Last to Know

Last to Know

Copyright © 2005 by Karen Mauck

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At that time of night in that part of town, most of the people aimlessly wandering the streets actually had a purpose, though none of it legal. The high fashion of the borough’s residents was either homeless chic or low-rent prostitute. Drivers who had the misfortune of traveling through the area did so at high speeds, pretending not to notice the rot around them in their determination to get somewhere else, anywhere else. Everyone averted their eyes and stayed out of other people’s business to avoid trouble, but if anyone had been paying attention that night, they would have noticed the young woman stumbling out of a ramshackle abandoned warehouse. She was disoriented, disheveled, and partially disrobed. If the light were better, her glaring back eye would have been more noticeable against her pale skin. Despite her bedraggled appearance, it was obvious she did not belong there.

She walked with an unseeing, uneven gait, as if she were drunk and did not know, or care, where she was or where she was going. She stopped a few times to lean against a signpost or a wall before continuing on her seemingly purposeless walk. One arm hung limply to her side, and her body lurched as she walked with only one heeled shoe. Blindly, she stepped over a trash-strewn curb into the street and directly into the path of an oncoming car.

Screeching tires brought the few people still on the street to attention. Helpless, they watched as the car careened toward the woman, who had stopped to stare, uncomprehending, at the approaching car, a figurative deer in the headlights. The driver, startled, stomped on the brakes and yanked the steering wheel to the left, managing to bring the car to a screeching halt on the curb and mere inches from the woman’s legs. Shaken, he climbed out of the car as several ladies in very short skirts ran over to see the excitement.

Didn’t your mamma teach you to look both ways before you cross the street? the older black man driving the beat-up Buick yelled at the woman, who only stared at him blankly. The man finally noticed her appearance and his voice softened. Lady, are you alright?

The woman opened her mouth and moved her lips as if she were trying to form words, but no sounds came out. Her blank face slowly started to take on the look of fear.

Honey, whatsa matter? One of the prostitutes asked. Her appearance had been hardened by years on the streets, but her exterior belied her caring, gentle nature. Don’t worry, Charlene will take good care of ya. She approached the woman and extended her hand, laden in garish costume jewelry, and kindly touched the mute woman’s shoulder.

The woman turned her pale blue eyes, rimmed in red from crying and black from smeared mascara and bruises, from the driver to the woman, and finally made her mouth work.

Help me, she whispered before darkness enveloped her.

Slowly, the soft beeping noises around her head grew louder, and after a brief moment of panic that sent her heart monitor into convulsions and her head nurse into fits, she realized she was in a hospital. The beeping monitors, stringent antiseptic odor, and drab yellow walls told her that. She did not know, however, which hospital, or how she had come to be there. The dull ache in her arm, throbbing in her head, and sharp pains in her side were certainly enough to convince her she belonged there. After the nurses had sufficiently overreacted to her awakening, a doctor casually walked in, dressed in the requisite light blue scrubs and white lab coat, and addressed her.

Well, good morning! the older gentleman said, despite the fact that it was late afternoon, flashing huge white teeth in his smile. Nice to see you’re awake. How are you doing?

The woman regarded him with confusion and suspicion for a moment before answering with a shaky, Okay, I guess.

That’s the spirit. My name is Doctor Alan Davis. You’re been in Bridgeport Memorial Hospital in Oakdale, Michigan, just north of Detroit. You’ve been here for two days. And you are? His striking blue eyes under a shock of prematurely gray hair regarded her kindly as well as clinically as he waited for an answer.

She stared blankly at the doctor at first. He just waited patiently, smiling at her. She frowned, then looked past him to the nurses bustling beyond him, down the hallway. She saw it all but none of it was familiar, none of it made any sense. She pondered the question again and again, her eyes growing wider and ever fearful with each passing second. The doctor’s kind eyes took on a look of concern.

Miss? he prodded gently.

She put her hand over her mouth in despair, then whispered in a quavering voice, I…I don’t know.

Two days and countless tests later, a newspaper reporter and photographer stood before the woman, now known affectionately through the hospital as Janie Doe. The nurses had decided that Jane was too plain a name for their gregarious amnesiac patient, who cruised the halls in wheelchair races with sick children and danced with the orderlies to the tunes of the piped-in elevator music. Only at night, when it was dark and no one was around to see, did she allow herself to think about just how painful her injuries were. Only then did she worry that she had no memory of her life.

Ok, Doctor Davis, let me just repeat some of my notes to you, reporter Kevin Jenson said, flipping through his steno notebook. No identification, no tattoos, no missing persons report, no recollection of herself or her surroundings, five feet eleven, one hundred sixty pounds, black hair, blue eyes, approximately thirty years old. Only thing that can ID her is a gold necklace. He closed his book. Anything else?

The doctor regarded the reporter coolly. Well, why don’t you ask the patient yourself, she’s sitting right there in front of you.

The nameless woman offered Kevin a sneer, instead of a smile, when he turned to her. Do you have to say I’m one-sixty?

Kevin rolled his eyes at the photographer. If I don’t, his pictures will. She wrinkled her eyebrows but did not comment on his rudeness. So, is there anything else? he asked impatiently, ignoring her glare.

She thought for a moment. I suppose you can tell them I was attacked, because I guess I was, she said, showing off the hard white cast on her right arm, protecting her broken wrist, which had undergone surgery to repair the multiple fractures. The swelling in her eye had gone down and the color was not nearly as dark as it had been when she first arrived at the hospital. Now it was merely a purplish-yellow. Her other injuries were not as obvious. Her hair covered the stitches on her scalp, and her clothes hid the dark bruising over her legs and cracked ribs.

Kevin nodded. Yeah, I got all that from the police report. Found wandering Eight Mile Road along the Oakdale-Detroit border, broken bones suggest you’d been attacked a day or two before you were found. Great. He capped his pen, pleased with himself. Ok, Paul, snap away.

The woman self-consciously pulled some strands of her raven hair out of her eyes, wishing she had her own clothes to wear, whatever they might have looked like, instead of this hideous green hospital gown. As much as she disliked the idea, the doctor had convinced her that printing her story might bring some answers as to her identity and lead her on the path to remembering.

When she was sure she was permanently blinded from the camera’s flash bulb, Paul announced he was done and walked out ahead of Kevin. Kevin reached across the bed and unenthusiastically shook her hand. Thanks, Miss. This will run in tomorrow’s paper. I hope it helps. With that, he turned on his heel and walked out so fast he nearly knocked over the evening nurse.

Well, isn’t he just all sorts of sunshine, she commented wryly to her nurse, Frieda Johnson, who grinned back at her.

Ah, forget about him, he just needs to get laid, that’s all, Frieda laughed, waving her brightly painted fingernails in his direction in dismissal.

Don’t we all, the patient grumbled, then said in a louder voice, startling the sleeping elder woman sharing her room, "I don’t even remember if I’ve ever had sex!

Frieda laughed again, louder this time, her teeth flashing against her dark skin. Oh, don’t worry, you ain’t missing much, honey.

Doctor Davis, who had pretended not to be listening, started whistling loudly and walked out of the room, waving his goodbyes as he left. Both women collapsed into a fit of giggles.

The nameless girl tossed and turned, unable once again to sleep, even with the aid of a mild sedative. Whenever she closed her eyes, unidentifiable shadows lurked in her dreams, stalking her and frightening her awake. So she stayed awake to avoid them. She had too many unanswered questions to sleep anyway. Where am I? Who am I? Why has no one come forward to help me? Who attacked me, and why? Fitfully, she finally slept.

Her story appeared as promised in the next morning’s edition of the paper, but had garnered no leads, Police Detective Marshall Everett had told her sadly that evening. A few prank calls, but nothing that could be considered a serious lead. Once again, she turned over and over in her bed at night, trying to not wake Mrs. Englewood sleeping in the bed next to hers after appendectomy surgery. Luckily, Mrs. Englewood proved to be a heavy sleeper.

It was three o’clock in the morning when a tall figure loomed over Janie in the darkness. She must have fallen asleep, because her eyes were not yet adjusting to the darkness, and she could not make out the figure before her. She saw the outline of a syringe being pointed into the air and thought it must be the midnight nurse. She groggily offered her arm to the nurse, who grabbed it much too hard, hurting her and bringing her fully awake. Her mind functioning more clearly, she realized she was no longer on an IV drip and had not been told she would be receiving any shots. She tried to yank her arm away from the nurse, but she was too strong and would not let go.

Hey, cut it out, you’re hurting me! Janie said loudly enough to cause Mrs. Englewood to stir.

Be quiet! the nurse hissed, gripping all the tighter. Suddenly frightened, although she could not explain why, Janie lunged for the call button. She pressed her thumb down on it and screamed at the same time. Startled awake, Mrs. Englewood lurched into a sitting position, then doubled over in pain as the sudden movement aggravated her surgical wound. The nurse threw the syringe at Janie, spun on her heel, and ran out of the room, knocking Frieda to the ground as she came running in response to the noise. In the collision, the fleeing nurse dropped something that shattered on impact with the hard tile floor.

From her prone position, Freida cried out for security. But by the time the uniformed men arrived from another floor, the so-called nurse was gone.

Janie didn’t dare touch the syringe lying on the blanket at the foot of her bed. Frieda was less fearful, however, having made her living off of this and similar medical equipment. She looked at it for a moment, muttering to herself, before she handed it to the doctor on duty, who had come rushing into the room after the commotion. He studied the syringe more closely, then the shards of glass on the floor. He turned to Freida, his face stern.

You’d better call the police, he said.

Did you read the file?

Detective Garret Wade shook his head sheepishly at his friend and co-worker Marshall Everett. Nah, I was running late. Barely had time to grab a coffee on the way in.

Marshall nodded knowingly; this was standard operating procedure for Garret. Well, they’re calling her Janie Doe for now, cuz she don’t know her name and they can’t find any ID on her. No one’s filed a missing persons that fits her description. He recited her information from memory in his baritone Texas drawl. For a man of such slight stature, the deep, resonating voice that came out of his mouth was surprising. Found last week all beat up and left for dead. Nothing of consequence found at the scene. Last night some freak broke into her room and tried to inject her with something when he found out she wasn’t dead. Turned out to be a monster dose of procaine.

What’s that?

Man, you really need to start reading the files, Marshall said without a trace of ire. It’s used as a local anesthetic, but intravenous injection in large quantities causes instant heart attack and death. Not the first time it’s turned up as a drug of choice in homicide investigations. He really would have messed her up with that shit.

He? Garret picked up on Marshall’s use of pronouns. So she was sexually assaulted?

Marshall shrugged. He, she, it, them. Whatever. And no. They did a thorough medical exam; no evidence of rape.

Garret cocked his head, absently patting the pockets of his well-worn leather jacket and black slacks as he searched unsuccessfully for a pack of cigarettes. He remembered irritably that he had left them in his car, but it was just as well, as hospital policy would not allow him to smoke anyway. Someone must know her if they tried to kill her, he remarked. His words often had a biting edge, but his voice was soft and smooth as butter. So what am I doing here, watching a comatose chick?

Marshall laughed, his green eyes twinkling. Oh, she’s anything but comatose. She’s quite a handful. Keeps ya on your toes. He glanced up over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses at Garret. But yeah, you’re watching her.

Garret huffed angrily. Great, now I can add ‘bodyguard’ to my resume. He ran his long fingers through his unruly brown hair in frustration.

Hey, man, you know anyone else would do it if they didn’t have other stuff going on, Marshall shrugged again and stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets.

Garret, much taller than Marshall, glared down at the older detective. Other stuff like a wife, two-point-five kids, and a dog?

Marshall kept walking down the hospital ward hall, purposefully not looking back. Um, yeah, that too, he mumbled, embarrassed that Garret had partially figured it out. The cops with families were reluctant to spend time away on something as tedious as personal protection for an amnesiac patient, and they all knew Garret lived alone now. Marshall knew his own wife, Casey, would not have been pleased at such an indefinite assignment that kept him away from home and left her alone with their two young sons, Kyle and Ryan. He decided not to even mention the added issue of Garret’s history with the department. He didn’t have to, because they were at the door to Janie’s room, currently guarded by hospital security officers. After flashing their badges, Marshall led Garret into the room past a dozing Mrs. Englewood, where they were greeted by loud giggles from Frieda and Janie.

Hey, it’s Sheriff Marshall Dillon! Janie called, waving her good arm enthusiastically. She was sitting on the bed, long legs crossed beneath her, wearing green hospital-issue scrubs instead of the usual backless gown. She was playing Chutes and Ladders, pilfered from the children’s ward, with her nurse.

Howdy, ma’am, Marshall drawled, exaggerating his transplanted Southern twang and doffing his Detroit Tigers baseball cap, exposing a shock of slightly receding curly blond hair. Janie collapsed into another fit of giggles. Turning serious, Marshall touched her shoulder. Remember what we talked about last night? About the protection? Well, meet your knight in shining armor. He motioned his hand to Garret, expecting him to introduce himself. When he didn’t, Marshall turned his head to his younger partner. Janie followed his gaze up to the lanky detective’s face.

Garret towered over the foot of the bed, his mouth slightly agape and his eyebrows knotted over his staring brown eyes. His usually caustic voice was silent.

Garret? Marshall prompted. Don’t be rude, the pretty girl’s waiting.

Janie gingerly raised herself on her knees and extended her good hand in greeting. I’d introduce myself, but I’d be lying, she said with a crooked, self-depreciating grin.

Garret slowly took the hand but did not shake it; instead, he held on tight. His mouth worked for a moment with no sound, but he finally managed to make a single word escape, almost in a whisper.

Amanda?

Marshall’s eyes widened. You know who she is?

Frieda, silent until now, glanced at her charge’s stricken face and jumped off the bed. I’d better get the doctor, she said as she practically ran out of the room.

Janie, suddenly confused and frightened, tried to take her hand from the detective’s grasp, but his grip was strong. Amanda? she repeated in a small voice. I’m…Amanda?

Garret closed his eyes and shook his head, as if to clear her image from his mind, then looked at her again. It was the same dimpled cheeks. The same raven hair. The same glittering steel-blue eyes that were now boring into him.

Amanda Cross, he finally agreed. My God, what did they do to you? He released her hand and reached up to her face, starting to gently trace the large bruise still visible above her left cheekbone with his fingertips.

She reflexively snapped her head back away from his touch, causing herself to lose her balance and sit down hard, scattering board game pieces across the bed. Who are you? she demanded. Her voice was low and steady but she felt her pulse racing through her body, and despite her best efforts, her face revealed her terror and confusion. How do you know me?

Garret retreated, realizing too late he had invaded her space and thrown her already scattered thinking for a loop. Sorry, I imagine this is a little strange, he said apologetically, a slight red flush of embarrassment coloring his chiseled cheekbones.

To say the least, she replied, eyeing him warily and defensively pulling her pillow from behind her to clutch it in her lap, almost as if she were hiding behind it.

Garret started to regain his composure. Umm, I’m Detective Garret Wade. I’ve been assigned to your case for personal protection.

Amanda stared at him for a long moment, evaluating him before she responded. She willed her heart to stop pounding so hard that she was sure the officer could see it through the thin surgeon’s shirt Frieda had found for her. She decided that he had to be harmless if he was a police detective and here to protect her, and further decided that, considering the circumstances, she would have to learn to live with a bodyguard sooner or later. Might as well start with a handsome one, she thought. There was the added bonus that he seemed to know her, and that made panic fade slightly into curiosity and hopefulness. Her face softened, but she was still on her guard. So, have we met? Tahiti, right? No, wait, the ski lodge in Aspen. She crossed her arms, mostly to stop them from shaking, and waited for him to offer an explanation.

Yep, you’re Amanda alright. Garret suppressed a grin. We went to college together. You spent a lot of time in my room. Garret cringed at her inquisitive and offended expression. You were seeing my roommate, um…geez, you know, whatshisname.

Amanda couldn’t help but smile at his awkwardness despite the flash of annoyance she felt at his lack of grace toward her condition. No, I don’t know.

Shit. Garret mumbled under his breath and contorted his face into another grimace by way of apology, causing his straight nose to wrinkle in a way she found endearing. Nick, that’s it. Nick Garamaldi.

Marshall, who had been regarding the exchange in stunned silence, grabbed the nearby telephone and dialed the precinct. Amanda Cross, he repeated in a low voice. Pull everything you have about anyone in the area named Amanda Cross and any possible family members.

Were we friends? Amanda motioned with her cast between herself and Garret.

He shrugged noncommittally. Yeah, I guess.

You guess?

Garret shrugged again, but before he could answer, Doctor Davis briskly walked in. What’s this I hear about our mystery woman finally having a real name? he said cheerfully. As he reached the bedside, he gently took Amanda’s wrist and tested her pulse. After a moment, he said in a still-cheerful but more serious voice, OK, gentlemen, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside for a moment. Our guest is a little more upset than she is letting on. Amanda reluctantly allowed the doctor to gently push her back into a laying position on the bed.

Marshall attacked Garret in the hallway as soon as they were out of earshot. What’s the story here? he demanded.

You heard, we hung out for a year or two in college, Garret replied brusquely, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

Hung out? Marshall prompted. When Garret didn’t answer, Marshall grabbed his arm and yanked on it until Garret was forced to turn and look at him.

What, I’m not allowed to have female friends? He ripped his arm back from Marshall’s grasp, hoping the conversation would end. He was startled to see Amanda again after all these years, in this condition, and even more startled at what the sight of her had done to him. He had already dismissed his feelings as surprise and shock at seeing an old friend hurt, and nothing more. Nonetheless, he