Cast a Pale Shadow

by Scott, Barbara

  He spoke her name but it was less than a whisper, the sound of it enough to make him see it was impossible. Not Cynthia but someone. Someone, something, a child, an animal huddled on the track less than twenty feet above him.

  The train. It couldn't see the train. Or maybe it was trapped. He scrambled up the embankment, kicking the churned-up gravel out behind him.

  The whistle sounded again and the growing beam of the train's headlight illumined her face, her eyes clamped shut and her features set tightly in a determined grimace as she hugged the track.

  "Trissa?" he mouthed in wonder then "Trissa!" he shouted as he hurled himself at her, tackling her and hurtling them both off the track. He tumbled with her in his arms down the embankment on the other side and he heard her soft moan as she settled into stillness just as the train thundered by.

  "Trissa, my God, it is you." His hands trembled as he gently straightened her crumpled body, examining her for injuries, alarmed at the chill of her skin and the deadly paleness of her face. There was a spattering of blood on her blouse but he could find no source beyond the gravel burns that marked both of them.

  "Please, Trissa, please be all right. I'm here to help you. I'll take you to help." From where he stood, he could not see the houses on the street below the raised berm of the tracks, and he tried to recall whether any of them showed lights and life.

  He heard the grind and sputter of an igniting car engine and turned to see the line of cars parked along a road on the other side of a clump of trees. Some of them had their lights on and their engines idling. It was obvious what the purpose of their drivers' parking in such a deserted spot. It didn't matter. Nicholas was thankful for their presence.

  Trissa groaned again as he lifted her. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart, it won't be long now." He sheltered her head against his shoulder as he trudged through the weeds and the low hanging branches of the thicket. As he emerged, he was all but blinded by the headlights thrown on by the driver of the car immediately ahead of him.

  "Jesus Christ, Jack! What'd you do to her?" the driver shouted as he charged from his car toward him.

  "Nothing. She's hurt."

  "Shit, I can see that! What? Did she change her mind once you got her up here? Goddamn exasperating that way sometimes, ain't they? There's been a time or two when I've been tempted--"

  "Tom," cautioned a woman's voice from the car.

  Tom waved off the warning. "You look like you been in a cat fight, both of you. Feisty one, hey? What say we trade? Mine's a little too willing if you know what I mean."

  "I haven't time for your nasty innuendoes," Nicholas said with tightly restrained anger. "Tris... my wife has been hurt and I need to get her to a hospital fast." He wasn't sure why the word wife had sprung so readily to his tongue, sister would have worked as well to cut off the crude comments of this asshole. But it didn't matter. Explanations could come later if they were needed.

  "Wife? Oh yeah, sure, sorry, man. I didn't mean to -- Come on, I'll take you. Judy, get in the back." Once motivated to think beyond his crotch, Tom proved to be a man of decisive action. He settled Nicholas with Trissa on his lap into the front seat, backed out of his parking place and peeled off down the road with the urgency of an ambulance driver. "St. Andrew's okay?"

  "What?" asked Nicholas.

  "Hospital? St. Andrew's is the closest, don't you think?"

  "Yeah, sure, I guess." Nicholas took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the welling scrapes on Trissa's face. He worried that she hadn't wakened yet. Her hands seemed so limp and pale against the dark blue of her skirt.

  "What really happened?" Judy asked from the back seat.

  "She -- uh, we were walking along the railroad track and the train..."

  "Lord, you were hit by a train?"

  "Tom, don't be so stupid," Judy said.

  "No -- I mean, almost. We had to jump out of the way and we fell down the gravel embankment. She must have hit her head."

  "What were you doing on the railroad track?" Judy asked.

  "Walking. Just walking."

  "Yeah?" Judy scooted forward in her seat and asked the next question right at his ear. "Well, then, where's her coat? What else do you do for fun? Play in traffic?"

  Nicholas answered her probing with silence. He held Trissa closer trying to warm her with his own body. God, he wished he knew where her coat was. Or what had driven her out without it to embrace death with such grim determination. God, please, let me help her. He rubbed his cheek against her soft, frigid one. Don't let it be too late.

  Judy wouldn't quit. "You two have a fight or something? She was running away from you, wasn't she? You beat her, don't you, you bastard?"

  Now it was Tom's turn to warn, "Judy, watch your mouth. It ain't none of our business."

  "I'm just speaking the truth. All men are bastards, ain't they, dearie?" Judy reached out to pat the top of Trissa's head but Nicholas fended her off by raising his shoulder and casting her a warning scowl. "Sure. Now, you're looking out for her. Bet you ain't that sweet when you got her alone," she hissed and slid back. Soon the only sounds from the back seat was the flare of a match and Judy's soft puffs as she lit a cigarette.

  "Don't mind her," Tom said. "We were having some words, if you know what I mean, when we seen you coming out of the woods."

  "How much longer?"

  "A few blocks is all."

  Trissa stirred a little, and Nicholas feared that she would come to and say something to further arouse Tom and Judy's suspicions. He worried, too, that getting help at the hospital would not be all that easy. She might look too young for them to believe she was his wife, and without any proof, how could he convince them he was? An ambulance with its lights flashing but no siren sliced passed them, and Nicholas peered beyond it to see the hospital. The neon of the emergency room sign glowed a welcome.

  "This is it," Tom said as he pulled the car to a stop behind the ambulance. "Need some help carrying her?"

  "No, thanks. I wish I could pay you but I don't--"

  "That's okay, Jack. The doctors will be picking your pocket soon enough. Glad to be of help. Hope everything turns out all right."

  "Thank you. And I didn't beat her, Judy. I would never."

  "Right," snapped Judy, slipping back into her rightful place in the front seat as he left it. "And she looks young enough to believe in Santy Claus, too."

  The sudden brightness of the reception area dazzled him and before he had sorted out the bustle of activity there, Nicholas was relieved of his burden by a brawny man in a white coat. Nicholas' arms served as safety net beneath his until he deposited Trissa on a waiting gurney.

  "What happened?" the man asked as he began examining her, taking her pulse, and gently lifting her eyelids to check her pupils.

  "She fell and hit her head." He would leave out the train for now. The train would be hard to explain.

  "How long has she been out?"

  "Twenty minutes." It seemed like a lifetime. "Yes, it's been about twenty minutes."

  "And these bruises? They're all from the fall?"

  For the first time, in the bright light of the emergency room hallway, Nicholas could see them clearly, angry red and darkening bruises on her arms and on her cheek, neck, and jaw. Some showed the clear outline of fingers. "My God, Trissa," he whispered, his heart seething to know someone had mistreated her so.

  "Well?"

  He had to be a doctor. No intern or assistant could muster such imperious authority into one cold syllable. Nicholas had had enough experience with doctors to both respect and resent their power. "Yes. I guess so. We both fell, tumbled down a gravel embankment. She got pretty banged up."

  "You're not such a pleasant sight yourself. Check her in at the desk. I'll take care of her here. I might need to ask you some more questions later, so don't run off," the doctor advised.

  "I won't. I wouldn't."

  "Yeah." An equivocal frown creased the doctor's brow as he studied Nicholas through black, unreadable e
yes. "You called her Trissa?"

  "Yes. Yes, Trissa." It might be best not to tell this skeptic that her last name was Brewer in case she came to and told the doctor otherwise. Nicholas wondered if it might be better if he fulfilled the doctor's expectation and did run off. Sooner or later more questions would be asked, and his jumble of lies and truth and half-truth seemed so unbelievable that he would clamp himself in jail if he were a cop.

  He watched until they wheeled Trissa out of sight, then approached the desk warily. Torn between his concern for Trissa and his growing apprehension for himself, he replied to the admissions clerk's questions with a recital of what he knew.

  "First name?"

  "Trissa."

  "Last name?"

  "Brewer," he lied.

  "Age?"

  "Eighteen." It was a guess

  "Relationship to the patient?"

  Nicholas glanced toward the room where they had taken Trissa and was startled to see a policeman loitering at the door, his hat under his arm, chatting amiably with a nurse.

  "Sir, your relationship to the patient?"

  "Husband." Nicholas's voice cracked on the lie. It seemed to be one he was stuck with. He watched the policeman out of the corner of his eye while the clerk typed the lie into fact.

  "Religion?"

  "Uh. Mine or hers?"

  "The patient's."

  "Catholic." She traveled with a Catholic college crowd, so it was a safe assumption.

  "Insurance?"

  The policeman moved off at last toward the waiting room area where he sat down with the nurse. Nicholas relaxed a little and turned his attention back to the clerk.

  "Pardon?"

  "Do you have insurance?"

  "Yes. Uh, well, I have it. From work. But it doesn't cover her. Don't worry, I'll pay. I don't have a lot with me tonight, but--" He could sell his car if he had to. Whatever was needed, he would get it for her, if only he could help her.

  "That's all right, Mr. Brewer. Arrangements can be made. Your wife is in good hands. Dr. Edmonds is one of our best residents. If you will just sign this treatment permission and release." The clerk handed him a pen and the completed forms.

  Nicholas glanced over them then signed below the line that read "I attest that the above information is true and accurate to the best of my knowledge." There was a loophole there, he guessed. What little truth he had given was the best of his knowledge. That his knowledge didn't cover all the pesky details they asked for was not really his fault. Still, his hand shook slightly as he finished his signature.

  "Why don't you take a seat in the waiting room, Mr. Brewer? I'll have someone see to your abrasions."

  "Can't I see her now?"

  "The doctor will call you shortly."

  "But I--"

  "Please, take a seat."

  The only seat to be taken was the armchair across from the cop and the nurse, so Nicholas ambled in that direction slowly, hoping another would vacate. He stopped to get a drink at the water fountain, to read the Emergency Room Rules and Policy posted on the wall, and to sort through a stack of tattered magazines. Just as he was about to sit down, a nurse appeared with a first aid tray.

  "Mr. Brewer?"

  "Yes?"

  "If you'll come with me, please."

  He followed her to a small treatment room and for the next ten minutes, she cleaned and medicated his injuries. He did not realize until he winced from the sting of the medicine how extensive they were. His left temple and cheekbone were thoroughly scuffed and abraded along with the knuckles of his right hand and the palm of his left.

  "You're limping. Should a doctor have a look at your leg?"

  "It's an old limp," Nicholas assured her and thanked her for her care.

  Before returning to the waiting room, he stopped at the restroom and got a first look at himself. His face was not only skinned and tinted red with antiseptic down the whole left side but a bruise colored the corner of his eye. It was no wonder that Tom and Judy and the doctor jumped to the conclusions they had.

  The clerk had promised him Trissa was in the best of hands. Maybe now would be the time to leave. But, he shrugged, what would be the point? They had his address and his place of employment, and his signed and dated confession that he had brought Trissa to this hospital. Unless he was willing to run and keep running until he was well out of town, he might just as well stay here and see how everything turned out.

  Maybe, just maybe it would all turn out right this time. How could it get any worse?

  Before he had the chance to consider that question, Nicholas hurried out of the restroom. He had to see Trissa. If they wouldn't tell him where she was, he would just have to go looking for her. He had found her before, hadn't he? And she really had needed him, hadn't she?

  "Mr. Brewer, I've been looking for you." Dr. Edmonds was leaning against the wall outside the restroom, like a cat waiting at a mouse hole. "We should go somewhere and talk."

  Nicholas felt himself crumbling, and he braced himself with one hand on the doorframe. He had difficulty summoning the breath to speak. "My God, is she--"

  "She'll be all right. We will keep her overnight for observation, though. Most likely by morning, she can go home. And that's what we need to talk about."

  "Can't I see her first?"

  "She's sleeping. Follow me."

  Nicholas considered balking but was too uncertain of his standing to do so. There was something in Edmonds' voice and posture that made him doubt the wisdom of questioning his authority. And he could not forget that policeman. He followed him to a lounge at the end of the hall.

  "Take a seat. Coffee?"

  "Yes. Black."

  Edmonds brought two steaming paper cups and took a long, leisurely drink of his own. Nicholas had the uncomfortable feeling of being the mouse to his cat again. Edmonds studied him through horn-rimmed lenses that gave his dark eyes a sharp intensity. Nicholas felt he intended to see him squirm before he deigned to speak, but he was determined not to give him that satisfaction.

  "What is it you have to say to me? I would very much like to be spending my time with my wife."

  "Is that so? And where might she be?"

  "You know better than I."

  "Do I? I didn't believe your story when you walked in here and I have even less reason now. That girl is not your wife, is she?"

  Nicholas did not answer but met Edmonds' accusing gaze without wavering.

  "You know what I believe, Brewer? I believe you tried to rape that girl. And when she resisted you beat her and you beat her good. The only reason you're not under arrest right now is because she denies it. And because she won't give me her name so I can call her family to take her home."

  "She--" The word escaped before he was able to choke it off. Rape. Was that what happened? Was that what drove her to the railroad tracks?

  "Does that surprise you? She says she fell. The same story you gave." Edmonds took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. His authority seemed to evaporate, and for the first time, Nicholas saw before him a man more puzzled and weary than threatening. "And frankly, I can't understand why a rapist would carry his victim to a hospital and wait around to see how she is."

  "That would be a little insane, wouldn't it?" said Nicholas, feeling complacent enough to use a word he almost never spoke out loud. No use putting ideas in people's heads.

  "I admit you haven't heard the whole truth here tonight. But I would never hurt Trissa. I promise you that, Dr. Edmonds." Nicholas drank the last of his coffee and stood. "I want to see her now."

  "Room 320," Edmonds said. "But Brewer, if I ever see her in here again with a mark on her, I won't wait to hear your stories or your promises. Do you understand me?"

  "Yes. Fully." He left his empty cup on the table, shoved in his chair, and strode away from him with an air of jaunty confidence that was all pretense. He didn't see Bryant Edmonds' clenched fist reach out and smash his cup flat. But he heard it.

  Chapter Four

&n
bsp; Tormented by doubts, Nicholas sat at the foot of Trissa's bed through the night. He had moved the chair out of her direct line of vision. He didn't want to startle her if she should wake and see him there. His scuffed face and disheveled clothing would not make a good first impression. His already fragile confidence seemed to wither with each hour that passed, the wisdom of his waiting decaying into folly. Eventually he was no longer sure whether it was sympathy or apathy that had motivated the night duty nurse to allow him to remain in Trissa's room all night.

  "She's not critical. It's not usually allowed," had been her first response to his request.

  "I understand that. It's just that I haven't spoken to her since the accident. I'm worried she might wake and not know where she is or how she got here. She'd be frightened by that, don't you see?" His mind raced to devise more reasons if this one failed to convince her. He had no intention of relinquishing his hold on Trissa, however tenuous. If she awoke and he wasn't around to plead his case, he feared he wouldn't be given another chance. He simply had to stay.

  Yet, he'd been surprised when the preoccupied nurse had shrugged and sighed, "Suit yourself. It isn't my job to throw you out." The victory seemed too easy to count as foreshadowing. He had won this time, not through his charm but through her weariness.

  In the dim light from the hall filtering through the partly open door, the dark purple of Trissa's bruises stood out against her pale skin and the stark white sheets. The tracks of shed tears still showed on her cheeks, and he wondered how long she had cried alone while he was being detained by Edmonds. He kissed two fingers, touched them lightly to her hair, and began his vigil.

  He shifted restlessly in his chair as his body made him aware of the jarring he had taken in his tumble over the tracks. Eventually, he slumped down to a position that, despite his best intentions, soon had him dozing, his head bobbing like the marionette of a drunken puppeteer.

  Nicholas found his dreams visited by the shades of his own troubled memories. He was on the railroad tracks again, this time on a trestle that narrowed in one direction to a vanishing point. There was no escape to either side, for the trestle spanned a deep, rugged gully with a ribbon of river twinkling with starlight far below. Acrid smoke billowed up behind him, and he whirled to see the rails burning, sputtering and sizzling toward him like twin fuses.