Memories at Midnight Page 4

  “I’d like to check out of the hospital today,” she announced, not waiting for the idea to stew too long in her muddled mind.

  “Where would you go?”

  “Back to Washington,” she announced, faking a confidence she didn’t feel. “I’d like to be in my home, surrounded by my own things. Surely that would be conducive to remembering who I am.”

  The doctor shook his head slowly, as if he were refusing the request of a spoiled child. “I don’t think you’re ready to travel, at least not until the sutures are removed. There’s no major airport in Vaquero. You’d have to drive to San Antonio to even catch a flight into D.C.”

  “Fine. If you don’t think I’m up to traveling, I’ll get a motel room in Vaquero. I’ll be only a few minutes from the hospital. I can come in and let you check the progress of the wound until the stitches are ready to come out. Every day, if necessary.”

  “So you’re asking me to release you from the hospital?”

  “Exactly. Is there any reason why you couldn’t—?”

  “Yeah. ’There’s a very good reason.” The response, authoritative and quick, did not come from the doctor.

  Darlene turned to find Sheriff Clint Richards at her door, sporting an expression that dared her to argue. She ignored it.

  “Do you always snoop at hospital doors?”

  “I wasn’t snooping, but I try not to interrupt when a doctor is conferring with his patient I’d expect the same from the doc if I were interrogating you.”

  He sauntered into the room, towering above her bed and even a head above Dr. Bennigan. He moved like a tiger, easily, yet deliberately, as if he knew what a daunting figure he made in his dark gray Stetson and pale gray western shirt. But she wouldn’t be intimidated by him.

  “Is that why you’re here? To interrogate me?”

  “Not exactly. Not at this minute, anyway.”

  “So why is it you think I shouldn’t be released from the hospital?”

  “Because I think you’d find this place a lot more hospitable than the county jail.”

  “Jail?” She pushed back the covers and bolted upright in the narrow bed, taking a deep breath to camouflage the surge of dizziness. “Since when did amnesia become grounds for arrest?”

  “You’re not under arrest. You’re in protective custody.”

  “Funny, the way you say it, it sounds like the same thing. How long do you intend to keep me under lock and key with one of your armed guards at my door?”

  “Until I find out what really happened out on Glenn Road Monday night.”

  Darlene fought a sudden shudder. The doctor, the nurses, the sheriff. Everyone claimed to be on her side, but they all appeared to have their own agendas.

  She swung her feet over the side of the bed and dropped to the floor. Striving for steadiness, she walked the few steps to the closet, clutching the open back of her gown in a viselike grip as she maneuvered past the sheriff.

  One look into the empty shelves, and her frustration swelled to dangerous proportions. “Where are my clothes?” she demanded, her voice shaky. “I know I was dressed when you found me. I do remember that much.”

  “And I’d probably remember if you hadn’t been.”

  For the first time since he’d entered the room, the sheriff’s lips eased into a tentative smile. The change was dramatic. It made him appear considerably more human—and dangerously attractive.

  But not a tad more trustworthy.

  “I’d appreciate it if someone could get my clothes for me,” she said, looking pointedly from the sheriff to the doctor.

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Clint answered, meeting her accusing gaze head-on. “They’re at the forensics lab being tested.”

  Darlene turned and leaned against the wall for support. Her missing memory was bad enough, but her instincts told her she was also being kept in the dark by the sheriff. She hated to even guess at the reason. “You are thorough, Sheriff. All this because a woman from out of town was attacked and hit over the head? Or do you think I’m involved in something besides an unprovoked assault?”

  “Actually, it has more to do with your, uh, companion.”

  “Then I take it you haven’t located Senator McCord?”

  “No, but we’ve heard from him, at least my deputy Randy has. McCord’s out of town and not available for questioning until he returns.”

  “Where is he?”

  “That wasn’t one of the answers he provided.”

  “But he must have told you who attacked us Monday night.”

  “It’s obvious you’ve forgotten what you knew about McCord. The only thing he offered was a directive for how he expected this investigation to be handled.”

  “Which was?”

  “He wants you to be protected at all times. Other than that, he expects the bumbling local sheriff to stay the hell out of his business and let him take care of this his way. Not a direct quote, of course.”

  “I wouldn’t think so.” So that explained the hard lines that circled the sheriff’s mouth and eyes, and his foul disposition. Needless to say, he had no intention of following the senator’s orders. “So where does that leave me?”

  “Right here, under my ‘lock and key,’ as you put it, until I know what the Sam Hill is going on. Unless you can tell me what you witnessed the other night. Or unless you know where I can find the missing senator.”

  “And, of course, I can’t do either of those things.” She shut the closet door and leaned against it. “I want to go back to the area where you found me, Sheriff. It’s possible I might remember what happened if I returned to the scene.”

  “I don’t think you should—”

  She threw up her hands, interrupting the doctor. “And I don’t want to hear reasons from either of you as to why I shouldn’t quit wasting time in this hospital room and try to get my memory back.”

  The burst of determination took its toll. By the time she’d finished the ultimatum, her head was pounding and her insides were quivering. But amazingly enough, neither of the two men were shaking their heads or protesting her decision. Gathering what dignity she could, considering her state of unsteadiness and undress, she stumbled back toward the bed.

  Clint pulled back the sheet. Taking her arm, he assisted her as she climbed onto the high mattress. His touch seemed almost possessive, and strangely familiar. The feeling passed quickly, and she resettled herself in the bed to gather strength for the arguments that were sure to come.

  But the cowboy sheriff surprised her again. “It sounds like your patient is anxious to leave you, Doctor.” Clint hooked a thumb into the front pocket of his jeans and leaned against the bedside table. “I’m willing to go with her if she’s up to visiting ‘the scene.’”

  His nonchalant manner didn’t fool Darlene for a second, not with his steely eyes burning with intensity. Returning to the area where he had found her Monday night might have been her idea, but it suited his purposes just fine.

  “What do you think, Doc? Is Darlene strong enough to take a ride with me out to Glenn Road?”

  Dr. Bennigan narrowed his eyes and stared Clint down. “I told you earlier—I’m as concerned about all this as anyone. But if you try to push Darlene too hard too soon, it might backfire. In my professional judgment, she needs another day of rest.”

  “That’s not what she thinks. And she’s the one who’s fighting to regain her memory.”

  Deep furrows formed in the doctor’s brow. He turned to face her, his eyes mirroring his concern. “It’s against my better judgment, Darlene.”

  “I’ll take full responsibility,” she assured him.

  He shrugged and opened her chart. “Well, if you’re sure you’re up to this.”

  “I’m sure.” She wasn’t, but anything would beat lying here, worrying about what she didn’t remember. Wondering what the senator was up to. Waiting to see if the attacker would return for a chance to finish her off.

  “She definitely isn’t ready to drive
a car, and she should avoid any unnecessary stress.” The doctor directed his statements toward the sheriff.

  Clint shifted impatiently from one booted foot to the other. “I’ll take good care of her,” he promised, “and have her back for bed check.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said, hating the way they talked about her as if she weren’t there. After all, it was her memory she’d lost, not her mind. “I can get a motel room.”

  Neither man acknowledged her offer. Dr. Bennigan faced Clint, nodding slowly, his lips drawn as if he were agreeing to something sinister. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for her to take a ride, but don’t tire her out, Clint. I know you’ll be on this case night and day until you solve it, but don’t try to make Darlene keep up that pace.”

  Clint smiled uneasily. “Hopefully, we’ll put this case to bed before any of us loses any more sleep. Especially if Darlene is able to re-create for me what happened Monday night.” He turned back to Darlene. “Are you ready?”

  She tugged on the waist of her hospital gown. “Not dressed like this.”

  Clint strode back to the door and picked up a small suitcase he’d obviously left in the keeping of the guard. He set it on the foot of the bed and opened it, revealing all the necessities, including silky underwear.

  “So, you had this planned all along,” she said, scooting the panties out of the way and checking the size on the jeans. Size eight. Her size.

  “I was hoping you were up to it.”

  Always move fast after a crime. The first twenty-four hours is the prime time for solving cases. The colder the crime scene gets, the less it provides. Facts. They were coming back to her. Like—

  “The jeans!”

  “What about them?” Clint asked, moving back toward the bed and holding the jeans up for inspection. “They look fine to me.”

  “They’re size eight. I wear a size eight.”

  “Then they’ll fit.” He tossed them in her direction. “We’ll get out of here and let you get dressed.”

  “No, don’t you see? When I saw they were a size eight, I knew they were my size. Automatically, without even thinking about it. That means some personal things are coming back to me, doesn’t it?”

  Dr. Bennigan smiled and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I told you it’s just a matter of time.”

  “And we don’t have a lot of that.” Clint pulled his Stetson low over his forehead, failing to capture a wayward lock of dark hair. “So get dressed, and we’ll take a ride and see what you remember about sitting in a parked truck in the woods at night with Senator James McCord.” He turned and strode from the room without waiting for a reply.

  The sheriff’s tone stung with accusation, and Darlene fought back a shudder as she climbed from the bed. Was the sheriff suspicious of everyone, or did he know things about her that made him doubt her innocence in all of this?

  Personal business. On a dark road. With a United States senator who was now away and not talking. Darlene pulled on the jeans and stuffed her head through the yellow sweater. She prayed she would soon remember who she was. And more important, that she would like the person she turned out to be.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN added a welcome sparkle to the plainness of Vaquero, Texas. Darlene looked out the truck window at the passing view, and scrutinized the parade of pickups, small houses and stores that needed paint. If she had walked these streets as a teenager, she should recall picking up the mail in the post office they’d just passed, should remember attending classes in the low, rambling high school just ahead.

  Clint slowed to a stop and waited to let a lady pushing a baby stroller cross the street in front of him. Darlene stared at the diner on the corner. The sign in the window that proclaimed that Rosita’s food was home-cooked and the best in town had faded to the same dull green as the clapboard building.

  .. “Are you hungry?” Clint asked, no doubt noticing her attention to Rosita’s. “If you are, we can stop and get something.”

  “No, I was just wondering if I’d eaten there before.”

  “Many times. I’ve never seen anyone put away Rosita’s tortillas the way you can.” His tone changed, grew warmer. She met his gaze, and for a second she felt she could almost reach through the haze that clouded her mind, felt that she had talked to Clint like this before. “Were we close friends, Clint?”

  “Close. You might say that.” He turned away from her to face the road. “Like I said, that was a long time ago. You’ve been gone from Vaquero for six years. A person can change a lot in six years.”

  He gunned the engine and turned right onto the highway that ran in front of Rosita’s, but not before Darlene noticed the clench of his hands around the steering wheel and the way the fabric of his shirt stretched over the strained muscles in his broad shoulders. As always, what he left unsaid was more powerful than what he actually put into words.

  “Why is it I think you don’t like me very much, Sheriff? Is it something I did years ago, or just the fact that I got myself beat up in your town and can’t tell you what you want to know?”

  Clint kept his gaze glued to the ribbon of highway that stretched in front of them. “Right now, I’m just trying to do my job—and that includes finding out who beat you up, and if the senator is a victim like you or if he’s one of the guilty.”

  “You surely don’t think Senator McCord attacked me!” The idea crackled in her mind, bringing up possibilities she hadn’t even considered.

  “It’s not likely. But he may be mixed up in something that he dragged you into. Of course, we’d probably have answers to all my questions if you could remember what happened on Monday evening.”

  Darlene sat up ramrod straight in her seat, her blood pressure rising. “I’m really sorry that my amnesia is inconveniencing you, Sheriff. Especially since it’s such fun for me.”

  He beat a fist against the steering wheel. “Look, I’m sorry. Okay?” His gaze left the road for the briefest of seconds, and he reached over and touched her hand. “I know this is harder on you than on anyone.”

  It was just a simple acknowledgment, but it was real sympathy. And it did her in. The fears and frustrations of the last few days swelled inside her, and she tried desperately to blink back the threatening tears. If she started crying now, she’d never stop. She grabbed a tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Look, Darlene, we don’t have to do this today if you’re not up to it. We don’t even know if it will help.”

  She swallowed hard. “We do have to do it. For me and for Senator McCord. If I’d done my job right the first time, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “According to your supervisor, you weren’t on a job.”

  “Whether I was or not, I let someone attack me and a United States senator. For all we know, McCord’s running in fear of his life right now. I’d say that’s pretty incompetent on my part, even if the duty wasn’t official.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t have a chance to do any more than what you did.”

  “I still shouldn’t have let it happen. I must have made mistakes.”

  He shook his hand. “I don’t buy that.”

  She stared at Clint’s profile—the jut of his chin, the tight lines around his mouth. She didn’t understand him at all. One minute he was cold and accusing, the next he was offering sympathy and making excuses for her.

  “What makes you think I didn’t make mistakes the other night?”

  “You asked me how well I knew you,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “I didn’t give you an honest answer. I know you well enough to know that you’d never intentionally let harm come to James McCord. And you’d never let anything interfere with doing your job.”

  “Thank you. I think.”

  She leaned back in the seat, her eyes glued to the passing scenery, praying something would stimulate her brain cells and help her lost memory to kick in. But the names of th
e ranches tacked to swinging gates were no more meaningful than the rows of telephone poles and road signs that marched past in monotonous order.

  Minutes later, she snapped to full attention as Clint pulled off the highway. He’d turned onto a dirt road that was guarded by a metal fence that swung over a cattle grate. The sign above the gate was freshly painted in large block letters: WELCOME TO THE ALTAMIRA.

  “I don’t understand. I thought we were going to the spot on Glenn Road where I was attacked?”

  “We are. I just thought that a stop here might jog some memories. The Altamira is the McCord family ranch. You spent a lot of time here before you left for Quantico.”

  She sat up straighter and lowered her window. The wind had picked up, cool and heavy with the scent of new-cut hay. She looked around, struggling to remember, to find something familiar in the dirt road in front of them, the sign above the gate, the beautiful horses in the pasture to their left.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “I got a call from forensics while I was waiting on you to dress,” Clint said after a few minutes of silence. “It seems some of the blood on your clothes wasn’t yours.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “They’re not sure yet, but it matches the type of James McCord.”

  The twisting and knotting started again in her stomach. She grappled with the facts she knew, trying to find meaning in the bit of news. “So, whoever attacked me must also have attacked the senator? He was probably the intended victim. We could have been led to that deserted stretch of highway you talked about, and then ambushed.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “But we have no motive unless I can remember something.” Frustration had her tearing at the tissue in her hand, but she wasn’t about to give up. She looked through the trees and caught sight of a roofline in the distance. “Is that the McCord family home?”