Exiled Heart Read online

  “Claire?” Dr. Fairmont, his blue eyes full of concern, studied her face. “Is everything okay?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Liar.

  “You look like you’re ready to hit something.”

  “Sorry. Bad morning. By the way, the patient doesn’t want me touching him.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “He’s Muslim,” she said as if that explained it. Her radio beeped the long signal for a call. “I’m sorry, Eric, but I’ve got to get going.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

  She waved and tried to shove the unpleasant run-in to the back of her mind.

  #####

  Ziad sat in his patrol car in the hide he’d established along Clements Ferry Road. He waited for speeders. Routine work, but at least he gained experience.

  Almost three. Soon, he could head downtown and hand Ben the information he’d prepared, then hopefully put it out of his mind while he had supper with Claire.

  A Cadillac Escalade whizzed past him.

  He checked the speed on the radar. Seventy in a forty-five? “What the…”

  He pulled into traffic and switched on both lights and sirens. Into the microphone he said, “Unit Eight-Two-R in pursuit of a white Cadillac Escalade southbound on Clements Ferry Road. Request assistance from Unit Eight-Two.”

  “Unit Eight-Two responding.” Eddie’s calmness reassured him.

  The Escalade maintained its speed and swerved back and forth in its lane.

  It dipped into oncoming traffic.

  Ziad cringed and muttered under his breath.

  Horns blared.

  He got right behind it.

  Only then did the driver seem to notice he was there. The vehicle slowed and pulled into the parking lot of a shopping center. It almost hit the center’s sign in the process. Ziad stopped with about four meters between his car and it. The driver’s door popped open.

  He jumped out. “Stay in the SUV!”

  Eddie’s patrol car, lights flashing blue and red, pulled in behind Ziad’s.

  His mentor joined him. “What do we have?’

  “Potential drunk driver. He tried to climb from the SUV.”

  “Go for it. I’ll wait here.”

  Ziad approached the Escalade. He tapped on the window.

  It hummed downward.

  The him turned out to be a woman with light blonde hair pulled up in a ponytail and tied with a navy blue bow. A navy blue T-shirt stretched across her chest, and a tennis skirt of the same color barely covered her thighs.

  “Yes, Officer?” Slurred words.

  “License and registration, please, ma’am.”

  She reached for her glove compartment.

  Adrenaline began pumping. “Do it slowly, ma’am.”

  Eddie approached and stood close enough to lend support if needed.

  She handed Ziad the information.

  “Stay in the SUV.” Once in his car, Ziad entered the woman’s driver’s license number into a laptop. Interesting. Shannon Radcliffe. Two previous arrests for drunk driving, both now expunged from her record yet still noted.

  He approached her window. “Ma’am, have you been drinking today?”

  “Why do you say that, Officer?” Her face remained expressionless.

  Ziad winced as the smell of alcohol washed over him. “Because I clocked you doing seventy in a forty-five, you were swerving, and I smell alcohol on your breath.”

  “Just a mimosa. Well, just two. Hmmmm.” She stroked her neck as her brow knitted. “But I’m not drunk.”

  And he was a Saudi prince. Just what was a mimosa? Whatever it was, it had alcohol in it. “Please step out of the car.”

  “What?”

  “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

  “I’m not drunk!” Her voice rose to match the noise of the traffic.

  “Ma’am, I am asking one more time. Please step out of the car.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Eddie edging closer.

  She flung her door open.

  Ziad grabbed it before it clocked him on the nose.

  She squared her shoulders and glared at him. “Okay, I’m out of the car, Officer,” she peered at his name tag, “Al-Kazim. What kind of a name is that?”

  “Arabic. Ma’am, if you would, please close your eyes and touch your finger to the end of your nose.”

  “I am not drunk.” She nearly spat those words.

  Every sense came on alert. He took a deep breath. “I’m asking you to please close your eyes and touch your finger to the end of your nose.”

  She rolled her eyes but complied—and missed with a good couple of centimeters to spare.

  “Stand on one foot for thirty seconds.”

  “What? I told you—”

  “Now, Ms. Radcliffe.” She’s trying to provoke you. Keep calm.

  “Whatever.” She blew out a sigh and raised her right foot.

  Ziad glanced at his watch.

  She barely made it five seconds before swaying and toppling into the side of the Escalade.

  “Ma’am, I am taking you to the station.”

  “For what?”

  “For driving while under the influence.” Gently, he grasped her upper left arm.

  “Let go of me, you rag head!”

  Adrenaline electrified him. “What did you call me?”

  She yanked away. “You have no right to touch me. Now take your hands off me!”

  She tried to climb back inside the SUV.

  Ziad blocked her. “Listen to me, Ms. Radcliffe. We are going to go back to my squad car, and like it or not, you will come to the station with me for a—”

  “You don’t know who you’re talking to! Do you know who my husband is? Do you?”

  “I know you are drunk.”

  “You shut up!” She began screaming obscenities at him, things he’d never spoken or even heard before. “Take your filthy gaze off me, you camel jockey! And don’t touch me. If you do again, my husband will—”

  “I—”

  Pain flashed across his cheek! Automatically, Ziad’s hand shot to his mouth. He flinched.

  Eddie shoved her into the side of the Escalade. “Ma’am, I’m arresting you for DUI and assaulting a law officer.”

  Ziad barely heard him Mirandize her as he backed off. His lip throbbed. Ow. That really hurt. He stared at the red sheen on his fingers.

  Once he’d handcuffed her, Eddie half-walked, half-dragged the woman toward his patrol car.

  “I’ll have your badge for this!” she hollered. “You and that camel jockey boyfriend of yours! How dare you arrest me. You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

  The closing patrol car door muffled her insults.

  More wetness dribbled down Ziad’s chin as he retreated to his car.

  “Here.” Eddie shoved a roll of paper towels into his hands. “Sorry, but it’s the best I could come up with.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “You handled that well. Shannon Radcliffe’s a tough nut to crack.”

  “She… Can she really have me fired? Us fired?” Real fear filled Ziad. The last thing he wanted to do was endanger a potential career with the police department.

  “Naw. She’s a lot of bluster. Her husband’s some high-falootin’ attorney, so she thinks she can get off because of him. Problem is, she’s already been arrested twice for DUI.”

  “I saw that.”

  “Sonja Williams tried both cases. Boy, she’s gonna hit the fan when she hears about this latest one.”

  “But what she said—”

  “Ziad, man, don’t worry about it. We did it by the book. And thank goodness for those cams in our rides. She tries to dispute it, we have it covered. Got it?”

  He nodded, but his breath came out in hard gasps.

  “Listen to me.” Eddie glanced around and in a low voice continued, “I know being on the receiving end of bigotry isn’t cool. I’ve lived that, okay?”

  “How do you get past it?”

  �
��By not letting it get to me.” Eddie held up a hand. “I know. Easy to say and harder to do. Trust me on that one. We both know not everyone who’s different than us acts that way. Keep that in mind.”

  Swallowing hard, Ziad nodded.

  “Let me take this—well, you know what—to the station. I’ll meet you back up here, and we can debrief Stan. In the meantime, head back and get something cold on that cut.”

  No problem there. He could feel his lip swelling.

  Ziad climbed into his car. His headache, which had never quite receded, returned with a vengeance. The cut didn’t help.

  As he turned his lights off and pulled into traffic, his mood, already low, sank to new depths when he thought of the insults that woman had hurled his way. All just for doing his job by getting one more drunk person off the road. Maybe one of these days he’d get used to the hatred and prejudice toward him simply because of his nationality and religion. Today wasn’t that day.

  #####

  Last ride of the day. And a tough one. Claire tensed as the helicopter transporting a premature baby to Potter Hospital landed on the helipad. As the rotor blades kept spinning, she popped the rear doors open and shoved them aside.

  Lord, let this child live! That prayer rested on her heart as she released the latches for the gurney with the enclosed bassinet holding the premature baby. She checked vitals one last time. Still in the green. Praise God! Two pounds. So small he could fit in her hands. She wheeled the gurney to the elevator. Moments later, the doors swished open.

  A neonatal nurse greeted them at the NICU. “What do we have?”

  Claire spouted off the stats of the baby, then watched as the neonatal team sprang into action.

  She lingered as she whispered one last prayer. Lord, let him live. Please. His mama’s so scared he won’t. Be with his parents as they make the drive up. She pulled her helmet off and brushed back some wisps of hair that had fallen from her braid.

  Time to go. She had to set work aside now that her shift had ended.

  No such luck. The elevator doors slid open to reveal one of the neonatologists and another doctor she didn’t recognize. This one had the olive features of a hot climate along with Arabic writing stitched above his name in English.

  She took a step back to allow them to exit. “Dr. Metcalf, it’s good to see you.”

  “You brought the preemie in?” he asked.

  “I did. We just arrived.”

  “Thank you. We’ll take it from here.” The doctor smiled. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Ismail Khatib. He’s on a yearlong fellowship here from King Fahd Royal Hospital in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Ismail, Claire Montgomery, one of our best flight nurses.”

  Claire extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Khatib.”

  The man clasped his hands behind his back and lifted his chin so he stared at her over the rims of his reading glasses. “It is a pleasure, Miss Montgomery.”

  Oh, you so lie like a rug, you jerk. She forced a tight-lipped smile to her face. “Have a good evening.”

  She rushed into the elevator and leaned against the wall. What an a-hole. Looking down his nose at her like she was a piece of rubbish! What was it with these Muslim men? She wanted to kick the wall.

  No, better to leave. She stashed her helmet in her locker and grabbed her purse and keys. She had exactly forty-five minutes to get home, change, and get supper prepared before Ziad arrived.

  As she practically ran to her Mustang, she inhaled humid air full of gas fumes and the organic smells of the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. Time to escape. Only to do it all over again the next day. Maybe then she could put the events of this week behind her.

  25

  Claire hated being late. As she crept along the Ravenel Bridge behind a panel truck, she stared at the clock on her stereo. Gads. All because of a wreck on US 17—after the split with Coleman Boulevard. 7:30. Ziad would show up starving, and she’d still be getting supper ready. Her stomach rumbled.

  Finally! Traffic broke free, and she arrived at her house within ten minutes. Forget changing first. She prepared the chicken for their salad and threw it into the oven to bake.

  A ten-minute shower got rid of the grime. And what to wear? Not that it was a special night, but she’d found herself much more conscious of what she wore around him. White jeans and a black T-shirt. Perfect. She yanked those on and dried her hair as fast as possible. 8:10. She rushed downstairs, pulled out the chicken, and made sure he hadn’t arrived.

  While she put on her makeup, she kept one ear listening downstairs. She’d told him to come to the back doors, which were open. No sound. Nothing.

  Where was he?

  After a spray of perfume, she rushed down the steps and prepared the salad.

  As her hands worked, her mind fumed over the events of the past day or so. Annette Mubarak’s plight. Daoud al-Rashid’s rush to judgment. Ismail Khatib’s rudeness. What was it with Muslim men? Her negative thoughts kept going round and round.

  She glanced at the microwave clock. 8:30. What? Where was he? Her stomach growled again.

  She punched in his number, but it rolled to voice mail.

  You knew we had this date. She paced to the door and stepped onto the porch. No 4Runner pulling under the house.

  “Ziad, where are you? C’mon! I’m hungry.”

  She threw the chicken back into the oven.

  Nine o’clock. Great. She’d not be in bed until way past ten, which didn’t bode well for working the next day.

  Just as she picked up her phone to dial him again, she heard the SUV pull to a stop under the house.

  She met him on the screened-in porch. “Where have you been? Don’t you know what time it is?”

  He offered a smile, one that under normal circumstances would have produced the same from her. “I am sorry I am late.”

  “Late! It’s nine o’clock. Why didn’t you answer your phone when I called?”

  “So sorry. It was off.” Ziad crossed the family room to the island. “What are we having for supper? I am hungry.”

  “That’s all you can think about? Your stomach?” She put her hands on her hips. “We’ll be lucky if the chicken isn’t dried out.”

  He slapped his keys and wallet onto the granite. For a moment, he stood there as if collecting himself. “I was helping Ben with something, and I lost track of time.”

  “Like what?”

  “Work-related.” He met her at the console table and took her hands. “Truly, I lost track of time, and I am sorry.”

  Something teased her nose, a sharp scent she hadn’t smelled on him in quite a while. “Have you started smoking again?”

  “So what if I have?”

  She shook loose. “I thought you gave that up.”

  “It is a long story.” Ziad frowned and tossed his watch onto the table. “What are we having? I am starving.”

  “Chicken Caesar salad, though I’m sure the chicken’s now dried out.”

  “I understand you are cross with me, yes? And I apologized. Like I said, Ben needed my help related to his work. I was happy to oblige.”

  Whatever. Claire retreated to the kitchen and cut up the chicken. “Can you set the table and get the drinks ready?”

  “Of course. Tea, I presume?”

  She nodded.

  With the chicken on the salad, she added the dressing and tossed it before dumping it into a glass bowl. She pulled some slices of bread from the oven.

  What a nice night. The silky air slid along her skin with bits of laughter riding on the currents. On the side closest to their table, her other next-door neighbors chatted with friends, most likely over a bottle of wine. A candle glowed on their porch. Too bad she had to rush off to bed when Ziad left.

  Ziad had turned the lights to low and set out plates and silverware. Tall glasses of tea sat in their proper place. He rose when she set the bowl on the table. “Please, have a seat.”

  She did so and ran through the blessing in her head.

&nbs
p; As they began eating, he studied her face. “You seem tired.”

  “I am.” How much should she say? “I didn’t sleep well.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Maybe it’s going around.” Her thoughts returned to the unpleasant valley of the past several hours. “I didn’t sleep well because I heard some sad news last night. One of Sonja’s friends’ husbands left her and took their sons to Egypt.”

  “That is sad. I am sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Pardon?”

  “That’s all you have to say?” She hated the edge in her voice.

  He paused from cutting up the salad. “What else should I say?”

  “Like maybe her husband is totally in the wrong for practically kidnapping his children.”

  “You do not know that. Maybe they—”

  “He left without a word to her.” She opened the dressing bottle and poured some onto her salad. “I don’t understand why you Arab men think you have total dominion over your wives and children. I mean, to break up a family like that.”

  He froze, and his brow knitted. “Perhaps there was more going on than you realize.”

  “But it’s not fair!”

  “Welcome to life.” He took a bite.

  What? Like he agreed? “Excuse me?”

  “You do not think that is fair?” Ziad speared a chicken strip and cut it into pieces. “Do you think it was fair I was hit today?”

  Huh? He hadn’t mentioned that at all. “What?”

  “Oh, yes. This afternoon I pulled a woman who was drunk. She failed the sobriety tests. Eddie and I were trying to arrest her. She called me a no-good rag head and then slapped me.” He pointed to his lip.

  For the first time, she noticed it was a little swollen.

  “I got this simply because of my name and accent, like I am the one who’s a suspect.”

  “I hope you arrested her.”

  “Eddie did. I knew better.”

  She barely heard him as she tore off a chunk of bread and buttered it. “Then today, I was working in the outpatient clinic when this Muslim guy came in with a cut to his left hand.” She took a bite and swallowed. “He yelled at me because I was touching him while trying to help him. Just because I’m a Christian. What’s your take on that?”