by C. L. Bevill
Falling out of the car, she lurched to her feet and looked around as if the outside alone would save her. No one but that odd little boy in the minivan was looking at her. The car to the rear had a driver with his head bowed. He had his cell phone in his hands and was doing something with it; his face was vacuous and unconcerned. The driver behind the minivan had her eyes closed as she sang to a song the woman couldn’t hear, and her head bounced to the muted beat.
No one but the boy had seen anything.
Run! Vous chose stupide! RUN!
The woman glanced at her handcuffed wrists and then at the bald man. He suddenly moved, and she gasped. His left hand slapped the glass of his window. His red-shot eyes met hers. He drew a pained breath and yelled, “You BITCH! I’m goin’ kill you!”
In that instant, she knew he meant it. She was probably half his weight and felt as tired as if she’d been laboring for hours. He would beat her until she didn’t get up and then he wouldn’t stop. There would be little she could do to stop it.
Spinning, she ran. She chose the path of least resistance and followed the natural conduit the double line of cars presented. She tried to regulate her breathing as she ran. She couldn’t pump her arms, but she moved the two in tandem to help her run faster. The bald man was behind her, his vehicle probably still trapped by traffic, but he might be able to run after her.
Good! the voice came to her, that masculine, imperative tone. Good! Faster! Don’t look back!
Lanky and wiry, her limbs were long and well-formed and performed what she demanded of them. Even the loose shirt and baggy jeans couldn’t disguise that. Most people didn’t get a chance to look at her because she was sprinting past them.
But her body began to give out and she slowed incrementally. Reaching a section of road where several police cars and a fire truck sat around three wrecked vehicles, she zigzagged around. The officials looked at her strangely but in the briskly descending gloom obviously didn’t notice the handcuffs held to her chest.
She threaded through the scene of the three-car accident and darted into the intersection. A Louisiana State Trooper yelled, “Hey, you can’t—!”
The driver of a blue Jeep Wrangler didn’t see the woman running into the crossing. He was finally getting through the congestion and was hitting the gas to get past the accident on his way home. He didn’t see her at all. Not until he hit her. Her hip glanced off the front bumper, and she flipped over the hood. Her head smacked into the windshield while the driver slammed on his brakes. As he came to a stop, her body slid off the hood and landed on the asphalt in a jumbled mass.
* * *
Bobby Therin saw two paramedics loading the woman onto a collapsible gurney. Her eyes were shut, so he couldn’t see the gold color to be certain. But her hands were still contained in handcuffs, and the lights from the ambulance showed her long, thin form. He sat up straight in his seat and peeped.
His mother negotiated the VW Routan around the police and ambulance as directed by an irritated state trooper.
“That’s her, Ma,” Bobby said.
“The mysterious one-armed man,” his mother laughed.
“No, it was a woman with two arms and handcuffs,” Bobby said indignantly. “What happened to her? She got away from that guy, and he went back down the way we came.”
“That blue Jeep’s got a big dent in the hood,” Trish said. “Maybe she got hit by a car.”
“Poor woman,” their mother said. “Need to say a prayer for her.” She made a noise. “Like I haven’t been going to church enough lately, saying prayers about people coming to see us about stuff we have no control over.”
“Ma, I need to talk to the police,” Bobby said insistently. “That man had her handcuffed in the back of that car. I got the license plate, too.” There was something else about the man, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He would have to think about it.
“He did write it down,” Trish said helpfully.
“Oh, Bobby,” his mother said. “Last week you saw Bigfoot in the backyard.”
“Was so Bigfoot,” Bobby muttered. “Just like the Fouke Monster.”
“Your dad shouldn’t let you watch Animal Planet,” his mother chided. “That show is stupid.”
“I measured the branch outside my window, and it was absolutely over seven feet tall,” Bobby insisted.
“It was an owl,” Trish said.
“I called Animal Planet, you little wart,” Bobby told his sister. “When they come to do an interview, you won’t get to be on television.”
His mother ignored them both, and Bobby sat in the back of the minivan quietly fuming. He had seen the woman in the back of the brown sedan, and she had been somethinged. He didn’t know exactly what, but he wasn’t going to let his mother run him down on this one.
Trish blew a very moist raspberry at him, and he immediately blew one back.
Chapter 2
Forgetting is the cure for suffering.
– African proverb
The thing came closer to her. It loomed in the darkness, creeping in the shadows, trying to conceal its shape, attempting to get closer and closer before it leaped upon her. It was at least a foot taller than she was and that made it close to seven feet tall. Its eyes glowed in the gloom, reflecting back meager light like cats’ eyes. As it slowly stalked her, she realized it was covered with fur. Its hands were twisted caricatures of human ones, with curved claws at the tips. It walked on two legs, but leaned slightly forward as if it might transfer to all fours for a burst of speed. Its shoulders were broad and the muscles under the fur realigned themselves forcefully, anticipating the moment where it could spring at her, whereupon it would be able to tear her to shreds. Blood would inundate its fur.
Not just fur, but bits of Spanish moss hung from its limbs as if it spent an extraordinary amount of time in the deepest, blackest bayous. Tatters of grayish-green lay over dark brown mottled fur. Half man, half creature, all twisted evil.
The growl coming from the barrel like proportion of its chest was insidious and spine-tingling. It made the woman quake. Her knees shuddered.
Death was coming for her in the form of…Roux-Ga-Roux.
The woman opened her eyes.
No one was in front of her.
Instead, there was a wall with a small television set attached to the ceiling. The screen was off. The screen returned the image of the room.
Her eyes darted around. She was lying in a bed with starched sheets. A thin light green blanket covered her. Her right arm was lying on top of the blanket, an IV attached to the back of her hand. There was only the single bed in the room. There was a panel of flickering lights behind her attached to the wall. A control unit lay at her side, just by her left hand, as if she might need to use it.
No one was in the room. It was dusky as if the sun was setting. The window to the left had the blinds shut, but a few streams of diminishing light made their way inside. Dust motes danced in a nonexistent breeze.
Where am I now?
The answer came in the guise of another question. What hospital is this?
No answers presented themselves, so the woman rose up. Her entire body ached and she moaned quietly. She’d been in a fight and come out on the losing side. Her head had the crème de la crème of headaches. It felt as though a team of football players had danced across it, cheerfully taking their turns on the conga line that was her brain.
On the positive side, nothing seemed broken. There were no casts on her limbs. There were no obvious bandages concealing deeper cuts.
Blue Jeep.
The woman blinked. It was a blue Jeep. I ran into the intersection, and a blue Jeep nailed me. Not his fault, but he hit me all the same.
Carefully, she got out of the bed and winced when she started feeling all of the collected ills. She looked down and saw she was clad in a thin green hospital gown. She could feel the breeze on the backside and moved her hand to hold the cloth in place. She didn’t want her butt on display to the common
passerby.
She stopped to look at her wrist. Red marks ringed the flesh there. Some of the marks were scars that had healed. The handcuffs, she realized. The handcuffs are gone, but they must have been there for a long, long time to leave marks like that. I must have yanked and pulled until my skin bled.
The woman looked around. Who would do that to me?
There was a more important question to be asked. Who am I?
My name is…my name is…
“I can’t remember my name,” she said and was startled to hear her hoarse voice. Clearly, she hadn’t spoken for a while.
What do I know? There was a man in a car with a bald head and a tattoo on the back of his neck. There was a little boy in a minivan who was watching us. There were handcuffs on my wrists, and I was scared, more scared than I’ve ever been before.
Except when the Roux-Ga-Roux is roaming the night, she interrupted her own thoughts.
“What the hell is a Roux-Ga-Roux?” she asked aloud.
The woman stood there for a few minutes. Her legs felt like warmed-over-rubber and she was thirsty beyond belief. She helped herself to a plastic cup of water. The little cup and pitcher sat on the stand next to her bed. There was a convenient bendy straw in it, in case she had to sip while lying down on the hospital bed.
When she was done, she noticed the chart hanging on the end of the bed. There. That will tell me my name. Easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.
The woman inched her way around the edge of the bed and pulled the chart up.
See. It’s right there under the name of the hospital, and look, I’m in New Orleans, Louisiana. So my name is right there.
The woman scowled.
Jane Doe #7.
Well, isn’t that just ducky?
* * *
The two men who came into Jane’s hospital room just after lunch were cops. She knew it before they identified themselves. One was Detective Hartman, and the other was Detective Leverton. Both men were in their thirties and appeared as jaded as anyone who had seen people in the worst possible light, doing things that they had been told not to do.
Jane didn’t care for either one of them. Especially after it became crystal clear that both men thought she was conning: A) them, B) the city of New Orleans, C) the hospital, and D) anyone else she could get money, food, and free stuff from.
“Why don’t you tell us your name?” said Hartman. He was slightly older and more rumpled than Leverton. His eyes were watery blue and his brown hair, what was left of it, was combed over the top of his head. His white shirt had ring around the collar, and his blue tie was stained with ketchup.
“I don’t remember my name,” Jane said. Having returned to the bed, she hoped she looked fragile. Something pricked at her brain; something was trying to tell her something. As soon as the two men showed her their badges, the tickle inside her mind began.
She shifted around the bed, pulling the thin blanket over her chest, trying to avoid lying on the worst of the bruises. The IV had been removed by an impersonal nurse an hour after she’d woken up, and an intern had peremptorily examined her.
“Doc says there’s no reason you shouldn’t remember your name,” Leverton said. His eyes were brown and ringed with red. He also had brown hair but more of it than his partner. He chewed on a toothpick and looked around nervously as if hospitals gave him the willies. His shirt was khaki, and his tie had dark blue swirls on a light blue background sans ketchup.
“I’m not a doctor,” Jane said. “At least I don’t think I’m a doctor, so I wouldn’t know.”
“No idea why someone put you in handcuffs?” Hartman asked.
Jane’s eyes flicked to her wrists. She had an urge to cover up the scars there. “Was I arrested? I don’t think I remember doing something to be arrested for. Did I do something wrong?” She didn’t have to fake the confusion in her voice, although she suspected the two detectives didn’t believe her for an instant.
“Weren’t police cuffs,” Leverton said, expertly switching the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“And the needle marks on your arms,” Hartman said.
Ah, it’s not good cop/bad cop, Jane ascertained. It’s idiot cop/idiot cop. So nice to be on the receiving end of this.
“I don’t know how I got them,” Jane said slowly. Had the detective actually asked a question? Maybe.
“It’s likely you’re a junkie and a hooker,” Leverton said matter-of-factly. “Trick got out of hand. Just tell us the john’s name and we’ll put him under the jail. Don’t matter to us that you were doing him in a back alley somewhere. Man shouldn’t have tried to beat you or put you in those cuffs.”
Jane stared at Leverton. No. I’m not that. Surely not that. I would know if I was that.
“Underweight. Malnourished. Needle marks on your arms,” Hartman said with emphasis. “Ain’t no one been asking about you in the three days you’ve been here.”
“Three days,” Jane said thoughtfully. Three days? I woke up and three days are gone, just like that? How is that possible?
“Unconscious for three whole days,” Leverton said, nodding. “Doc thought it might be because of the malnutrition rather than the head boink.”
Jane stared at the two men. “Was I raped?”
Hartman shifted uncomfortably. It was evident to Jane that the detective hadn’t thought to ask that. “Doc didn’t say.”
“What, whores can’t be raped?” Jane snapped.
“No one said that,” Leverton said.
“It’s what you’re thinking. I’m some, what did you say, junkie hooker, who got into a bad deal with a client, and while I was running away from him, I got hit by a car.” Jane took a breath. Angry. I’m angry. These men are stupider than a box of rocks.
Hartman shrugged. “Typically, nuns don’t run down city streets with handcuffs on their wrists and needle marks running down their arms.”
“Since when do you know what a nun looks like?” Jane snarled.
“Why, you little piece of sh—” Hartman started to say and cut himself off when someone cleared their throat from the doorway.
“Even policemen go to church,” a doctor said. Jane assumed it was a doctor. He had the white jacket on, and the nametag on it said “Dr. Mayhew.” Even from across the room, Jane could read the words. The fifty-something man appeared annoyed. His sepia-toned skin was flushed, and his graying eyebrows knitted together in a disapproving frown as he stared down the two cops. “I told you men that she wasn’t ready for an interrogation.”
“Hey,” Leverton raised his hands up in the air as if he was surrendering. “We didn’t even use the spotlight on her.”
Hartman glared at Jane. Jane sneered back.
“You gonna cut this one loose soon, doc?” he asked.
“Social services needs to talk to her,” the doctor said. “We’ll figure out how best to help her. I’ve talked to a couple of shelters she can stay at until she gets her head clear.”
“She’s clean, doc?” Leverton asked, turning his gaze back to Jane.
“Whatever was in her system is gone now,” the doctor said. He took a few steps closer to Jane. “And anything else is privileged information unless you’ve suddenly gone to medical school and gotten an M.D.”
“You didn’t do blood work on her when you first got her in here,” Hartman stated.
“She got hit by a car,” the doctor said firmly. “Don’t need blood work for that. Needed x-Rays. She got x-Rays. All kinds of x-Rays.”
“So why do blood work later, then?” Leverton asked.
“Kid didn’t wake up,” the doctor said. He shrugged. “Needed blood work then. And since when is it illegal to get hit by a car? You going to arrest her for assaulting a car?”
“Since we don’t know who she is and who she was running from and who put the cuffs on her,” Hartman said.
“Still doesn’t sound illegal to me,” the doctor said with a smile.
“Well, you’re the medical doctor, and we’re the
police officers, so let’s just stay on our respective sides of the line,” Leverton said.
“So, Jane,” the doctor said to her, “you want them in here?”
“Do they know who I am?”
“Do you?” the doctor put to them.
“No,” Hartman said.
“Then get the hell out,” the doctor said chirpily. “You’re not treating her like a victim from what I heard, and I don’t think it’s going to be any good for her to be raked over the coals like she was a serial killer.”
Leverton made a little disapproving noise. “Hope you don’t come knocking on our door anytime soon, doc, for some help.”
The doctor’s smile became grim. “Hope that wasn’t a threat, detective. You know I play golf with Rob. You know, Superintendent Robert T. Breveau. Your boss. He usually wins. He’s got a better handicap than I do. Longer arms, too. I’ve always thought longer arms helps people play golf better.”
The two detectives left the room without saying anything else. Neither one looked back.
“You really play golf with the Superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department?” Jane asked.
“Yes, I really do,” Dr. Mayhew said. “And I think he cheats. But let’s keep that between the two of us.”
The doctor stepped up to the side of the bed and stared down at her. “So we’re looking better today. Bruises not so black. Starting to turn some nice greens there. Breathing is good.” He motioned at her head. “Headache?”
“Little one.”
“Well, that’s to be expected. Seven stitches up on top. No obvious neurological issues. So why can’t you remember your name?” The doctor tapped the side of his nose.
“Are you asking me or posing a hypothetical question?” Jane asked pertly.
“And she’s smart,” the doctor said. He nodded. “Educated. Speaks with a fairly neutral accent. Not from Louisiana originally. I’ll call my friend from the paper and get him over here to take a photograph of you and do a story. Someone will call up in a day or so and tell us who you are.”
