to ruin those perfect washboard abs.”
Joe laughed, knowing his rigorous workout sessions plus boxing kept him fit. Boxing had been the one thing he could do to keep sane and not beat the hell out of his best friend during his divorce. “Ouch,” he said, surprised by how sensitive his wound was as the nursing assistant cleaned the skin.
“Ouch!” he repeated, when the first topical anesthetic was injected by James.
The doctor chuckled. “Man up, dude. I’m just getting started.”
That got an ironic laugh out of Joe. Yeah, sterile dude, man up!
“You won’t be feeling much in a couple of minutes.”
Joe knew the drill, he’d sutured his share of patients in his field training days, but this was the first time in his entire life he’d been the patient in need of stitches. Hell, he’d never even needed a butterfly bandage before.
“So, about the girl with the black eye,” James said, donning sterile gloves while preparing the small sterile minor operations tray. “I wonder if she may have had any prior intracranial injuries that might have contributed to her immediately falling unconscious.”
“I was wondering the same thing, but she hit that pavement really hard. I hope she doesn’t have a subdural hematoma.”
“We’re doing a complete head trauma workup on her.”
“Thanks. I know this probably sounds weird, but I feel personally responsible for her, having seen the whole thing go down, not getting there fast enough, and being the first to treat her and all. Especially since she doesn’t have any ID.”
“You broke a rule, right? Got involved with your patient?”
“Didn’t mean to, but I guess you could say that. I know it’s foolish—”
James turned back toward him. “And this might be foolish too, but when the police come we’ll tell them we’ll be treating and letting our Jane Doe recover right here.”
Touched beyond words, as the cost for staying at this exclusive clinic would be astronomical, Joe wanted to shake the good doctor’s hand but he wore sterile gloves. “Thank you. I really—” He was about to say “appreciate that” but quickly went quiet, not used to being the patient as the first stitch was placed, using a nasty-looking hooked needle, and though he didn’t feel anything, he still didn’t want to move.
“If I stitch this up just so, there’ll hardly be a scar. On the other hand, I could make you look like you’ve got a seven pack.”
As the saying went, it only hurt when he laughed.
* * *
A couple of hours later, the police had taken a thorough report, and also told Joe they hadn’t found anyone matching the description a couple of witnesses had given for the suspect, they also said they hadn’t recovered Jane Doe’s purse.
Joe sighed and shook his head. She’d continue to be Madam X until she came to. Which hopefully would be soon.
“We do have one lead, though.”
He glanced up, hopeful whatever that lead was it might point to Jane’s identity.
“The clinic staff found a bus-ticket stub in her sweater pocket. If she used a credit card to purchase the ticket, we might be able to trace it back and identify her.”
“That’s great. But what if she paid cash?”
“That might imply she didn’t want to be traced.”
“Probably explain those bruises, too.”
The cop nodded. “The most we could possibly find out is the origin of the ticket. Which city she boarded in, but she’s bound to wake up soon, right?”
Joe glanced across the room. Jane was now in one of the clinic’s fancy hospital gowns and hooked up to an IV, still looking as peaceful as a sleeping child. “It’s hard to say with concussion and potential brain swelling. The doctors may determine she needs surgery for a subdural hematoma or something, for all I know.”
The young cop looked grim as he considered that possibility, and Joe was grateful for his concern. “Well, we’ll be in touch.” He gave Joe his card. “If she wakes up, or if there’s anything you remember or want to talk about, give me a call. Likewise, I’ll let you know if we find anything out.”
“Thanks.”
An orderly and RN rolled Jane by Joe. “Where’s she going?”
“To her room in the DOU. She’s in Seventeen A.”
The definitive observation unit was for the patients who needed extra care. Dr. Di Williams ran the unit like a well-oiled machine. Jane would be well looked after, but... He made a snap decision—he wasn’t going home tonight. If James and Di would let him, he’d wait things out right here.
Fifteen minutes later, Sleeping Beauty was tucked into a high-end single bed in a room that looked more like one in a luxury spa hotel than a hospital. The only thing giving it away were the bedside handrails and the stack of monitors camouflaged in the corner with huge vases and flower arrangements. The tasteful beige, white and cream decor was relaxing, but Joe couldn’t sleep. Instead, he sat in the super-comfy bedside chair resting his head in the palm of his right hand, watching her sleep. Wondering what her story was, and pondering why he felt so responsible for her. He decided it was because she was completely vulnerable. He knew the feeling. Someone besides a staff nurse had to look out for her until they found out who she was and could locate her family.
Sporting that black eye and those healing bruises on her arms, it was likely she had been in an abusive relationship. Most likely she’d been beaten up by the man she’d thought she loved.
His left thumb flicked the inside of his vacant ring finger, reminding him, on a much more personal level, how deeply love could hurt.
A FIRM HAND sent Joe out of a half dreaming, half awake state. He’d been smiling, floating around somewhere, smiling. The grip on his shoulder made a burst of adrenaline mainline straight to his heart, making his pulse ragged and shaky. He sat bolt upright, his eyes popping open. In less than a second he remembered where he was, turned his head toward the claw still grabbing him, and stared up at the elderly night nurse.
Cecelia, was it?
“What’s up?” he said, trying to sound awake, then glancing toward the hospital bed and the patient he’d let down by falling asleep. Some guardian he’d turned out to be. She’d been placed on her side, either sound asleep or still unconscious, with pillows behind her back and between her knees, and he hadn’t even woken up.
“Your services are needed,” Cecelia said with a grainy voice. “We have a helicopter transfer to Santa Barbara.”
“Got it. Take care of her.”
“What I’m paid for,” Cecelia mumbled, fiddling with the blanket
