Maybe he should just give in and confess the truth to the next person who entered that door. Let ’em poke him and probe him, X-ray his brain and find the holes there, bring in the shrinks and neurologists and whoever else they wanted to study him like a strange bug on a microscope slide. Amnesia, they would call it, and then they would look at him like he was some sort of freak or faker, because true amnesia was damned rare. He remembered that fact. He didn’t know how.
There was a quick rap on the door and then the night nurse entered. “You doing okay, Mr. Wallace?”
“Just peachy,” he drawled. He knew he wouldn’t be spilling the truth tonight. Maybe tomorrow, if the condition hadn’t already corrected itself by then. Or maybe he’d be dead by morning, felled by obstinacy and pride. At the moment, he was finding it real hard to care.
Chapter Three
“The poor man. We have to do something to help him.”
Serena wasn’t at all surprised by her mother’s words. Marjorie Schaffer was an obsessive do-gooder. She belonged to every charitable organization in the area, had been president of most of them, had chaired every community outreach committee at her church, was still active in PTA more than ten years after her youngest daughter finished high school and would willingly give the clothes off her back to help someone in need. She had just decided that Sam Wallace fit that description.
“We have to be careful, Mother. We don’t really know anything about this guy,” Serena said, shaking a finger warningly at her mother. Dressed in baggy pajamas, she sat at the table in the kitchen, a cup of tea in front of her and her sister’s dog snoring at her feet. Her mother sat across the table in a matched peignoir set, her hair and makeup so per
fect she looked as though she was posing for a photograph in a women’s magazine.
Marjorie didn’t seem at all concerned about Serena’s admonition. “You’ve spoken with him twice. You said he seemed quite pleasant.”
“Right. And Ted Bundy was known for his charm,” Serena retorted. “Really, Mother, this Sam Wallace could be a con man or a criminal, for all we know. It doesn’t make sense that he was just drifting through this area without a car or a destination. He hasn’t divulged anything about who he really is or where he’s from.”
“Obviously, he’s a man who’s down on his luck and in need of compassion. We’ll have to see what we can do to help him.”
Serena grimaced. “At least wait until Dan finishes his investigation before you get involved, will you? As suspicious as Dan is of outsiders, he’ll make it a point to find out if there’s any reason for us to be wary of Mr. Wallace.”
Marjorie murmured something noncommittal, then changed the subject before Serena could nag a promise from her. “Did I mention that Kara called while you were at work today?”
That too-casual announcement made Serena sit up straighter. “She did? How is she? Has she come to her senses? Is she coming home to take her place at the paper and reclaim this idiot mutt of hers?”
Marjorie’s laugh was tinged with just a hint of wistfulness. “I’m afraid not. She is still desperately in love with Pierce and determined to help him become a country music star. She’s waiting tables at a little nightclub outside of Nashville while he sings there three nights a week hoping to be discovered.”
Serena groaned. She honestly wondered if her older sister had lost her mind. Kara had always been as responsible and dependable as Serena, outwardly content to settle in Edstown and take over the family-owned newspaper. She’d been engaged briefly during her senior year of college, but that hadn’t worked out, and she’d seemed in no rush to get involved again.
Marjorie had often fretted that neither of her daughters was anxious to marry and start families, both focused more on establishing their careers and their independence than finding the right men. “Too picky,” she had called them, reminding them often that there weren’t many single males to choose from in this area and advising them to grab a couple before they were all gone.
Eight months ago, thirty-one-year-old Kara had met twenty-six-year-old Pierce Vanness during a girls’ night out at a bar in a neighboring town. Pierce had been the entertainment that evening, singing with a local band. Like a star-struck groupie, Kara had approached him between sets—and the rest was history. Kara had convinced Pierce to give up his day job working in his father’s shoe store and head for Nashville in search of stardom. She’d named herself his business manager—which seemed to involve supporting him while he pursued his dream.
Serena just couldn’t understand it.
Marjorie spent the next twenty minutes filling Serena in on all the details of Kara’s call. It occurred to Serena only after she’d gone up to bed that Marjorie had never promised to stay away from Sam Wallace until after Dan had thoroughly investigated him.
Sam sat in a chair in his hospital room, gazing out the window at the uninspiring view of the parking lot. The doctor had said it would be good for him to get out of bed, that it would help him build up his strength. Sam was more than ready for that, but he saw no evidence of it yet. His limbs were still as rubbery as a jellyfish. He didn’t want to believe that was a normal condition for him.
The ever-present IV pump stood on its wheeled stand beside his chair, chugging liquids into him through the needle still taped into the back of his hand. He was idly considering using the heavy metal stand to break the window and escape this place when someone tapped on his door and then pushed it open. Expecting one of his nurses, he was a bit surprised when his caller turned out to be a comfortably rounded woman in her mid-fifties with beauty-parlor curls lacquered into her salt-and-pepper hair and soft blue eyes behind plastic-framed glasses. She wore a pale green knit pantsuit and she carried a large black purse in one small hand.
“Mr. Wallace?” she asked.
Without confirming the name, he responded, “What can I do for you?”
She bustled into the room. As far as he could remember, he’d never actually seen anyone bustle before, but it was the only word that seemed to describe this woman’s quick, almost fluttery steps. “Actually, I’m here to find out what I can do for you. I’m Marjorie Schaffer.”
Shrink? Social worker? Had someone figured out his problem already? Acutely aware of his scratched bare legs sticking out from beneath the gown and paper-thin robe the hospital had provided, Sam cleared his throat. “Um—yes?”
“I’m Serena’s mother. She told me all about you.”
Relaxing a little, he murmured, “Did she?” It must not have been much of a conversation, considering how little there was to tell about him at this point.
Marjorie Schaffer bobbed her head. “She said you were passing through looking for work when two evil men robbed you and beat you up. I’m so sorry, Mr. Wallace. I hate to think anyone around here would do such a terrible thing.”
Just what he needed to flood him with guilt—this sweet little woman apologizing for a crime he’d concocted from thin air. He tugged his robe over his bare knees, trying to decide what to say in response.