What Dreams May Come (2 page)

"You were in an accident.
A car accident, on Christmas Eve.
Do you remember?"

Frowning, Mitch searched his mind. "No. I don't remember anything about that."

"Don't worry, it isn't unusual. You may never remember the hours just before the crash."

"How badly was I hurt?"

"A number of broken bones and some internal injuries.
But all that has healed. Your left eye is gone, but there isn't much scarring and the socket's intact if you decide to use a glass eye." The doctor's voice was calm and impersonal. "You'll need physical therapy to get your muscles and nerves back in working order, and it'll take time, but you should be as good as new."

Mitch felt the dark stirrings in his mind again, the rustle of panic. He looked down at his body, looked at the arms that were too thin, remembered touching a face with little flesh. Holding his voice as steady as possible, he said, "Broken bones and internal injuries take time to heal.
Lots of time.
Why can't I remember that, Doc? What else happened to me?"

Softly, the doctor said, "You've been in a coma, Mr. Mitchell."

He understood what that meant, but only vaguely. A coma was like a sleep, a long sleep. His mind told him he had slept only a night, but his body—a new thought entered his mind, replacing the nameless fears with one that was very real.

"Was I alone?" he asked hoarsely.
"In the car?"

The doctor frowned, studying him,
then
said slowly, "I was told a friend of yours was driving. The accident wasn't his fault; a drunk driver crossed the median and crashed into you."

Mitch felt cold. "Keith? How is he?"

"I'm sorry. He didn't make it."

The coldness spread through him.
Keith . . . his best friend since the first year of high school, like a brother.
Lord, what Kelly must be going through! Pain and grief ached inside him, but even that could no longer hold back the icy certainty that the accident had stolen more than his best friend and his eye.

"How long?" he demanded, bracing himself for a reply he somehow knew would be devastating. "How long have I been in a coma?"

Dr. Brady hesitated. "Mr. Mitchell, I want to remind you that you are extremely lucky to be alive. No one expected you to come out of the coma. With therapy, your physical condition should be optimum within a few months, a year at most. Judging by your coherency, I'd venture to say there's been no brain damage, though you may discover more gaps in your memory; that's always a possibility."

"How long?"
Mitch repeated harshly.

The doctor drew a breath. "It's really remarkable in many ways, Mr. Mitchell. Today is the anniversary of your accident.
Christmas Eve.
December 24—1988."

It was worse than a shock, and no amount of bracing could protect against it. He couldn't breathe for a moment, and some wild, primitive cry of protest tangled violently in the back of his throat.
Lost.
Nine years lost forever. Nine years stolen while he slept. The whole world had gone on without him, seasons changing and lives lived and . . .

"Kelly," he whispered.

It was just a few days into February when Kelly opened her mail and found the clipping. There was no note, and no return address on the envelope; the postmark was smeared and unreadable. The clipping was from a major East Coast newspaper, but the article was a small one. The author of the piece seemed to feel that his information was newsworthy only because the situation was a bizarre one, and he clearly relished the odd coincidence of dates.

On Christmas Eve, 1979, John Mitchell had been involved in a car accident that had left him in a coma. On Christmas Eve, 1988, he had awakened, as if from a night's sleep.

There
was
more, a few bare facts. A battery of tests on Mitchell had found no brain damage. Intense physical therapy over months had repaired the ravages of the long coma, and doctors were astonished by his progress. There had been no setbacks, and the medical staff at the hospital was confident enough to anticipate no future ones.

For a long moment, as she stared at the clipping. Kelly felt nothing except distant shock. Then, as if a dam had burst inside her, a complex tangle of emotions washed through her.
Happiness, relief, guilt, bitterness, anger.
And last of all hurt, because Mitch had come out of the coma more than a year before.

He hadn't contacted her in any way.

She tried to be fair, reminding herself that he
could
have looked for her and simply not been able to find her. After all, she had learned to cover her tracks with all the caution of a hunted animal. The past ten years had taken her far from home, and no one who had known her then would even think to look for her in Tucson.

Kelly rose from her chair, the clipping still in her hand, and went to gaze out the window. The desert scenery was still unfamiliar, but already she was feeling the urge to move on. She had stayed here too long, months now. Her awareness of her surroundings was growing more intense, the urge to look over her shoulder stronger with every passing day.

It certainly was time to move on.

The phone rang, and Kelly crossed the living room of her tiny apartment and sat down on the couch to answer it. "Hello?"

"Miss Russell?"

"Yes?"

"Miss Russell, my name is Cyrus Fortune." His voice was soft and deep, and even over the phone the force of a strong yet curiously gentle personality was evident. "Your employers at ITC gave me this number; I hope you don't mind my calling you at home?"

"I don't mind. What can I do for you, Mr. Fortune?"

"Well, I'd like to offer you a job, Miss Russell. I understand that you enjoy traveling to different parts of the country to accept temporary assignments."

"Something
like
that," she murmured.

"I'm setting up a new company near Portland, Oregon, and I need a computer system designed. Are you interested?"

Oregon.

"Yes," she answered without giving herself time to think how odd the coincidence was. "My work at ITC is finished; I'm ready for . . . for a new challenge."

"Excellent. May I come to your office tomorrow morning and talk to you about it?"

"Of course.
Would ten o'clock suit you?"

"Fine.
I'll see you then, Miss Russell."

"Good-bye, Mr. Fortune."

She cradled the phone slowly and sat gazing at the clipping she held. Oregon. What a strange twist . . . Still, she would be moving even farther away from Mitch, not toward him, because he was, no doubt, in Baltimore. But it was better that way, she told herself. Because ten years was a very long time, too long to rekindle a flame snuffed out in pain and grief. She wasn't the girl John Mitchell had loved. And he hardly could be the man she had adored from childhood, not after what had happened to him.

Still, it hurt her to think of him waking all alone and facing so many shocks.
The loss of years from his life.
The loss of his eye.
Keith's death in the accident.
And the death of his father.
Mitch and his father hadn't been on speaking terms for years before the accident, but the death of a parent is always a blow. The irony was that
although Mitch had lost a great deal while he slept, he had gained the one thing he'd never wanted: the wealth of his family.

Kelly knew about that only because Hugh Mitchell had specifically requested that she be present at the reading of his will. Though he had never spoken to her in life, he had, after death, in a strange way acknowledged her place in his son's heart. Or, at least, so she had supposed. Because without
explanation,
and through careful arrangements making certain it hadn't cost her a penny in inheritance taxes, Hugh Mitchell had left her a house and property.

In Oregon.

She had speculated with a little bitterness whether he had specifically chosen that property to be her inheritance because it was across the country. Even though his son had been three years into the coma then, and not likely to recover according to the doctors, she had to wonder if Hugh Mitchell had still considered her a threat.

Kelly's first impulse had been to ignore the bequest, but she knew Mitch had spent time there as a boy and she'd been unable to cut that fragile tie to him. But neither had she been able to contemplate living there herself. Finally, she'd arranged with a realty company to rent the place and use the income for taxes and upkeep, and her family's lawyer kept an eye on the accounts. She had never gone to see the property, and though her lawyer had several times told her it was a valuable inheritance, she had refused to listen to appraisals or any other details.

Now it looked as though she would have the chance to see the place for the first time. She felt a little uneasy about that. She had avoided any
place with ties for several years now, and it occurred to her that she might well be tempting fate by breaking her own rule. But what would be the harm? She'd stayed so firmly away from the Northwest that no one could possibly guess she would go there now, after all these years.

Still, it was something to think about. Kelly was on the point of rising when another thought occurred to her, this one definitely disturbing.

The clipping.
Who had sent it to her? How could anyone in Tucson know of the connection between her and John Mitchell? And if the article had been sent from outside Tucson, then who had known just where to find her?

She stared at the bit of newsprint, conscious that her heart was thudding with the uneven rhythm she hated. The ache inside her was fear, and regret, and bitterness.

"Mitch ..." she whispered to the silent room. "I should have waited for you."

"Well, Mr. Boyd?"

In his long career as a private investigator Evan Boyd had heard that terse question often. Clients tended to ask it when an investigation bogged down, and their voices grew more strained and harsh with every repetition.

But not this client.
His voice had never altered, even though it had been nearly a year since he had first asked the question. A lot of control in this one, Boyd had decided. And, even more, the kind of relentless determination that few men could boast. It had served John Mitchell well.

"I have a lead," Boyd replied, but allowed his own misgivings to filter through his voice.

Mitch looked at him, and even though the investigator was no longer unnerved by that burning dark eye, he could feel the increasing force behind it. "A lead you don't trust?"

Boyd nodded, the perceptive response not surprising him since he had come to know this client. "It didn't come through the regular channels. Since she has a degree in computer science, I was checking into all the high-tech firms. If you remember, I warned you it could take a long time."

"I remember."

"Well, it should have taken a long time. But this morning I received a newsletter. The kind of thing some companies send out to their clients or employees once or twice a year. I can't explain how I got
it,
and the company—ITC, in Tucson— hasn't a clue either. They don't know me from Adam. And I wouldn't have known them; they weren't even on my list. ITC isn't strictly a high-tech firm. They're a small company, and they make toys, the garden-variety kind.
Stuffed animals and dolls."

Mitch waited silently, his broad-shouldered, athletic body still and apparently relaxed behind the big desk. Boyd thought fleetingly of the man he had first met, a much thinner man who had been immersed in physical therapy in that private hospital; his driven determination to regain his strength and leave that place had, Boyd knew, worn out three therapists and astonished a number of doctors.

Curiously enough, the coma had left few signs of age on John Mitchell; and he actually looked younger now than he had when Boyd had first met him. The wings of silver at his temples had appeared only during the past year, and the black
eye patch lent his lean, hard face a look of danger that was intensified by his invariable stillness.

"In the newsletter," the investigator went on, "was a small article about the company's new computer design program. They had hired a programmer on a temporary basis to set up the system. The programmer was Kelly Russell."

"Did you check it out?" For the first time there was a hint of strain in the deep, even voice.

"By phone, yeah.
She was working there until three days ago. ITC says she's accepted another project, but they weren't willing to part with any of the details. I need to go out there and pick up the trail."

"You don't trust the information?"

"I don't like the way I got that newsletter out of the blue. Maybe it was just a fluke, but I don't trust flukes. Like I told you, I think she's running from something or someone, and I can't find out what. She seems to use her own name once she's settled in a place, but uses a false name to travel; that's what made it so hard to find her. And that's why it's so important that I go to Tucson and find out everything I can before the trail gets cold."

Mitch rose from the desk and stepped over to the window, gazing out at the city of Baltimore. Without turning, he said in a low voice, "You've gotten this close once before.
Months ago, in Chicago.
And lost her."

Boyd knew what he was being asked. And it wasn't only his professional pride at stake here, but a purely personal interest he had developed in this man and his search. In an equally quiet voice, he said, "I don't mean to lose her this time, Mr. Mitchell. I have contacts in Tucson; I'll pick up her trail."

There was a short silence, and then Mitch said, "Go. Report back the moment you find out anything. Call me any hour, day or night."

Boyd rose from his chair, then hesitated and drew the newsletter from the inside pocket of his coat. "I'll leave this with you," he said, leaning over to place it on the neat blotter. "There's a photo." Then he turned and left the silent office, knowing that John Mitchell would prefer to be alone.