style="font-size:15px;"> “No, my name’s Ann,” the paramedic said patiently, opening her kit. “I need to you to tell me where you’re hurt.”
A tiny smile flickered over Kate’s lips. “Everywhere.” For ten minutes, Ann examined Kate and initiated treatment, eventually announcing they would transport her to George Washington University Hospital. At that news Kate pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes more tightly together. She’d spent far too much time in hospitals recently, and the thought was almost unbearable. It was more bearable than the pain, however, and she nodded almost imperceptibly.
Holder stood by her as they wheeled the gurney through the apartment and down to the ambulance. After loading Kate in, Holder and Morgan climbed into his car, and they set off. Sirens broke a path through Langley’s late morning traffic, and the ambulance dropped into potholes and careened around corners. The gurney bumped and shifted, and each movement intensified Kate’s pain.
Holding her eyes shut against the light, she sought to screen out the pain by channeling her mind back into its normal paths. But each time she thought she’d regained control, a new glut of images flashed through her brain, and control slid out of her grasp again. She decided she would try to force order onto the images. The idea of a jigsaw puzzle came to her, and she struggled to put the pieces in their correct places. In the background Kate kept hearing drums. Or was it throbbing? Then the bed she was lying on was rolling again. She opened her eyes in panic, and the sunlight blinded her. She shut them and returned to her puzzle.
Why can’t I fit the pieces together? I can’t remember anything!
The left side of the gurney hit a curb, and it felt like someone had kicked her. Despite the surge in pain, she smiled.
A kick! God, I remember!
When they got to the hospital, she was rushed into the ER, where she was cleaned up and her injuries assessed. Holder hovered. After an hour the ER doctor prescribed further tests. Before they moved her to the other section of the hospital, Holder showed up at her bedside.
“Everything’s taken care of, the paperwork, I mean,” he told her. Kate didn’t react. “Kate?”
“Good,” she said, keeping her eyes shut tight.
“Have you remembered anything?”
“No.” She didn’t want to tell him, even about her small memory of being kicked, before considering what her memories meant…and what role he played in them.
Holder had to move out of the way as they rolled Kate toward the elevator. “I’m leaving. I’ll be back.” Kate raised a hand. He made his way out through the ER.
WHILE she was being tested, Kate tried and tried to picture the time before and after she’d been kicked, but in vain. Beyond the kick, something else was tapping at the back of her mind, pressing to get out. She told herself to relax, breathe, and quiet her mind. It didn’t help. Then, during one of the tests, a conversation between two technicians penetrated her consciousness.
“Who are these tests going to?” one man asked.
“Lemme look,” the other answered. “Dr. Watrous. You know, the hot new resident on the fourth floor.”
Kate was certain there was something about the name. Dr. Watrous. The tapping increased. Suddenly it burst out. Dr. Wat…. Dr. Watson! Sherlock Holmes!
I was watching The Hound of the Baskervilles, then I heard the key in the lock.
Her thoughts froze. A key! The implications were overwhelming. She shivered, this time not because she was cold.
KATE was lying in a bed in a room on the fourth floor, the tests completed. They’d refused her request for pain medication, and she was hurting, badly. Despite the pain, every so often a fleeting wisp of a memory emerged from the fog in her brain. Yet as close as she was getting to the truth, her mind was overflowing with seemingly unrelated details. She thought she remembered feeling suffocated; she thought she remembered feeling like she was drowning; she knew she remembered the kick and the sound of the key in the lock. But how were they related? Then there were the drums, the constant drums. Round and round it went, draining her already limited energy.
“Dr. Taylor?”
Kate opened her eyes and saw a woman in a white lab coat whose name tag read Dr. Barbara Watrous. She was in her early thirties with chin-length, blond hair and brown eyes. Thank God, Dr. Watrous was a woman. Kate almost smiled.
“How are you feeling?”
Kate took in a deep breath. “Ah…” she stumbled. She had to give herself a little mental shake to express herself clearly. “My head hurts a lot. Can I have pain meds?”
“In a bit. We need to discuss some things first.”
“Shit,” Kate swore under her breath.
Oh, well, I’ll survive. I’ve had a lot worse.
“It won’t take long,” Watrous assured her. The doctor first examined her, then explained that one test suggested she could have some kidney damage, and further that the CAT scan revealed a severe concussion, perhaps exacerbated by an earlier injury. Kate knew what was coming next, because the ER doctor had asked Kate if she’d had a concussion or kidney injuries in the past, and she’d refused to answer. After all, she wasn’t certain of the answer, although the men in that place could have hit her hard enough to cause either injury. The real reason she didn’t want to answer was that the torture she’d endured in the secret police prison was her own business, not theirs.
Watrous again tried to pry it out of her; Kate didn’t budge. Eventually the doctor blurted out in exasperation that Kate shouldn’t allow people who abused her to get away with it. This confused Kate, and it took a while for her to figure out that Watrous believed she was a victim of domestic abuse. She might have laughed out loud if it hadn’t promised to hurt.
Me! Allowing people to hurt me. And domestic abuse! Hah! Not likely. International abuse, maybe.
When Kate smiled at her silly joke, Watrous gaped at her like she was even crazier than she’d thought. Although Kate steadfastly refused to say anything about the torture, she was finally able to convince Watrous that she was not a victim of domestic abuse. Or maybe the doctor simply wanted to get the examination over with. In any case, after about thirty minutes, Watrous rearranged her lab coat, tucked the chart back in its place at the end of the bed, and announced in her best physician voice: “We will treat the injuries as if they are not first-time incidents. What you need most is rest. Nurse Mutaba will be in soon with pain medication.” With a look like she was escaping from the loony bin, Dr. Watrous left the room.
After she was sure the physician was gone, Kate levered herself laboriously and painfully into a half-sitting position, pulled the phone over from the bedside table, and punched in a number. When Holder answered, she told him that she’d remembered something. She could hear him suck in a breath.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said.
“They’re giving me pain meds in a few minutes.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can!” he repeated.
She replaced the
