Stranger in Her Arms

by Lorna Michaels

  “Nothing.”

  “But you gave Warner your name.”

  J.D. shook his head. “When you went to answer the door, I figured I’d be meeting someone. I saw a notepad from Russell’s Pharmacy on the counter, so I used the name. The rest—I had to say something.”

  “Maybe some of it was true.”

  “Don’t know, except for falling at your feet.”

  “Yeah,” Christy muttered. “You did do that.” If he hadn’t, she’d have had him out of her house in minutes, and then she’d have missed:

  A. The adventure of her life.

  B. A lot of grief.

  C. Both of the above.

  Didn’t matter. Here she was, and here he was. “Let’s go see if the doctor’s in,” she said.

  They found Dr. Tom Mayes’s waiting room filled with patients and his receptionist’s chair empty. They rang the bell and waited at the window. After a few minutes, the doctor bustled out of an examining room, followed by a young woman with a whimpering toddler. “You just give him a couple of baby aspirin every few hours, Amanda, and he’ll be fine.”

  He spotted Christy at the desk and his face lit up. “Christy Matthews,” he said, raising his arms. “The Lord has sent me an angel.” He peered around her and called, “Come on in, Mr. Truman,” and a large man heaved himself up out of a chair and shuffled through the door.

  “What brings you in, Christy?” Dr. Mayes asked as he motioned Truman toward the examining room.

  “My, uh, friend has a head wound. I’d like you to take a look at it.”

  The doctor thrust a clipboard toward J.D. “Take a seat and fill this out. You’re about number one thousand in line.” He turned to Christy. “My nurse couldn’t get out of her subdivision this morning. As long as you’re here, would you mind playing Florence Nightingale until your friend here is finished?”

  “I’d be glad to.” She glanced at J.D. “Will you be okay by yourself?” she asked softly.

  J.D. scowled at her. Did she think he was incompetent? Was this how people with head injuries were treated? “I can manage,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “I know you can. Sorry,” she said. Dr. Mayes opened the door and she went inside.

  J.D. sat down and stared at the clipboard in his hand. Health History. Yeah. He turned it over, picked up a copy of Time and riffled through it, hoping to find something familiar. No luck. He put the magazine down and listened to other patients chattering about Tropical Storm Coral. Each person seemed to be trying to one-up everyone else with survivor stories. He bet his story could top them all.

  A good hour later the doctor called, “J. D. Russell.”

  He glanced around the waiting room, wondering who—

  Then he saw Christy in the doorway, beckoning to him. J. D. Russell. Me. He got up.

  Dr. Mayes was in the examining room, drying his hands. He motioned to the examining table, tossed the paper towel in the waste can and took the clipboard from J.D. “Got a problem with your he—” He glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “You haven’t filled this out.”

  “I can’t,” J.D. said grimly. “I don’t remember any of it.”

  Dr. Mayes regarded him thoughtfully. “So this head wound—”

  “Is more than a cut,” J.D. said. “I woke up on the beach last night and couldn’t remember anything.” He forced himself to speak without emotion. “I still can’t.”

  Dr. Mayes nodded. “Any other injuries?”

  “His ribs,” Christy said.

  “Take off your shirt. Lie down and let’s take a look, then we’ll talk. Okay with you if Christy gives me a hand?”

  “Sure. I’ve already had a sample of her nursing skills.” J.D. lay back and shut his eyes while the doctor probed the head wound. It didn’t hurt as much today and he couldn’t resist saying, “You’re a lot gentler than Ms. Nightingale here.”

  Christy huffed. “You’re already starting to heal. That’s why it doesn’t hurt as much.”

  “Your nurse has done a fine job on you,” Dr. Mayes said, “but we’ll put in a few stitches for insurance.”

  After the stitching was done and the doctor had apologized for his inability to X-ray J.D. without electricity, he checked J.D.’s chest and pronounced the ribs bruised but probably not broken. He looked intently at J.D. “You said you don’t remember anything about what happened?”

  “I don’t remember anything about anything.” J.D. heard the despair in his voice and, with an effort, lightened his tone. “No name, no rank, no serial number. Nothing. I think the medical term is amnesia.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the prognosis?” He felt as if he were waiting for a judge to pronounce a sentence on him.

  “The majority of amnesiacs recover their memories in time,” Dr. Mayes said.

  “But some don’t?”

  The doctor nodded. “The ones who don’t are usually in a lot worse shape than you are. All you can do is be patient.”

  “I can remember some things,” J.D. said. “General information, like what to do in a storm or names of movies. Why can’t I remember anything about myself?”

  Dr. Mayes spread his hands. “The mind is a curious thing. After head trauma, a patient may remember just the sort of information you mentioned, but when it comes to himself, he’s like a brand-new puppy. No history.”

  “Isn’t there anything J.D. can do to help matters along?” Christy asked.

  “Yes,” Dr. Mayes said, “but the advice isn’t easy to follow. Try to relax and let your mind open.”

  “Okay,” J.D. said. He felt hopeless.

  “Forcing things won’t work.” Dr. Mayes put his hand on J.D.’s shoulder. “Good luck.”

  J.D. tried to read the message behind the words. Did the doctor mean good luck was likely or good luck living with no past?

  He didn’t trust himself to speak as he and Christy walked out of the office. She looked pretty miserable herself.

  J.D. wondered if he was in “the majority.” Or was he doomed to go on like this for the rest of his life? What did a man do when he was suddenly a blank slate?

  He glanced at Christy again, remembering the softness of her skin, the sweetness of her parted lips. He wanted her in his arms again. Didn’t he have a right to print on that slate whatever he chose?

  Before he could answer that, he had things to take care of. Then he could wrestle with his future. He noticed a sign down the street and headed in that direction. “Come on,” he said to Christy. “We need to make a stop at the San Sebastian Sheriff’s Department.”

  As J.D. and Christy trudged down the street, a shaft of sunlight broke through the clouds. An omen? Christy wondered. Perhaps the sheriff would have information that would clear up all her questions about J.D. Maybe he’d have a missing persons report that would enable J.D. to reclaim his former life.

  And then she’d never see him again.

  Selfish of her to be thinking like that, she told herself. She should be happy for him if that happened. Of course she would be.

  They pushed open the door and left the humidity of the sidewalk for the hot, stale air of a windowless, un-air-conditioned office. Christy swiped her hair back from her already sweaty face.

  An aging deputy looked up as they approached the desk and quickly stubbed out a cigarette. “Can I he’p you?” he asked.

  “Any reports of missing persons come in recently?” J.D. asked.

  The man shoved his glasses up on his nose. “Somebody lost?”

  Christy watched as J.D.’s fingers clenched. “Me,” he said grimly. “I had an accident—”

  “What kind of accident?” The deputy eyed J.D. curiously. “If you caused any property damage, I gotta make out a report.”

  “No, nothing like that. I got hit on the head and suffered a…slight memory loss. I thought someone might be looking for me.”

  “No, sir. Cain’t he’p you out with that. Phones been down so cain’t nothin’ come in.”

  “Once they�
��re up again, I’d appreciate your letting me know if you get anything.” He turned to Christy, and she gave the deputy her phone number.

  “How about cars?” J.D. continued. “Any abandoned ones towed in?”

  “About a thousand,” the man said. “You wanna check on yours, the lot’s over on Third and Dune.”

  If J.D. couldn’t identify himself, surely he couldn’t recognize his car, Christy thought. On the other hand, maybe some vehicle would jog his memory. They could walk over to the lot later.

  J.D. spread his hands on the desk. Christy studied them. They were strong, she knew. His fingers were long and lean, the nails clean and neatly clipped. They weren’t the hands of a workman. They belonged to a man who used his mind more than his muscles. Of course, that left a lot of possibilities open. Doctor, lawyer, merchant—

  A white-collar person could still be a kidnapper. Why didn’t J.D. say anything about the missing woman? Christy could say something herself, but she wanted him to do it. That would remove the last little bit of doubt that nagged at her. Ask, she begged silently.

  “Did you find that woman who was reported kidnapped the other day?” J.D. suddenly asked, as though he’d read her mind.

  Christy breathed a sigh of thanks, then clenched her hands as she waited for the answer. Her intuition had to be right. J.D. couldn’t be a criminal.

  “Yeah,” the deputy said, “lady turned up a couple hours ago. Got in the car with some fellow she knew. They were stuck on the road all night and the next day. Dropped her cell and it was too wet to use. Her husband came in right after sunup t’let us know.”

  Thank God. “I’m sure he was relieved,” Christy said. No more than she was.

  J.D. glanced at her, and she knew he read her mind.

  Outside a couple of minutes later, he said, “Feel better?”

  Christy fidgeted uncomfortably. “I didn’t really think you were a kidnapper.”

  His laugh was bitter. “Sure you did.”

  “At first, yes, but not after I got to know you.”

  He quickened his step. “You don’t know me. Hell, I don’t know me.”

  “I do,” Christy said, hurrying to keep up with him. “I’ve learned you’re a decent, kind person.”

  He stopped abruptly. “Because of last night?”

  Christy didn’t meet his eyes. “Yes.”

  “What I did then was as much for me as for you,” he said.

  “Okay, but there were other things. You had the upper hand. You could have…taken advantage.”

  J.D. shook his head. “Maybe I didn’t want to bite the hand that fed me.”

  “Stop it,” Christy said angrily. Tears threatened to fill her eyes. “Stop tearing down everything you’ve done because—because you’re upset.”

  “I am upset,” J.D. said with a sigh, “but I shouldn’t take it out on you. I owe you.”

  “No, you—”

  “I do. This may sound crazy, given my circumstances, but I won’t forget what you’ve done for me.”

  “You sound like you’re thinking of leaving,” Christy said, staring at him in disbelief. “That does sound crazy.”

  “Storm’s over,” he said. “I need to get out of your hair.”

  “And do what?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “We gave my phone number to the deputy. How will he reach you?” Christy argued.

  “I’ll go back and check with him.”

  He started to walk away, but she caught his arm. “Stop, J.D. We both know you have nowhere to go.”

  He flinched. “Direct hit.”

  She saw his reaction and could have kicked herself. She was desperately afraid he would leave and just as desperate to prevent it.

  Across the street was a small park. “Let’s go over there where we can sit down and talk,” she urged.

  “Okay.” He didn’t sound thrilled with the idea but he followed her.

  They slogged through the wet grass and sat on a damp stone bench. At their feet, dragonflies hovered over puddles.

  “Where were you thinking of going?” Christy asked.

  J.D. ran his fingers through his hair, winced when he skimmed his wound. “I have to stay in San Sebastian until I find out if someone’s looking for me. I’ll get work. People have storm damage.”

  “I have storm damage,” Christy said. He didn’t answer, and she went on. “You can help me with repairs. I can pay you—” He started to interrupt, but she hurried on. “And you’ll have a place to stay.” He hesitated, and she added, “Don’t worry. I won’t jump you.”

  J.D. laughed. “That’s not much of an incentive, but thanks. I appreciate your offer.”

  “Let’s stop at the grocery store. Then we can go to the hardware store and pick up some supplies.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  They walked companionably down the street. Christy knew she was foolish to feel so lighthearted, but she couldn’t help it.

  At the grocery store they stopped, waited, then looked at each other and laughed. Of course the automatic doors didn’t open. J.D. pushed. “Amazing,” he said with a teasing grin. “You can work them by hand.”

  Inside, Christy asked, “What do you like that doesn’t need cooking?”

  “You don’t cook much anyway,” J.D. remarked.

  He was right, but, “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I saw what you had in your refrigerator.”

  The man noticed everything. Maybe his real name was Sherlock.

  As they started down the produce aisle, Christy asked, “Do you think we’ll run into someone here who knows you?”

  “I’m hoping we will.” She saw him look into the eyes of other shoppers. He was watching for a spark of recognition. “No one looks familiar,” he said, “and no one knows me.” He grabbed a can of juice off a shelf, dropped it in the basket. “I feel invisible.”

  Though she doubted a man as handsome as J.D. would ever walk through life unnoticed, she knew he didn’t mean that. He meant he was still a stranger, to everyone. Her heart broke for him.

  When they finished their shopping, the cart held peanut butter and jelly, a loaf of bread, more tuna, a can of Vienna sausages, several kinds of juice, and fruit. Christy eyed a bottle of wine on the last aisle, then changed her mind. She didn’t need to loosen her inhibitions with wine. They were on the verge of disappearing on their own.

  Since they were due to meet Warner in twenty minutes, they decided to postpone looking for J.D.’s car. At the hardware store they picked up boards, nails and shingles. They finished just as Warner drove up.

  Back home, they walked around the house, surveying the damage. “About two days’ worth of work,” J.D. concluded, then said, “Let’s take a look at your car.”

  Christy opened the garage. The water had receded, leaving a line on the wall about eight inches up. “Thank goodness the car wasn’t flooded,” Christy said. She leaned inside and popped the hood.

  Before she’d straightened up again, J.D. slammed the hood down.

  “Found the problem already?” she said. “What a mechanic.”

  “It’s not a mechanical problem,” he said, his face forbidding. “Someone cut the distributor wire.”

  Chapter 6

  Shocked, Christy stared at him. “Cut the wire? But—but who would do such a thing? Kids playing a prank?”

  He shook his head. “Someone,” he said thoughtfully, “who saw me at your door and didn’t want me to get away. He knew I didn’t have a car, and he dismantled yours so you couldn’t drive me to a hospital or the police station.”

  “Be-because he beat you—”

  “More than that,” J.D. said. “I think…because he tried to kill me and he wants another chance.”

  Christy shuddered. He couldn’t be right. She didn’t want him to be right, couldn’t imagine J.D. dead. She shut her eyes, then opened them as a thought occurred to her. “If he wanted to—to do that, he could have broken a window and gotten into t
he house.”

  “Something stopped him,” J.D. said. “Someone on the street…or a car going by.”

  “He could have waited.”

  “The street was flooding. He wouldn’t have been able to drive away,” J.D. said. He glanced at the wide road in front of Christy’s house. “But the water’s down now. He’ll be back.”

  “J.D., you’re scaring me,” Christy said.

  “That makes two of us. I’m scaring me, too.”

  “What should we do?” she asked. “Call the sheriff?”

  “Yeah, we can try,” J.D. said.

  He turned, and suddenly he slammed his fist on the hood of the car. “Damn, I should never have knocked on your door.”

  “You needed help—”

  He glared at her. “And you should never have let me in. Dammit lady, don’t you know better than to open your door to a stranger?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “And now you’re in a helluva mess. My mess.”

  “Ours.”

  “For the moment,” he said. “Until I can get you out of it, we’re in this together.” He glanced at the street. It was deserted and so was the field across from Christy’s house.

  She followed his gaze. At the moment the field looked like a pond, but usually it was an open expanse of low grass. She remembered the car driving down the street when she’d let J.D. in. Had the driver been the man he thought was after him? She pointed toward the field. “What do you think? Could he be watching us from there?”

  “No place to hide there,” J.D. said, “but easy enough to run through if someone wanted to get away fast. The water there now would slow him down, but it’ll be gone tomorrow. I don’t like it.

  “The sheriff may be busy but he needs to know what’s gone on,” J.D. continued. “I doubt our buddy the deputy told him much about us. I’ll walk down to Warner’s and use his cell, call 911 and ask the dispatcher to let the sheriff know. Stay here, lock the door and don’t open it to anyone but me.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Christy—”

  “Please,” she said. “I’ll feel safer.”

  “Okay,” he said, and they headed down the street, skirting puddles that were still ankle-deep. Pewter-gray clouds hid the sun, but the air was as hot and humid as a steam bath. With each step, their shoes squished into mud. Mosquitoes, newly hatched and ravenous, whined around them.