CHAPTER ONE: THE UNIFORM AND THE R@GE
I was still wearing my complete military dress uniform when I drove into the parking lot of St. Bernard Hospital that Tuesday night.
My dark service coat weighed heavily across my shoulders, while the gleaming brass buttons reflected the fading golden glow of the evening sun as I marched toward the hospital entrance.
A polished gold nameplate fastened neatly above my left breast pocket clearly identified me: COLONEL RACHEL GARDNER.
I stepped through the automatic glass doors of the emergency department with the unmistakable determination that caused everyone nearby to instinctively clear a path.
A young nurse standing behind the reception counter lifted her hand, attempting to stop me before I entered the restricted treatment section.
“Excuse me ma’am, you are not authorized to go back there without an escort,” she said with a polite but firm tone.
I paused and met her eyes, lowering my voice into the calm, unwavering command I normally used while addressing my soldiers.
“I am searching for my daughter,” I replied, never breaking eye contact. “Her name is Abigail Ferguson and I have reason to believe she was brought here against her will.”
The nurse hesitated, obviously shaken by the authority in my voice, before pointing toward the final observation room at the far end of the hallway.
“Room twelve, but please, you have to be careful because there are some people in there already,” she stammered as she drew back the privacy curtain for me.
I entered the modest room, and the sight waiting for me made my heart seem to stop for one dreadful heartbeat.
Abigail sat curled tightly in the corner of a hospital bed, wrapped inside a thin, rough institutional blanket that provided almost no comfort.
Her left eye was swollen deep purple, an ugly bru!se blooming across her pale, tear-soaked face like a dark flower.
