Slim and Chubby anywhere tonight.
“Do you know where I can find a motel?” he asked Trina.
“The Night Owl is a couple of blocks down the street.”
“Thanks.”
“It doesn’t look like much on the outside,” she added, “but it’s clean and the beds are soft.”
He didn’t ask how she knew that. Instead, he thanked her, then strode toward the door. On his way out, he reached into his pocket for the keys to his rental car and headed for the parking lot.
A streetlight at the road was flickering, yet it gave off just enough light for him to see someone near the driver’s door of his vehicle, as if trying to break in.
“Hey!” he called out, picking up his pace.
Chubby looked up, but he didn’t appear to be too concerned about being caught in the act.
Where was Slim?
Footsteps sounded behind him, but before he could turn around, his head exploded with pain-then everything went black.
The E.R. at the Brighton Valley Medical Center had been unusually quiet, even for a weekday night, but Dr. Betsy Nielson wouldn’t complain.
While doing her internship, she’d learned to use her downtime wisely, so she went into the break room and poured herself a cup of coffee.
But as usual, the peace and quiet didn’t last long.
Dawn McGregor, one of the nurses on staff, poked her head in the doorway. “Dr. Nielson? We’ve got an ambulance on the way with an unconscious man in his late twenties-early thirties. He was robbed and beaten up outside the Stagecoach Inn.”
Betsy took another sip of coffee before pouring it down the sink. “What’s the ETA?”
“Three-and-a-half minutes.” Dawn handed Betsy a list of the man’s vitals that had been relayed to the hospital via the radio in the ambulance.
Betsy glanced at the readings, making note of them, then headed for the triage area.
Moments later, the automatic door swung open as paramedics rushed the victim into the E.R.
Showtime, Betsy thought, as she met them partway and began a visual assessment of the patient while they all moved into the exam area.
Blunt-force trauma. Lacerations and bruises…
As she moved in closer, she realized that the man had gotten some of his injuries before today. One wound near his hairline already had sutures.
She guessed them to be about a week old-maybe less.
A bar fight? she wondered, coming to that conclusion because of where he’d been when he’d gotten this beating. That and the fact that the Stagecoach Inn had had more than its share of scuffles lately, resulting in their hiring an ex-marine as a bouncer.
She smelled alcohol on the patient, but it wasn’t as though he’d been stewing in it all day, like a lot of the other drunken Stagecoach regulars who ended up in one of the E.R. exam rooms during one of her nighttime shifts.
“What happened?” she asked Sheila Conway, the head paramedic, as she ordered lab work and an MRI.
“He was hit from behind and rolled. No wallet, no cash, no credit cards on him. And he’s completely out of it.”
His clothing, while bloody, was expensive and stylish. Definitely not the usual patron of the Stagecoach Inn.
“Anyone know his name?”
“Nope.”
“What about his vehicle?” Betsy asked. “Did they check the registration?”
“If he had a car, it might have been stolen. From what we were told, all the cars in the parking lot have been accounted for.”
“Didn’t anyone know who he is?”
“Apparently, he walked in alone, asked about a guy no one recognized, had a beer and left. But he didn’t get far. Someone hit him with a tire iron and left him in a pool of blood. The bouncer found him and called us.”
The patient moaned, and Betsy decided to quiz him. They had no idea of his medical history or allergies. Nothing to go on but what they uncovered here and now.
The police, who’d most likely been called already, would be here shortly. And they’d want to question him, too.
“Hi, there,” she said. “How are you doing?”
Another moan. A blink.
She flashed a light into his eyes, saw his pupils-dilated. She’d be ordering that MRI stat.
When he looked at her through bloodshot eyes, she said, “I’m Dr. Nielson. Can you tell me what happened?”
He jerked and stiffened. His eyes grew wide and panicked. “How’s the kid? Is she okay?”
“What kid?” she asked, wondering if a child had been in the vehicle that was stolen. She couldn’t imagine someone being so negligent that they’d leave a youngster in the parking lot of a bar. But it happened.
“The stop sign,” he said. “I didn’t see it… I’m sorry.”
He was rambling and confused. Did he think he’d been involved in a car accident?
She studied his pained expression, the raw emotion on his face, the concern in his striking blue eyes.
“You were robbed outside the Stagecoach Inn,” she said, trying to shake the sympathy that drew her to him and was making it difficult to keep a professional distance. “What’s your name?”
He stared at her blankly. Then confusion spread across his face. “I don’t know.”
In spite of the blood and dirt on his brow and cheek, he was an attractive man, and her heart quivered with the realization.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asked.
A furrowed brow suggested that he didn’t, and his eyes sought hers. “No, but the…kid? Her mom? Are they okay?”
“There wasn’t anyone with you.” At least that was the word she’d gotten. She looked to Sheila for confirmation.
The head EMT nodded. “As far as we know, he went in and out of the Stagecoach Inn alone.”
Betsy returned her attention to her patient. “You were the only one hurt. And it wasn’t a car accident. Someone assaulted you when you left a local bar and stole everything but the clothes on your back.”
The tension in his expression softened, but only slightly. Then he closed his eyes and drifted off again.
The head injury could account for the temporary amnesia, and while she didn’t suspect a fracture, she knew his brain had experienced some serious trauma tonight.
Betsy glanced across the gurney to Dawn, who usually worked the evening shift with her in the E.R. “Let’s get an MRI and see what’s going on.”
The nurse nodded. “Anything else?”
Betsy issued the rest of her orders, and as soon as Dawn left to make sure they were fulfilled, Betsy took another look at her patient.
She reached for his nearest hand, which just happened to be his left. He wasn’t wearing a ring, wedding or otherwise.
It might have been stolen along with his wallet and other valuables, she supposed, but she didn’t see an indention or a tan line. His fingers were straight, sturdy and they appeared to have been manicured recently.
She turned his hand over. Too bad she couldn’t read palms. It would be helpful to know more about him- medically speaking, of course, although her curiosity was mounting. Who was this guy? And what had he been doing in a rip-roaring honky-tonk on a Wednesday night?
A hardened ridge of calluses marred his lifeline, suggesting that he might lift weights or swing a golf club regularly. Or maybe it was from gripping the handlebars of a bike.
