by Ray Green
Stephen tried to sit up, but found himself pinned by his left ankle and wrist. He rolled over as far as he could to see what was happening. The familiar figure of Doctor Holt stood in front of them, pointing an accusing finger at the other man.
‘This is my patient,’ asserted Doctor Holt, ‘and I demand to know—’
Phut! The doctor’s eyes widened and his mouth sprang open as he staggered backward clutching his chest, coming to rest with his back against the wall. When he held up his bloodied hand in front of his face, his expression was one of uncomprehending astonishment. As he lowered his hand and looked up at the man holding the gun, it seemed as though the scene was frozen in time: the doctor standing there, back to the wall, gazing in bewilderment and shock at the man who had just shot him. Finally though, his legs buckled and he slid slowly to the floor.
His assailant stepped forward to stand over the stricken figure sitting propped against the wall.
‘P-please ...’ murmured Doctor Holt, weakly raising his hand in a defensive gesture.
‘You talk too much,’ growled the other man.
Stephen looked on in horror as the man raised his gun once more. Phut! A small, neat hole appeared in the centre of Doctor Holt’s forehead; his head slumped to one side leaving a crimson streak on the wall behind, leading to a hole in the wall where the slug had slammed into it after passing through the doctor’s skull.
It was like watching a movie in slow motion; Stephen couldn’t process what he was seeing. ‘Doctor Holt?’ he gasped, but as he looked into those dull, lifeless eyes, he realised that Doctor Holt was dead.
‘Now,’ said the bogus doctor, apparently completely untroubled by the fact that he had just killed a man, ‘I have to clear things up a little here, so why don’t you just relax and wait for a few minutes? Then,’ he continued, slipping the gun back into the shoulder holster inside his white coat, ‘I’m going to wheel you down to the front entrance and into the ambulance which is waiting. Oh, and don’t bother trying to call out to anyone – within a few more moments your vocal cords will be completely inoperative.’
‘But, why …? What …?’ He felt his throat seize solid; he couldn’t form any more words.
He watched, helpless, as the man took hold of the doctor’s feet and began dragging him, slowly and painfully, towards the door to an adjoining room, the blood trail forming a gruesome witness to the route taken.
Suddenly, the shocking reality of what he had just witnessed snapped Stephen out of his drug-induced, trancelike state. Perhaps it was adrenaline, perhaps just sheer force of will but, one way or another, he was now able to start fighting against the effects of the drug.
He had to get out of there – but how? His left wrist and ankle were pinned and there was no way he could release the cable ties with his other hand. His brain went into overdrive.
The first thing he did was to yank the cannula from his wrist: he had to stop whatever that bastard was pumping into his bloodstream. Oblivious to the blood now streaming from his wrist he glanced all around, searching for something, anything, which could help him.
And then he saw it: on top of the cabinet to his right lay a surgical dressing kit. Together with the sterile packs of gauze, bandages, and surgical tape was a small pair of scissors. But it was out of reach. He strained against the bonds restraining him, desperately trying to wrench his hand free, but the plastic strip merely cut deeper into his wrist. The pain was excruciating, but his energetic struggle revealed something: the gurney was moving slightly beneath him as he lurched back and forth in frustration.
The wheels were not locked!
His eyes alighted on an exposed pipe running down the wall to his right. Stretching to the limit of his reach, he managed to touch the pipe with his free hand. With a herculean effort, he managed to stretch a couple of inches further until he was able to curl his fingers around the pipe. Using all the strength he could muster, he pulled hard, and … the gurney moved around a foot closer to the cabinet and those precious scissors.
How much time did he have? Surely the other man would return very soon.
Another hard pull drew him a further couple of feet towards the cabinet. He was almost within touching distance of the scissors when he heard footsteps approaching.
Chapter 13
The bogus doctor stepped through the open door, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw that the gurney had moved several feet from where it had been. As he registered the crumpled pile of bedclothes lying where his prisoner should have been, he whirled around, reaching inside his white coat for his gun.
But Stephen was ready: he jumped forward from his hiding place behind the door, plunging the scissors into the side of the man’s neck before he could draw his gun. He cried out in pain, abandoning his grab for the gun and clutching his neck, staggering against the gurney before falling to the floor.
This was Stephen’s chance, but he knew he would have to act quickly. The man was incapacitated for the moment, but the scissors were small, and the wound probably quite shallow. He wouldn’t be out of action for long. Stephen dashed towards the bedside cabinet, wrenching the door open and grabbing the large plastic bag which contained his clothes and other meagre belongings. He heard a groan and turned to see the man he had stabbed trying to rise to his feet.
In the heat of the struggle, Stephen had dropped the scissors, and now he couldn’t see where they had fallen; he scanned the room for some other form of weapon. Finding nothing better, he dropped the plastic bag and picked up the metal bedside chair with both hands, bringing it crashing down on the man’s head. The man cried out and fell to the floor once more. Leaving the prone figure behind, Stephen grabbed the plastic bag and rushed for the door.
As he pounded down the corridors, barefoot and wearing only his hospital gown, he was acutely aware of the astonished glances he was attracting from hospital staff and patients alike. But he was concentrating on just one thing: forcing his drug-weakened legs forward as fast as they would go, lest his attacker should be right behind him. As he rounded a corner, he crashed into a trolley piled high with meals and drinks. As the whole thing went flying, so did the hapless porter, who fired a string of obscenities in Stephen’s direction. He pressed on regardless.
Finally, he emerged in the hospital lobby, pausing for a second or so to locate the main entrance.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ called out the receptionist from behind her desk, rising to her feet as she took in Stephen’s dishevelled state and obvious distress, ‘where are you—?’
But Stephen was already sprinting for the door. As he burst into the warm, humid air outside he stopped for a moment, trying to figure out his next move.
An ambulance stood waiting at the kerb, its rear doors open and a stocky, uniformed figure standing alongside. The man was bald, with dark, close-set eyes, and a bull neck. As they made eye contact, his expression hardened and, with a chilling certainty, Stephen knew that this was the man who was meant to take him away.
Shit! Should he try to make a run for it? In bare feet, and still partially under the influence of the debilitating drug which he had been given, he didn’t hold out much hope of outrunning his potential kidnapper. Maybe he should retreat back into the hospital and try to find a hiding place there? He turned around to see an elderly lady on crutches being assisted out of the main entrance by a tall, thin man. They were blocking his route back inside.
As he looked past them, through the glass doors, he realised that going back inside wasn’t an option anyway: the figure in the white coat, clutching a bloodstained pad to the side of his neck, was inside, making his way, unsteadily, towards the entrance.
‘Only a few yards, ma’am,’ said the man in the doorway, as he struggled to negotiate the spring-loaded door with the old lady and her crutches. ‘The cab’s just over there.’
As Stephen’s eyes followed the man’s pointing finger, he spotted the taxi, its engine idling. There was no driver in the car; Stephen figured he must be the guy help
ing the old lady. He glanced back at the heavy-set man by the ambulance, who was now reaching inside his jacket and moving towards him.
The decision was made: Stephen rushed towards the waiting taxi, wrenching open the driver’s door and flinging his bag of clothes inside, before jumping inside, behind the wheel.
‘Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ called out the cab driver, letting go of the old lady’s arm and rushing forward.
Stephen didn’t respond; he shoved the selector lever into ‘Drive’ and floored the accelerator. As he sped off, in a cloud of tyre smoke, he could see, in his rear-view mirror, the old lady sprawled on the floor and the cab driver wildly gesticulating. Behind them, the man who had shot Doctor Holt had just staggered out of the main entrance, still holding the blood-soaked pad to his neck. The uniformed ambulance driver rushed to his aid. The last thing that Stephen saw in his mirror, before rounding a corner and leaving the whole scene behind him, was the injured man being helped towards the waiting ambulance: the ambulance which had been meant for him.
Stephen had no idea where he was going – he just drove blindly until he had put a few miles between himself and the hospital, and he was sure he was not being pursued. Finally, he pulled up in a quiet side street to let his racing heart settle and try to decide what to do next.
Should he just go straight to the police? That’s what any sane and rational person would do, but Stephen was no longer sure of either his sanity or his rationality. And, with no witnesses as to what had happened at the hospital, and the two men who had come to abduct him probably having fled the scene, he was worried that he might be considered a suspect in relation to the murder of Doctor Holt.
Above all he wanted, now more than ever, answers.
Just what had happened back in that dark alley? What was the significance of the diary with just two dates highlighted? Why did Emma seem not to know him? Why was someone impersonating him … or were they? Was it him who was the impersonator? Why had these people tried to abduct him? What could possibly be so important that these people were prepared to murder the doctor so callously?
The last of these questions had added yet another perplexing dimension to the puzzle. These people obviously had no compunction about committing murder in pursuit of their objectives, but what were their objectives? If they had wanted him dead, they could easily have accomplished this in the hospital with a minimum of fuss. Yet they had gone to considerable lengths to try to take him alive. None of it made any sense.
He decided to try, once more, to get Carla, the waitress, to talk to him.
***
Having driven to within half a mile of Eduardo’s Restaurant, he parked the stolen taxi in a quiet corner of a largely-empty car park. He climbed into the back of the car and scrambled awkwardly into his clothes, stuffing the hospital gown into the plastic bag. He left the car unlocked and the key in the ignition, reasoning that it would eventually find its way back to the taxi company. And even if someone else stole it, at least it wouldn’t be him that the police would be after. He set off on foot, depositing the plastic bag containing the hospital gown in the first garbage dumpster that he came across.
It was dark by the time he reached the restaurant, but the brightly-lit interior meant that, through the glass frontage, he could clearly see everything inside. He was dismayed to see that the waitress clearing tables was not Carla; this girl, while also of Latina appearance, was shorter and of heavier build. Dammit! Stupidly, he admitted to himself, it had not occurred to him that Carla might not be on duty. His heart sank as he realised that, other than catching her at the restaurant, he had no means of locating her.
What next? He couldn’t just hang about waiting for her to show up – it could be hours, or even the following day, before her next shift. The only thing he could think of was to go inside, order something to eat – he was, after all, pretty hungry – and see if he could get the other waitress to help him. This was not without risk, as the big guy who had shooed him away previously was there, behind the counter. If he recognised Stephen or if the other waitress reacted badly to being asked about Carla, there could be an awkward scene or, worse still, the police might be called. There was no other way though – he would have to chance it.
As he sat down, the waitress came right over. ‘What can I get you sir?’
‘Well, what would you recommend?’
Her brow creased in a puzzled frown as she inclined her head. ‘Recommend? I don’t know. You want something to eat?’
He nodded. ‘I’m really hungry – what’s a good choice?’
‘It’s all good,’ she said, laughing. ‘Now, am I going to tell you some of it’s bad?’
‘I guess not,’ he replied, smiling.
‘Well just choose something from the menu, then.’ She took the menu from the stand on the table and placed it in front of him. ‘You want something to drink while you’re choosing?’
‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling. ‘Tea please.’
‘Sure … say, are you Australian?’
Again? He had to smile, in spite of the desperate situation in which he found himself.
‘English.’
‘Oh, well … I love the accent.’
‘And yours,’ he said, keen to build some sort of rapport with this girl but anxious not to appear to be flirting. ‘Where are you from?’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not a cop are you?’
‘Me? No … do I look like a cop?’
Her expression relaxed and her smile returned. ‘No, I guess not. I’m from Mexico.’
From her initial reaction to his question, Stephen surmised that she probably didn’t have the proper immigration papers, but she seemed OK with him now.
‘I’ve never been to Mexico,’ said Stephen, ‘but I’d love to go sometime. Maybe you could suggest some good places to visit.’
‘I’d be glad to, but we’re a bit busy right now. Eduardo’ – she inclined her head towards the big man in the grubby apron – ‘don’t like us spending too much time chatting to the customers when it’s busy. Anyway, I’ll go get your tea while you make your selection from our a la carte menu.’ She giggled at her own joke.
From the slight cloud which had flitted across her face when she indicated the guy behind the counter, Stephen guessed there wasn’t too much love lost between them. He felt he could risk asking her about Carla when she returned.
‘OK, what’s it to be?’ said the waitress, setting down the tea and taking out her notebook.
‘Thanks’ – he paused as he read her name badge – ‘María. I’ll go for the cheeseburger.’
‘Oh, excellent choice,’ she giggled. ‘That should chase away the hunger pangs real good.’
OK, now or never. ‘Say, do you know Carla who works here?’
‘Carla? Sure … why … do you know her?’
‘Not exactly, but … well, I’d like to talk to her.’
‘Oh, right … like most of the guys who come in here. What’s she got that I don’t?’ The sparkle in her eyes and the smile dancing around her lips made it clear that the remark was made in good humour.
‘No,’ said Stephen, ‘it’s not like that. I just … well I need to talk to her. When’s she next going to be here?’
‘Oh, she’s here right now … working out back. She should be out here soon … you want me to send her over?’
Now, that was a difficult question. How would she react?
‘Er, no, that’s OK, I’ll just catch her when she comes out.’
The cheeseburger turned up before Carla did. Stephen had devoured around half of it when Carla finally emerged from the door which led to the kitchen. She showed no signs of anxiety or disquiet as she set about her normal duties; he assumed that the other girl had not mentioned his presence. He kept his head down while he continued eating, but all the time keeping a watchful eye on Carla, who seemed to be working the far side of the diner while the other waitress worked Stephen’s side.
Eventu
ally, however, she came right past his table.
‘Carla,’ he whispered, looking up and catching her eye.
She stopped dead in her tracks, shooting a nervous glance in the direction of the big guy behind the counter, before looking back at Stephen.
‘What do you want? You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Carla, I’m in big trouble. You’re the only one who can help me.’
She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘Look, I’ve got enough troubles of my own. I’m really sorry about what happened, but—’
‘But that’s just it … I don’t know what happened: I’ve lost most of my memory. I know you tried to help me before … and now there are some really bad people after me, and I don’t know why.’
‘Look,’ she said, glancing over again at the man behind the counter, ‘all I know is what happened in that alley. I can’t help with anything else.’
‘Then just tell me about that,’ he pleaded. ‘Maybe that will help me figure out what’s going on.’
Her eyes were now filled with compassion. ‘I … I don’t know. It’s—’
‘Carla? You goin’ to stand chatting all night or are you goin’ to clear those tables?’ The big man’s tone telegraphed his obvious irritation.
‘OK,’ she whispered to Stephen, ‘I’m off duty in about forty-five minutes. We can talk then. Now I have to go.’ She hurried away from Stephen’s table.
‘How was the burger?’ enquired the other waitress when she came to clear the table. As she eyed the empty plate, her face broke into a grin. ‘Oh, I guess it must have been OK,’ she said. ‘You want any dessert?’
‘No thanks, I’m pretty full now.’
‘The check then?’
‘Er … not yet, I have to wait for Carla to finish her shift.’
‘You pulled already?’ she said, eyes wide and mouth agape. ‘You must have something all the other hopefuls who come in here don’t. She’s pretty picky you know.’ She looked at him, appraisingly, her head tilted to one side. ‘Hmm, not bad, I must admit … but I reckon it’s the accent that clinched it.’
