Left for Dead (6 page)

She reached down and touched Julia’s tiny hand. It was slightly cold, lifeless.
No, no, no, this isn’t happening. Please, God…

“Julia!” she screamed. Claire scooped the infant into her arms. Her baby girl didn’t squirm or cry—as she had only a few minutes ago. It was as if someone had severed all the joints inside her little body, she was so limp.

Clutching the baby to her chest, Claire raced down the hall to Charlie’s and her bedroom. She grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. She told the operator that her baby had stopped breathing. She didn’t want to say that her baby was dead. But Claire knew she was.

It didn’t keep her from trying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Julia. She finally stopped when she heard the ambulance siren in the distance. Pulling her mouth away from Julia’s, she glanced toward the bedroom door.

Dazed, Brian stared back at her. She would never forget the horrified expression on Brian’s face: his big green eyes gaping at her with utter dread, the lower lip quivering.

Everything after that was a blur. She didn’t remember calling Charlie’s office at the University of Washington. Her neighbor, Nancy, must have come over at about the same time the ambulance arrived.

While one of the paramedics attended to her daughter, Claire asked Nancy to take Brian. They labored over the infant for ten minutes. Claire knew they were all hoping for a miracle. She knew her baby daughter was dead. Yet when one of the paramedics covered Julia with a blanket, Claire screamed and tore off the coverlet. “No, no, no, don’t cover her up,” she cried. “Don’t take her away, please…”

They let her hold the baby until Charlie got there.

She wore the pearl necklace to Julia’s memorial service. A social worker from the hospital had given Claire and Charlie the literature and the talk on Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. She’d warned Charlie and Claire that they might blame themselves—or each other. And try as they might to find a reason for their child’s death, they couldn’t. Claire played over in her head those last few minutes when she was holding Julia, trying to lull her to sleep, wishing more than anything that she would stop crying and be still. She couldn’t help wondering what might have happened if she hadn’t put Julia down for that nap. Would her baby have been spared? Or maybe she would have died later that night. Claire knew it was useless to wonder, but she couldn’t help it.

Brian, as the surviving sibling, was a classic textbook case. For a while, he was afraid to step inside the nursery. And he didn’t want to go to sleep—for fear he’d never wake up. Charlie or Claire had to stay in the bedroom with him until he nodded off. He demanded their constant attention, and seemed worried about their mortality too.

Claire knew exactly how he felt, because she kept thinking another horrible catastrophe would soon happen to them. She and Charlie read the literature. They tried to make Brian feel safe and loved—without smothering him. They told him as much as they thought he’d understand about SIDS, stressing that it only happened to infants—not to older children or grown-ups. They reassured him that he’d been a good big brother to Julia.

Every time she reassured Brian, Claire used the same argument on herself. She couldn’t avoid the nursery forever. She couldn’t blame anyone. She had to quit worrying that some other horrible thing would happen. She needed to sleep.

The literature had a section for mothers who had been breast-feeding their SIDS babies. Claire read up on what to do about the painful swelling and discomfort. But there were no instructions in the book to remedy the soreness in her arms. No one seemed to understand that her arms actually ached from not holding her baby.

She tried not to cry in front of people. Charlie was the only one with whom she let down her guard. He didn’t talk about Julia much. But he listened. Somehow, Charlie made her feel they would survive this. In his arms, she felt safe.

Sitting there in Dr. Beal’s office, Claire longed to see her husband again. If only she could bury herself in his arms for a few minutes, everything might become clear again. She wouldn’t have to block out certain memories, because Charlie would protect her.

“Claire, remember the other day, when you told me about your dream?” Dr. Beal asked. “Remember, Claire, you said you were with a man and a boy on the beach?”

Nodding, Claire gave her a wary sidelong look. She gripped the sides of the wheelchair.

“You said the man in your dream was Charlie, and the boy was Brian. The boy was eleven years old.” Dr. Beal sighed. “But Brian was only six when you lost Julia. So—that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?”

Claire nodded again. “I guess so.” She sighed, and rubbed her forehead. “Listen, can’t you just call my husband? Why can’t I see him? I’m sure if you brought Charlie in here, I’d start remembering things right away. Are they even
trying
to locate him?”

Dr. Beal shifted in the beige leather chair, then cleared her throat. “Claire, you haven’t lived at the Cascadia address in Seattle for almost five years.”

Numbly, she stared at the psychiatrist.

Claire remembered moving day. She remembered standing alone in the empty nursery. Charlie had long ago turned it into an art studio for her. It had taken several coats of paint to cover up the cartoon jungle she’d created on the nursery walls.

She didn’t notice until moving day—when the room was empty and the sun poured through the windows—that despite all those layers of paint, the smiling elephants, tigers and monkeys were still slightly visible on the walls. They were like ghosts, and she was alone with them.

Charlie wasn’t around.

Her premonition after Julia’s death must have come true. Something else had happened, something horrible.

Tears stung Claire’s eyes. She glanced at the detective on the sofa, who still wouldn’t look at her. Claire turned to Dr. Beal. “My husband, Charlie,” she whispered. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

Dr. Beal didn’t say anything. She just smiled—that same pitying smile.

The young East Indian orderly pushing Claire in her wheelchair was named Yuvraj, at least, his nametag said as much. Claire had asked Sherita how to pronounce his name, and she’d replied:
“Damned if I know. He’s been here two years, and I’ve always called him ‘honey.’ Nice guy though.”

Yuvraj seemed to read Claire’s mood, and said nothing as he steered her down the hospital corridor. In every room they passed, Claire noticed patients with family members—some with entire clans gathered around their beds; others with just one person at their side. Claire saw their rooms full of flowers, beds with Get Well helium balloons tied to the side rails, framed photos of loved ones and Get Well cards on nightstands.

Meanwhile, Yuvraj was pushing her toward her stark, empty room: not a single flower, card, or side-table photo. Not a soul.

She had a guard outside her room, and dozens of reporters who were dying for a chance to talk with her. But they only knew her as Jane Doe, the lone survivor of Rembrandt’s killing spree.

Word had spread around the hospital about her, and these excursions from her room always made Claire a bit nervous. Sometimes, while Yuvraj or one of the other orderlies was wheeling her down the hallways, she’d notice doctors, nurses, and other patients staring at her. Did they know who she was? Every once in a while, she’d catch a stranger looking at her, and she’d wonder,
Is that Rembrandt? Would she recognize him if she saw him again?

Dr. Beal had given her a copy of a photograph, which someone had passed along to the police. It was a snapshot from the family album of Mr. and Mrs. Harlan Shaw. While Yuvraj navigated down the corridor, Claire studied the picture.

The woman in the photo was pretty—with a creamy complexion and wavy, dark hair. She was an improvement over the rather sickly, pale woman she’d seen in the mirror for the last few days. Claire looked happy in the photograph, which had been taken in a beautiful garden. The lean, silver-haired man with Claire in the picture stood nearly a foot taller than her. Though handsome, his smile seemed forced, a bit stiff. That was her husband, Harlan Shaw, a little bit stiff, a little too serious.

She remembered him now. He was a good man. But he wasn’t Charlie. He wasn’t the husband she’d desperately wanted to see again. With Harlan due to see her in a couple of hours, she felt as if the wrong guy was coming by to take her out on a date. But at least she had a little time to prepare herself, work up some enthusiasm and act happy to see him.

Brian wasn’t coming along. Dr. Beal had braced her for that. According to Harlan, Brian was fine, but couldn’t come to the hospital tonight. The eleven-year-old boy Claire had remembered in her dream was actually seventeen now. His father had been dead for five years.

Claire now knew what had happened in those intervening years. But she didn’t want to think about Charlie’s death, and how awful it had been to be poor again—without him. She didn’t want to recall the struggles, the loneliness, and all the trouble Brian had given her.

Meeting and marrying Harlan Shaw had been like a godsend—at least, for a while. They’d been together eighteen months now.

And he was coming for her.

Claire said hello to the guard at her door. Yuvraj helped her from the wheelchair into her bed. Someone had just changed the sheets, starchy with tight hospital corners. Claire set the photo on her nightstand, then sank back on the pillow. She thanked Yuvraj as he dimmed the light. He quietly closed the door behind him.

Claire turned on her side, and slid one hand under the fresh pillow. Something sharp stung her fingertip. Snatching her hand away, she noticed the blood on her finger. Claire flipped over her pillow to find a slightly crushed, long-stemmed red rose—complete with thorns.

Bewildered, she stared at the rose for a moment, then finally picked it up. She wondered who could have left it. The person who had made her bed? Someone on the hospital staff who felt sorry for her? Sherita?

Claire set the rose in her water glass on the nightstand. Laying back on her pillow, she sucked at the blood on her pricked fingertip, then stared at the single, long-stemmed rose—beside the photo of Harlan and herself.

She’d gotten her wish for flowers and a photo on her nightstand—and a husband coming to visit. Only none of it seemed quite right.

The husband was nearly a stranger to her. As for the rose, she had to consider the possibility it was from someone who didn’t wish her well.

“Well, I didn’t give it to you, honey,” Sherita admitted. She was changing the dressing and bandage on Claire’s chest wound.

Claire tried not to look down at the sutures and the swollen, shiny patch of torn flesh between her breasts. She kept staring at the rose on her bedside. “Who do you think it’s from?” she asked.

Finishing with the bandage, Sherita shrugged. “I don’t know. One of the orderlies probably who has a crush on you. Listen, you’ve got about forty-five minutes to start looking pretty for your husband. And from his photo, I’d say he ain’t hard on the eyes.”

Claire sighed. “This Rembrandt killer, he might have left the rose—to show how close he is to me.”

“He couldn’t have gotten past the guard—”

“Well, maybe he did,” Claire argued. “Maybe this is his way of letting me know how vulnerable I am.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Sherita said, helping Claire readjust her nightgown. “You think he’d sneak past the guard and leave you a flower—as some kind of threat? He’d have to be crazy.”

“That’s just the point, Sherita. He is crazy.”

“I’m telling you, the flower is probably from an orderly who’s warm for your form.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Just the same,” she murmured. “Could you throw it out for me, please?”

Gathering up the old bandages, Sherita nodded. “Sure thing, honey.” She snatched the rose out of Claire’s water glass, then stuffed it in a plastic bag with the used bandages. “I’ll be back in a bit to help you get ready for your hubby.” She smiled. “Nervous?

Nodding, Claire sucked at her fingertip, which still stung a bit from the thorn prick. “Scared,” she replied.

“Well, I sold a couple of the single roses today,” Janice from the gift shop, said. Twenty-five years old, she was pretty—with trendy, black-rimmed glasses, short-cropped flaxen hair, and a clingy sweater that showed off her aerobicized body. She busily replenished the Altoid tins in the counter display.

Sherita stood on the other side of the register from her. “Do you remember who you sold them to? It’s important.”

Pausing, Janice glanced over the rims of her glasses at Sherita. “Hmmmm, a little kid and an old lady.”

“You didn’t sell one to a man? A long-stem red rose?”

Janice shook her head and went back to the Altoid display. “Not today.”

Sherita glanced at the refrigerated locker with the glass door. All the cut flowers were on display in there—along with their prices. The single roses were ridiculously overpriced.

“So—did this kid come in here and break his piggy bank for you?” she asked.

Janice squinted at her. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about nine bucks for one lousy rose,” Sherita replied. “That’s a lot of greenbacks for a little kid to be throwing away.”

Janice sighed. “He was buying it for his father. His mother was in a car crash yesterday, and she’s in a coma. They don’t think she’ll make it. So his dad sent him in here to get the mother a rose.”

Drumming her fingers on the counter top, Sherita frowned. “And junior told you all this? He volunteered the information?”

Janice nodded. “Yeah. Why? What are you getting at?”

“Did it sound like he’d been coached?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Janice said.

“Never mind,” Sherita said, heading out of the gift shop. “Thanks, Janice.”

“I need to find out if we have any current adult female comas. This one was in a car accident and admitted yesterday—or the day before.”

The thin, gangly young man glanced up from his computer. “I can’t help you, Sherita,” he said. He was sitting at one of four desks in the empty office. The other employees in the billing department had left just a few minutes before—at five o’clock. But Sherita had caught Glen Lehman still at his desk, buying concert tickets online.

“You have to be in hospital administration for us to give you information like that,” Glen explained. “And you’re not in administration, Sherita. So I can’t access it for you.”

Sherita nudged him. “Not even if I buy you a six pack? Your choice of the brew.”

“That’s all? Just a six pack of beer?”

She sat on the edge of his desk. “That, and I promise not to kick the hell out of your skinny, white ass.”

Chuckling, Glen started typing on his computer keyboard. “Coma patients,” he murmured. “Current, female…”

He stopped clicking on the keys, then stared at the computer screen for a moment. “Closest thing we have to what you want is a twenty-year-old female, now comatose, admitted two nights ago. But she wasn’t in a traffic accident. She OD’ed.”

Sherita frowned. “Can you get a listing of females recently admitted with injuries sustained in traffic accidents?”

Sighing, Glen started typing again. “I should charge you another six pack, but since I’m such a prince…”

Gazing at the screen once more, he shook his head. “Nothing. Closest I have for you is a female DOA from a traffic accident three days ago. All the other current traffic accident patients were patched up in the ER.”

Cocking his head, he glanced up at Sherita. “You sure this female coma patient is here? Or did somebody just make her up?”

“Thanks, honey.” Sherita patted his shoulder, then headed for the door. “You’re right. Somebody made her up.”

“It’s true,” Sherita said, touching up Claire’s cheeks with a powder brush. “I checked with Janice, who runs the gift shop. An orderly came in and bought a long-stem red rose from her this morning. She didn’t remember who, which is no big surprise. Janice has always been a space case.” Sherita handed Claire a mirror to check on the makeup job.

Claire eyed her skeptically, then glanced at her reflection.

“So we threw that rose away for nothing,” Sherita continued. “But let’s not sweat it. Your hubby will be here any minute, the genuine article this time.”

Claire handed the mirror back to her. She thought about what a lousy liar Sherita was. Obviously, Sherita had done a little snooping around, and found out something about the red rose. Was the truth really so awful that she didn’t want to tell her?

There was a knock on the door, then Dr. Dwoskin poked his head in. “Are you ready for some company?” he asked.

Claire nodded nervously.

Dr. Dwoskin stepped in, followed by a man in a business suit who must have been a plainclothes cop. Then Harlan came in. Tall and handsome, he wore a pressed dark blue shirt and a tie she’d bought for him last Christmas. He carried a bouquet of mixed flowers and a large manila envelope. He had tears in his eyes as he smiled at her.

“Hi, honey,” she said.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he replied, barely getting the words out. He took a step toward the bed, then hesitated and glanced at Sherita, Dr. Dwoskin, and the cop. He didn’t camouflage his annoyance. “Think I could have a couple of minutes in private with my wife?” he asked.

Dr. Dwoskin nodded, and the cop appeared disappointed. They filed out of the room. Sherita tailed after them, pausing at the door to give Claire a thumbs-up sign.

Once the door shut, Harlan set the flowers and the envelope on the nightstand, then he turned to Claire. “If I don’t kiss you soon, I’m gonna die,” he whispered. “Is it okay? Are you in pain, sweetheart?”

She nodded. “It’s all right. I won’t break. Just be careful around my chest.” She laughed skittishly. “Huh, that sounds funny, doesn’t it?”

Harlan rushed to the bed and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed Claire on the lips, then pressed his face against hers. His smell was familiar, Cool Water. But something very unlike Harlan Shaw was happening as he held her. He began to cry.

She’d never seen her stoic husband shed a tear, not until now. Claire stroked his salt-and-pepper hair. “It’s okay, honey,” she whispered. “Everything’s all right. I’m safe now. You found me. We’re going to be fine….”

Claire figured if she kept saying it, she might actually believe it.

Sherita had guessed quite accurately that the plainclothes policeman was one of the head honchos. Lt. Roger Elmore was tall, with a crew cut and a sun-creased face. Sherita led him down the corridor—out of earshot from Taj, who sat erect in his folding chair—no reading material in sight. She told the lieutenant about the red rose and someone stalking her in the garage.

“I don’t mean to get anyone in trouble,” she explained—shooting a glance over Lt. Elmore’s shoulder at the guard. “But obviously, this maniac was in her room. And he’s in this hospital. ‘Rembrandt’ or whatever you call him, he knows where she is. He knows the weak links in your security—”

“Now, wait a minute,” the lieutenant interrupted. “What makes you so sure it’s Rembrandt? One of those guys from the press could have been following you around last night. And one of them could have left that rose for her too.”

“A reporter would go to all the trouble of having a kid buy the rose for him? And he’d coach the kid with some stupid story about his mother in a coma—”

“Some of those reporters will do anything to goose up a story,” Elmore said. “We aren’t telling them much. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them decided to get creative.”

“Well, in addition to getting creative, someone also got past your security. Whether it was a reporter or Rembrandt or Santa Claus, I thought you ought to know.” Sherita paused. “And I thought you’d give a shit.”

Harlan emerged from her bathroom with the flowers in a large tumbler. “Did the doctors say how soon you can come home?” he asked, setting the arrangement on her nightstand.

Claire self-consciously touched her hair. “Not yet. I’m still a little wobbly. Plus I think they’re waiting for me to remember things. My memory’s kind of fuzzy.”