boots clomped loudly on the polished oak steps as the familiar smells of furniture wax, mothballs and pine cleaning solution filled his nostrils. As he carried the slight body up the stairs, the woman’s arms dangled lifelessly.
The collie was waiting on the landing, his tail thumping loudly on the floorboards. Then the dog raced excitedly down the hall and whined outside Liam’s closed bedroom door.
“Don’t jump on the bed,” Liam warned as he opened it.
The collie scampered inside and leaped on the bed. Liam scowled at the animal as he pressed the light switch with his elbow. The room sprang to life, and with it memories of his boyhood summers. Army football pennants and posters of rock-and-roll icons shared wall space with models of fighter jets and helicopters.
“Let me help you,” Bridget said as she came up beside him, her medical bag in hand. “I called Willie,” she added, folding back the red plaid bedspread on the double bed.
The injured woman groaned softly as Liam gently laid her down. Against the pristine white sheets, her scratches and cuts stood out like red flags along her arms and legs. Above her right temple, the goose-egg-size lump he’d felt earlier was visible now. Her fingernails were dirty, ripped and bleeding. She moaned, her head thrashing back and forth against the pillows.
“Did she have a purse or any ID?” Bridget asked, fumbling inside her leather medical bag.
“Not that I could see in the car headlights,” Liam said, reaching for the cell phone hooked to his belt. “As soon as it’s light, I’ll go back and check around.”
Bridget inspected the woman’s arms for needle tracks, then flicked back her eyelids, flashing a penlight on and off. “She’s not on drugs, which was my first thought. Nor do I smell alcohol on her breath.” She glanced up. “Who are you calling?”
“The police,” he said as he made his way toward the door. “Maybe she wandered from the scene of an accident. Or maybe there’s a missing persons report out on her.”
“Good idea. I want to get her cleaned up a bit before Willie gets here.”
“Okay,” Liam said, moving toward the door. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” He stepped into the hall, shutting the door on his way out.
The receptionist at the Bellwood Island Police Department answered on the first ring. “Connect me to Detective Zarella,” Liam said, unable to forget the fear in the woman’s eyes. It had been a long time since he’d seen such terror. Not since Iraq and those fearful dark eyes of women searching for their loved ones among the war casualties. He blocked off the thought when Detective Frances Zarella answered.
“Francie, it’s Liam. Were any accident reports filed today, or any missing persons reported in the past couple days?”
“Hmm. I don’t hear from you in six months and I don’t even rate a ‘Hi, Francie, how ya been since I stole those ten bucks from you?’”
Liam smiled. “Don’t be a sore loser, Francie. You lost that sawbuck fair and square. Next time, bet on a winning team.”
He heard her warm laughter on the other end of the line. “Don’t you know that it’s an act of treason for a New Englander to bet on any team except the Red Sox?”
“That’s not loyalty. That’s stupidity.” He grinned when he heard her swear.
“Hold on while I check.”
The light teasing with Francie did little to distract Liam’s thoughts from the mysterious woman lying in the next room.
“An eighty-two-year-old man wandered from the Bellwood Harbor Nursing Home last night,” Francie said, coming back on the line. “But he was found several hours later. We had a report of a missing seven-year-old boy at 10:05 a.m. yesterday, but his mother called back to say he’d fallen asleep in the back seat of his grandfather’s car. That’s it, Liam.” She hesitated. “Why, what’s up?”
“Nothing,” he said, surprising himself when he realized that he’d decided to wait until the woman regained consciousness before reporting the incident to the police. More surprising, he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she’d seemed so terrified. Until he knew who or what she was afraid of, he’d trust his instincts. “I’ll stop in and say hi before I head back to the city. I promise.”
“You’d better. Al will be wicked mad if you dare leave for the Big Apple before he has a chance to trade war stories with you.”
“Well, I know better than to tick off your partner. Take care, Francie. And thanks.”
He clicked off the phone and absently hooked it back onto his belt, his mind on the unconscious woman. Maybe she wasn’t from this area of Cape Cod. The tourist season wouldn’t be starting for another four weeks or more. Maybe she had been visiting one of the new year-round homes that had sprung up along the coast recently, and she’d taken a wrong turn. He hadn’t seen her car, which brought him back to his first thought—that she’d been dropped off to fend for herself.
He strode back toward his room, determined to solve the mystery. When he knocked, he heard his sister say, “Come on in, Liam. I’m just about finished.”
As Liam stepped inside, he was surprised to find the woman alert. She jerked her head up and glanced around the room.
“You’re safe, dear,” Bridget said in a gentle voice. She was sitting beside the bed. “You’re with friends.”
The woman’s green eyes fixed on Liam. Her face had been washed, so the cuts and scratches stood out even more against her ivory complexion. Her hair had been smoothed back, and she was dressed in one of Bridget’s flannel nightgowns.
Liam stepped to the fireplace mantel and leaned against it, wondering if she recognized him as the man who’d found her. Her stare held no sign of recognition.
“That’s my brother, Liam,” Bridget said, as if to remove the woman’s confusion. “He’s the man who found you on the road. I’m a doctor. A pediatrician. He brought you to our cottage because he knew you’d be safe here. I’ve called a neighbor who is an internist. I want her to have a look at you. Then I’d like to take you to the local hospital—”
“No!” The woman swung around and stared at Bridget. “I can’t stay here!” She threw the cover back and struggled to sit up.
Bridget shot a worried look at Liam. “You’re free to go, dear,” she said, “but please let us help you.” This woman was in no condition to leave on her own. “Can I call someone for you? It’s four in the morning. Do you have a husband, a boyfriend, someone who is worried about you?”
The woman looked confused, then rubbed her head. “I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Bridget repeated, then glanced worriedly at Liam again.
Liam knew from the bump on her head that she might be suffering from amnesia. He motioned to Bridget, then stepped back into the hall. A minute later, she met him outside the door.
“She’s terrified of being confined and suffering extreme panic—symptomatic of hysterical amnesia. Did you find out anything at the police station?” she whispered.
