by Nikki Soarde
“You got a point?” she growled. “You’re the jogger and you’re the fastest. Go! Now! We’ll see what we can do here.”
He didn’t ask any more questions. Within moments he was sprinting back the way they had come. Please God, don’t let him get lost! she prayed silently.
She focused on her patient. Just like she had seen in all those medical shows she had watched so faithfully for so many years, she ignored the blood and exposed bone and pulled back his eyelids. There was no mistaking the wide, sightless stare of dilated pupils. “Can you hear me?” she asked softly as she allowed his eyes to close and touched his forehead. “If you can hear me, help is on the way. Okay?” Her hand dropped to his left hand that lay limp and cold at his side. She couldn’t help noticing the leanness and well-defined muscle that was evident in that arm. It was heavily veined and sinewy, his fingers long and solid. He was thin and lanky, but obviously strong and healthy. Maybe he had a chance.
“Take off your jacket,” she directed her daughter as she stripped off her own sweatshirt. “He’s cold as ice. That’s shock. The least we can do is keep him warm.”
They covered him as best they could and Janice gingerly probed his injuries, hoping she might be able to give the paramedics a quick overview of his condition. The blood oozing from his abdomen puzzled her, so she lifted his shirt to examine him more thoroughly.
She caught her breath.
“What? What is it, Mom?”
“I-I’m not sure.” She paused and probed the wound with a tentative finger. She drew away her hand, already dripping red. “I’ve never seen a gunshot wound but I’d swear that’s what I’m looking at.”
Melanie’s eyes went wide with astonishment. “You mean he didn’t just fall?”
Janice trained her eyes on the cliff face that soared at least forty feet above them. “Oh, he fell all right. But it was no accident.” Her heart was in her throat as she met her daughter’s eyes. This was a pristine wilderness in western Canada. It was pure and peaceful, the region untouched by hunting, mining or logging operations. Murder had no place here. And yet that was what she was looking at. She had no doubt.
“Somebody tried to kill him, honey.” Her eyes darted from the cliff to the lake and back again. “And I just hope they’re not hanging around to try and finish the job.”
Chapter Two
Mid-June, Calgary, Alberta
Marnie skidded to a stop beside her front door. Even her lateness couldn’t deter her from taking a quick cursory glance in the hall mirror. Some might judge her vain for such a self-indulgent habit, but nothing could be further from the truth.
Marnie’s obsession with her appearance had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with insecurity. She firmly believed she had such limited physical appeal that neatness and presenting a well-groomed image for the world were her only salvation.
She tucked one errant strand of straight brown hair back into the French braid that was her trademark. She double-checked the buttons on the crisp, white blouse and assured herself it wasn’t too tight. The crease in her navy twill slacks could have sliced tomatoes and the track shoes that were essential for their functionality and comfort gleamed clean and white.
Her long, narrow face glowed from its recent scrubbing. She wore no makeup because there seemed to be little point. Her mother had always said makeup should be used to enhance, not to hide. She had nothing worth enhancing, and far too much to hide.
But at least she had clear skin. A blotchy complexion would have just added insult to injury. She was convinced her wide brown eyes were set too close together, and that her cheekbones stood out too much and exaggerated the harsh angles and gaunt lines of her face. Her lips were too thin, and her nose too sharp. Her chin was too pointy, and her ears were lopsided.
She had been teased about such things over and over as a child, and as she grew and saw the pictures on the covers of Cosmo and Vogue she had accepted her homeliness and her fate—to spend her life alone, without male companionship or comfort.
She had hit thirty and had not yet managed to sustain a romantic relationship past the one-month mark. In fact, she could probably count the number of enjoyable dates on one hand. To say her first, and only, sexual encounter had been disappointing would be a gross understatement. And men were not exactly beating down her door to try and improve upon the experience. She figured her track record spoke for itself.
She pushed oversized glasses back up her nose and bent to pick up her enormous leather handbag. Her ride would be irritated if she had to wait. Marnie didn’t like to irritate anyone.
She locked the door and bounded down the front steps. She stepped out onto the sidewalk just as the familiar blue Toyota pulled up.
“Hi, Shawna,” she mumbled as she slid into the passenger seat and pulled the seat belt across her lap. Shawna Simpson was a nurse at Foothills Hospital in Calgary’s west end, where Marnie worked as a physiotherapist. Shawna’s position on day surgery spared her the anguish of working nights and weekends. Marnie’s Monday-to-Friday schedule made the carpooling arrangement convenient and economical.
Shawna drove away from the housing complex and turned onto MacLeod Trail. It was barely 7:30, but already Calgary’s main arteries were clogged and slow.
“‘Morning, Marnie. You look nice today. But there’s something different…” Shawna tapped her chin as she appeared to consider her passenger. “Hmm. Is that a new blouse?”
Marnie gazed out the window. Shawna’s words seemed benign enough, but she was all too familiar with Shawna’s subtle brand of venom. Marnie wore a white blouse and navy slacks to work every day. It was her self-appointed uniform, and she rarely strayed from it. “No,” she said evenly. “But thanks for asking.”
It took more than a backhanded compliment to lure Marnie into an argument. She didn’t like confrontations and normally avoided them at all costs. But there had been a few isolated, and very specific incidents in her life when she had taken a stand and challenged the obstacles that stood in her path. She never took such decisions lightly, because conflicts such as those invariably cost her something.
She didn’t mind taking a loss when she was fighting for a greater good—for a worthy cause or for some poor soul who had been victimized and couldn’t stand up for himself. She had argued with her mother innumerable times over the plight of a stray cat or a sick bird. Her circle of friends in school had consisted mainly of the outcast and the undesirables. She saw in them a need, but she also felt a kinship with those who fell short of the accepted social and physical status quo. She found herself habitually defending such people against the class bullies and others who would exploit their vulnerability.
But when the “cause” pertained to herself, Marnie preferred to blend into the woodwork and allow events to transpire without interference from her. She stood up for herself only when she was cornered and felt that she had no other option. That had happened twice in her life, and she hoped there would be no need for a repeat performance.
Shawna combed bright red fingernails through her mane of blonde curls. She sighed heavily. “I wish you’d let me take you shopping, honey.”
Marnie hated to be called “honey”, but she let it pass in silence.
“You got a decent enough figure if you’d just capitalize on it a bit.”
Marnie glanced at the snug lines of Shawna’s uniform. Shawna’s motto was “Leave nothing to the imagination”, and she lived up to it admirably. Marnie supposed she should admire Shawna for her consistency, if nothing else. But Marnie had no desire to follow in her footsteps.
“This is comfortable. I wear other stuff when I’m not working.”
“Yeah, I know. Jeans and sweats and crewneck T-shirts. It’s no wonder you never get a date.”
This was a tired subject, and, while Shawna’s concern had moments of authenticity, Marnie had no desire to flog a dead, and very homely, horse. She decided to change the subject. “How’s Lucky doing?”
Shawna frow
ned as she slipped into the left lane and passed one of the many beat-up pickup trucks that were a Calgary trademark. “Lucky?”
Marnie suppressed a shy smile and gave Shawna a moment to think about it.
“Oh, you mean John Doe!”
Marnie allowed the smile to surface. “Yeah, I thought it was horrible that he still doesn’t have a name. I thought Lucky sounded a little more personal than John Doe. He’s certainly earned the title.”
“Cute,” said Shawna through a genuine grin. “I like it. But you know what the ICU nurses are calling him, don’t you?”
Shawna’s best friend was an ICU nurse, and their source for all the dope on the mysterious patient with the gunshot wound and the shattered face. “No, what are they calling him?”
“The Masked Marvel.”
Marnie giggled. The name fit. The bandages that swathed his head did, indeed, resemble a mask, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he was a miracle patient. He had survived injuries that should have killed him three times over.
The bullet that had pierced his stomach and nicked his liver and intestine should really have killed him. The fall down a forty-foot cliff should probably have killed him. And the blow to the head that had cracked his jaw, shattered his cheekbone, crushed his nose, and caused a massive intracranial hemorrhage should definitely have killed him. But none of those things had quite managed to do the job. And managing to survive the three of them together had landed him soundly in Calgary’s hero books.
Surgery had repaired the damage to his internal organs. His broken ribs and shattered tibia were mending nicely. His jaw had been set and wired shut, and reconstructive surgery was scheduled soon to complete the repairs to his face. Everyone agreed that if John Doe managed to wake from his coma and not be a vegetable, he would make a full and amazing recovery.
“I like that,” replied Marnie at last. “But it isn’t really a name, is it?”
“No.” Shawna’s voice was oddly subdued. “Maybe if he wakes up he’ll be able to tell us. It’s so sad that there’s nobody looking for him. It makes me wonder if he’s really got a wife somewhere.”
“He has a wedding band.”
“Yeah, I know.”
They drove in silence for a while. John Doe’s story had made the cover of every local newspaper. At first the articles included pleas for someone to come forward and identify the mysterious stranger with the incredible will to live. But the pleas had soon dwindled, and the stories had shifted to reports on his progress and the progress of the police investigation into his identity and assault. Then the theme had shifted to guesses as to when he would wake up and fill in all the mysterious blanks that hovered around him like bees around a daisy.
He had captured the hearts of the city, but that fascination was beginning to wane as hope faded that he would ever escape the coma that held him hostage. It had been more than two weeks, and every day the odds against him were stacked higher and higher.
“He’s going to the O.R. today,” said Shawna finally.
“Really? I thought they wanted to wait for the reconstruction until he woke up.”
Shawna shrugged. “If they wait too long I think it makes it harder to fix. I wonder what he’ll look like when it’s all done. It’s so hard to tell under all those bandages.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Like many of the staff, Marnie dropped in on Lucky occasionally. He had no one else to visit him, so many of the nurses and therapists made an effort to visit him and talk to him, just on the off chance that he could hear them and that they might make a difference. “I look at him sometimes and I just ache for him—for everything he must have gone through. It’s so sad that he has no one to stay with him and hold his hand through all those lonely days in the dark.”
Shawna remained silent for a long time before Marnie realized they had stopped in the hospital parking lot and that Shawna was staring at her.
“You’ve got a thing for him, don’t you?” accused Shawna when Marnie met her gaze.
“What?”
“Everybody kinda sympathizes with him—you know, feels sorry for him being alone and hurt like that—but you’re different. You really like him, and you don’t even know anything about him. He could be an ax murderer for all you know.”
Oh, but Shawna was so very wrong. Marnie knew a lot about John Doe. She knew things about him that someone like Shawna could never understand. Marnie even had to admit that she harbored a morsel of jealousy toward him. He had achieved something without even trying that Marnie had dreamed of her entire life—anonymity and a clean slate. She had just never had the courage to move away and change her name and alter her image. She could no more move or change her nature than a mountain could dig up its roots and find a new home. But, unlike her, when he woke up John Doe could be anything he chose to be. And no one would be any the wiser.
“I’m late.” Marnie dodged the issue and quickly escaped the car. She trudged toward the swinging hospital doors. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you at four,” she called back. But when she checked her watch she realized she still had fifteen minutes before her first appointment of the morning. Without hesitation she turned right just inside the hospital doors and headed directly for Intensive Care.
Marnie pushed through the black double doors that advertised Authorized Personnel Only. Her nametag was authorization enough to allow her entry into the strange world where the line between machine and man became blurred, and doctors played God on a daily basis.
The ICU was a study in conflicting images. It was hushed and yet there was an undercurrent of bustling activity. Somehow the solemnity of the ward pervaded even the busiest hands and the most talkative mouths. The incessant wheezing and beeping and whining of the machines blended into the background—the white noise of suffering.
The blank sterility of the room tended to intimidate those who weren’t familiar with it. The surfaces all gleamed cold and hard and the sounds were eerie and harsh. The figures on the beds either lay still and silent or writhed and moaned their loud laments. She knew most visitors found the scene daunting and depressing, but Marnie was comfortable here. She had worked in hospitals long enough to become jaded to the sights and sounds of illness and pain.
She stopped at the reception desk.
“Hiya, Marn,” chirped Sally Wells, the bright-eyed, impossibly young receptionist. “You’re getting to be a regular visitor down here.”
Marnie smiled but shrugged off the observation. “I just like to feel like maybe I’m helping.”
Sally nodded toward the bed in the corner. “Yeah, he sure can use the company. You can go on over. Iris isn’t going to be getting him ready for the O.R. for a while yet.”
Iris had been assigned to Lucky’s bed for the day. He rarely had the same nurse more than two days running because of rotating shifts and part-time staff. Marnie saw that as yet another reason for him to have a little bit of stability and continuity in his life.
“Thanks, Sally,” she said as her sneakers padded across the bright blue linoleum.
Marnie found Iris bent over a chart at the small bedside table.
She spoke quietly so as not to disturb the nurse’s concentration. “Hi, Iris. I just came in to see how he’s doing.”
Iris looked up and smiled warmly. Marnie thought Iris had found her calling when she went into nursing. She was truly concerned for her patients and went out of her way to make their stay in hospital comfortable and a positive healing experience. “I was wondering if I’d see you today,” said the middle-aged nurse as she stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders.
Marnie pulled up a chair and studied the still form beneath the blankets and bandages. “I know it’s crazy but I’m getting kind of attached to him.”
“No, it’s not crazy. He’s quiet, but he has a way of growing on you.” Iris grinned and rubbed her neck again with a chubby hand. “Kinda like a fungus,” she added. But her tone made it clear that she was only teasing. Iris had an ample waistlin
e and at least two chins but that just seemed to make her more approachable and motherly. “Hey, as long as you’re here, would you mind if I take a whiz and get a coffee? He’s hardly critical, but I just hate leaving him all alone.”
“Sure. Go ahead. We’ll have a nice chat while you’re gone.”
“Thanks, Marnie. You’re a sweetheart.” Iris waddled toward the doors and Marnie focused on her charge.
She spoke softly to be sure she wouldn’t be overheard. “Hi there, big guy,” she said with a grin. “It’s me, Marnie. You’ve got a big day planned, I hear. Finally gonna get your face back.”
His chest just kept rising and falling regularly, and the heart monitor beeped its steady rhythm.
“Tell you what. You get your face all fixed up, get that cast off your leg and then you come and see me in physio.” On an impulse she reached out and touched his hand. It was warm and firm, and she knew instinctively that it would also be strong and tender. “We’d love to see you up and around, Lucky. You try and wake up, okay? I’d love to know your real name too.” She fingered the simple gold wedding band. “And maybe meet your wife. I bet she’s worried sick about you.”
Suddenly feeling an intense need to touch him, she slipped her right hand firmly into his and with her left she stroked the back of his arm. “You’re strong, Lucky You can come out of this.” She studied the fine, dark hairs and the deeply tanned skin of his arm. He had probably spent much of his time outdoors. Perhaps he worked at physical labor, judging from the tone of his upper arms and shoulders. She refocused on his face. “You have to wake up. You can’t spend your life like this.” She swallowed against a lump that had formed unexpectedly in her throat. “I know it’s scary out here, but you can’t spend your life alone, hiding in a cocoon. I know it’s tempting, but you’re too strong for that.”
She heard Iris chatting with Sally at the reception desk and checked her watch. “I gotta go,” she whispered, suddenly aware of how pathetic she was, making friends with a vegetable. “But I promise I’ll check on you after your surgery.”