As Gina walked away, moving even slower than normal, David turned back to the medics.
A chill filled the room and David looked around for his jacket. It was on the floor, tossed aside by the paramedics. As he put it on, the front door opened. The sight of the two men made him freeze. Neither was dressed in uniform, but David knew who they were.
The men nodded in David's direction as they entered and surveyed the office. The white detective hunched down, as the paramedics gingerly moved Anya from the floor to the stretcher. As the police and the medic talked, David strained to hear their words.
“What is it, Don?”
“We're stabilizing her, still not sure.”
“The call came in that there was a shooting—” the policeman started.
“She was beaten. And raped.”
Both policemen turned toward the words. The detective standing walked toward David.
“Who are you?”
“David Montgomery.” He extended his hand, but the policeman reached inside his gray tweed jacket and pulled out a pad and a pencil. David glanced at the shield pinned on his jacket: DETECTIVE ROBINSON.
“Mr. Montgomery,” Detective Robinson started, as he flipped through the pages of his pad, “how do you know she was beaten and raped?”
David twisted his face, as if he had been asked a ridiculous question. “I found her.”
The detective made a note. When he looked up, he was squinting. “But how do you know specifically what happened?”
David realized what the detective meant by his question, and he wondered how he would answer. “All you have to do is look at her and you can tell she's been beaten!” David's hands waved in Anya's direction.
“That's fair,” the detective responded. He took a piece of gum from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth, letting the seconds tick by. “The part that interests me is that you said she was raped. How did you know that? Just by looking at her?”
David folded his arms in front of him. “Look,” he said strongly, “when I found her, her clothes were torn, she was almost naked from the waist down. And bleeding—”
“You have blood on your shirt,” the policeman interrupted him.
David looked at his cuff that peeked from under his jacket. It was specked with drops of red. He unfolded his arms. “It must have gotten on me … when I lifted her.”
“Uh-huh.” The policeman allowed the silence to return. “What were you doing here?” he finally asked.
“I came back to the office …”
“So you work here?”
“Yes, I'm the vice president.”
The detective raised one eyebrow and made a sound that was something like a cough. “And the victim, what's her name?”
The policeman's words made David shudder. He glanced over the officer's shoulder. The paramedics were still working on Anya.
“Her name is Anya Mitchell. She owns this business.”
This time the detective raised both eyebrows. His eyes scanned the office quickly. “What kind of place is this?”
David told him and the detective grunted, continuing to scratch on his pad. Detective Robinson asked David to spell his last name, then resumed his questioning. With as much patience as he could gather, David answered but kept his eyes glued to the medics.
When the paramedics began wheeling the stretcher, David interrupted the detective. “I'm going to ride with Ms. Mitchell.” He took a step around the policeman, but Detective Robinson grabbed his arm.
“I still have a few more questions.”
David gently but sternly pulled away. “I will answer your questions, after I make sure she's all right.”
“That's fine,” the officer said, surrendering surprisingly easily. “Just make sure you're accessible.”
David shook his head, then rushed into the hallway behind the stretcher.
“How is she?” David questioned, his eyes fixed on Anya. But the medics didn't respond. One was talking into a cell phone; the other was still working on Anya. After they secured Anya into the ambulance, they reluctantly allowed David into the back, although he was still too far away to touch her.
His back was pressed against the doors, as the medical vehicle, with sirens blaring, sped through the darkened streets. He loosened his tie and glanced at his watch. It was hard to believe that only thirty minutes had passed since he'd found Anya. It seemed so much longer.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had to let someone know. Braxton—but how could he contact him? Sasha—he could call Anya's number.
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket, then searched his wallet for the card Anya'd given him when he first came to Los Angeles. The phone was answered immediately.
“Sasha? This is David Montgomery.”
“Hi, David.” Her voice sounded stuffy. “I don't think Anya is home yet.”
He bit his lip. “Anya is with me, Sasha.” When the ambulance swerved slightly, David looked out the window. They were entering the hospital's parking lot. “She's been hurt.”
“Oh, my God! What happened?”
David jumped from the ambulance and ran behind the stretcher. “We just got to Cedars Sinai,” he responded, purposely not answering her question. “Can you call Braxton?”
“Yes,” Sasha said, her voice trembling. “Tell Anya I'll be right there.”
He hung up the phone, and ran behind the medics. Other medical personnel met the gurney, and pushed Anya through the swinging double doors of the emergency room. David tried to follow, but one of the nurses stopped him.
“Sorry, staff only.” Her words were short and static. “You have to wait out here.”
David opened his mouth, but the nurse raised her hand, anticipating his protest. Disgust from a long day was on her face. “The doctors will tell you something shortly. Check with that nurse,” she said, pointing to a white round desk that had an ADMITTING sign hanging above. “And fill out the papers.”
The nurse entered the emergency ward and the doors swung closed behind her. He tried to peek through the small windows, but finally turned away.
He went into the waiting room. One man was watching a repeat of the late-night news and another was lying across several of the blue plastic chairs that lined the wall.
David chose the chair closest to the entrance, and leaned back against the cold walls. How could this happen in his life again?
For the second time that night, he prayed. “Dear God,” he whispered, not having the strength to talk louder. “Dear God, please, please …” He didn't know what else to say, but, for some reason he was sure that God would fill in the blanks.
First their footsteps clicked along the tile of the hospital hallway, then David heard their demanding, anxious voices. “We're looking for Anya Mitchell.”
David called out and they ran in his direction. “Where is Anya? What happened? Was it a car accident? How is she?” Braxton and Sasha bombarded him with questions.
The last thing he wanted was to give this news. His eyes searched the empty lobby and, on cue, a brown-haired man in a white jacket came from the emergency room and went to the Admittance Desk. The nurse pointed in their direction and David exhaled.
“I think this is the doctor now,” David said, pointing toward the man.
“Braxton Vance?” The doctor asked the question to no one in particular.
Braxton stepped forward. “I'm Braxton …” David and Sasha crowded behind him.
The doctor reached out his hand. “I'm Dr. Covey. Ms. Mitchell has been asking for you.” The doctor turned around and Braxton followed, leaving David and Sasha standing in the middle of the stark white lobby.
David swallowed hard. Maybe he should have told Braxton. It would be horrible for him to see her—
“David?” Sasha said, as if she had been calling his name a few times.
He took her hand, and they walked slowly to the waiting room. Only the blaring television and the man lying against the wall remained.
“What happ
ened?” Sasha's voice quavered, and David could tell she'd been crying.
The chair scraped the floor as he pulled it from the wall so that he could face her.
“I don't know everything… but she was beaten and …”
Sasha gasped. Even with her hand covering her mouth, she could not silence her sobs. “Who would do this?”
David told her what he knew—how he found her, the police— everything, except for the rape.
“Why would anyone attack her?”
“I don't know… maybe robbery. Maybe they saw that it was a financial services company and they thought there was money in the office …” He stood and began pacing.
Sasha nodded and took a deep breath. “Okay. We have to be strong for her.” She joined David, walking back and forth along the length of the waiting room. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, stopping suddenly. “I have to call Madear. Our grandmother has to know.”
“We should wait until Braxton comes out before we call anyone else.”
“That makes sense,” she said, sounding like she was out of breath. Sasha sank into the chair and began sobbing again.
“Anya's going to be fine.” David put his arm around her shoulder.
“She has to be.” When Sasha looked at him, her swollen eyes tried to smile. “Thank you for helping her.”
David squeezed Sasha's hand, then laid her head on his shoulder. He held her and they silently waited. And, without knowing what the other was doing, they both closed their eyes and prayed.
“Attacked? What does that mean?”
“That's all we have for now, Mr. Vance,” Dr. Covey said as he led Braxton through the large emergency unit, passing smaller rooms along the perimeter. Even though it was after midnight, medical personnel still bustled around.
Braxton's eyes frantically searched the area until the doctor turned into the last room. And his eyes stopped moving when he saw her. But he had to hold his fist over his mouth to hold back his gasp.
She was propped up in the bed and a nurse was removing a blood-pressure band from her arm.
“Ms. Mitchell,” Dr. Covey called to her.
Her head slowly turned. She grunted, a soft sound, but Braxton knew she was beckoning him. Deliberately she lifted her hand and reached toward him.
He blinked rapidly to fight the instant tears that stung his eyelids. As gently as he could, he touched her, though he feared he'd cause her more pain.
Her face was covered with scratches, turned to welts. A large white bandage covered the left half of her face. But it was her clothes that shocked him most. Her skirt and blouse were shredded, like they had been ripped methodically with a sharp blade.
He pressed his lips together, fighting his urge to cry out. Who would do this to his woman? Instantly, his brain filled with thoughts of revenge, images of what he would do when he hunted down the attacker and tortured him until he asked for death.
“Are you starting to feel better, Ms. Mitchell?” Dr. Covey asked, although he didn't look up from the chart in his hand.
Anya started to nod, then grimaced. “Fine,” her voice squeaked.
Dr. Covey looked at her with a smile. “It looks like you're doing a lot better.”
At that moment, a cinnamon-skinned, tall woman entered. She wore a white jacket over her navy dress, as if she'd been on the verge of leaving the hospital. Her hair was twisted high on her head in a French roll, fixed in place with jeweled combs, and her makeup was freshly applied.
“Dr. Young, looks like you were on your way out.”
She nodded and glanced at Anya. “I was, but I'd rather be here.” She picked up the chart. “Is everything here?” she asked Dr. Covey.
He nodded. “We were going to keep Ms. Mitchell overnight,” the doctor said, looking between Anya and Dr. Young. “But I don't think that's necessary now.” He made a note on the chart and handed it to Dr. Young. “There were no signs of any head trauma.”
The female doctor moved closer to the bed. “I'm Dr. Young,” she said, gently taking Anya's hand. “I'm going to be working with you from this point.”
Anya took a deep breath and squeezed Braxton's hand.
Dr. Young noticed the gesture and nodded reassuringly. “You'll be all right.”
Braxton extended his hand. “I'm Braxton Vance, Anya's fiancé.”
By the time they completed the exchange, Dr. Covey was gone.
Dr. Young rolled a stool close to the bed. “How are you feeling?”
Her gentle voice reminded Anya of Madear. On one hand, the voice soothed her. But as the doctor's eyes smiled at her, Anya thought of what her grandmother's eyes would look like when she received this news. “I'm fine,” Anya whispered, hoping that if she said those words, she'd feel them.
The nurse handed Dr. Young a clipboard with loose papers attached. “Anya, let me explain what we're going to be doing.” She spoke softly. “I specialize in taking care of women who've been attacked this way.” The doctor paused and squeezed her hand. “First, I'm going to ask some questions, then we'll do a physical. We're going to use something called a rape kit, have you ever heard of that?”
Anya pressed her lips together. She'd hoped that somehow it hadn't happened. But to hear the doctor say the word aloud made it a terrible reality. She shook her head.
“A rape kit?” Braxton whispered. He gripped Anya's hand tighter.
Dr. Young frowned. “I'm sorry,” she said, looking from Anya to Braxton. “You didn't know?”
Braxton shook his head, and hoped not to hear details. He couldn't know—not right now. The veins in his head pulsed.
The doctor sent him a reassuring smile, then turned back to Anya. “Dr. Covey says you're going to be fine. The bruises are superficial and will heal in a few days. So, we want to focus on getting information for the police.” Dr. Young squeezed Anya's hand again, then continued, “The more you give us, the better chance the police have. You understand?”
Anya breathed again and nodded.
As the nurse assisted Anya in sitting up, Dr. Young said to Braxton, “Mr. Vance, I have to ask you to wait in the lounge. You can go right out there,” she pointed. “You don't have to go to the waiting room.”
Braxton shook his head. “I need to stay with Anya.”
“I'm sorry.” The doctor's soft eyes told him she understood. “It's procedure. We have to ask Anya some questions, but that's why we have the lounge,” she said gently. “You'll be close by and I'll get you as soon as we're finished here.”
This time, it was Anya who squeezed his hand. In the next second, their fingers slipped apart.
Braxton left the room and walked straight to the desk in the center. “Is there a rest room I can use?” he asked no one in particular.
A nurse pointed toward the opposite corner.
He walked with surprisingly steady steps even though his mind screamed, “Rape!” He entered the bathroom with images cannonading his mind. Who? Where? How?
A man stood at one of the three urinals and Braxton stumbled past him. He barely made it to the last stall before he fell to his knees and retched into the bowl.
“Hey, man,” a voice behind him called. “Do you want me to get a doctor?”
Using the back of his hand, Braxton wiped his mouth. “No,” he finally responded. “I don't need a doctor.”
When the sounds of footsteps receded, he stood. He flushed the toilet, then washed his face at the sink, before he went to the lounge.
He leaned back in the chair, letting his eyes focus on the picture across from him. There was a man, woman, and child holding hands with the caption: FAMILY FIRST. He clenched his hands into tight fists.
“Please, God, help me to find a way to get through this without—” He stopped, and his shoulders slumped. He was afraid to think, afraid of where his thoughts would take him.
Anya was groggy—like she was wakening from a dream that she couldn't quite remember.
Dr. Young handed the clipboard to the nurse and sat back down on the s
tool.
“We're finished with the questions, now we'll do the physical. I'll explain each step, Anya, and we'll continue only as you feel comfortable.” The doctor paused. “The first thing you have to do is take off your clothes. You can use that screen,” the doctor said, pointing to a thin partition. “There's a large sheet of paper that you'll stand on as you're disrobing. That's part of the package that we'll send to Forensics. Okay?”
The doctor helped her from the bed. It took a moment for her to begin, but then she quickly stripped the remnants from her body.
“Doctor, is there a robe I can put on?” Anya peeked from behind the screen. She was surprised that her voice sounded like she was just going through a routine exam.
The doctor's voice was low. “There's a robe, Anya, but first I have to conduct a visual exam and Kathy will take photos of any bruises. Is that okay?”
She closed her eyes and cringed. Photos? She knew she had to do this, but all she wanted to do was go home. She opened her eyes when the doctor called her name. Anya stepped from behind the screen with her arms crossed in front of her chest.
Dr. Young said, “I promise, this won't take long.”
As the doctor looked over her body, and made notes, Anya's gaze roved through the room, from the stark white walls to the removable ceiling tiles. She shivered and the doctor tried to soothe her, but Anya found no comfort in her words. When the nurse picked up the Polaroid, and the camera's shutters clicked, Anya squeezed her eyes so tightly, they began to burn.
“Okay, Anya,” Dr. Young said after an eternity. “Put this on.”
Anya hated the paper robes that she wore during gynecological exams, but now she grabbed the thin blue paper as if it were a gift from God. She lay back with her feet in the stirrups and tried to focus on what Dr. Young was saying.
“This won't hurt at all. It'll be a lot like the exams you're used to. I'll be checking for blood and fluids and …”
Anya shut her ears but she couldn't close her mind and she remembered another time when she lay on a hard table, with her legs spread, as she stared at the ceiling.
Back then, the red-faced, bald-headed man had uttered almost the same words Dr. Young was saying now. “You'll feel some discomfort, but it will feel a lot like the exams you're used to.”
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