Friend Me (31 page)

She tried to open her eyes. The right lid struggled halfway open, but the straining left eye stuck stubbornly shut.

A hospital
.

She rotated her head carefully. Everything hurt. Her face, her neck, her eyes. It hurt to see.

A curtain encircled most of the bed, a window was visible to the right. The blinds were shut, but no light slipped through the slats. It was nighttime. No way to know what day.

Lifting her left arm to eye level, she saw the array of tubes and wrappings around it. She tried to raise the other arm, but it didn't move.

Suddenly weary with the small effort, she lay her head back and closed her eyes. A sense of peace enfolded her as she shut out the sight of the blinking, beeping equipment around her bed.

She needed to think.

I'm in a hospital
.

I'm going to live
.

I've probably been raped
.

Her lip trembled, chin quivered at the onset of the thought. It was too soon, too soon. Scott would have protected her, except for . . .
that woman
.

Rage seethed through her. She focused her hatred against Rachel like a beam of deadly force, seeking her out.

This is Rachel's fault. She will pay, oh, she will pay
.

She felt a hand on her wrist, opened one eye to see a nurse standing by her bed.

“We're going to want you to rest a little longer, at least till morning, okay?” The nurse offered a kindly smile as she pushed a hypodermic into a tube suspended from a hook. “We're going to take good care of you.”

Melissa didn't hear the last of her words as the soporific took effect and she drifted off into restful, numbing sleep.

Resolve

T
he hand was back, tugging gently at her forearm. Melissa felt warm sunlight on her face, illuminating her closed eyelids.

Morning
.

She opened her eyes, slowly at first, testing for pain. When they came fully open, all the muscles around them rebelled against the movement.

“Waking up, are you?” Not the nurse this time.

A thirtyish man in blue hospital garb held her left hand, using both of his. He put it unhurriedly back down on the bedcovers, pulled a stool close, and sat down next to her.

“I'm Dr. Sears. You're in University Hospital. Do you know how you got here?” His face looked kind, professional. A laminated badge hung from his pocket.
Victor Sears, MD
.

Melissa opened her lips. They were dry and hard. Her tongue felt thick.

“Here, try some apple juice.” He pressed the cup lightly against her lip, tipped it back just enough for her to sip.

“Thank you,” she whispered hoarsely, and closed her eyes again.

“No, I don't remember coming here, but . . .” She let out a long exhalation of breath. “But I remember what was happening.”

She opened her eyes again, peered under heavy lids at the doctor. “Am I—”

“You were not raped, Ms. Montalvo.” He looked down at a paper. “That is correct, is it not? You are Melissa Montalvo?”

“Yes.”

“Oooooh,” she exhaled again. “They didn't do it?”

He held her hand again. “No, they surely tried and you have the bruises to prove it. It appears they were interrupted before they could”—he appeared to struggle for the word—“
finish
what they were doing.”

Melissa opened her eyes once more, saw that a nurse was now standing on the other side of the bed. Melissa smiled weakly at her. “Were you the one here last night?”

“No, honey. That was someone else. One of the night staff.”

Dr. Sears said, “There was another person, too. Younger than yourself, but I don't have any information on her here. I'm sure you'll learn more after you're interviewed by the authorities. They'll have the details.”

He smiled, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “But you. You're alive, you're healthy, and you're going to be fine, physically. Just bruises and some abrasions.” Another squeeze of the hand. “These will heal. It's the emotional, the psychological side of an attack like this that sometimes takes the longest to heal. We'll get you some help with that.”

Melissa's eyes moved up to the cold, white surface of the ceiling.

I'll get my own help for that
.

•  •  •

AFTER THE DOCTORS
and nurses finally unplugged all of their equipment, they left her alone in the room to sort through her emotions and get cleaned up. She sat on the side of the bed, then put her feet down on the cold laminate floor.

With one hand on the wall for support, she stood up straight, found that her legs were sore but strong. She could walk without help.

Melissa stood in the bathroom, looked at her reflection in the mirror for the first time. Gauze bandages covered her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

She carefully lifted the first. A bright purple bruise the size of a tennis ball surrounded her left eye. It was lined with small fissures where bright red blood still wanted to ooze.

The right eye was better, an angry red abrasion underneath, and the white of her eye flooded with red blood. They had warned her about that, and told her not to be afraid. The blood was all under the surface and would go away on its own.

What kind of animal does this to another person?

Her neck hurt, her shoulders ached. She had never been beaten like this. Worst of all, she was not beautiful.

I can't let Scott see me when I look like this
. She replaced the bandages, piece by careful piece. Every touch on the surface of her skin was painful, some spots far more than others. She jerked her hand back in surprise when, unthinking, she pushed down on the tape in the wrong place, causing pain to flash across her flesh. She had to put both hands on the washbowl to steady herself until the throbbing subsided.

A police detective was coming by soon to interview her. She could get some answers then.

With great care she worked the toothbrush over and
around her teeth. The gums were sore. One tooth was loose, but she knew that it would likely be fine. In any case, she would see the dentist and have it checked.

Feeling better, she brushed out her hair. Even that felt sore.

A knock on the door.

“Just a minute,” she started to call, then found that she couldn't make her voice loud enough to be heard.

She pulled the bathroom door back and looked out. Two men in suits stood outside in the hallway, looking very official.

“Melissa Montalvo?”

She raised her hand, nodded, whispered, “Come in.” She looked around, saw only one chair in addition to the small stool by the bed. “I wasn't quite ready.”

“Ms. Montalvo,” said the shorter of the two, “my name is Sam Deering, and this”—he indicated his partner—“is Alan Gorst.” Deering showed an official-looking badge in a leather holder. “We're Indianapolis Metro detectives, and we're investigating what happened to you last evening. Is this a good time to talk with you?”

Melissa went to the bed, found it difficult to lift herself up to sit.

“Please, sit on the chair. We won't take much of your time this morning,” said the one named Gorst as he pulled the door closed behind him.

Melissa sat, holding both arms of the chair as she lowered herself into it. The air rushed out of the cushion with a whooshing sound.

Deering said, “We know you've been through a difficult time—”

He caught the intensity of her glare.

“A horrible experience. I wish there were another way, but we have to ask you some questions about last night. Would that be all right with you?”

Melissa continued to direct her gaze directly into Deering's eyes. “What happened to the girl that was there? The other one.”

Deering looked at Gorst. The man nodded, and he turned back to Melissa. “Do you know the other young lady, Ms. Montalvo?”

“No. Is she okay?”

“She is”—he shifted on his feet—“in reasonable condition. Unlike yourself, however, she was forcibly raped by her attacker.”

Deering looked down at the floor, back up to Melissa. “She is only twelve years old. She was on her way to the convenience store two blocks down when they apparently stopped and assaulted her.”

She swayed on the seat, holding the arms to keep herself steady.

“Did you catch them? The men?”

Gorst spoke. “I think we can thank you that we have one in custody. The other has not been apprehended. Not yet. But we're confident we'll have him soon.”

“Thanks to me?”

“Your cell phone was lying on the ground. Didn't you dial nine-one-one?”

She remembered now. Yes, she had done that. She'd punched the buttons and laid it next to the tree before she went up into the yard.

“Yes, I recall doing it now. I'd forgotten.”

“When you are ready, sometime in the next day or so, do you think you could pick the man out in a lineup?”

“I'm sorry, but I can't.” Her eyes went dry as she spoke. “It was dark. I didn't see their faces. One had a white T-shirt, and the other wore dark clothes. The one with the dark clothes was hitting me. He hit me and . . .” Her voice broke.

“We have that individual in custody, I believe. He was wearing a navy blue shirt as you describe. He's made a complaint of his own against you, but I don't think it will come to anything.”

“He made a complaint against me? You can't be serious.” Melissa's eyes opened wide, incredulous.

“Well, I wouldn't worry about it. He is claiming that you, well”—he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness—“propositioned him, and then demanded more money.”

She couldn't speak, sat slack-jawed, looking unbelievingly at the detective.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Don't be concerned. We get this kind of thing all the time. What we need to do now is go over the entire incident with you, while it is still fresh in your mind.”

Gorst took out a yellow notepad, nodded.

“Are you ready?”

But Melissa wasn't listening. She was focused on some unseen spot on the wall. An inferno of hatred blazed inside her.

She got me beat up and accused of being a prostitute. She'll pay for this
.

“Ms. Montalvo?” He touched her arm with a fingertip. “Are you ready?”

“Oh, yes, I'm ready.”

By Any Other Name

R
achel laid a hand on Scott's shoulder as he searched the news archives. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Aaron Getz. Look here.” He pointed to the screen, where a news article was displayed. “This was it. The same company name. He was found dead in a motel room. The police never came up with anything.”

“Does it say what he did? Locarno said he was the main software guy.”

“Here. It says he was in charge of development. That would be it.”

“So, Melissa comes in just as he—conveniently—happens to die. You can't make a police case out of that, but knowing what we know, it sure looks suspicious. I wouldn't put anything past that woman.”

“I'll print this. See what you can find on the university website.” Scott sent the article to the printer, picked up the pages, and put them in a folder.

Rachel brought up the Indiana University website and
clicked through the graduation records. Names and graduation dates scrolled by. Then she leaned in close, nose almost to the screen. “I've got it!”

Scott looked up from the road atlas spread out before him. “You found her already?”

“Melissa R. Montalvo.” She pointed at the screen. “Look at this.”

He pulled a chair over and sat beside her.

“See? Right here. Name, date, and even her hometown.”

“Blairsville, Indiana.” Scott tipped his head to one side. “Have you ever heard of it?”

Rachel brought up a map site. “It's down on the Ohio River, just west of Madison.”

“That's where we're headed, then. I think once we get there we can learn a lot. I'm betting that there are going to be some things that will surprise us.”

At eleven o'clock they completed their notes and plans for the drive. “If we leave at six in the morning we can be there by nine-thirty. Are you still game?” asked Scott.

“You know I am. I feel like we're really doing something now. Like we're in control again.”

“We
are
in control. We got that back when we refocused our lives on each other.” Scott put his arms around Rachel, pulled her close to him, and buried his face in her hair. “I love you so much. I thank God for you.”

Rachel stiffened, then gradually relaxed and leaned her head back against him.

“And I love you,” she whispered. “I will never let you go.”

•  •  •

THE SUN WAS BRIGHT
the next morning as Scott parked the car. They cruised the old town looking for a place to eat breakfast, finally settling on the Pokhagon Café on River Street. The café and the Kayak Shop were busy, even though it wasn't yet nine in the morning.

“Doesn't look too mysterious, does it?” asked Rachel, looking out the café window. Pedestrians were walking across the short bridge outside.

Scott scooped up the last bit of corned beef hash off his plate. “Nope. Just a normal place.”

The waitress approached with the check. “Get you two anything else? More coffee?”

“Maybe a little information. My wife might have family around here. Do you know where we could go to look up some of the old news stories and historical records?”

She turned the breakfast check facedown on the table. “What you need to do is get over to the old
Blairsville Voice
office. Harold Ranger still works in there. You can see all the old papers.” She pointed down the road. “Just walk across the bridge over there. It's on the other side of the street.”