Dr. Chen rushed into the room. “Where did she come from?”
“Don't know.”
Staff and crash cart arrived at the same time, and everyone fell into a fast, furious rhythm.
“She's not on the boards,” Nancy, the head nurse reported, grabbing a needle. The IV slipped in, followed by the catheter. Immediately they were drawing blood and urine.
“She's running a fever! Oh, we got hives!” Sherry, another nurse, had finished snipping away the cotton sweatshirt to attach the five-lead heart monitor and revealed the little girl's inflamed torso.
“STAND BACK!”
The chest X ray flashed, and they fell back on the patient, working furiously. The girl's body was covered with a sheen of sweat and she was completely nonresponsive. Then her breathing stopped altogether.
“Tube!” Josh shouted, and immediately went to work to intubate.
Shit, she was small. He was afraid he was hurting something as he bumbled his way around her tiny throat like a water buffalo. Then the tube found the opening and slithered down her windpipe. “I'm in!” he exclaimed at the same time Sherry whirled out of the room with vials of fluid for the CBC, chem 20, and urine drug screen.
“Pulse is thready,” Nancy said.
“Assessment, Josh?” Dr. Chen demanded.
“Anaphylaxis reaction,” Josh said immediately. “We need one amp of epi.”
“Point-oh-one milli,” Dr. Chen corrected him. “Peds dosage.”
“I don't see any sign of a bee sting,” Nancy reported, handing over the epinephrine and watching the doctor administer it through the breathing tube.
“It could be a reaction to anything,” Dr. Chen murmured, and waited to see what the epi would do.
For a moment they were all still.
The little girl looked so unprotected sprawled on the white hospital bed with five wires, an IV, and a bulky breathing tube sprouting from her small figure. Long blond hair spilled onto the bed and smelled faintly of No More Tears baby shampoo. Her eye-lashes were thick and her face splotchy—smudges under the eyes, bright red spots staining her plump cheeks. No matter how many years he worked, Josh would never get used to the sight of a child in a hospital.
“Muscles are relaxing,” Josh reported. “Breathing's easier.” Epinephrine acted fast. The little girl's eyes fluttered open but didn't focus.
“Hello?” Dr. Chen tried. “Can you hear me?”
No response. He moved from verbal to tactile, shaking her lightly. She still did not respond. Nancy tried the sternal rub, pressing her knuckles against the tiny sternum hard enough to induce pain. The little girl's body arched helplessly, but her eyes remained glazed.
“Hard to arouse,” Nancy reported. “The patient remains nonresponsive.” Now they were all frowning.
The door burst open.
“What's all the ruckus about?” Dr. Harper Stokes strode into the room, wearing green scrubs as if they were tennis whites and looking almost unreal with his deep tan, vivid blue eyes, and movie-poster face. He had just joined City General Hospital as a hotshot cardiothoracic surgeon and had already taken to striding the halls like Jesus in search of lepers. Josh had heard he was very good but also seemed to know it. You know what the difference between a cardiac surgeon and God is? God doesn't think he's a cardiac surgeon.
“We got it,” Dr. Chen said a bit testily.
“Uh-huh.” Dr. Harper sauntered over to the bed. Then he spotted the little girl sprouting tubes and drew up cold, looking honestly shocked. “My God, what happened?”
“Anaphylaxis reaction to unknown agent.”
“Epi?”
“Of course.”
“Give me the chest X ray.” Dr. Stokes held out a hand, peering at the girl intently and checking her heartbeat.
“We got it under control!”
Dr. Stokes raised his head just long enough to look the younger M.D. in the eye. “Then, why, Dr. Chen,” he said somberly, “is she lying there like a rag doll?”
Dr. Chen gritted his teeth. “I don't know.”
MIDNIGHT. THE DOCTOR entered the executioner's room and took up position against the back wall, his hands clasped behind him. The executioner picked up the phone connected to the governor's office.
He heard dial tone.
He recradled the receiver. He counted off sixty seconds.
He stared at Russell Lee Holmes, who sat in the middle of the death chamber with his lips peeled back from his scarecrow teeth in an idiot's grin.
“He's too dumb to know what's going on,” the doctor said.
“Don't matter now,” the executioner said.
His watch hit 12:01. He picked up the phone. He still heard the dial tone.
He hit the main inducer button and 440 volts/10 ohms of electricity surged through Russell Lee Holmes's body.
The lights dimmed in the Death House. Three inmates roared and clapped while one curled beneath his cot and rocked back and forth like a frightened child. The relatives of the victims watched stoically at first, but when Russell Lee's skin turned bright red and began to smoke, they turned away. Except for Brian Stokes. He remained watching, as if transfixed, while Russell Lee Holmes's body convulsed. Abruptly his feet blew off. Then his hands. Behind Brian, his mother screamed. He still didn't look away.
And then it was simply over.
The doctor entered the death chamber. He'd wiped Vicks VapoRub beneath his nose to block out the smell. It wasn't enough, and his nose crinkled as he inspected the body.
He looked at the middle window, into the executioner's room. “Time of death is twelve-oh-five.”
“I GOT DRUG screen results!” Sherry plowed through the door, and Josh grabbed the reports, just beating out Dr. Harper Stokes.
“She's positive for opiates,” Josh called.
“Morphine,” Dr. Stokes said.
“Narcan,” Dr. Chen ordered. “Point-oh-oh-five milli per kilo. Bring extra!”
Sherry rushed away for the reversing agent.
“Could she be allergic to morphine?” Josh quizzed Dr. Chen. “Could that be what caused the anaphylaxis reaction?”
“It happens.”
Sherry returned with the narcan and Dr. Chen quickly injected it. They removed the breathing tube and waited, a second dose already in hand. Narcan could be repeated every two to three minutes if necessary. Dr. Stokes checked the young girl's pulse again, then her heart.
“Better,” he announced. “Steadying. Oh, hang on. Here we go . . .”
The little girl was moving her head from side to side. Nancy drew a sheet over her and they all held their breath. The little girl blinked and her large eyes, a striking mix of blue and gray, focused.
“Can you hear me, honey?” Dr. Stokes whispered, his voice curiously thick as he smoothed back her limp hair from her sweaty forehead. “Can you tell us your name?”
She didn't answer. She took in the strangers hovering above her, the white, white room, the lines and wires sticking out of her body. Plump and awkward-looking, she was not a pretty child, Josh thought, but at that moment she was completely endearing. He took her hand and her gaze rested on him immediately, tearing him up a little. Who in hell drugged and abandoned a little girl? The world was sick.
After a moment her fingers gripped his. A nice, strong grip considering her condition.
“It's okay,” he whispered. “You're safe. Tell us your name, honey. We need to know your name.”
Her mouth opened, her parched throat working, but no sound emerged. She looked a little more panicked.
“Relax,” he soothed. “Take a deep breath. Everything is okay. Everything is fine. Now try it again.”
She looked at him trustingly.
This time she whispered, “Daddy's Girl.”
ONE
Twenty years later
S HE WAS LATE, she was late, oh, God, she was so late!
Melanie Stokes came bounding up the stairs, then made the hard left turn down the hall, her long blond hair whipping ar
ound her face. Twenty minutes and counting. She hadn't even thought about what she was going to wear. Damn.
She tore into her room with her sweatshirt half pulled over her head. A strategic kick sent the heavy mahogany door slamming shut behind her as she shed the first layer of clothes. She toed off her tennis shoes and sent them sailing beneath the pine bureau that swallowed nearly a quarter of her bedroom. A lot of things came to rest beneath the battered dresser. One of these days she meant to clean it out. But not tonight.
Melanie hastily shimmied out of her ripped-up jeans, tossed her T-shirt onto the sleigh bed, and hurried to the closet. The wide plank floorboards felt cool against her toes, making her do a little cha-cha-cha along the way.
“Come on,” she muttered, ripping back the silk curtain. “Ten years of compulsive shopping crammed into one five-by-five space. How hard can it be to locate a cocktail dress?”
To judge by the mess, pretty hard. Melanie grimaced, then waded in fatalistically. Somewhere in there were a few decent dresses.
At the age of twenty-nine, Melanie Stokes was petite, capable, and a born diplomat. She'd been abandoned as a child at City General Hospital with no memory of where she came from, but that had been a long time ago and she didn't think of those days much. She had an adoptive father whom she respected, an adoptive mother whom she loved, an older brother whom she worshiped, and an indulgent godfather whom she adored. Until recently she had considered her family to be very close. They were not just another rich family, they were a tight-knit family. She kept telling herself they would be like that again soon.
Melanie had graduated from Wellesley six years earlier with her family serving as an enthusiastic cheering section. She'd returned home right afterward to help her mother through one of her “spells,” and somehow it had seemed easiest for everyone if she stayed. Now she was a professional event organizer. Mostly she did charity functions. Huge black-tie affairs that made the social elite feel social and elite while simultaneously milking them for significant sums of money. Lots of details, lots of planning, lots of work. Melanie always pulled them off. Seamless, social columnists liked to rave about the events, relaxed yet elegant. Not to mention profitable.
Then there were the nights like tonight. Tonight was the seventh annual Donate-A-Classic for Literacy reception, held right there in her parents' house, and, apparently, cursed.
The caterer hadn't been able to get enough ice. The parking valets had called in sick, the Boston Globe had printed the wrong time, and Senator Kennedy was home with a stomach virus, taking with him half the press corps. Thirty minutes ago Melanie had gotten so frustrated, tears had stung her eyes. Completely unlike her.
But then, she was agitated tonight for reasons that had nothing to do with the reception. She was agitated, and being Melanie, she was dealing with it by keeping busy.
Melanie was very good at keeping busy. Almost as good as her father.
Fifteen minutes and counting. Damn. Melanie found her favorite gold-fringed flapper's dress. Encouraged, she began digging for gold pumps.
During the first few months of Melanie's adoption, the Stokeses had been so excited about their new daughter, they'd lavished her with every gift they could imagine. The second floor master bedroom suite, complete with rose silk wall hangings and a gold-trimmed bathroom, where she needed a stool just to catch her reflection in the genuine Louis IV mirror, was hers. The closet was the size of a small apartment, and it had been filled with every dress, hat, and, yes, gloves ever made by Laura Ashley. All that in addition to two parents, one brother, and one godfather who were shadowing every move she made, handing her food before she could think to hunger, bringing her games before she could think to be bored, and offering her blankets before she could think to shiver.
It had been a little weird.
Melanie had gone along at first. She'd been eager to please, wanting to be happy as badly as they wanted to make her happy. It seemed to her that if people as golden and beautiful and rich as the Stokeses were willing to give her a home and have her as a daughter, she could darn well learn to be their daughter. So she'd dressed each morning in flounces of lace and patiently let her new mom cajole her straight hair into sausage curls. She'd listened gravely to her new father's dramatic stories of snatching cardiac patients from the clutches of death and her godfather's tales of faraway places where men wore skirts and women grew hair in their armpits. She spent long afternoons sitting quietly with her new brother, memorizing his tight features and troubled eyes while he swore to her again and again that he would be the perfect older brother for her, he would.
Everything was perfect. Too perfect. Melanie stopped being able to sleep at night. Instead, she would find herself tiptoeing downstairs at two A.M. to stand in front of a painting of another golden little girl. Four-year-old Meagan Stokes, who wore flounces of lace and sausage-curled hair. Four-year-old Meagan Stokes, who'd been the Stokeses' first daughter before some monster had kidnapped her and cut off her head. Four-year-old Meagan Stokes, the real daughter the Stokeses had loved and adored long before Melanie arrived.
Harper would come home from emergency surgeries and carry her back to bed. Brian grew adept at hearing the sound of her footsteps and would patiently lead her back to her bedroom. But still she'd come back down, obsessed by the painting of that gorgeous little girl whom even a nine-year-old girl could realize she was meant to replace.
Jamie O'Donnell finally intervened. Oh, for God's sake, he declared. Melanie was Melanie. A flesh-and-blood girl, not a porcelain doll to be used for dress-up games. Let her pick her own clothes and her own room and her own style before the therapy bills grew out of control.
That piece of advice probably saved them all. Melanie left the master bedroom suite for a sunny third-story bedroom across from Brian's room. Melanie liked the bay windows and low, slanted ceilings, and the fact that the room could never be mistaken for, say, a hospital room.
And she discovered, during a clothing drive at school, that she liked hand-me-downs best. They were so soft and comfortable, and if you did spill or rip something, no one would notice. She became Goodwill's best customer for years. Then came the trips to garage sales for furniture. She liked things banged up, scarred. Things that came with a past, she realized when she was older. Things that came with the history she didn't have.
Her godfather was amused by her taste, her father aghast, but her new family remained supportive. They kept loving her. They grew whole.
In the years since, Melanie liked to think they all learned from one another. Her well-bred southern mother taught her which fork to use for which courses. In turn Melanie introduced her depression-prone mother to the reggae song “Don't Worry, Be Happy.” Harper instilled in his daughter the need to work hard, to consciously and proactively build a life. Melanie taught him to stop and smell the roses every now and then, even if just for a change of pace. Her brother showed her how to survive in high society. And Melanie showed him unconditional love, that even on his bad days—and Brian, like Patricia, had many of those—he would always be a hero to her.
The doorbell rang just as she unearthed her shoes. Jesus, she was cutting it close tonight.
Hair and makeup, quick. At least her pale features and baby-fine blond hair didn't require more than the lightest touch of color and a simple stroke of the hair-brush. A little blush, a little gold eye shadow, and she was done.
Melanie took a deep breath and permitted herself one last assessment in the mirror. The event was coming together in that crazy way each one did. Her father had volunteered to greet the guests, a definite overture of peace, and her mother was appearing more composed than Melanie had expected. Things were working out.
“It's going to be a great evening,” Melanie assured her reflection. “We got rich patrons, we got a blood donor room. We got the best food money can buy and a stack of rare books to collect. Your family is doing better, and to hell with Senator Kennedy—it's gonna be a great night.”
She gave
herself a smile. She pushed herself away from her bureau. Took a big step toward her door. And suddenly the world tilted and blurred in front of her eyes.
Black void, twisted shapes. Weird sense of déjà vu. A little girl's voice, pleading in the dark.
“I want to go home now. Please, let me go home. . . .”
Melanie blinked. Her cluttered room snapped back into view, the fading spring sun streamed through the bay windows, the hundred-and-ten-year-old floor felt solid beneath her feet. She discovered her hands pressed against her stomach, sweat on her brow. She glanced around immediately, almost guiltily, hoping no one had noticed.
No one was upstairs. No one knew. No one had seen or suspected a thing.
Melanie quickly descended the stairs where the sounds of gathering people and clinking champagne glasses beckoned gaily.
Four spells in three weeks. Always the black void. Always the same little girl's voice.
Stress, she thought, and walked more briskly. Delusions. Neuroses.
Anything but memory. After all this time, what would be the point?
THE BOEING 747 TOUCHED down badly, bumping and skipping on the runway. Larry Digger was in a foul mood to begin with, and the botched landing did nothing to improve it.
Digger hated flying. He didn't trust planes, or pilots, or the computers that were installed to imitate pilots. Trust nothing, that was Larry Digger's favorite motto. People are stupid was his second favorite.
Gimme a drink was probably his third. But he wasn't about to say it then.
Time hadn't been kind to Larry Digger. His trim frame had turned soft at pretty much the same rate his promising investigative reporter's career had turned sour. Somewhere along the way his mouth adopted the perpetually dour look of a hound dog, while his cheeks developed jowls and his chin got too fleshy. He looked ten years older than his real age. He felt about another ten years older than that.
At least he had until the phone had rung three weeks earlier. Within days he'd hocked his stereo equipment for a first-rate tape recorder, then sold his car for a plane ticket and traveling cash.