Chasing Adonis

by Gina Ardito

  She fluttered her hands, and a dozen bangles tinkled in the quiet hallway. “You’re not an evening person either, based on the outcome of our date last week.”

  “We never had a date last week.”

  Her lips opened in a wide o, and she cracked her ever-present gum with a loud snap. “I rest my case. You promised to meet me at Generations and buy me a drink, remember?”

  He blinked, waiting for some third-rate actor to jump out of hiding and tell him he was on some new practical-joke-hidden-camera television show. Heather’s gum snapped, crackled, and popped. A passing stranger coughed. An ambulance wailed in the distance. No one rescued him.

  With a sigh of impatience, Heather slapped a palm on the counter, dragging her chair closer. “Don’t you remember? Kathleen and I were talking about going to Generations for their all-male dance revue, and you said you’d be there, minus your holster.”

  A joke. Didn’t she recognize sarcasm?

  She waved him off before he could ask. “Never mind. So what are you doing here this early in the morning anyway?”

  “The woman in the auto accident?” His eyes strayed to the clock above her head. Two-forty-five. That gave him only fifteen minutes before he’d have to call in—let his boss know where he was and what he was up to.

  “Wasn’t that boyfriend of hers scrumptious?” Eyes growing dreamy, Heather sighed dramatically. “Like Brad Pitt, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Johnny Depp all rolled into one great big hunky package.”

  Shane stiffened. “The guy was here?”

  “Sure,” Heather replied. “He rode here with her in the ambulance.” She shook her head, eyes rolling, and an unspoken, “Duh” on her frosted pink lips. “Figures he’s got a girlfriend. The really good-looking ones are always taken, you know. Taken or gay.”

  The detective’s version of the Serenity Prayer echoed between Shane’s ears. Grant me the patience to listen to rambling witnesses, wisdom to separate fact from fiction, and the drive to find the answers…

  “So where is this hunky package now? Is he still here? Can I talk to him?”

  She batted her lashes like some B-movie ingénue. “Ted left shortly after the two of them came in. Dr. Velasquez gave him a cursory exam, but I think that was just so she could get a good look at him with his shirt off. I mean, the guy didn’t have a scratch on him. But the woman’s still here. They wheeled her out of surgery about fifteen minutes ago, and they’re putting her up on six. She was pretty banged up. Dr. Sanjit had to put in a chest tube and everything.”

  Damn! He’d missed Pretty Boy already. Wait. What had she just called him? “Ted? That’s his name?”

  “Yeah, Ted. Not short for Theodore, either. It’s short for Tedior. Isn’t that weird? I even asked Dr. Velasquez if she had the spelling right because she’s the one that wrote up the file, and her English ain’t so hot.”

  As opposed to your stellar command of the language, right, Heather?

  To keep from rolling his eyes, Shane focused on the framed Patients’ Bill of Rights poster mounted above her head. Did people in the emergency room actually take the time to read that list? Didn’t they have more pressing priorities than digesting such terms as “full disclosure” and “appeals” while waiting for a doctor’s help?

  “Anyways…” Heather’s high-pitched squeal commandeered his attention. “There it was. ‘Tedior.’ Dr. Velasquez told me Ted’s from Cyprus. Do you think Tedior is the Cyprusian way of saying Theodore? I mean, all the Teds I can think of were really Theodores. Ted Kaczynski, Teddy Roosevelt, Ted Bundy, Ted Kennedy—no, wait, he’s really an Edward, isn’t he? Okay, so maybe they aren’t all Theodores, but most of them—”

  “I get it, Heather. I get it.” From past experience, he knew if he didn’t stop her, she could go on forever. “Anything else? Have you got a last name and address for ‘Tedior?’”

  She shook her head. “He had a real weird last name. Let me think for a minute.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. He didn’t have time for this. Heather’s gum snapped and clicked between her teeth. The clock’s second hand swept over the twelve. Once…twice…three times. God, this was agony. Like a game show where they play insipid music to ratchet up tension while the contestant tried to come up with the correct answer.

  “I remember now!”

  Her bangled wrists flew, and her elbow knocked a clipboard to the floor with a clatter. She slid off her chair to pick it up, wiggling her tight-skirted butt, he supposed for his benefit. But the only goodwill gesture he wanted from Heather Lansky was a way to find Pretty Boy Ted, the abusive jerk.

  “What was the guy’s last name?” he asked as she resettled her dancing bottom in the chair.

  Heather cocked her head. “Okay so, this is so weird. His last name was real simple. Fee or Fie or something like that. I remember ‘cause all I could think of was that giant from Jack and the Beanstalk. You know, the one that says, ‘Fe, fie, fo, fum.’” The excitement left her voice, and she stroked a hand over her chin. “At least, I think it was Fee or Fi. Hang on a sec. Let me look it up.”

  Shane fisted his hands at his sides. All this time wasted, and she could have looked up the information on the damned computer?

  With another crack of her gum, she sent her purple-polished fingernails flying over the keyboard. After several long minutes, an apologetic smile creased her features, and she diverted her attention from the computer to the countertop full of manila folders. More time wasted in shuffling until Heather’s smile flipped into a puzzled frown. “Gee, that’s weird.”

  The fine hairs on Shane’s neck danced. “What’s weird now?”

  “His file’s missing.”

  “Explain to me how that’s possible.”

  “It isn’t, really. I mean, I guess it is possible because the file’s missing, but it shouldn’t happen. All the files go straight from the examining rooms to this desk where I input them into the computer. And I know I entered his information.”

  “How can you be sure?” How did she find her car in the parking lot? The woman’s thoughts were more scattered than leaves in the path of a turbine fan.

  “Because he was gorgeous.” She fixed him with another “Duh…” expression. “Believe me, a guy who looks like that strolls into your life, you find out as much as you can about him. This way, you can…” She winked. “You know, follow him home, hang around the places he does, pop up where he least expects it…until he notices you. Besides, even if I can’t find it right now, I can tell you a few things about his file were real weird.”

  Shane bit back an exasperated sigh. Apparently, Heather found a lot of things weird. “Okay, forget about Tedior for now. What about the woman? Adara Berros? You said she’s on six?”

  Her expression blanked. “Well, yeah, but you can’t go up there.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s still unconscious, for one thing. And for another, visiting hours don’t start ‘til noon.”

  Surrender, Shane. It’s your only chance. “I’ll tell you what.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “If you find Tedior’s file, or if he should come back here to visit Ms. Berros, call that number right away.”

  Grinning like a shark with a wounded tuna, Heather immediately slipped the card into her breast pocket. “You got it.”

  Shane’s palms flattened on the counter, and he leaned forward until his face was inches from hers. “Leave that card here at the nurse’s station. Not in your pocket. Those instructions are for every person who sits at this desk.”

  For a brief moment, her eyes narrowed, and Shane stiffened, ready for another battle of wits. Finally, though, she sighed. “Okay.”

  He waited, watching until she pulled out the card and taped it near the computer monitor.

  “Satisfied?”

  As a matter of fact, yes, he was. “Now, I’m just gonna head up to the sixth floor and leave a card up there, too. Then I’ll want to talk to Dr. Sanjit so have him paged for me. All right?”

  She
nodded and waved him off. He turned toward the bank of elevators.

  “Hey, Shane?”

  He stopped in mid-stride. “Yeah?”

  “Don’t forget. You still owe me a drink.”

  Chapter Three

  Dr. Ravi Sanjit, a small-boned, bald man with eyes like currants, sipped from a ceramic mug of coffee. “You realize, of course, that I am prevented from discussing any patient’s condition with you unless we’ve established a crime has been committed.”

  Seated in a tan leather chair across from the doctor in one of the hospital’s private counseling rooms, Shane sighed. “I’m not asking you to break confidentiality. I just want to know if the injuries Ms. Berros sustained were more likely caused by a collision with a motor vehicle or by someone’s fists.”

  The doctor’s lips tightened, and he shook his head.

  “You can’t even tell me that?”

  Sanjit shrugged. “I’m sorry. You’ll have to get that information from the patient herself.”

  “If she’s willing to share it.” He’d have better odds in a shell game on a Bronx street corner. “Okay, let’s try this. Suppose we’re discussing a hypothetical patient. What if a woman came in to the ER with injuries she’d sustained in a hit and run accident? How would those injuries differ from those an abuse victim might suffer?”

  Understanding lit up Dr. Sanjit’s golden face. He leaned forward and placed his mug on the low cube-shaped table in front of him. “Ah, well, hypothetically speaking, I’d expect to see some evidence of a collision with a motor vehicle. Depending on the speed of the vehicle at the time of impact, we might see imprints of the grill or fender. There might be bits of glass or paint chips embedded in the skin or hair.”

  “As opposed to a victim of domestic abuse who…?”

  “Who would more likely show bruising, broken bones, perhaps imprints of the assailant’s fists or fingers on her wrist, neck, or other delicate areas.” Dr. Sanjit stared at the framed print of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers on the far wall and took another sip of coffee. “I would also expect the abuser to be front and center in the drama, particularly if the injuries were assumed to be the fault of a third party.”

  Shane nodded. Of course. Like Ted. “He’d be by her side, to make sure she didn’t deviate from their story of how the injuries occurred. No doubt, he’d ride in the ambulance with her to the hospital. Just in case she said something incriminating.” With each conversation he had, Shane became more and more convinced of the man’s guilt. Now he just had to find the bastard.

  “Or,” the doctor suggested, “if he believed himself under suspicion, he’d remain by her side only as long as he had to for an audience’s sake, then take advantage of everyone’s focus on the victim to pack up and leave town.”

  Shit. Shane shot to his feet. “He’s gone already, isn’t he? Back to Cyprus or wherever the hell he came from.”

  “That, I don’t know.” Dr. Sanjit swiveled his chair to one side and crossed his legs, folding his arms behind his head. “Ms. Berros is my patient. The man who arrived in the ambulance with her is not. I am therefore free to speculate on his actions, but I cannot give you facts—only suppositions. As odd as it may seem to you, I do not believe the gentleman committed any offense against Ms. Berros.”

  “And I’m Batman.”

  The doctor smiled and gestured to Shane’s empty chair. “Please sit. Let’s return to your hypothetical situation. To determine the difference between a random accident and a chronic abuse victim, there would be several factors I’d scrutinize in a patient.”

  Shane sank back onto the edge of the chair, but remained stiff, on alert. “Such as…?”

  “Such as, are there any older, healed injuries?”

  Shane winced, recalling the telltale signs he’d missed in his sister’s downward spiral. Cassia’s gradual preference for long sleeves and turtlenecks—even in the heat of the summer, the defeat in her eyes, the broken and chewed fingernails.

  “I’d also consider the condition of the alleged perpetrator. Do I note any defensive wounds on him: bruises on his wrists or arms, scratches on his face or hands? As I said, your suspect wasn’t my patient, but Dr. Velasquez claimed to notice nothing remarkable about him when he stepped from the ambulance. And I’ve been assured she gave him a thorough look-over.”

  Yeah, Heather Lansky had alluded to that, too.

  “I don’t suppose you caught the guy’s name?”

  In reply, Shane got another smile from Sanjit. “Not my patient. Check at the registration desk. The ER clerk should have his record.”

  Wanna bet? Shane bit back the retort. “Do you have any idea when I’ll be able to interview Ms. Berros?”

  The smile disappeared as Dr. Sanjit sighed. “She suffered a great deal of trauma, no matter how it happened. She’ll be on very high doses of pain medication until her injuries have begun to heal.”

  “Making her less than reliable as a witness.” Reaching into his pocket, Shane pulled out a business card. “Would you call me if there’s any change in her condition—good or bad?”

  Dr. Sanjit took the card. “Of course.”

  ~~~~

  From their celestial home, the deities watched over Adara while she slept in her narrow bed inside the hospital room.

  “Aphrodite cheated,” Hera pointed out, her lips curled in disapproval.

  “She did no such thing,” Athena, the goddess of wisdom, replied. “Persephone did not say Aphrodite couldn’t use magic on the mortals. She simply cannot use her own powers—or her son’s—to make Adara fall in love with her.”

  Hera’s mother-in-law, Rhea, patted the heads of the twin lions seated at her side. “But to transfer her injuries to that poor mortal woman? Such an act is unforgivable.”

  “To whom?” Athena’s luminous brows rose in questioning arcs. “Immortals cannot handle human pain. Aphrodite’s lunge into the path of that mechanical beast bears testament to her great love for Adonis, even all these millennia later. Who among us would throw ourselves in harm’s way and bear the consequences of such an impact for a mortal?”

  “And if Aphrodite had not transferred her injuries,” Hygeia added, “the human healers would have found some intriguing differences between her body and that of the mortals. How would she explain such differences? No…this was her best option.” She rose from her seat, and her shimmering toga became a sedate twenty-first century nurse’s top printed with pink and blue butterflies and matching turquoise pants. “I, for one, do not intend to remain a spectator in this game any longer. Someone must heal that poor woman, in body and in spirit. Aphrodite’s methods will take far too long. I shall risk the dangers of travel to bring about her full recovery in as little time as possible.”

  ~~~~

  Pain. Adara awoke to throbbing fire consuming her flesh. Every inhalation of breath seared her chest. Something thick and hard clogged her throat, and her head pounded so badly she could drive six-inch drill bits into drywall with her skull.

  “Forgive me, my dearest,” a silken male voice whispered. “It has been far too long since I have entered your world, and your ozone is too depleted for my delicate frame. I had to transfer my injuries to you. Do not fear. The pain shan’t last much longer. I have beseeched my compatriots to lend their assistance. At each tick of the clock, you’ll find more of your strength returning, and soon, your body’s wounds will disappear one by one.”

  Who was speaking? When Adara forced her eyes open, blinding white light scorched her pupils. Quickly, she closed her lids against the agony. Exhausted, she laid her head on the soft pillow and listened to the disembodied voice with the foreign lilt. Somehow, the lyrical tone soothed her suffering.

  “I would never willingly cause you injury, dearest one. But you are so much stronger than I.”

  “Who are you?” Did she speak or only think the question?

  “I am the one who loves you as no other. I have traveled a great distance to be with you.” A warm hand covered her forehead, shield
ing the burning light. “Slumber now. And know that I watch over you.”

  Dozens of other questions buzzed in her head like angry bees. Who was this man? How had he known about her? What had happened? Why was she in pain? Why couldn’t she remember anything? And where was she? Was this a dream? Or had she died?

  “No more questions please,” the voice spoke again. “My journey has been long, and you and I should both rest. Allow Hypnos to lull you to sleep, and Morpheus will guide you to peaceful dreams.”

  Behind her closed eyes, a small boy appeared, wearing nothing but a wreath of ivy around his bright red hair. He frolicked in a cool green landscape. Nearby, a stream gurgled and colorful pansies danced beneath a soft scented breeze. Pipes and flutes infused the air with lovely music, songs of love and hope. A trio of black kittens scampered in the greenery. As the boy pranced among the flowers, the petals turned to multi-hued butterflies flitting from stem to stem. A light tug touched her hand. The boy, fingers outstretched, invited her into his realm of serenity. Willingly, she followed.

  The moment the lush grass tickled the pads of her toes, a balm cooler than aloe replaced the fire in her legs. The hard item clogging her throat melted away. Her body floated high above the scene as if she’d become weightless. Apple-scented air expanded her lungs, filling her with sweet contentment.

  She slept.

  ~~~~

  Back at the precinct, Shane heaved a deep sigh and stared at the six manila folders sitting in his inbox, demanding attention. He should let the whole Berros incident go. After all, what did he plan to do if he were right? Unless she planned to press charges, he couldn’t help her, couldn’t even keep the bad guy away. And bitter experience had taught him victims of domestic abuse rarely pressed charges.