From Ashes to Honor (18 page)

S
he'd never ignored his call before, and he hoped she wasn't ignoring him now.

Not that he'd blame her if she did. He'd behaved like a complete idiot today. In truth, not just today, but ever since that night in her kitchen, when she'd made it impossible for him to convince himself that
maybe,
under her bluster and blow, beat the heart of a true believer.

He'd never been one to jump to conclusions, so why do it now? She'd probably stepped out for milk or eggs, or treats for Woodrow. He'd shower and shave and change into his uniform, and try her again. Surely she'd have returned from running errands by then.

While getting ready, he gave some thought to the way he'd acted. He didn't like admitting that his attempts to step back and take stock had probably hurt her feelings. Bud had been right, suggesting that he could pray, and that he and Mercy had time to make things right—unlike him and Flora. When he finally got hold of her, Austin intended to explain. Apologize.Do whatever it took to ensure that whatever happened between them, she wouldn't hate him.

The possibility of that hit him hard, because she'd already been beaten up by life. He sure didn't want to be the cause of still more pain, just because she didn't see eye to eye with him about . . .

. . . about the most important element in his life.

Still, what kind of example had he been, behaving like a sanctimonious jerk who, over the years, had convinced himself that his way is
the
way.

In truth, though, that's exactly what it was. Still . . . .He picked up the phone and punched in her number. When she answered, he'd suggest dinner and a movie, so he soften her up before laying his cards on the table. During the second ring, he ran down a mental inventory of possible restaurants.By the fourth, he remembered two movies he'd read about in the Style section of
The Baltimore Sun.
On the sixth, her voice was preceded by a series of clicks: "Hi! Sorry I can't take your call, but if you'll leave your name and number after the beep, I'll get back with you just s soon as I can. Unless you're selling something."

Grinning at her final words, he waited for the beep. "Hey, Merc, it's me, Austin. Call me when you get a minute, will you? Oh, and thanks for dinner. And for letting Griff join us. The whole day was . . . was just great."

Nothing more to do now but wait, because unfortunately, the ball was in her court.

Austin grabbed his keys and cell phone, and as he locked up a deafening blast of thunder rolled overhead. Lightning zigzagged through the sky, each blinding flash lighting the marina with white light that put the sunshine to shame. The wind sent crisp leaves skittering across the walkways and started the boats bobbing like gigantic corks in the water. Rain came down in sheets, and he ran full-out to his truck, praying with every step that when he got home in the morning, there'd be a red light blinking on his answering machine.

The next eight hours raced by as one call after another put them out there in the icy black rain. First, a head-on collision on I-95, then a domestic dispute that left a young mother with cracked ribs and a broken arm. Down on Eutaw Street, a homeless man was discovered by a jogger, unconscious and bleeding after a gang of teens cut the gold teeth from his mouth.Then a brazen robbery at the corner of Holabird and Broening Highway, where a liquor store cashier gave his life to save his boss a whopping seventy-two bucks.

Normally, he and McElroy would grab a coffee at Dunkin Donuts after filling out their reports. Tonight, between the bone-chilling weather and the back-to-back incidents of mayhem, both opted to hole up at home, where it was warm and dry—and safe. The closer Austin got to the marina, the more he looked forward to hitting the button that would allow him to hear the voice that was so easy on his ears.

If he'd really believed that she wouldn't return his call, Austin might have devised a plan to help him cope with the enormity of his disappointment.

The bottle called to him again, and this time, he had three choices: Call Griff, unscrew that cap, or reach for the Bible.

Two hours later, a crick in his neck woke him. He'd fallen asleep reading Psalms, and when he sat up to work out the kinks, the Good Book fell to the floor. He picked it up and slid it gently onto the shelf above the television, grabbed the remote and laid on the sofa to watch the a.m. news.

"And on the local front," said Don Scott, "police are trying to identify a woman found beaten in Fells Point."

Fear gripped Austin's heart as he bolted upright. "No," he grated, "it can't be." There could be a dozen reasons why Mercy hadn't returned his call. Maybe she'd taken the phone off the hook. Or last night's storm killed the power in her house.

"The photo you're about to see is very graphic in nature, so if there are children nearby, we suggest you usher them from the room," Scott continued.

The screen filled with the full-color photo of a badly-beaten woman. "If you know this woman," the anchorman said, "please contact police at—"

On his feet now, his pulse pounded. Even with eyes swollen shut, he recognized Mercy. Why hadn't he paid more attention, because how would he find out which hospital they'd taken her to?

He grabbed the phone and called the station, explained the situation and got the information he needed. Mercy was at Johns Hopkins. In the ICU. Recovering from surgery. Alone.

"Not if I have anything to say about it," he growled, halfrunning toward the door. He'd call Bud on his way to the hospital, let him know where he could be reached if he or Flora needed anything.

Still in uniform when he arrived, no one questioned his presence in the Intensive Care Unit. He walked the halls until he found her in the last glassed-in room on the left. It broke his heart to see Jane Doe written on the wall outside the door.Teeth clenched, he walked past it and into the dimly lit room.

She looked tinier than ever, propped at a thirty-degree angle in the bed.

A thick white bandage covered her right eye, and a pulley contraption held up her right leg. There was a sling on her right arm, and he'd have been hard-pressed to find a spot on her that wasn't bruised or bloodied.

They'd attached her to just about every monitoring devise at their disposal. He read the screens, relieved that her blood pressure and pulse rate, at least, were normal and stable. It was

time to talk to the doctor on call, find out what had happened.Austin headed for the desk, and rapped lightly on the counter to get the attention of the floor nurse.

"The woman in 2424," he said, aiming a thumb over his shoulder. "She's not a Jane Doe. I know who she is."

She sucked in a little gasp. "Good!" She handed him two slips of paper. "Write down whatever information you can on this one, and that's the number we were told to call if anyone identified her. Why don't you get hold of the police while I try and locate Dr. Eversly?"

Austin sat on a bench across the way and dialed the number, explained why he was calling, and pulled as many facts from the duty officer as possible: Last evening, witnesses called 9-1-1 to report that three young men in hoodies, blue jeans, and high-tops were in the process of assaulting a young woman at the corner of Bond and Shakespeare Streets. No weapons were seen, but a broken flashlight had been collected near the gutter where she'd been found.

His mind froze at the word "gutter." What sort of animals would do something so vicious and violent? And why?

"Did they break into her house?"

"No forced entries were reported in the area," said the officer."But since we didn't know who she was, we had no way of checking out where she lived."

Austin provided her address, and the cop promised to send a squad car to check things out. "Will you call me when they report back, let me know what they found?"

"This woman . . . ." Papers rattled. "Dr. Samara. Is she a family member?"

"No, she's—"

"Fiancée?"

Austin knew where this was going, because he'd been on the asking end of this conversation as a cop in New York. Unless he provided some personal connection, the officer couldn't release pertinent information to him. "Yeah, and she has no one but me." He provided his station and i.d. numbers, then added "I was on duty when this went down. Couldn't get hold of her and didn't know what to think. Then I saw her picture on the news."

"Sorry, bud. That's gotta be tough."

The man had no idea
how
tough. "Well, thanks for the info, but I'd better get back into her room, in case she wakes up."

"Call this same number when she does. We'll send somebody over to take her statement."

He could've kissed the guy for saying "when" instead of "if."Later, he'd drive over to her place, make sure things were buttoned up good and tight, and feed Woodrow. That would take a load off her mind when she came to. And while he was there he'd dig around for her insurance information. Call the high school to let them know she wouldn't be at work on Monday morning. Pick up a few of her personal items—a comb and toothbrush, slippers, a few magazines.

For now, hearing the doctor say she'd be all right was the only thing that mattered. So when he saw Eversly walk into her room, he all but tackled the guy and grilled him until he had the man's word that Mercy would walk out of here, eventually.

"She'll be out of it for at least another day," Eversly said."We've loaded her up on pain meds to keep her quiet and still so she can recover from the surgery."

It seemed she'd suffered significant internal damage.Infection was a major concern, so they'd loaded her up with antibiotics, too.

Satisfied Mercy could pull through this, Austin thanked the doctor and made his way to the chapel, got on his knees at the altar . . .

. . . and broke down and cried.

M
ercy's first thoughts as quiet whispering floated on the outskirts of her consciousness were of Austin. Hopefully, whomever told him that she'd been murdered in front of her own house had done it with a modicum of kindness.

What
were
those sounds, anyway? Certainly not angel's wings, because even if she'd been wrong all these years and there
was
a God in heaven, He wouldn't welcome someone who'd vehemently denied His very existence.

Or would He?

"Dr. Samara?"

Odd. The Lord of the known universe—who'd supposedly created her—addressing her in such a formal way? She tried to smile, to open her eyes and say, "Please, call me Mercy." But neither her lips nor her eyelids cooperated.

The questions in her head, the sound of a man's voice, the steady beeps echoing in her ears, none of it made sense, and all of it raised serious concerns about her condition. She'd earned a medical degree before choosing psychiatry as her specialty, and understood only too well that these things were not normal.

"Mercy? My name is Dr. Eversly. If you can hear me, will you open your eyes for me, please?"

Odder still, the disappointment she felt, hearing proof that it wasn't God.
Really,
she tried to say,
I'm not being intentionally rude. I'm trying to respond.

Evidently, she had survived the attack. That would explain the pain pulsing through her body and a doctor beside her bed.

"I'll be back," Eversly said, "after I've made my rounds."

All right. Don't hurry on my account. It isn't as if I'm going anywhere.

"I'll page you if she comes to."

A woman's voice, now. A nurse, she supposed. Mercy would laugh—if her traitorous body would only cooperate.
How selfcentered to think the doctor was talking to
you!

She heard the unmistakable sounds of a pen, scritchscratching over paper. "I'm decreasing the pain meds. Maybe that'll bring her around."

Then the rattle of the clip-board that held her chart, clunking into place on the hook at the foot of her bed. And except for the monitor that counted her heartbeats, silence.

When she woke up—if she woke up—would the lower dosage be a shock to her system? During her days as an attending, she'd seen a patient go into cardiac arrest because the pain put too much stress on his system. The surgeon had blamed the man's age, the severity of his injuries, and a preexisting history of hypertension for his death. Was she strong enough— physically and constitutionally—to withstand the pain?
That'll depend on the extent of your injuries.
That, she thought, and a real desire to survive.

"Put them over there."

Put what, where?
she wondered.

A gentle pressure on her wrist, followed by the sensation that the nurse was fiddling with her IV tubes. "I just love roses," she told Mercy. "They're my favorite flowers, especially white ones. If you don't wake up soon, I might just give in to the temptation to sneak one from the bouquet and tuck it behind my ear!"

And then she left the room and left Mercy wondering how long had she'd been in the hospital?
Long enough for someone to send a get well gift.

The mattress dipped. The nurse, taking advantage of an opportunity to rest her weary legs? Or Eversly had finished his rounds? If only she could ask what type of surgery had been required, how long before she'd regain control of her limbs— and her faculties!

A warm hand blanketed hers, a soothing, comforting sensation.If only it could cover all of her.

"Holy mackerel. You're as cold as ice."

Austin.

Footsteps, then his voice, coming from farther away. "Nurse, could we get one of those heated blankets in here? She's freezing."

Then the bed shaking slightly as he sat down again. "Don't you worry," he said, sandwiching her hand between his own, "we'll get you warmed up in no time."

Thanks.

"Glad to see the roses arrived."

Wish
I
could see them, so I could tell
you
how much I love them!

"You gave me quite a scare, y'know."

Sorry.

"I must have called you a dozen times after I dropped Bud and Flora off. Then I gave up."

Why?

"Thought maybe you'd get it into your pretty little head to call the cops, report me as a stalker."

She heard the smile in his voice.

"And then I saw your picture on the news."

He blew a stream of air through is lips. She knew because he'd done it before. And because she felt the light breeze travel over her hand.

"I wouldn't say this if you were awake, but I hate hospitals.Always have, but never more than when my mom was admitted.With a job like mine, I see the inside of 'em more often in a month than a hundred other people see in a lifetime. I'll never get used to it."

Sorry to put you through this. You don't have to stay. I'll be fine.
Really.

"Went to your house."

Oh? Why?

"Had to see for myself that the . . . those . . ."

She could almost picture him, grimacing as he tried to keep a civil tongue in his head.

"They found you a couple blocks from home, so I guess that's why those sorry excuses for human beings didn't get in.Your door was locked. No sign of a B and E."

That's good. A real relief. Did you see Woodrow, by any chance?

"Called the high school and left a message at the office. I let them know you won't be at work on Monday."

Thanks. That was really thoughtful of you. And what about Woodrow?

"Hope you don't mind, but I rummaged in your office, looking for insurance information."

Mind! I'm grateful as I can be! But where did you get the keys to the front door?

"Eversly—he's the surgeon who patched you up—"

Yes, I know. We've met. Sort of.

"—he says you'll be here in the ICU for another couple days.At least 'til you regain consciousness."

Ah, good. That means he expects it to happen. Now, about Woodrow . . . .

"Then a couple days to a week in a regular room."

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "You'll probably flip your lid when you're able to talk, but I don't care. When they let you out of here, I'm going home with you. You won't be able to do anything for yourself, at least not at first."

Then wouldn't it be better to hire an in-home nurse, to spare us both the awkwardness of—

"I can change dressings, administer meds—all the medical stuff—but I've arranged for in-home nursing, mostly to see to your, ah, your personal needs? You know, sponge baths, using the, ah, facilities, stuff like that."

If she were a gambler, Mercy would have bet Austin was blushing right about now.

"But I'll be there for everything else. Round the clock. You've got my word on it. And I won't take no for an answer."

Right. With your crazy work schedule? How will you manage that?

"I have a month of vacation time coming, and it begins whenever Eversly gives you the green light to go home."

The offer was so sweet, so thoughtful and caring, that she would have cried—if only her body would allow it.

"Aw, Merc . . . ."

She felt the rasp of a work-hardened fingertip at the corner of her eye.

"Please don't cry, sweetie. Are you in pain?"

Not the physical kind.
It was a relief to know her tear ducts, at least, were functioning normally. But not being able to communicate? Yes, painful. Definitely!

"I'm sure you're scared. The most normal and natural reaction to a thing like this in the world. You've been through one heck of an ordeal, but try and remember that you're in the best hospital in the world, and Eversly has an excellent reputation—I know, because I Googled him a while ago. Take my word on it: Everything's gonna be all right. And if anything crops up that isn't? Well, you have my word that I'll
make
it all right."

The bed moved again, a sign he was on his feet.

Don't leave yet. Stay a while longer, OK?

Something soft and satiny brushed her hand, and it brought back memories of brushing her Barbie doll's hair. It wasn't until she heard Austin's trembly voice that Mercy realized he'd dropped to his knees, pressed his forehead to the back of her hand.

"Dear Father in heaven, wrap Your merciful arms around this precious woman. Heal her from the inside out, and if there's any pain involved with her recuperation, let me bear it in her stead."

She'd never known anyone who, with nothing but a few words, could touch her the way Austin could. Never knew anyone who cared this much about her, either, except maybe her dad. Mercy's eyes began to leak again. More proof that the drugs were wearing off, because she felt the tears inch down her cheeks.

"Watch over her, Lord, and make sure she knows how very much she's treasured . . ."

Good thing you're sitting up, or the tears would puddle in your ears, and you wouldn't be able to hear his beautiful voice.

". . . and how much she's loved. I ask all this in Your most holy name, Amen."

It had been a long, long time since Mercy had believed in anything, and after 9/11, she hadn't believed in anyone, either.But she believed in this man, wholly and completely.

If she believed in the
Almighty,
she'd thank Him right now for bringing Austin back into her life . . .

. . . and then she'd beg Him to
keep
Austin near.