Chapter 2 - THE CALL THAT SENT US AFTER HIM
I took the hospital folder from Ava and opened it beneath the overpass while Cole held Rosie against his chest. The first page listed pulmonary hypertension, chronic oxygen dependence, and a detailed emergency plan. Rosie was already under the care of St. Agnes, and the documents made one thing clear: her breathing problem had not begun that night.
The red stamp was attached to a transport restriction, not an instruction to withhold medical care. Rosie was not supposed to be moved by an unmonitored private vehicle during a respiratory crisis. Whoever stamped the page had good reason to worry about her safety, but that still did not explain why a police dispatcher was treating the man carrying her as an abductor.
Ava took Rosie’s hand. “Who’s your mom?”
“Mara.”
“Where is she?”
“At work.”
Cole answered the rest. Rosie’s mother, Dr. Mara Ellis, was a respiratory physician at St. Agnes. She was Cole’s younger sister, and she had asked him to collect Rosie from her home when the neighborhood lost electricity. Rosie normally used a home oxygen concentrator supported by portable cylinders, but the backup supply had been lower than expected.
“The portable tank from the house was almost empty,” Cole said. “I went to the emergency medical supply depot. They gave me this one, and the gauge started dropping before I’d even made it halfway to the hospital.”
“Why the motorcycle?”
“My truck was trapped behind floodwater on my street. The Harley was in the garage. I thought I could reach the hospital before the roads closed.”
It was a dangerous choice. Cole knew that, and I had no intention of pretending otherwise. But looking at Rosie struggling for air while the storm swallowed the road around us, I understood that he had not left home planning to become the subject of a police chase.
Ava spoke into her radio and asked dispatch to confirm the ambulance assigned to Cole’s address. The dispatcher gave us a call number but said the crew had been redirected due to a road closure. When Ava asked where they had been redirected, the answer came back as an entirely different neighborhood.
Cole shook his head. “That’s not where we were.”
I requested a supervisor and another medical unit. Then I asked the dispatcher who reported the abduction.
The answer was worse than I expected.
“Reporting party identified herself as Mara Ellis, mother of the minor. Caller stated Cole Maddox removed the child against medical advice.”
Rosie looked up sharply.
“Mommy didn’t say that.”
Cole reached for his phone with wet fingers. The screen was cracked, but it opened to a message from Mara sent twenty-six minutes earlier.
TAKE ROSIE TO ST. AGNES. DO NOT WAIT FOR THE DEPOT TRUCK. CALL ME WHEN YOU ARE CLOSE.
I photographed it.
Then I asked him to call her.
The first attempt went to voicemail. The second rang six times before a woman answered, breathing hard.
“Cole?”
“Mara, I’ve got police here. Rosie’s with me. They say you reported me.”
“What?”
I took the phone. “Officer Nolan Pierce, Peoria Police. We have your daughter. Dispatch received an abduction report under your name.”
“That wasn’t me.”
The words came immediately.
“Ma’am, I need to verify—”
“My daughter needs oxygen. Please get her here.”
Something crashed in the background. Mara told us the emergency department was operating on partial backup power and that she could not stay on the line. Before disconnecting, she gave us a detail only someone familiar with Rosie’s equipment would know: the connector on the newest cylinder had been sticking, and we should not force it if the mask flow became irregular.
The call ended.
Ava looked at me. “Someone used her name.”
“Or someone wants us to think they did.”
We transferred Rosie carefully into the back of our cruiser after confirming the oxygen cylinder could remain secured and the tubing would reach her. Ava stayed beside her while Cole followed on the motorcycle at a much slower speed. I asked dispatch for the closest available ambulance to intercept us and notified St. Agnes that we were transporting an oxygen-dependent child with worsening respiratory distress.
As we approached the next intersection, Ava checked the folder again.
“Nolan, the discharge paperwork says she was evaluated this morning.”
I glanced at the rearview mirror.
“By who?”
“Dr. Victor Harlan.”
I recognized the name. Harlan had been interviewed on local television earlier that evening about the city’s emergency medical preparedness.
Ava turned another page.
The document listed Rosie’s oxygen supplier.
Midwest Emergency Medical.
The same company whose white semi-truck had just slid across the road in front of us.
May you like
And the maintenance sticker on Rosie’s cylinder carried yesterday’s inspection date.
Whoever had released that tank had certified it safe less than thirty-six hours earlier.
