“You said there would be more surgery?” Now more concerned, Leslie inquired. “How much and when?”

  “It depends on the patient,” the doctor replied. “Some people heal much faster than others. But a general time frame is between six months and a year. When all the procedures are completed most of the scarring that is left can be hidden through good makeup techniques, and this includes even those people who have suffered the most traumatic of injuries.” The doctor’s final inflection seemed to indicate to Leslie that she was one of those people. The psychologist must have noticed Leslie’s reaction because she quickly jumped into the conversation.

  “What Dr. Parks is saying,” she explained, “is that it will take a while for you to fully recover. There are no quick fixes. You will feel fine in a matter of weeks, but it’ll take longer to repair the damage that has been done; the results are worth waiting for.”

  Leslie let both doctors’ words roll though her head and rebound within the depths of her reasoning, but the pictures those words conjured up were grotesque and frightening. A childhood visit to a military hospital burn ward jumped from the confines of her memory. It was there that she had been confronted with the specter of Iraq War burn victims, men whose faces had been melted or blasted away. Hopelessly ugly was the word she’d used to describe these men to her friends. She thought about a neighbor’s son who had been one of them. Fortunately, he’d later died rather than having to walk in a world where people would have pointed and laughed. She now remembered the sickening feeling that had settled in her stomach when her father had forced her to kiss Jimmy goodbye. Now, as she thought back to that moment, she wondered if she hadn’t become someone who was as ugly and unlovable as her neighbor.

  Looking back to the surgeon, she urgently demanded, “Am I ugly?”

  “You won’t be,” Parks assured. “I promise you that.”

  The words hit Leslie hard. He didn’t say she wasn’t, he only said she wouldn’t be. So what did she look like now? Had she become one of the monsters Hollywood creates to scare people in the theater?

  “Leslie,” the psychologist’s soothing voice brought the patient out of her nightmarish thoughts, “you will never be ugly. Ugly is something that comes from deep within and spews out like a lava flow erupting from a volcano. It is not a part of the young lady I have gotten to know over the past few days. You aren’t ugly, just injured, and we will fix that.”

  Picking up her issue of Fashion and Style magazine from the table beside her bed, Leslie took a long look at the cover and then dropping it in her lap, asked, “Did this die? Is it just a memory? Am I ever going to look like that again?”

  An awkward silence filled the room. Then, in an almost apologetic tone, Dr. Parks answered, “Over time, we can get close, but the truth is, while we can do some remarkable things, you will never look exactly like that again. There will be scars, there will certainly be issues. But there is makeup to cover these issues up. And, you were lucky in that few of the muscles and tendons that control facial expression were damaged beyond repair. Hence you should have a full range of emotions that can be revealed when you interact with others.”

  She hadn’t even considered that. Not only might she be ugly, maybe repulsive, but her face might not work right. Would spit leak out of the side of her mouth as she rested? Would she be able to eat or drink without having people turn away? Was she a freak?

  Her fingers traced her bandaged face. Maybe because she had blocked out her memories of the attack, because she had forced herself to not think about what had occurred, she hadn’t allowed herself to believe anything terrible had really happened. She had spent the past three days convincing herself that her injuries were just like a chipped tooth, easily covered or fixed. Now, even while hearing the real story from the doctors, she was fighting not to accept it. Just like a child who closes his eyes and hides under the cover to hide from the boogeyman, she wanted to cover the facts with a blanket of forced forgetfulness. Surely, if she did, she would wake up and begin her career again. It would be like nothing happened.

  But now these two terrible people were so nicely and politely telling her she couldn’t do it. They were stabbing her with images that were less than beautiful and preparing her for something she didn’t want and wouldn’t accept. She was ugly! She was a monster! Leslie was dead. Without beauty, what was there?

  “Leslie,” Mary Ann’s voice was calm and understanding, “Are you all right?”

  Nodding, the model indicated that she was. But she wasn’t. She knew she would never be all right. Without her perfect face, she had no place in this world.

  “If you understand what’s going on,” Mary Ann continued, “and you don’t have any other questions, then Dr. Parks and I will go on to our other patients. Don’t forget, you can call me anytime you need me, and I’ll drop everything for you.”

  “I’m fine,” Leslie answered with absolutely no emotion.

  With no other words, the two doctors got up and left Leslie alone with her thoughts and her fears. Picking the magazine up one more time, she stared again at the cover, and then like a high school quarterback trying to complete a Hail Mary, tossed it across the room. It knocked over an arrangement of flowers as it flew into a corner; water and a single red rose fell onto the floor. Overcome with emotion and filled with terror, she collapsed against her pillow and tried to pretend like this was all a dream. But no matter how hard she tried, the vision of the burn ward kept flashing through her mind. And what about her mother? Had she been pretending during her visits? During their talks had she been lying to her about being just as good as new? Or had they not told her parents the real outcome? Were they in the dark just like she was? Sobbing, she summoned a nurse and demanded something to put her to sleep.

  24

  As soon as his call from the psychologist ended, Rosatelli grabbed a phone book, looked up a number and dialed. He spoke quickly upon getting a response.

  “Blue Cab, this is Captain Brian Rosatelli with the Springfield police. I need to know if you received a request for a pick-up at the airport last Friday. It was probably around or just after midnight.”

  While waiting for the woman to check her log the officer hunched over his ancient metal desk, letting the breeze from a fifty-year-old Hunter ceiling fan cool his neck. Picking up a number three lead pencil, he pushed it across a yellow legal pad. Within a minute, an image of an old cat perched on a wooden fence emerged on the paper. The sketch showed a good deal of artistic ability. He was adding a second cat to the drawing when the woman came back on the line.

  “Yes, a woman called us.”

  “Great! Where did you take her?”

  “We didn’t take her anywhere,” the representative of the cab company explained. “She wasn’t there when our driver arrived.”

  Drumming his pen against the desktop Rosatelli considered the information. If they didn’t pick up Leslie Rhoads, then who did? Or what if one of their drivers is the sicko who committed this crime? Leaning back with the phone, he fired off another question.

  “Do you have any white cars?”

  “No,” the lady responded with a hint of frustration. “They’re blue. That’s why we call ourselves the Blue Cab Company. If we had white cars we would have come up with a different name. Can you guess what that would be?”

  “That’s what I figured,” Rosatelli replied, ignoring the sarcasm on the other end of the call. “Well, thanks anyway.”

  Looking out the window, he wondered where this little tidbit had taken him. It was almost as if the police gods were lining up against him. A violent crime with no motive and no clues! These types of attacks were usually associated with rage, not premeditated actions. Who did Leslie Rhoads know that hated her enough to scar her rather than kill her?

  Glancing back to his desk, the captain turned his attention to finishing his drawing. Where did he go next?

  25

  With Jan on break, Beth Rogers was fighting to keep up with the demands of the hospital wing she was running single-handedly.

  “Nurse,” an elderly man’s voice called out over the intercom.

  Punching 218, Beth spoke into the small box, “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “I need something for my pain,” came the reply.

  “Just one moment.” Checking the Kardex, Beth noted what it said and then once again spoke into the small white microphone, “Mr. McGregor, I’ll be there in just a few moments.”

  Grabbing the meds from the drug inventory then marking the patient’s card and the inventory sheet, she began to leave her station when another call came. Leaning over the counter she punched button 223 and asked, “What do you need?”

  “Nurse,” this time the voice belonged to a woman, “I was wondering if you have any of that ointment that the blonde nurse gave me last night. My wrist is itching like crazy.”

  “Just a moment.” Finding the patient’s card, Beth pulled it, checked it, and then pulled a tube of the ointment. Making a note, she returned the card to the Kardex. Picking up both the pill and the tube, she once again started down the hall. She hadn’t gotten five steps when the intercom called her back to the station. Retracing her steps, she leaned back over the counter, noted the room number, and punched the button. This time she knew the patient without checking the card.

  “What can I get you, Leslie?” the nurse asked.

  “I’m out of ice,” Leslie answered. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  “I’ll have it there in a second,” Beth replied. Muttering to herself about when Jan would be getting off break, the nurse picked up an ice bucket and headed down the hall toward the ice machine. She hadn’t gotten two steps when another voice stopped her.

  “Why don’t you let me do that? You look like you’re real busy, and I’m all caught up.”

  Smiling at the janitor, Beth stuck out the ice bucket saying, “Thanks, Jacob, this goes to the woman in 213.”

  “No problem. I’ll take care of her,” he said as he turned to get the ice. Moments later, he slipped quietly into the room.

  26

  Here’s your ice,” a male voice announced as the door to Leslie’s room swung open.

  Leslie had the lights turned down with only the television illuminating the room. She had lost herself in an old detective show rerun, and barely looked up as the man walked in. She was so engrossed in the storyline she almost didn’t even hear him speak and didn’t bother to look toward the door.

  “The nurse had to run down the hall to give someone some medicine,” he continued as he pushed through the entry, “so I brought it up for her. I didn’t figure you would want to wait on it. Besides, the way the nurses talk about you, you must be pretty special. I think they said you were a cover girl or something, isn’t it?”

  Looking up for a moment, Leslie nodded, and then she returned her thought and vision to the television’s twenty-seven-inch screen. The janitor carefully placed several cubes of ice in a glass and then filled the glass with water from the pitcher sitting on a table next to the wall. Smiling, he crossed the room, and as he handed the glass of cool liquid to the patient, he said in a cheery voice, “Here you go.”

  The model took the glass in her bandaged hand, nodded her head as if to thank the man, and then turned her attention back to the climactic scenes of the show.

  “Do you think they will catch him?” the man asked as a criminal ran across an alley and tried to climb over a low brick wall.

  “They always do,” Leslie answered at the moment the hero’s gun rang out from the back of the alley and dropped the hoodlum to the ground. “On TV, no one ever gets away.”

  “Yeah,” the janitor acknowledged. “Of course, in real life, it’s not that way. The crooks are usually smarter than the cops. At least, that’s what I think.”

  For the first time, Leslie latched onto what the man had said and looked at him. In the television’s flickering light, he seemed almost surreal. She figured him to be in his early twenties, his dark hair a bit too long in keeping with the present styles. His face was pockmarked, probably from years of fighting acne, and his eyes almost black as they shined like glowing embers in the dimly lit room. Glancing down, she noted not only his maintenance uniform but also a small bandage on his right hand.

  “Yeah,” the man repeated after a commercial ended and the show’s credits began to roll, “on TV, they always get their man.” Looking back at Leslie, he smiled and said, “What happened to you?”

  His question caught the model a bit off guard. Until now, no one had asked her that. Everyone who had seen her had known. After seconds spent toying with exactly how she should or could explain it, she finally said, “I was attacked and cut up by some men.”

  “Oh,” the man answered as if he immediately understood the entirety of what she had said. Then, after brushing back his hair from his eyes, he asked, “Did they get them?”

  She shook her head.

  “You think they will?” he politely followed up.

  Pausing for a moment, Leslie considered the question, and then answered in the most programmed of ways. “I’m sure they will.”

  “Have they got a suspect?” the man quickly asked, still sounding friendly, but maybe just a bit too interested.

  “No,” Leslie admitted, “they don’t. I didn’t see any of the men who got me.”

  Shaking his head, the man smiled and then sighed, “Oh well, maybe in time they will find them. I know a lot of guys at the station. Some of them are really good. Which cop did they put in charge of your case?”

  Back on more familiar ground, Leslie quickly answered, “Captain Rosatelli. He seems like a smart guy.”

  “Old Rosey,” the janitor laughed. “Yeah, he’s ok. I’ve met him a few times. Of course, if you didn’t see the guys then he probably doesn’t have much to go on. So being good may not be enough. But let’s hope for the best.”

  For a few moments, the room was silent except for the sounds of the television. It was an uncomfortable silence, one that hung heavy and foreboding like a London fog. What made her feel even more awkward was the way the man stared at her in the dim light. She’d been stared at many times, it had gone with being beautiful, but this seemed very different. It bothered her more with each passing second. It was as if he was counting the number of times the wrappings crossed her face, memorizing every detail.

  “Hey, this is one of my favorite episodes,” the man said as he glance toward the TV. “Grissom gets to go to a bar and interact with bikers. It’s great!”

  Leslie nodded. This man’s critical opinion didn’t carry a great deal of weight in her eyes. No matter that he seemed to be making an attempt at being nice, she was tired of his company. She wished he had just dropped off the ice and left. No, she wished he hadn’t come at all.

  “Well, you don’t seem too talkative,” he said, breaking the long silence. “I hope I haven’t caused you any pain or anything.”

  Once more, she didn’t answer. As she kept her eyes glued to the set, she felt his on her. They were literally burning holes in her bandages.

  “I’m sure you want to be alone,” he announced, “and besides, I need to finish my work and check out. See ya!”

  Smiling, the man crossed the room and left, but the strange atmosphere he had brought with him remained. Trying to shake her mood, Leslie returned her focus to the television. A few moments later, the door opened again. This time it was a familiar person who entered the room.

  “I see you got your ice,” a big smile accompanied Beth’s greeting. Checking her patient’s pulse, she added, “I’ve been busy tonight.”

  “That man,” Leslie began, her hand pointing toward the ice bucket, “the one who brought me the ice, does he work here?”

  “Yeah, has for about four or five months,” Beth explained while noting the accelerated heart rate on the patient’s chart. “He cleans up the place. Now, how are you feeling?”

  “His voice sounded familiar,” Leslie noted, completely ignoring the nurse’s question about her health. “I wonder if I went to school with him.”

  “Naw,” Beth laughed. “He had just moved here when he got the job. Came here from Chicago I think. I remember when he first got here he came on to us nurses a whole lot, but after the administrator spoke with him, he cut that out. Now, he kind of ignores us. Usually, he avoids even talking to us now. He’s strange, but good help is hard to find when you pay as little as we do. He shocked me when he offered to get ice for you. Volunteering for anything is not like him. Anyway, if you think you have seen him before, I’m sure that it wasn’t in Springfield.”

  “No, you’re probably right,” Leslie replied. Thinking about it for a moment she added, “You know it’s not his face, but his voice that rings a bell. I know I’ve heard him speak, I just don’t know where. I probably dreamed it or something.”

  “Maybe not,” the nurse smiled. “If you do know him, given time it’ll come to you. It always does. He didn’t act like he knew you, did he?”

  “No,” Leslie shook her head as she spoke, “but even if he did, he wouldn’t have recognized me with these bandages. Besides, he knew I was a model. He said something about it.”

  “Well,” Beth offered, “even if you have run into him before, and even if you never can remember where, what difference does it make? As my grandma used to say, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Now, I’ve got to get back to my Grand Central Nurses’ Station, so you try to get some rest.”

  Nodding, Leslie took another sip of water and tossed the call box and the television zapper on the middle of the nightstand. Pulling her covers up to her chin, she soon relaxed and fell into a deep sleep.

  27

  A few hours later, Leslie awoke and sensed a presence in her room. As she opened her eyes she expected to see a nurse checking on her. But there was no one there. A shiver came from nowhere and caused goose bumps to cover her arms and back. Trying to ignore both them and the feeling of danger that created them, Leslie forced her eyes shut, only to have them spring back open when a sharp cracking sound broke the nighttime silence.