Home For Christmas Page 2

  “Please,” Julie said “He saved my son’s life And mine.”

  She knew the nurse had to know about her Nurses knew everything, even in a hospital as large as Memorial. She’d discovered the power of the grapevine when her husband had been brought here years ago.

  “He’s in intensive care,” the nurse said

  “He’s still alive then,” Julie whispered gratefully.

  The nurse nodded.

  “Thank God,” Julie said, then her mind turned to practical things. She had to make telephone calls. She had to get someone to take care of her cat, Prissy. Her neighbor, Emily Richards, would do that; she had a key to the house. But there were other details...so many details...

  “How long will I be here?” she asked. All her appendages seemed to move, if painfully. Bandages covered her arms and back.

  “The doctor will talk to you in the morning,” the nurse said “We’ll be checking you frequently through the night because of that bump on your head.”

  Julie felt an onslaught of pain, then closed her eyes against it.

  She felt the paper being tugged from her hand.

  “No,” she said. “Leave it here.”

  She heard retreating footsteps, the closing of the door again She clutched the newspaper and saw the picture of Ryan Murphy in her mind. She heard his voice “Lady, I’ll get you out.” She remembered his calmness, the unhurried assurance that had made her believe him.

  Julie tried desperately to remember more. She had been concentrating on the heavy traffic before the accident, but she recalled seeing the white-clad prisoners on the side of the road. She had taken little notice since clean-up gangs were frequent sights on the interstates.

  Her rescuer had had tanned wrists. She remembered that, too. And a white shirt

  His voice She couldn’t get the voice from her mind. A convicted killer A confident comforting voice. Two discordant images.

  But it was the latter that remained in her mind, even after she drifted away from the pain

  Julie waited restlessly for release from the hospital. Nick had been released yesterday and was staying with Emily, the next-door neighbor with whom Julie exchanged babysitting duties. But because of Julie’s recurring headaches, the doctors had wanted to keep her an extra day.

  Emily would be here at the hospital in several hours to pick her up The doctor had already come by with a long list of instructions, and she was ready to go. Emily, however, had already organized her day around a noon release

  Julie dressed in the loose sweat suit Emily had brought the day before when she’d picked up Nick. Her head still ached, yet she couldn’t stay still. A need had been building inside her to see for herself the man who had saved her life. After receiving directions to intensive care, she started down the corridor toward the elevator

  Her heart seemed to pound faster as she reached the nurses’ station in the intensive care area. A killer. A dirty cop Everything she hated most Yet the man bad risked his life to save hers. She couldn’t forget that. Ever.

  She asked the nurse on duty about Ryan Murphy.

  “He’s still in a coma.”

  “Will he...make it?”

  “I don’t know ” Julie knew the nurse couldn’t give out any more information than she had But she heard the doubt in the woman’s voice. “I can only tell you he’s in critical condition ”

  “Can I see him?”

  “I’m sorry. No visitors,” said the nurse, a competent-looking woman in her forties.

  “I’m the woman he saved,” Julie explained, assuming the nurse knew what she was talking about. It certainly had been all over the media. “And he saved my son. I was just released and I wanted to see him, to thank him...even if he’s still unconscious,” she pleaded. “I have to.”

  The nurse—her name badge said Sarah Mashburn—hesitated “You’d have to get by the police officer on duty.”

  “Which room is it?”

  “The fourth on the right You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the officer sitting in front.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I didn’t say anything,” the nurse said, turning around to face a board that was suddenly flashing.

  Julie went by several rooms, each separated from the hall by a wall of glass Most had one or two people huddled inside next to a patient. She reached the cubicle where a uniformed officer sat. He stood as she approached.

  She noted his name on his shirt.

  “I’m Julie Farrell,” she said. “I was an assistant district attorney with Dan Watters’s office ”

  He relaxed and nodded. “I recognize your name. You’re the one he pulled from the car.”

  “As well as my son. I was hoping I could see him for a moment, thank him ”

  “He’s unconscious ”

  “I know,” she said. “Still, it’s something I need to do. My son is just four years old.”

  “I have a kid myself,” the officer said. “If the nurse said you could, maybe it would be all right. I’ll have to go in with you.”

  “Of course,” she said. “You can search me if you want.”

  He looked embarrassed, but all the same he patted her down. “Okay Only a moment ”

  She went inside, aware of the officer behind her like a shadow. She stood next to the bed. Numerous tubes ran in and out of Ryan Murphy His arm was in a cast, and much of his body was wrapped in bandages. One wrapping partially covered the side of his head. Abrasions marred a face that was all angles and planes. His features should have looked relaxed in sleep, but they didn’t. His mouth was grim even in unconsciousness. Yet there was an odd little twist at one end that also gave him a quizzical look. His eyes were closed, covered by thick, black lashes, and what hair escaped the bandage was thick and just as dark as his lashes He wasn’t exactly handsome, but his features were strong, compelling.

  She touched his hand “Thank you,” she whispered. “I know you can’t hear me, but thank you.” She felt the warmth of his hand, and her own fingertips tingled with the touch. He was so still, the beeping of the monitor so ominous. “Live,” she said in a low, demanding voice. “Ryan Murphy, live. You have to live. Fight, dammit. Fight.”

  She willed his fingers to move, but they didn’t She stood still, trying to pass some of her life force into him.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Farrell, but you have to go This could cost me my job.”

  “Of course,” she said. She gave Murphy’s hand one last squeeze, then turned and walked out the door Outside, she thanked the officer, then turned back to look through the window. He looked so still It’s all right, son, I’ll get you out. She thought she would always remember that voice, that reassurance The feel of his arms as he’d lifted her from the car.

  He’d paid a terrible price for it.

  She felt her heart constrict as she forced herself to look away and leave.

  Fear crawled through him It was a terrifying, insidious thing that filled every crevice of his mind.

  He had grown used to the pain as he slowly emerged from darkness. For a while, the crushing, smothering pain shoved everything else from his consciousness. But as that pain receded ever so slowly, something else filled the void it left: emptiness.

  His head pounded He could barely breathe through the soreness in his throat.

  “Mr Murphy?” He heard the sounds, tried desperately to understand them. Who was Murphy? He’d heard the name before. Over and over as if someone was pounding it into his skull But it made no sense to him

  He opened his eyes, saw several blurry forms. Slowly, they came into focus, their mouths making noises as they opened and shut One of the figures—a man in white—leaned over him.

  “Can you answer me, Mr. Murphy?”

  He tried, but his throat ached and his mouth felt as if it were stuffed with some dry substance. He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

  Only with intense effort could he fathom the conversation taking place. “He’s conscious.” Then the face neared his again a
nd a hand held out a glass with a straw to him, guiding the straw into his mouth. He sipped slowly, using the time to try to understand what was happening. So good. It tasted so good. But then it was taken away.

  “Mr Murphy? Do you remember anything? Can you tell us how you feel?”

  There was an expectant silence.

  He swallowed with difficulty His mouth was still dry, hurting His throat was raw, sore beyond imagining. He ached all over, but his head his head was agony.

  “Mr Murphy,” came the voice again. “You’re in a hospital, but you’ll be all right ”

  All right? He felt terrible He moved slightly, and his chest felt as if someone had pounded his ribs with sledgehammers. His hands and wrists were bandaged, and one arm lay stretched out in a cast. His throat

  And who was Murphy? Suddenly the pain faded as he frantically sought information, explanations, but nothing came

  He could only look up at the source of the voice. He remembered hearing it before when he’d drifted in and out of consciousness. He vaguely remembered questions that had made no sense. Nagging, insistent questions he didn’t want to acknowledge

  “The woman and child...they will live, thanks to you.” The man was speaking again.

  He swallowed, trying to remember. Anything. He couldn’t. What woman and child?

  But that comment was lost in the torrent of more questions. “What is your name? Do you know where you are? Do you know what month it is?”

  The questions kept bouncing around him, always returning to his name He was asked it over and over again until he wanted to yell at them. Instead, he tried to retreat into himself, trying to escape into the empty, dead silence that was only a little less frightening than the incessant questions he didn’t understand and couldn’t answer.

  They wouldn’t leave him alone, though. A steady stream of people came and went, sticking him with needles and thrusting tubes into his mouth. He was washed and shaved as if he were a baby. And then the man in white returned, along with the burly man in a brown uniform.

  The questions started again. “Do you know who you are? Do you know where you are? Do you know who the president of the United States is?” Some he thought he knew. Like Nixon. The name just popped into his mind when he was asked again who was president But the disappointment on faces told him he was wrong He hated the feeling of searching in empty places.

  Once when he was asked his name for yet another time, he recalled the name he’d heard over and over again when he first woke up. “Murphy,” he said slyly, expecting the questions to stop.

  But they didn’t “What’s your first name?”

  He remained stubbornly silent.

  “Ryan,” the man in white said patiently “Your name is Ryan Murphy. Does that sound familiar?”

  No. He wanted to scream a denial at them, but instead he stayed silent.

  A large man in brown clothing started yelling at the questioner in the white coat. “Hell, how long do we have to put up with this? He’s faking”

  He puzzled over the words. He didn’t understand them, but he recognized the hostility and contempt in the voice. He closed his eyes again, willing them all to go away It had worked before.

  “He’s sleeping again,” said the soothing voice.

  “Hell, he’s been unconscious for two weeks You would think he had enough sleep.”

  “He almost died.” The soothing voice sharpened above him

  “Too bad he didn’t,” the angry voice said. “Save the taxpayers from footing the bill for his keep.”

  “I want you out of here ” The mildness was gone from the calm voice

  The rough voice again: “He won’t get away with the amnesia act.”

  “I don’t think he’s faking it.”

  “Then you’re a fool, Doc. You don’t know how many cons try this kind of thing Don’t remember what they did, try to get themselves transferred to some mental institution.” His voice dripped his contempt

  “I want you to leave, Mr...”

  “Bates. Sergeant Bates. And I don’t leave until he’s secured with an ankle chain since you refuse to send him to the prison ward.”

  “He needs attention he can’t get there, and restraints aren’t needed He just came out of a coma Brain injury Broken arm Broken ribs. Bruised lungs. Bums. He won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

  “Save your sympathy, Doc He’s a lifer. A killer. A dirty cop who killed his own partner, and the rules say he has to be secured.”

  “I don’t care what he did. He’s my patient.”

  “Well, the state does care. He’ll be chained, or he goes to the jail ward”

  He heard all the words, but the one that pierced the darkness was “killer.” He felt the cold, hard word echo crazily in his head, blocking out the others.

  The voices above him continued to argue. Then he felt something cold and hard tighten around his leg He forced himself to remain still. He wanted to fight whatever was being done to him Yet something inside told him to remain still, to listen.

  “A guard will be posted outside the door until he’s moved to the jail wing,” the harsh, angry voice said

  There was no reply, only retreating, heavy footsteps.

  Then silence Finally, the soothing voice again.

  “You can open your eyes ”

  He did and stared up at the face over him.

  The face smiled at him. “Good try.”

  There was approval in the man’s voice, and he felt oddly comforted Someone understood. There was a brief silence “Take your time. Do you remember anything? A childhood pet? A game? Sports?”

  He tried. But the more he concentrated, the worse the pain his head became, the greater the void. He felt as if he were falling, his body twisting and turning into a great hole. “I can’t remember,” he said painfully.

  A hand settled on his shoulder. “I’m Dr. Dailey, a neurologist Do you know what that is?”

  He searched again in his limited knowledge, but he didn’t find anything.

  “I’m a specialist in the nervous system, basically injuries or diseases that affect the brain. You received a bad blow, resulting in a concussion and some damage to the brain. We know you suffered injuries to the parietal area of the brain and the frontal area.” He paused. “Do you remember anything? Anything at all?”

  He could only shake his head He didn’t even know where Nixon had come from. He knew what a doctor was. He knew killer. He knew some words, not others.

  “I think you have some sort of amnesia,” Dr. Dailey said. “You’ve lost some of your memory—most of it—apparently.”

  “When.. ?” He could barely manage the word.

  But the man in white apparently understood. “It could just last a short tune,” he said.

  He tried to understand

  The doctor was talking again “You have your speech, you understand words. The rest could return. You were lucky.”

  He didn’t feel lucky He felt lost in nothingness “Who am I?” He could barely whisper the words

  “Your name is Ryan Murphy,” the doctor said.

  “Killer?” That word echoed in his head. As did the contempt behind It.

  “Don’t worry about that now. Just try to remember what you can.”

  God help him, he was trying. God? He closed his eyes as the pain in his head grew stronger He swallowed a moan, then felt a prick in his hip. Darkness swallowed him.

  When he woke again, he was alone The pain still nagged him, but the greater torment was the recurring emptiness His gaze searched the room. White. Bare. A line stretched above him to his arm where a needle was taped to his skin He tried to move, but his ankle was tethered to the bed and with the movement came waves of pain

  Murphy. He remembered being called that over and over again But it sounded strange to him. He tried to remember more. Shadows flittered in and out, dissolving when he reached out to capture them His mind was slow, confused. He reached within it for something familiar, but he found nothing.
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  Think! Doctor. Murphy. Killer.

  With a groan of frustration, his hand pressed the button on the small box lying near his hand.

  A disembodied voice said, “Can I help you?”

  But he couldn’t speak. His voice was still a ragged whisper, and he didn’t know whether anyone could help him. He didn’t even know what he wanted.

  In moments, the doctor was back, by his side. “I told the nurse to call me when you woke again,” he said in a deep, soothing voice.

  But now it didn’t soothe him. Pain mixed with panic as he explored his mmd again and still found nothing.

  “Do you remember your name?” That same question

  “Murphy.” He tried to remember more, but things faded in and out.

  “Good,” the doctor said with satisfaction “It’s not unusual to have short-term memory loss as well as long-term,” he said.

  He felt...muddled. Woozy Blank.

  Blank. Except for the pain.

  He tried to quiet the rising anxiety.

  The doctor, though, must have seen something in his eyes, because he put a hand on his shoulder “Don’t worry about it now. We don’t know how much memory you’ve lost or whether parts, or all, will return Amnesia is rare, rarer than you would think, and we don’t know a great deal about it.”

  He moved, and he felt the steely band pull at his ankle. “I’m not sure I want to remember ”

  “Yes, you do,” Dr. Dailey said. “And if you don’t recall anything else, know that you saved a woman and a child from death. You pulled them from a burning car. It exploded, and you were thrown down an embankment ”

  “He called me ..a killer?” That was what had stayed in his mind. That one word.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” the doctor said. But his tone of voice said he did

  He struggled to remember other words said in this room. “Prison. He said I was in prison I seem to know ..” His voice trailed off. He knew the word Somehow, he knew what it meant, that criminals were sent there. But he didn’t remember being there. “How could I save ..?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then the man said, “You were on a prison road gang which was picking up litter from the side of the road A car was hit by another one, and apparently the gas tank ruptured. You managed to get a child and his mother out before it exploded Your hands and wrists were cut and burned, and you were thrown over an embankment by the force of the explosion.”