Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

  “No.”

  “Where’d you know Portia from, anyway? She traveled a lot, and frankly, Averson hasn’t been talking to anyone about the transfer of that property. Said the information he was privy to wasn’t any of our business.” Seymour laughed again. He obviously didn’t hold a grudge against the lawyer for being closemouthed with the town gossip mill.

  “I knew Portia from New York.”

  Seymour’s face froze, and for a moment he looked a little uncertain of himself.

  “Don’t tell me you were one of her soiree attendees?” the bookman exclaimed, rolling his eyes in concern.

  “Not exactly. I attended a few over the years, though.”

  “Oops!” Seymour grimaced. “Well, I stuck my foot in it this time, didn’t I? Look, let me get you a cup of coffee down at Rafael’s Café. He makes the best coffee I’ve ever had, carries a great selection and he’s got fresh-baked pastries and breads. Why, everyone in town says it’s the best on the continent.”

  Owen resisted the urge to grin. You couldn’t be irritated with a man like Seymour, he decided. The bookman shot off his mouth with abandon, but there was no real malice in anything he said.

  “Some other time, maybe, Seymour. I’ve got a couple of things to take care of right now.”

  Seymour smiled sheepishly. “No hard feelings, I hope?” he said.

  “None. Forget it.”

  “Then you just let me know when you’re ready for that trip to Rafael’s, okay? It’s on me.”

  “Fine. I’ll stop in at the bookstore someday.” He glanced through the window and read the titles of some of the magazines on the rack near the door. “I’ll probably drop by to pick up something to read occasionally.”

  Seymour beamed. “Say, I like you already, Owen!” Then, on a more confiding note, he added, “You know, people were relieved that the place went to someone who was going to live in it. That much we did twist out of Hemphill. That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” It sounded like the townspeople should consider becoming private investigators, Owen thought in amusement. He wondered what torture they had visited on poor Hemphill and his family to pry loose the two pieces of information they had.

  Just then a newspaper truck screeched to a halt in front of the bookstore, effectively interrupting their conversation. The driver, a long-haired, lanky young man, swung down from the cab, went around to the back of the truck and slid open the rear door. Within moments he was carrying stacks of newspapers into the shop and piling them next to the cash register.

  “That’s the evening paper,” Seymour explained apologetically. “I’ve got to sign for them.”

  “Say, could I buy one from you?” Owen said abruptly. When he glimpsed the front page, a headline in the lower right quadrant caught his eye.

  Seymour handed him a newspaper with a grin.

  “It’s on me, Owen, compliments of The Well-Read Bookshop.”

  Owen took the paper. “Thanks.”

  Seymour turned to talk to the deliveryman about the invoice, and Owen walked away. After he’d gone a couple of blocks, he turned down the side street where he’d parked his car earlier in the afternoon, before going to the lawyer’s office. When he reached the car, however, he paused to read the article that had drawn his attention.

  The headline read Who Is This Woman? The opening sentence stated, “Mystery woman in critical condition at Cleary Hospital.”

  She hadn’t regained consciousness long enough to tell them who she was, he thought. And according to the article, her identification had not been found yet. Whatever she had with her name on it must have been washed away, lost or destroyed after the accident. He wondered why her-car hadn’t provided a solid lead.

  Owen grimly stared at the description of the woman that the hospital and police had provided in an attempt to learn who she was. Young woman in her midtwenties to early thirties, about five feet four inches and 115 pounds, dark red hair, green eyes. Anyone knowing who she might be was urged to contact the county police and speak to Sergeant Lefcourt.

  Owen closed the paper and folded it.

  This wasn’t any of his concern. Unfortunately, he couldn’t get the thought out of his mind that somewhere, someone might be wondering what had happened to her. Someone might want to help her, but didn’t know where she was. No one was calling to notify them that she was badly hurt.

  Grimly, Owen Blackhart climbed into the front seat of his car and turned on the engine. His telephone service was being connected sometime before 5:00 p.m. Maybe he could call the hospital and ask how she was doing. Then he would try to reach Lefcourt. and see whether the newspaper had generated any new information for the police.

  Yeah. That’s what he’d do.

  That’s all he would do.

  At five minutes past five o’clock that evening, he lifted the receiver and got a dial tone. The first call he made was to the police station.

  The operator put him through, and the police sergeant’s voice boomed over the telephone.

  “Lefcourt!”

  “This is Owen Blackhart.”

  “Blackhart? Oh, yeah...the guy who pulled the Jane Doe out of the car last night. Sorry if I sounded like a cannon. Uh, we’ve been a little busy here this afternoon.”

  “Another accident?”

  “Naw, nothing like that. There’s a leak in our ceiling, and we’re trying to get it fixed before it rains tonight. That rain last night opened it up, and our files are getting soaked,” Lefcourt explained in exasperation. “The electrical system is acting up again, too, so we’ve been waiting on the county electrician who handles our electrical repairs to get down here and see whether we’ve got a fire hazard or anything.”

  “This isn’t your day, is it?”

  “No, sir. It sure as sugar isn’t,” the sergeant agreed. He sighed in resignation. “But, hey, never mind about our headaches. What can I do for you, Mr. Blackhart?”

  “Has anyone come forward to help identify the woman?”

  “No, but it’s a little early to expect that. They may not know she’s missing yet. She could have been on a trip or something. Maybe no one is expecting to hear from her yet.”

  “What about her car? Couldn’t you identify her from the registration papers or the license tags?”

  “Well, her car was so badly mangled that we haven’t been able to get into the glove compartment to search for registration papers. The car rolled down onto the truck, and it was an inferno, so if there were papers, they probably are burned so bad we may not get anything off them. And the metal tags, well, they melted down in the fire. Can you believe that? It must have been one hellishly hot fire. Anyway, we can only make out a couple of numbers. To be honest with you, we’re not certain we can be sure of those.”

  “What about tracing her through the engine identification number?” Owen asked sharply.

  “That’s trickier, but we’ll give it a try if no one comes forward by the time we figure out what that ID number is. And I’m not sure when that’ll be,” he said regretfully. “You see, the engine was so badly burned in the fire, and so badly damaged in the fall off the mountainside, that some of those numbers may be pretty much impossible to read, too. This case is a pip, isn’t it?”

  Owen exhaled slowly. This couldn’t be happening. He’d never believed in fate, but this situation was eerily reminiscent of another tragedy that had touched him years ago, leaving a wound that had never completely healed. He’d buried the wound so deep inside him that he’d almost managed to forget how badly it had hurt when it was inflicted. But now the memories were coming back. Flashbacks. A girl’s smile. The flash of perfect white teeth. Welcoming, warm lips. Laughter like carefree birds playing in a soft spring rainfall.

  “Uh, Mr. Blackhart? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Have you talked to anyone at the hospital today about her?”

  “Yeah.”

 
“I read in the paper that she was in critical condition.”

  “Yeah. It’s a pity, isn’t it? They’re doing what they can for her, but...”

  “Do they expect her to live?”

  “It’s hard for me to say, Mr. Blackhart,” the police sergeant said diplomatically. “A lot of times they call patients critical when they’re pretty sure they’re going to do okay. ‘Course, other times I’ve seen ‘critical’ become ‘poor’ and ‘poor’ become ‘deceased’ in mighty short order.”

  “Will they talk to me if I call them?”

  “Let me call someone I know over there in the administration offices. Under the circumstances, maybe they can tell you something. Nothing really personal, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “You just want to know how bad she is, right?”

  “I want to know what her chances of recovery are.”

  “Sure. I understand. It’s real decent of you to take an interest. Lots of folks just go on with their lives when something like this happens, you know? It’s right nice of you to care what happens to her. I’m sure Jane Doe’d appreciate it, if she knew.”

  Owen’s jaw tightened. Jane Doe. He hated the name. It sounded like it belonged on a corpse at the morgue instead of an unconscious, living and breathing woman in a hospital bed. It wasn’t the policeman’s fault that they didn’t have the woman’s real name to use in discussing her, however. So Owen swallowed his irritation.

  “It’s no effort, Sergeant. By the way, my telephone is connected.” Owen gave him the phone number again and said goodbye.

  About fifteen minutes after they’d hung up, the sergeant called back.

  “It’s all set. They put a note in the patient’s record about who you are and that a little information could be shared with you, since you saved the woman’s life and are interested in her welfare. The nurses are worried about her not having anyone coming to her bedside. It sounds to me like they’d be happy for you to come and visit her, even if she’s unconscious.”

  Owen frowned. That didn’t sound like any hospital he was familiar with. They usually restricted visits to family and close friends when someone was in critical condition.

  “Why are the nurses worried?”

  “Something about the patient’s agitation. She’s delirious or comatose or something. She’s not making any sense, doesn’t really see anyone or know what’s going on around her too clearly. But she keeps holding out her hand, like she wants someone to take it. And she’s saying something every once in a while. Mumbles something they can’t quite make out. The head nurse on the floor swears she’s calling for someone, wants the person to hold her hand. When they try to hold her hand, she pulls away and gets worse. I dunno. Sounds like she’s just delirious to me. Having nightmares or something. Who wouldn’t, after what she’s been through, huh?”

  “Yeah. Who wouldn’t.” Owen frowned fiercely. He remembered holding the woman’s hand after he rescued her from the car, telling her he’d stay with her, wouldn’t let go.

  But he had let go.

  Could that be what she was agitated about? In her wounded state, was she trying desperately to cling to the last source of human comfort and help that she’d known?

  “Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll call the hospital.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Blackhart. Keep in touch.”

  Owen hung up the phone and stared at the empty house around him. He had a sleeping bag for a bed, and a few pieces of furniture scattered around the place. The heat was on, and so was the water. The curtains were still up. They were some of the few furnishings that had remained in Portia’s house after she left it to him in her will. The rest of her antiques and art had been put on the auction block. That was fine with Owen, since his taste hadn’t run toward Portia’s bohemian decor. Besides, he had his own furniture.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be delivered for another week.

  He picked up the telephone and dialed the Mountain Mist Motel.

  “Madge, this is Owen Blackhart.... I’m fine, thanks, and you?... Good... No, I got here in plenty of time. That personal business is all taken care of.... It’s nice of you to invite me back. As a matter of fact, I’m calling to make a reservation. Do you have any rooms left tonight?... Great. Could you save it for me? I’m coming back to see how the mystery woman’s doing. I should be there in a few hours... No, I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying. I may need the room for more than the one night, though. Will that be a problem?... No? Good... Uh, no, Madge, I’ll eat on the way. No need to heat up the soup... No, the soup was just fine last night. I really appreciated it, since I missed dinner in all that confusion on the highway. I’m eating before I leave here—I won’t be hungry this time. I’d appreciate a thermos of your coffee, though, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble... Great. Thanks, Madge. I’ll see you later tonight. Bye.”

  Hospitals were all different, and yet, in some ways, they were all the same, Owen thought. Late at night, they were ablaze with lights. Staff members hurried down wide corridors, administering medications and observing patients. The scent of medicine and antiseptics clung to the air. The sound of rubber-soled shoes squeaking softly on the bare floors echoed eerily throughout the long hallways.

  Cleary Hospital had carpeting in a few places, but mostly it was bare floored. Here in the mountains of eastern West Virginia, money for such things was dear. The hospital’s board of directors preferred to put its cash into staff salaries and modern equipment. So Owen’s tread was not muffled when he stepped out of the elevator and out into the hospital wing where he’d been told the mystery woman’s room was.

  The nurse at the nursing station nearest Jane Doe’s room glanced up as Owen approached her. Her starched white cap was settled securely on her trim dark hair. Her eyes did not waver as she watched him over her reading glasses.

  “I’m Owen Blackhart. I was told it would be all right to stop in and see the woman who was hurt in the accident. I believe Sergeant Lefcourt spoke to someone here about it?”

  “Oh, yes. Jane Doe...” The nurse produced a cool smile.

  Owen’s jaw tightened. Jane Doe. Jane Doe. Why the hell did they keep calling her that ?

  “Dr. Darbyson mentioned that you might be coming.” She gave him an interested look. “He said you weren’t a relative or a friend—”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were the man who saved her....”

  “Yes.” There didn’t seem any way to sidestep that question, so he dealt with it as quickly as possible. “Can I see her?”

  “Just let me finish what I’m doing. It won’t take long. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She turned back to filling out the patient record she had in front of her, writing quickly.

  Owen looked around, wondering where the woman was. There were a dozen rooms opening onto the corridor. One of them was hers. He glanced at the nurse impatiently. He’d come a long way. To be this near and cooling his heels did not come naturally to him. Of course, visiting a hospital didn’t come naturally, either. He removed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder and waited.

  The nurse soon clicked her ballpoint pen closed and slipped it into the breast pocket of her tailored, snow white blouse. Then she stood up and walked around the counter, joining Owen in the deserted corridor. She pulled on a beige-and-red sweater, smiling crisply at him. Weathered skin wrinkled near her eyes.

  “Do you ski, Mr. Blackhart?” she asked curiously.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Do you ski? We have a lot of winter sports in this area. I just thought you looked like a man who enjoyed athletics.” She looked him up and down with a critically approving eye.

  “Is that a professional opinion?” he asked dryly.

  “Professional and personal,” she unhesitatingly admitted. She smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Blackhart. I’m a fifty-year-old married woman.”

  He gave a short laugh.

  She gave him a sly look. “It’s a little far to come back here, isn’t
it?”

  “Could be worse.”

  “She must have made quite an impression on you.”

  “She’d have made an impression on anyone. Seeing someone that near death leaves a mark on you.”

  The nurse nodded. “Yes. That’s very true,” she said. Her smile softened in empathy.

  Opening the door, she led him inside.

  The hospital room was large and square. A single bed, centered along one wall, contained the only occupant. In the bed lay the woman, heavily bandaged and hooked up to the various pieces of equipment that surrounded the bed. The whir and click of monitors were the only sounds audible. The woman lay still, unmoving.

  “Can she hear us?” Owen asked quietly.

  “Sometimes. I think she can. We’re not sure if she understands or not. Her responses to direct questions are...ambiguous, at best.”

  “Has she said anything?”

  “Nothing that has made any sense. She has mumbled a few times, but we can’t make out what she’s saying. We aren’t even sure she is trying to actually communicate. It could just be random impulses somewhere inside her mind, things that have nothing to do with her surroundings.”

  The nurse walked over and touched the unconscious woman’s hand, lying limply on top of the sheet that was covering her.

  “Can you hear me? If you can, move your hand. Your finger...”

  The nurse lifted the limp hand. Waited. Then gently put the woman’s hand down again. She looked at Owen and shook her head, then she walked around and checked the readings on the monitors.

  Owen shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. He felt helpless, a sensation he disliked intensely at any time, but especially now. Why the hell had he come? What did he think he could do here, anyway?

  “You have no idea what her name is?” he asked, frowning. “She didn’t say anything? Not anything at all? Even part of a name? Hers or someone else’s?”

  The nurse blinked.

  “No,” she replied, sounding distracted. “Would you mind speaking again, Mr. Blackhart? Anything. Say- anything.”