On His Watch

by Susanne Matthews

  She opened her eyes once more. “No, go on.” She wanted to hear it all. She’d never been one to shy away from bad news . . . right?

  “Very well. There was so much blood matted into your hair, we cut it short, so we could clean it properly prior to your facial reconstruction. We had to shave the back of your head to open your skull to reduce the pressure and swelling on the brain. There’s a small plate under your scalp at the back of your head, but your hair will cover the scars nicely. It’s growing in well, and such a beautiful color. Was it always curly?”

  The statement and question caught her by surprise. Color—what color was her hair? She should know the color of her own hair. Did it curl? What had the doctor said—brain swelling? This was going from bad to worse. It had to be a horrible nightmare. Her right palm began to sweat, and her left hand itched.

  “I’m not sure,” she stammered, knowing the doctor wanted an answer.

  They drilled holes in my head?

  She pictured a cranial halo and shuddered. She was getting agitated, and the pain in her head increased steadily.

  New face? She didn’t remember her old face—she didn’t know what she looked like. She began to shake. This couldn’t be happening. How could she not remember her own face?

  Dr. Marion seemed oblivious to her concern and agony, and continued to smile as if this were an everyday thing.

  I must have brain damage. It’s the only explanation. What the hell did I do to myself?

  “There’s some slight bruising under the left eye, but let me check your eyes before you look at yourself.”

  The doctor took a penlight out of her lab coat pocket and shined it into her eyes. The left eye hurt more than the right, and she squinted at the pain.

  “Good pupil reaction. Close the left eye, please.” She complied. “Now, open the left and close the right.”

  Everything blurred. The doctor flashed the light again, causing more discomfort, and she flinched.

  “You probably won’t believe me, but if it hurts, it’s a good sign. It means the nerves aren’t dead. Can you see anything from the left eye?”

  “No, yes, white, fuzzy,” she managed. The pain in her head had reached epic proportions. “Hurts,” she pleaded as a tear trickled down her cheek.

  “I know, but things will get better.”

  The compassion in the doctor’s voice brought more tears to her eyes. She could hear the gentle sobs coming from Mrs. Lincoln, who’d remained by the window.

  “With a corrective lens, your vision should be fine. The eye responds to light and moves as it should. It’s amazing the surgeons were able to save it. The left side of your body suffered the most damage. Cassie, bring the hand mirror over here. How about you have a look at yourself before I give you something for the pain.”

  The nurse walked over to the bed and handed her the mirror. “Don’t look so worried. You’re beautiful.”

  “Tell me what happened to me.”

  She forced the sentence from her lips, anxiety and frustration in her voice. Nothing made sense. The left side of her face damaged, her left hand badly broken. Had she been in a car accident? Injuries to her left side would be consistent with something happening while she was driving.

  The doctor frowned. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  “I . . .”

  She tried to answer the question, something that should have been easy, and panic gripped her. She could remember an old, cheesy horror film, but she couldn’t remember a single thing about herself, not even what she looked like or her hair color or what she’d done last. Her heart pounded, her head threatened to explode, and she couldn’t seem to suck enough oxygen out of the air. Her brain was damaged.

  “Nothing. I don’t remember anything before waking up and seeing that woman sitting beside the bed.”

  Tears of fear and frustration ran down her cheeks as she painstakingly uttered the words, enunciating each of them slowly, giving voice to her fear.

  “No!” Mrs. Lincoln cried. “Nicole, honey, you must remember me! I can’t bear any more of this.” Her sobs grew louder, and Cassie quickly led her out of the room.

  She watched her go, upset whatever she’d said had caused the woman pain. Who was Mrs. Lincoln? Why was it so important for her to remember the woman?

  “Why does she call me Nicole?”

  The doctor’s brow furrowed. “It’s your name. You’re Nicole Hart, although some people apparently call you Nikki. Nadia Lincoln is your mother.”

  Nikki gasped. She hadn’t recognized her own mother? No wonder the woman was upset. Something the doctor had said suddenly struck her as odd.

  “If she’s my mother, why do we have different last names?”

  “You’re a widow.”

  The shock must have shown on her face because the doctor continued quickly, not giving her time to digest the latest news. “I’m sorry for being so abrupt with that information, Nicole. We expected some memory loss, but we couldn’t anticipate its extent. You’ve had a severe head injury. But put that aside for a moment and look at what a great job Dr. Fuller did.”

  She handed her the mirror. Nikki took it and stared at the stranger looking back at her. She felt like Alice in a weird new world, completely lost and disoriented. Everything was surreal, her mind working too slowly to take in this strange new reality.

  The woman in the mirror was beautiful in a fragile way. Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. There were slight red lines here and there, no doubt the lingering marks of her surgery. She had a headful of copper curls, no more than two inches long and probably much shorter at the back. What struck her most were the large, frightened, hazel eyes. She looked needy, like a victim, and the last thing Nikki wanted was to need anyone. The thought stunned her because she realized it was true.

  “I don’t recognize myself.”

  “That’s to be expected. Your nose and jaw were broken, but look closely—your eyes, your cheekbones, and your lips haven’t changed.”

  “No, I mean I don’t remember what I looked like before.” Nikki said each word slowly. Tears pooled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t remember anything.”

  Panic threatened to engulf her. The pain in her head was unbearable. She could think and speak, but her memories consisted of this room, the unending emptiness that cocooned her from the pain, and the angel who protected her from the demons haunting her nightmares—dreams she only remembered in disjointed pieces, none of which made any sense.

  “You were badly injured. We’ll run some tests tomorrow and see how you’re doing. Memory loss like this is usually temporary. It’s nothing to worry about. Right now, I want you to relax. I’ll give you something for the pain, and we’ll talk again later.”

  The doctor injected a clear liquid into the IV tube junction and, within seconds, Nikki felt her body start to relax. The emptiness beckoned, and she moved toward it eagerly. She needed her angel’s comfort now more than ever.

  “Close your eyes and sleep. You still have a lot of healing to do.”

  Chapter Four

  Jason took the ramp off Highway 80 onto the Bayshore Parkway. Traffic was much heavier today than it was when he traveled this route on Saturdays, and the trip had taken half an hour longer than he’d expected. He slowly navigated his SUV along the busy San Francisco street, making his way to the UCSF Medical Center. The 120-mile trek from Larosa had become his weekly pilgrimage, a time during which he reviewed the elements of the case, hoping he’d find a clue he’d missed—anything to lead him closer to the killers.

  He’d sit all day with the inert form swathed in bandages, talk about his life, his family, football, skiing, whatever came to him. Sometimes he’d sit and read to her from the latest best sellers, avoiding the more graphic ones. The two things he never mentioned were the reason he’d been in Larosa last summer and the case itself. Some things were better left unsaid.

  With his brother’s help, he’d pulled every string he could and called
in every favor he was owed to end his medical leave early and get temporarily reassigned to the San Francisco office and seconded to the Larosa Sheriff’s Department. He’d been afraid the California Bureau of Investigations would pull rank, but the CBI had turned the case over to the FBI within a week, and he’d been placed in charge of the investigation. This was officially his case, had always been, damn it, and he intended to see it through.

  Despite Rick’s arguments to the contrary, he’d moved into a cabin at the River’s Edge, the town’s only motel. Horning in on newlyweds wasn’t something he’d been comfortable with. He’d bought himself a house last June, but it was in Colorado—a tough commute on the best of days. When this case was over, he’d go there a reassess his life.

  Rick didn’t understand his need to come down to the UCSF Medical Center each Saturday. It hadn’t absolved him of his guilt, but it eased his conscience to be with her. God alone knew how much he needed Nikki Hart to live and forgive him.

  Buck maintained Jason had no reason to feel guilty. He’d gotten there within thirty minutes from the time the call had come in. The only one who might have gotten there faster was Superman, and he didn’t exist. Jason had probably saved Mandy’s life by using the sirens that had scared the killers off.

  Buck was wrong. He could have gotten there at least ten, maybe fifteen minutes faster if he hadn’t dawdled at the house and then stopped at the store. A lot had happened in those fifteen minutes. And he didn’t come back each week only because of the guilt. It was the woman herself who drew him.

  He admired her will to survive. It had taken guts to dial that phone and incredible determination not to cry out and possibly wake her daughter when she’d been stabbed and beaten.

  Visions of another woman filled his mind—another woman he’d failed—one who’d foolishly put herself in danger and paid the ultimate price. He’d been in L.A. working a serial rapist case twelve years ago, when he’d met Denise Cummings. He liked his women tall and leggy, and with long, black hair and legs that seemed to go on forever, she’d fit the bill perfectly. The model and socialite had knocked the wind out of his sails the moment he’d laid eyes on her. Within two weeks he was spending more nights in her bed than in his hotel room, so at her suggestion, he moved in for the duration of his stay. That had been his first mistake.

  He’d worked insane hours with the BAU trying to catch the killer before he struck again, but each time they thought they had the profile right, the perp changed his MO slightly and managed to get away. Jason had been frustrated and irritable. Denise, on the other hand, was up and down like a yo-yo. The sex was so hot, he sizzled, but her manic temperament had him confused until he realized her effervescent personality was fueled by cocaine.

  She’d laughed at him, said the thrill of doing it under his nose always added to her high, and called him every name in the book—none of them flattering—when he’d gone through her drawers and flushed her coke down the toilet. It had been a hell of a fight, and, in the end, he’d packed his bags and walked out on her. He should’ve arrested her. That was his second mistake. He didn’t get to make a third.

  They’d found her brutally battered body in an alley off Crenshaw where she must have gone to replenish her stash. There’d been an investigation, and their personal relationship had come up, as had her drug use—coroners rarely missed the obvious. He’d been in Long Beach following a lead that finally panned out when she’d been killed. He’d gotten a reprimand, been forced to undergo mandatory drug screening, and had been suspended for six months. He’d been reassigned to another department. He should have lost his badge. He blamed himself then, and he blamed himself now. If he’d done his job and played by the rules, she might be alive today. The memory of Denise’s battered body brought the vision of Nikki’s similarly beaten body to mind, and he shuddered. They’d never found Denise’s killer. Was that why he was so determined to solve this crime?

  Nikki’s recovery hadn’t been an easy one. At one point, when she’d been on the respirator, her chance of surviving slim, he’d been prepared to get a court injunction to stop her father from pulling the plug. Why that bastard would even consider doing that was a mystery. His old man had been a good cop, if not much of a father, but he’d have fought tooth and nail to stop anyone from giving up on his son. Jason had sat beside her for more than thirty-six hours, begging her to stay alive, and the crisis had passed. She’d been improving since then.

  Today, he was on his way to her bedside on a Wednesday because Dr. Marion had called, somewhat agitated, and had asked to see him. He prayed Nikki hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. She’d overcome so many things, she couldn’t give up now.

  He turned into the hospital parking lot, pulled a ticket from the dispenser, waited for the arm to rise, and drove into the crowded staff parking lot. The place was busier than it was on Saturday when he usually came to visit. Obviously more staff were on the job during the week than on weekends.

  There was an area reserved for law enforcement. He put his police banner up on the dash next to his parking voucher and exited the SUV, locking the doors as he did. He thought about leaving his weapons in the gun locker in the back of the vehicle but changed his mind. They’d set off the security censors, but he had his badge and ID. It would only cost him a minute of his time, and he hated being without his weapons when he was on duty. The trail might be cold, but this was still an active investigation.

  He wore a Sig Sauer under his navy FBI jacket and carried a Beretta Jetfire 950 in his ankle holster. He’d learned his lesson from the one and only time on duty when he’d been caught without his gun. They’d been babysitting a high-profile witness. There’d been three agents on duty, and he’d gone to get dressed to do the outside sweep. He’d removed his vest and holster, put on a warmer sweater, and was about to replace the vest when he heard a squeal from the kitchen. Curious, he’d gone back into the living room and walked smack into a bloodbath. The sniper was firing from a vantage point outside. He took one in the shoulder, and if Brad hadn’t jumped in front of him, he’d have bought the farm. It wouldn’t happen again.

  Jason was a damn good agent, but sometimes, he just didn’t have his head screwed on right—Denise, Brad, Nikki—those were just a few people who’d been hurt by his impulsive behavior. Well, not anymore. From now on he’d be as by-the-book as he could get. If he stayed with the bureau, no one else would get hurt on his watch.

  Jason crossed the lot to the main entrance. As he’d expected, all the bells and whistles went off when he went through the door with its automatic censors. He pulled out his badge and photo ID and was quickly allowed to proceed.

  In spite of the sound and light show he’d caused, he attracted little attention when he stepped into the elevator. This was San Francisco and, like others who lived in large cities, most of its residents weren’t surprised by anything.

  He exited the elevator and walked briskly down the hall to the neurology wing. Dr. Marion had planned to reduce the drugs and wake Nikki from her coma this week. Had something gone wrong?

  He’d felt Nikki relax on that bloodied kitchen floor and thought she’d passed away when Buck had called out that her daughter was safe. She’d opened her eyes, one so badly swollen it was all but shut, had silently pleaded with him not to leave her, and he hadn’t. She’d clung to his right hand as if it were the only thing keeping her in this world. Maybe it had been. Lord knows, with all the blood she’d lost, she should have died.

  When the paramedics had arrived, he’d stayed with her while she was stabilized for transport and had gone with her in the air ambulance to the UCSF Medical Center. He’d sat there and waited with her mother while she’d undergone hours of surgery.

  He wasn’t a man prone to prayer. He’d seen too much ugliness in the world to believe in a kind, benevolent God, but he’d prayed that night, begged the Lord to let her live, so he could somehow atone for the mess he’d made of this.

  Her heart had stopped twice during the surgery, b
ut it was as if she refused to die. Once she was in critical but stable condition, he’d returned to Larosa with her father. He’d sat up front with the chauffeur. Thomas Lincoln didn’t fraternize with inferiors. Rick had turned custody of Mandy over to Mr. Lincoln, a man Jason disliked, but one who had the law on his side and the appropriate temporary custody papers with him. They’d sent Mandy to live with relatives on a ranch in Tehama County up near Redding. Mr. Lincoln assured him the place was a fortress with state-of-the-art security.

  The man had insisted on hearing the 911 tape, standing stoically throughout the thirty-five minute audio presentation—a presentation that had almost brought Jason to his knees. When it was over, he’d turned to Rick and Jason, his face a mask of rage.

  “Find the bastards who killed my grandchildren and injured my daughter. Ask for whatever you need. The Lincoln name and money are at your disposal but make sure you do find them.” The he’d focused his attention on Jason.

  “Spark, I don’t like you, and I don’t trust you. I’ve had you checked out, and if I find you were negligent in any way . . . taking half an hour to answer a 911 call in a town the size of Larosa is unacceptable.”

  The threat was there. If they didn’t solve this crime, neither of them would ever work as lawmen again. While he wouldn’t let the bastard get away with intimidating Rick, he knew the man could make his life hell if he wanted to.

  If it weren’t for the 911 tape, they’d have very little evidence to go on. The floor had been awash with shoe prints—his, Buck’s, and Pete’s, as well as others. They knew there’d been three men there, but searching for size eleven and twelve hunting boots, especially those easily available online and in almost any sporting goods store, wasn’t of much help without suspects. They couldn’t exactly collect every boot in the world, let alone California.

  Jason walked up to the nurse’s desk. It wouldn’t be long before the pretty, petite blonde would be on maternity leave. “Hi, Cassie, how’s my favorite angel of mercy?” He flashed what he’d been told was his award-winning smile. “Irene called and asked to see me. Good news I hope?”