Dangerous Behavior Read online

  “We won’t send you before you’re ready. Mind if I go over some of these reports?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  There followed a detailed report of her injuries, from the trauma to her head, which appeared to have happened when her skull encountered a blow of some kind right behind her right temple, to the break of her clavicle, which appeared to be more of a crack than a break, which could make her recovery quicker, to the scrapes and abrasions that ran along her arms and legs.

  She listened to the rumble of his voice, but the words faded away. All she knew was that she felt deep down scared. She sensed that there was something just beyond her grasp that was really important, but every time her mind probed its own dark recesses, the gray entity bore down on her, crushing her thought process, ratcheting up her fear, affecting her breathing.

  “You all right?” Lillard asked, pausing in his delivery, as she struggled for air.

  “Yes.”

  He dropped his clipboard by his side and said, “I don’t see anything here that will hold you back.”

  “Okay.”

  “How are your memories coming?”

  “They’re . . . coming . . .” she lied, closing her eyes.

  “Good. You might not remember the accident itself. . . .” His voice traveled on, covering the same information he’d told her before. She moved her eyebrows in response but didn’t open her eyes, and eventually she heard him say, “I’ll check in on you later.”

  His footsteps departed and she told herself to open her eyes, but she didn’t want to. She just wanted to retreat, to be left alone. She didn’t like hospitals. She didn’t like the smell, the feeling of hopelessness. . . .

  Hopelessness?

  She probed her mind carefully and had a sharp impression of being in a hospital once before . . . the medicinal odors, the soft whirs and clicks of machinery, the uncontrollable sobbing and anguish.... But no, it wasn’t for her. It was for . . . a little boy . . . kept alive by a ventilator, and then the ventilator was stopped.

  “. . . No brain function . . .” someone had said.

  And then a woman’s wails and screams. A finger pointed at her. It’s all your fault! Where were you? You were supposed to be watching him!

  “I was?” she said aloud to the now empty room. Her eyes flew open and she squinched them closed again, carefully trying to search for other memories, aware she could inadvertently turn over a hot coal and get burned. But there was nothing more. The gray weight hovered.

  So frustrated she could cry, she buried her hot face in the pillow. And then there was a man’s voice. Don’t listen . . . She’s just upset. . . . There was nothing you could do.... She loves you very much.

  Her father consoling her. Talking about her mother. She knew it was a true memory, which gave her hope that she would remember something else. She tried to concentrate on her father, but the gray entity swarmed in, forcing her to shut off her mind.

  She drifted off to sleep, but she was restless, her mind circling the same questions. Why can’t I remember? Finally, she fell into exhausted slumber, and when she awakened she was surprised to see Dr. Lillard had returned.

  “I just thought I’d check on you again,” he said.

  He was worried about her.

  “I lied earlier. I can’t remember anything. This isn’t usual, is it? I should have remembered something by now.”

  “Every patient’s recovery is different and—”

  “Have you ever had anyone like me before?”

  “I’ve had patients with head trauma who’ve had great difficulty remembering things in the beginning.”

  “Their name? Their husband, their whole life?”

  “I had a patient who suffered a head injury, more severe than your own, and his recall came back within the week, except for the trauma of the car accident, which he never fully remembered.”

  “Did he know who he was?”

  The slightest hesitation. “Not immediately.”

  “What?” she asked, sensing he was holding back.

  “It was a very different situation. He was in a difficult situation in his personal life and didn’t want to remember. So, he found a way to block his memories.”

  “He did it on purpose, that’s what you’re saying.” It felt like there were bands around her chest, squeezing the breath out of her.

  “He had all his memories back in a matter of days.”

  She swallowed several times, then opted for honesty. “I have a block. And if I try too hard, I get a headache and there’s this shield that comes over my brain and I can’t think!”

  “Headaches come with the territory, I’m afraid. I’ve got a prescription for you and I got a message to your personal physician, Dr. Werkel, who’s on vacation and was unable to come in. She’s aware of your injuries and will follow up with you at home.”

  “I don’t know any Dr. Werkel,” she said unevenly.

  “Maybe we should get another MRI. Make sure there’s no change.”

  She was almost glad to hear it. She didn’t like hospitals, but the prospect of being sent home scared the bejesus out of her.

  Bejesus. That word sounded familiar.

  “Meanwhile, Laura, the floor nurse, will get your paperwork ready. Dr. Werkel’s office sent over your history.”

  “Can I see it?”

  The words just popped out. The doctor thought about it briefly and said, “I don’t see why not. I’ll tell Laura to bring you the file.”

  “What if they don’t come back? My memories?”

  “I’m going to go out on a limb and predict that they will. Most of them, anyway.” He was reaching for the door handle. “Try having a friend go over events from your past with you.”

  “I feel kind of short of friends right now,” she said, forcibly keeping emotion out of her voice.

  “What about your brother-in-law? Or whoever’s picking you up tomorrow.”

  “I . . . don’t have a phone. I can’t call anyone. . . .” She was alarmed to discover she couldn’t think of anyone, anyone at all, other than Sam Ford, and she only knew him because he’d come to see her.

  “I’ll check your paperwork from Dr. Werkel’s office. See who you have listed.”

  “I don’t have my brother-in-law’s number.... Sam’s . . . He said there’s a guard outside my door.”

  “There was. I didn’t see one just now. I’ll check that out with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  He didn’t actually glance at his watch, but she got the feeling she was holding him up. He was anxious to get to other patients . . . and maybe away from her. She was being released because she had relatively minor injuries, but she was a problem. Her amnesia wasn’t normal. And he thought she was doing it to herself.

  Was she? Was there something she didn’t want to face?

  She tried probing her thoughts again, but carefully, hesitantly. Her heart started a slow, deep pounding that quickly became a gallop. Had she done something, something she was only too happy to forget?

  Yes.

  What? What did you do?

  “I’ll schedule that MRI,” the doctor was saying. He nodded a good-bye and headed out of the room.

  Her mind was feverish with worry. She wanted to remember. She needed to remember! But something . . . some thing . . . the gray entity . . . was intent on shutting her down.

  Throwing back the covers, she stepped carefully toward the closet. She’d been up several times, always with the help of a nurse, but if they were releasing her she needed to see if she could walk.

  And she could. Walk. Without pain. All right, then. Maybe she was getting better. She opened the closet door and looked at herself close up in the mirror. They’d unwrapped her head so she could see all her hair. Her arm was in a sling to protect her collarbone. “Clavicle,” she corrected herself. Was her skin tone always this ghastly white? Like she’d seen a ghost? Or was in terrific pain?

  “You could use a tan,” she said aloud, and had a sudden sharp feeling
of déjà vu. Someone had said those very words to her. She could almost hear that person . . . a man? This Joe who was her husband?

  She tried to think about him and failed. She tried to think about her mother and father and her stomach tightened.

  The boy on the ventilator . . . You had a brother who died.

  Immediately the gray curtain closed off her brain and suddenly it felt like she couldn’t breathe. She clutched the handle on the closet for support. She couldn’t be doing this to herself, could she? How? What was this thing that wouldn’t let her probe the recesses of her mind? What kind of governor was it?

  What did you do?

  “What are you doing?” a voice snapped at her.

  She gasped and nearly fell over. Hard arms caught her and held her rigidly, then righted her onto her feet. Sam, she saw. Her supposed brother-in-law. She wanted to melt into him, absorb his strength, but the way he was looking at her told her that would be a bad idea.

  “Vandra’s fast. The guard’s already gone,” he said, sounding pissed off. Then, “You okay? You’re not going to fall over?”

  “I’m okay.” Another lie.

  He moved away from her, stalking across the room and pulling out his cell phone. “I want that guard back. We need to know more about the boating accident, before he’s just taken away. Stone had the right idea.”

  She didn’t know who or what he was talking about. While he scrolled through the screen on his phone, she headed back to her bed. “They’re releasing me tomorrow,” she said, falling into the pillows.

  “What?” He stopped in the act of placing the call.

  “I’m having another MRI, but the first one was fine, so if this one’s good . . .”

  “Do you remember Joe?” he asked, his expression tense and sober.

  “I’m having some problems, but it’ll all come back. My head injury isn’t that bad, apparently. And my cracked clavicle will mend with rest.”

  “You don’t remember him?”

  “Umm . . . not really.”

  His cell phone rang in his hand, surprising him. He looked at it, then answered tautly, “Sam Ford,” as he walked out into the hall. She strained to hear his side of the conversation. “. . . No, Griff, I can’t. A lot of stuff has hit the fan. . . . Yeah, it was Joe. Probably be on the evening news.... Not keeping it a secret, but you know . . . Thanks . . . Tell Sadie thanks, too, but I’m just too busy right now.... I’ll let you know. Yeah, bye.”

  He hung up and came back into the room a few moments later, eyeing her critically. “You don’t look ready to be released.”

  “Tomorrow,” she reminded him. She had the absurd feeling that she was about to cry, so she drew a deep breath and reached for her water glass. Her hand trembled as she sucked down a big gulp.

  “Maybe I should get a nurse.”

  “No,” she commanded, finding her voice.

  His direct gaze was unnerving. She asked, more for him than her, “Have you heard any more about . . . Joe?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I wish I could remember. I wish I could help you. I just thought . . . maybe you knew something more.”

  He stilled. “Detective Dunbar didn’t tell you?”

  “What?”

  His jaw worked and he said heavily, “Joe’s body was found about a mile from where I found you. I identified him at the morgue.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a rush of shock.

  “The Derring-Do’s being examined, but I guess it’s just a burned-out hull,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “The Sheriff’s Department’s working on it. A forensics team. They thought . . . there was a question of whether the fire was accidental or set on purpose.”

  “Set on purpose?”

  “That’s why you had the guard.” He looked toward the door. “I’m not sure what happened there. I’ll call the sheriff and see. I didn’t think they’d come to that conclusion so fast. I was just there this morning.”

  “You think there’s danger?”

  “You tell me. What were you and Joe doing? He told me to meet him at your dock, but then he took out the boat.”

  She struggled once again, but the pain in her head intensified. “I can’t. Not yet.”

  “What do you remember? Let’s go with that.”

  “I don’t. I think . . . I think I had a brother who died. . . .”

  He stared at her. “Oh, come on.”

  “You think I’m faking,” she realized with a spurt of anger. Who the hell was he?

  “You don’t remember Joe. Your husband. My brother. You remember Clem, who died when you were just a kid.”

  “Sort of . . .” Mama blamed you. She always blamed you.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m not faking.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m not!”

  “Fine. Good. Whatever. I’m not going to argue with you, Jules. I don’t have time.”

  Jules?

  “My name is Jules,” she stated positively. Finally. Something that felt right.

  He swore between his teeth, then lifted his hands and backed away. “Okay, fine. You don’t know who you are. You don’t know anything.”

  He was heading for the door, and she called, “Please don’t leave. I need help. I need someone to pick me up tomorrow.”

  His head whipped around and she saw realization cross his face. “What about your friends on the river? I have a key that you gave to Tutti.”

  “What’s Tutti?”

  “Who’s Tutti,” he corrected. “Your friend directly across the canal. One of the Fishers.”

  She just stared at him, almost afraid to ask any of the questions crowding her brain. She settled for, “The canal?”

  “The river . . . canal . . . where you now live. Yesterday you took the boat down the canal to the river, then to the bay, then out to sea. I don’t know why. I was supposed to meet Joe at your dock.”

  Hearing his frustration, she said, “You seem . . . kind of familiar.”

  “God, Jules . . .” His hands fisted and he relaxed them with an effort. “My brother’s dead. I’m sure you’re having some trouble remembering, and it’s probably hard for you, but I can’t play this game.”

  “It’s not—”

  “So, I’m just going to keep talking. I’ll keep talking and I’ll ask the questions. You and I have things to talk about, but I can’t hear any of this right now, okay? Joe’s dead. That’s a fact. That’s what I’m thinking about. Your friends across the river, canal, whatever, are going to need to know about Joe and the accident and you. I’ll talk to them this evening. I’ll let them know. You and I . . . we’ll figure the rest out later.”

  “Will you come for me tomorrow . . . or get someone to?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thank you.”

  After he left, she pressed her face into the pillow again and fought back a scream.

  Chapter Seven

  “Holy shit,” Sam muttered, the same thing he’d muttered half a dozen times as he strode to his pickup. “Holy mother of—”

  You don’t actually believe her, do you?

  Nope. Nope, he didn’t. But okay, she was weak. And shattered, and she’d been through hell, and he was sorry he had to be the one to tell her about Joe. Joe. Her husband. Whom she said she didn’t remember.

  He called Sheriff Vandra as soon as he was seated in his pickup, staring across the parking lot to the hospital, counting the floors, his eyes searching out approximately where Jules’s room was.

  The receptionist answered and said the sheriff wasn’t available. Sam left his name and told her it was urgent, which they probably heard all the time, but maybe Vandra would think he’d learned something of import.

  He thought about calling either Detective Stone or Dunbar, but by the way it had seemed this morning, this case was the sheriff’s baby. Why had Vandra removed the guard? Did he believe it all was just a terrible accident? W
hat had made the sheriff decide that?

  But why did Joe contact you, then? His brother didn’t do stuff like that just for the hell of it.

  Sam drummed his fingers on the wheel, his thoughts churning. He tried to divine what his brother had been thinking, but it was beyond him. Twisting the ignition, he thought some more. Maybe going to Joe’s office in Salchuk would offer some results. The town was not as well known and populated as either Seaside or Cannon Beach, nor as much of a tourist mecca, but it was getting that way. A gem with a beautiful, somewhat private, stretch of beach just north of the twin headlands that reached into the sea where he’d found Jules.

  Salchuk also had its own tiny police force, three officers who did everything from traffic control to working local crimes. Sam didn’t know any of them personally. Their reach was too narrow for him to come in contact with them much. He hadn’t bothered to apply for a job with the Salchuk Police because he hadn’t wanted to go that small, nor would they have probably had an opening. Now, however, he wished he’d at least shown up and tried to hire on, just so that he would have some history with the officers. He wanted in to Joe’s office, and he didn’t know how he was going to do that without breaking in. He wanted to know what his brother had been working on. He wanted to know if the Cardaman file was on the premises.

  He didn’t want to think about Jules.

  He drove into Salchuk, along the store-lined main street that sloped directly toward the ocean, which today glittered under a gray sky, the sun glaring down balefully on the restless water. Beside him were typical shops: beach togs and toys, caramel corn and saltwater taffy, art galleries that featured local artists, kitchy knickknack places, kites and sand bikes and skim boards. On the hill to the north, homes with expansive windows dotted the hillside, their glass fronts glimmering within the fir trees. These were the expensive houses, mostly owned as second homes by wealthy Portlanders and other out-of-towners. To the flatter south was less ostentatious housing. A few original cabins were tucked in among other residences, which had been, were being, or were soon to be remodeled, but they were in the minority as Salchuk had morphed into an “in spot.” If you had the dough, and you wanted a sleepy, somewhat secluded, safe community, Salchuk was for you. Only the few homes along Fisher Canal, on the other side of Highway 101 and south of Salchuk, were considered on par with the Salchuk hillside McMansions. They might not be as impressive architecturally, but they were getting there, and the waterway was prime real estate with limited length. Sam’s father had told him the price Joe and Jules had paid for their house, which had made Sam wonder if his father was lying or just plain wrong.