There’s separation through several layers of muscle and—”
Amelia dabbed the wound with a piece of sterile gauze, absorbing some of the pooling blood so that Derek could better examine the severity of the injury, then flushed the wound with saline. He flicked a startled glance to her as she ripped open a suture tray before continuing. “Thanks.” He carefully probed the wound with a long swab. “The femoral artery appears to be intact, thank God, but several smaller veins will need ligation. What did you find?”
“Abrasions and contusions to her head and face but nothing critical.”
“Okay, push fentanyl and midazolam. Let’s get her sewn up.”
For the next hour, Derek labored over Violet’s laceration, ligating the torn blood vessels and suturing the layers of muscle and skin. While he worked, Amelia monitored the actress’s vitals and cleaned the less serious scrapes and bumps. With gently probing fingers, she felt Violet’s scalp and searched her hair for other wounds. “In addition to the bump on her forehead, she’s got a rather large knot just over her right ear. External swelling. Do you want to send her to the hospital for a CT scan?”
“No need. I have a machine here. I’ll have my tech do a scan when I’m finished with her.” With the crisis past, Derek paused and watched Amelia work for a few seconds, remembering how she’d anticipated his every need, known and executed protocol without his directives, and ably and efficiently assisted him on every aspect of Violet’s treatment. “I appreciate your jumping in the mix and helping out. You were a model of professionalism and composure under pressure.”
Amelia cut a quick awkward glance toward him as she wiped disinfectant on Violet’s scraped cheek. “I’m glad I could help.”
Derek bent his head over his suturing, pulling closed another small stitch. “You did more than help. Your nursing skills may have made the difference in saving Violet Chastain’s life.”
Amelia’s head snapped up. “Violet Chastain?”
Derek pulled a grin. “The one and only … our patient.”
Amelia’s hazel eyes widened as she studied her patient’s face. “Holy cow, it is! I thought she was Amish … I mean, the dress and …”
Derek chuckled. “Violet’s here filming a movie. She plays an Amish woman, which explains her clothing.” He frowned as he snipped the surgical thread he’d just tied off. “Someone should call her director, let him know about Violet. I have his number in my desk.”
Amelia nodded and chewed her lip. “If her laceration is a knife wound as you suspect …”
When she let her sentence trail off, Derek eyed her, puzzled by her obvious uneasiness. “The police are already on their way, if that’s what you’re asking. We have reason to suspect a girl Violet was with when she was attacked was kidnapped.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “Oh, no! How horrible!”
“Exactly.” He lowered his gaze to Violet’s wound and began applying an antibiotic ointment and pressure dressing. “She’ll need a tetanus booster before she leaves, but you can wake her up. I’m finished.”
Derek removed his latex gloves and headed to the sink to wash up, cutting side glances to the nurse who’d performed so admirably under pressure. References or not, he wanted someone with her ability and cool head on his team. “Ms. Phillips?”
Amelia glanced at him.
“I think you’ve just been baptized by fire. If you want the job, it’s yours.”
A bright smile lit her face, and he was struck again by how attractive she was. “Thank you, Doctor. I accept.”
“Ms. Chastain?”
Violet angled her head toward the door where an auburn-haired woman and tall, rugged-looking man with light brown hair waited.
“Yes?” she said weakly, her body and emotions both drained to empty.
“I’m FBI Special Agent Emma Colton, and this is my brother, Philadelphia detective Tate Colton. We’re working the case involving the abduction of Amish girls in the area. If you feel up to it, we need to ask you some questions,” the woman said.
Though she had no energy, a heavy heart and a painkiller-induced daze muddying her thoughts, Violet knew she had information the police needed to rescue Mary. “I’ll do my best.”
Emma Colton stepped in and moved the chair beside Violet’s bed. Tate was propped against the wall, a mini-recorder in hand, ready to take her statement.
“Tell us what happened to you and Mary.” Emma flipped open a notepad. “Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out, no matter how minor the detail may seem.”
Violet tried to shift into a position more conducive for the interview, but her weak arms gave out and her injured leg, elevated with several cushions, throbbed in protest. Sighing and sinking back into her pillow, Violet let her mind rewind to that morning, to Mary’s sweet smile.
Vanity is a sin.
Violet’s heart wrenched, and moisture puddled in her eyes. “I was … walking with Mary to Caleb Troyer’s farm. Taking him food.” She wet her dry lips and squeezed the blanket covering her. “Mary’s brothers had run ahead.”
With effort, Violet related the whole terrifying incident from the moment the silver car had screeched to a stop in front of them, blocking their path, to the gut-wrenching moment the men shoved Mary into the backseat and raced away.
“You said you were able to pull one of the men’s ski masks off.” Emma met her gaze. “Did you see his face?”
Violet nodded. “Briefly. Just a glimpse.”
“Could you describe him to a sketch artist to compose a rendering?” Tate asked.
Violet shifted her gaze Tate. “I’ll do whatever I can to get Mary back.” More tears flooded her sinuses and dripped from her eyelashes. “They hurt her. Hit her.” She shook her head, and guilt stabbed her. “It’s my fault.”
Emma frowned. “What is your fault?”
“I told her to fight them. To resist. She did and … they hurt her.”
Emma wrapped her fingers around Violet’s wrist. “Don’t take this on yourself. The only ones to blame are the bastards who took her and the evil men behind this online sex ring.”
Violet’s heart lurched. “Sex ring?”
Emma and her brother exchanged dark glances, and Violet felt her gorge rise. She swallowed hard to keep from retching.
“The kidnapped girls are being solicited online for sex and other depravities,” Tate said grimly.
Violet trembled, imagining innocent Mary Yoder in the hands of such sick men, forced into perverted situations and abused for the pleasure of vile men. “Dear God … Mary!” She divided a stricken, panicked glance between Emma and Tate. “You have to find her! She’s just seventeen! She just a precious, innocent girl, who—”
“I
