Unseen (4 page)

Gemma’s eyes flew open, though she could still only see out of one. She recalled wearing the LuLu’s uniform, a typical old-time diner dress that came in varying colors—hers had been yellow—with pockets and a wide, white collar. Tourists loved LuLu’s, as much for the ambiance as the food.

“I inherited the diner,” she said aloud. But there appeared to be a block to that thinking. A dark wall. There was something more that she couldn’t quite reach.

“My mother worked at the diner.”

Your mother was a liar.

Gemma inhaled and glanced around, half expecting to find the source of that comment, but the words had been inside her head. She felt more pain but was determined to work her way through it. Carefully, she shuffled her way to the door. Would she be able to just walk out? Would they let her leave? She knew there was enough bureaucracy and paperwork waiting for her at hospital administration to make a stronger person weep, but she needed her identification, the name of her insurance company, the address of her home before she could settle her bill.

She wasn’t even sure she had the money to make that happen.

But she had to get out. She had to…find the man she’d been after and finish what she’d started. It was imperative. She could feel a clock ticking inside her head. Time was running short.

What if someone saw her? She looked like she’d barely survived a war. But then this was a hospital. She wouldn’t be the only one bandaged and bloody, would she?

And how the hell would she get to Quarry when she had no money? Did she have a car? The good-looking detective had asked how she’d gotten to the hospital. If only she knew. Had she driven herself and left her car in the lot? Even if she had, it was a moot point because she had no keys! And she had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove.

Nor could she come up with the name of a single friend.

Her heart squeezed. What if my name’s not Gemma LaPorte? There was something about it that sounded wrong. Like it was an alias. An identity trotted out when she didn’t want to give out her real name.

She moved as fast as she dared given her painful head and unsure stomach. She almost slipped right past the stairs, but then saw the sign above the door—an icon of a man in a running position over a jagged line meant to represent the stairs—and chose them with relief as the best way to escape.

She worked her way down the flight with an effort, her head jarring. On the next level down—identified as street level—she hesitated inside the stairwell, afraid to open the door. How long was the hallway between this door and the outside parking lot? How many people around? How many chances for someone to look her way and wonder about the bruise-faced patient with the head bandage?

Cautiously, Gemma pushed the bar on the door and cracked it open, just a bit. In her sliver of sight she could see a carpeted hallway and a row of windows that looked out toward freedom. She didn’t know what she’d do when she got there. But she just wanted
out
of the hospital.

There was, however, no exterior door visible, just rows of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the hallway and walked unhurriedly to her left, keeping the windows and parking lot at her right shoulder. Surely there would be an exit soon.

The hallway angled even farther left and Gemma rounded the corner.
EMERGENCY
was written in bold letters above a sliding-glass interior door and beyond was a large room with chairs, and even farther, another set of glass doors which led to a portico where an ambulance sat and EMTs were standing by, waiting for a call. No way she was going there. Quickly, she turned on her heel and retraced her steps.

“Hey,” a male voice called from behind her.

Her pulse leapt. She pretended to be deaf. Maybe they didn’t mean her. Maybe—

“Are you leaving the hospital, Ms. LaPorte?” the voice asked calmly.

Gemma looked up reluctantly, gritting her teeth at the familiar tone of the detective’s voice. Of course he was still here. Of course he would be the one to discover her. She had to slide her gaze away from his probing stare and taut physique. “I don’t have a purse,” she said. “My clothes were in the room, but I don’t have a purse.”

“Did you come by car?”

“I don’t remember.” Did he think he was going to surprise her into telling him something she didn’t know?

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Home. To Quarry.”

“By…foot?”

“Detective…Tanninger,” she said, reading his name tag. She couldn’t remember his first name. “I need to leave. Whatever this is costing, I can’t afford it. I need to find my identification. I need to go home.” Her voice quavered a bit and though she didn’t feel quite as weak as she sounded, she let him think what he wanted. And yeah, she felt bad and it was a simple matter to show it.

“You look like you could use a wheelchair.”

“I know what I look like,” she said wryly.

“Have you talked to the doctor about being released?”

She met his eyes again and didn’t change expression.

His lips twitched, but despite the lines at the corners of his eyes, Gemma didn’t trust that he possessed much of a sense of humor. She hadn’t known many people in law enforcement, but those she had—though she could not for the life of her call them up at this moment—had been notoriously lacking in humor and self-awareness. Their officiousness had left her with the vague sense that police officers were not on her side. Better to handle your own battles than call in the cavalry. Bad things lurked beneath the surface of those supposedly sent to serve and protect.

“You should probably be back in your room,” he said. “But if you want to go to administration and give over your address, name, and social, I can lead you there.”

He was afraid she intended to scam on the bill. That’s what he meant. She was outraged, yet wasn’t that what she’d planned to do? At least in the interim until she could figure out the missing pieces of her life?

Gemma didn’t want to go anywhere with Detective Tanninger. But she sure as hell didn’t want to go back to her room, either.

Yet…she sensed the weariness that was taking hold of her, a dark, descending gloom with strong tentacles. There was an urgency inside her. A need to finish some half-forgotten task, but she also had no means to get to that task and no reserve strength to make that happen. She was bound by her own lack of identification and funds, a weary, beaten body, and a sputtering memory that seemed to blink on and off like a traffic light.

“I think I’ll go back to my room,” she said tremulously.

“All right.” He led her toward the bank of elevators and punched the button for the fourth floor.

Gemma didn’t say anything more, concentrating solely on moving her quivering legs back toward her room. Will cupped her elbow with one hand and helped steady her. If he had more questions, he kept them to himself as they reached the fourth floor and he guided her into her room. Gemma sat herself heavily down on the bed and took a deep, calming breath.

“Do you feel up to a little more conversation?” the detective asked.

No,
Gemma thought. All she wanted to do was lie down and gather her strength again. Actually, all she wanted was to recall how she’d come to be at the hospital. But she didn’t want to give Tanninger any reason to make herself seem more interesting. “Fire away.” She eased herself against the headboard and pulled her shoes off, dropping them to the floor.

Nurse Penny looked into the room. “What are you doing?” she asked Gemma sharply.

“Trying to escape. But I got caught.”

The nurse whipped around to glare at Tanninger, as if it were somehow his fault. She pursed her lips, said she would bring Gemma a new hospital gown, then steamed out of the room as if they had both purposely thwarted her authority.

“Don’t you have more pressing cases than a mystery patient?” Gemma asked before Tanninger could speak.

“I was waiting to speak to the EMT who saw you come in two nights ago. We haven’t connected yet.”

“You said I walked in?”

“And collapsed.”

Gemma struggled to remember but her mind was empty. More gaps. “Did you tell me where I came in?”

“To the ER. From the parking lot. I’ll know more when I talk with the EMT.”

“I want to be there when you talk to him.”

“So, you’re not planning to disappear again, then, after I leave the room?”

“No.”

“I’m not sure that’s going to work out—”

Nurse Penny hustled back inside the room and gave Tanninger a look that said
vamoose
. He walked out the door and Gemma got a good look at his strong back, wide shoulders, and narrow hips as he disappeared from view.

“Let me help you put this on, hon,” the nurse said, and Gemma let her undress her and tie the gown around her back. “You don’t have someone to bring you fresh clothes?” she asked, inclining her head to the T-shirt and jeans.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll just head home and change. Tomorrow.”

“Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day. Depends on Dr. Avery.”

Tomorrow, Gemma thought determinedly. She had to get back to her real life. She had to remember what she’d been doing. What showdown she was heading for. Who, or what, she’d been after.

The nurse looked as if she wanted to take Gemma’s clothes with her, but she left them in a neat stack on the chair. Gemma momentarily wondered if she had the strength to put them back on, distasteful as that thought was becoming. But even as she gave up the idea for the moment, Detective Tanninger reentered the room.

They eyed each other for several moments, and then he observed, “If you’re too tired, I can come back.”

“I’d like to help you. I just don’t know if I can.”

“Where do you live in Quarry?”

Gemma hesitated. “It’s a farmhouse.”

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“It’s coming back, but it’s not all there yet,” she said.

“Take your time.”

“A lot of homes in Quarry are farmhouses, though there aren’t as many farms anymore. It was my parents’ place, Jean and Peter LaPorte, but they’re both gone and they left it to me.”

“You live there by yourself?”

Did she? Gemma opened her mouth, thought hard, then said slowly, “Yes…”

“You think your memory difficulty is from the concussion?” he asked casually.

“What else?” she responded quickly, her pulse jumping. But she had a moment of remembrance then. A mental snapshot of herself and her mother in the front room of the farmhouse. There was another woman sitting on the edge of her seat, staring hard at Jean LaPorte. Anxious. Waiting. And all around them the cloying, sweet scent of peonies from the magenta bouquet bursting in a vase on the scarred table.

“Your memory lapse seems greater than what I would expect from a concussion,” he said. “What’s your address?”

“I don’t really want to talk anymore.” Gemma looked away.

“You can’t remember it.”

“I’ve been in some kind of accident, detective. I’m not a hundred per cent. If you have a specific question, ask it. Otherwise I don’t think I can help you any further.”

He looked at her hard. “Afraid of me finding out that you ran down a man with your car?”

Gemma stared at him in shock. “What?” she asked softly.

“The man’s unconscious, upstairs. He’s a pedophile, by the looks of what we found in his van.”

“In his van…?” she repeated faintly.

“It looks like you ran him down on purpose.”

There was no humor in his face now. It was hard and tough and an accusation hung in his dark eyes. Gemma tried to remember. She’d remembered the man’s lust. She’d felt it. She’d chased him…

Or, had she? It felt like these were someone else’s memories. Manufactured. Not real, and not hers!

“No…I don’t think so,” she denied.

“You don’t think so.”

She didn’t respond and Tanninger went on to tersely explain about the man who’d been run down at a soccer field, how he’d been driving a van filled with handcuffs and chains and ropes, how some unidentified woman had aimed her car at him and flipped him into the air, how he’d survived the attack, but just barely. As Gemma listened she understood that the detective had been plying her with questions in order to find out what she knew, if anything, about the attack. He half-believed—maybe even fully believed—that she’d been behind the wheel of the car that had attacked the man, a pedophile.

When he was finished Gemma’s head felt like it was going to explode. Is that what she’d done? Is that why she couldn’t remember?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a shaking voice that nevertheless rang with conviction.

Tanninger drew a breath, expanding his chest. What did it say about her, Gemma wondered, that even when he was panicking her with his questions, she could notice how tan his skin was, how good he looked in his pressed shirt and dark pants, how strong and able he seemed, like someone she could depend on.

But then she recalled, with almost a ping of remembrance, that she’d always been attracted to a man in a uniform, no matter whether they had a sense of humor or not.

Outside good old Laurelton General, Inga Selbourne had raced to her Honda compact as soon as she’d gotten off work. She was proud to be a nurse. Proud to wear the uniform. Proud to have a job—a really good job!—at the best, the only, hospital in Winslow County. She’d congratulated herself again as she’d hurriedly unlocked the door and climbed inside, and she’d been congratulating herself all the way home to the little apartment attached to the farmhouse on the outskirts of the town of Laurelton itself.

Or, was it the inskirts of Laurelton? she thought with a grin, as it was on the eastern side of the city, toward Portland.

She’d had one heck of a time getting through nursing school. Whew, those classes had been rough. She’d had to pull all-nighters more often than she cared to admit, and even then if it hadn’t been for Jarrod Benningfield and his copy of that anatomy test, she would have been screwed! Jarrod’s sister had whizzed through the semester before, and Jarrod had handed Inga the test and the answers and all she’d had to do was pretend to be his girlfriend—the pimple-faced little horror—and oh, yeah, give him a blow job or two, but she’d been through that drill enough times to know that sex was a bargaining chip, nothing more.