him.”
“No problem.” But, despite her words, Nurse Perez wasn’t budging. “I just need to check your temp and BP. See if your pulse is normal.”
Of course it’s not normal! I’ve been through hell and back. Someone’s trying to kill me, to kill my baby, to kill Hudson. There is no normal here. None at all!
“And…and the baby?” She needed to be reassured.
“You’re still pregnant,” the nurse said. “No sign of trauma. Your arm wound is the worst of your injuries.”
Becca glanced at the bandage over her bicep. Her arm was sore.
“We do need to monitor you.” Perez’s voice was firm, her hand steady as she shepherded Becca back to the bed and inserted a thermometer under her tongue.
Becca didn’t argue. She wasn’t going to risk the baby’s health, but she felt anxious. Edgy. “I need to see Hudson,” she insisted once the nurse had read the thermometer, then taken her pulse.
“You will.” She slid a blood pressure cuff onto Becca’s uninjured arm. Once she was satisfied that she wasn’t going to stroke out, she unwrapped the cuff, then removed her IV and said, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. But you have to be careful. A concussion isn’t anything to take lightly.”
Becca nodded, but as soon as the nurse slipped out the door, she searched for her shoes.
Her need to visit Hudson, to see for herself that he was all right, was pressing. She frowned at the state of her clothes, hung in a tiny closet, still damp and stained with mud and blood. Stripping off her hospital gown, she stepped gingerly into her grimy jeans.
But she had no purse.
No makeup.
No ID.
No credit cards.
No cash.
Not a damned thing.
Nurse Perez popped her head through the open door. “Mr. Walker is in room 212,” she said, then eyeing Becca’s outfit, frowned. “No other clothes came with you…”
“It’s all right. But I do need my purse?”
“I think we have that in a locker. Got it from the sheriff’s department early this morning. You can’t leave the hospital until you’re released. I just talked to the doctor and he’ll be by in about an hour, but it looks like you’ll be on your way. I’ve already ordered release papers.”
“Thanks. 212?” she repeated and at the nurse’s nod Becca hurried out, albeit a bit stiffly. Two orderlies pushing patients in wheelchairs were at the elevator, so she took the stairs, wound around the carpeted corridor, then found Hudson’s room. She walked inside and saw him sleeping upon the bed. His head was bandaged, his face already bruising, an IV and some kind of monitor hooked up to him, snakelike tubes running in several directions at once.
“Can I help you?” a tall, lanky male nurse asked.
She introduced herself and explained that she’d been with Hudson in the accident. He took her at face value, giving out some basic information. None of Hudson’s injuries appeared to be life-threatening, though he was still sedated and sleeping. Aside from bruised ribs, a slight concussion caused by the blow over his right ear, and a separated shoulder that had already been reset, Hudson, in time, would be fine. “It’s best if he rests,” the nurse concluded, so Becca only took the time to touch Hudson’s hand and give it a squeeze before leaving the room. “Come back in a few hours.”
“I will,” she promised and, ignoring her own throbbing head, hurried to the discharge desk where she was reunited with her purse. When she asked about her overnight bag and clothes, she was told that everything in the car, aside from the purse, which the police had already looked through, was considered evidence. “I’m sure they’ll get it back to you soon.”
Becca wasn’t about to wait. She couldn’t.
And she wasn’t about to leave Hudson. She pulled out her cell phone, realized it had been turned off, and checked for incoming messages. There were six. All from Detective Sam McNally, all asking her to call him. Vaguely she remembered him saying he’d been trying to reach her. She phoned him now but was sent directly to voicemail. She left a message, giving him the name of the motel she and Hudson had stayed at the last time she’d visited this hospital as to where he could find her. She trusted him now. Completely.
Funny how a few weeks and a couple of murders changed her perception.
She placed a few other calls, including a local rental car company advertising “cheap, slightly worn cars,” her insurance agent, and her own answering machine at her house. Mac had called there once and Tamara had left a “Just checking in, call me,” message.
Not now, Becca thought.
The rental car, an ancient dented Chevy, was delivered, thankfully, and she drove to the motel to secure her room, then to a local outlet mall where she picked up a change of clothes, some toiletries, PowerBars, and a six-pack of juice. Back at the motel she showered and changed into clean clothes, then downed one of the PowerBars and a couple of pain relievers and put together a pot of decaf coffee from the pre-measured packet provided by the management. Once fueled, she returned to the hospital, determined to run Hudson’s doctor to the ground, but she was waylaid by two detectives, a man and a woman, from the Tillamook County Sheriff’s Department, who also wanted to speak to him.
Hudson was still asleep, but the detectives, who were waiting at the door to his room, realized who she was and decided to interview her first. They’d gotten some information the night before, but they wanted something more to go on in order to find who had run her off the road, then chased her through the dark forest.
They all sat in a waiting area not far from the second-floor nurses’ station and Hudson’s room. Aside from a few scattered plastic chairs, a fake plant, and a coffee table littered with old magazines, the area was empty. As the woman detective, who introduced herself as Marcia Kirkpatrick, took a few notes and asked questions, her partner, a husky silver-haired cop in his fifties, Fred Clausen, studied her intently, only interjecting a few questions of his own for clarification.
“You didn’t see your attacker?” Kirkpatrick asked. She was trim, fit, with sharp features and thin, unpainted lips.
“I saw him, or his form,” Becca said, “but it was dark in the forest and raining, no moonlight. I caught a glimpse of him in the headlights once, but he was dressed in black or dark blue and wearing a hood.” She thought about the image she’d seen in her visions, superimposed it over those of the man who had chased her to the ground the night before, and thought it was her assailant. But that picture was all in her mind and had no merit. She wasn’t comfortable enough with these two cops to admit that she “saw” things. They’d dismiss her as a nutcase. Hands clasped between her knees, she said, “All I have are impressions.”
“How tall is he?” Kirkpatrick asked.
“Six feet, maybe six-one. Big.”
“Heavy? Slight?” Reddish eyebrows lifted as she skewered Becca with her gaze.
“Neither. I know that he was fit. Never seemed to get winded…” She called up his dogged pursuit,
