was assigned. She hadn’t volunteered. She wanted to be as far away from here as possible. Yet, something kept her rooted to the spot.
“There’s no other acceptable explanation,” Alice said. “My husband was a well-educated, honorable man. He wasn’t a criminal. Nor would he consort with such people. He was kidnapped and the kidnappers killed him before making the call to either myself or my parents.”
Jimmy Joe stuffed his fists in his pockets and rocked back on his heels as he considered her explanation.
Shannon dismissed her views. She suspected that Alice Rivers not only led a sheltered life, but that her husband had clearly lied to her. No telling what the police would dredge up.
Ben gestured toward the door. “I think it’s time we get the worst over with.”
The lights in the morgue were blinding as the coroner rolled the slab out of its file in the wall.
Shannon kept her arm clamped around Alice’s shoulder while the coroner unceremoniously flipped back the white sheet.
Alice’s eyes gaped at her husband’s bloodless body.
Shannon felt shock waves rivet through Alice’s body. She wished she could absorb the impact, lessen Alice’s pain, but she was powerless.
“Oh, God!” Alice screamed. “Oh my God! Adam!” She clamped her hands over her face. Bursting into tears, she turned into Shannon’s shoulder, looking more ghostly than the corpse.
“Your husband?” Jimmy Joe asked emotionlessly.
Shannon couldn’t help wondering what made him so impassive.
“Yes,” Alice groaned and clutched her abdomen. She folded in half.
“She’s gone into shock!” Shannon said, casting an imploring look at Ben. “Hit the call button! I need help!”
Ben rushed to the wall and slammed his palm on the red button. He barked orders into the intercom.
“Oh, God,” Alice cried. “This can’t be happening!” Terror struck her eyes.
“What’s going on?” Jimmy Joe asked, flustered.
Ben put his arms around the rotund, but frail woman. “She’s going into labor, Chief.”
“Shit!” Jimmy Joe said, standing aside as Shannon and Ben lowered Alice to the floor.
Alice’s water broke. “Don’t let this happen here! I want to go home!”
“You’ll be fine,” Shannon assured her.
“I don’t think…” Pain shot through her again. Her eyes darted to her dead husband. “I’m alone…”
Shannon squeezed her hand very hard. “No, Alice, you have this baby.”
“Yes, the baby…”
Shannon tried to lift her.
“Here.” Ben put his hands on Shannon’s shoulders, easing her aside. “I’ll do this.” He scooped Alice up into his strong arms. “Where to?”
Shannon gaped at him. She wasn’t used to heroes. “Fifth floor.”
Ben rushed toward the door with Alice in his arms and Shannon fast on his heels.
“Damn it!” Jimmy Joe grumbled. “Now there’s no chance she’ll ID our John Doe.”
4
Alice Rivers’s baby was born healthy. Within fourteen hours her sister from Gretna had driven to Shreveport to take her and the baby back to New Orleans.
Throughout her ordeal, Ben kept telling Shannon he was convinced Alice might have been able to identify John Doe had his features been more normal.
Jimmy Joe blew him off, saying, “Drop it, Ben. Alice Rivers doesn’t know him.” But Shannon couldn’t help thinking Ben was right.
Shannon doubled her shift time to watch over John Doe. Because of the police investigation and the myriad questions swirling around John like a whirlpool, she became fascinated with him. Every time she looked at him, she was amazed the man had survived the torture, much less the car crash. There was little about him that looked human.
But you are human, aren’t you, John?
More than that, she sensed he had an incredible inner strength. In the first thirty-eight hours of his confinement, she’d watched his condition improve from critical to stable status. His heartbeat regulated. His breathing became stronger. Even the swelling in his face had begun to subside today as she tended him.
“You want to live, don’t you, John?” She held his hand, counting his pulsebeats. His skin was warm—a good sign. His heart was strong, beating a Morse code that coursed through the nerve endings in the pads of her fingers.
“I want you to live, too. I want you to get well and strong. Maybe then you can tell the police who did this to you. I’ll help you, John.” Shannon was a firm believer in the power of the subconscious.
Today she’d brought in an old cassette tape player she’d bought at a clearance sale and played classical music and New Age meditation and healing tapes. She owned a collection of subliminal-healing tapes she brought to her favorite patients from time to time. The staff never said anything about her tapes, knowing that Helen Mayers had twice requested financial funding for just such equipment, only to be rejected by the hospital board.
Shannon depressed the start button on the player and turned the volume down low. “It’s a Chopin nocturne. I love this part, John,” she said, listening closely.
She glanced at him, wanting to believe she saw a tiny tic at the edge of his mouth. But it was only the morning-light shadows playing across his face.
“Keep listening. It will help you wake up.” She patted his hand and began marking down his vital signs on his chart.
Routine was easy for Shannon. She’d been through this process many times before, with herself as the healer. She realized she played a catalytic role in all her patients’ lives. She believed she was part of the reason John was alive and would, in time, become healthy again. He would awaken. He would heal. They would get to know each other without the machines as interpreters. He would tell her about himself and clear up these mysteries around him. The police would be satisfied. He would tell her where he was from and about his family. About his life. His wife and children, possibly. About how much he loved them and missed them. They would come for him and he would tell her he was eternally grateful to her for helping to save his life. They would bond in a special way that patients did with their nurses. Eventually, he would leave the hospital. He would say goodbye to her and go back to where he came from and she would never hear from him again. It was always like that in Shannon’s world.
The John Doe case was more than perplexing to Ben Richards. It bugged the hell out of him. After a week of standing guard at the hospital, Ben had learned little about the man. No one had come to visit him. No one asked about him. There were no calls, no flowers.
Even
