Callahan's polished shoes clicked evenly against the floor. Beside him, Dr. Mercer shuffled along, his eyes still red from a long shift he'd just pulled.
"The old geezer in 312 pulled through," Mercer chuckled, shaking his head. "Two surgeries in a week. Thought he'd die on the table during the first."
"Resilience, Dr. Mercer, is often underestimated. Medicine can extend a man's chances, but it is stubbornness that decides the outcome." A knowing smile spread across his features. "And of course, with the right doctor."
"Guess so. Still, what a shitshow for the team." His fingers toyed with the hem of his blue shirt—Vault Boy flashing him a grin and a thumbs up, as if in smug agreement. "Speaking of that... you ever think about that woman? The one who crawled into the ER last winter? Half-dead, shotgun in her hands? Everyone saw it."
Callahan didn't so much as break stride. "Some people leave very little trace once circumstance is done with them."
"It's weird, right? No cops, no follow-up, nothing. Like she just—" He snapped his fingers. "—vanished. Doesn't that strike you as... I dunno... off?"
"Not in the least."
"Yeah, but..." Mercer continued, oblivious to the subtle shift in his colleague's eyes. "Yesterday, someone came around here asking about her. Suit, shoes, all that shit. Claimed he was following up on missing persons cases."
"I see."
His voice thinned to a whisper. "Thing is, he left when the information folks asked for identification. Got some people here spooked."
"Is that so?"
"Doesn't strike you as odd at all? Just crickets for months, and then some guy snooping around this place?" He glanced around. "I was thinking maybe I should go to the police and ask about this myself. At least ask if they know anything."
Callahan's pace slowed to a halt. "Dr. Mercer," his voice was gentle, almost paternal in its restraint. "Curiosity is a charming quality for some people, but for many it tends to shorten careers and... more." His smile was devoid of warmth. "I suggest you leave this particular matter be, and concern yourself only with what is yours to mind."
Mercer stayed where he was, eyes stayed locked on Callahan as the man moved down the hall.
What a prick.
He'd seen plenty of Callahan's type back in med school—born rich, charm spoon-fed with their cereal. But Callahan wore arrogance better than any of them. Too smooth. Too rehearsed. Like a mask glued on so tight you'd forget it wasn't his real face. No nerves. No cracks.
But Mercer knew what the nurses whispered among themselves. They said Callahan had fought like hell to keep that woman alive. That he had monitored her every hour, not once letting her case slip from his hands. He had seen it himself, hadn't he? The intensity, the way Callahan moved through the ER that night with single-minded focus. That wasn't the work of someone detached.
So why then—with witnesses in the ER, with questions still circling, with strangers asking questions—was there silence now? No investigation. No report. Just silence, pinned down neat like a bed made by someone who doesn't want you to look underneath.
For probably the tenth time, Mercer wondered if Callahan himself had something to do with that silence.
His thoughts snagged on that possibility when the overhead speakers crackled to life: Dr. Mercer to Radiology. Dr. Mercer, Radiology.
As he walked down the hall, he pulled a card from the pocket of his worn jeans. The one the man in the fancy suit had handed him.
He thought that asshole Callahan couldn't be that much of a big shot to stop him from what he was about to do.