Sally Berneathy - Private Vows

She recited the hotel’s number then hesitated as if debating whether to say more. He couldn’t tell if she hung up or if her silence triggered the answering machine’s automatic disconnect. In any event, the computerized voice announced that the call had come in at 9:23.

Cole played the message again, listening closely to what she wasn’t saying.

The tight sounds of fear were woven through her precise speech patterns and carefully modulated tones, and every word, every nuance sent guilt shooting through him.

Someone had called her…a wrong number, a reporter, a crank, a nobody…but she was illogically frightened. He’d seen Angela go through that torment a hundred times. Every hang-up call was a potential murderer or kidnapper checking to see if she was home alone.

Not only was he powerless when it came to helping people like Angela and Mary, but he seemed to have a talent for dragging them under, putting them in a position where fears that usually lurked in the background could grab them by the throat.

It was too late to return the call now. Tomorrow morning would have to be soon enough.

He peeled off his clothes and tossed all of them, even the uncomfortable, rented waiter’s uniform, into a pile in one corner then went down the hall to shower.

The cool water felt good sluicing down his body, washing off the stench of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cloying perfume.

Tonight he’d served drinks and hors d’oeuvres at the party while observing and surreptitiously taking pictures of a woman wearing the jewelry she’d reported to her insurance company as stolen. He’d been successful. His employer would be pleased.

But he didn’t feel successful. He felt useless, unfocused, as though he was just stumbling along down the road of life with no purpose and no goal.

Actually, that wasn’t completely true. His mind had consistently focused on one thing tonight…the wrong thing. Tonight’s job—like many of his assignments—was a no-brainer. He’d had nothing to distract him from thoughts of Mary Jackson.

As he’d offered fresh drinks, taken away dirty glasses and emptied ashtrays, her face had kept intruding, a small, pale image that loomed larger and larger, her eyes begging him for help he couldn’t give no matter how much he wanted to.

Then someone would speak to him or bump into him and he’d realize he’d been thinking only of Mary, had lost even the little attention he needed to perform his job. When that happened, he’d forcibly banish her from his thoughts, at least for a few minutes.

Now, after hearing her voice again, he found he couldn’t get her out of his head even for a few minutes. And it was more than guilt, more than a futile desire to help her and salve his conscience.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her smooth, porcelain skin…her long, graceful legs when she’d slid out of bed wearing that short hospital gown…the scents of harsh hospital soap that almost but not quite overpowered her white floral fragrance…the hungry way his body had responded to her nearness…and the brief flash of desire he’d seen in her eyes when they’d met his in the mirror.

He twisted the faucets angrily, shutting off the flow of water the way he wished he could shut off such troublesome thoughts, then, with a muttered curse, dried his body that had responded much too eagerly just to the thought of her.

He returned to his bedroom, flopped onto the unmade bed and switched out the light.

Okay, she was a woman, he was a man, and he lusted for her. So?

So that didn’t make any sense. He knew better than to lust after women with haunted, frightened eyes who needed a champion, a knight in shining armor. He lusted after women with knowing eyes, strong women who needed only what he had to give. And lust was all he had to give.

In spite of the fact that he was exhausted, sleep was elusive. When it finally came, he slept hard and long, waking shortly after nine.

Immediately, even before he made coffee, he called the Newton Arms, but Mary Jackson had already checked out.

He tried to call Pete, at home first since it was Saturday, but got the answering machine. He wasn’t at work, either, so Cole left a message at both places then went downstairs, made a pot of coffee, drank it and had ample time to wonder why he wasn’t pleased that someone—her fiancé?—must have come to claim Mary.

Because he sensed that her fears were of much longer standing than the normal disorientation that amnesia would cause anyone? Because the situation brought back the awful sense of helplessness he’d gone through with Angela?

Because the additional element of sexual attraction had, against all reason and common sense, insinuated itself into the equation?

When the phone finally rang, he snatched it up, half expecting, half hoping it would be her calling to tell him where she was.

“What’s up, buddy?” Pete asked.

Cole was both disappointed and relieved. “The woman I hit—”

“Mary,” Pete interjected. “She asked us to call her Mary Jackson. Sounds better than Jane Doe since that’s what we call all the unidentified female bodies that come through here.”

Cole flinched at the image of Mary on a slab in the morgue. She’d come awfully close to that. If he’d been going a little faster—

“I’ve still got her ring, you know, and when I called her hotel, she’d checked out.”

“Yeah, I just got back from taking her to the Gramercy shelter for a few days. She freaked this morning when I called to tell her that we got the lab results back, and the blood on her dress is definitely human. She started babbling about how she had to get out of that hotel because he knew she was there. Of course, when I asked who he was, she didn’t know and admitted she wasn’t being logical. Seems somebody called her and hung up and she’s positive it wasn’t a wrong number or a bad connection. Pretty paranoid, but maybe that comes with the amnesia.”

“No accident victims in the local hospitals that might belong to that blood?”

“None that admit it. I told her if we got any unidentified bodies, we’d like her to come down and take a look.”

“I’m sure that thrilled her.”

“About as much as when I told her about Sam Maynard coming in yesterday and trying to claim her—”

“Sam the Sleaze?” Cole flinched at the thought of the disgusting pervert coming into contact with Mary’s confusion and vulnerability. “Is he out of jail again? When are you going to put that creep away for good?”

“When he does something we can get him on. He’s a sicko, but he’s smart enough to ride the line between annoying women enough to get his wrists slapped and annoying them enough to get himself a prison term.”

“You think he’d go after her? You think he called her?”

“Sam? Nah. That’s not his style. Too much trouble. He can find plenty of women to accost right on the city streets.”

“If he was hanging around the station, he might have heard somebody mention where she was staying.”

“Could be, but I doubt it. Anyway, when Sam reaches out to touch somebody, he likes it to be in person.”

“Pete, you’re about as funny as a bad case of the flu.”

“I’ll tell you what’s funny, this whole case. I thought it would be open and shut. If you got a bride, the groom can’t be far behind, right? Whole thing’s damn odd.”

“Yeah, it is. Well, I’m glad you got her installed at Gramercy. She ought to feel safe there.”

Cole knew the small shelter Pete was talking about. Next door to a church and staffed by the members, it catered to families and people temporarily down on their luck. A good choice, as shelters went. Nevertheless he had a hard time picturing her there. “I’m going to see her, take her ring back. I’ll reassure her that Sam’s harmless.”