Labyrinth

by Catherine Coulter

  Dr. Hicks laid his hand lightly on Savich’s shoulder. “I grant you they could have done a more thorough neurological exam a few hours earlier, but they were more concerned with her physical injuries, with making sure her life wasn’t in danger. It was good you were with her when she realized she didn’t remember, rather than someone who didn’t know her.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I asked you here. I wanted a friend as well as a doctor to see her, someone who knows who she is. What she is.”

  “I understand, and it’s my pleasure. Now I need to wake her up and do an exam, and frankly, it would be better if I’m alone with her. When I’m done, I’ll go check the MRI, and then we can talk. She’s going to recover from this, Savich, I can promise you that already.”

  Those few steady words calmed him. But Savich didn’t want to leave. Dr. Hicks looked after him as he finally walked out of the room, his steps lagging, then he looked back at Sherlock. Dr. Hicks couldn’t imagine how it felt for her to have no memory of self or anyone else close. He touched his fingers to her wrist. The pulse was steady and slow. Good. He pushed up his glasses and bent over her, lightly shook her awake.

  Twenty minutes later, Dr. Hicks walked into the family waiting room. Savich was on his feet in a flash. “How is she? What do you think, Dr. Hicks?”

  Dr. Hicks said quickly as he walked into the room, “She’ll be all right, Savich, as I told you. When I woke her, she didn’t know me, of course, but she accepted I was a doctor and a friend, and cooperated nicely with her neurological exam.”

  Dr. Loomis said from the doorway, “You must be Dr. Hicks.” Both men turned to see her walk in, her hand outstretched. “Your fame precedes you, Doctor. I’m Dr. Andrea Loomis. Sorry I couldn’t catch up with you earlier. And Agent Savich,” she added, nodding to him, “insisted he wanted to call you in.”

  Dr. Hicks smiled and shook her hand. “I’ve had a chance to examine your patient and take a look at the MRI you ordered for her. I don’t know if you’ve reviewed it, but it appears to be normal.”

  “Yes, it is.” Dr. Loomis looked over at Savich and said to both men, “As Agent Savich knows, we were quite surprised by how long her amnesia has lasted following the accident. She suffered a bad concussion, of course, lost consciousness at the scene for quite some time.”

  Dr. Hicks nodded. “Agent Savich has seen severe concussions in the course of his work, and many of the consequences. I was telling him Agent Sherlock and I spoke while I was examining her. I am very pleased to say her anterograde memory is intact, so she’s not confused, and she’s not complaining of dizziness or nausea at the moment. Her balance is good. She seems to be left only with her headaches, and of course, the post-traumatic amnesia.” He said to Savich, “I know she is your wife and that makes this very hard, but believe me, Savich, Sherlock will remember, her brain will sort itself out again and recover naturally.”

  “When?”

  “In my experience, all the concussion symptoms usually resolve in a few days or a week. Perhaps as soon as she wakes up again. Sometimes it takes longer for the headaches to go away, but they become less severe. Do you agree, Dr. Loomis?”

  Dr. Loomis said, “Yes, we all hope and expect her amnesia will clear up soon. I know concussions are scary, and it’s impossible to predict exactly what will happen and when, but both Dr. Hicks and I are optimistic, and so should you be, Agent Savich. It’s a matter now of your being patient—difficult, I know, but there’s really no choice. She will heal when she heals, and there’s nothing we can do to speed it up.”

  Savich said, “It wasn’t only that she didn’t know who I was or who our son, Sean, was or that she is an FBI agent. I even showed her a video. She didn’t recognize herself. You both think she’ll recover from all that?”

  Dr. Hicks said, “Yes, I do, even though that kind of amnesia is unusual. I expect she’ll recall the narrative of her life first of all. She might remember the distant past before last week. It might take even longer for her brain to lift the fog surrounding the accident, or perhaps she never will remember what happened. As Dr. Loomis said, we have to be patient.” He laid his hand on Savich’s shoulder. “You know all this. I’m sure you’ve spent much of the day reading about it.”

  Dr. Loomis’s cell sounded loud and sharp. She looked down, frowned, and said quickly, “In fact, Agent Savich, there is little reason for us to keep her in the hospital much longer. She can return home with you so long as you’re there to watch her yourself. I would be surprised if any of her symptoms worsen at this point, but if anything concerns you, bring her back to the hospital. I’m being paged to the ER. I’m sure I’ll see you later. Dr. Hicks, a pleasure to meet you.”

  When they were alone again, Dr. Hicks said, “All right, Savich, talk to me, tell me why I’m here. I know you’re worried about her, but that’s not all of it.”

  “All right, if she still can’t remember when she wakes up, could you hypnotize her, help her piece her memory back together?”

  “Ah, naturally, you would try to sort through every possibility. I could hypnotize her, of course, but I’d much rather err on the side of caution than plow ahead and try to attempt to force her to reconnect with all those memories before she’s ready. There’s a chance I might do harm. Her brain’s been badly shaken, shocked, and though the scans show no visible damage, there is damage nonetheless, too subtle to be seen. The brain is a wonder we barely understand, and it will repair itself without me. So let’s leave hypnosis off the table for the time being. We need to give her time, Savich, we need to simply wait.”

  9

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE, VIRGINIA

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  Carson DeSilva didn’t want to die. When she awoke, her head pounding from the blow, she found herself propped up against a concrete wall. She couldn’t move. She held still until the pain began to lessen. She saw her legs were straight out in front of her, her ankles bound tight with duct tape. Her arms were pulled behind her, her wrists taped together, with more duct tape, she imagined, and her hands and arms ached fiercely. She forgot the pain in her head as terror from the attack froze her. Her world shrank, turned dark, and she knew deep down more violence was coming. She would die, simply die, and no one would know. She was only twenty-eight years old and she’d be dead, simply gone. Forever. Despair slammed deep. She wanted to scream, howl at the unfairness of it all, but she didn’t have enough spit in her mouth to make it worthwhile.

  Stop it, Carson! You can figure this out, you always do. Don’t you dare give up or I’ll disown you. It was her mother’s voice, usually bright as Christmas bells, but now it was low and persistent in her ear—Carson, get yourself together, handle the head pain, you can do this, get yourself free, you have no choice.

  And so she forced herself to take deep breaths to slow down her galloping heart. She could handle the pain in her head. She could do this. Her mother was right, she had no choice.

  She looked around. She was in a basement—a concrete floor, naked pipes overhead, an ancient refrigerator against the far wall maybe fifteen feet away, beside the dozen wooden stairs leading up into shadows. Luckily, he’d left on the naked low-watt light bulb overhead or she’d be blind as well as duct-taped. She saw a stainless steel double sink on the far wall, shelves above it lined with cobwebbed mason jars and defunct tools, other odds and ends of past life. She shuddered at the thought of what was in those decades-old jars. There was nothing else, only the overwhelming stench of stale dead air. Was this basement in his house? The man who’d attacked her? Yes, she knew who’d struck her down, even though he’d bashed her on the back of the head. It was the same man she’d heard thinking at her loud and clear as she’d stood in front of Ellerby’s Market, two bags of groceries in her arms. She’d nearly stumbled over with the shock. It was amazing, impossible, that it was happening again right in front of a grocery store in the small Southern town of Gaffer’s Ridge, of all places. She’d only just arrived from New York for a few
days’ stay to interview a Nobel Prize–winning scientist for her employer, Aquino Communications. It was as if he’d been inside her head, or she inside his. It had happened to her a few times before, always unbidden, always unexpected. She’d gasped with shock at what she’d heard, and whispered, “The girls—what did you do to the girls?” He’d have had to be blind not to see her alarm, deaf not to have heard her words.

  He’d stood frozen, staring at her. “What? What did you say?”

  Her brain kicked back in with red danger signals and she’d managed to say in a level voice, “Nothing, nothing important,” and hurried away. He hadn’t tried to stop her. Had he believed he’d spoken aloud and she’d heard him? Carson had piled the groceries into her Toyota and driven to her small rental cottage four blocks away, hardly knowing whether to believe what had happened. But she had to believe it, the impossible had happened, she’d actually heard him thinking. She had to put the groceries away, then she’d go to the sheriff—and tell him what? I heard this man thinking about the three teenage girls I’d already heard were missing, and he thought their names and remembered Amy had died hard? Would the sheriff lock her up for disturbing his peace? Haul her off to the psych ward of the local hospital? And what if the man hadn’t killed those missing girls? But then how would he know Amy had died hard?

  She had to go to the sheriff—no choice, let the chips fall where they may. But he’d been faster. Now she was here, duct-taped and tied against the cold wall of a basement, probably in his house, and this wretched, beyond-weird nightmare could end up killing her.

  Her mom shouted at her again: Get it together, you’re being pathetic. For heaven’s sake, stop feeling sorry for yourself and figure out how to get yourself free so you can fight. You’ve got to get out of here before he comes back, because when he does, if you’re still tied up, he’ll kill you, maybe rape you for good measure. He knows you somehow guessed he was the one who disappeared those three teenagers, probably killed them.

  He’d thought all their names—Heather, Latisha, Amy—and he’d seen them, like perfect snapshots, and she’d seen them, too, lying motionless on beds, unmoving, blankets covering them. He’d thought of them only by their first names and, oddly, with the tenderness of a lover.

  Seeing the three girls was horrible, she couldn’t bear it. Carson thought she’d pass out from the soul-grinding fear if she didn’t get hold of herself. She had to push herself away from the three girls’ faces.

  Carson Estevao DeSilva, use your brain.

  She took a deep breath, sucked in the stale air. First, how to get out of duct tape, the modern world’s holy of holies for repairing everything under the sun? She worked her wrists, her ankles, but there was no play at all. She leaned her head back against the rough, cold concrete, closed her eyes, and thought. It hit her square between the eyes. She saw herself when she was ten years old, doing a forward flip off the balance beam, and, wonder of wonders, nailing the landing. She’d been a limber little monkey until a torn labrum had ended it. It was so long ago, but she still worked out hard, but—no, no negative thoughts—she could try. No, more than that, she would do it. She was her mother’s daughter.

  Carson inchwormed herself away from the wall. When at last she was flat on her back, she lifted her hips and brought her bound hands beneath her butt. Now for the hard part. Limber was one thing, contortion was quite another. She still couldn’t reach the duct tape on her ankles.

  She heard something, froze. Was he back? Would he open the basement door and come down any second? Would he kill her, like he had the three teenage girls? With his bare hands around her neck, choking her until she was gone? Carson didn’t move, barely breathed, listened for all she was worth.

  Nothing more. Maybe it was only the house settling, but still she knew she had to hurry. She dug in her heels and lifted her hips again as high as she could. She gritted her teeth, ignored the awful cramping in her legs, and twisted and bent until finally she managed to work her legs through her arms. She was breathing hard, clammy with sweat, but she’d done it, her arms were in front of her. She lay there panting, thanking her mom for the gymnastics lessons and her hard-nosed coach. She’d swear she heard her mom shout, Move!

  Carson went to work with her teeth, tugging gently on the duct tape seam at her wrists. Slowly, she peeled it back further and further. He’d wrapped the tape three times, he wasn’t taking any chances. When the last layer fell to the concrete floor, she shook her numb hands, then rubbed them against each other like Lady Macbeth, until finally she felt pins and needles. Now, for the duct tape on her ankles. As her hands strengthened, she was able to work faster. She couldn’t believe it, but finally, she was free. She slowly stood up, nearly collapsed, and leaned against the wall, breathing hard. She stamped her feet, leaned down to rub her calf muscles, willing the feeling to come back.

  She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, if it was still day or early evening. He’d gotten to her so fast. She’d turned to open her front door, thinking she was going to call her mom first, tell her what she’d seen and ask her advice—and felt a sudden flash of pain on the back of her head where he’d struck her. She touched the lump with light fingers, and thankfully didn’t feel any blood. She ignored her head and continued to work until she could feel her feet, and her legs were waking up. She walked a few steps, weaved a bit, and stamped her feet again against the concrete floor. Finally, she was good to go.

  She wanted to run up the basement stairs and keep running, but he could be up there, waiting. She’d been concentrating so hard on contorting her body to get free, it was possible she hadn’t heard him. Or maybe the basement was soundproofed. But if he was up there, wouldn’t she hear him thinking, like before? She didn’t know. Maybe it had been only a onetime thing. Better not blast out of the basement, not without a weapon. She saw an old jagged water pipe overhead, looking nearly ready to fall down. She jumped for it, but it was too high. She found an ancient three-legged stool in the corner next to the refrigerator and pushed it over beneath the pipe. Now, the trick would be not to fall off the stool and break her leg. Slowly, carefully, she managed to balance on it. When one of the stool legs started to wobble, she grabbed the pipe with both hands, steadied herself, gently eased her weight back onto the stool, got her balance again. She saw the jagged pipe was screwed into another pipe, so all she had to do was twist it free. Easier said than done, even with the pipes looking older than her grandmother. She didn’t have much leverage, but she was strong. She twisted again, but no movement. She pulled off her T-shirt, wrapped it around her hands, and tried again. Finally, she felt the pipe give.

  She twisted until it fell off into her hands. It was more than a foot long with edges sharp enough to plunge into a man’s throat. How had the pipe gotten so rusted? It didn’t matter. She carefully climbed off the stool, pulled her filthy T-shirt back over her head.

  She had her weapon, and even better, she had hope. She filled herself with cold rage at this monster who’d brought her here to kill her, who’d probably murdered three teenage girls. She began to climb the basement stairs, listened to the old wooden boards creak beneath her weight, loud as the crack of a fired gun to her ears, too loud.

  She walked to the top of the stairs, tried the door handle. To her relief, it wasn’t locked. Slowly, she pushed the door open. And froze.

  “Well, hello there. What a surprise to see you up here.”

  10

  * * *

  GAFFER'S RIDGE

  Special Agent Griffin Hammersmith wanted some sleep after the best Reuben sandwich he’d ever had in his life—well, the best since the Reubens Jenny had made him back when they were students at Penn State years before.

  Maybe he’d take a nap after he walked back to Jenny and Aimée Rose’s house on Cedar Lane, but for now, walking and breathing in the sweet clean mountain air felt fine. He took a look back at Jenny’s Café, always bulging with tourists in the summer and with locals year-round, from 7:00 a.m. when the do
ors opened. She closed at 2:00 p.m. most days because, she’d told him, she and Aimée Rose wanted a life and she didn’t want to lose her chef in training, Alfredo Smith, who wouldn’t deal well alone with a dinner crowd. Griffin stretched tired muscles, rubbed his neck, saw Kyler Park ahead, and thought about curling up and zoning out on one of the wooden benches. It had been a long drive from Washington, but he’d made it in under four hours even with all the traffic, thanks to his new Range Rover with enough horses under the hood to start a ranch. Savich had insisted both he and Ruth take some time off after they’d closed a particularly bizarre case with the small police department in Picken’s Creek, Arkansas, an hour south of Little Rock. It had been a hairy case—he’d nearly lost Ruth to a crazed, drug-addled teenager, but they’d managed to take him down. He wondered if she’d told her husband, Sheriff Dix Noble of Maestro, Virginia, and her two teenage stepsons about what had happened. Knowing Ruth, she probably hadn’t.

  “Hey, gorgeous! Wait up, you forgot your tablet.”

  Griffin turned to see Jenny’s partner in business and in life, Aimée Rose, striding through a knot of happy tourists toward him, his red-leather-covered tablet in her outstretched hand. He’d been showing them shots of his new condo in Capitol Hill. Aimée Rose’s very feminine, soft name made him smile, since she was tougher than a heat-seeking missile, brooked no nonsense, and was as full of dreams as Jenny. She loved to tease and she loved to dance, and with a skillet and a stove, she’d whip up an omelet to make the angels weep. She was dressed in skinny jeans and a light blue T-shirt that said GIVE ME LIBERTY OR GIVE ME SPAGHETTI, neither rhyme nor reason to that, but it got a laugh.