The Riches of Mercy (2 page)

The man's voice interrupted her sleep.

He was going to be a jerk. She knew already. There were little aches everywhere in her body. She twitched her fingers. Her hand was more uncooperative. Her shoulder hurt less.

There was light.

Blinding and white. She wanted to turn her face away, into the pillow underneath her head. She settled for making a face. Oh, how it hurt to make a face, but her lips moved. More water touched her lips. A sponge.

Maybe the woman was there. Her heart fluttered. The one who guessed her thoughts and prayed for her. She wanted so much to open her eyes, and see.

"Ma'am, can you hear me?"

If she never heard that question again, she'd live a happy life. The sponge pressed against her lips, and then retreated.

She rasped, "Yes."

Her lips cracked and it hurt.

"Can you open your eyes, please?" The woman's voice. If she could communicate, maybe she could have more of her voice, and less of the guy's.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and then let them open a slit. She winced against the light. The jerk waited. The woman waited. She tried again, and this time they opened enough to focus on the man with brown hair, wearing a lab coat.

A doctor? Why was—Oh. The pain--the aches--her shoulder--all became acute. She shuddered, which made her hurt more. Why hadn't she realized? How far gone--who was--

Her eyes must have widened, the woman spoke quickly. "It's okay. You're going to be all right. Breathe."

She breathed.

"You've been in a car accident. You're in a hospital in Tarpley, North Carolina," the man--the doctor--said.

She tried to remember. She only remembered a car in a carport, a sleek, black BMW. Warmth flooded her chest. She loved that car. She didn't remember buying it, or driving it. But she remembered she loved it.

"My car?" she asked.

"Can you tell me your name?"

She tried to stop thinking of the car and thought of herself. A dark-haired, tired young woman staring at a mirror flashed through her mind.

"Natalya," she said, sounding out each syllable.

The doctor seemed like a mirage in front of her, indistinct and waving. And frowning.

The image blurred, and then disappeared. That wasn't her name. Or even her accent. She turned away from the doctor and toward the woman's voice.

The woman stood there, also brown-haired, but shorter--had she been kidnapped by hospital pod people? The man she matched seemed indeterminately middle-aged, but the woman was young. Younger than her, if the gaunt vision in the mirror was to be believed. This brown-haired woman was too young to be another doctor. A nurse? A student intern? Brown hair swept into a bun at the nape of her neck, and eyes--Natalya wanted so much to see the woman's eyes.

The woman smiled.

Natalya smiled back. But Natalya wasn't her name. Drat. What was her name?

The pod people probably weren't going to be helpful or they would have told her her name, but she worked up all her energy and asked.

"Don't you have--driver's license?"

"It burned up in the fire," the doctor said.

She turned her neck so fast the tendons would never forgive her. Pain shot through her spine. She cried out. The woman cupped her neck and supported it, massaging the muscles. She moved close enough Natalya could really see her eyes--blue, crystal blue, open and giving.

The pain eased.

"You're not burned," the doctor said. "You had some smoke inhalation, but a Good Samaritan got you out before the EMTs arrived. Your engine was on fire. And then he just didn't get to it--there's bad cell reception out there so he flagged down a motorist to drive a few miles until they could place a call."

The man's accent was thick--not fake Charlotte politician thick, but honestly rich--farm boy thick--She must be in Eastern Carolina somewhere. She could sense the coastal plain in his words. What was she doing there? She'd been going--where had she been going?

"Where did you go to medical school?" she asked.

"UNC."

Definitely a jerk.

She tried to nod, but couldn't. She scrunched her face into an expression of condemnation.

"Very funny. Do you know where you came from? What you were doing?" he asked.

The woman's hands left her neck, but smoothed her cheeks before retreating.

Natalya tried to remember who she was. And what her name was. Flashes--Colonial pillars, fireflies, the Charlotte skyline, the Biltmore estate--a class trip to Washington, D.C. where she'd gotten in trouble for drinking with the boys in their hotel room--A man, wearing a suit, grinning like a slick good old boy.

Not John Ashcroft--who?

The doctor frowned.

"I think I'm an attorney," she said.

The man nodded.

The other woman gasped, then shook her head to dispel the glances Natalya and the doctor gave her.

"Is my car okay?" Natalya asked.

The man took her hand gently and sat next to her. "I'm afraid not."

She closed her eyes.

# #

Chapter Two

"Her reflexes are good. She isn't paralyzed," Meredith said, watching Natalya through the glass.

"And I'll bet she has health insurance," Wheeler said.

Meredith rolled her eyes.

"If she's really a lawyer."

"She is. She seemed so certain. And I know--"

"A hope is forming. Not good. Do you recognize her, Merry? Is she your lawyer?"

She sighed and pushed away from the glass. "You old fox. Don't you ever watch the news?"

"Too depressing. I'd rather be out with my dogs."

She dragged Wheeler out of intensive care and through the general ward. Sick people in the waiting room turned to them hopefully, and then ignored them when Meredith pointed at the TV.

News 14
showed the weather.

Wheeler glanced at Meredith. "So, it's sunny. It's nearly summer, Merry."

"The crawler, Hank."

He squinted, and read, mumbling, "...for Natalie Ivans enters its fourth day. Police are dragging Lake Wylie for a possible body. She's the state's lead attorney for the prosecution against Mike Roland..."

"Natalie. Natalya," Meredith said.

"And Roland? The guy who drowned his wife?" Wheeler asked.

"Allegedly."

"And they think he knocked off the prosecution? That's. Wow. That's almost like alien abduction."

"More than a car crash. They don't know, I guess," Meredith said.

"She was just on her way to the beach in her fancy BMW that she's obsessed with and hit a goddamn deer."

Meredith raised her eyebrows.

"Sorry. Jesus." He took out his wallet and handed her a dollar bill.

She tilted her head.

"Christ." He took out two more dollars. She put them in her pocket.

"You know I have to request dollar bills at the bank now? My banker thinks I'm seeing a stripper."

Meredith winked.

The weather segment ended.

Natalie Ivans' visage filled the screen as the lead story began.

With Natalya's face bruised from the steering wheel and her body made into a pretzel from the car flipping, she looked nothing like her picture. They'd shaved most of her hair. They'd barely seen her eyes.

The television showed a city I.D. badge picture--an angry-looking woman with black hair loose and past her shoulders, and then rotated to a DMV photo with the same expression, and then a candid shot from some sort of party. Natalie was smiling in the photo, leaning on the arm of someone just out of frame.

A sheriff's face replaced the images and reported Natalie's description. Her age--33--jolted Meredith, who thought the woman in the hospital bed was much younger, and the woman in the photographs seemed older.

The sheriff explained after 48 hours, hope was unrealistic. Natalie Ivans never checked into her rented beach house. Her car was missing. Her cell phone was off. Her cat was being taken care of by a friend.

"Well, I'll be," Wheeler said.

"We should probably call the police."

"Yeah. And then see if we can get in contact with her family." Wheeler ducked back into the hallway.

Meredith stayed to watch the end of the news report. The on-scene reporter mentioned Natalie's background. There were no parents to contact, no boyfriend or spouse, no leads in her townhouse in downtown Charlotte. Nobody cried on television for Natalie's tearful return. If Roland hadn't been on the front page of the Charlotte paper every day for a year and a half, no one would have even noticed Natalie was gone.

So nice a murderer could be so helpful.

Alleged murderer, Meredith corrected herself, her chest constricting.

Despite being a suspect in a prosecutor's disappearance, Mike Roland was a free man. Meredith hadn't followed the case beyond the nurses' gossip in the locker room, but seeing him in handcuffs from stock footage from his original arrest filled her with dread. She glanced away.

The conversation of the waiting room seeped through her--worried voices, sad voices, deflecting away from whatever brought them individually to the intensive care ward. Together, they could hate Mike Roland.

"You think he did that lawyer?"

"He ain't got the guts. She probably just went nuts. You know, like Anne Heche."

"Or maybe she's a runaway bride, on up from Georgia."

"I think she just realized she couldn't win against a man like Roland and ran with her tail between her legs. Arf!"

"Nah, I think he drowned her, just like the other bitch. They should dredge Lake Norman next."

Meredith shook her head. She left them to the conversation and the blaring television and pushed through the door.

#

Natalya stared at the Jell-O on the tray in front of her. She shook the tray. The Jell-O jiggled. They wanted her to eat it? She felt like throwing up. Stupid pod people.

"Your name is Natalie Ivans. The district attorney is coming to see you," Wheeler said.

"Harry?"

She could remember Harry. She could remember she was Natalie Ivans, assistant state prosecutor working out of the Charlotte regional office. She could remember her apartment and her car and what her computer background at work showed. She remembered she was dull. She sighed.

"Yes. Harold Taylor. Do you remember what happened?"

She shook her head.

"Do you remember heading down to the beach?"

"Yes. It was just for the weekend. Two days, before I had to go back and the defense case would start."

"They've postponed while they searched for you."

"Searched for me? Why?"

"You were found Saturday morning."

"Worked late Friday night," she said.

Wheeler nodded, and said, a little too carefully, "It's Wednesday."

"What? Jesus Christ."

He hesitated. "You weren't in a coma. You were just--out. We kept you lightly sedated to encourage you to stay unconscious, so you'd heal. It's working."

"It's working."

"Your shoulder is broken, two ribs are cracked, and we removed--well, we'll get to that later. But you're going to be all right. Sturdy little car."

"I owed a fortune on it. And it was used. You wouldn't believe what I paid."

"You seem to be fixated on the car."

Natalie shook her head. "I don't know why. It was just--there with me, at the accident. I don't remember. But it was there. I was there. My purse was there. My cat—Oh, my cat. I just left her with some food and--"

"They're taking care of her," Wheeler said.

"Who is?"

"I don't know. But she was on the news."

"My cat was on the news?"

A few days ago--no, a whole week ago—she’d been an entirely different person. One not confined to a hospital bed in the middle of nowhere. Making it to the beach would have been preferable, she decided. She'd already be back in court.

"The whole state's been searching for you," he said.

"Everyone wants to be famous. What about the trial?"

"Postponed. But picks up tomorrow now since we've called Charlotte. It'll continue without you, I guess."

"With Rich instead. He'll bore them to tears. And he under-objects."

"How do you feel, Natalie?"

She assessed, and then met his gaze. "I guess I feel…kind of awful. I feel guilty making everyone worry. I feel bad missing work. I'm angry I'm stuck here, and that this happened, and it's really inconvenient."

"Natalie, Natalie. How do you really feel?" he asked.

She snorted.

"Eat your Jell-O. It'll help. Really." He got up.

"Hey, doc? When you said I wasn't in a coma. You were going to say something else. What?"

"Oh, just--We don't think much of cursing around here."

Her eyes widened.

"Think nothing of it. It's just the nurses." He left, closing the door behind him.

"This place is damn creepy, pod person!" she shouted at the door.

Lightning didn't strike her.

The Jell-O, though, watched her every move.

# #

Chapter Three

Sedation made Natalie's head heavy. She couldn't think clearly. She wanted to oppose the drugs, just long enough to think about something, but she was afraid of pain. She stayed awake long enough to eat or answer questions when they made her but she didn't have the strength or the focus to observe her surroundings.

The generic nature of the hospital room didn't help. The interesting things were at the edges.

Her eyes hurt.

She noticed the closer things they tried to hide--her leg under the blanket, framed in metal, like she'd caught it in a bear trap. Her hip and belly had surgical lines that were to be bandaged every four hours.

They told her what her name was. Scary more than embarrassing. But now she could remember everything except the accident--she could even remember driving down the highway with the BMW's convertible top down, her hair wrapped in a scarf to keep it from blowing in her eyes. Her eyes stinging anyway. Her mouth watering for the first scent of salt in the air.

But she remembered nothing else until the darkness and the voices in the hospital. The doctor--Doctor Wheeler?--told her there’d been a deer.

She couldn't see a deer. But she remembered Roland's face.