, Tom. Later.”
I open my mouth to protest, but something in her eyes warns me not to. “Let’s go,” I say.
We go in the side doors, Helen flashing her badge at the security guard who tries to stop us. Martin is already out of sight. We barely get through the doors when her radio goes off.
“I have the Trents,” Hallstead says in her steady, authoritative voic
