Forgotten Place

by LS Sygnet

  "I see."

  "Is Journey all right?"

  "If I were to tell you that she wasn't okay, does anybody come to mind –"

  "Jim Linder."

  "Now why am I not surprised to hear that?"

  "Officer –"

  "Detective Mackenzie," Dev said. "I talked to one of Journey's other friends this morning, Amy Peterson. Are you acquainted with her?"

  "Yes, yes. Journey, Amy, Sam, Elizabeth – they were all close friends in college. Amy and Sam have been Journey's best friends since grade school."

  "Sam?"

  "Samantha Wine. She's an editor at Sync! magazine. What happened to my friend? You've got to tell me, detective. Today of all days... God, I wonder if Elizabeth knows. We planned to have her over, but she said she wanted to spend the afternoon with her mother."

  "There was an incident at the hospital this morning. She was injured, but the doctors believe she'll make a full recovery. I want you to tell me why James Linder was the first person you thought of when I asked who might want to harm Ms. Ireland."

  "Because he's a freak for one thing. Journey went through some stuff a few years ago. She was vulnerable –"

  "After her mother was diagnosed with dementia?"

  Evans nodded. "That was when she decided to become a clinical psychologist. Her mom was very young when she was diagnosed."

  "But you've known Journey for years, yes?"

  "Since middle school," Evans nodded. "Her dad was already gone, and Journey's mom was…I wouldn't say paranoid, but she was certainly over protective. I guess she had plenty of good reasons after her husband was assassinated. We were freshmen in college when her mom was diagnosed, so that's been gosh eight or nine years ago. Journey wanted to teach English literature until that happened. Everything changed for her."

  "Understandable. Were you dating at the time?"

  He nodded. "But she didn't think it was fair to me, you know, putting me through everything that she was facing with her mom. She moved back home and stayed with her mom until it got to the point where she started wandering off. Isabella got pretty paranoid, kept talking about men outside the house trying to break in. Journey got the doctors to put her on all kinds of medication for the delusions and paranoia, but she just kept getting worse."

  "So she put her mom in the convalescent home."

  "Right, that would've been during grad school I guess. Three years ago maybe?"

  "And Linder came into the picture after that."

  "Maybe a year later. We figured that the attraction, creepy as it sounds, was in part because Journey lost her dad when she was about ten years old, so Linder kinda was like a father figure. We tried to get to know him, detective, but it seemed like he was more interested in keeping her away from her old friends."

  "Was that why the relationship ended?"

  "I'm not sure. Journey, for as kind and caring as she is, she's so private. If anybody would know the details, it would be Sam Wine."

  "The reporter."

  "Editor," Tim said. "But she started out as a reporter, and she's got a way of getting people to open up to her, detective. Nobody hates Jim Linder more than Sam does. I know Journey had to have told Sam something about why they stopped seeing each other."

  Devlin pondered the likelihood of prying something private out of a close friend versus using a resource he might have to get the same information from the victim. Helen Eriksson. Hadn't the papers intimated that she almost singlehandedly trapped Jerry Lowe into his web of guilt? And what about the meth guy and his militia kook cousin? Surely she'd be able to convince Ireland to explain why Jim Linder was looking like a good candidate for attempted murder.

  Devlin thanked Evans.

  "Would it be all right if we check on Journey at the hospital?"

  "Last I heard, she wasn't out of surgery yet."

  "Can you tell me what happened to her? Was she shot?"

  "Some son of a bitch slit her throat," Devlin said. "She's lucky one of our detectives was around the corner in the parking garage when she was attacked."

  Chapter 6

  One of the side effects of drugs in the class of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors is bizarre dreams. I know this. I know a lot of things about drug therapy, even though I've never actually treated patients with emotional disorders. Sometimes it's the odd information about mental illness and its treatment that sticks in my brain.

  If my subconscious was projecting the freakish garbage of my mind onto the backs of my eyelids before I added Prozac to the cocktail in my blood, its addition certainly didn't help. At least the cognitive dissonance was absent this time. No way was a hot fudge sundae capable of chasing me around the house.

  I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and tried to reconcile that the luscious maraschino cherry transforming into a red fire alarm clanging probably wasn't an accident. All the phone ringers were off but one – the iPhone on the stand beside my bed. My fingers crawled across the surface and grabbed it. One of them smeared across the glass screen.

  "H'lo?"

  An awkward pause followed.

  Ah, hell. Is this Orion already?

  "Did I wake you?"

  The voice wasn't immediately familiar. It floated back slowly. "Detective Mackenzie, isn't it?"

  "Am I disturbing you?"

  "No, you're fine. What's going on?"

  "Just got a call from MSUH. Journey Ireland is waking up. Wanna ride along?"

  I rubbed a little more sleep out of my eyes. "Detective –"

  "I know we got off on the wrong foot this morning, Dr. Eriksson. I'm so sorry I didn't know who you were."

  "We'll be on better footing if you stop calling me doctor. Helen will do. And besides, I'm not on active duty yet, detective."

  He explained the conversation he had over a midafternoon meal with one of Journey Ireland's ex-boyfriends. "You say Ned is taking the interview with Linder?"

  "Uh-huh. But my concern with Ms. Ireland is that if she was reluctant to tell her close friends why she dumped this guy, she's probably going to be even less likely to tell me. I figured somebody with your background and experience could relate to her better, maybe one psychologist to another."

  I didn't disagree with his reasoning, but in the recesses of my dream state another thought occurred to me. "There's another avenue entirely that I'm not sure we've considered. If Dr. Ireland is treating patients as a clinical psychologist, her attacker could've been a former or even current patient. What do we know, if anything, about her job at MSUH?"

  "I could come pick you up if you want to tag along but aren't feeling up to the drive," Mackenzie suggested.

  More coddling from the male population. My old friend stubbornness dug in her heels. She might've been muted by pain of multiple sources, but she wasn't dead. "I'll meet you at the hospital, detective."

  "Hey," he said, "if I have to call you Helen, you could at least call me Devlin."

  "Deal." I squinted at the Rolex. Quarter to four. "Give me about half an hour and I'll meet you in the hospital lobby."

  I splashed water in my face and realized it had been two months since makeup had coated the surface of my skin. Did I have time? Crevan's warning about how Orion would react if he saw me in my current state loomed on the periphery of items in the category of I don't have time for this bullshit.

  Layers of Estée Lauder filled in the lines and grooves that if I could be more honest probably resembled craters and canyons, and hid dark circles that would've made Tom Brady proud. (Go Patriots!) I had to speed like a maniac, but I made it to MSUH looking a little more human if not still emaciated. How had my rib cage become so visible without me noticing?

  Mackenzie waited for me in the lobby.

  "Shall we get it right this time?" I grinned and extended a clean hand. "Nice to meet you, Devlin. I'm Helen."

  He squeezed my hand gently. "You look much better this afternoon. Ned, Crevan and I were talking earlier this afternoon, and even Ned said he hardly recognized you this m
orning."

  "Well," here came the carefully constructed half-truth, "my therapy is so early in the morning that I generally roll out of bed and dash off without worrying about looking presentable. Unfortunately, my therapist isn't always treated to my best behavior. I figure it's less jarring if I behave like an ass when I look the part."

  He chuckled. "She thinks pretty highly of you from what I gathered."

  "When did the hospital call about Journey waking up?"

  "About five minutes before I called you. The nurse said her surgeon reported that the procedure went well. They used some kind of patch, I guess, on the jugular vein."

  I was vaguely familiar with the procedure called patch venoplasty. It was important because it indicated that the injury to Journey's jugular vein had not caused such massive blood loss prior to treatment that she had been too unstable for the procedure. "Do we know who her surgeon was?"

  "Doctor by the name of Waters, Alexander, I think she said. Is that important?"

  "All details are important. Don't get your hopes up too high about how much she'll be able to tell us right now, Devlin. Anesthesia takes awhile to wear off beyond waking. She's probably pretty terrified right now too. Imagine how you'd feel if some guy grabbed you and slit your throat."

  "I'd like to see somebody try."

  "Where does the machismo out here come from? I realize that a lot of men around here are unnaturally large, but seriously," I shook my head and dipped my chin to mask the grin.

  "Did I offend..." He caught a glimpse of my grin and chuckled. "You're runway material yourself, Helen. Don't cast stones at those blessed with height greater than yours."

  "It's great though, isn't it? I find myself missing that distinct advantage out here."

  "Towering over short men and intimidating them?"

  "Ah, good times."

  The elevator chimed and we stepped into a unit I knew all too well – the surgical floor, where I spent time with Maya during her ordeal and later, suffered through my early recovery. Ginny was on duty.

  "Helen!"

  "Don't they ever let you have a day off? How are you Ginny?"

  "I'm great, but you look a little... thin. Please tell me that you're not checking back into the place."

  I smiled past the annoyance of having my weight loss highlighted and made a silent promise to gorge on every high calorie food I could find on the way home from the hospital. "I wasn't that much of a terror was I? Jokes aside, we're here to see someone."

  "Journey Ireland," she said softly. "She's waking up. You must be the detective I spoke to when I called." Ginny turned to Mackenzie and gave a curt nod.

  "Do you think she can answer questions yet?" he asked.

  "I'm not her nurse, but Jan was told to let me know when she woke lucid so I could call right away."

  I noticed the new badge Ginny wore designating her as the charge nurse. "Congrats on the promotion Ginny. Which way to Journey's room?"

  She directed us and I reiterated to Devlin not to anticipate a smooth interview. "It was a full day before I was aware of much more than agony after I was shot. We're somewhat prepared for the notion of injury on the job. For Journey, this assault came out of nowhere."

  "I get it, Helen. Let's see what we're dealing with. I'm anxious to find out what Linder did that prompted her to cut him out of her life. While I can't say this for a fact, from what Evans told me, I have every reason to believe this girl isn't the type to let people drift out of her life, yet the welcome mat was definitely revoked in Linder's case." He added, half muttering under his breath, "Another reason why people should stick to their own generation when looking for a mate."

  "Detective Mackenzie, are you an ageist?"

  He eyed me carefully. It was clear he was trying to gauge the seriousness of my question. Finally he grinned. "Anything up to eight years is fair game. Much more than that and it's entering a creepy zip code."

  I shook my head. Ideas etched in stone. I started to see a little bit more of Darnell's influence on Detective Mackenzie. "How old are you anyway?"

  "You interested?" he grinned.

  I elbowed him in good nature. "I'm thirty-eight. You tell me? Am I off limits."

  "In the allowed range."

  "Good to know."

  He pushed the door open after a light knock. "Ms. Ireland? Detective Mackenzie and Dr. Eriksson from Darkwater Bay police. Do you mind if we come in for a moment?"

  I stared at the girl lying in the bed and wondered if I'd ever been that young. She looked like eighteen tops, but I knew she had to be older than that if she had a PsyD already. Ebony hair was pulled into a pony tail draped over the back of her pillow. Her skin, while probably a bit on the anemic side from the trauma of her morning, looked natural somehow. From ten feet I could see the brilliant blue of her eyes.

  Like Johnny's, my heart whispered. Johnny the still absent, but probably lurking around a corner somewhere ready to jump out and impale me with his sad eyes, ex-lover that couldn't understand why I had to push him out the door. None of them could understand. Did I understand it?

  She blinked at us like a china doll and opened deep red lips that stood out in stark contrast to the unblemished white skin. Not even a hiss escaped her throat. Panic flooded our living china doll's face. One hand flew to the bandage on her throat.

  The first thing I noticed was the betadine that stained her skin, orange streaks that bore evidence to her surgical treatment. A few crimson droplets marred the crisp, sterile gauze.

  "Journey, are you in pain?" I stepped close to the bed and perched on the edge. "I'm Dr. Helen Eriksson."

  The orbs grew in diameter.

  "Do you know who I am?"

  Journey nodded.

  "Are you in pain?"

  Slight head shake. One large tear drooled from her right eye and got trapped in long lashes.

  "Can you speak?"

  She shook her head again.

  "Can I leave you with Detective Mackenzie for a moment while I talk to your nurse about this?"

  Yes, again, this time knocking the tear free to the law of gravity.

  "Devlin, I'll be right back."

  I slipped out of the room and found Ginny. "Were you aware that she's unable to speak?"

  "Uh... no. Jan?" No response. Ginny stomped five steps and ripped an ear bud out of Jan's ear (at least I presumed it was Jan). "Did you actually talk to Journey before you told me she was awake?"

  "Huh?" She snapped gum between her molars.

  "Journey. Journey Ireland. You reported that she was awake about an hour ago. When you did your assessment, did you speak to her?"

  "Well duh."

  Ginny's posture bristled. "And did she happen to answer any questions you asked her?"

  "Well, I didn't like, ask her anything. I did my assessment and told you she was awake."

  I heard Ginny's eyes roll hard. She spun around and made a loud ahem. "What's going on, Helen?"

  "We tried to talk to her. She is completely lucid, but she can't even whisper."

  "Let me see if Dr. Waters dictated report has been transcribed yet. From the report I got, the accuracy of which I question," she tossed the comment back at Jan who already replaced her ear bud and thumbed through a magazine, "Journey's injury didn't include damage to her vocal chords, but you never know what can happen when an endotracheal tube is inserted."

  Her fingers clacked over the keyboard. A moment later, Ginny was half reading aloud. "Laceration to the external jugular... segment of vein approximately zero point six millimeters too damaged for sutures or anastomosis... hemodynamically stable... damaged area patched with... soft tissue injury to the left neck closed without complications..."

  "Ginny?"

  "I don't see anything in here that would indicate injury to her vocal chords, Helen. Let me page Dr. Waters and have him come down and take a look at her."

  "I'd appreciate that, but in the meantime, would it be possible for me to have some paper and a pen? I'd like to be able
to communicate with her before the surgeon gets wrapped up in diagnosing what might be wrong with her. The sooner she can give us a statement, the better."

  "Absolutely. Waters might be in surgery this afternoon, and his tend to be complicated enough that we end up dealing with his residents for emergencies post op."

  "What's his specialty?"

  She grinned. "He is the great vascular God. Sweetest surgeon you'll ever meet, but the guy is in demand like you wouldn't believe."

  I understood completely. I read somewhere once that if every vessel in the human body could be sewn into one long strand, it would measure over 68 thousand miles in the average adult. That's a lot of pipes pumping blood. There wasn't a surgical procedure that couldn't conceivably require the expertise of someone like Dr. Waters if something went wrong.

  "I hope not all of his patients arrive on his table in Journey's condition."

  Ginny chuckled and thrust a stack of blank pages from the tray of the fax machine into my hand. "Here's a pen. Good luck. Believe it or not, Journey is well known – and adored – on every unit in this place. I'm surprised nobody insisted that she talk to you before you got your walking papers, Helen. How are you doing, really?"

  "I'm fine. Not officially back on the job yet, but I'm getting stronger every day. Thanks for pointing out that I look like hell. I'll go home and cry in my beer soon."

  "Uh-huh. Who's the hot detective, and what happened to your knight in shining armor?"

  "It's the 21st century, Ginny. Women don't need knights in shining armor anymore. And the detective is new from Montgomery or so I'm told. Claws in, darling. You're too young for him."

  "Ha! Flattery will get you everything."

  I took flight back to Journey's room with high hopes that her panic would abate knowing that Dr. Waters would arrive eventually and explain why she couldn't talk. I expected more tears when I opened the door.

  To my distinct surprise, Devlin Mackenzie was perched on the bed beside her, holding one hand and talking to her about God only knew what. The expression on Journey's face was worth a thousand words. Tears were gone, and those shiny baby blues reflected a bit of a crush.