“Call them what you want, Doctor. You’re talking about places where people are put away. Locked away.” Locked away, just as Pastore had wanted.
“Commitment is rare. Patients often agree to the arrangements themselves. I take it Ms. Bennett has no one who would look after her at home.”
Matteo didn’t hesitate. He knew the answer to this question, morally if not legally.
“No. She doesn’t.”
“Then, we have a problem. I cannot justify keeping a patient with a broken wrist and some cuts and bruises in a hospital bed. Even if I could, these emotionally sterile surroundings are not the best for jogging a patient’s—”
“Matteo?”
Both men swung toward Ariel’s room. She stood framed within the open doorway, trembling. The line that had been in a vein on the back of her hand was gone.
Stafford rushed toward her, but Matteo got there first.
“Ariel! What the hell…?”
“I can’t stay in this place. I can’t!”
She swayed. He scooped her into his arms, carried her inside the room and carefully eased her onto the bed.
“Don’t let them keep me here!” She reached for his hand and clutched it like a lifeline. “Please.”
The expression on her face—desperation mixed with fear—sliced into him with the cold efficiency of knife.
“Are you remembering something?” he asked her in a low voice.
She shook her head. “I can’t explain it. All I know is that I have to get away. Someone wants to find me. And—and hurt me.”
It was the kind of statement people standing on the wrong side of sanity often made, and Pastore had said she was delusional. Important facts, but not the deciding one because he knew what Stafford didn’t.
Someone did want to find her.
Her husband.
Matteo sat down on the side of the bed and drew her into his arms. She collapsed against him. He held her close, rocked her gently until he felt her racing heartbeat start to slow.
“Please,” she whispered. “Help me.”
The doctor’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“Might we have a private word, Mr. Bellini?”
Matteo set Ariel back against the pillows.
“I’ll only be a minute,” he said. She looked at him through her poor, blackened eyes and he forced a smile he hoped was reassuring. “One minute, that’s all, and I’ll be back.”
The two men stepped into the quiet corridor. Stafford folded his arms over his chest.
“Mr. Bellini.” He hesitated. “I’m sure you found that…distressing.”
“Distressing?” Matteo barked a laugh. “Yes. You might call it distressing.”
“The CAT scans didn’t show any brain trauma beyond the concussion, but it might not have been conclusive.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Stafford said bluntly, “it’s possible Ms. Bennett is having hallucinations.”
“How can you tell if she is or she isn’t?”
“Unfortunately, we can’t.
“Then, it’s equally possible she’s telling the truth. Someone may actually be after her.”
“Is the patient on any medications?”
Pastore had said she was. He’d also said she took drugs. That was all he knew. Not names, not amounts, not with what frequency.
Again, he relied on his legal skills to answer the question without actually answering it.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, we ran the usual panoply of tests and Ms. Bennett tested positive for a variety of chemicals. Amphetamine. Benzodiazepine.” Stafford frowned at Matteo’s blank look. “Uppers. Downers. Is she ill?”
“She’s been a little depressed,” Matteo said carefully.
“Her blood levels suggest she hasn’t taken them recently. Still, I must be blunt, Mr. Bellini. Is she an addict?”
The honest answer was I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the lady. But that wasn’t true. He did know something about her. All of it involved Anthony Pastore, and none of it was good.
“I assure you, I’m not looking to make a police report, simply to know how best to treat her.”
“I don’t know anything about her use of drugs,” Matteo said. And he didn’t. He knew only what Tony had intimated, and things intimated were not facts.
Stafford tapped his index finger against his lips. “Her negative reaction to my suggestion that she take something for pain was interesting. Addicts would have leaped at the offer.”
Matteo nodded. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“What it comes down to is that there are many unanswered questions in this case. My recommendation is that we place Ms. Bennett somewhere where she can stabilize.”
“You mean, we should institutionalize her.”
“If she’s delusional, she needs a different setting. And if she really is in danger…” Stafford took a notebook from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ve made a list of places.”
Frowning, Matteo tucked his hands into his pockets, looked down, and scuffed his shoe against the tile floor.
“And if she doesn’t want to enter an institution?”
“Well, she’d have to be signed in by someone with her power of attorney.”
“Committed, you mean.”
“No. Not exactly. Not by court order. By, as I said, someone with the legal power to act on her behalf.” Stafford paused. “Have you that power, Mr. Bellini?”
Cristo. This got worse and worse.
“Mr. Bellini? Exactly what is your relationship to Ariel Bennett?”
Matteo raised his head and stared at the doctor. The question was straightforward. So was the answer. He had no relationship to her, and he certainly had no legal authority in this situation.
Why didn’t he just tell that to Stafford?
He was a man of logic and reason, but what was logic in the face of evil?
The ancient voices of his ancestors were whispering to him, warning him that Ariel Pastore stood in the path of something infinitely dangerous.
She had needed his help before and he hadn’t given it. Now, she needed it again. Could he live with himself if he walked away from her a second time?
“Mr. Bellini!”
Matteo blinked. Stafford’s eyes were fixed on him.
“I need an answer, sir. What is your relationship to Ariel Bennett?”
Only one response came to mind because only one response might work.
“I’m her lawyer.”
“I see.”
“I hold her power of attorney.”
“I don’t supposed you have proof of that with you.”
“No,” Matteo said calmly, “unfortunately, I don’t. But I can fax it to you as soon as I return to my office tomorrow.”
“And for now…?”
“For now, I want her discharged to my care.”
He waited for Stafford to tell him that was impossible, but the man’s response surprised him.
“Tonight? That’s quite unusual.”
“Ariel and I have a trip of several hours ahead of us, Doctor, and the last weather report I saw said a storm was moving in. I’d like to get started as soon as possible.”
That, at least, was not a lie. The snow seemed to be following him across the country.
“What if the police want to talk with her?”
What, indeed?
“You never told me anything about the accident. What kind was it?”
“There isn’t much to tell. It was snowing. And quite cold. The roads were slippery, the visibility poor. She was leaving the Greyhound terminal.”
“The bus terminal?”
Stafford nodded. “She’d just arrived. From New York City. There was a car parked at the curb. Evidently, the driver didn’t see her.”
Matteo’s eyes narrowed.
“Were there witnesses?”
“A couple. They said it looked as if Ms. Bennett saw the car at the last second and tri
ed to get out of its way. That’s probably the reason the car struck her a glancing blow. If it hadn’t…”
“The driver,” Matteo said sharply. “What did he say?”
“He didn’t. He just kept going.” The doctor shook his head. “This time of year, we get a lot of kids up here on winter break. They come to ski, to snowboard…” His mouth twisted. “To, what do they call it? To party.”
“Did anyone ID the driver?”
“Nobody could even give a description. Between snow coming down and the snow on the windshield…”
“What about the car?”
“Old. Dark. Plates covered with snow and ice.”
“In other words, the cops have nothing.”
“I’m afraid that’s correct.”
“Have they interviewed Ariel?”
“They tried, but she doesn’t remember anything.”
“Not even that she’d just gotten off a bus?”
“Nothing.”
Matteo’s blood seemed to chill. Ariel had run away from Pastore. She’d chosen to travel by bus. She’d been hit by a car the minute she stepped outside the terminal…
He took out his wallet, removed a business card.
“How’s this?” he said briskly. “I’ll give you my card. If the police want to talk with Ariel again, they can contact me.”
Stafford took the card, but he looked hesitant. Matteo offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“It’s all perfectly appropriate, legally,” he said, and hoped to hell it was, “if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Right. You’re a lawyer.” Stafford paused. “Ms. Bennett’s lawyer.”
“Yes.”
Stafford went on watching him, as if trying to read his mind. Then he stepped closer.
“Mr. Bellini. Is there something going on that I should know about?”
Matteo stared at the doctor. Wasn’t there some old Sicilian proverb about tossing the dice and letting fate take over?
If there wasn’t, there should have been, he decided, and went for broke.
“There’s something going on,” he said bluntly, “but it’s best for all of us if you don’t know about it.”
The neurologist didn’t answer. Then, just as Matteo began silently calling himself a fool, Stafford stepped back, his expression bland.
“Well,” he said briskly, “get that power of attorney document to me when you can. And if we’re going to discharge Ms. Bennett to your care, we should do it right away. The weather certainly isn’t getting any better.”
Matteo let out a breath. “Thank you.”
“I’ll write you a couple of prescriptions. Painkillers, an antibiotic she should take while her wounds heal. A nurse will get her ready to leave. I don’t suppose you brought any of her clothes along. Hers were pretty well shredded.”
“Sorry, no, I didn’t.”
“Not a problem.” Stafford started toward Ariel’s room, then turned back to Matteo. “Go easy with her, Mr. Bellini. Her emotional condition is fragile.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“If she starts to remember things, she may need your reassurance. It can be upsetting for amnesia patients to suddenly find details and facts about themselves rushing into their heads.”
“You mean, she’ll remember everything at once?”
“It’s unpredictable. She may do that, or she may suddenly get what I think of as memory blips. That, I suspect, is the more likely projection. However it happens, let her move at her own pace. Try not to prompt her, or question her. A patient once described the return of his memory as standing on the shore of a sea when suddenly a great wave rolled in and began to pull the sand out from under him.”
Matteo nodded. “Okay.”
“In this case especially, where there seem to be some negative memories involved, perhaps even some that are traumatizing… I’d urge you not to reveal them to her unless it becomes vital. Again, her emotional state is delicate. Too much negative feed-in at one time could be harmful.”
“I’ll be careful, Doctor. Anything else?”
Stafford gave the question a few seconds thought.
“I assume you have her insurance information?”
Such a mundane, grounded-in-reality query. Matteo laughed.
“I have a checkbook and credit cards. I’m sure they’ll do just fine.”
The doctor permitted himself a small smile. “I’m sure they will.” He cleared his throat. “All right, then. I’ll phone the cashier’s office. After you’ve settled the bill, bring your car around to the rear. I’ll have Ms. Bennett brought out through the emergency room doors.”
The men shook hands. When Matteo started to draw his hand back, Stafford held on for an extra few seconds.
“I’m a man of science, Mr. Bellini, and I don’t put much credence in instinct. Nevertheless, I’m trusting to it now because instinct tells me I’m doing the proper thing. I hope I’m right.”
That made two of them, Matteo thought, but he wasn’t fool enough to say so.
CHAPTER SIX
Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.
It could protect a young boy from the pain of a beating at the hands of his teachers; it could neutralize the emotions a man felt on learning his father had a second family.
Adrenaline could keep reality at bay.
Matteo’s adrenaline had kept him moving for the last several hours. It was still pumping as he arranged for Ariel’s discharge and moved his car from the front of the hospital to the rear.
It was snowing more heavily. Driving would be iffy. Flying might be impossible, and he had to do one or the other to get Ariel to…
To where?
Where was he going to take her? What was he going to do with her once he got her there?
The emergency room doors swished open.
A man in green scrubs pushed a wheelchair out of the building. Ariel sat in it, huddled in a blanket. Only her face showed, bruised and swollen and stitched, and just that quickly, the adrenaline flow screeched to a stop, leaving Matteo slack-jawed.
What was he doing?
Forget all the crap about fate and rolls of the dice. Forget Ariel begging for his help. Forget that she didn’t remember anything, not even who she was.
What he was doing was sickeningly obvious.
He was committing enough illegal actions to get him disbarred. Not just disbarred. Disgraced. Dishonored…
The aide started pushing the wheelchair down the ramp.
“Hey,” Matteo yelled, “wait!”
Was the guy deaf? He just kept coming. The wheelchair was almost at the foot of the ramp. The snow was coming down harder.
“Hey. Hey, hold up there!”
This time, the aide paused. “Doc said to deliver the lady to you.”
“Yes. I know. But—”
“Well, I’m deliverin’ her.”
“Right. I get that. But—”
Ariel shifted in the chair. She sat up straight and tilted her face up to the sky.
“Snow,” she whispered. Her eyes sought Matteo’s. “It’s snowing,” she said, with the wonder of a child on Christmas morning.
So much for illegalities.
Matteo went up the ramp, scooped Ariel into his arms, settled her in the passenger seat of the car and buckled her seat belt, carefully avoiding the cast on her wrist.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said.
Then he got behind the wheel, stepped hard on the gas, and took off.
* * *
He drove fast, this man called Matteo, or at least that was how it seemed to Ariel.
She probably wasn’t the best judge of what did and didn’t constitute fast driving.
The fact was, she couldn’t recall riding in a car or driving one.
No. Not true. She remembered arriving at the hospital in an ambulance. Other than that, she really couldn’t recall much of anything, and no, she wasn’t going to go there because she knew what would happen, that panic would suck the
breath from her lungs.
Not being able to remember anything, anything about yourself was more than terrifying, it was—it was as if you’d died but you didn’t yet know it.
“Are you warm enough?”
She turned toward him. Matteo. Was he of Spanish origin? Italian? His name was surely not American, and he was dark-haired, but he had green eyes. Amazingly green eyes.
“Ariel?”
Smile, she told herself, but her lips were so dry she couldn’t really pull them back against her teeth.
“Yes,” she said quickly. Too quickly. She knew it instantly; she heard the wobble in her voice, heard the lie. I’m-m f-fine.”
Big improvement. Her voice didn’t just wobble this time. Her teeth chattered.
“I know it’s cold in here,” he said. “I’ve turned the heat up all the way. Just give it a few minutes.”
She nodded and burrowed deeper into the blanket. She wasn’t just cold, she was freezing, but she suspected it wasn’t because of the temperature. She’d been ice-cold since the accident, well, since coming to consciousness in the hospital after the accident. One of the nurses had even commented on it, trying to turn the coldness of her hands and feet into a little joke that she suspected had been meant to try and inject some normalcy into an abnormal situation.
“Cold hands, warm heart,” the nurse had said, and at Ariel’s blank look, she’d added, “It’s an old saying.”
Maybe, but Ariel suspected the coldness was the result of fear. Bone-deep fear.
In fact, that was the one and only thing she did know about herself.
She was terrified.
And she had no idea of who or what or why.
Once they’d moved her out of Emergency and into a regular room, she’d felt her heart jump each time the door swung open. Doctors, nurses, aides and techs came and went, and each instance brought with it a breathless, dizzying moment of sheer panic, as if she were waiting, just waiting for someone who wasn’t a doctor or nurse, aide or technician to come through the door and—
And what?
She was scared half to death, and she didn’t even know the reason.
She gave a strangled laugh, saw the man named Matteo glance at her, and she quickly changed the laugh into a cough.
She didn’t know him, either. She’d had his name on a card in her pocket, the emergency room people had told her, and he’d come after Dr. Stafford had contacted him, but really, what did that mean? He could be anybody, even the faceless enemy she feared, but she didn’t think so. Something about him said he was a good person. His face. His eyes. Even the way he touched her and besides, what choice did she have?
Passion: In Wilde Country: Book Two Page 7