by T. F. Walsh
“You’ll be happy to know Mrs. Hart woke up this morning. It looks like she’s out of the woods for good. We took the bandages off her face, too. She’s still in a lot of pain, though. I’ll buzz the doctor for you.”
Cassie picked up the phone and pressed three numbers.
“Dr. Marion, Agent Spark is here . . . Okay.” She hung up. “She said she’d be out in a minute. Why don’t you go into the family lounge and have a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, Cassie.”
He continued to stare at her. Surely the young nurse understood he wanted to know more than she’d told him. He was surprised when she tore her gaze away from his.
“She’s really stiff and sore, but she was wide awake around eleven this morning. She’s been in and out a couple of times, but we’re keeping her sedated the rest of the day.”
She’d spoken openly to him of Nikki’s condition for six weeks. Why the sudden reticence? A patient’s call button sounded. Cassie looked up at the display above her head and smiled, the relief visible on her face.
“Mrs. Newcomb’s lonely. She probably wants her pillow fluffed. She goes to rehab tomorrow. Grouchiness aside, I’ll miss her. Not many of the patients up here can even talk, let alone complain.” She laughed. “I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies. By the time they can argue with me, they’re out of ICU and off to another part of the hospital.”
She stood and waddled down the hall in the direction he’d just come.
Surprised by the way she’d dismissed him, Jason went in the lounge to wait for the doctor, but he didn’t like the situation one damn bit. The family lounge, donated by one of San Francisco’s wealthier families, was a quiet and inviting place, unlike most hospital waiting rooms. The walls were painted a soft blue, and through the bank of windows, the top spans of the Golden Gate Bridge he’d crossed on his way here were visible. Instead of hard metal and plastic chairs, the room boasted several comfortable recliners as well as two love seats and a sofa long enough to accommodate his six-foot-four-inch frame. The muted forty-inch flat screen mounted to the far wall had been left on CNN.
A single brew coffee machine stood in the corner with all the necessary fixings, and he made himself a cup. How many was that today? Five? No, six. He probably should cut back on the caffeine. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped.
Beside the coffee machine was a basket of snacks, and he helped himself to a package of cheese and crackers. He’d left Larosa around half-past one, and it was almost five. His stomach grumbled—a definite reminder he’d skipped lunch.
Jason took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and opened the top button on his crisp, white shirt. He wished he’d taken the time to go home and change into jeans and a polo shirt, but the minute Dr. Marion had called, he’d dropped everything. He had a clean shirt and a few basic toiletries in the car that would do him for the night, and he’d asked Molly to book him a room at the Essex—it wasn’t five star, but it was clean.
He stared out the window watching the clouds gather on the horizon and the fog rolling in from the bay. They’d have rain tonight. A cold, damp sixty degrees chilled you to the bone. He sighed.
Six weeks and they were still spinning their wheels. They needed a break soon. The killers had to be pros. The bodies had been found in the garage and the kitchen. Other than the master bedroom and the den, no other part of the house had been touched, and there hadn’t been a single print they couldn’t account for. Thomas Lincoln had posted a $100,000 reward for information leading to a conviction in the case, but so far, other than the usual cranks and nut jobs, not one viable lead had come in.
His cell phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. It was a text message from Molly. Brad, his old partner now working in the San Francisco office of the FBI, had asked to see him as soon as possible.
With Nikki awake and now Brad’s need to see him, he informed the dispatcher he’d be staying for the rest of the week. The door opened and Irene Marion, dressed in her usual green scrubs entered. Her hair was shorn as short as she could get it and covered her head in tight curls. Her café au lait skin was clear of any cosmetics, and the bags under her eyes testified to the fact she was tired. She went straight to the coffee machine and brewed the strongest coffee there. As soon as the cup was full, she swallowed a healthy mouthful of the scalding beverage.
“Early start today. We had a gang shooting late last night. A seven-year-old girl got caught in the crossfire. I’ve removed the slug from her brain and stabilized her, but she’s in God’s hands.” She took another mouthful of coffee. “I get so angry when it’s the innocent ones. Thanks for coming in, Jason. I knew what traffic would be like today, but I really needed to talk to you.”
“Irene, like I’ve told you. Nikki Hart is a top priority case. You want to see me—I’m here.”
She nodded. “Cassie told you Nikki came out of the coma this morning. There doesn’t seem to be any severe brain damage. She can see and speak, understand what you’re telling her, and she appears to have all of her working memory intact. But she has a severe case of retrograde amnesia.”
“Damn!” Jason shook his head. They’d talked about that possibility as well as permanent brain damage, but he’d hoped they’d get lucky. “Temporary?”
“I don’t know. I’d hoped any memory loss would be lacunar—limited to the events of her attack—but it looks more serious. There was substantial bleeding in the medial temporal lobe as well as in the hippocampus. She doesn’t know who she is and didn’t recognize her mother, which suggests more memory loss than we expected.”
The doctor took a final mouthful of coffee, and Jason could see her trying to figure out how to explain things simply.
“Like most people who suffer retrograde amnesia, Nikki will have access to most of her working memory. She’ll be able to read and write, play the piano if she knows how, and since she was a graphic artist, she’ll be able to draw, but it’s a crapshoot as to whether she’ll recover recent memories. In time, older memories may come back, but I can’t guarantee that. We do know she doesn’t have anterograde amnesia. She remembered me from the first time she saw me, so she can create new memories.”
“So, what you’re telling me is that Nikki won’t be able to help us solve the crime.” He sighed. “This will end up another unsolved mystery, and those bastards will get away with four murders—Dr. Hart, his nurse, his son, and his newborn daughter.”
The infant girl had hung on for all of seven minutes, and her death had hit him harder than anything else. Her mother had tried so hard to save her. He’d heard the tape. If only he’d arrived even ten minutes earlier.
Irene fixed her gaze on him. “I didn’t say that. What I meant was, it’s unlikely, but unlikely isn’t impossible. In many cases, retrograde amnesia is temporary and can be helped along by revealing information to the patient concerning the memories they’ve lost. Some doctors have had success with electroshock therapy, but do you really want to put the woman through that? We both know Nikki has defied the odds for six weeks. She should have been dead long before she made it to my table. I wouldn’t count her out.”
She grabbed a package of chocolate chip cookies from the basket, took one, and offered him the other. He declined.
“So, we still have a chance. How long will it take?”
“I don’t know. A lot will depend on her character and her state of mind. Sometimes, after near death experiences, character changes. Passive people become assertive. Some even become aggressive. A person afraid of flying suddenly enjoys it. We’ll start running tests tomorrow to see how her brain is functioning. Most of her physical injuries healed well, but she has yet to eat and walk on her own. Her speech is slow and slurred, but that’ll correct itself over time. What concern me are the possible psychological ramifications of both remembering and not remembering. She panicked this morning when she realized she couldn’t recall anything about herself. In some ways, losing some of those memories may be a blessing, but there�
�ll be a lot of guilt once she learns the whole truth about what happened to her.”
Irene stared out the window. The clouds had moved inland bringing darkness earlier than usual. Jason stood next to her, drinking his own brew, impatient for her to continue, well aware by now that she wouldn’t be rushed. She hadn’t become the country’s second best neurosurgeon working at one of the top teaching hospitals in the United States by rushing.
Irene finished her cookie and reached for the one Jason had refused.
“We took the facial and cranial bandages off today. Her mother took the changed appearance and memory loss harder than I expected. Mrs. Lincoln’s not a strong person. I suspect she’s got mental health issues, but since I’m not her doctor . . . ” She turned away from the darkened window and stared at him. “I don’t know why you’ve come here each week, but I suspect guilt plays a large role in it. Nikki Hart is going to need a friend, someone not bound up in the memories she no longer has, someone without expectations she may never meet. Many doctors believe that a person in a coma is aware of sounds and voices around them. If that’s true, your voice may be among the few she recognizes.”
“I won’t bail on her, Doc.”
The doctor looked at him strangely before tossing the paper cup in the garbage can. “I didn’t realize you were friends. I should have. It explains a lot.”
“We aren’t friends.” Jason admitted the truth reluctantly, wanting to set the doctor straight. Irene smiled enigmatically, and Jason bristled. “She’s a key witness as well as the victim.” The smile stayed on Irene’s face, but she nodded.
What was it with people? Did all minds jump into the gutter just because a man was concerned for a woman? He wasn’t some randy old satyr. He could keep it in his pants. Sure he felt guilty as sin for what had happened, but this was business, strictly business. Besides, Nikki Hart wasn’t his type.
“The bandages came off this morning,” she broke into his mood. “Dr. Fuller did an excellent job. I can see some resemblance to the woman in the pictures her mother left in the drawer beside her bed. Maybe I just want something to be easier for her.” She sighed and shook her head.
“The family is being difficult. Since Nikki didn’t recognize her mother, Nadia has been demanding other doctors examine her daughter, implying the memory loss may be my fault. Lincoln money speaks loudly, and the endowment they promised the hospital has put a lot of pressure on the administration to comply.” She scowled. “So Eli James, our staff psychiatrist, will speak to Nikki in the morning. It could take weeks, months, even years for her to remember anything, if she’s going to at all. Rushing things may just cause her more pain. Frankly, I hope she doesn’t remember this. I wouldn’t wish those memories on my worst enemy.”
Jason nodded. He knew what a pain in the ass Thomas Lincoln could be. “When can I talk to her?”
“She’s probably asleep, but you can go in and see her before you leave. Talk to her, but don’t talk about the case until I tell you to. Eli has a lot of experience working with retrograde amnesia victims. We’ll just have to wait and see, but I believe we have a more immediate problem, and that’s why I called you and insisted you come in today.”
“What could be more important than what you’ve told me?”
“The press, Jason, the press.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sent Mrs. Lincoln home with a sedative this morning. She made quite a scene. There were people in the lounge, including a stringer for the San Francisco Investigator who was here to find out about my shooting victim. I’m sure he recognized Nadia. There’s been nothing about the case in the paper in weeks. Most people probably think Nikki Hart died. If the reporter puts two and two together, the fact she’s awake could make the front page news tomorrow.”
“Damn! Just what she needs, more publicity. The place will be crawling with reporters.”
“It isn’t the reporters who concern me. I need to protect my patient. Should I issue a press statement and make it clear she doesn’t remember anything? If making sure she was dead was part of the plan, and the killer knows he failed . . . ”
Then he’ll be coming after her to finish the job. As much as the publicity surrounding Nikki’s amnesia would strip her of what little privacy she’d garnered staying out of the news these last six weeks, it would also put her in the spotlight making her highly visible, and that might keep the killers at bay until he could figure out what to do. Jason clearly heard a man’s voice from the 911 tape echo in his mind: No survivors.
He looked at his watch—it was almost six. “Is there any way we can get it on the news tonight? I’ll call her father and arrange for around-the-clock security. I know the hospital has security guards who patrol throughout the place, but we’ll need something more concentrated.”
“I’ll call KWN TV. Meredith Sykes owes me a favor. Why don’t you go in and see Nikki while I see what I can set up?”
Irene left the lounge to go back to her office and he pulled out his cell phone. The last thing he wanted to do was ask Thomas Lincoln for help, but the man had money, and money spoke loudly.
Chapter Five
She’d been walking through the maze for hours, high stone walls that vanish into nothingness. She was exhausted. Someone’s just ahead of her, but try as she might, she can’t close the gap between them. If she can catch up, they’ll help her find her way out. She turns the next corner, and sadness grips her. The passage is straight, and empty. They’ve gone.
The wall on her left starts to crumble, and she stands on a terrace by the ocean. She inhales deeply. It’s beautiful here. This is her sanctuary. She looks out and watches the sun slowly sink into the water, a fiery orange ball begging to be painted.
There’s an easel in front of her. A disembodied hand holding a brush paints the glorious blue sky decorated with pink and purple clouds. The orange sun turns blood red and starts to drip down the canvas, marring the golden sea, destroying the painting. The man silhouetted on the nearby cliff is soon covered in blood.
The smell changes—the sickly sweet, coppery scent of blood is overpowered by the bouquet of hundreds of roses. The odor overwhelms her, and she gags. All around her, rose bushes encroach on the blood-covered stones beneath her feet. Petals fall from the red blossoms and turn into drops of blood. The pool rises. Now it covers her feet. A demon materializes beside her and grabs her. She struggles, tries to pull away, but she’s unable to move, the thick liquid lapping at her ankles holding her firmly in place. The fine silk of her blouse tears, exposing her lace bra to his leering face.
“That’s how you want to play it? Tease me for days and then play hard to get? I don’t think so.”
The demon bends his head and kisses her roughly, bile rises in her throat, and suddenly she’s free. Another monster, a two-headed one, struggles with the demon who held her and wins. He grabs her, and his large hands are punishing bands of steel biting into her arms. Shackles snake out of his body and wrap themselves around her. She looks down, and the fetters have human faces, but they’re indistinct.
“How dare you defy me? You’re mine, only mine. Look at you? You might as well be naked.”
She lowers her gaze to take in the strapless ivory top and shorts that morph into an elaborate gown—a wedding gown, which slowly turns red as it absorbs the blood from the pool.
The scene changes again. She’s back in the maze searching for a way out, knowing she’s going to die here alone. This is her prison, her punishment.
“I’m here.” The silhouette stands at the next bend in the maze. “You’re safe now.”
She relaxes and reaches for his hand. Warmth fills her.
• • •
Jason hung up the phone and headed out of the lounge. My God, what an arrogant prick. Were all rich men like that? He hoped not.
He crossed the hall to Nikki’s room and stared at the closed door. He took a deep breath and pushed it open. The room had changed since his last visit. Most of the equipment surroun
ding the bed was gone. He grabbed the straight chair by the door and carried it over to the right side of the bed. He straddled it, leaning his arms on its back.
She was pale, but time in the hospital bleached color out of everyone. Her copper hair was short, with soft, baby-fine curls framing her face. There were small, slightly red scars along her left side of her jaw where they’d had to rebuild it. He was amazed at how well the doctor had repaired the damage. While the smaller nose and finely sculpted jaw did change her appearance, he could see the similarities Irene had mentioned. He reached into the drawer and pulled out the wedding picture Nadia Lincoln had placed there.
In the past few weeks he’d seen hundreds of pictures of Nikki Lincoln Hart. He examined the bride in the photograph. She looked happy and carefree. The groom looked stern and possessive. He’d learned a lot about the doctor over the course of the investigation. Life at the Hart house probably hadn’t been all sunshine and roses. He thought of the flowers on the kitchen floor—a peace offering?
There was no doubt Nikki had been a beautiful woman, and she still was in spite of what that monster had done to her. Her sculpted cheekbones might be more pronounced, but weight loss could account for that. Her eyes were closed, but those pleading hazel orbs haunted his sleep each night. What would it be like to see them clear and reflecting the happiness she’d shown on her wedding day? His eyes were drawn to her lips—perfect soft, pink lips begging to be kissed. Suddenly he wanted to kiss her so badly he ached. Maybe if he did, she’d wake up like Sleeping Beauty.
Now that thought would have Rick rolling on the floor laughing his ass off. Fairy tales are for children, not men like me.
He examined her face again. She’d almost lost the use of her left eye, but it had been repaired and other than a slight swelling and minor bruising still, the difference was unnoticeable. Irene had said the vision was impaired, but millions of people wore glasses. It was no big deal. She didn’t look any older now than the woman in the photograph. Hell of a way to get a facelift.