Reluctantly, he allowed the waiter to seat him at a table near the entrance. He ordered a cup of coffee and an appetizer, but he was no longer hungry. He sipped the hot drink with one eye on the door. The waiter refilled his mug and brought a basket of breadsticks to the table, but he couldn’t summon an appetite.
He dialed Anna’s number every ten minutes, growing more frustrated by the minute. By nine o’clock he was genuinely alarmed. He put his head in his hands, raking his fingers through hair that had surely grown even grayer in the last hour. He had no clue where to begin looking for his wife in this sprawling city.
He called their hotel yet again and left another message. Then, leaving word with the restaurant hostess to detain Anna if she happened to show up there, he paid his bill and rose to leave.
He knew Anna had planned to do some shopping before dinner, so he hurried to their rental car and drove the short distance to Longwood Center. He parked near one of the main entrances and dashed to the front. He pushed hard on the door. Locked. Cupping his hands, he peered into the courtyard. He could see a maintenance crew sweeping the floor and some of the proprietors still securing the accordion gates that protected the storefronts. But the courtyard was devoid of shoppers. Anna couldn’t be here.
He drove back to the restaurant, parked in the takeout lane, and ran inside. No luck. She hadn’t shown up here either. Another quick call to the hotel proved fruitless. The concierge remembered a woman matching Anna’s description leaving the hotel late in the afternoon after inquiring about whether Longwood Center was within walking distance, but the concierge hadn’t seen her return and, of course, had no idea where she’d gone or with whom.
The knot in Paul’s gut tightened. He didn’t know where else to turn. It was now nearly ten o’clock. He went back to the rental car and sat, tapping the steering wheel, trying to think what he should do next. In desperation, he dialed the Orlando Police.
He explained his situation to the officer that answered. “I’ve checked everyplace I can think of where she might possibly be. Can you tell me if any accidents have been reported, or… I don’t know… What––what’s next?” He felt almost embarrassed, like someone who’d carelessly lost a child.
“What did you say your name was again?”
“Marquette.” He spelled the name out slowly, enunciating each letter.
“Mr. Marquette, chances are your wife just found a great sale at one of the malls. Does she know her way around the city?”
“No, not really. We’ve traveled here a couple times before, but…”
“Well, she may possibly have gotten lost. You’re sure she wasn’t confused about where you were to meet?”
“No, no. I’m certain she understood.”
“What kind of vehicle was she driving?”
“She took a taxi from the hotel. She was on foot, but planned to take a cab to the restaurant, I’m sure.”
“And she’s not answering her phone?”
“No.” Would he be calling the police if Anna was answering her phone? He bit back the sarcastic response. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. I’ve called her fifty times in the last couple of hours.” It wasn’t much of an exaggeration.
“Well, I wouldn’t be too worried at this point. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s trying to call you right now. We get a lot of calls from worried husbands. Usually turns out to be nothing.”
“No. You don’t understand. Anna would never do something like this without calling to explain. She’s just not like that.”
“You didn’t have a quarrel or anything, did you?” The tone was condescending.
Furious with the officer’s patronizing manner, Paul spoke through a clenched jaw. “No. Nothing like that.”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.” But the officer took down his information. “If you haven’t located her by midnight, give us a call back, and we’ll take the next step. Good luck, Mr. Marquette, and enjoy your stay in Orlando.”
Paul heard the silence on the other end of the line, dismissing him. Maybe he should take comfort in the officer’s assurance that it was likely all a misunderstanding, but he had a bad feeling about this. He clicked off his phone and turned the keys in the ignition. Reluctantly, he drove back to the hotel, checked in with the concierge, and when he was assured they had no new information, he stepped into the elevator.
He felt so helpless. Some instinct told him that his wife needed him desperately, yet he couldn’t even find her. He jabbed at the buttons, struggling to think clearly, to even remember which floor they were staying on. The elevator stopped, and he squeezed between the doors before they had opened completely. He raced down the hall toward their room and hurriedly unlocked the door.
In the split second before he opened the door, he had a vivid vision of Anna sitting cross-legged on the bed, her beautiful smile lighting up the room as it always did, and her smooth blond hair, swinging and shiny, curving just below her chin. Throwing the door open, his heart sank seeing the emptiness of the room. But the neatly made beds and stacks of freshly folded towels confirmed she hadn’t been here since they left the hotel this morning. His disappointment nearly took him to his knees.
He took a deep breath and forced himself to think. He had to stay calm if he was going to help her.
Sinking into a chair by the desk, he picked up the telephone, connected to an outside line, and dialed 911. He explained his situation as concisely as possible. The dispatcher started to put him through to the police department, but when he told her that he'd already contacted them, she connected him with the Orange County Sheriff’s Office. They seemed to take his call more seriously than had the police officer he'd spoken to earlier. The deputy asked detailed questions, and Paul could hear a keyboard clicking as he took down the information Paul gave him. The deputy assured Paul that they would keep in touch and let him know if anything turned up.
He spent most of the night on the phone. He badgered the restaurant until finally he got no answer and assumed they’d closed. Then he called every agency in the city that he thought might possibly help. He also contacted every hospital in the Yellow Pages. In between, he checked his messages and forced himself to stay off the room phone in case Anna might be trying to reach him that way. He sat on the edge of the bed gripping his cell phone, staring at the room phone, willing one of them to ring.
Twice he started to dial Anna’s parents. But each time he clicked off before it could ring on their end. He couldn’t bear to worry them, and really, there was nothing they could do from halfway across the country.
He did call John Vickers, an account executive at Lindell and Bachman, the advertising firm where Paul had worked for the last decade. John and his wife, Brenda, had been close friends of the Marquettes ever since they’d found themselves seated across from each other at a company Christmas party eight years ago.
Brenda answered the phone.
“Hi, Brenda. It’s Paul. I’m sorry for calling so late.”
“Oh, no problem,” she said cheerily. “We’re still up. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Is John there?” Brenda was usually an obliging target of his teasing, but he hoped she could hear the urgency in his voice.
His curt reply evidently communicated the gravity of this call because Brenda seemed all business. “Just a minute. I’ll get him.”
Paul heard muffled voices, and then John was on the line. “Hi, Paul. I thought you were in Orlando.”
“I am. Anna’s missing, John.”
“What?”
He explained the situation briefly, taking comfort in John’s sympathetic murmurs. When he hung up a few minutes later, he knew that whatever could be done from that end, John would see that it was taken care of.
With great effort, Paul forced his lanky frame from the chair and trudged into the bathroom. He splashed warm water over his face and neck, then came out to sit on the bed, still clutching his cell phone, at a loss as to what he should do next. It was all he could do to restrai
n himself from running out into the night and searching every dark corner of the city single-handedly. But he knew that would be foolish––not to mention impossible––so he sat with his phone and prayed to God that his wife was safe and that this was all a terrible mix-up.
The city’s skyline had penciled itself against the coral Florida dawn when Paul finally put his head in his hands and wept in frustration and despair. He'd done everything he knew to do, and he was no closer to finding Anna than he'd been hours ago. He simply did not know where to turn next. The television in the hotel room droned softly in the background, tuned to a local news station in hopes there might be some clue offered there. There was plenty of news, none of it comforting.
“Please, God,” he begged. Please…”
The urgent jangling of two phones––one next to the hotel bed and one on the desk––startled him as if it were an instant answer to his barely voiced prayer. He rubbed the fog from his eyes and looked at the clock. It was almost seven a.m. The room was still dark, the morning light kept at bay by the heavy drapes drawn across the windows. Anna had been missing for over ten hours now.
The phone continued to ring, and Paul fumbled for the lamp switch, then picked up the receiver.
“Yes? Hello.”
“Mr. Marquette?”
“Yes. What is it?” He sensed the urgency in the man’s voice.
The caller identified himself as some liaison for an Orlando hospital. “Your wife is here. She’s been injured…but she’ll be fine,” the man added quickly. “ But you need to come right away.”
“Oh, thank God.” Thank you, Lord. “What happened? Is she okay? Can I speak to her?” His words caught on his emotion.
The caller assured Paul that Anna was out of danger and gave him detailed instructions to the hospital. Paul wrote the directions in cryptic scribblings on hotel stationery, but he didn’t trust himself to drive there without getting lost––or getting a speeding ticket. So he called a cab and, closing the door behind him, dashed down the stairwell, too impatient to wait for the elevator to arrive.
Chapter 4
The taxi pulled up to the emergency entrance of the small hospital, and Paul jumped out. He thrust a twenty dollar bill through the window, not waiting for change. He raced through the double doors and down the corridor to the first desk he saw. Out of breath, he interrupted the nurses who stood there chatting.
“Please, my wife was admitted here—Anna Marquette. Do you know where she is?”
The two women looked at each other.
Paul was not comforted by what he saw in their faces. “Is she all right? What’s happened?”
The older woman, plump and motherly, came around to where he stood. “Come with me, Mr. Marquette.”
But instead of taking him to Anna, she led him to a small private waiting room—the kind of room they’d took him to when his father died on the operating table during open heart surgery. She ushered him to a chair by the window.
“Wait right here. The doctor will be in to speak with you in just a few minutes.” It was a command.
He sat down heavily, against his will, and sat there, unmoving, as the minutes crawled by. On the wall opposite him a standard issue institutional clock ticked off the seconds, each pulse reverberating in his head like a cannon. Strangely, no thoughts formed themselves in his mind. Time seemed suspended, waiting for this verdict.
Just after eight o’clock, Paul heard a door open somewhere and the hushed shuffling of shoes on carpet. Then a doctor stood over him, tall and imposing in his white coat. Paul struggled to his feet. At six foot three, he wasn’t used to having others tower over him, but this man did.
“Mr. Marquette, I’m Dr. Blair.” The physician extended his hand to Paul.
Paul took it, more to support his weight than to acknowledge the introduction. He opened his mouth to speak.
But the doctor held up a hand as if anticipating the questions. “Your wife is going to be fine. She’s pretty beat up, and I don’t think she’s quite processed what happened yet, but she will recover.”
Paul was confused. “What did happen?” In all the agonizing hours, wondering where Anna was, wondering what could have happened, the only thing he could fathom was that she'd been in an accident. Her cab had crashed, or she'd been hit by a car. What else could it be? And yet, this man spoke as though it were something more…something unspeakable.
The doctor looked stunned. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
Paul found his voice. “No one has told me anything.”
The doctor grimaced and sat down in the chair Paul had just vacated. He motioned for Paul to take the seat beside him. Paul sat slowly, steeling himself.
“Mr. Marquette. There’s no easy way to say this. Your wife was attacked, beaten, and raped.” He gave the words a moment to sink in before continuing. “She’s going to recover fully, but right now she’s in pretty rough shape. Our biggest concern is that she may have a concussion. She has a nasty bump on the back of her head, and she was unconscious for several hours. That alone gives us reason for concern. In addition to that, her shoulder was dislocated, and she has a gash on her neck—a knife wound.”
Paul must have gasped, for the doctor stretched out a hand and put it on his shoulder. “She’s going to be okay,” he assured. “The cut looks pretty wicked, but actually it isn’t very deep. It didn’t require stitches, and it should heal with a minimum of scarring.” He paused. “Your wife is lucky to be alive, Mr. Marquette.”
“Did they…did they catch whoever did this?”
“Let’s worry about your wife right now. As I’m sure you can imagine, sexual assault is one of the most traumatic things a woman can endure. Your wife is still somewhat in shock right now. This will take some time to process. I’m not sure she even quite realizes what has happened.”
Paul’s head was spinning. He had so many questions he didn’t know where to start, but they all came tumbling out, one after another.
“Who…who found her? Where was she? Where is she now?”
The doctor answered him calmly. “I’ll take you to her very shortly. She was found in an alley behind Longwood Center—it’s a big shopping mall near the convention center. I believe it was a sanitation worker who found her there sometime after midnight. The ambulance brought her in”—he referred to the folder in his hands—“it says here 1:15 a.m. I first examined her around 1:45. She was unconscious when they found her, but she regained consciousness in the ambulance. We knew from the identification in her purse that she was a nonresident, but for obvious reasons, there was no answer at your home number when one of the nurses called. Your wife’s cell phone was damaged––broken––and she couldn’t remember where you were staying here in Orlando, so her hotel key was turned over to the police for an identification search. Of course, the police knew she'd been reported missing. That’s how we were able to locate you.”
Paul sat stiff, nodding numbly at this assault of information, trying to piece the story together. It concerned him that Anna hadn’t been able to remember where they were staying.
“From what we can gather,” the doctor continued, “your wife didn’t get a look at her attacker. Perhaps she’ll be able to tell us more as she recovers and starts to remember some details. Right now we don’t want to upset her any more than is absolutely necessary. We’ve done the preliminary examination, but we need to run some more tests. I want to make sure there aren’t any internal injuries, and we’ll want to take precautions in case she was exposed to any sexually transmitted diseases or other infections.” He rose slowly from the chair and turned to Paul, smiling sympathetically. “The best thing we can do for her now is to get you in to see her. She’s been asking for you since she regained consciousness.”
Dr. Blair strode briskly down the emergency room corridor. Paul followed a few steps behind. He was trembling with a strange mingling of relief and anger and paralyzing fear.
Dr. Blair stopped abruptly before a door that stood
slightly ajar. He tapped lightly before entering, and when he stepped aside, holding the door open for Paul, there was Anna. Paul knew it was her, because her flaxen hair was spread on the pillow beneath her head. But the face that went with the slight form on the bed was unrecognizable as his Anna. Dark bluish circles ringed her eyes. Her face was blotchy and swollen. Her neck was swathed in white gauze almost to her chin, and her left arm, resting on the hospital blankets, lay limp in a sling. Her eyes were closed, but somehow Paul knew she was not asleep.
Involuntarily, he put his fist to his mouth, stifling a gasp. Struggling to collect himself, he went to her bedside and took her right hand in his. The faint scent of her perfume mingled with the antiseptic odors of the room.
Paul kissed her hand and whispered her name.
Her eyes flickered open, then widened when she recognized him. She lifted her head off the pillows but winced in pain and fell back onto the bed. She tried to speak, but words would not come—only tears that flowed freely, dampening her hair as they rolled off her temples.
Finally she formed the words. “I’m sorry I was late.”
It took Herculean effort for him not to scoop her into his arms and crush her to himself. Instead he took her wounded head carefully between his large hands. With his thumbs, he wiped the tears away and gently stroked her hair away from her face.
“Oh, Anna… Honey, I’m so sorry. I… I should have been there. I should never have let this happen. I should have been with you.” He heard anger rise in his own voice and stopped speaking lest she think his ire was directed at her.
Wordlessly, he cradled her head, taking in every bruise, every bump, every mark that marred her beautiful skin. He searched her blue-gray eyes for assurance that she truly was going to be all right. Then he silently gave thanks that she was here in this place of healing, still alive, still his. And he cursed the monster who had done this to his wife.
Anna sighed heavily and closed her eyes again. For the next hour she drifted in and out of sleep. Paul sat beside her bed, watching as she intermittently opened her eyes, searched the room until she found him, then, with a look of relief washing across her face, closed her eyes again.
Because of the Rain Page 2