Under the Mistletoe with John Doe. Judy DuarteЧитать онлайн книгу.
at that point, a big burly guy stepped in—a bouncer, it seemed.
And this one wasn’t a scrawny old man.
At about six-foot-six and probably weighing close to three hundred pounds—nearly all muscle—he could have taken on a couple of linebackers for the Houston Texans without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t want any trouble,” the bouncer said, “so you guys will have to take your squabble outside. Or better yet, go on home and call it a night.”
Slim mellowed right out and tossed the man a chipped-tooth grin. “We were just havin’ a little fun.”
The bouncer crossed his muscular arms, his biceps stretching the cotton fabric of his T-shirt to the limit. “Yeah, well, take your fun somewhere else.”
“Come on,” Slim called to his buddy. “Let’s go on down to Larry’s Place. The help is a lot friendlier there.”
Apparently, Chubby saw the wisdom in Slim’s suggestion, and they both headed out the door like a couple of docile pups, their tails tucked between their legs.
When they were gone, the bouncer turned his gaze on Jason, as though he wasn’t all that welcome here, either.
“It’s okay,” Trina said on Jason’s behalf. “This guy hasn’t been any trouble. He stepped in to defend me while you were in the stockroom.”
Jason wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting from the bouncer—a thank-you, maybe. But he didn’t get anything.
He did, however, make a mental note to check out Larry’s Place tomorrow. He certainly wasn’t going to follow 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.
Get over it, she scolded herself. He was a patient. A victim. And a complete stranger.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asked.
A furrowed brow suggested