If it was the first, maybe he could claim her body. He’d buy the most beautiful, serene cemetery plot he could find, and put her there. A granite headstone would mark the beginning and end of her life. He could put flowers there, and visit her occasionally.
And if she’d already been buried, he could make certain a stone was put there, and he could still take flowers to her. He just needed to know where she was.
Finding her should be easy, he thought. He knew where the accident had happened, so all he had to do was check the newspapers for the area. A traffic fatality, an unidentified woman-five minutes, tops, and he’d know.
He gave in to temptation, and sat down at his computer. Finding her didn’t take five minutes. It took two minutes and seven seconds.
He read everything twice, shaking his head in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. The newspaper had got it wrong; happened all the time. He checked the next day’s edition for an update, a correction. Instead, it said the same thing. Her name wasn’t known, she was a Jane Doe, but-
God. He felt as if he’d grabbed a live wire and had the hell knocked out of him. The shock was so great that he realized, with an odd kind of remoteness, that he was breathing hard and fast, and his vision had narrowed until he saw nothing but the lit computer screen. It wasn’t possible. He’d watched her die, watched her eyes dull and her pupils fix. He’d felt for the pulse in her neck, and there hadn’t been one.
But something had happened. Somehow the medics must have revived her, kept her going long enough to get her to a hospital. He didn’t know how, it had to be a fucking miracle, but right now the how didn’t matter.
Drea was alive.
20
SIMON FLEW INTO DENVER THAT NIGHT. HE CARRIED ONLY one small bag, so he could leave directly from the arrival gate instead of dealing with the hassle of luggage claim. He had no weapons on him, and no need to procure any. He just wanted to see Drea for himself, to make sure it was really her, and to find out what had happened.
There must be some mistake. The woman in the hospital probably wasn’t Drea. It would be a hell of a coincidence if there were two Jane Does, one alive and one dead, and the live one would be more newsworthy than the dead one. Drea’s accident had happened a good distance away, in a far less populated area; the report of an unidentified accident victim might not have made it into any newspaper at all.
Or, worst case, the medics had somehow revived Drea, but she was either brain dead or had very limited function, maybe just enough activity in her brain stem to keep her lungs working and her heart beating, though how her heart could beat after what had happened, he didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine any surgeon doing the kind of extensive repair job that would be needed, if one were even possible, on someone who was either brain dead or in a severe vegetative state.
That was why he thought the woman couldn’t be Drea. He didn’t want it to be Drea, not with the brain damage she would have suffered.
But if it was, if the woman really was Drea and some damn fool had kept her body alive even though her brain was gone, he’d take care of her. He’d find the best place in the country for her, someplace where her body would be tenderly cared for. He might visit her occasionally, though seeing her like that would be even tougher than watching her die. He had no legal right to make any decisions concerning her care, but fuck that. He had the money to make it happen, and if anyone stood in his way he’d simply take her. He made a living being where he wasn’t supposed to be, and doing things he wasn’t supposed to do.
He checked into a hotel for the night. There would be more people coming and going at the hospital during the day, making it easier for him to blend in. Days were busy, with outpatient tests, visitors in and out all day, flowers and newspapers being delivered, food and medical supplies coming in; he would be one more face in the crowd. In his experience, people working the night shift lived in a smaller world and tended to notice strangers more.
First, he’d have to find out if the Jane Doe was still in the hospital. Over two weeks had passed; if the woman in question wasn’t Drea, she might already have been released-or she might have simply walked out because people without ID usually had something to hide. If she was no longer there, then obviously she wasn’t Drea, and he could go home. If her injuries had been severe and she was still there, then he’d have to see her to make certain she was or was not Drea. Back before hospitals got so pissy about privacy, he could have placed a call and learned all he needed to know, but now information was given out only to immediate family. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t find out things, just that it would be a little harder.
He was at the hospital before six o’clock the next morning, waiting for the shift to change. Could be some of the hospital staff worked twelve-hour shifts, which might be from six to six, or seven to seven, and he didn’t know who his target would be. He’d have to work fast; he might have hours, depending on how alert the target was-though, coming off a long night shift, probably not all that alert-or he might have no more than thirty minutes. But shift change was the time to move in, when distraction was high.
He went in through the emergency room entrance, which was always busy, then located the elevators and the directory. ICU was on the seventh floor. A harried-looking woman, her face lined with exhaustion and worry, hurried in just as the elevator doors were closing. She had probably been to the cafeteria, because she carried a large cup of coffee. She punched the button for the fourth floor. After she exited, he rode the rest of the way alone.
The glassed-in ICU waiting room was full of bleary-eyed people camped out in the cramped room, some almost literally, bringing sleeping bags, snacks, books, and anything else to make the long dreary hours more comfortable. A coffeemaker was set up on a table, making popping noises as it spewed out a fresh brew. Several tall stacks of polystyrene cups stood sentinel next to the pot.
The heavy doors to the ICU, operated by a pressure plate on the wall, were directly across from the waiting room. The glass walls allowed him to watch the doors from inside the waiting room, and while he waited for a shift change he might be able to glean some information from the relatives who had stood watch through the night, desperately hoping their loved ones would live or stoically waiting for the end. Sharing an ICU waiting room was almost like sharing a foxhole; everyone was in a crisis situation and information flowed like water.
He found an empty chair where he could watch the ICU, then leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. His body language suggested despair, an emotion with which everyone in that room was on intimate terms. He kept his head just high enough that he could still see the ICU doors.
He didn’t make eye contact, didn’t look around; he just sat there, the very picture of misery. Within a minute, the gray-haired woman on his left asked in a sympathetic tone, “Do you have a family member here?”
She meant in the unit, of course. “My mother,” he said in a strained voice. An ICU always had plenty of elderly people in it, so that was a safe choice, plus appearing as a devoted son always put people at ease. “Stroke.” He swallowed hard. “A severe one. They think…they think she might be brain dead.”
“Oh, that’s tough. I’m so sorry,” she said. “But don’t give up hope yet. My husband works construction. A month ago he fell from four stories up, broke almost every bone in his body. I thought I’d lost him.” Her voice trembled with remembered despair. “I’d been trying to talk him into retirement and he’d finally promised me next year, then this happened and I just knew he’d never get to enjoy all the hunting and fishing trips he’d planned with our son. No one thought he’d make it, but he’s still holding on, and now they think that maybe next week he can be moved into a regular room.”