Acts of Honor (17 page)

He looked away, and his voice went whisper-soft. “I remembered.”

Where he was? What had happened to him? Afraid of jumping to wrong conclusions, she trod carefully. “What have you remembered?”

“Attacking you.” He hung his head, sounding appalled and ashamed.

A crossroads. A step toward her. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt her again, so he protected her by making attacking her more difficult. But this wasn’t about punishment. It was about fear. It was about the loss of control and protecting others even if that meant hurting himself.

Sara understood that, understood all of it. But she also understood he was volatile and could change moods on a dime. Did she dare to risk it? “If I remove the straitjacket, do I have your word not to attack me?”

He glared at her. “I don’t attack women.”

“Earlier, you attacked me, and you’ve said you remember it. Do you deny it now?”

“No.” He snapped his jaw shut.

She had to be truthful. He was testing her, and down deep at gut level, she knew it. “But you also sent me away to keep from attacking me again.” She crossed her outstretched legs at her ankles and rubbed at her stinging arch with the toe of her other shoe. “If you’re going to beat up on yourself for what you did that you feel was wrong, Joe, then you owe it to yourself to praise what you did that you feel was right. It’s only fair. Wouldn’t you give someone else that benefit?”

“Sometimes it’s easier to be fair to others.” He slid her a level look. “Sometimes you expect more from yourself because you know your standards and abilities.”

“True, but double standards aren’t right, either. You can’t expect more from yourself than from others. Or more than you’re capable of doing or giving.”

“I remember the attack.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His face flushed, and his mouth flattened into a thin, grim line. “I don’t deny it.”

He didn’t deny his responsibilities, either. That was certainly clear. And he looked and sounded perfectly normal. It was also clear that she knew little more now than what Foster had told her, and she’d stopped holding her breath, waiting for Foster to get the data to her that she’d requested. Her only hope for straight answers was to go to the source. “Do you know why you attacked me, Joe?”

A long moment passed, then he opened his eyes. “Joe?” His dark brows lifted to arched slashes on his wide forehead. “Who is Joe?”

She repeated what she’d told him earlier, that she’d given him the name.

He pursed his lips. “That’s not my name.” His tone turned razor-edged and agitated, and he began pacing. “That is not my name.”

“Fine.” Sara spoke softly, just above a whisper. If he had to strain to hear her, perhaps he’d concentrate on listening, and they could avoid a situation. “Then you tell me what to call you.”

He opened his mouth to shout a response. His eyes went blank. He stood there, trying to remember, caught in some netherworld she hadn’t yet identified. “I don’t
know
my name!”

The anger and terror in his voice chilled her to the bone. She stood up. “It’s okay. It happens. Right now, let’s just pick a nickname you like so I know what to call you. We’ll worry about your real name later.”

“Didn’t you hear me, woman?’ He glared at her. “I don’t know my own name. I did know it. Why don’t I know it now?”

Trying to reassure him, Sara moved closer to him, her hands lifted, her palms upward. “I don’t know why yet. But we’re going to work together and find out.”

“I’ve lost everything, Sara.” Agony glistened in his eyes. “Even myself.”

Her stomach flipped over, and his pain streaked through her chest. “No.” He was a man at war, angry and frustrated, feeling futile and betrayed by everyone, including himself. But he had protected her. Attachment was essential, and he was in pain. The timing being right at this moment was a calculated risk she had to take. Knowing she could be making a mistake that would push him over the edge, she reached out and clasped his straitjacketed shoulder. “Joe, listen to me. You haven’t lost anything. You suffered a trauma. That’s why you don’t remember. Remembering is painful right now, so your survival instincts have blocked your memory and suppressed it to keep you safe from the pain. It’s a kind of amnesia that’s common, Joe, and it’s temporary. When you’re ready, your memory will come back.”

He glared down at her hand. “Let go of my shoulder.”

The venom in his voice surprised her. Burying it, she stepped back, away from him.

He softened his tone. “I don’t like to be touched.”

Sara breathed easier. Joe felt threatened, not violent. “Okay.” To diffuse the tension, she sat back down and laced her hands on her lap. “So what nickname would you like?”

He stared at her knuckles and then met her gaze. “Joe is okay.”

Her name for him. The beginnings of trust. Feeling as if she’d just topped Mount Everest, Sara smiled. “Joe it is, then.”

“They betrayed me, Sara.” He swallowed hard, bobbing his Adam’s apple in his throat. “You’re not like them. I know that.”

Having no idea who “they” referred to, she kept silent and mentally noted that both he and Ray had referred to the emotion of betrayal. It could be significant, a piece of the puzzle. Or not.

Joe stared deeply into her eyes, searching and searching, as if trying to see straight into her soul. His expression softened, changed, and he let her see his anguish. “Can you help me?”

Tears stung the backs of Sara’s eyes and burned her nose. The urge to touch him nearly overwhelmed her. She stood up and tilted back her head to look straight into his eyes. “If you’ll let me, yes. I think I can help you, Joe.”

His dark brows knitted. “No mind games?”

“None. You have my word.”

“Do you lie?”

“No.” She never had, not to a patient.

He sized her up, dragging his gaze from her head to the toes of her shoes, and then nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Sara swallowed hard. “I’m going to take off your jacket so you can move around a little more. My goal is to get you out of here and into a regular room as soon as possible.”

“Fontaine will veto it.”

Sara’s hand stilled on the clasp. So he knew and remembered Fontaine. Not unusual, really. Strong impressions often lingered. “He might veto it, but it won’t do him any good.” She bent to look around Joe’s side to his face and smiled. “I’m your doctor, and I have full authority on your therapy.”

Joe grunted. “He’ll veto it.”

She loosened the last strap, then removed the jacket. It slid off his broad shoulder and into her hand. “Maybe, but I’ll override him.”

Joe’s brows shot up on his forehead. “Can you do that?”

“On your therapy?” Sara nodded. “Not only can I, I will.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and turned her back to the camera. “Just between you and me, I don’t like him very much.”

Why had she said that? Nerves. She’d just set free a man who could—and nearly had—killed her. A man whom, despite her desires, she considered the one.

“He’s not very likable.” Joe stretched. “I want out of here. I want to see the sun.”

“I know. As soon as we can, we’ll go outside and get you moved.”

Joe’s pajama top was thin and tight, hugging his muscles. “You can stop shivering, Sara.”

He sounded gentle, but he looked like a small mountain, standing and flexing to loosen up. “I won’t hurt you again.”

“I’m not shivering.” Indignance filled her tone. She tossed the jacket to the floor.

He looked down his nose at her, and his tone thickened with reprimand. “You said you don’t lie.”

He had her there. “Okay, so I’m a little nervous. You nearly choked me to death, Joe. It’s asking a lot for you to expect me not to be a little nervous.”

“You’re scared out of your wits.”

“I am not.” She wasn’t. Maybe she should be, but she wasn’t. “I’m just a little nervous. Trust is a fragile thing, you know? And it works both ways.”

He studied the bruises on her neck. Swallowing hard, he lifted his fingertips, let them glide in the air over her skin. He didn’t touch her, but she could feel the heat radiating from his fingers. Surely he wasn’t going to choke her again. He didn’t look as if he were about to choke her again.
Oh, God, please don’t let him choke me again.

Exercising sheer will, she forced herself to meet his gaze—and nearly wept. Never in anyone’s eyes had she seen such remorse.

“Sara,” he said on a ragged whisper. “I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

“I know.” She smiled to reassure him she meant it.

“I really do want your help.” He blinked hard. “You’re not like them.”

Twice now, he’d said that. But who he meant by “them” would come later. Right now, she had a higher priority. Trust.

She stepped closer, praying he couldn’t hear her heart thundering. She had only been this nervous once in her life. A few weeks after the boa constrictor incident, when the elevator at First National Bank had died, and she’d been pinned between two floors for over an hour.
Serious
claustrophobia. Dead of winter, and she’d had to sleep with the windows open for three days. “I’ll do my best, if you’ll do your best. Deal?”

“Deal.”

She risked lifting a hand, offering to shake. Touching was important. The sooner Joe formed a true attachment to something outside himself, the sooner they could make good progress.

He stared at her hand for a long moment, debating. Sara waited patiently, nonthreatening, making it obvious that the choice was his.

Finally, he reached across and enclosed her hand in his. It was huge, dwarfing hers, and its warmth radiated up her arm and through her chest. Caught off-guard by her strong response to a simple handshake, Sara stared into his face.

It wasn’t a simple handshake: He held on, silently studying her fingers, the curve of her palm, and then swept her knuckles with the pad of his thumb. But there was no attachment in his touch. Sadly, it was strictly clinical. Frighteningly clinical.

He flipped her hand over and went rigid. The color drained from his face, and he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her fingers. “Red.” He muttered the word as if it were a curse.

Sensing the change in him, Sara stilled.
Don’t
panic. Just stay calm and—oh, God, don’t let him hurt me again!—don’t panic.
“It’s just nail polish, Joe.”

Their gazes locked. His grip grew hard, crushing. “Red.”

Pain shot through her fingertips, her wrist, up to her elbow. What had happened inside him? “Joe, what’s wrong? Why does my nail polish bother you?”

“Red is the enemy.”

So white
and
red bothered him. That hadn’t been in the chart, and Shank hadn’t mentioned red being a trigger in their discussions about the color white. “No, Joe. It’s just nail enamel. Red paint. It’s supposed to be pretty.”

Letting out a guttural groan, he dropped her hand. “Go away, Sara.” He backed up until he collided with the wall, then flattened against it, burying his hands behind his back. “Go!” Urgency flooded his voice. “It’s
 . . .
coming!”

If only she could talk him through this. “What’s coming?” Sara stepped toward him.

His face contorted in agony. “The rage.”