his gaze unflinchingly direct. She touched her palm, where he had kissed her. She could still recall how his beard had stung her flesh.
Softly, she asked, “Is he going to be all right?”
The nurse continued writing. “He’s lost a lot of blood. But he looks like a pretty tough guy….”
Cathy nodded, remembering how, even in his agony, Victor had somehow dredged up the strength to keep moving through the rain. Yes, she knew just how tough a man he was.
The nurse handed her a pen and the information sheet. “If you could write your name and address at the bottom. In case the doctor has any more questions.”
Cathy fished out Sarah’s address and phone number from her purse and copied them onto the form. “My name’s Cathy Weaver. You can get hold of me at this number.”
“You’re staying in Garberville?”
“For three weeks. I’m just visiting.”
“Oh. Terrific way to start a vacation, huh?”
Cathy sighed as she rose to leave. “Yeah. Terrific.”
She paused outside the trauma room, wondering what was happening inside, knowing that Victor was fighting for his life. She wondered if he was still conscious, if he would remember her. It seemed important that he did remember her.
Cathy turned to the nurse. “You will call me, won’t you? I mean, you’ll let me know if he…”
The nurse nodded. “We’ll keep you informed.”
Outside, the rain had finally stopped and a belt of stars twinkled through a parting in the clouds. To Cathy’s weary eyes, it was an exhilarating sight, that first glimpse of the storm’s end. As she drove out of the hospital parking lot, she was shaking from fatigue. She never noticed the car parked across the street or the brief glow of the cigarette before it was snuffed out.
CHAPTER TWO
BARELY a minute after Cathy left the hospital, a man walked into the emergency room, sweeping the smells of a stormy night in with him through the double doors. The nurse on duty was busy with the new patient’s admission papers. At the sudden rush of cold air, she looked up to see a man approach her desk. He was about thirty-five, gaunt-faced, silent, his dark hair lightly feathered by gray. Droplets of water sparkled on his tan Burberry raincoat.
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked, focusing on his eyes, which were as black and polished as pebbles in a pond.
Nodding, he said quietly, “Was there a man brought in a short time ago? Victor Holland?”
The nurse glanced down at the papers on her desk. That was the name. Victor Holland. “Yes,” she said. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m his brother. How is he?”
“He just arrived, sir. They’re working on him now. If you’ll wait, I can check on how he’s doing—” She stopped to answer the ringing telephone. It was a technician calling with the new patient’s laboratory results. As she jotted down the numbers, she noticed out of the corner of her eye that the man had turned and was gazing at the closed door to the trauma room. It suddenly swung open as an orderly emerged carrying a bulging plastic bag streaked with blood. The clamor of voices spilled from the room:
“Pressure up to 110 over 70!”
“OR says they’re ready to go.”
“Where’s that surgeon?”
“On his way. He had car trouble.”
“Ready for X rays! Everyone back!”
Slowly the door closed, muffling the voices. The nurse hung up just as the orderly deposited the plastic bag on her desk. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Patient’s clothes. They’re a mess. Should I just toss ’em?”
“I’ll take them home,” the man in the raincoat cut in. “Is everything here?”
The orderly flashed the nurse an uncomfortable glance. “I’m not sure he’d want to…I mean, they’re kind of…uh, dirty….”
The nurse said quickly, “Mr. Holland, why don’t you let us dispose of the clothes for you? There’s nothing worth keeping in there. I’ve already collected his valuables.” She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope labeled: Holland, Victor. Contents: Wallet, Wristwatch. “You can take these home. Just sign this receipt.”
The man nodded and signed his name: David Holland. “Tell me,” he said, sliding the envelope in his pocket. “Is Victor awake? Has he said anything?”
“I’m afraid not. He was semiconscious when he arrived.”
The man took this information in silence, a silence that the nurse found suddenly and profoundly disturbing. “Excuse me, Mr. Holland?” she asked. “How did you hear your brother was hurt? I didn’t get a chance to contact any relatives….”
“The police called me. Victor was driving my car. They found it smashed up at the side of the road.”
“Oh. What an awful way to be notified.”
“Yes. The stuff of nightmares.”
“At least someone was able to get in touch with you.” She sifted through the sheaf of papers on her desk. “Can we get your address and phone number? In case we need to reach you?”
“Of course.” The man took the ER papers, which he quickly scanned before scrawling his name and phone number on the blank marked Next of Kin. “Who’s this Catherine Weaver?” he asked, pointing to the name and address at the bottom of the page.
“She’s the woman who brought him in.”
“I’ll have to thank her.” He handed back the papers.
“Nurse?”
She looked around and saw that the doctor was calling to her from the trauma room doorway. “Yes?”
“I want you to call the police. Tell them to get in here as soon as possible.”
“They’ve been called, Doctor. They know about the accident—”
“Call them again. This is no accident.”
“What?”
“We just got the X rays. The man’s got a bullet in his shoulder.”
“A bullet?” A chill went through the nurse’s body, like a cold wind sweeping in from the night. Slowly, she turned toward the man in the raincoat, the man who’d claimed to be Victor Holland’s brother. To her amazement, no one was there. She felt only a cold puff of night air, and then she saw the double doors quietly slide shut.
“Where the hell did he go?” the orderly whispered.
For a few seconds she could only stare at the closed
