Simple Misconception

by Rachel Sharpe

  The nurse shook her head without emotion as her fingers began feverishly attacking a wireless keyboard. A second later, she retrieved a still-warm sheet of paper from the printer, without even making eye contact.

  “I hate the holidays,” the paramedic snapped, grabbing the sheet. Grunting, he and the other paramedic wheeled the unconscious patient past the desk. They rushed through two swinging doors.

  Watching the emotionless exchange, I felt my pulse rate increase. Suddenly, the nurse met my gaze. Her eyes were much colder than the so-called winter air outside as she asked what I wanted without bothering to include a single pleasantry. I knew what I needed to do. Her curt demand, however, coupled with my growing anxiety caused by both the evening’s events and being in a hospital, made me freeze. Whatever cover story I had thought up faded from memory. I stood there, speechless.

  “Nurse, where’s that gunshot victim from earlier?”

  Startled, I looked up. A tall, dark figure emerged from behind the double doors. Dressed from head to toe in light-green scrubs stood Zane.

  I couldn’t help but feel my jaw drop at the sight of him. He didn’t acknowledge me. His eyes focused on the other woman. “Nurse!” She looked up. “Gunshot victim. French Quarter. Where?”

  Taking a deep breath, she exhaled it with agitation. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard. “Name?”

  “Is that a serious question?” he barked, crossing his muscular arms. “How many gunshot victims came in from the Quarter tonight?”

  “I need a name, doctor,” she retorted, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Who are you anyway? I’ve never seen you before.”

  “Just transferred from Charity,” he snapped back, not even flinching. “Funny. Never would’ve thought there’d be better customer service there.”

  The nurse, a woman in her late-thirties with stringy blonde hair pulled up in a bun, pursed her thin lips so much they almost vanished. Clearing her throat more for effect than necessity, her fingers raced across the keyboard with impressive speed and precision. Finally, she stopped. “Room 117.”

  “Thank you,” he said, shaking his head.

  The nurse stared at him for a moment before returning her gaze to the computer monitor.

  Zane turned left down the hallway marked for rooms 110 through 125. When he was out of her line of view, he glanced back at me for a second before continuing his walk.

  “Yes?” The nurse’s raspy voice ripped me from my thoughts once more. As her eyes bore into mine, I found my gaze shifting between her and Zane’s back.

  “Uh, where’s the vending machine?” I squeaked, my voice echoing down the corridor. Lame. So, so lame.

  Exhaling, her frown deepened as she pointed to the hallway behind her. Taking another deep breath to steady my nerves, I nodded once in appreciation before hurrying past her, trying to catch up to Zane. He was turning the corner. I couldn’t for the life of me understand how or why Zane was in that hospital. As far as I knew, there was no reason for him to keep coming back, to keep helping me.

  The more time I spent with him, the more confused I became. I had a bad feeling there was more going on than I knew. Common sense said a guy like him had an angle for everything. If he was helping me, it could only mean one thing: doing so was somehow helping him, too. I doubted that was a good thing. I was so distracted by my thoughts I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. I assumed, based on his interrogation of the angry night nurse, Zane was going to Cash’s room. Focused on that thought, I pushed open the door he walked through moments earlier.

  “Can I help you?”

  I looked up. Zane was shirtless with his back to me, his black V-neck shirt in one hand, the scrubs top in the other. It took less than a second for me to realize it was a unisex restroom. He had failed to lock the door. He was staring at me through the rectangular mirror to the left located above an ancient, porcelain sink that had probably been installed during Prohibition. My thoughts, however, were not on the Roaring Twenties.

  “Like what you see?”

  He continued to stare at me through the mirror, his expression revealing neither amusement nor annoyance. I turned away, but not before catching a glimpse of another tattoo. On his upper arm was some kind of phrase. It was in a foreign language I didn’t recognize. I knew it wasn’t Chinese, but it looked similar. At least, kind of.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, fumbling for the door handle. It struck me that opening the bathroom door again, while he was changing, might not be the brightest move. Trapped, I stared at the metal hinges holding the door in place. I prayed this would be the last awkward moment of my night. I felt like I’d had my fair share.

  “I’m decent.”

  There was slight sarcasm in his tone. It was irritating. I turned around to face him. He checked his hair in the mirror then smoothed out the front of his shirt. I couldn’t help but stare at the tiny bit of ink visible beneath its collar and wonder, like the other tattoo, what it meant.

  At his feet lay the scrubs in a crumpled pile. He didn’t even bother to push them aside as he walked across the floor. He reached for the handle. Standing in the way, I didn’t move, but instead held up my hand to stop him. He paused, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Opening the door.”

  “No. I mean, what are you doing?”

  He blinked.

  “Why are you helping me?”

  “Who said I was helping you?”

  “Right,” I snorted. “You drove me to my friend’s house, then to the hospital, and managed to figure out which room my friend’s friend was staying in by impersonating a doctor. But you’re totally not helping me.”

  He just stared.

  “Who are you?”

  “Could ask you the same thing.”

  When I didn’t reply, he pushed past me, forcing the door open with one quick jerk. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him. It would be arrogant to think he was trying to help because he was interested in me. I did have a tendency to attract the wrong type of guy, but this was something else. He was definitely up to something. I didn’t trust him. I also knew that whatever was going on might be more than I could handle on my own. It was probably best, for now, to go along if I had any desire to figure out what happened to Natalie. Frowning, I followed him down the hall to Room 117.

  The door was half-open when I got there, sending a cone of light into the otherwise dim room. It was small for a hospital room. Considering the building's age, that wasn’t surprising. With its two narrow beds, a particle board nightstand with an oak veneer, and two cushionless chairs in opposite corners, the room just screamed “comfort.” In the hospital bed on the left, with an IV in his right arm, was Cash.

  He was dressed in a white and blue hospital gown, and the thin pink blanket and white sheets that covered the bed were twisted around his hairy legs. His curly brown hair was matted against his forehead. He had a glazed look in his eyes. Zane stood in the shadows near the doorway, just out of sight. Cash blinked. He stared into the bright hallway light, his eyes landing on me.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Uh, it’s me. Natalie’s friend.” My voice cracked. The longer I was in the hospital the more panicked I felt.

  “Jamestown?” He paused, clearing his throat. “No. Beantown, right?”

  “Right.” I offered a slight smile I knew he couldn’t see.

  “Yeah, right.” He coughed. “What’s going on? Nat here?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Oh.” There was disappointment in his voice. “You know I got shot? Crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah, that is crazy.” I nodded, taking another step into the room. “I mean it’s horrible. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.” Tapping on the wrist that held the IV, he laughed. “They�
��ve got some good stuff here.”

  “Right.” I laughed too. I felt Zane’s cold eyes glaring at me. His constant presence was unnerving. I bit my lip to avoid telling him to leave. “So, um, you and Natalie kinda walked off. When I found you, you’d been shot. What happened?”

  Cash coughed again. This time, so hard he rolled over. The action made him cringe in pain. After the spell subsided, he cleared his throat. He shrugged. “You know Nat. She got bored. Funky never was her scene. We were outside, and these guys showed up. Started arguing with her.”

  “About what?”

  He blinked. “Huh?”

  “You said you and Natalie were outside the bar. Two guys started arguing with her? Who were they? Did you know them? What was the argument about?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He held up his hands. The IV got snagged on the railing of the bed. Once he got it untangled, he looked up again, disoriented. “Sorry, I am on some serious meds right now. You know I got shot?” He pointed at his lower right ribcage. “Bullet was right here. Pretty deep too. They dug it out and stitched me up. Lots of stitches. Like, twenty or something. Wanna see?”

  When he started to pull up the gown, I held up my hands. “Um, no. I’m good, really.” Zane glowered. I ignored him. “Listen, Cash, this is very important. I need to know what you remember. What they argued about, what they looked like. Anything at all.”

  He pursed his lips. “Two guys.”

  “Did you know them?”

  He took a deep breath and flinched. With or without pain meds, I knew from experience he would be feeling that bullet wound for quite some time. “Nah.”

  I frowned. “Could you describe them?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Huh?”

  I bit my tongue. I counted to ten. “Were they young? Old? Short? Tall? Fat? Skinny?”

  “Really don’t remember,” he said with a yawn. He shifted in the bed uncomfortably. “After all those meds and then, ya know, getting shot, couldn’t tell you what day it is. Why not just ask Nat?”

  I stood there, thinking. It was clear to me that Cash would not be much help. If he did know anything about the two men who kidnapped Natalie, it wasn’t enough to help me find her. Not yet, at least. There was a chance he might remember more later, once the pain meds wore off, but I couldn’t justify hanging around an antiquated hospital room on a chance. Natalie was still out there. And, after what happened at her father’s house, I knew she needed help. Fast.

  I offered a reassuring smile. “Thank, Cash. I’ll do that. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, shifting his weight again.

  I turned toward the door, then paused. “One more thing. If you think of anything else about those guys, could you call me?”

  His brow furrowed with confusion. “Uh, sure.”

  After saving my cell phone number in his phone, I headed out the room, discouraged. I sensed Zane near, but I didn’t want to talk. Confused, distressing thoughts flooded my mind. When I flew home, I was worried that I would be overwhelmed by my mother’s nonstop holiday glee. I was concerned I would be inundated with questions about my future plans—career, marriage, children. I hadn’t expected one of my best friends to be kidnapped. Or her stepmother to overdose. Or her father to cover up that death.

  While my career as a private investigator was relatively short, I had handled some pretty intense cases. But none where there were absolutely no leads. Zane’s deep voice interrupted my thoughts. “Now what?”

  “Now”—I took a deep breath—“I go back to the scene of the crime.”

  18

  The thought of going back to the French Quarter with no leads was overwhelming. But I had no other choice. Natalie was missing. I was frustrated. Even the cold case of David Michaels had some clues. A shooting on a crowded street in the French Quarter. An abduction in the same place. An international drug smuggling syndicate. An accidental drug overdose. A cover up. The district attorney. All of this. But no clues to connect them. Sitting in the front seat of Natalie’s car as we pulled back onto I-10 East, I glanced through the darkness at Zane.

  I couldn’t for the life of me understand why he was still here. I was not dealing with some Boy Scout hell bent on earning a Good Samaritan merit badge. He had to have some reason why he hadn’t simply stolen the car, leaving me to fend for myself downtown at night. I had dealt with enough strange characters in my line of work to realize he had a motive. I hadn’t figured out what it was. Yet. All I knew was right now I could definitely use help. As much as it pained me, this guy was offering it.

  “So, do you normally steal scrubs and play doctor or was this a special occasion?” I hoped to break the awkward silence. Instead, I made it worse. As soon as the words escaped my lips, I cringed. I couldn’t understand why this guy rattled me.

  “Is that your thing? Role play?” I didn’t reply. A smirk crossed his lips. “You might be fun after all.”

  I sat in silence, grateful it was too dark for him to see the bright shade of crimson my face had turned. Before I could blink, he was leaning over. He reached toward me. I scooted back in my seat, getting as far away from him as I could. I jammed my right elbow into the car door in the process. A wave of pain shot through my arm.

  “Get over yourself.” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel with his left hand then glanced up at the road while opening the glove compartment. We began to drift out of the lane. My throat went dry as I stared at the road. My nerves were on fire.

  “What are you doing?” I snapped.

  “Looking for a smoke. I know that girl’s got something in here.”

  After a few more seconds, he pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack and a plastic lighter with a decorative cross on it. He stuck a cigarette in his teeth and flicked the lighter. The bright light danced as the flame met the cigarette. As quick as it appeared, it was gone, leaving in its wake orange embers and his first puff.

  “Do you have to smoke that right now?”

  “Do you have to always voice your opinion?” he retorted, taking a deep drag and exhaling it in my direction. “Cigarettes are relaxing.” He blew another puff at me. “Relax.”

  I stifled a cough, refusing to let him get to me.

  “So are we really doing this?”

  “Doing what?” I felt my back stiffen at his question.

  “You’re not going to find anything,” he continued, veering into the right lane. “There aren’t going to be any clues to your friend’s disappearance, even if she was kidnapped. Murders go unsolved all the time in New Orleans. Your BFF’s daddy is banking on it.” He whistled. “I’ve seen some crazy stuff in my day, but tonight . . . this is a whole new level. And that’s saying something.”

  “Listen, no one’s forcing you to do anything,” I snapped. “Just take that exit ramp. I’ll be happy to leave you at the nearest bus stop.”

  “I’m driving,” he reminded me.

  “It’s not your car.”

  “Not yours either.”

  I wanted to scream, but I counted to ten instead. “I have to do this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she’s my friend!”

  He took another drag, this time, more slowly. He let the smoke sit on his tongue for several moments before releasing it. Without bothering to use his turn signal, he took the exit to North Claiborne Avenue. After a few long moments of silence, he spoke.

  “Look, I don’t know you. But I do know your friend.”

  I blinked. “You do?”

  He clicked his teeth. “I don’t know her, but I know her type. Girl went off with those two guys by choice.”

  “Oh, really?” I felt my face flush with anger. I counted to ten again. This time, it didn’t work. “You’re saying everything we heard earlier, that she was taken by force, Cash
getting shot, all of that was b.s.? We saw Cash in the hospital! That wasn’t real? And all those people who said she was taken. They were wrong too, huh? You’re saying since you know Natalie’s ‘type,’ she, by definition, left with two guys who shot her friend?”

  “Eye witness testimony never holds up in court.” He flicked the cigarette out the window. “Trust me.”

  “I’d never trust you,” I muttered, watching the buildings as we drove down the street.

  “Smartest thing you’ve said all night.”

  We continued our drive in silence. I was angry. I was desperate to somehow make sense of Natalie’s kidnapping. The more I thought about it, the only thing that seemed likely was that it was all connected to Dr. Weisman. I felt the knot in my stomach, which had been weighing as heavy as an anchor securing a semi-submersible oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico, sink even deeper.

  I had never felt close to Dr. Weisman. He wasn’t taking international trips on a monthly basis when I was a kid, but he was never someone I felt connected to growing up. Maybe it was because I was his daughter’s friend. Maybe it was because he was too busy with his medical practice or whatever else he was up to back in those days. I never had any meaningful conversations with the man.

  Still, he was Natalie’s dad. Replaying the scene at her house over in my head, I saw her latest stepmother dead in the living room. I saw her father and his crony trying desperately to conceal this reality. It made me feel more nauseous than all the drinks I had since returning to Louisiana. Combined. Zane took a sharp turn onto St. Bernard Avenue. I was barely able to gasp “Stop” and open the door before it happened.

  After several painfully long and exhausting seconds, it was over. My throat burned. There was a bitter taste in my mouth that I knew would take time to go away. I couldn’t focus on that taste, or the smell lingering outside the door. If I did, I might become sick again. I remained there, half in and half out of the Bentley, trying to decide what to do next.