Point Blank

by Diane M. Campbell

  I picked up a teacup, pretending to shop, but my fingers trembled so I set it back down and moved to another shelf. Would my old bus ticket still be valid? I might have to purchase a new one. I reached into my bag for the slim case that held my credit ca—

  Oh no!

  I groped at the side pocket. No, no, no! My skin went cold at the realization that my bank cards and phone must have slipped out of the bag when it fell from the center console.

  They were still in Brock’s car.

  The clinic had been busy all morning with post-surgery follow-ups and new patients to be placed on Lance’s surgical schedule. As he exited from a consult with his associate, Dr. Baird, he clicked the next appointment on his tablet’s roster.

  “Dr. Doyle,” a familiar voice called from behind.

  He turned to see Sergeant Clemens approaching.

  “Sergeant. Good to see you again.” Lance studied the older man’s expression. Especially if you’re bringing good news.

  “Can you spare a moment? I have some new information.” The sergeant tapped a stack of papers on his clipboard.

  “Of course.”

  Clemens glanced at the surrounding bustle of activity. “Perhaps in your office?”

  “It’s right down this hall. Follow me.”

  Once behind the office’s closed door, Lance indicated a chair in front of his desk. “You have news about Penny?”

  The officer sat with a weary sigh. “Perhaps, but let me start by saying I was on the phone with the investigators in Maricopa County this morning. They located a body late yesterday and have identified it as the missing college girl. It’s an apparent murder. They’re doing an autopsy today.”

  Lance felt the color drain from his face. “She’s dead? And she was connected to Penny somehow?”

  “They were both at a party on New Year’s Eve, just before the young woman disappeared.”

  “What tragic news for her family.” Lance rubbed his brow. “And frankly, it makes me all the more worried about Penny. You mentioned that Penny’s roommate saw her the next day, before she left campus to come here?”

  “That’s what she told the investigators.”

  “She should have arrived here by now.”

  “True. I looked into the details of your daughter’s trip since we spoke yesterday. The bus line records show your daughter purchased a ticket late on Wednesday afternoon, New Year’s Day. She was supposed to arrive here in Clearmont on Friday evening—actually, in the wee hour of Saturday morning. There were three transfers along the route where her ticket would have been scanned, but they only have scans of the first two. The last transfer should have happened in Barrett on Friday evening.”

  Lance’s mind scrambled to calculate. “Friday? But this is Tuesday. Barrett is what … seventy, eighty miles from here? Where has she been all this time?”

  Clemens nodded. “Good question. I drove over the pass to Barrett last night and talked to the bus station manager early this morning. At first, he couldn’t offer much information. He said your daughter might have ditched her plans along the way. Apparently, it’s not unheard of for people to buy a ticket and then not use it, or only go part of the distance.”

  Lance wrestled to grasp the implications. “So she might have changed her mind mid-trip? That’s hard to imagine.”

  “It’s one possibility, but there’s also another. The station manager told me about an unusual incident that’s connected to the bus that crashed on the mountainside Sunday night. He said some local gal he’s acquainted with came into the bus station acting strange. She bought a ticket to Clearmont that night with cash.”

  “And she might be connected to Penny?”

  “We haven’t been able to determine that yet.” Clemens scratched his head and shifted in his chair. “But the incident caught my attention because the station manager said she got on the bus without any luggage. That’s when I realized she might be the Jane Doe up at the Wakeville hospital.” He paused, his brows raised.

  “Okay, but I still don’t understand how that helps me find Penny.”

  “Well, he showed me her signature on the boarding manifest and told me the gal’s name was Hope, but the signature is an initial P followed by a scribble that looks like it could be Penny.”

  Talk about a longshot clue. It was a triathlon away from conclusive. “You said the station manager knows this gal, so how could it be anyone else? And you still haven’t explained why Penny would hang around in Barrett until Sunday night.”

  “I realize it’s not all the answers we’re looking for.” Clemens leaned forward. “It’s possible there’s no connection at all, but I was hoping you might be willing to help me by looking at this patient up at Sierra Memorial. If nothing else, it might get us closer to determining this Jane Doe’s identity.”

  Lance rubbed his chin. It wasn’t the news he’d hoped for, but maybe he could help another family. “Sure, I’ll help any way I can. Have you contacted the family of this other girl, Hope?”

  “I’ve got some people checking into it.”

  “So, when do you need me to go?”

  “If you have time right now, I could follow you up there.”

  “Sure, I’ll make arrangements with Dr. Baird.”

  Before long, they were both on the road, Lance leading the way. After a forty-minute drive, they reached the picturesque mountain town of Wakeville, wedged in a crevice of intersecting canyons in Colorado’s rugged high country. Lance’s tires crunched over icy ruts left by the storm as he maneuvered through town and pulled into the hospital parking lot.

  Sierra Memorial was a new facility and, though small, was well-equipped to serve their remote mountain region. Lance had met a couple of the doctors before and assured himself that if Penny were here, she would be getting quality attention.

  Sergeant Clemens pulled into a space nearby and together they went inside to the information desk. After being directed to the third floor ICU, they got on the elevator.

  Lance felt anxiety begin to rise as they approached the ICU desk. A young woman in a lab coat looked up from a monitor as they stepped up to the nurse’s station.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Doyle from Mercy Medical in Clearmont,” He swallowed in an effort to calm the urgency in his voice.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to see the unidentified patient you have here from the bus crash.”

  She reached for a phone on the desk, “I’ll contact Dr. Matheson for you. She’s been taking care of her, and I believe she’s still in the building.”

  “I just need to see whether or not I can identify the patient. It won’t take long.”

  “Are you family?” She blinked as she realized her mistake. “Sorry, I automatically say that all day long.”

  “I understand. It’s remote, but a possibility I could be family.” He indicated the Sergeant standing behind him. “Also, this is Sergeant Clemens. He has another possible identity he’s checking on.”

  “Of course.” The nurse tapped information into her computer. “Were you aware the patient is on life-support?”

  “No, but that’s not surprising.”

  “If you’ll allow me to get copies of your identification, I’ll let you go ahead but, if you don’t mind, only one of you at a time.”

  Clemens waved his hand and backed away. “You first. I’ll be right over here.” He indicated a small waiting area adjacent to the elevators.

  The nurse entered more data in the computer and then stood and pointed down the hall. “She’s in room 338, down this hall and around the corner to the left. I’ll page Dr. Matheson, and ask her to meet you there.”

  “Thank you. That’ll be fine.”

  Lance walked briskly down the hall, his stomach tightening with each step. At the door he hesitated. What if it is Penny? And what if Penny’s injuries are beyond his ability to heal? That’s how it had been with Marla’s cancer. All his schooling, all his expertise—it had meant nothing in the face of that demon
disease. If this is Penny…

  Last night’s group of faithful believers rushed to mind. Remembering how their prayerful petitions had filled him with fresh hope and strength to draw upon, he shut out the doubting voice in his head and prayed. “If it is her, Lord, help me. Help us both.”

  He opened the door. The bed, surrounded by equipment, first appeared unoccupied. Had the patient been taken elsewhere? The ventilator partially blocked his view. Its familiar rhythmic swishes added to the sounds of other monitors that blinked, hummed or clicked the recording of vital data.

  He stepped closer, and glimpsed a mass of rumpled bedding and two arms lying limp on either side. Then the girl’s face came into view—swollen in red and purple, with bandages covering her head. A tube tugged the corner of her mouth. Her lips, pale and chapped.

  Could this be Penny? The girl seemed so small and helpless, more like a child than the energetic, willful young lady his daughter had grown into. How would anyone be able to recognize this girl in her present condition?

  He maneuvered a monitor cart aside to approach the bed. He could tell her hands were dainty in spite of being swollen with retained fluid. Tears brimmed his eyes. How could he be assured those pale curling fingers were Penny’s? Had she ever worn such a garish shade of nail polish?

  He wiped at his eye with a knuckle and focused on the distorted face, looking for familiarity in the contour of the girl’s nose, and the long dark lashes lying against her purple cheek.

  A sound at the door drew his attention. He turned to find a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties at the door. The ID tag clipped to her lab coat identified her as the girl’s doctor.

  She stepped forward, extending her hand. “Dr. Doyle?” She had an accent—European of some sort, he guessed.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Dr. Matheson.”

  She shook his hand, and Lance noticed a small silver cross necklace at her throat. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m told you came in hopes of identifying our patient.”

  “I thought there was a possibility she was my daughter. This girl …” He glanced back to the still form on the bed. “I thought sure I’d know immediately, but she’s so badly bruised, so swollen.”

  “She had a bumpy ride, that’s for sure. Five broken ribs, a broken collarbone, broken nose and cheekbone, and a nasty gash on the side of her head.” She paused to inhale. “Her head injury is the most significant. We’ve had her on the ventilator since she arrived, but she’s improved enough that we’re preparing to wean her from it. If all goes well, she should be breathing on her own by morning.” Dr. Matheson bent over the bed and lifted the blanket to put a stethoscope to her chest. After listening to heart and lungs for several seconds, she tucked the covers back in place. “All we know so far is that she’s in her late teens or early twenties. She went through a rough patch initially—lost a lot of blood, but has remained stable for over twenty-four hours, so we’re hopeful.”

  “Do you mind if I review her chart?”

  “Of course not.” She went to one of the carts, and logged into the computer. “This is it, right here.” She stepped away from the monitor. “I’m sorry to hear your daughter is missing. I hope you’re able to locate her soon.”

  She returned to the girl’s bedside, while Lance scanned through the files. The X-rays and lab reports all looked as he expected. Penny had no birthmarks or tattoos he was aware of, so there seemed to be nothing of that nature to search. The notes indicated a couple partially healed bruises besides the ones from the crash, but nothing of obvious concern.

  One thing that stood out was a graph of her brain activity. He pointed it out. “What do you make of this EEG?”

  She glanced at it and nodded. “Yes, we noticed this on the initial round of tests when she was brought in from the crash site. I had our neurologist run new scans yesterday, and for some reason, the memory centers of her brain seem to rev up occasionally, becoming highly active for brief periods of time. Very unusual in a comatose patient.”

  Lance continued to flip through graphs and reports. Then he noticed the girl’s blood type: O-Negative.

  “See something else interesting?” the woman asked, pulling his attention away from the chart.

  “It might not be anything, but this girl is O-Negative, like me.”

  Her dark brows rose. “A rare type—that’s something.”

  Lance remembered the emergency blood donation he made yesterday. Perhaps it had been brought here for this patient. He left the computer cart and approached the bed again.

  Leaning over the patient, he gently lifted an eyelid. Blue—as deep as the ocean. That’s what he used to tell Penny about her eyes. He gently pulled back the edge of the bandage in front of her ear and saw the girl’s dark copper hair lying in flattened waves beneath. Yes. Penny’s hair. A flood of warmth surged through his body as his heartrate increased. Lifting the front edge of the bandage exposed a widow’s peak on her pale forehead. Just like her mother’s.

  Penny. It couldn’t be anyone else. Heat rushed up his neck, and he closed his eyes against a sudden welling of emotion. She’d been here, all alone for two days and he never knew it. How was that possible? He leaned against the bedrail for support as his knees weakened. God, please, he prayed silently, I need another chance with my daughter. Take care of her, Lord. She’s all I have left.

  Groaning, I slumped against the back wall of the consignment shop. “No. No, no.”

  Things couldn’t have gone worse. My money, IDs, my phone, and of course, my suitcase too. They were all in Brock’s car.

  “Is something wrong, Miss?” The clerk eyed me from across the shop.

  “Just all the important stuff.” I returned to the front door, my shoulders slumped.

  “If there’s anything I can do…”

  “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

  Walking past her counter, I cracked open the door enough to peer through the glass toward Main Street. A couple pedestrians trudged the snowy sidewalks, but Brock wasn’t among them. Not yet. In the other direction, cars filled most of the parking spaces. No people in sight. I sighed. Should I make a run for it? He could come around the corner at any moment—even while I leaned my head against the door.

  The thought pulled me back, allowing the door to close.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” The consignment lady leaned toward me with a concerned look.

  What could I tell her? I searched for the right words. “I need … to…”

  She tilted her head kindly and extended a hand toward me on the counter. “It’s okay. Take a breath. You can tell me.”

  Part of me wished I could give up, go back and tell Brock I’d made a mistake. Promise to make it up to him somehow. Ask him to forget the note and go on as if my little meltdown hadn’t happened.

  But the vision of his face, twisted with rage, had made my blood go cold. It was the right decision, though it might be ill-timed. I couldn’t go back, even though I’d always been the one to relent or apologize, whether I was right or wrong. Why hadn’t I seen that before? Brock had never taken responsibility for anything. I always conceded. Always made allowances. With him, it would always be my fault.

  “Miss?” The clerk’s look hadn’t wavered. “I’d be happy to call someone for you.”

  Did she mean the police? That seemed like an idea that could backfire big-time, since Brock had told them I fought with Abbi. Call Dad? How could I stir him into my troubles and hope to mend our relationship? “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Do you have a back door? I’d like to get to the bus station, but I’m trying to avoid someone.”

  She pulled back slightly. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Just a guy. We broke up.” A simplistic statement if ever there was one.

  The clerk pulled her mouth to one side, thinking.

  “Please? It would really help me out.” I gripped my shoulder bag wit
h sweaty hands.

  “Well, there is an emergency exit in back. It goes out to a narrow walkway between the buildings.”

  My hopes rose. “That would be great.”

  “But the gates are locked at each end.” She hesitated, her lips pursed. “I suppose I could let you out with my key. You’d come out close to the bus station.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Thank you so much.” I pulled a smile across my clenched jaw.

  The woman opened a drawer under the register and fished out a ring of keys. I followed her through a curtained area at the back of the store.

  We went out the back door, and she led the way to a metal gate at the end of the passage. While she bent to fit the key in the padlock, I saw Brock’s car parked across the street.

  How had my life veered so far out of control? In the space of a few hours, we had gone from having a pleasant drive through the mountains to a Dear-John-style breakup and now, of all things, I was hiding from him.

  I’d never recognized his dark moods and manipulations before. Others had. Cheri pointed out little incidents from time to time, and I had fluffed them off. No big deal. Now they glared at me.

  How did other people manage break-ups? Maybe it was easier when they didn’t involve the kind of accusations Brock had made today. If I were stronger, I could stand my ground in spite of how weak he made me feel. I would face him instead of hide.

  But strength and assurance eluded me. Though I’d repeatedly insisted on my innocence, self-doubt, fueled by my memory lapses, had paralyzed my thoughts.

  The clerk finally managed to free the lock and open the gate, which swung wide with a grating squeal. A chill wind gusted as I walked through to the sidewalk, so I zipped up the last few inches at the top of my coat.

  “Thank you.” It was all I could think to say as she hurried to lock the gate behind me.

  The block was empty, my time limited. I hurried across the street and grabbed the rear door latch of Brock’s car.

  Locked.

  My suitcase lay on the back seat in clear view; my phone and ID case were somewhere on the floor behind the front seats. So close. I tugged the driver’s latch with the same result. With falling expectations, I moved to the back hatch. No luck.