Courting Disaster

by Carol Stephenson

  He blinked but, unlike some of the other drivers, took the hint. “I had…” He paused, as if searching for the English word. “Accident with my truck.”

  I wrote his name at the top of the page. “What’s the charge?”

  “I killed someone.”

  My pen froze midstroke. “What?”

  He examined his bandaged hand. “Not my fault. I was on way back from taking load up to Palatka. It was raining. Hard. A small car cut in front of me. Traffic slowed for some reason, and I couldn’t stop in time. When I hit the car…boom.” He spread his hands. “She blew up like a bomb.”

  Mike finally looked up and I saw the haunted expression in his eyes. “Woman inside. Dead. I couldn’t get her out.”

  He tried to rescue her, which explained the injured hand. As a Rocket driver, Mike just shot up the humanity scale in my estimation. “Have you already been arraigned?”

  At his blank look, I explained. “Have you been before a judge yet?”

  “No.”

  I frowned. Once charged, the state is required to bring the defendant before a judge within twenty-four hours.

  Suddenly, Mike smiled. “Oh, you think police arrest me.”

  I laid down the pen. “You haven’t been charged? Then why are you here?”

  “The cops are checking into crash, to see who was in the wrong. The boss said I should come here and tell you about the accident, just in case. You know…” He gestured with his uninjured hand. “To be ready. I can’t lose my job. I have family to support.”

  Possibly the company was more worried about a civil suit and wanted me to keep an eye on the criminal investigation. Even if Mike was cleared of any wrongdoing by the police, on the civil side, a good insurance defense attorney could find ways to pound on comparative negligence. I would have to call my Rocket contact in the morning to find out what was going on.

  “Where did the accident take place?”

  I took down that information and went through Mike’s account several more times as I made extensive notes. While it didn’t sound as if there was any basis for a criminal charge, I was only hearing his side. In the morning I would track down a copy of the initial accident report.

  I escorted the driver through the silent hallway to the reception area. The staff had gone for the night. Only light and sounds of a keyboard came from Nicole’s office. At the door, instead of taking his leave, Mike stood studying me.

  Alarm kick started my pulse. If he tried anything, I could grab the lamp in the corner and give him a good whack, all the while yelling bloody murder. Once she heard the noise, Nicole would hit the panic button installed under her desk.

  “Was there something you forgot?” I asked.

  He slowly shook his head but his eyes had that puppy-dog sad look. “You will give me a better defense than you gave poor Borys, yes?”

  I opened and shut my mouth. He nodded and left.

  Slowly, I returned to my office. Mike Staminski definitely was not your standard Rocket employee. Normally, I wouldn’t want to be caught in a dark alley with one of them, but this guy might actually not slit a person’s throat in order to save his own hide.

  Sighing, I jammed several files into my briefcase before I grabbed my purse out of the bottom desk drawer. It had been one hell of a day and was going to be a long night, preparing for tomorrow’s hearings. Crossing the hallway, I poked my head into Nicole’s office.

  “I’m out of here. Are you going to be all right?”

  She looked up from the computer monitor. “I’ll be fine. I just want to finish up this brief for my motion hearing. How did the client meeting go?”

  I hesitated and then shook off my sense of unease. “Fine. For once, no pending charge. Just a precautionary interview.” I didn’t mention what the charge could be.

  “That’s good. I’ll see you in the morning.” Nicole resumed her typing.

  I said good night, exiting through the back door to the parking lot. I unlocked the car and slid into the front seat. I paused with the key in the ignition. I’d had the car for six months, having bought it right after I fired the therapist, who argued against sudden changes to my lifestyle. Before, I had owned a string of dependable, moderate-sized sedans. Now I loved the Mustang’s power and feel on the road. Was this another change brought on by my near-death experience?

  Shaking my head, I fired up the engine and smiled with pleasure as the floor throbbed under my feet. As I switched on the headlights, the clouds opened up and fat raindrops became a dense curtain of rain. I turned onto the street and began my route home. When I noticed I was going over the speed limit, I eased up on the accelerator.

  Was my caution because of the weather or the horrendous details of the accident I just heard about?

  Weather, I decided, as I stopped at a red light at Okeechobee and Parker. Idly, I watched traffic pouring into the Kravis Center for a performance of a Broadway show. When the light changed, I eased forward. Halfway through the intersection, headlights spilled into my car from the left and a horn blared frantically. Then the angry squeal of brakes.

  Oh damn.

  My body jolted as the whole world exploded around me and everything became slow motion. Metal screamed, glass cracked. I hit my brakes and clung to the steering wheel. As the Mustang spun, I jerked forward. Pain exploded in my head and I slid into black oblivion.

  Chapter Two

  I breathed a sigh of relief as the taxi pulled up in front of my townhouse. Safe at last.

  Twenty-four hours in a hospital was more a sentence than I could bear. Once the medical staff had drawn all my blood—and they call attorneys bloodsuckers!—and carted me to every machine in the building for endless tests with the verdict remaining the same, I decided enough was enough. I hadn’t called either my family or my law partners to let them know about my release. The last thing I needed was any more fussing.

  Three hundred and eighty-four days ago I had been through the same experience after being shot. Solemn-faced doctors poking at me like a lab rat interspersed with visits from my worried parents and friends. Coming within a bullet crease of being dead left me with pounding headaches and a blank slate in terms of memory.

  “Post traumatic amnesia” was the charming medical jargon. My mind hadn’t been able to handle whatever happened that night and pled the Fifth Amendment every time I tried to recall anything.

  I didn’t like amnesia one damn bit. All my life I had met problems head on, toe-to-toe.

  Not knowing who killed my client and took a shot at me made me increasingly restless, edgy. My partners had even called me reckless.

  So what if my personality had undergone a change? I would take that over how I felt now, after the car accident—spooked by the sensation I was split in two.

  I fumbled in my purse and paid the driver. As I exited from the cab, the blazing sun made me feel lightheaded. I stood at the curb, making sure my legs were solid under me.

  I lied to the attending doctor about my condition in order to gain a release. I’d been through so many brain trauma tests that I knew the drill and how to respond to questions.

  Besides, what was I supposed to say? “Hey Doc, any truth to those rumors of near-death experiences? That your soul separates to go toward the light and then returns to your body when you don’t die? Any chance mine didn’t quite make it?” I felt like I’d been ripped apart and hadn’t been put back together again.

  Those questions would have been a guaranteed ticket for a visit with the staff psychiatrist.

  I gripped the bag containing my belongings and took a deep breath. I could make it to the house.

  If I had a similar near-death experience the night I was shot, I didn’t remember it. But I certainly never had this strange sensation of being out of alignment.

  What I needed was some action. Determined not to be weak, I strode up the walkway to the front door. As soon as I changed clothes, I would go to the dealership to check on my poor mangled Mustang and arrange for a rental. I also nee
ded to call the family and my partners to let them know I was home. I turned the key in the lock and opened the door.

  I stepped into the dim foyer. A wave of dizziness roared over me, almost sucking me into its undertow. I stumbled, falling back against the door. My vision blurred and I closed my eyes, willing myself not to faint. Disconnected images flickered through my mind without rhyme or reason.

  I don’t know how long I stood there before the sickness finally receded. My T-shirt clung to my damp skin and sweat beaded along my temples. I opened my eyes. That spell was worse than any I’d ever experienced. I needed to sit down before I fell. I took a step forward toward the living room.

  Confused, I halted and ran my fingers through my short hair. What the hell? This wasn’t my hallway, not with those awful mustard-colored walls. I was in the wrong house. I half turned to leave but saw my key was still in the lock.

  I took in a deep breath and released it slowly. This wasn’t the looking glass and I wasn’t Alice skipping around Wonderland. Logic said this had to be my place, but…I stepped around the divider—was that an Oriental screen?—and flicked on the overhead light switch.

  I blinked.

  Instead of the tranquil nature colors of muted browns and greens and sleek modern furniture I preferred, the walls were crimson red and the furnishings black. Talk about a nightmare.

  Wait a minute. Maybe this was one. I certainly had plenty in the hospital. I pinched my arm and scanned the room again. Nope. Still garish.

  I sucked in another breath and went down the abbreviated hall to my bedroom. Slumping against the doorjamb, I stared in horror at the emerald green walls and ornate black furniture. I lifted my hand to my throbbing head.

  If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it stunk. If it was a surprise present, it failed miserably. If it was one of those TV makeover shows, it was a bad mistake. I wanted the rooms repainted and my own furniture back. I wanted answers. Now.

  I tossed aside the plastic bag containing my personal effects from the hospital and stalked to the phone in the living room. Without thinking, I punched out a sequence of numbers. I tapped my foot as I waited for an answer. A mechanical voice said, “This number is no longer in service.”

  Huh. Probably a smart move by…Who had I been calling? No matter. Next suspect. I dialed another number and once more the mechanical voice came on. Had all the people I knew changed phone numbers?

  I have a quirky ability to recall phone numbers, so I didn’t have one of those little black books. Panic built as I entered number after number. I could have kissed the receiver when someone finally picked up. Relief had me babbling without allowing the other person to say a word.

  “Hi, this is Carling. I just got out of the hospital and you wouldn’t believe what I found when I got home!”

  Click.

  I lowered the phone. Of all the nerve. I would chew him out…or was it a her? Who had I called?

  What was wrong with me? I hadn’t taken any medications before leaving the hospital but maybe one was still fogging my brain. I glanced at my watch. Jared should still be at work. While I hated to bother him at the office, I would call this a real emergency.

  I paused before I entered his number. When had I last seen him? In the hospital? Our relationship couldn’t be called normal—Jared was a state attorney and often my enemy in court. But the sparks had been so strong between us that we cautiously began dating only to become engulfed in a passionate albeit strained relationship.

  I dialed his direct number and comfort surged through me when his deep, sonorous voice answered, “Jared Manning.” How I loved listening to him, whether in court, in bed, or on the phone.

  “Jared, this is Carling. The strangest thing has happened. When I got home—”

  “Carling.” He broke in. “To what do I owe the honor, after months of silence? Does one of your clients need a deal?”

  Whatever precarious foundation I was standing on dropped away. Darkness gathered in my head and the throbbing increased. “What’s wrong? You sound ticked.”

  Impatience snapped in his tone. “What game are you playing at?”

  Man, did he sound pissed. But I needed an anchor in this never-ending nightmare so I kept a light tone. “Stop pulling my leg. If we had a fight since you visited me in the hospital, I don’t remember it at all.”

  He had been sitting by my side in the hospital when I woke up, right? I couldn’t recall a fight, although arguments often permeated our relationship. All I had was a foggy memory of seeing his concerned expression when I regained consciousness.

  “Carling, stop. I’m preparing for a trial and don’t have time for your perverse sense of humor.” He paused. “You know damn well we broke up last year.”

  My world turned upside down. Jared wasn’t my boyfriend anymore? Without a word, I hung up and sat on the sofa. What was wrong with me?

  Slowly, I looked around and saw scuffmarks on a nearby wall, a dent on the cocktail table, a magazine tossed on the opposite chair: all signs that the room had been lived in.

  I had redecorated my house. Why didn’t I remember?

  Was I losing my mind?

  I curled up into a ball and pressed my forehead against my legs. Fragments of images blurred, shifted and refocused like a kaleidoscope. Shards of glass flying at me as a car windshield shattered. An overweight, balding man with a frightened expression crying out. A silhouette on the wall. Flashes of light. Jared’s face.

  Minutes, hours later, I wondered if the pounding in my head would ever end. Then I realized someone was at the door. I was in no shape for company, but the last thing I wanted was to be alone any longer. I staggered up and groaned from stiff, protesting muscles. That sofa was the most uncomfortable thing I’d ever sat on. I gimped to the door and opened it.

  Horrified, I tried to slam it shut.

  Jared Manning slapped his hand against it. Since I knew I would lose this particular physical battle, I let go and he stepped inside.

  “Hello, Carling.” His restrained greeting and remote expression cut through me.

  “Jared.” Feeling embarrassed and vulnerable, I folded my arms protectively under my breasts but managed to meet his steady stare. Obviously, he had come straight from the office. The knot on his burgundy silk tie was loosened, the sleeves on his tailored white shirt rolled up, revealing tanned muscular forearms. His wavy black hair was ruffled as if he had run his hand through it. His icy blue eyes were sharp, but deep lines of exhaustion radiated from the corners.

  Kate once told me that, with his mouth and bone structure, he looked like a cross between a poet and a pirate. A fanciful description for the cool, detached man before me. All I saw was the state’s lead prosecutor was not pleased to be here. His gaze flicked to my forehead where a bandage covered a long cut.

  “Nicole told me you had been in a car accident. Are you all right?”

  “You spoke to Nicole?”

  “After you hung up on me, I called the office.”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure. I’m fine. You always said I was hardheaded.”

  His lips thinned. “I said you were stubborn, for good reason.” Before I could react, he moved past me.

  “What did you do to this room? It looks like the set from a bad Kung Fu movie.”

  I stiffened. “I like it.” While his comment mirrored my own opinion, I felt contrary and compelled to defend the room. My reaction was instinctive. I used to love playing devil’s advocate to get a rise out of him.

  Jared shrugged and paused in his inspection to pick up a contorted vase. Women may go for his transparent good looks, but it was his hands I noticed. Their long, slender shape belied their strength.

  I had loved them on my body. The way they made me feel like delicate porcelain one moment and then swept me into a storm of pleasure the next. Yearning flickered deep inside me, causing me to shift uneasily.

  Immediately, Jared’s attention zeroed in on me as he replaced the vase. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.�
� I wandered to the sofa but felt too restless to sit.

  “Why did you call me?”

  “I-I…” I swallowed, hard. What could I say? Because I couldn’t separate the past from the present? He would think I was crazy. Hell, even I was starting to believe it.

  “I called your number by mistake. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

  “Don’t feed me a line, Carling. You said my name, and talked as if we did so every day.”

  Once we had, my heart whispered. The ache in my chest was so strong that I placed the heel of my palm over my heart and pressed.

  Jared swore and strode over to me. “You’re not well. You’re pale as a ghost. Sit.” With slight pressure on my shoulders, he forced me onto the sofa. “You should still be in the hospital. Did you walk out or did they release you?”

  I forced my lips to curve. “They released me. I’m fine. Just a bit woozy.”

  He sat on the cocktail table, knee-to-knee with me. “We were friends once, Carling, even before we were lovers. Talk to me.”

  Oh, yeah, he still had that power to suck in a witness before shredding them to death. Once I had been able to talk to him. Long, intense conversations. If I said the words, maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid.

  I looked down at his clasped hands and shrugged. “I’m experiencing some…uh, confusion.”

  “That’s not unusual with brain injuries.” Jared had sat in on a number of my initial conferences with doctors so he was almost as much an expert as I was on the subject.

  “My MRI and CT scan were normal, showing only the old injury. But…”

  “What?”

  I swallowed. “I seemed to be having trouble differentiating between now and the past.”

  He reached out and covered my hands. “What do you mean?”

  “When I first walked in here, I didn’t remember decorating my place like this. Then when I began calling friends, all the numbers were disconnected…except for yours. It was as if I were living in the past.”

  “That’s why you thought we were still a couple?” His tone was kind, as if he were speaking to a child, not a former lover.