The nurse said quickly, Mr. Holland, why dont you let us dispose of the clothes for you? Theres nothing worth keeping in there. Ive already collected his valuables. She unlocked a drawer and pulled out a sealed manila envelope labeled: Holland, Victor. Contents: Wallet, Wristwatch. You can take these home. Just sign this receipt.
The man nodded and signed his name: David Holland. Tell me, he said, sliding the envelope in his pocket. Is Victor awake? Has he said anything?
Im afraid not. He was semiconscious when he arrived.
The man took this information in silence, a silence that the nurse found suddenly and profoundly disturbing. Excuse me, Mr. Holland? she asked. How did you hear your brother was hurt? I didnt get a chance to contact any relatives
The police called me. Victor was driving my car. They found it smashed up at the side of the road.
Oh. What an awful way to be notified.
Yes. The stuff of nightmares.
At least someone was able to get in touch with you. She sifted through the sheaf of papers on her desk. Can we get your address and phone number? In case we need to reach you?
Of course. The man took the ER papers, which he quickly scanned before scrawling his name and phone number on the blank marked Next of Kin. Whos this Catherine Weaver? he asked, pointing to the name and address at the bottom of the page.
Shes the woman who brought him in.
Ill have to thank her. He handed back the papers.
Nurse?
She looked around and saw that the doctor was calling to her from the trauma room doorway. Yes?
I want you to call the police. Tell them to get in here as soon as possible.
Theyve been called, Doctor. They know about the accident-
Call them again. This is no accident.
What?
We just got the X rays. The mans got a bullet in his shoulder.
A bullet? A chill went through the nurses body, like a cold wind sweeping in from the night. Slowly, she turned toward the man in the raincoat, the man whod claimed to be Victor Hollands brother. To her amazement, no one was there. She felt only a cold puff of night air, and then she saw the double doors quietly slide shut.
Where the hell did he go? the orderly whispered.
For a few seconds she could only stare at the closed doors. Then her gaze dropped and she focused on the empty spot on her desk. The bag containing Victor Hollands clothes had vanished.
Why did the police call again?
Cathy slowly replaced the telephone receiver. Even though she was bundled in a warm terry-cloth robe, she was shivering. She turned and stared across the kitchen at Sarah. That man on the road-they found a bullet in his shoulder.
In the midst of pouring tea, Sarah glanced up in surprise. You mean-someone shot him?
Cathy sank down at the kitchen table and gazed numbly at the cup of cinnamon tea that Sarah had just slid in front of her. A hot bath and a soothing hour of sitting by the fireplace had made the nights events seem like nothing more than a bad dream. Here in Sarahs kitchen, with its chintz curtains and its cinnamon and spice smells, the violence of the real world seemed a million miles away.
Sarah leaned toward her. Do they know what happened? Has he said anything?
He just got out of surgery. She turned and glanced at the telephone. I should call the hospital again-
No. You shouldnt. Youve done everything you possibly can. Sarah gently touched her arm. And your teas getting cold.
With a shaking hand, Cathy brushed back a strand of damp hair and settled uneasily in her chair. A bullet in his shoulder, she thought. Why? Had it been a random attack, a highway gunslinger blasting out the car window at a total stranger? Shed read about it in the newspapers, the stories of freeway arguments settled by the pulling of a trigger.
Or had it been a deliberate attack? Had Victor Holland been targeted for death?
Outside, something rattled and clanged against the house. Cathy sat up sharply. What was that?
Believe me, its not the bogeyman, said Sarah, laughing. She went to the kitchen door and reached for the bolt.
Sarah! Cathy called in panic as the bold slid open. Wait!
Take a look for yourself. Sarah opened the door. The kitchen light swung across a cluster of trash cans sitting in the carport. A shadow slid to the ground and scurried away, trailing food wrappers across the driveway. Raccoons, said Sarah. If I dont tie the lids down, those pestsll scatter trash all over the yard. Another shadow popped its head out of a can and stared at her, its eyes glowing in the darkness. Sarah clapped her hands and yelled, Go on, get lost! The raccoon didnt budge. Dont you have a home to go to? At last, the raccoon dropped to the ground and ambled off into the trees. They get bolder every year, Sarah sighed, closing the door. She turned and winked at Cathy. So take it easy. This isnt the big city.
Keep reminding me. Cathy took a slice of banana bread and began to spread it with sweet butter. You know, Sarah, I think itll be a lot nicer spending Christmas with you than it ever was with old Jack.
Uh-oh. Since were now speaking of ex-husbands- Sarah shuffled over to a cabinet -we might as well get in the right frame of mind. And tea just wont cut it. She grinned and waved a bottle of brandy.
Sarah, youre not drinking alcohol, are you?
Its not for me. Sarah set the bottle and a single wine glass in front of Cathy. But I think you could use a nip. After all, its been a cold, traumatic night. And here we are, talking about turkeys of the male variety.
Well, since you put it that way Cathy poured out a generous shot of brandy. To the turkeys of the world, she declared and took a sip. It felt just right going down.
So how is old Jack? asked Sarah.
Same as always.
Blondes?
Hes moved on to brunettes.
It took him only a year to go through the worlds supply of blondes?
Cathy shrugged. He might have missed a few.
They both laughed then, light and easy laughter that told them their wounds were well on the way to healing, that men were now creatures to be discussed without pain, without sorrow.
Cathy regarded her glass of brandy. Do you suppose there are any good men left in the world? I mean, shouldnt there be one floating around somewhere? Maybe a mutation or something? One measly decent guy?
Sure. Somewhere in Siberia. But hes a hundred-and-twenty years old.
Ive always liked older men.
They laughed again, but this time the sound wasnt as lighthearted. So many years had passed since their college days together, the days when they had known, had never doubted, that Prince Charmings abounded in the world.
Cathy drained her glass of brandy and set it down. What a lousy friend I am. Keeping a pregnant lady up all night! What time is it, anyway?
Only two-thirty in the morning.
Oh, Sarah! Go to bed! Cathy went to the sink and began wetting a handful of paper towels.
And what are you going to do? Sarah asked.
I just want to clean up the car. I didnt get all the blood off the seat.
I already did it.
What? When?
While you were taking a bath.
Sarah, you idiot.
Hey, I didnt have a miscarriage or anything. Oh, I almost forgot. Sarah pointed to a tiny film canister on the counter. I found that on the floor of your car.
Cathy shook her head and sighed. Its Hickeys.
Hickey! Now theres a waste of a man.
Hes also a good friend of mine.
Thats all Hickey will ever be to a woman. A friend. So whats on the roll of film? Naked women, as usual?
I dont even want to know. When I dropped him off at the airport, he handed me a half-dozen rolls and told me hed pick them up when he got back. Guess he didnt want to lug em all the way to Nairobi.
Is that where he went? Nairobi?
Hes shooting gorgeous ladies of Africa or something. Cathy slipped the film canister into her bathrobe pocket. This mustve dropped out of the glove compartment. Gee. I hope its not pornographic.
Knowing Hickey, it probably is.
They both laughed at the irony of it all. Hickman Von Trapp, whose only job it was to photograph naked females in erotic poses, had absolutely no interest in the opposite sex, with the possible exception of his mother.
A guy like Hickey only goes to prove my point, Sarah said over her shoulder as she headed up the hall to bed.
What point is that?
There really are no good men left in the world!
It was the light that dragged Victor up from the depths of unconsciousness, a light brighter than a dozen suns, beating against his closed eyelids. He didnt want to wake up; he knew, in some dim, scarcely functioning part of his brain, that if he continued to struggle against this blessed oblivion he would feel pain and nausea and something else, something much, much worse: terror. Of what, he couldnt remember. Of death? No, no, this was death, or as close as one could come to it, and it was warm and black and comfortable. But he had something important to do, something that he couldnt allow himself to forget. He tried to think, but all he could remember was a hand, gentle but somehow strong, brushing his forehead, and a voice, reaching to him softly in the darkness.
My name is Catherine
As her touch, her voice, flooded his memory, so too did the fear. Not for himself (he was dead, wasnt he?) but for her. Strong, gentle Catherine. Hed seen her face only briefly, could scarcely remember it, but somehow he knew she was beautiful, the way a blind man knows, without benefit of vision, that a rainbow or the sky or his own dear childs face is beautiful. And now he was afraid for her.
Where are you? he wanted to cry out.
Hes coming around, said a female voice (not Catherines, it was too hard, too crisp) followed by a confusing rush of other voices.
Watch that IV!
Mr. Holland, hold still. Everythings going to be all right-
I said, watch the IV!
Hand me that second unit of blood-
Dont move, Mr. Holland-
Where are you, Catherine? The shout exploded in his head. Fighting the temptation to sink back into unconsciousness, he struggled to lift his eyelids. At first, there was only a blur of light and color, so harsh he felt it stab through his sockets straight to his brain. Gradually the blur took the shape of faces, strangers in blue, frowning down at him. He tried to focus but the effort made his stomach rebel.
Mr. Holland, take it easy, said a quietly gruff voice. Youre in the hospital-the recovery room. Theyve just operated on your shoulder. You just rest and go back to sleep