Unseen. Nancy Bush

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      Climbing out of bed had been all fine and good, but the dizziness that overwhelmed Gemma made her realize she wasn’t going to be able to hightail it to freedom with any real speed. She was injured, and her body wasn’t eager to move.

      “Damn,” she whispered, swaying as she headed toward the bifold closet doors which, when opened, revealed a small, built-in chest of drawers and little else.

      She found her clothes in a plastic bag in the top drawer of the chest. They were identified by the number 434 written on the bag in black felt pen. Gemma pulled the items out carefully and gazed in a kind of awe at the blood-soaked T-shirt and ripped jeans. The fabric over one thigh was sliced as if by a knife and Gemma looked down at the thin, superficial wound that ran down her corresponding leg.

      Another wave of wooziness grabbed her and she stumbled back to the bed, her clothes squeezed inside her fists. Her head throbbed. It took a lot longer than it should have to remove her hospital nightgown, and when she was undressed her eyes automatically moved to her left hip, where the hipbone did not flare out in the same way as it did on her right. An old injury, with a scar that was shaped somewhat like a dagger. She tried to remember what had happened there but her mind shied away. She sensed she knew, or almost knew, but her mind was locked down.

      There was no underwear. No panties. No bra.

      Girding her loins, she stuck one leg through the blood-spattered jeans and felt a wave of nausea that almost made her throw up. She slid the other leg inside with more care. When she’d gotten the pants on, she zipped them up and buttoned them, then paused a moment, gathering strength. A rip ran down one leg from thigh to just below the knee. She had more of a mental struggle with herself than a physical one as she dragged the T-shirt over her bandaged head. Dressed, she cautiously moved to the bathroom and, propping herself up against the sink, examined her reflection in the mirror. Her breath whooshed out in a rush of distaste. She turned away from the staring eye and bruised skin and white bandage.

      Her insides quivered. God, she looked horrible.

      And then she had a flash of the man she’d been chasing. The bastard with his putrid lust for children. But she couldn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite put it together. She’d wanted to kill him. That, she could recall.

      It took her long, long minutes to find her shoes: a pair of sneakers, also blood-spattered, and she put them on over her bare feet. There were no socks in evidence anywhere. By the time she’d accomplished these tasks she was exhausted, and with a sort of miserable dawning realized she had no purse. It wasn’t anywhere in the room, and for the life of her she could not recall what it even looked like.

      Which led her to the next unwelcome discovery: she didn’t remember where she lived. She thought hard for a moment, begging her memory to come through, and suddenly it did. She was from Quarry. Quarry, Oregon. And she’d been making herself breakfast…some kind of…oatmeal? Her heart banged against her chest. She couldn’t remember, but she’d just told that detective what she’d eaten. What was it? What was it? Oatmeal and maybe some fruit?

      Gemma lifted a shaking hand to her forehead and closed her eye. Her head throbbed. She shouldn’t leave the hospital. She wasn’t well enough. But something told her she had to go. Had to.

      A memory shot like a streak behind her eyes:

      She was looking out the window and chrysanthemums were getting beaten by a killing rain, their spiky orange heads pressed against the packed dirt.

      It hasn’t rained in three days.

      She tried to concentrate hard, yet not tax her brain too much. She’d been eating oatmeal with cinnamon. That was right. That’s what she’d told the detective. Slowly bits came back to her…

      I’m from Quarry, Oregon. My name is Gemma LaPorte. I’m twenty-seven years old. Or maybe twenty-eight? Or am I older? Gemma took several deep breaths and willed herself to relax. I live…on a farm? My parents’ farm? My father is a farmer…but he’s gone now…my mother, too. No, wait. My parents had a diner. The PickAxe. No…no…That’s a different place. A bar, mostly. My parents had…LuLu’s…and I waited tables when I was younger.

      Gemma’s eyes flew open, though she could still only see out of one. She recalled wearing the LuLu’s uniform, a typical old-time diner dress that came in varying colors—hers had been yellow—with pockets and a wide, white collar. Tourists loved LuLu’s, as much for the ambiance as the food.

      “I inherited the diner,” she said aloud. But there appeared to be a block to that thinking. A dark wall. There was something more that she couldn’t quite reach.

      “My mother worked at the diner.”

      Your mother was a liar.

      Gemma inhaled and glanced around, half expecting to find the source of that comment, but the words had been inside her head. She felt more pain but was determined to work her way through it. Carefully, she shuffled her way to the door. Would she be able to just walk out? Would they let her leave? She knew there was enough bureaucracy and paperwork waiting for her at hospital administration to make a stronger person weep, but she needed her identification, the name of her insurance company, the address of her home before she could settle her bill.

      She wasn’t even sure she had the money to make that happen.

      But she had to get out. She had to…find the man she’d been after and finish what she’d started. It was imperative. She could feel a clock ticking inside her head. Time was running short.

      What if someone saw her? She looked like she’d barely survived a war. But then this was a hospital. She wouldn’t be the only one bandaged and bloody, would she?

      And how the hell would she get to Quarry when she had no money? Did she have a car? The good-looking detective had asked how she’d gotten to the hospital. If only she knew. Had she driven herself and left her car in the lot? Even if she had, it was a moot point because she had no keys! And she had no idea what kind of vehicle she drove.

      Nor could she come up with the name of a single friend.

      Her heart squeezed. What if my name’s not Gemma LaPorte? There was something about it that sounded wrong. Like it was an alias. An identity trotted out when she didn’t want to give out her real name.

      She moved as fast as she dared given her painful head and unsure stomach. She almost slipped right past the stairs, but then saw the sign above the door—an icon of a man in a running position over a jagged line meant to represent the stairs—and СКАЧАТЬ