Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

“Yes.”

  “I have a message for you. The operator took it and asked me to deliver it since I was coming up to this floor for a while.” She looked at the messages, fumbling through the pile to locate the one intended for him. With a small, triumphant smile, she handed him a pink piece of paper torn from a telephone answering pad. She smiled at him sympathetically, obviously thinking he was a friend or relative of a patient, and then she hurried down the hall to delivery the other notes.

  The message was from Sergeant Lefcourt. He wanted Owen to call him as soon as possible.

  Owen frowned. Had Lefcourt learned the woman’s identity? He went straight down to the lobby, located the phone banks and slipped into a quiet corner location to dial the police officer. The police operator put him straight through.

  “Sergeant Lefcourt? This is Owen Blackhart. You wanted me to call you?”

  “Yep. Thanks for gettin’ back to me so quick.”

  “Have you discovered who the mystery lady is?”

  “Uh, actually, I was hopin’ she might have said something by now that could help us figure that out. I guess she hasn’t mentioned her name or anything like that?”

  “No, Sergeant. She hasn’t said an understandable word.”

  Lefcourt’s sigh was eloquent. The policeman was frustrated.

  “Haven’t you come up with anything from the physical evidence at the scene of the crash?” Owen asked impatiently. “How long does it take to identify a car’s registered owner, even if you haven’t completely made the tags?”

  “It varies. From ‘not very long’ to ‘never.’”

  “That’s great,” Owen muttered.

  “Look, we aren’t a bunch of backwater hillbillies, if that’s what you’re saying!”

  “I don’t believe I was.”

  “We’ve made progress in tracing that license tag, but we only got three numbers off it. That’s not enough to ID the car, unless someone’s reported it stolen and we get a physical-description matchup off the computer search we’ve sent out. Otherwise, we’ve got a lotta legwork to do to try and trace it down. Hell, I can’t even get the damn doctors on the phone at the hospital there to call me back and tell me whether the patient’s said her name! And they’re in the same town as me! How’m I gonna light a fire under the police in some other jurisdiction, askin’ them to drop their cases to check out mine in a hurry?”

  Exasperated, Owen ran a hand through his hair. That explained why Lefcourt was calling him for information about Jane Doe, he thought. In spite of his own irritation at the delays, Owen felt a bond of sorts with the policeman. They both had stumbled into this woman’s problem and wanted to get her connected with her family again. Lefcourt was a decent man trying to do his job. Owen respected that. So he brushed away his irritation and reached for his self-control. There was nothing to be gained by the two of them arguing.

  “Look, Sergeant, I apologize for implying that you and your department aren’t up to this job. It’s not your fault you don’t have more evidence to investigate.”

  “Well, apology accepted.” Lefcourt cleared his throat awkwardly. “I, uh, guess I owe you an apology for the way I spoke to you. I got a little touchy because, well, we don’t have the money or the manpower that we need to do what has to be done. So we don’t get results as fast as we’d like. And it’s pretty frustrating. I shouldn’t have let that get the better of my professionalism, though.”

  “Forget it. Let’s call it even.”

  Lefcourt hesitated.

  “Look,” the sergeant said. “I feel real sorry for this woman. I bet she’s a good-looking lady when she isn’t covered in mud and her hair all tangled with underbrush, her face scratched and bloody from flying glass. Back up on the mountainside, when I saw her in your arms, I thought she was the kind of woman that turns men’s heads when she walks into a restaurant. You know what I mean? I’m not being disrespectful of her or anything. But that’s what I thought. I’ll be damned if I know why, ’cause she sure looked a mess.”

  Owen understood.

  “I keep thinking that some guy out there must be involved with her. A husband or a boyfriend or something. She surely has to have a man in her life somewhere. So why isn’t he raising Cain with some local police department and filing a missing-persons report?”

  Lefcourt fell silent, musing. Then suddenly he asked, “Say, do you know if she was wearing any jewelry? I asked the hospital that hours ago, but no one had an answer. And at the time, we all were busy with other things...the doctors working on her, and me working on the accident investigation. So I kind of forgot about it. Is she wearing a wedding ring, an engagement ring, a bracelet with an identifying inscription?”

  “There’s no ring on her left hand.” Since Owen had been on fairly intimate terms with her left hand for most of the night, he was absolutely sure about that. “I can’t say about the right. I haven’t seen it. It’s on the other side of the bed, and I haven’t been paying any attention to it. I don’t remember seeing any bracelets on her except for the hospital ID tag. I’ll check when she gets back, though.”

  “Thanks. Back?”

  “From getting her new set of radiographs taken.” Owen added, “I thought most hospitals remove jewelry and check it in somewhere. So even though she’s not wearing a wedding ring now doesn’t mean she didn’t arrive at the hospital with one on her finger.”

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to work, I guess. Would you ask the nursing staff about that? And ask them to call my office and give someone a description of any jewelry they took off her, especially anything with names or initials on it. I’ve got to go back to the scene of the accident and make sure we got everything done we need to do for the investigation before we turn it over to the highway department for repair of that side railing. Otherwise, I’d be down there now rattling their stethoscopes.”

  “I’ll ask. And if I hear anything useful, I’ll call it in personally, Sergeant.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d call me as soon as you’ve got any news about her.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks.”

  Lefcourt added, “We already sent her tag numbers along with the description of her car to the Maryland state motor vehicle department. A quick computer search turned up thirteen cars that might be a match. They’ve assigned somebody to contact the owners and find out if their car’s missing.”

  “But so far nothing?”

  “That’s about the truth of it.”

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “That’s because all thirteen cars that the computer spit out at us are registered to men. We’re not getting any female names for our Jane Doe....”

  “She could be the wife or daughter or sister of a male owner,” Owen advised.

  “Yeah. But we won’t sift through that till we talk to each of those thirteen owners.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky,” Owen said dryly. “You could always hit paydirt in the first few calls you make.”

  “I just don’t think we’re gonna have that kinda luck in this case,” the policeman said fatalistically.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Well,” the policeman explained grimly. “We already got some bad news about one of the registered owners.”

  “What happened?”

  “The owner was found dead in a motel halfway to Maryland from here. No word yet on the current location of his car, the one that’s a partial match to Jane Doe’s.”

  “Dead? What happened?” Owen asked sharply.

  “They’re not sure yet. The local police are waiting for the medical examiner to tell them the cause of death before they say anything official,” Lefcourt drawled tiredly. “But they’re treating it as a suspicious death.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Could be a suicide...or a homicide. And there’s always a chance it was an accident.”

  “Interesting co
incidence,” Owen muttered.

  “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

  Her head throbbed.

  And it felt leaden. Numbed.

  She could hear the medical people around her talking. Gradually the words fit together into coherent patterns. Some of the time, anyway, like a picture going in and then out of focus. Then the words would suddenly fade out into incoherent babbling far, far in the distance. Only to return again, clearer and in longer stretches.

  “...better than the last ones...”

  “But it’s still potentially a problem....”

  “That bleeding may have damaged...”

  “...no swelling. That’s really good. So why don’t we keep her on the same series....”

  “Yeah. She certainly seems to be holding her own.”

  “Ever since he got here. She really responded to him. He’s got the magic touch.”

  A chorus of laughter and chuckles erupted around her.

  “Maybe we should hire him.”

  “Yeah. Touch therapy. My favorite.”

  “No way. The billing department doesn’t have a code for it, and the insurance companies would never agree to pay.”

  “Well, medicine’s been around longer than either of those.”

  Dry, cynical laughter scattered around the room.

  “Okay, let’s wheel her back down to her room. Let’s see how that ‘hands-on’ therapy works now. It looks like she won’t be going up to surgery today, after all.”

  “Honey, you are one lucky lady. Tell me, who’s your guardian angel, huh? I sure could use that diligent one myself....”

  Sound fluttered in and out of her awareness. Elevator doors closing. People murmuring. Doors opening again. A distant voice floating in the air, calling for some doctor to pick up the nearest phone. She felt the vibrations as the bed she was lying on rolled down the hallways. But she couldn’t see anything. Her face felt strange. Something was wrapped around her eyes. Around her head.

  Panic set in. She needed to know what was happening to her, what had happened. She didn’t know why she was so afraid. There was a reason. But what was it? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t remember, and that just made her more anxious. There was something important, lost in her mind. But what was it? Lord, what was it? And why was she so scared? Every loud noise made her want to jump out of her skin.

  Someone raced by, the fast approach sending a hot flush of alarm through her. She opened her hand. Felt nothing but air. Oh, yes. He had told her he would be waiting for her. That he couldn’t come with her on this trip.

  She relaxed a little. She could remember that much. That helped. Enough to keep the panic at bay. She moved a little, experimentally. Both arms did what she asked of them. Legs, too. When she tried to move her torso, dull pain washed up through her abdomen. Sharper pain pressed across her collarbone, ribs and back.

  Better not to do that, she realized. Maybe it was easier to stay in the fog. It hadn’t hurt so much there.

  No. Easier had never been her kind of choice. She focused on listening. As sharply and as broadly as she could. Training her mind to focus on what it could hear. That didn’t hurt. And it did help her form a picture of where she was and what was happening to her.

  She sensed when she was being wheeled back into a room. The acoustics changed. The place was more intimate than the open halls. Less populated than the crowded elevators.

  And he was there.

  She heard him ask the others a question. She turned her head a little, straining to hear his voice more clearly, but a nurse spoke.

  “...so she’s doing very well, all things considered. She still may need surgery, of course, if there is any bleeding. But right now, it looks like it’s just a bad concussion. And she’s recovering from the surgery yesterday. She has a hairline fracture on her collarbone and another on her rib. Some bruising around her vertebrae. The abrasions and cuts are mostly minor. Her eyes—”

  “Her eyes?” he asked steadily.

  “We think they’re going to be all right, but the doctor is coming by this afternoon to take off the bandages and see how she’s coming along. They can tell a lot by examination.”

  “If she’s not comatose.”

  “Well, yes. That kind of complicates assessing her vision. But we’ll just have to see what things look like to the doctor this afternoon. Are you going to be staying?”

  She listened as hard as she could.

  “Yes.”

  She exhaled softly, concentrating hard, forming the word carefully. “Th...ank...s.”

  She felt him draw near, bend close to her, cover her hand with his.

  “Did you hear something?” he asked.

  She knew he was asking someone else, not her. Her lips softened in a smile. One so faint he probably couldn’t see it, she thought.

  “No. Why?”

  “I thought...” He pulled up a chair beside her and gently picked up her weakened hand, settling it comfortably in his again. “Nothing. It was probably just the wind outside.”

  “Hmm.” The nurse uttered the sound without much curiosity. “Well, if she says anything, pull the string to get someone at the nursing station back here right away. That would be a very good sign.”

  Exhausted from concentrating so hard and so long, she no longer had the strength to stay awake, struggling to listen to everything around her. As her energy ebbed, she slid toward the brink of sleep. Rest. If she could just rest awhile, everything would be fine, she told herself groggily. She’d recoup her strength. And then...

  What then?

  Black waves of sleep swallowed her, wiping away the question before she could panic again. Before she could remember.

  She hadn’t been wearing a wedding band.

  The nurses told Owen that no jewelry had been removed from her and bagged for safe keeping, except for a watch that they had taken off her wrist. It had a delicate black cord and tiny diamond chips embedded in the white gold of its small oval face.

  Her clothes, still muddy and blood spattered, had been allowed to dry and then put in a plastic bag. The police had picked them up that morning, hoping clues to Jane Doe’s identity might be lurking among the folds.

  Owen swallowed the last of his orange juice and finished reading the Wall Street Journal that he’d picked up at the magazine stand in the hospital foyer.

  Lefcourt had called him at the motel that morning to trade what little information they’d acquired since they’d last spoken.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t much.

  And Jane Doe was still without a name of her own.

  By the time Owen reached her bedside, she’d been bathed and rebandaged, and fresh linen had been laid on the bed.

  But when the woman lying there turned her head slightly at his approach, he knew things had changed profoundly.

  “Is that...you?” she whispered.

  He stopped in midstride, too thunderstruck to reply at first.

  “What?”

  “Is that you?” she repeated, with a great deal more doubt in her voice than the first time that she’d asked. She reached out her left hand, raising it slightly from the bed. “The man who...helped me....” she explained, her voice shaking with the effort to get the words said, and said clearly.

  Owen came to her bedside and took her hand in his.

  A slow smile illuminated her still partially bandaged face.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  “Owen Blackhart. And...who are you, mystery lady?” he asked softly.

  Her smile faded. Her mouth opened and closed a little.

  “I... I’m...” she stammered. “I’m... I don’t know,” she whispered in shock. “I don’t know...my name.”

  Chapter 4

  Suddenly, her breath couldn’t fill her lungs. Her fingers tightened on his, as if she might retrieve her vanished thoughts through him. It did stabilize her panic. Unfortunately, no memories returned.

  “I can’t remember,” she exclaimed shakily. “Who am I
? Oh, please, who am I?”

  Owen exhaled very slowly. For several days, he had entertained a fantasy that she would wake up, tell them her name and the next of kin to call for help. Then he was to have walked out of this hospital—and her life—without a second thought. Naming her would have snapped his sense of connection to her. He could have patted her on the hand, wished her well and gone on with his life.

  But this... No. This hadn’t been part of the plan. The doctors had said that she might die. That she could be permanently disabled. That her brain might have been damaged. Sure. But he’d never considered the damage might be to her memory. He had feared that she might remain comatose, unable to speak at all. But he had never contemplated the possibility that she could wake up and still be a Jane Doe, without a name or a family to call her own.

  “You don’t remember your name?” he asked slowly, not eager to verify the problem.

  “No.”

  “Not at all?” He frowned. “Nothing?”

  “Not a syllable. Not a sound. I...I... It’s just blank.”

  There was a faint sense of hysteria in her last words. Owen instinctively squeezed her hand and leaned closer to her.

  “It’ll be all right. Take it easy....” he murmured.

  She looked stunned. Her breathing was unsteady, and there was an irregular catch now and then that sounded suspiciously like a stifled sob to him. He felt something in his chest tighten.

  “Look, it’s probably just temporary,” he said.

  When in doubt, punt, right? he told himself grimly. What did he know about amnesia? He intensely hoped it was going to be temporary. This kind of problem wasn’t his forte at all. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced around. Where had all the nurses gone, anyway? Like taxis, they were never in the neighborhood when you needed them, he thought in exasperation.

  “Temporary?” she said in surprise. “Are you a doctor? I hadn’t thought...”

  “No, I’m not a doctor. But most injuries heal, don’t they? And sometimes we all have problems with memory. After getting banged up like you did, it’s probably not unusual to forget a few things. What do you bet?”

  “I haven’t forgotten a few things. I’ve forgotten my name! Who I am. I mean, isn’t that a pretty major thing to have misplaced?” She half laughed. “You remembered your name. It was...Owen, right?”