Damaged by Alex Kava

doorway, clutching his safety belt still tethered by the line to the floor. He leaned out to look down for Bailey. Maggie had forgotten about the rescue swimmer. Was she still even there? Kesnick reached for the hoist cable, wrestling and jerking it until the loop that had knotted on the hook broke loose. Somehow he managed to tug it free.
    “What about the rescue swimmer?” Ellis yelled at Kesnick’s back.
    Maggie heard the howling wind roar through the helicopter. The thump-thump of the rotors and thump-thump of her heartbeat made it difficult to hear the words and she knew it was impossible for Kesnick to hear anything without the communication system inside the helmet.
    She held tight to the leather strap, readjusted her weight, and shoved herself up onto her feet. Still holding on to the strap, she swiped up Bailey’s flight helmet from where she had left it andtapped Kesnick on the shoulder with it. His eyes shot her a look of surprise then he nodded, yanked on the helmet, and adjusted the mike.
    “Liz’s caught in a crosswind,” Kesnick yelled. “She’s spinning.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Wilson answered.
    “I’m pulling her back,” Kesnick said, planting his feet.
    In seconds Kesnick had Bailey back inside the helicopter.
    Maggie handed Liz her own helmet. Then Maggie sat against the wall, gripping the leather strap with gloved fingers, noticing now how badly her hands were shaking. She could no longer hear the conversation taking place. Both Kesnick and Bailey looked remarkably calm.
    It seemed like less than a couple of minutes and Bailey handed the helmet back to Maggie, replacing it with her lighter-weight swim helmet. Maggie checked her eyes in that brief exchange. There was no hesitation. No fear.
    Bailey scooted back to the open doorway, waited for Kesnick’s tap on the chest, gave him a thumbs-up, and to Maggie’s disbelief, the young rescue swimmer rolled out of the helicopter again.

CHAPTER 19

    Platt stared at the dead boy’s face. He looked so much younger than the nineteen years recorded on his chart. Stripped of everything, including his life, his gray body appeared small, his prosthetic leg emphasizing his vulnerabilities. It gnawed at Platt to think that this brave kid survived Afghanistan and his battle wounds only to come home and die from some mysterious disease.
    Gowned up again, Platt stood beside the stainless-steel autopsy table going over the chart when he realized the pathologist, Dr. Anslo, was waiting for him. The man’s almost nonexistent eyebrows were raised, their presence distinct only because Anslo’s shaved head and smooth face left nothing else to forecast his emotions. His latex-gloved hands were held up in front of him, signaling that he was ready—ready and waiting for this guest who had been imposed on him.
    Platt quickly found what he was searching for: the boy’s name, Ronald (Ronnie) William Towers. It was a small thing, but he wanted to know how to address this young man, if nowhere else but in his own mind. It was the least he could do. Ronnie Towers deserved that small, last respect.
    “I’m ready,” said Platt.
    This part of his job always challenged his sensibilities. It didn’t help matters that he had just returned from Afghanistan and had witnessed the carnage that young men like Ronnie had to deal with every day of their tours. It battered his psyche as much as the exhaustion did. Each trip to Afghanistan or Iraq reminded Platt why, as an army doctor, he had chosen laboratories filled with vials, test tubes, and glass slides rather than the OR.
    “I’ll need a vial of his blood.”
    Anslo gave a terse nod as though Platt was wasting time telling him something he already knew. “And a tissue sample.”
    “Fine,” Anslo said, shifting his weight in an exaggerated show of impatience as he continued to hold up his hands, waiting for instructions.
    “Would you mind starting at the surgical site?” Platt asked.
    The man’s long, drawn-out sigh