“Water.” She forced the word from her dry throat. If the woman was going to hang around here, she might as well be useful.
The woman jumped to her feet. “Nicole! Nicole, you’re awake, honey? The doctor said you’d wake up today, but I didn’t dare hope.”
Nicole? Who the hell’s Nicole?
She tried to speak again, but her throat was so dry all she could manage was a grunt and “water.”
The woman quickly pressed the call bell, reached for the glass on the bedside table, and held out the bent straw. Relief was so close now. She lifted her head slightly, drank, but after no more than a few sips, she fell back on the pillow, exhausted. Her eye closed. No! She fought to stay awake. She needed to know what was going on.
She compelled her eye to open once more and looked directly into the woman’s unfamiliar blue eyes brimming with tears.
“I didn’t think you were ever going to wake up, darling.” The woman wiped her hand across her face, brushing away the moisture on her cheeks. “The nurse and doctor will be here in a minute, but I want you to know that Amanda is safe.”
Nicole? Amanda?
Neither name seemed the least bit familiar to her.
Before she could put together a coherent thought, let alone a question, the door opened, admitting two women, one in green OR scrubs, the other, obviously pregnant, wearing a bright pink and blue nursing smock with matching pants. A great sadness suffused her.
Why should the sight of a pregnant woman upset me?
Her head throbbed. She was so tired … Her eyelids were heavy.
“What did I tell you, Mrs. Lincoln? I was only off by a couple of hours. We doctors can time it pretty accurately these days.”
The woman walked over to the right side of the bed, forcing her to slowly turn her head. The doctor smiled down at her.
“Hello there. Nice to see you’ve got movement. I’ll bet you have a doozy of a headache, too. I’ll give you something for it in a few minutes. Welcome back to the land of the living. I’m Dr. Marion. We’ve been keeping you asleep for a while, and gradually reduced the drugs to wake you up. The headache is from that process and should ease as the day wears on. How does the rest of you feel?”
A pen light flashed in front of her right eye while the nurse took her blood pressure.
A forest of IV poles, tubes, and machinery surrounded the bed. Her face was stiff and when she tried to open her mouth wider to speak, she couldn’t do it. With great effort, she raised her right hand which seemed to weight a ton, and touched her face. Bandages? Why was her face bandaged? She inhaled shakily and realized there was an oxygen cannula in her nose.
Disconnected images flitted through her mind but nothing made any sense. Words flashed against a blank canvas but vanished before she could latch onto them. She needed to speak, had to say something, but such action required too much effort and caused the pain to intensify. The doctor continued to stare at her, the woman’s brown eyes compelling her to answer. She wanted to, but the word she needed were just out of reach.
The doctor smiled. “If you can understand me, blink your eyes twice.”
She slowly complied with the doctor’s request.
“Good, now how are you feeling?”
“Sore,” she croaked, successfully grabbing the elusive word she needed. Her speech was slurred. More words and images came to her, and she struggled to voice them. “Head, hand, hurt.”
The few words tired her out, and she welcomed the soothing darkness which enveloped her. She knew the people were still there, but she didn’t care. She heard the doctor’s voice as if from afar.
“You’re doing great. I think that’s enough for the moment. Here’s something for the pain. Sleep. It’s the best thing for you right now.”
She relaxed and allowed the comforting blankness to enfold her again. Would the angel be there?
* * *
Everything is dark, but she can’t move. She’s shackled in the center of the void. A checkerboard appears in the gloom. It speaks with a foreign accent. The evil voice in the board sniggers and the black and red surface swirls the way a windmill does. The red and black disks fly around and she ducks, but each time one touches her, the pain increases. Red seeps from her pain-racked body—her blood pouring from her in an unending stream, her life oozing out with it.
“It’s nothing personal,” the disembodied voice says. “You have to suffer.”
The checkerboard grows in size until it’s all she can see, and then just as quickly shrinks down to become the elements in a painting—the red of an ocean sunset, the black, the silhouette of a man standing on a bluff looking out at the sea. His loneliness calls to her. She tries to move toward him, but the chains hold her in place.
“Who is he, you two-timing bitch?” shrieks a demon, his face so contorted with jealousy that she can’t identify him. “How can I trust you?” He tosses paintbrushes at her which become knives as blow after blow reach their intended target. Blood pours from each wound.
The man in the painting turns toward her, but he has no face, no mouth, and the painting begins to spin and spiral like water going down a drain. The demon approaches, a knife held high in his claw-like hand. Terrified, she tries to make herself smaller, pulls against the chains that keep her upright … The soothing voice of her angel calls to her. She slides into a comforting nothingness and lets it claim her.
* * *
The next time she awoke, Mrs. Lincoln—that was what the doctor had called the guardian stranger—was standing by the window, looking outside. Breathing seemed easier, the bandages were gone from her face, and the oxygen cannula had been removed.
It has to be a good sign.
The number of IV poles near her seemed to have dwindled as well. She turned her head to the left and tried to reach for the carafe and tumbler on the side table. The movement alerted the woman at the window. “You’re awake again. Thirsty?” The woman stared at her, examining her face. What was wrong with it?
“Yes,” she whispered through her dry lips. Her voice was hoarse and unfamiliar. She sipped greedily from the straw and lay back. As Dr. Marion had predicted, the pain in her head wasn’t as bad this time, although she still had pins and needles throughout her body, and her hand ached.
“The doctor says once you’re taking in sufficient liquids, they can remove the rest of this.” The woman indicated the bags of IV and the tubes.
Her voice conveyed love and kindness. She remembered her name—the doctor had used it—but she didn’t recognize the woman. She was about to ask when the door opened and Dr. Marion entered.
The doctor walked over to the bed, checked the dials on the machines, and took a syringe out of her pocket. She placed it on the bedside table.
“Welcome back. How’s the head?”
“Better. Where am I?”
The question, which had slowly formed in her head, was painstakingly uttered through cracked lips. The words were slurred.
Dr. Marion smiled.
“Curiosity is a great sign. You’re at the UCSF Medical Center in San Francisco. You are one stubborn, determined lady.” She turned away and spoke to the nurse who’d just entered the room. “Cassie, I think we can take off most of this stuff. Leave the IV bag and the catheter. We won’t try to make her stand or walk for a couple of days yet.”
I can’t walk? Oh my God, this is worse than I thought.
Her heart pounded, and she concentrated on moving her toes. She stared at the foot of the bed, saw the blanket move slightly, indicating that she hadn’t imagined it, and relaxed.
Not paralyzed, just damn stiff and sore.
“You’ve been severely injured, and frankly, your recovery is nothing short of miraculous. You had some internal damage we were able to repair and, despite a few close calls, you’ve healed well. Your left hand was broken and your ring finger severed, but it’s been set and the finger reattached, although it’s healing slowly. I wish I could tell you that you’ll regain full use of your hand
, but we won’t know until the cast is removed and you begin physiotherapy. The reason you’re stiff and sore is because you haven’t moved in more than six weeks. After the surgery to repair the internal damage, infection set in, slowing the healing process. We’ve kept you in a coma to allow your brain to heal along with your body. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes,” she whispered, stunned to realize how seriously she’d been hurt. “Go on.”
“The final test results on your lungs came in this morning, and the infection is clear. You’re going to be weak and tired for some time. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back quickly from injuries like these.” The doctor leaned forward and examined her face closely, gently tipping her chin to the left and the right. She smiled and stepped back. “You required some plastic surgery to repair the damage to your face. Cassie will bring you some cream to rub on your face if it itches.”
“Thank you,” she mouthed the words, overwhelmed by what she was hearing. A scene from an old black-and-white movie played through her mind, and she saw a man in a satin jacket, his head swathed in bandages, waiting to have the bandages removed to reveal his new face.
Plastic surgery? Is that why Mrs. Lincoln stared at me? Do I look like some kind of monster? Who the hell is paying for all this?
The headache intensified, and she closed her eyes.
“Do you want something for the pain? We can continue this later. There’s no rush.”
She opened her eyes once more. “No, go on.” She wanted to hear it all. She’d never been one to shy away from bad news ... right?
“Very well. There was so much blood matted into your hair, we cut it short, so we could clean it properly prior to your facial reconstruction. We had to shave the back of your head to open your skull to reduce the pressure and swelling on the brain. There’s a small plate under your scalp at the back of your head, but your hair will cover the scars nicely. It’s growing in well, and such a beautiful color. Was it always curly?”
The statement and question caught her by surprise. Color—what color was her hair? She should know the color of her own hair. Did it curl? What had the doctor said—brain swelling? This was going from bad to worse. It had to be a horrible nightmare. Her right palm began to sweat, and her left hand itched.
“I’m not sure,” she stammered, knowing the doctor wanted an answer.
They drilled holes in my head?
She pictured a cranial halo and shuddered. She was getting agitated, and the pain in her head increased steadily.
New face? She didn’t remember her old face—she didn’t know what she looked like. She began to shake. This couldn’t be happening. How could she not remember her own face?
Dr. Marion seemed oblivious to her concern and agony, and continued to smile as if this were an everyday thing.
I must have brain damage. It’s the only explanation. What the hell did I do to myself?
“There’s some slight bruising under the left eye, but let me check your eyes before you look at yourself.”
The doctor took a pen light out of her lab coat pocket and shined it into her eyes. The left eye hurt more than the right, and she squinted at the pain.
“Good pupil reaction. Close the left eye, please.” She complied. “Now, open the left and close the right.”
Everything blurred. The doctor flashed the light again, causing more discomfort, and she flinched.
“You probably won’t believe me, but if it hurts, it’s a good sign. It means the nerves aren’t dead. Can you see anything from the left eye?”
“No, yes, white, fuzzy,” she managed. The pain in her head had reached epic proportions. “Hurts,” she pleaded as a tear trickled down her cheek.
“I know, but things will get better.”
The compassion in the doctor’s voice brought more tears to her eyes. She could hear the gentle sobs coming from Mrs. Lincoln, who’d remained by the window.
“With a corrective lens, your vision should be fine. The eye responds to light and moves as it should. It’s amazing the surgeons were able to save it. The left side of your body suffered the most damage. Cassie, bring the hand mirror over here. How about you have a look at yourself before I give you something for the pain.”
The nurse walked over to the bed and handed her the mirror. “Don’t look so worried. You’re beautiful.”
“Tell me what happened to me.”
She forced the sentence from her lips, anxiety and frustration in her voice. Nothing made sense. The left side of her face damaged, her left hand badly broken. Had she been in a car accident? Injuries to her left side would be consistent with something happening while she was driving.
The doctor frowned. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I … ”
She tried to answer the question, something that should have been easy, and panic gripped her. She could remember an old, cheesy horror film, but she couldn’t remember a single thing about herself, not even what she looked like or her hair color or what she’d done last. Her heart pounded, her head threatened to explode, and she couldn’t seem to suck enough oxygen out of the air. Her brain was damaged.
“Nothing. I don’t remember anything before waking up and seeing that woman sitting beside the bed.”
Tears of fear and frustration ran down her cheeks as she painstakingly uttered the words, enunciating each of them slowly, giving voice to her fear.
“No!” Mrs. Lincoln cried. “Nicole, honey, you must remember me! I can’t bear any more of this.” Her sobs grew louder, and Cassie quickly led her out of the room.
She watched her go, upset whatever she’d said had caused the woman pain. Who was Mrs. Lincoln? Why was it so important for her to remember the woman?
“Why does she call me Nicole?”
The doctor’s brow furrowed. “It’s your name. You’re Nicole Hart, although some people apparently call you Nikki. Nadia Lincoln is your mother.”
Nikki gasped. She hadn’t recognized her own mother? No wonder the woman was upset. Something the doctor had said suddenly struck her as odd.
“If she’s my mother, why do we have different last names?”
“You’re a widow.”
The shock must have shown on her face because the doctor continued quickly, not giving her time to digest the latest news. “I’m sorry for being so abrupt with that information, Nicole. We expected some memory loss, but we couldn’t anticipate its extent. You’ve had a severe head injury. But put that aside for a moment and look at what a great job Dr. Fuller did.”
She handed her the mirror. Nikki took it and stared at the stranger looking back at her. She felt like Alice in a weird new world, completely lost and disoriented. Everything was surreal, her mind working too slowly to take in this strange new reality.
The woman in the mirror was beautiful in a fragile way. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. There were slight red lines here and there, no doubt the lingering marks of her surgery. She had a headful of copper curls, no more than two inches long and probably much shorter at the back. What struck her most were the large, frightened, hazel eyes. She looked needy, like a victim, and the last thing Nikki wanted was to need anyone. The thought stunned her because she realized it was true.
“I don’t recognize myself.”
“That’s to be expected. Your nose and jaw were broken, but look closely—your eyes, your cheekbones, and your lips haven’t changed.”
“No, I mean I don’t remember what I looked like before.” Nikki said each word slowly. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t remember anything.”
Panic threatened to engulf her. The pain in her head was unbearable. She could think and speak, but her memories consisted of this room, the unending emptiness that cocooned her from the pain, and the angel who protected her from the demons haunting her nightmares—dreams she only remembered in disjointed pieces, none of which made any sense.
“You were badly injured. We’ll run some
tests tomorrow and see how you’re doing. Memory loss like this is usually temporary. It’s nothing to worry about. Right now, I want you to relax. I’ll give you something for the pain, and we’ll talk again later.”
The doctor injected a clear liquid into the IV tube junction and, within seconds, Nikki felt her body start to relax. The emptiness beckoned, and she moved toward it eagerly. She needed her angel’s comfort now more than ever.
“Close your eyes and sleep. You still have a lot of healing to do.”
Chapter Four
Jason took the ramp off Highway 80 onto the Bayshore Parkway. Traffic was much heavier today than it was when he traveled this route on Saturdays, and the trip had taken half an hour longer than he’d expected. He slowly navigated his SUV along the busy San Francisco street, making his way to the UCSF Medical Center. The 120-mile trek from Larosa had become his weekly pilgrimage, a time during which he reviewed the elements of the case, hoping he’d find a clue he’d missed—anything to lead him closer to the killers.
He would sit all day with the inert form swathed in bandages, talk about his life, his family, football, skiing, whatever came to him. Sometimes he would read to her from the latest best sellers, avoiding the more graphic ones. The two things he never mentioned were the reason he’d been in Larosa last summer and the case itself. Some things were better left unsaid.
With his brother’s help, he’d pulled every string he could and called in every favor he was owed to end his medical leave early and get temporarily reassigned to the San Francisco office and seconded to the Larosa Sheriff’s Department. He’d been afraid the California Bureau of Investigations would pull rank, but the CBI had turned the case over to the FBI within a week, and he’d been placed in charge of the investigation. This was officially his case, had always been, damn it, and he intended to see it through.
Despite Rick’s arguments to the contrary, he’d moved into a cabin at the River’s Edge, the town’s only motel. Horning in on newlyweds wasn’t something he’d been comfortable with. He’d bought himself a house last June, but it was in Colorado—a tough commute on the best of days. When this case was over, he’d go there a reassess his life.
On His Watch (Vengeance Is Mine Book 1) Page 4