Peter's first reaction was disbelief. He spoke again, "Laurie?"
Laurie had her back to the ocean; a stiff cold land breeze was in her face. More wind than breeze; it smacked her in the face, it swept her breath away, through a hacking cough she rasped, "Peter?"
Peter sort of recognized the voice. It sounded a lot like Laurie's; only it was caught up in some grating hoarse shallow whisper. Could it be her, really her? His face was to the first grey warnings of the sunrise, hers trapped n the shadows; it was impossible to make out who the woman was. He asked again, "Laurie is that you?"
From where Laurie stood, though the man's face was wrapped in a thick woolen scarf, she could tell who it was. She started to repeat his name but the wind chased her voice back down her throat. She was only able to release another scratchy wheeze, "Peter."
He knew it was her all right. Laurie Stanton, influential blue blood, co-conspirator in the plot to steal his company and wipe him out; here she was, right here on the beach, right where he was, at the exact same spot at precisely the same time. This was too good to be true. Somehow the rich bitch had found out where he was. She'd tracked him down. What, she wasn't satisfied she'd ruined his life, broken his heart, literally run him out of town? Now she was here. To do what, finish him off; deliver the coup De grace?
Totally out of character Peter erupted, "You bitch! You low down, cold blooded, reptilian bitch!"
Laurie heard some of what he said. She heard the anger, but she couldn't precisely make out the words. She gasped out, "Peter...I" That was all she could say. Between the wind and the tightness in her chest she was stopped. Her response dissolved in a bone chilling cough.
To call what Laurie emitted a cough was a gross exaggeration; it was more like an explosion; a convulsive expulsion of yellow green phlegm accompanied by a deep low throat tearing moan, a viscerally repugnant raw scraping rasp akin to fingernails on a chalkboard, a hacking whistling wheeze, a short hoarse gasp for air. It was as if, vomiting into her lungs, she was drowning in front of him, struggling for that last dram of breath. Her attempt to get out her words, any words resulted only in a whistling rattling dry echo, a raw desperate attempt to breathe, to keep from choking.
Peter was angry, infuriated, but even through his fury he gathered something was wrong. The sun had broken through. Her visage was still as clouded as the darkness of her outer apparel, but he knew she was sick. In spite of himself, in spite of his desire to lash out and do the unconscionable and hit a woman; he stepped forward. He reached out his arms and grabbed her by the shoulders.
He shook her, "What are you doing here?"
Laurie felt so weak, so fragile, the wind, the cold, "Peter I..." Nothing more came out, only more coughing.
His anger was gone; it died the moment he'd touched her. She was sick! He pulled her closer and felt her forehead with his hand. She was afire! She was like some wispy hollow reed about to snap, victim of the harsh wind and the piteous cold. He bent forward and lifted her, "Laurie you're sick!"
She tried to reach out, to touch him with her arms; she just lacked the strength, "Peter I'm..." No additional words were forthcoming. Even wrapped in his arms she doubled over, convulsed with a second battery of dry deep barking whoops, heaving honks that betrayed a deeply entrenched inflammation.
The sun was up. He could see her face clearly. It was scarlet, and not from the sun or the wind. He briefly touched her face again. It was dry and hot, the kind of dry heat associated with a high fever. She was desperately ill.
She made another attempt to speak.
He shouted down at her, "Shut up!"
He turned and strode westward across the sandy beach. He was apoplectic, intensely furious, wrathful, but mostly scared! The further he walked, or rather struggled across the soft sand, the more he felt the heat emanating from the helpless girl so tightly swaddled in his arms. Peter's anger found new direction; it turned toward the sand, the distance, the wind, the cold. The further he walked the more rapidly his anger with her dissipated. That anger; that justified self-righteous fury he knew was his by all that was right and good evaporated; it was melted away by the heat from the small torrid body he carried.
By the time he reached the boardwalk, though it had been only a few seconds, his ire had floundered on the rocks of fright, fright turned to fear, then to terror. People who angered him, those who betrayed him, who were deceitful weren't supposed to get sick. They were supposed to be impervious to pain, incapable of suffering, always hale and hearty.
He couldn't hate, couldn't despise someone in need of help, his help, that wasn't in his nature, and at that moment no one needed his help more desperately than she did.
He ran to his truck. Holding her tightly in one arm he fumbled around and found his keys. There was a first aid building about three blocks up the main highway. He knew it would be open; this time of day it was mostly the habitue of drunks and over indulgent drug addicts. This morning they'd handle a real emergency!
Laurie was partially alert, "Peter I want to tell you..."
He wasn't interested, "I said shut up. You're sick."
"I'm sorr..."
"I said shut up."
She shut up.
He got her in, buckled her seat, flew around, jumped in his side, turned on the ignition and peeled out. With total disregard for traffic lights and pedestrian warnings he swerved and sped as fast as his old truck would allow. He'd completely forgotten past injustices; this was Laurie, and she needed a hero. She needed him.
First aid station in sight, he veered off the main drag, jumped the low concrete median strip and pulled to a stop at the front door. Out of his truck, around to her side, he unfastened her safety buckle, lifted her and, kicking the front door of the aid station open carried her through to the Triage desk. He shouted at some half somnolent older woman staring passively at a computer screen, "She's sick! Get the doctor!"
The older woman groggily looked up, "Insurance? Identification?"
He placed Laurie in a wheel chair. In the clear light of the clinic she looked frightful, piteous. It frightened him even more. He pulled open his wallet, found a credit card, and threw it on the counter, "A doctor! We need a doctor! Can't you see she's sick?"
From the back a young looking woman emerged, "I'm the nurse on duty. Can I help?"
Peter, glad to get anyone, said, "This lady, my girlfriend is sick."
The nurse told him, "We'll take care of her. Can you tell us what's wrong, who she is? Does she have any insurance, allergies?'
"I've got money. She's allergic to bees. She's burning up with fever. Do something!"
By then another young woman, more a girl than woman appeared.
The nurse turned to her, "Let's get her in the back." She looked at Peter, "Calm down. She'll be all right now. Care to wait outside?"
"No, I'm going in with her."
The nurse smiled, "All right." She started for the door that led to the back.
The older woman, the receptionist started to say something, but the nurse touched her arm, "It's OK. Call Doctor White."
The receptionist gave Peter a quizzical look.
He grinned a little sheepishly, "Don't worry, I won't steal anything."
The receptionist turned away, and started to type the girl's name into the computer. In seconds she had the girl's medical background and family up on her screen. The Stanton's were at least as well known in this small ocean side town as they were back at home. She picked up the telephone and made two calls.
++++++++++++
Back inside the aid station the nurse was quick to make a diagnosis. She'd also noticed the diamond, though on the wrong hand, she inferred what she thought it meant. She turned to Peter, "Your fiancé might have a bad case of bronchitis, though it could be pneumonia. I'm going to take a little blood, and do an X-ray, but I'll need someone to sign off on this."
"I'll sign." He gave no indication nor did he say anything to dissuade her of her mistake about his relationship with Laurie.
The younger girl produced some paperwork, and he signed off on it. He strongly suspected anything he signed was probably either illegal or would have no bearing on anything, but he didn't care if they didn't.
He waited in the room they'd taken her while they rolled her off for the X-Ray. Shortly, the nurse came back with some results from the blood work. She nurse said, "I'm sorry, the blood work probably wasn't needed. I just wanted to make sure of a few things."
"What's that," Peter asked?
"We doubt she has hepatitis or anything, but, of course, you know she's pregnant, and I thought she might have pneumonia."
Peter had no clue about pregnancy, but he didn't let on, "If she has pneumonia she'll need medicine, "That won't..."
The nurse smiled and interrupted, "It won't hurt the baby, and if you're worried about the X-Ray that won't either. However, antibiotics could weaken," She looked down at the chart, "Laurie's immune system. She could suffer some side effects."
Peter started to shake slightly. Laurie was down here, with him, with pneumonia, and pregnant. He wondered if she was with anyone else. Should he call someone? Her parents will want to know. They might even be here with her. He should call them.
While Peter was pondering what he should do, the nurse had been on the phone with one of the town doctors. The physician she'd called was an older man; and their main contact there at the aid station. His advice had been to keep her at the station for the day, pump her full of antibiotics, water, and Tylenol till they stabilized her temperature. He told her he'd be down later to look her over. If her temperature hadn't gone any higher, and they had a good warm place nearby she could go home later that evening or better still, the next morning.
The nurse reported to Peter what she'd done plus more, "Her fever is a little over 103. She does have pneumonia, but it looks like Streptococcus, the most common and most easily treated kind. The doctor will be in later this afternoon; he might want her to stay over one night."
Peter checked his watched. It was after 9:00 a.m., and he was exhausted, "Is there a place I can stretch out for a while?"
The nurse gave him a thoughtful look. Normally anything like that would be out of the question. But it was January; the place was empty and would most likely see little activity, "You should go home."
"I'd like to stay. I mean in case she wakes up and needs somebody."
