Owen's Touch

by Lee Magner

  “Don’t move,” he said. His voice was clipped and gravelly.

  She didn’t. She clung fiercely to his hand. And she held the sound of his voice as close to her heart as she could. I’ll help you...I’ll help you.... The world was spinning. She felt half-dead.

  “Hang on. Help is almost here. They’ll get you to a hospital in no time,” he assured her.

  She almost smiled. He had a warm, soothing, reassuring voice. She believed him, in spite of the agony she was in. In spite of the cold sinking into her body. In spite of the terror she was facing.

  She tightened her grip on his hand.

  “Don’t let go of me,” she whispered. No matter how much she blinked, she couldn’t see him. Everything was badly blurred. Her eyes began to feel gritty and slick. “Don’t let go,” she pleaded weakly.

  He shifted his hand, closing his fingers around hers gently but firmly.

  “I won’t let go.” He wondered whether it was a promise he would have to keep for very long. She looked pretty badly injured.

  Hearing the helicopter landing on the highway, he fished the flashlight out of his back pocket and waved it in the direction of the emergency-rescue team. As they scrambled down the mountainside, he turned to look at her. A slight grin lightened the grimness of his expression for the first time since coming down the hillside after her. “I won’t let go, if you don’t.”

  “That’s a deal,” she whispered, trying to smile but too weak to succeed this time.

  He saw her eyelids close and watched her slide into unconsciousness. Still, he held her hand. Right up until the paramedics pried her fingers loose and loaded her into the medevac helicopter a short time later.

  “Hold on,” he said, leaning over her as they carried her to the waiting helicopter. He thought she might have heard him.

  As they began to close the helicopter door, one of the paramedics gave him a critical look.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come, too? Just to make sure you’re okay?”

  He shook his head.

  “I think the police want to talk to me,” he explained. He glanced down at himself and saw why the paramedic was worried. “It’s all her blood. I didn’t get a scratch. Go!”

  The helicopter door closed, and the pilot wasted no time lifting off. Within moments the aircraft was a distant sound in the night.

  There were several state police cars, county police cars, a fire truck and an ambulance crowded along the roadside overlooking the crash. Lights flashed, looking eerie in the deserted mountain landscape. Mist from the river below was working its way up the hillside, casting a ghostly blur over the hulk of the burned-out truck.

  Someone spoke into his walkie-talkie. No one down by the truck had any hope of finding the driver alive. It was too dark to be sure he was still in the truck, of course. If he’d been thrown out of the cab on the way down, his body could be anywhere.

  “Well, start searching,” the officer in charge said grimly. “And ask that news helicopter to shine its lights down the crash path. If anybody sees anything resembling a person, yell out.”

  The county police sergeant on the scene came over to the woman’s rescuer then.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A hell of a lot better than either of the drivers are.”

  “Any of that blood yours?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions while things are still fresh in your mind. Then we’ll get you to someplace warm and dry. Take you to the hospital, if you want.”

  He nodded and wiped the rain from his face. The drizzle was returning. It was light but persistent.

  “What’s your name?” asked the officer.

  “Owen Blackhart.”

  “Is that your car parked over there on the shoulder, Mr. Blackhart?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, you weren’t in the crash yourself, then.”

  “That’s right, Officer.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “No. By the time I got here, they’d both gone over the side. I heard the sounds, but by the time I came around the bend, the truck was halfway to the ravine and the car was teetering on a rock and a tree. I got to it just before the tree gave way.”

  “Lucky for her,” the policeman observed, shaking his head. “It’s amazing you came along when you did. By the way, which way were you coming down the road?”

  “Eastbound. I was a few minutes behind the truck.”

  “Do you have any idea what could have caused the crash?”

  “I didn’t see it....”

  “Was the truck weaving any time you saw it?”

  “No. He passed me back up the mountain, though, and he seemed to be in a hurry. Took a couple of turns pretty fast. But like I said, I didn’t see what happened.”

  The officer nodded. His men were already putting flares along the roadside to help to assess the tracks, and to look for evidence to explain the deadly mistake that had been made that night.

  “Do you know the woman?”

  “No.”

  “Did she say her name or anything?”

  Owen resisted the temptation to laugh.

  “We didn’t have time to exchange pleasantries.”

  The officer grunted and nodded.

  “We haven’t found any identification for her yet,” he explained. “But once we get the tags on the car, look around for debris, maybe find her purse or something, we’ll have a name for her, too.”

  “She’s a Jane Doe for now, then?” Owen asked softly.

  “Yep.”

  Blackhart frowned and turned to stare down into the ravine. It would be hard to find anything tonight in the dark, especially with the drizzle and the mist. Anything that had fallen into the river probably would be washed downstream by daylight.

  “Maybe someone will call her in as a missing person.”

  The policeman nodded.

  “Maybe so. Well, if you want to get into your car and get warmed up, why don’t you do that now, sir. If you want to follow us down the mountain to the hospital, we can see to it you’re cleaned up and put up for the night or get you to a telephone.”

  “That’s nice of you,” Owen said, a little surprised.

  The policeman grinned.

  “Up here in the mountains, we believe in treating people in a neighborly way. This isn’t the big city.”

  “I can see that,” Owen said dryly. “I think I’ll get in the car and try to towel off.”

  “You’ve got things with you?”

  “Yeah. I was on the road this week, so I’ve got luggage with me, and a change of clothes.”

  “When you’re ready to go, I’ll send my corporal along with you. He’ll get a few additional details—your address, phone number—and buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “Thanks, uh...?” Owen gave the officer a questioning look.

  “Sergeant Buddy Lefcourt.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant Lefcourt.”

  Owen turned toward his car. He wondered what was happening to the woman he’d pulled out of the wreck. Was she still alive? He tried to shake off the memory of holding her in his arms during that interminable wait while the emergency squad scrambled down the mountainside, but he couldn’t quite escape it. The feel of her body was still with him. And the soft, anxious look in her unfocused eyes as she searched to make out his face in the darkness.

  Damn it, he thought. Forget about her. She wasn’t his problem. He didn’t even know the woman.

  He stripped off his blood-smeared shirt and slacks beside his car, uncaring if anyone cared to watch. There were a couple of uniformed women on the scene now, but they were busy elsewhere. Owen opened the trunk of his car and dropped his wet, dirty clothes inside. Shoes and socks, too. He pulled out some fresh clothes from his suitcase and carried them into the front seat to avoid the rain. He dried himself off with a clean T-shirt and put on jeans and a white turtleneck shirt. By the time he’d pulled on socks and laced his athletic shoes, th
e corporal arrived at his car window, wearing a bleak smile.

  Owen rolled down the window.

  “Any word from the hospital on how the woman’s doing?”

  “She made it to the hospital alive. Last we heard, she was being wheeled into emergency for X rays, maybe surgery. Sergeant Lefcourt said we should help you find a place to stay.”

  “I guess I’m not going to get much farther tonight,” Owen said with a sigh. “Any help with the local motel people would be much appreciated, Corporal.”

  “The name’s Morrison Hayes, sir.” He grinned. “Follow me down the mountain. I’m going to stop at the hospital first, but I’ll talk to Madge about holding a room for you at the Mountain Mist Motel tonight.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “Don’t worry, none. Madge hasn’t been full up this time of year since the governor stopped in unexpectedly forty years ago.”

  Owen grinned.

  The corporal tipped his finger to his hat and strode over to his marked police car, got in and pulled onto the highway.

  As Owen followed him through the misty night, his thoughts drifted back to the woman. Was there someone out there waiting for her, wondering why she hadn’t arrived?

  That was hell, waiting and not knowing where your friend was, not knowing what had happened to her, if she was all right...or in pain...or hurting and in need of your help...or worse.

  Owen’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed in remembrance.

  Time barely dulled the memory of that kind of pain, especially if you never learned what happened to the one you cared for.

  He saw the lights of a small city glistening in a valley up ahead. A few more twists around the mountainside, and they’d be driving straight in.

  “Give them your name, mystery woman,” he muttered under his breath. “Tell them who you are....” Before it’s too late, he thought grimly.

  The county police car pulled into the emergency entrance of the hospital, parking in the area marked off for police and emergency squad use. Owen pulled into the regular lot and parked his car. The policeman stood by the entrance and waited for Owen to join him.

  When Owen reached him, the corporal gave him a reassuring smile.

  “I called Madge on the radio on the drive down here. She says you’re welcome any time you can get to her place. She’s saving a room for you. And some hot soup and coffee, if you want it.”

  “Thanks.”

  He followed the corporal into the emergency room and stood nearby as the policeman talked to the nurse handling triage.

  “So they’ve taken her up to surgery already?” Corporal Hayes asked.

  “Yeah, Morrison. They know they’ve got a couple of problems, but they aren’t sure what they’ll discover when they’ve opened her up.”

  “But it’s just broken bones or a concussion or internal bleeding?”

  “It’s too early to say. They have called Dr. Halifax....”

  “The neurologist? The guy who just joined the hospital last month?”

  “In a town this size, Morrison Hayes, you know very well there couldn’t be two neurologists, let alone with the same name,” the nurse teased.

  “Or who both hold the record for fastest receipt of the ‘worst-personality award’ from the hospital staff?” he added, chuckling.

  Great, Owen thought irritably. The girl had no one to go to bat for her, and she’s in a hospital with a neurologist even the staff disliked. He could only hope that the doctor’s professional skills were superior to his social skills.

  Corporal Hayes flipped open his notebook and pulled out his pencil. He began jotting down some facts, getting the exact time of admission from the nurse, along with the diagnosis on admittance and the names of the people attending her when she was discharged from the helicopter.

  “So they think there’s brain damage?” Hayes asked.

  “They’re not sure yet. They’d expect it, though, from the kind of trauma she experienced.”

  “Guess you don’t need a medical degree to know that,” Hayes conceded.

  The nurse nodded.

  “Any other specialists being brought in that you know of?”

  “The ophthalmologist.”

  “That’s eyes, right?”

  “Yes. It looks like she’s got damage to the corneas from the glass that shattered, but they want a consultation from Dr. Evergreen, just to be sure they don’t miss something crucial.”

  “Hmm. She’s been practicing longer than I’ve been alive,” Hayes said wryly.

  “And she sure knows her stuff. The patient is very fortunate to have her.”

  When the corporal had finished, he turned toward Owen and smiled.

  “Come on. I’ve got what I need. Let’s get you over to Madge’s and put some hot soup and coffee in you. You look pretty beat, yourself, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  “It’s been a long day.” Owen hesitated. “When will the woman be out of surgery?”

  Hayes looked over at the nurse and raised his eyebrows. She’d been listening to them and had heard the question. She gave Owen a comforting smile, one intended to empathize without offering unrealistic hope.

  “That depends on how badly she’s hurt,” she replied gently. “I’m sorry I can’t give you something more definite than that. Is she a friend of yours?”

  Owen shook his head. “No. I never met her before tonight.”

  “She was very lucky that you were there,” the nurse said warmly. “The paramedics told us how they found the two of you. It’s a miracle she’s alive.”

  Corporal Hayes grinned.

  “Come on, Mr. Blackhart Let me give you a hero’s escort to Madge’s.”

  “I’m not a hero, Corporal. I was just there. That’s all.”

  Hayes lifted his brows and shook his head. Seeing the closed expression settling over Owen Blackhart’s face convinced him not to pursue the comment.

  Owen followed the police car to the Mountain Mist Motel, lost in his own thoughts. The accident had thrown his plans off. However, if he left early tomorrow morning, he could still get to the lawyer’s office in time for the appointment He’d tell Corporal Hayes where he could be reached in case the police needed anything further from him later. Although he couldn’t imagine what they’d need from him. The accident pretty much spoke for itself, from what he’d seen of it. So he’d give the cops his lawyer’s address and phone number and forget about the matter.

  But two hours later, he was lying in his bed at the motel, staring at the ceiling in the dark, remembering the woman he’d pulled from the wreck seconds before it had rolled into what would have been her grave. He kept feeling the press of her hand against his as he told her to hold on, the curve of her hurting body, damp in the rain.

  Was she alive? Was she critically injured? Was anyone missing her? Worrying about her? Looking for her? There for her?

  He threw off the covers and swore. He wasn’t going to be able to walk away from this. Not yet.

  Chapter 2

  The lawyer closed his briefcase and stood up. Smiling, he held out his hand to Owen. Owen shook it.

  “I think that should take care of everything, Mr. Blackhart,” he said. “If you have any questions, or if any problem should arise, please contact my office.” He pulled a business card from the inside of his suit jacket and extended it to Owen.

  Owen pocketed it and nodded. “Thanks.”

  Averson Hemphill, Esq., smiled broadly and followed Owen out of the office onto Main Street. A car pulled up, and Hemphill got in. He leaned across and kissed the driver, a casually attired redhead. Since there were two children dressed in soccer clothes bouncing up and down in the back seat, Owen assumed the driver was Hemphill’s wife. Owen stifled a jaundiced laugh. The last lawyer he’d seen had gotten into a car, too. But it was the back seat. And the woman waiting for him had been poured into her dress. She hadn’t looked like anyone’s mother.

  Owen sighed.

  He wasn’t living in New York an
ymore, obviously. It kept coming as a shock to see normal people living average lives, lives not consumed with crushing the competition or getting ahead socially.

  He watched the Hemphill family drive away, the kids bickering in the back seat now. Their father, looking exasperated but resigned to a bout of sibling rivalry, struggled out of his suit jacket and loosened his tie. Then the station wagon turned a corner and disappeared from view.

  Owen strolled down Main Street, reacquainting himself with the modest town he’d be calling home for now. A bookstore owner stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of his shop and settled a sign beside the door. When Owen reached him, the bookstore owner smiled.

  “Say, I don’t believe we’ve met,” the man said.

  “No, we haven’t.”

  “Well, welcome,” the shop owner exclaimed, offering his hand. When Owen reciprocated, they shook hands. “I’m Seymour Rushville. I own the one and only decent, full-service bookstore within a sixty-mile radius.” He laughed heartily. “And modesty has never been a problem for me.”

  “I can see that,” Owen said, amused. “I’m Owen Blackhart.”

  “Blackhart? Say, aren’t you the guy who inherited Portia Willowbrook’s place out on Algonquin Road?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” Owen looked at the man a little more narrowly. “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, well, we’ve been gossiping about you for months,” he explained, sporting a totally guilt-free grin.

  “Really?” Owen lifted an eyebrow, encouraging the man to expand his comment. “How fascinating.”

  “Oh, yeah. People around here haven’t had much new to gossip about, so when poor Portia passed away, naturally there was lots of speculation about what would happen to her property.”

  “Naturally. What kind of speculation, exactly?”

  “Oh, there were some who thought the land would be sold to a developer and we’d have one of those huge discount-outlet malls plopped down in our midst. Others thought she’d donate it to a university or a museum or some such. She was always having soirees in New York with the high and mighty, so we figured they’d weaseled into her affections, and her pocketbook.” Seymour laughed heartily. “Were you a relative or something, Owen?”