Jeanne Stein: The Becoming

I take a step backward at the same time David grabs for his hand.

"Against the car,” David barks. “Spread ‘em."

But with amazing quickness, Donaldson ducks under David's restraining arm and is off again across the parking lot.

David groans. “I don't fucking believe this. Anna, start the car. I'll stop this bastard if I have to shoot his ass to do it."

I can't remember the last time anyone got away from David. Once he collars someone, they generally stay collared. This is definitely an annoyance. A sarcastic comment about David letting this guy get away springs to my lips, but when a gunshot explodes behind me, it dies in my throat.

For a moment, I'm frozen in place, hand on the car door. There is no longer the sound of running feet. David has disappeared. I crouch down, work my way around to the front of the car. Where is he? Did he actually fire at Donaldson? Did Donaldson have a gun? Shit, we hadn't gotten a chance to frisk the guy.

The taste of bile burns the back of my throat. Why isn't David calling out to me? I tighten my grip on the .38 and push to my feet. I know he must be hurt or he'd be yelling.

I'm trying so hard to see what's in front of me that when the attack comes, it's from behind and without warning.

Donaldson is suddenly beside me, wrenching my right arm back. The pain causes my hand to open reflexively and I watch my gun skid across the pavement. Then I'm slammed into the car.

"So, hot shot,” he says. “What are you going to do now?"

His breath smells of alcohol and rage. He's knocked the wind out of me and I gasp for air. My right arm feels like it's going to snap.

I fight to catch my breath, to keep the fear out of my voice. He's much too strong. “Get off me, Donaldson. You're breaking my arm."

He laughs, torquing my arm even higher. “Where's that partner of yours, huh? Maybe you'll be more cooperative now without him."

I try to straighten up, to take some of the pressure off my arm, but he pushes me back against the car with no effort. He's on something; he must be. I can't control the speed of my words, they tumble out in a rush. “Listen, Donaldson, you're already in trouble with the law. I know David must be hurt. Let me help him. We're not cops. You know you can leave now. Don't make it worse for yourself."

But he's still laughing, the sound so harsh and grating it seems to burn my cheek. “What makes you think I'm in a hurry to leave?"

I'm pinned against the car by his body. His hands begin groping. My stomach muscles constrict. I shove back against him, fighting to gain leverage. “Someone will have heard the shot in the bar. They'll come out."

But he cocks his head in the direction of the bar. “With that racket? I don't think so. Go on, scream."

I do, yelling until my throat hurts. The noise from the bar swallows my cries.

"See? What did I tell you.” He fumbles at the buttons on my blouse. “I think we should get to know each other better, don't you?”

He gives up on the buttons and rips it open, spinning me around to face him.

I try to fight him off. I'm five-foot-five inches tall and weigh 125 pounds. He's not much taller or heavier, but he overpowers me as if I were a child. He grabs my hair and yanks my head back. He's got the door open, and he pushes me down onto the back seat. I gouge at his face and neck, drawing blood that looks thick and black in the dark. He acts like he's oblivious to the pain. I'm pinned under him, pitching and bucking against his weight, but I can't shake him off. He's unbuckled his pants, one hand holding me down, the other working at the zipper. I don't have room to kick at him, so in desperation, I reach between his legs and grab and squeeze.

In the darkness, I don't see the blow coming. There's a brief flash of exploding color. Then, nothing.

I don't want to wake up. I'm in a warm, dark cocoon, floating, safe.

Still, a blinding light intrudes on the darkness. Someone is forcing my eyes open. I push the hand away. It comes back. From far away I hear my own voice. “Will you shut off that damned light?"

A chuckle. “She's back, Doc."

The voice is familiar. I open my eyes. “David?"

"Right here, sweetheart.” A gentle hand finds mine. “How do you feel?"

I try to turn my head, the pain stops me. I reach up to touch my face, feel a huge, painful lump and wince. “Not too good. What happened?"

He doesn't answer. I struggle to focus, struggle to turn my head slowly in the direction of his voice. I know that I should be remembering something—something that triggers a spasm of alarm even through the haze of confusion.

David is seated beside me in a wheelchair, neck bulging out of a brace that looks so tight it bites into his skin. “That looks comfortable,” I say grimly. “Where are we?"

But someone steps between us. He's tall and thin with a disheveled mop of red hair. He's in scrubs, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. He smiles down at me. “You're in County General Hospital, Anna,” he says. “My name is Grant Avery. I'm the doctor who has been taking care of you."

"Me? Why?” As soon as I ask that, something dangerous and threatening flashes again, like a foggy image in the back of my mind, and I flinch without knowing why.

David pushes himself closer. “It's going to be all right."

Dr. Avery nods. “David is right. You're both going to be just fine. Do you remember what happened to you?"

My temples throb with dull repetition. I bring up a hand to press away the pain and notice the needle sticking out of the back of it.

Bright red blood flows through the tubing. I let the hand drop. “No. Have I been here long?"

"Since before dawn yesterday,” the doctor responds.

"Yesterday?” I glance at David. “I've been out since yesterday?"

David's slow, sweet smile doesn't quite reach his eyes when he says, “You went a little crazy in the ambulance. You've been sedated since then."

"The ambulance?” I keep repeating things. I can't stop myself because nothing he tells me makes sense. “What ambulance?"

David looks up at Dr. Avery. “Maybe you should tell her."

"Someone should tell me.” I try to make that sound convincing, though I'm beginning to wonder if I want to remember. Whatever happened is obviously not good.

It's Dr. Avery who breaks the silence. “You've been through quite an ordeal, but I want to reassure you that the physical damage inflicted on you will not, in any way, be permanently disabling.” He glances at his watch, then back at me. “You were badly beaten.

You've got a nasty contusion on your forehead—that's what's causing the headache. It's also why you seem to have lost your memory. But it's what we call retrograde amnesia—short term. You have two black eyes, but no concussion. Your eyes are not damaged.” He pauses, again with a glance at his watch.

"You have somewhere else to be?” I ask, irritation spiking with each glance at his watch. I have the distinct impression that there's more and the good doctor is stalling.

He has the grace to flush slightly. “No, of course not. I was just hoping the counselor would be here before I—"

"Counselor?” The fear reasserts itself. David pushes himself up from the wheelchair and moves to my bedside. His hand tightens around the fingers of my left hand, but I push it away. “Why would I need a counselor?"

Dr. Avery peers down at me. I see the hesitation on his face, but it's not his decision whether or not to continue—it's mine.

"Tell me."

"Are you sure? The counselor will be here in a moment or two. You might feel better having a woman here with you. Or we could call someone from your family.” A glance at my partner. “David seemed to think you might want to wait on that, but it's really your call."