by Gina Wilkins
She was studying him with a frown. “Maybe I’d better go get a doctor….”
“No.” He tried to hold up a hand to stop her, but both his arms seemed to be strapped down, the left wrist in a splint or bandage of some sort. “Wait. Don’t go yet.”
For some reason, he didn’t want her to leave. He didn’t want to lie here alone, hurting and fighting the confusion that was steadily threatening to overwhelm him. He was sure everything would come back to him once he’d had a chance to rest and recover for a few minutes. Considering the circumstances, it was no wonder he couldn’t even remember his…
“Your name,” the woman was saying. “You haven’t even told me your name.”
Tom? Dick? Harry? Nothing. Not a glimmer of recognition. How the hell could he forget his own name? he wondered in mounting frustration.
She seemed to go suddenly tense. “You do remember your name, don’t you?”
He pictured her reaction if he admitted that his mind was achingly blank. She’d probably panic. She’d start calling doctors and nurses…maybe that chief of police she’d mentioned. The medical staff would rush in, poking and peering and treating him like some kind of freak, and who knew what the cop would believe. “Of course I remember my name.”
She waited.
“Sam,” he said, seizing the first moniker that came to him.
“Sam?” Her smooth brow wrinkled again. Obviously, his hasty answer hadn’t satisfied her.
He groped for a surname. Nothing. His gaze skimmed the room as if searching for an answer. Bed. Chair. Floor. “Wall,” he murmured. “Er…Wallace,” he amended quickly.
He didn’t know why he was so reluctant to admit the truth. Just tell her he couldn’t for the life of him remember his name—or anything else that mattered. Actually, maybe he should be worried. He could be suffering brain damage. Something a doctor should look into immediately. Could be bleeding from the brain. God only knew what else. But something kept him quiet. He felt so stupid…he was sure it would all come back to him in a minute. He just needed a little time.
Whoever he was, he apparently believed in handling his own problems in his own way.
“Sam Wallace?” she repeated, a bit doubtfully.
Hell, why not? It would work until something better occurred to him. Like his real name. “Yeah. Sam Wallace. Who are you?”
“Serena Schaffer.”
Serena. It suited her, he decided. “Thank you for rescuing me, Serena Schaffer,” he said.
“I didn’t do that much, but you’re welcome. Now I really should get someone in here. The doctor will want to know you’re awake…and Dan Meadows, our chief of police, wants to talk to you. Just to ask you a few questions about what happened to you.”
The word police made him tense again. He wished he knew why. It was like…an instinct. Something inside him that told him to be very careful. At least until he remembered—
The door opened and a very large woman in a white uniform bustled in, shaking her head and muttering to herself. “What a night. I swear, if that Red Tucker says one more cross word to me, I’m going to snatch him bald-headed. We’re taking care of all those kids the best we can, and he’s out there… Oh, my, he’s awake.”
“Yes, we’ve been talking,” Serena replied.
The nurse nodded. She leaned over the bed and peered into his eyes. “Headache?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“He seems a little disoriented,” Serena added, proving she hadn’t been entirely fooled by his act.
The nurse didn’t look surprised. “That’s to be expected with the concussion. The doctor will be in soon, but they’ve got him running out there now.”
He tried to nod, but went still when his head hammered in protest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
She didn’t smile. “How bad is the disorientation? Do you remember how you came to be here?”
According to Serena, he had been severely beaten. Left for dead in a ditch. “I know what happened.”
“Do you remember the attack itself?”
It seemed safe enough to say, “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“That’s to be expected. Any other memory loss?”
He looked straight into her dark eyes. “No.”
She seemed to believe him. Her pen hovered over the clipboard cradled in her left arm as she asked, “What’s your name?”
“Sam Wallace.”
“Middle initial?”
“None. Just Sam.” The parents he’d just invented for himself weren’t particularly creative. He wondered what his real parents were like. Were they even now looking for him, frantic with worry? Was he being a total idiot not to tell someone what was going on between his ears? The answer, of course, was yes. Still, he didn’t change his mind.
“Birth date?”
As far as he could remember, he’d been born less than half an hour ago. He chose a date at random, finding it mildly curious that he could remember things like names and months and numbers, even though they held no personal meaning for him. “June twenty-second.”
“Yeah? Today’s the twentieth, so that means you’ve got a birthday coming up in a few days. What year were you born?”
Year? He wasn’t even sure what year it was now. He couldn’t remember what he looked like, whether his hair was dark or light or gray—if he even had hair. He didn’t feel old…but he didn’t feel young, either.
Damn it, what was going on here? Why the hell couldn’t he remember?
He groaned.
Serena stood and rested her hand on his shoulder, the gesture oddly protective. “He’s obviously in pain, LuWanda. Isn’t there anything you can do for him?”
LuWanda closed the clipboard. “I’ll get the doctor.”
He was grateful for the brief reprieve. He gave Serena a shamelessly pitiful look. “My head’s killing me,” he said.
She brushed a lank strand of hair off his forehead, her fingertips cool against his skin. So he did have hair. Nice to know.
“I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do for you? Someone I can call for you?”
He thought again of the family that could be searching for him. With a mental apology to them—if, indeed, they existed—he shook his head. “There isn’t anyone to call, but thank you for offering.”
What he really wanted right now was to be alone. A chance to think. To break through the mental barrier that was keeping him from his memories. He was certain that he could do so if he only had the time to work at it a bit…on his own, without disruptions. But as the door opened again and a short, squarely built older man he assumed to be the doctor strode briskly into the room, he knew it would be a while yet before he would be left alone. Now he had only to keep up his pretense until his mind cleared, which he fervently hoped it would do before he had to deal with the police. If the memories didn’t return soon… Well, he would take this one step at a time.
Seeing the doctor, Serena smiled and stepped back. “I’ll get out of the way now and let Dr. Frank take care of you. You’re in good hands here, Sam.”
Sam. The name sounded strange…but maybe just a little familiar? Was it possible that it really was his own? “You’re leaving?”
Again, he found himself reluctant to see her go, perhaps because she was, for now, the first thing he remembered.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again before you leave,” she said lightly.
“I hope so,” he murmured, and realized that he meant it. At the moment, she felt very much like his only friend.
The hospital was quiet, all the school bus passengers treated and released to the care of their relieved families. At the end of the hallway, Dan Meadows stood talking to an attractive young woman who was scribbling in a battered notebook. Serena could tell from the police chief’s posture that he was rapidly growing impatient answering the reporter’s questions. She moved to rescue him.
“As I said,” she heard Dan saying in a flat, clipped voice, “no charges will be filed against the bus driver
or anyone else until a full investigation of the accident has been conducted. Now I really don’t know what else you want me to say, but—”
“What have I told you about hassling the local authorities, Lindsey?” Serena asked with a faint smile.
Her employee grinned with the irreverence Serena had come to expect from the youngest member of the Evening Star staff. “You wouldn’t deny me one of my favorite pastimes, would you?”
“For the sake of the newspaper’s future dealings with the police department, I’m afraid I’m going to have to. Is there anything else you need for your article?”
“I’ve got everything I need about the bus accident,” Lindsey answered. “But I hear we have another interesting story in Room Two Oh Five. Who’s the mysterious stranger, Serena?”
“I’m waiting to hear that, myself,” Dan said, giving Lindsey a repressive look. “Until we have all the facts, there’s really nothing for you to write about him.”
“Dan’s right, Lindsey. All we know now is that he was found on Bullock Lake Road, suffering injuries from what appears to be a severe beating. I think you’ll have to wait until tomorrow for further details. He’s not strong enough to deal with the police and the press this evening.”
“Is he awake yet?” Dan asked.
She nodded. “I talked to him for a few minutes. He said his name is Sam Wallace. I’m afraid that’s pretty much the extent of what I learned about him. Dr. Frank’s with him now.”
“He refused to talk about what happened?” Dan frowned, as if that confirmed his suspicion that Sam Wallace had been involved in something shady.
Serena shook her head. “He didn’t refuse. He’s groggy, in pain. It seemed difficult for him to concentrate. He was quite pleasant, actually, just a bit confused. I’m not sure he even remembers what happened.”
“He’s claiming amnesia?” Dan’s lip curled in open disbelief.
“No.” Honestly, sometimes Dan took his official skepticism a bit too far. One would almost accuse him of being paranoid—if anyone had the nerve to do so to his face. “He’s simply disoriented, Dan. I would imagine that’s a fairly common reaction to a concussion.”
He nodded reluctantly. “I’ll try to talk to him when the doc’s through with him. If he can identify his attackers, we’ll have a better chance of finding them if we don’t wait too long.”
“He’s in a lot of pain.”
He gave her one of his rare smiles, though it didn’t quite reach his glittering dark eyes. “Don’t worry, Serena. I won’t browbeat your stray. Just want to ask him some questions.”
“So do I,” Lindsey agreed.
Serena gave her a look. “Go file the school bus story. Everyone in town’s going to want the details of that tomorrow.”
Lindsey’s expression implied that a mysterious wounded stranger was of as much interest to her as the mercifully minor school bus accident, but she had the discretion not to say so. She nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Serena. You, too, Chief. I’ll be wanting details of your investigation into this guy’s story, of course.”
Dan glared after Lindsey as she sauntered into an elevator. “Have I ever mentioned that I really don’t much like being questioned by your reporters all the time?”
“You’ve alluded to it a time or two,” Serena replied. She knew Dan didn’t mean anything personal against Lindsey, whom he’d known since she was a toddler. There were times she even suspected Dan was rather fond of Lindsey in his own gruff way—but he did not like reporters in general.
Dan had already turned his attention to the hospital room at the other end of the hall. “Okay, Sam Wallace,” he murmured as if to himself. “Time to find out just who you are—an innocent crime victim, or someone we don’t want in our town.”
Serena had been wondering that herself. For some reason, she was having trouble picturing Sam Wallace—wounded or otherwise—as an innocent victim.
Chapter Two
Two hours later, Sam—the name he was still using for lack of a better one—was lying on his back in the hospital bed staring at the ten o’clock evening news on the TV mounted high on the wall across from his bed, hoping something would trigger the memories that had so far eluded him. He’d been straining to come up with even the foggiest detail, but the only result thus far was a pounding headache and a mounting frustration tinged with panic.
It was beginning to seem inevitable that he was going to have to admit the truth to someone—probably the cop who’d been in earlier, asking questions that Sam had deliberately answered as vaguely as possible. The chief had left with a promise that he would be back—or had it been a warning?
Sam wasn’t at all sure Meadows had bought his story that he’d been passing through this area in search of work and had been mugged by a couple of guys who’d given him a lift. Claiming pain, fatigue and confusion, he hadn’t given any details that would get anyone arrested, and Chief Meadows was not pleased with the sketchiness of the tale. Hell, for all Sam knew, it could be true. He just didn’t remember any of it.
He cringed at the thought of saying aloud that he had lost his memory, that his mind was a blank, that he was utterly at the mercy of the staff of this tiny, apparently rural hospital. So far the characters he had encountered—with the exception of the cop—had been friendly, cheerful, laid-back and unpretentious. He had obviously landed in Smallville, U.S.A.—but from where?
He knew somehow he wasn’t from around here; his speech patterns sounded different even to his own ears. Besides, he just didn’t feel…Arkansan. Whatever the hell that meant.
But why was he here? Why had no one come forward to identify him? To ask about him? Was he really so alone that no one knew where he was? Was he as nameless and mysterious to everyone else as he was to himself at the moment?
He didn’t like the idea that there was no one who cared whether he lived or died. Nor did he like lying in this bed wearing nothing but a backless hospital gown, a sheet so thin he could probably read a book through it, with a couple of bags of liquid dripping through a needle taped to his arm. Maybe if he could just see whatever he had been wearing when he’d been found, it would trigger his memory.
“What happened to my clothes?” he demanded of a thin, pale-skinned male who came in carrying a tray of vials and needles.
The man looked startled. He blinked almost lashless blue eyes. “Er, what clothes?”
“The ones I was wearing when I was brought in.”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll ask someone as soon as I get a blood sample.”
“My blood’s all been sampled. There’s none left.”
The technician looked as though he didn’t know whether to smile. “Er…”
Sam sighed. “Hell. Just stick me and then find my clothes, will you?”
He was beginning to lose patience with all of this. The hospital, its staff—and his own stubbornly closed mind.
He was informed a short while later that he hadn’t been carrying a wallet, at least not that anyone from the hospital staff had found. There had been, he was assured, nothing in the pockets of his jeans or shirt. While his lack of personal items backed up his story of having been robbed, it gave him no clue as to his identity.
“Damn,” he growled as soon as he was alone again. Why couldn’t he remember? What was wrong with him?
Another nurse came in, this one tall and bony. “I’m Lydia, your nurse for this shift. How are you feeling?”
He eyed her warily. “That depends. What are you planning to poke into me?”
She smiled and held up a thermometer. “Only this. Pain free, I assure you.”
He reluctantly opened his mouth.
“Oh, and I have to ask you some questions,” she added, opening a clipboard and snapping a ballpoint. “LuWanda never finished filling out these papers and admissions is having a hissy fit.”
He nearly swallowed the thermometer. “Mmph.”
“Hold on a second.” She waited until the electronic thermometer beeped, then pu
lled it out and glanced at it. “Normal.”
He wouldn’t have advised her to bet money on that.
“Now, about this form. All we’ve got so far is your name, Sam Wallace, and the month and day of your birth. June twenty-second. Correct so far?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“What year were you born, Mr. Wallace?”
He managed a smile. “How old do I look?”
She rolled her eyes. “He wants to play games,” she murmured. “Okay, I’m supposed to humor the patient. You look…” She eyed him consideringly while he held his breath. “Thirty-three?”
“Thirty-one,” he corrected with an exaggerated grimace. It sounded like a nice age. Not too young, not too old.
“So you were born in nineteen…” Her voice trailed off as she scribbled numbers on her form.
“Address?”
“I’m, um, between addresses right now. Between jobs, too,” he added to answer her next question.
“Do you have insurance?”
Lady, I don’t even have a name. “No.”
“Next of kin?”
He closed his eyes. “None.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Just a mother of a headache.”
“I’m sorry. Only a few more questions. Are you allergic to any medications?”
He was tired. So damned tired. He should tell her the truth. I can’t remember. There’s nothing between my ears but dead air. Call in your experts, lady. One genuine freak, here for their viewing pleasure.
He couldn’t do it. Maybe he’d tell someone tomorrow. Or maybe by then it wouldn’t be necessary.
“No,” he murmured. “I’m not allergic to anything.” And it would serve him right if they injected him with something and he died a horrible, painful death from an allergic reaction.
She asked him other questions about his medical history. Keeping his eyes closed, he made up answers in a lethargic monotone.
You’re an idiot, Sam. Or whoever the hell you are. A coward. A fool. A liar. A jerk. Tell the lady the truth.
