Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(33)
Rickman saw the empty shock in her eyes. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was feeling. He knew there was no husband in the picture, knew this young woman was alone and here she’d had her baby stolen right out of the hospital. Rickman slowly rose and walked through the door. He nodded, pointed to the unmoving man on the narrow hospital bed. A dim light shone from a single lamp. Kara stared at him, whispered, “He’s not moving.”
“No, he’s not. He’s in a coma.” Officer Rickman thought of his own two small children, remembered the joy at their births, couldn’t imagine what he’d do if something had happened to them. Rickman’s cell rang. “Excuse me.”
Kara walked slowly to the bed and stared down at John Doe, the man she’d believed was crazy, who wanted to take her away to protect her. But from what? From whom? Whoever it was, he’d cared enough about her and her baby to risk his life for them. She saw Officer Rickman still on his cell, standing in the doorway, watching her as he listened. Did he think she’d lost it? She didn’t care. She pulled up a chair, sat down beside John Doe and studied his young face. There was still a bandage around his head, and his beard scruff had grown. Odd, but he looked somehow familiar to her now, but how could that be? He was breathing normally, evenly, looking peacefully asleep. When he’d forced his way into her house and tied her to the chair, she’d seen only a terrifying monster, not this motionless, slight young man who couldn’t be more than twenty-five.
Kara lightly touched her fingers to his cheek. His skin was warm through the stubble. She couldn’t remember the color of his eyes. Blue, maybe?
She stroked his hand and said quietly, “I’ve heard that people in a coma can hear people talking to them. Do you hear me? Do you know who I am? I wish I could remember exactly what you said, but so much of it didn’t make sense to me, and I was so scared.”
She sat silently, stroking his hand, studying his face, a handsome face, really. She let it come pouring out of her, how she’d been in labor even at the house and about her beautiful boy she’d named Alex, after her father. She told him about her father, what he’d been like and how much she missed him. Kara felt tears running down her cheeks, hadn’t even realized it until she tasted salt. She swiped the tears away with her fist. “I’m sorry about crying, but Alex is gone. Someone stole him. He’s just gone. Was it the people you were trying to protect me from? You’ve got to wake up and help me. I don’t know what to do. I wish I knew your name at least. Won’t you wake up and tell me?”
There was no movement, no sound except his slow, even breathing. She swiped her eyes again and began to lightly rub her fingers over his cheek. She talked about music, her art, how she’d painted a field of wild flowers during a rainstorm, about what she was planning when she and Alex were together again. She talked until finally, she laid her head against his shoulder and fell asleep.
She was standing in the middle of the field she’d painted, the rain cascading down over her, the only sound that of the raindrops splattering against her and hitting the earth. Then there was a sound rain wouldn’t make, but there it was—something niggled at her consciousness, something that wasn’t quite right. She blinked away sleep and slowly raised her head toward the door. It was closed. Nice of Officer Rickman to give her so much privacy. She heard footsteps and then the door slowly opened. He was coming to check on them. She relaxed, laid her face back down on John Doe’s shoulder.
Officer Rickman didn’t say anything, so she slitted her eyes open and saw a man she didn’t recognize, slim and military fit, easing his way into the room. He was wearing surgical scrubs and a mask over his face. At the sound of his footsteps, Kara realized he was wearing loafers, not the soft-soled shoes the nurses wore. He held a syringe in his hand.
This man wasn’t here to help her; he was the enemy.
He was looking at her, frowning, and she quickly closed her eyes, heart pounding, readying herself. She heard him walking toward the bed, slitted her eyes again, and saw him raise his hand to inject something into the IV tubing tethered to John Doe’s wrist.
Kara jumped straight up, grabbed the pitcher off the bedside table and hurled it across the bed at him, yelling at the top of her lungs. An arc of water splashed on the man, and the pitcher hit him square in the chest. He leaped back, cursing, but came at her. She reared back and smashed her fist into his chest, sending him reeling off-balance, and the syringe went flying. She grabbed a chair and kept yelling, screaming, until finally he cursed and ran from the room.
When Savich and Sherlock burst into John Doe’s room fifteen minutes later, Kara was still holding him pressed against her. Two nurses, an orderly, and two security guards were trying to reassure her the danger was over, that she could let him go, but she was refusing, repeating over and over he wasn’t safe, until she saw Sherlock.
Sherlock made her way through the crowd, held out her hand to Kara, and gently pulled her away. She held her close, whispered, “It’s all right now, it’s over.” She eased her back. “Tell me what happened, Kara.”
Kara drew a steadying breath. “A man came into the room dressed like a doctor or a nurse. Sherlock, he was holding a syringe in his hand and he was going to inject something in his IV line. I knew he was going to kill him. Officer Rickman never came. Where was he?”
An excellent question. Sherlock cupped Kara’s shocked white face between her hands, kept her voice calm, matter-of-fact. “But you stopped him, Kara. You saved him, all by yourself. You are very brave. When John Doe wakes up, I’ll tell him all about how you saved his life.”