by RC Boldt
I refuse.
The tiny alcove beneath the set of stairs beckons me, dark and shadowed, and I drag her there, tucking her arms and legs inside the small area with me.
Stale sweat and gunpowder linger in the air. I try to calm my racing heart and mind because I need to form a plan. I have to be smart.
I’m not sure how long I sit with my mother’s head in my lap, attempting to smooth her matted hair from where it sticks to the wound—a bullet hole along the side of her forehead. Blood from the one that pierced her chest leaks, staining my own dress.
The sight of a man’s boots startles me, but I rein in my fear. I muster every ounce of bravery I have and stare into the face of who I’m sure is intent on murdering me. I may only be eight years old, but I vow to put up a fight.
He holds himself very still, hands free of any weapons. Tall and handsome. Somehow, I sense he’s not from here. His nose and cheeks look like they’ve been carefully carved. His hair is cut very short.
He stares down at me with piercing blue eyes, inspecting me like I’m some unique creature he’s never seen before.
His accent is different from what I’m used to hearing. “You’re very brave.”
His lips part as if he’s about to say more but abruptly spins around. Now, with two weapons suddenly in his hands, he fires on three more armed men who charge into the area and kills them instantly.
He turns back, his expression fierce. “I can save you, but you must come with me now. Quick.” He slides one gun into a holster beneath the back of his untucked button-down shirt and holds out a hand to me.
I know it’s not wise to go with strangers—Mama always told me this—but something about this man tells me to trust him. That I’ll be safer with him.
I stare down at Mama’s face one last time and drop a light kiss to her nose. Just like she does to me when she tells me she loves me. “I love you, Mama,” I whisper softly.
Then I rise and take the man’s hand.
Chapter 4
DR. LIAM KING
Four days later
“Pupils normal.” I pocket my penlight, continuing to speak into my micro-recorder. “Pulse on the lower scale, but otherwise normal.”
It could be the norm for her, as it often is for those who are religious with their exercise routine.
While I check the woman’s vitals, I wonder if she’ll rouse today. She’s been in and out of consciousness over the past two days, but after the first episode, it’s been limited to a blinking of her eyes before they fall closed. Her body’s been through the wringer, and it inherently does what it needs to in order to heal.
The one small mercy is that I haven’t had any patients stop by. I’m not sure how to explain the mysterious woman restrained in one of the exam rooms.
As soon as I set my stethoscope aside, I catch movement from my periphery. Wide blue eyes regard me, possessing a sharp awareness laced with wariness.
Clicking off my micro-recorder, I pocket it just as she parts her lips to speak.
Her voice cracks on several syllables. “Where am I?”
“You’re in my clinic, in my home.” With a slight pause, I ask, “Would you like some water?”
Her gaze darts around the room. I get the impression she’s cataloging everything she sees before returning her attention to me. “Why am I tied down?”
“Because you became agitated and reopened one of your wounds. It was for your safety.” I nod, gesturing to the restraints. “I can remove them if you promise to take it easy.”
“Who are you?”
“Dr. King.”
“Please take these off.” Her hands move erratically against the restraints. The pulse monitor beeps wildly.
“Easy. I’ll get them off. You need to be careful not to aggravate your wounds.” I unfasten the restraints while closely surveying her.
Patients in this state can be unpredictable, which means I need to be on my guard.
“Where exactly am I?” Frantic blue eyes scan the room as I remove the strap connected to the exam table. She rotates her wrist, gently rubbing the skin. I’m sure she’s noticing the small effects decorating the walls.
My patients are prideful, and when they’re unable to pay me in cash or with produce or meats, they offer their art.
At the top of one wall hangs a small but beautiful painting of a scarlet macaw. Another wall hosts a unique work where the artist created a flat clay replica of a scorpion, along with another painting of toucans. Some sculptures sit on the bookshelf in one far corner.
Voice turning even more urgent, she hastily adds, “And what happened to me?”
“You’re in Panama. Specifically in Punta Blanca, which is along the Pacific coast. Not far from the border of Costa Rica.
“And I was hoping you’d be able to fill me in on what happened to you.” She continues to stare around the room, her eyes flicking back to me every few seconds, tracking my movements.
After a beat, I offer again, “Now, how about a little water? I’m sure your throat is dry—”
“Do you know my name?”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. “Excuse me?”
Her chest heaves, and the movement clearly causes her pain, but her lips flatten stubbornly. “What is my name?” Those blue eyes are troubled now, fear edging in, while distress practically oozes from her voice.
“You don’t…know your name?” I ask slowly, carefully gauging her reaction.
“No.” She swallows audibly, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t remember anything.”
Fuck.
I scoot my rolling stool closer and take a seat beside her. Peering at her, I try to decipher whether she’s being completely honest.
I’ve learned to be suspicious over the years, especially with living in part of the denser, remote jungle areas bordering the coast.
“Well, what I can tell you is”—I lace my fingers casually—“you’re not pregnant, you have an IUD for birth control, and the panel I ran on you says you’re negative for any sexually transmitted diseases.
“You’re also blood type O, and your X-rays showed some broken bones—both previously incurred and current.
“Two of your ribs on your right side showed current hairline fractures, likely sustained during your…accident.”
I pause for even a flicker of acknowledgment but get nothing. Nothing, that is, except witness her expression bloom with stark terror.
“I removed two bullets from your shoulder and two more from your side near your hip. You also suffered a considerable stab wound.
“The X-rays indicated you most recently broke your index finger on your left hand. It’s since healed.”
She stares down at her hand, now trembling slightly, as if it’s grown a head of its own. I don’t bother informing her of the other bones in her body that indicated a previous break or fracture.
Broken left wrist.
Fracture near the base of her right elbow.
Fractures of most of the small bones in her right foot.
Broken nose.
Fractured jaw.
Straightening her fingers, she wiggles them before her eyes cut to mine. A thread of panic lines her tone. “I should remember something like that, shouldn’t I?”
I scan her features again for evidence of deceit but come up empty.
I’m dealing with a woman who has a severe case of amnesia.
Sonofabitch.
Chapter 5
HER
Panama.
I’m in Panama.
Punta Blanca.
I cycle this through my mind, hoping for something—for recognition or some hint of a memory of being here before or planning a visit.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Painted a bland off-white color, the walls hold a few framed certificates citing Dr. King’s license and certification to practice medicine. Almost everything else is various artwork.
Panama. I’m in Panama. I recite this internally, but it’s to no a
vail once again.
Staring down at my hands, the IV port secured in one, I trace my thumb over the index finger. The one he said was recently broken. Panic wells within me, cresting higher and higher.
Beep-beep-beep-beep! A device evidently monitoring my pulse echoes in the room, my heart thundering wildly in my chest.
“Hey.” Dr. King’s voice edges its way through my anxiety. My eyes snap to meet his. “You won’t do yourself any good by getting worked up.”
A tear trickles free, skating down my cheek. I pinch my eyes closed at the onslaught of shame elicited by that small display of weakness.
You are strong and brave. The words flicker through my mind, sounding foreign yet somehow familiar. Suppressing the urge to allow more tears to break free, I draw in a breath only to wince at the searing pain radiating along my left side.
He rises, eyeing me sharply. “I can increase your pain medication—”
“No.” The word emerges from my lips automatically, as if derived from rote memory I can’t access. Breathe through the pain. “With all due respect, Doctor, I’d rather not be incoherent in…the state I’m in.”
Vulnerability blankets me in a suffocatingly thick layer, and a lump of unease lodges in my throat. “How did I get here?”
“I was out doing my usual rounds before nightfall and found you washed up on shore.”
Alarm spreads through me. What the hell?
“Initially, your pulse was very weak, but I got you in here and did my best to patch you up.”
My mind reels as confusion about my current situation pummels me. Suddenly, a thought strikes me. “Did you contact the police?”
His steady scrutiny continues, presumably gauging my emotional and mental condition as well. “I have concerns about contacting the authorities, because I’ll be honest with you…”
A millisecond of a pause punctuates his response, his gaze turning more intense. “Your injuries align with those of someone entangled with the wrong side of the law. And the police here aren’t always the ones in control of the area. I know a few good ones who won’t take bribes, but they’re still the minority, and it’s not always the best route to take.”
Unlacing his fingers, he braces his palms on his bent knees, the rolling stool giving a faint squeak at the slight movement. “Another concern is the possibility that whoever did this is still searching for you.” He lets his words hang between us, and they’re ripe with terrifying possibilities.
As I follow his train of thought, my tone is solemn while fear coils tightly inside me, looping in a knot. “And if we tell the police—even if they’re the good ones—and it gets out to those who don’t operate legitimately, it could lead whoever did this straight back here.”
This man has already saved my life. I certainly can’t repay him by bringing whatever shit I was embroiled in to his door.
“But I’m leaving it up to you,” Dr. King tacks on. “It’s ultimately your decision whether you’d like me to contact the authorities.” His expression remains impassive, yet his eyes are laser sharp. I get the impression this man is carefully listening to my verbal responses and reading my features to gauge my thoughts.
I don’t have to second-guess myself here, however. There’s no way I want him to alert the police—at least not until I have a clearer idea of my circumstances. A better idea of the total risk involved with doing so.
“No. Please don’t contact them.” My response is clear and concise. It’s the one thing I am certain about.
A thread of panic radiates through me as my mind cycles through the dire reality of my situation. “Will my memory come back?”
He exhales slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as if attempting to form the best response that won’t send me into a bigger tailspin of anxiety.
“With head injuries, there’s no telling. The best thing to do is take it day by day. Be patient. The mind is resilient.”
Curling my toes beneath the sheet and shifting my legs ever so slightly, I’m instantly grateful for the ability to move my limbs, even if it incites some pain. It’s now that I notice something else I hadn’t initially registered.
I wince. “I have a catheter?”
“I thought it best, considering the extent of your injuries and how long you’ve been in and out of consciousness.” He pauses briefly. “Once you’re feeling well enough to move without much pain, we’ll remove it.”
His gaze possesses an odd contradiction of being both unnerving and acting like a unique caress. Flecks of gold soften his stern brown eyes while dark scruff covers his jaw, adding to his undeniable attractiveness.
As I avert my gaze, my attention snags on my hands, tracing over the IV then to the cuff on my fingertip monitoring my pulse. Suddenly, the stark vision of my bare left hand strikes out at me. Before I can voice my question, Dr. King answers me.
“You didn’t have any identification or jewelry—no wedding ring or otherwise—and no identifiable tattoos. I’ve been checking the missing persons reports, but nothing has matched your description.”
My mind reels with confusion, battering away at me with questions I have no answers to.
Who would do this to me? What the hell happened? Is no one looking for me?
Screams of frustration claw their way up my throat, demanding to break free, but I do my best to stifle them.
When I take a shallow breath, mindful of my ribs, it still sends a lance of pain through me, but I clench my jaw resolutely. Inherently, I know I’m strong and I’ll get through this somehow.
“I’m sorry.” I lift my gaze to Dr. King’s.
Surprise flickers in his eyes. “What for?”
My pride may feel as battered as my body, but my gratitude still needs to be voiced. “For causing you so much trouble.”
His jaw clenches tight, and I wonder if he’s mistakenly interpreting my words as some sort of an insult. “It’s my job to take care of people.” Then quickly shifting back to our conversation, he says, “I’ll continue checking on the missing persons listings to see if anything comes up that matches your description.”
“Thank you.” I shift my head on the pillow, registering what I hadn’t noticed before. When I cautiously reach for my head, my ribs riot in protest on one side while my wounds vie for my attention on the other.
“Why do I have a shower cap on?” I wrinkle my nose after making a subtle movement and my hair shifts slightly within its confines. “My hair feels almost…gritty?” That’s putting it nicely. Perhaps it’s the least of my worries right now, but my hair feels gross and slightly itchy.
He links his fingers together once again. “I had to try to get the sand out of your hair, so I used some powder. I didn’t want the sand getting into your wounds and risking infection.”
My eyelids droop with exhaustion—mental, emotional, and physical. “Maybe tomorrow I can wash it?” Even amidst the lethargy pulling at me, there’s no mistaking the hopefulness in my tone.
“We can figure something out.” He tips his head to the side, uncannily astute. “How about a little pain medication, just to take the edge off?”
I part my lips to protest even that, but he efficiently tacks on, “You won’t be able to rest well enough to heal properly if you’re in constant discomfort.”
I hold his gaze for a beat before countering softly, “If you were in my position, would you?”
Surprise flickers in his features so quickly I wonder if I imagined it. “Honestly?”
I give a slight nod, regretting it instantly. As if it’s been bludgeoned to hell and back, my head has begun to throb incessantly. “Honestly.”
Brown eyes sweep over my covered body as though he’s cataloging my injuries. “If I had your injuries, yes. I’d accept something to take the edge off.”
Scanning the room again, I strain to see past the doorway. “Do you have other patients?”
“Not currently.”
Gently turning my head on the pillow to study him, I draw in a shallow breath, my ribs
protesting that subtle movement. “Okay. Just a little something for the pain. Please.”
He nods and rises from the rolling stool. Venturing over to the second set of cabinets mounted above a countertop and sink, he pulls keys from his pocket and releases the silver slide lock in place. Then he withdraws a vial and a syringe to add to my IV before locking the cabinet once again and pocketing his keys.
He works confidently, and when his eyes meet mine, a sense of comfort washes over me.
His expression remains unreadable—so calm and collected. “Get some rest.”
He regards me once again in that analytical, doctor-like way. “If you need something or your pain gets to be too much, just call for me. I’ll be in my office doing some work.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
He turns off the light but leaves the ceiling fan on, serving as a gentle breeze dancing over my skin.
“Rest up.” His deep voice lingers in the air long after he disappears from sight, ensconcing me in a safe cocoon.
And I give in to the urge to submit to sleep, inherently knowing this man will keep me safe.
Chapter 6
DR. LIAM KING
There’s often no predicting when the rain will hit during the rainy season and whether it will be heavy or light. Precipitation can range from little-to-none on one day, whereas the next can be a deluge.
Right now, the rain is nearly deafening as it pummels the metal roof, the sound echoing through the house.
In my small office, I sit in my chair and open the bottom desk drawer. Lifting the false bottom, I withdraw what’s stashed there.
Setting the items on my desk, I stare at them for a moment before inserting the clip into the pistol.
How many times have I contemplated this? In the beginning, the prospect haunted me by the second and in a vastly different way. Then things took a sharp turn and I used it to fuel me. I harnessed it to propel me day in and day out.