White Lies Read Free Page B

the welcome warmth just as quickly melted the lacy
flakes. No one paid them any attention as they took an elevator upward.
                  When the elevator doors opened, they stepped
out into a quiet corridor.
                  "This is the ICU floor," Payne said.
"His room is this way." They turned to the left, where double doors
were guarded by two stern young men in uniform, both of whom wore pistols.
Payne must have been known on sight, for one of the guards quickly opened a
door for them. "Thank you," Payne said courteously as they passed.
                  The unit was deserted, except for the nurses
who monitored all the lifesupport systems and continually checked on the
patients, but still Jay sensed a quiet hum that pervaded every corner of the
unit—the sound of the machines that kept the patients alive or aided in their
recovery. For the first time it struck her that Steve must be hooked up to one
or more of those machines, unable to move, and her steps faltered. It was just
so hard to take in.
                  Payne's hand remained under her elbow,
unobtrusively providing her with support. He stopped before a door and turned
to her, his clear gray eyes full of concern. "I want to prepare you a
little. He's badly injured. His skull was fractured, and the bones in his face
were crushed. He's breathing through a trach tube. Don't expect him to look like
the man you remember." He waited a moment, watching her, but she didn't
say anything, and finally he opened the door. Jay stepped into the room, and
for a split second both her heart and lungs seemed to stop functioning. Then
her heart lurched into rhythm again, and she drew a deep, painful breath. Tears
sprang to her eyes as she stared at the inert form on the white hospital bed,
and his name trembled soundlessly on her lips. It didn't seem possible that
this... this   could be Steve.
                  The man on the bed was almost literally a
mummy. Both legs were broken and encased in pristine plaster casts, supported
by a network of pulleys and slings. His hands were wrapped in bandages that
extended almost to his elbows. His head and face were swathed in gauze, with
extra thick pads over his eyes; only his lips, chin and jaw were visible, and
they were swollen and discolored. His breath whistled faintly but regularly
from the tube in his throat, and various other tubes ran into his body.
Monitors overhead recorded every detail of his bodily functions. And he was
still. He was so still.
                  Her throat was so dry that speaking was
painful. "How can I possibly identify him?" she asked rawly.
"You knew   I couldn't. You knew how he looks!" Payne
was watching her with sympathy. "I'm sorry, I know it's a shock. But we
need for you to try. You were married to Steve Crossfield. You know him better
than any other person on earth. Maybe there's some little detail you remember,
a scar or a mole, a birthmark. Anything. Take your time and look at him. I'll
be just outside."
                  He went out and closed the door behind him,
leaving her alone in the room with that motionless figure and the quiet beeping
of the monitors, the weak whistle of his breathing. Her hands knotted into
fists, and tears blurred her eyes again. Whether this man was Steve or not, a
pity so acute it was painful filled her. Somehow her feet carried her closer to
the bed. She carefully avoided the tubes and wires while never looking away
from his face—or as much of his face as she could see. Steve? Was this really
Steve?
                  She knew what Payne wanted. He hadn't actually
spelled it out, but he hadn't needed to. He wanted her to lift the sheet away
and study this man while he lay there unconscious and helpless, naked except for
the bandages over his wounds. He thought she would have a wife's intimate
knowledge of her husband's body, but five years is a long time. She could
remember Steve's