The White Carnation (12 page)

Rob nodded. He needed her cooperation and her silence. He took a steadying breath.

“I'm investigating the Harvester murders. I think he raped and drugged her.”

The doctor stared at him, her face grim. “By all that's holy, I hope you're wrong. I'll put her in isolation. The room is monitored by closed-circuit television, and there's always at least one nurse in the staging area. The wall on that side is glass. The door is locked and opened by activating the unlock switch at the nursing station. I'll register her as a Jane Doe. No one will be able to get to her. I don't know how you've made the leap from dead women to live ones and this one in particular, and I'm sure you couldn't tell me anyway. I'll prescribe some levonogestrel for her—most people just call it the morning-after pill. Whatever I can do to help you catch that monster, you've got it. Have you figured out what he's doing with the babies?”

“I think she's already on the pill. As for the babies, we haven't found the bodies of any infants, and although the ME can't be certain, he's found evidence that all four women nursed children at least a week before their deaths. The FBI is working under the assumption that the children are alive. Healthy white babies—boys or girls—are in big demand. It's a lucrative business that's gone on for decades, and it's hard as hell to prove or trace, especially if they get them out of the country.”

“Sad but true.” She glanced at the wall clock. “She should be ready to move now.”

They left the doctor's broom closet-sized office and returned to the examination room. Faye had been transferred to yet another bed and dressed in a light green johnny gown. Her hair had been pulled back from her face. She was pale against the stark, white sheets.

“Is she going to be okay?” He was unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

The doctor looked at him, appraising him as she did. “This woman is more to you than a witness.”

“Yes, she's my ex-fiancée.”

• • •

Faye awoke slowly, praying she was caught in the remnants of some vicious nightmare. Her mouth and her throat were so dry they ached, and when she attempted to swallow what felt like hot, scratchy sand, she couldn't generate a dram of saliva no matter how hard she tried. And the taste—God, the floor of a taxi cab probably tasted better. Had she been sick? She ran her tongue over her teeth, surprised not to find them covered in an inch of guck. The small movement exhausted her. Wow! This had to be the worst hangover on record. That would teach her to polish off a bottle of whiskey in the middle of the night. Her head ached; no, it was worse than that … the roots of her hair hurt.
Who the hell has painful, pounding hair roots?

She lay still to minimize the pins and needles lacing through her as if every muscle in her body had been asleep for days. She'd gladly spend the rest of the day trying not to move and decreasing her agony, but she couldn't. Rob would be here soon. A warm, fuzzy feeling filled her.
Where the hell did that come from?
Had the whiskey gone bad and addled her brain? If there was one thing she knew, it was that warm, fuzzy feelings and Rob didn't go together. He didn't care for her that way anymore—maybe he never had. The only reason he'd even given her the time of day now was because she'd found Lucy. Sadness filled her. When would she ever get that picture out of her head?

She opened her eyes but shut them quickly as a blinding shaft of pain lanced her brain.
Whoa!
She tried to sit up but couldn't. Her body refused to obey her brain's command.
I've been hung over before, but this is ridiculous.
My kingdom for a glass of water and acetaminophen.
She debated the wisdom of trying to move again and chose to stay as she was.
Let's take it slow … nice and easy …

There was something slightly uncomfortable in her nose, but her brain refused to identify it. A mixture of familiar and unfamiliar odors assaulted her—Rob's aftershave, but it was almost overwhelmed by the antiseptic smells. She vaguely recognized those scents and her heartbeat increased, the startled organ threatening to pound its way out of her chest. The acidic butterflies she kept in her stomach for occasions such as this and riding in elevators began to churn.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes and squinted at the brightness. Turning her head to the right, she took in the full glass wall separating her from what was clearly a nursing station. The acid in her stomach reached a full boil. Forcing her eyes open wider, the slight movement dragging more pain to the front of her head, Faye surveyed herself and the rest of the room. From her arm snaked a plastic tube hooked up to an IV pole, beside which stood two separate monitors recording her vitals. A tightening on her arm announced an automatic blood pressure cuff doing its job. Drawing in a shaky, frightened breath, she recognized the odd sensation in her nose as an oxygen cannula. The life-giving gas entered her nostrils with every breath she took, and those breaths were coming closer and closer together. Her stomach churned; beads of perspiration erupted on her forehead and on her palms. A head-to-toe tremor shook her—where was she? How did she get here?

The last thing she remembered was opening the door. Had she fainted? Had she struck her head?
My God. Have I had a stroke?
She sat up suddenly, the violent movement sending wave after wave of agony cascading through her, ripping the cannula out of her nose, and dislodging leads attached to her chest. Alarms screamed around her, and she cried out in anguish.

“What the hell?”

She turned quickly to the left at Rob's yell.
That explains the aftershave.
He stood beside a chair, disheveled, looking as if he'd been startled awake. What was he doing here? He wore wrinkled hospital scrubs and sported a scruffy, rust-colored beard. His facial hair grew in quickly, but surely not this fast. His hair was a mess, as if he'd been running his hands through it for hours, and she wanted to smooth it back into place away from his gorgeous face. His left hand, resting against her bed rail, was bandaged. Had they been in an accident? Why didn't she remember? His beautiful blue eyes were bloodshot and shadowed, the way they looked when he worked long hours on little sleep. Without thought, she reached up to touch his cheek, the beard rough against her fingertips. She lowered her hand self-consciously.

“Faye, you're awake. Thank God you're awake. I thought we'd lost you.” He lifted her hand from where she'd dropped it beside her and squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “Lie back, sweetheart,” he said over the shrieking alarms. “The nurse is on her way in.”

Sweetheart?
Now she knew she was dreaming. But the pain in her body and in her head didn't abate. The door opened, and a nurse rushed over to the bed. She reached up to the monitor on the left, and blessed silence filled the room.

The nurse smiled over at her as she reached for her right wrist and looked at her watch. “Welcome back. I'm Jenny. I'll bet you're thirsty.”

Faye nodded and set off another wave of pain in her head, making her wince. She couldn't remember ever having such a realistic dream, but enough was enough. It was time to wake up.

Jenny lifted a glass to her mouth and offered her the bent straw. Faye sipped gratefully. The water was stale and lukewarm, but it was the best she'd ever tasted. After draining the cup, she collapsed back into the pillow, almost too tired to care about where she was or how she'd gotten there—almost.

“Thank you,” she croaked through her parched lips. “This isn't a dream, is it?”

“I'm afraid not, although you've had some doozies while you were out.” The nurse turned off the blood pressure cuff's automatic function and manually pumped the rubber ball at the end of the black tube. She placed her stethoscope's chest piece on Faye's arm and watched as the needle of the gauge registered the blood pressure. She released the cuff and noted the information on a paper sitting on the side table. “Your pressure's a little high, but that's to be expected given the current circumstances. As soon as the alarms went off, I notified Dr. Chong. She'll be relieved to see you're finally awake. How do you feel? How's the head?”

“Everything hurts, and it feels like there's a herd of angry elephants tap-dancing on my brain. Who's Dr. Chong? What's wrong with me?” She indicated all the paraphernalia around her, and tears she wouldn't have believed herself capable of filled her eyes. First Rob by her bedside and now this. Whatever had happened to her had to be serious.

“Relax,” the nurse said and smiled in what Faye was certain was the way nurses were taught to do in nursing school.
Don't panic the patient.
“The alarms only went off because you disconnected the monitor feeds. Dr. Chong is the attending physician.” Faye realized she'd evaded a direct answer to the question. “Now, what can I get you?”

“A toothbrush and some mouthwash, more water, strong, black coffee, something for the headache, and my clothes. I want to get out of here.” Faye's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but there was no mistaking the steel beneath it.

The young nurse chuckled. “I can manage the first three and throw in some toast. I can't give you any stimulants or analgesics until the doctor arrives, and as for leaving, I don't think you'll be going anywhere just yet. I'll be right back.”

Faye watched her leave the room, then turned to Rob hovering at the side of her bed. “What happened? Why are we here? Where's here?” Her voice was still rough, as if she hadn't used it in days. The muscle in Rob's jaw jumped. “The truth, Rob. Don't sugarcoat it.”

Emotions warred across his face, and she knew when she'd won. “Mount Auburn Hospital. I'm here because you are.”

“That doesn't tell me much. Why am I here?”

The thought that he'd stay with her brought her some comfort, but fear and confusion battled for preeminence with the other emotion.

“Do you remember anything from Saturday morning?”

“What do you mean Saturday morning? Today's Saturday, isn't it?” Panic threatened to overwhelm her this time.

“No, Faye, it isn't. Today's Wednesday. It's almost three in the afternoon. I found you unconscious Saturday morning when I showed up to take you to the station.”

The butterflies in her stomach took flight again. It wasn't possible—none of this was possible.
It was a dream—no, a lucid nightmare. She'd read about those. You knew you were asleep dreaming, but you couldn't stop it.

Wake up, for God's sake, wake up.

Rob reached for her hand again. It wasn't a dream. It was real, and she was terrified. Tears filled her eyes.

“You can't be serious,” she whispered, not certain what scared her most—being in the hospital with no memory or having Rob there, too, as if he had every right to be. “I've lost four days? Did I have a stroke?” Grandma had lingered for months before she died.
Am I dying?
Her horror must have shown on her face because Rob released her hand and cupped her cheek.

“No, Faye. Nothing like that. You were attacked and drugged. Your apartment's been trashed. The forensic team's been through it, but the place was busted up pretty badly. Based on the pattern of destruction, the techs say it's the same guy who went into Lucy Green's. I don't know if he took anything. We won't know that until you can get in there to check, but that place will be off-limits to you for a while.”

Attacked in her own apartment? By the person who'd probably killed Lucy? She vaguely remembered pain in her neck and slowly lifted her hand to her throat, expecting to find it bandaged. When it wasn't, she let out a sigh of relief. A nightmare—that had been part of a nightmare—the reason she'd consumed the whiskey. What else had he said? Rob reached for her hand again and gently squeezed it to get her attention once more. He didn't let go.

“I need you to think back to Friday night after I left. What did you do?”

She screwed up her face and worried her lower lip as she forced herself to recall the details he'd requested.

“I locked the door behind you. I still haven't gotten the damn thing fixed …” She looked away. No sense dredging up unpleasant memories. This was bad enough as it was. “I tidied up, made myself a sandwich, and then did some research on the Harvester.” She lifted her chin belligerently. “I thought I might try my hand at a background story about him now that he's struck again—he has struck again, right? You were going to a crime scene …”

“Yes, we found a fourth victim.”

“Well, I thought it might help me get back into Sloan's good graces, but it'll take more than the sketchy background information I found online to do that. You guys are playing your cards pretty close to the chest on this one. I made some notes on what I knew about Lucy and what I remembered from the apartment. I was first on scene. That should give me the leverage to get this story …” She stopped. Damn, that was four days ago. Someone else was on it now. Hopefully it was Abel and not Tina.

“The murder made the front page on Saturday, but Faye, no one knows you were there. We kept your name out of it.”

“Why? I have firsthand information.”

“It's because of that. I'm trying to protect you here,” he said, his frustration obvious as he ran his hand through his hair. “What else did you do Friday night?”

Faye huffed out a breath. Screwed again. “Not that it's really any of your business, but I tossed Mary's name and information into the file along with the other stuff I'd found on missing women with similarities to hers, saved what I had to a USB drive, and took the computer into the office to plug it in. I went to bed.” She stopped talking and stared at the wall in front of her as other memories came to her. “I had a vicious nightmare in the middle of the night, got up, and polished off the last quarter of that bottle of whiskey. I went back to bed, and I guess I eventually fell asleep. The alarm went off at the usual time. I put laundry in to wash … My sheets! Four days? They're going to smell all skunky, and they were my best ones—the Egyptian cotton ones we bought—they'll be ruined.”