Left for Dead (4 page)

His lunch tray was there, but he was gone. He hardly touched his food.

Sherita got up and swiped the salt off his table, and sat back down. “That’s funny, I didn’t see that guy take off,” she muttered. “Did you?”

Naomi frowned. “No. But I’m telling you, he was interested in one of us. I saw him looking over here a lot.”

“Well, I’m off the market,” Sherita said, salting her sandwich.

“Huh,” Naomi replied. “So—you’re probably the one he’s interested in. Typical. I’ll bet he shows up again and goes after you. I’ll just bet.”

“Does this freak you out or anything?” Sherita asked, applying some mascara to Jane Doe’s eyelashes.

“You mean, am I having flashbacks to the last time someone put makeup on me?” Sitting in the hospital bed, Jane Doe kept still while Sherita worked on her eyes. She sighed. “No, I’m not ‘freaking out.’ But I vaguely recall a woman doing this to me while someone else was watching.”

“Where? In a department store?”

“I’m not sure. I just remember thinking she was using way too much makeup, and I’d end up looking hideous.”

“Hmmm, you want a tip?” Sherita said, reaching for the face powder brush. “Never get a make-over in a store that also sells corndogs.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she chuckled. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,
Tammy,”
Sherita said.

They had found out her name: Tammy Phelps. Her husband was Lon, a night watchman at the University of Washington branch campus in Tacoma. They lived there—along with their twelve-year-old son, Dwight. Lon had told the police Tammy had been missing for eight days.

The only one of those names remotely familiar to her was Tammy. Could it be her name? Was Lon the sporty, handsome man in her dream?

She hoped so. She desperately wanted to see her husband and son. The names Lon and Dwight would soon become familiar to her again. She would recognize them. The search for her family—and her true identity—would soon be over. Lon was scheduled to meet with her in an hour.

She’d been nervous about this reunion ever since this morning, when they’d told her about Lon. With a little help from Sherita, she’d finally crawled out of bed and walked a few steps—to and from the bathroom. Sherita gave her a sponge bath, and brushed baby powder though her dark brown hair to absorb some of the oiliness.

She also had a chance to study herself in a mirror for a while. In addition to the flat, lifeless, shoulder-length hair, she was pale and gaunt, with dark circles under her green eyes. “My God, I look awful,” she told Sherita.

“Well, what the hell do you expect, girl?” she replied. “You’re recovering from major surgery, and you’ve been in bed, eating bad hospital food for nearly a week. Relax, you’re a knockout. I’d kill for your cheekbones and waistline.”

Nevertheless, Sherita borrowed some makeup from one of the nurses—along with a lavender silk robe that a patient had left behind. Jane Doe didn’t dare ask if the robe’s former owner had departed from the hospital on her own or in a box. She didn’t want to know.

“My stomach feels funny, butterflies,” she said, checking Sherita’s work in a hand-mirror. Sherita had laid the rouge on a bit heavily, but she didn’t look too bad. “Is this what it feels like, going on a date?”

“Huh, I can’t remember that far back, honey,” Sherita replied. “Just keep in mind, he might not be your husband. I saw the photos he brought in, and they’re a little out of focus. In one, you’re standing at a distance, and in the other, you’re squinting in the sun. And the birthmark he said was on your elbow, it’s much farther down on your arm.”

Jane Doe shook her head. “Please, don’t. I need for this to be my husband. I saw the photos too. They look like me, they do. I—I almost remember them being taken.”

Sherita smiled tightly. “I know you want this to be the Real McCoy, but I don’t want to see you get your hopes shot down, honey. There are a lot of people—reporters and curiosity-freaks—who would say or do just about anything to get a look at you. This Lon Phelps could be one of them.”

At three-fifteen, a couple of doctors came into her room. Apparently, they wanted to observe how Tammy Phelps reacted when seeing her husband again.

“I hope he’s your dream man, honey,” Sherita whispered. Then she stepped over toward the window—out of the doctors’ way. She glanced toward the door.

Two police detectives, sporting suitcoats and ties, ushered in a man. He had glasses, a goatee, and slick, long brown hair. He saw her and broke into a grin. He was skinny, and dressed in jeans, an old, soiled sportshirt and a jean jacket. “Tammy? Baby?” he whispered.

Wide-eyed, she stared back at him.

“Don’t you know me, sweetheart?”

She didn’t know him at all. She didn’t feel any kind of connection to this man. She glanced at Sherita for help.

“Tammy, it’s me, Lon,” he said, the smile running away from his face. “What’s going on? You gotta remember me, baby. I’m your husband. I’ve been real worried about you, doll.”

Gazing at him, she felt herself shrinking back. She slowly shook her head. He wasn’t the man of her dreams. As much as she tried, she couldn’t conceal her disappointment. She felt stupid, having spent the last two hours trying to look pretty for this stranger who didn’t even bother putting on a clean shirt for her.

“C’mon, baby. How about a kiss?” He took a step toward her.

“No, get away,” she said steadily. Jane Doe shook her head. “You’re not my husband. I might not remember much, but I’m sure you’re not my husband. I’ve never even met you.”

Lon Phelps glared at her. “Hey, now cut the bullshit—”

One of the cops took hold of his arm.

“You’re not Charlie,” she whispered.

“Listen, bitch,” Lon Phelps growled. “You can’t do this—”

The detective pulled at his arm. “All right, Mr. Phelps,” he said. “That’s enough—”

“You left me once, and you’re not doing it again!” he hissed. “Dwight is my kid too. Where is he? Goddamn it, Tammy, I want to see my son!”

Breaking free, he pushed aside one of the doctors and charged toward her. Recoiling, Jane Doe screamed.

The detectives swept down on Lon Phelps again, then tore him away from her bedside. “Get him out of here!” one of the doctors yelled.

Lon Phelps lunged toward the bed once more, but the two detectives restrained him. Jane Doe clutched the bedsheets to her throat, and turned her head away. He kept calling her a whore and a bitch. As they dragged Lon Phelps toward the doorway, he kicked the night table and sent a water pitcher crashing to the tiled floor. Both doctors were doused.

Eyes closed, Jane Doe curled up and pressed her face to the pillow. She could still hear Lon Phelps lashing out obscenities at the detectives as they led him down the corridor.

“Good God, they sure did a bang-up job of screening him,” she heard one of the doctors mutter. “What were they thinking?”

The other doctor was asking if she was all right. She felt Sherita hovering over her.

“Yes, yes, I’m all right,” she answered, eyes still closed. She was shaking inside. She just wanted everyone to leave—except maybe Sherita.

As if reading her mind, Sherita announced she would clean up the mess Lon Phelps had made. “It’s okay, you go on,” she told the doctors. “You better dry off. I’ll look after our girl.”

After the doctors shuffled out the door, Jane Doe opened her eyes. She took a couple of deep breaths. She was still trembling.

Sherita came from the bathroom, then wiped the water off the floor with a towel. Retrieving the tumbler, she set it on the night table and stepped up to Jane Doe’s bedside. She stroked her hair. “Well, hon, if that was your husband, I’ve got news for you. He’s as crazy as a road lizard.”

Jane Doe managed to smile up at her. “I guess that was kind of a bust, huh?”

“Not totally,” Sherita said. “Who’s Charlie? In the middle of that fiasco, you said to psycho-man:
‘You’re not Charlie.’”

“I did?” she asked.

“Is Charlie the guy in your dream?”

She stared up at Sherita, then let out a little laugh and nodded. Tears stung her eyes. “Charlie’s my husband,” she heard herself say. “Charlie Ferguson. I met him my freshman year at the University of Oregon in Eugene. Charlie Ferguson. And—and our son’s name is Brian.” Suddenly she had a hard time getting her breath. The flood of memories and facts were coming at her. She remembered her mother and father. She married Charlie in Las Vegas. They were both still in college at the time. Her mother was furious.

“We live in Seattle,” she said, sitting up in the bed. “On Cascadia Avenue. It’s not far from Lake Washington. That’s where we were in my dream. We were walking along the water’s edge.”

“Are you still Tammy?” Sherita asked. “You said the name was familiar.”

She laughed and shook her head. “No, no. Tammy—Tammy was my best friend in junior high school. Tammy Lampley. We both had a crush on Brad Reece, the cutest guy in our class. We were in Ms. Hockins’ homeroom. I remember it all.” She was smiling and crying at the same time. The recently applied mascara ran down her cheeks. “God, Sherita, I remember everything. I know who I am. My name is Claire…Claire Ferguson.”

Sherita grinned, then took her hand and squeezed it. “Nice to finally meet you, Claire Ferguson.”

“God, you’re such a goodie-two-shoes. I can’t believe you won’t even tell me her first name.”

Sherita pressed the button for the elevator again. She wore her tan raincoat, and had a big purse hanging from her shoulder. She shook her head at her coworker, Angie, a stout Korean nurse in her early forties. “Sorry, hon, I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said, glancing up at the numbers over the elevator door. “A handful of doctors, the cops, and me—we’re the only ones who know about it. To everyone else, she’ll stay Jane Doe.”

“At least tell me what the husband’s like.” Angie nudged her. “Weren’t you there when they brought him in today?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t her husband,” Sherita said. “It was some whacko.”

The elevator finally arrived, and the doors opened. Sherita and Angie stepped inside. No one else was in the elevator, so Sherita felt free to talk. “I knew something was wrong with those photos he gave the cops. From what one of them told me, I guess this guy’s wife took a hike with their kid five years ago, and…well, someone on the force will have his ass in a sling for letting that looney-tune in to see her.”

“So—do they know who her real husband is?” Angie asked.

The elevator stopped on the first floor, and two people stepped on.

Sherita just smiled and shook her head at her friend. The last she heard, the police couldn’t find a Charles or Claire Ferguson on Cascadia Avenue in Seattle. Before clocking out tonight, she’d stopped by Jane Doe’s room. They’d given Jane Doe a sedative. She’d been groggy and a little out of it. “Why hasn’t Charlie been in to see me?” she’d whispered, grabbing Sherita’s hand. “Why don’t they get a hold of him?”

“It’s just taking them a while to track him down,” Sherita had replied. “You’ll see your man tomorrow, I’m sure.”

But Sherita wasn’t really sure at all.

Angie and the other two passengers stepped off at garage level B. Sherita said good-bye to her friend, and continued alone to level C.

She’d done a lot of running back and forth today, and her feet hurt. Strolling toward her car, Sherita looked forward to a long, hot shower and trying some peppermint-scented foot lotion she’d just bought.

Space 29, level C of the underground garage had been Sherita’s parking spot for over a year now. The florescent lighting, low ceiling, gray walls, and the cold concrete were so familiar to her that she rarely felt squeamish walking to and from her car—no matter what the hour. Right now, she didn’t see anyone else around. She heard cars moving on the level above, a faint rumbling and tires screeching in the distance.

She dug the keys from her purse and started toward her red Honda.

“Sherita?”

She stopped in her tracks. The voice wasn’t familiar. A mystified, half-smile frozen on her face, she glanced around. “Who’s there?” she called.

Sherita heard footsteps, but no response. She still didn’t see anyone. The smile faded from her face. “What’s going on?” she said loudly.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sherita saw a figure silhouetted in the doorway to a maintenance area. Then she blinked and he was gone. But the door was closing on its own—very slowly.

Sherita started past a row of cars—toward the entryway. She didn’t see anyone in the maintenance area beyond that door. A shaft of light from the other side was narrowing as the door almost closed. But Sherita grabbed the handle, and pushed it open again.

“Is anyone there?” she called.

To her left she noticed the open door to a boiler room with some machinery churning out a loud, continual humming noise. Straight ahead, another open door—to what looked like a broom closet. A bare lightbulb hung from a cord in that little room, and it swayed back and forth as if someone had just brushed against it. Shadows swept across the walls full of shelves, cluttered with cleaning supplies.

Sherita paused in the doorway and stared across the hall to that closet. She listened to the loud, mechanical drone from the room next door. For a moment, she couldn’t move. She’d been lured here hoping to see the man who had called her name. Now, she didn’t want to see him. She just wanted to get the hell out of there.

Sherita shook her head. “Fuck this,” she announced.

Backing out of the doorway, she half-expected someone to come at her from behind. She anxiously pulled shut the door, which must have been on some sort of slow-spring hinge. For a moment, it felt as if someone was pulling at the handle from the other side. Giving up, Sherita swiveled around and ran to her car. Her heart was racing, and she could hardly breathe. Fumbling with the keys, she glanced back over her shoulder.

The door was wide open again.

“Sweet Jesus,” she murmured.

With her hands shaking, she could barely insert the key into the car door. She kept looking around for this stranger, praying at the same time that she wouldn’t see him. She finally got the car door open, then ducked into the vehicle. Within seconds, she shut and locked the door, and started the ignition.

Sherita peeled out of the parking space. Then it suddenly dawned on her that she should have checked the backseat. She slammed on the brakes. The screech echoed throughout parking level C. Sherita froze for a moment, then peered into the rearview mirror. She reached back and patted the empty seat. No one.

Catching her breath, Sherita drove the three levels to the garage exit. The cashier on duty sat in his booth. Sherita was glad to see a familiar face. She thought about telling him what had happened down at level C, maybe even suggesting the police search the area.