but a Good Samaritan got you out before the EMTs arrived. Your engine was on fire. And then he just didn't get to it--there's bad cell reception out there so he flagged down a motorist to drive a few miles until they could place a call."
The man's accent was thick--not fake Charlotte politician thick, but honestly rich--farm boy thick--She must be in Eastern Carolina somewhere. She could sense the coastal plain in his words. What was she doing there? She'd been going--where had she been going?
"Where did you go to medical school?" she asked.
"UNC."
Definitely a jerk.
She tried to nod, but couldn't. She scrunched her face into an expression of condemnation.
"Very funny. Do you know where you came from? What you were doing?" he asked.
The woman's hands left her neck, but smoothed her cheeks before retreating.
Natalya tried to remember who she was. And what her name was. Flashes--Colonial pillars, fireflies, the Charlotte skyline, the Biltmore estate--a class trip to Washington, D.C. where she'd gotten in trouble for drinking with the boys in their hotel room--A man, wearing a suit, grinning like a slick good old boy.
Not John Ashcroft--who?
The doctor frowned.
"I think I'm an attorney," she said.
The man nodded.
The other woman gasped, then shook her head to dispel the glances Natalya and the doctor gave her.
"Is my car okay?" Natalya asked.
The man took her hand gently and sat next to her. "I'm afraid not."
She closed her eyes.
# #
Chapter Two
"Her reflexes are good. She isn't paralyzed," Meredith said, watching Natalya through the glass.
"And I'll bet she has health insurance," Wheeler said.
Meredith rolled her eyes.
"If she's really a lawyer."
"She is. She seemed so certain. And I know--"
"A hope is forming. Not good. Do you recognize her, Merry? Is she your lawyer?"
She sighed and pushed away from the glass. "You old fox. Don't you ever watch the news?"
"Too depressing. I'd rather be out with my dogs."
She dragged Wheeler out of intensive care and through the general ward. Sick people in the waiting room turned to them hopefully, and then ignored them when Meredith pointed at the TV.
News 14 showed the weather.
Wheeler glanced at Meredith. "So, it's sunny. It's nearly summer, Merry."
"The crawler, Hank."
He squinted, and read, mumbling, "...for Natalie Ivans enters its fourth day. Police are dragging Lake Wylie for a possible body. She's the state's lead attorney for the prosecution against Mike Roland..."
"Natalie. Natalya," Meredith said.
"And Roland? The guy who drowned his wife?" Wheeler asked.
"Allegedly."
"And they think he knocked off the prosecution? That's. Wow. That's almost like alien abduction."
"More than a car crash. They don't know, I guess," Meredith said.
"She was just on her way to the beach in her fancy BMW that she's obsessed with and hit a goddamn deer."
Meredith raised her eyebrows.
"Sorry. Jesus." He took out his wallet and handed her a dollar bill.
She tilted her head.
"Christ." He took out two more dollars. She put them in her pocket.
"You know I have to request dollar bills at the bank now? My banker thinks I'm seeing a stripper."
Meredith winked.
The weather segment ended.
Natalie Ivans' visage filled the screen as the lead story began.
With Natalya's face bruised from the steering wheel and her body made into a pretzel from the car flipping, she looked nothing like her picture. They'd shaved most of her hair. They'd barely seen her eyes.
The television showed a city I.D. badge picture--an angry-looking woman with black hair loose and past her shoulders, and then rotated to a DMV photo with the same expression, and then a candid shot from some sort of party. Natalie was smiling in the photo, leaning on the arm of someone just out of frame.
A sheriff's face replaced the images and reported Natalie's description. Her age--33--jolted Meredith, who thought the woman in the hospital bed was much younger, and the woman in the photographs seemed older.
The
The man's accent was thick--not fake Charlotte politician thick, but honestly rich--farm boy thick--She must be in Eastern Carolina somewhere. She could sense the coastal plain in his words. What was she doing there? She'd been going--where had she been going?
"Where did you go to medical school?" she asked.
"UNC."
Definitely a jerk.
She tried to nod, but couldn't. She scrunched her face into an expression of condemnation.
"Very funny. Do you know where you came from? What you were doing?" he asked.
The woman's hands left her neck, but smoothed her cheeks before retreating.
Natalya tried to remember who she was. And what her name was. Flashes--Colonial pillars, fireflies, the Charlotte skyline, the Biltmore estate--a class trip to Washington, D.C. where she'd gotten in trouble for drinking with the boys in their hotel room--A man, wearing a suit, grinning like a slick good old boy.
Not John Ashcroft--who?
The doctor frowned.
"I think I'm an attorney," she said.
The man nodded.
The other woman gasped, then shook her head to dispel the glances Natalya and the doctor gave her.
"Is my car okay?" Natalya asked.
The man took her hand gently and sat next to her. "I'm afraid not."
She closed her eyes.
# #
Chapter Two
"Her reflexes are good. She isn't paralyzed," Meredith said, watching Natalya through the glass.
"And I'll bet she has health insurance," Wheeler said.
Meredith rolled her eyes.
"If she's really a lawyer."
"She is. She seemed so certain. And I know--"
"A hope is forming. Not good. Do you recognize her, Merry? Is she your lawyer?"
She sighed and pushed away from the glass. "You old fox. Don't you ever watch the news?"
"Too depressing. I'd rather be out with my dogs."
She dragged Wheeler out of intensive care and through the general ward. Sick people in the waiting room turned to them hopefully, and then ignored them when Meredith pointed at the TV.
News 14 showed the weather.
Wheeler glanced at Meredith. "So, it's sunny. It's nearly summer, Merry."
"The crawler, Hank."
He squinted, and read, mumbling, "...for Natalie Ivans enters its fourth day. Police are dragging Lake Wylie for a possible body. She's the state's lead attorney for the prosecution against Mike Roland..."
"Natalie. Natalya," Meredith said.
"And Roland? The guy who drowned his wife?" Wheeler asked.
"Allegedly."
"And they think he knocked off the prosecution? That's. Wow. That's almost like alien abduction."
"More than a car crash. They don't know, I guess," Meredith said.
"She was just on her way to the beach in her fancy BMW that she's obsessed with and hit a goddamn deer."
Meredith raised her eyebrows.
"Sorry. Jesus." He took out his wallet and handed her a dollar bill.
She tilted her head.
"Christ." He took out two more dollars. She put them in her pocket.
"You know I have to request dollar bills at the bank now? My banker thinks I'm seeing a stripper."
Meredith winked.
The weather segment ended.
Natalie Ivans' visage filled the screen as the lead story began.
With Natalya's face bruised from the steering wheel and her body made into a pretzel from the car flipping, she looked nothing like her picture. They'd shaved most of her hair. They'd barely seen her eyes.
The television showed a city I.D. badge picture--an angry-looking woman with black hair loose and past her shoulders, and then rotated to a DMV photo with the same expression, and then a candid shot from some sort of party. Natalie was smiling in the photo, leaning on the arm of someone just out of frame.
A sheriff's face replaced the images and reported Natalie's description. Her age--33--jolted Meredith, who thought the woman in the hospital bed was much younger, and the woman in the photographs seemed older.
The
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