“Do a friend a favor?”
“Of course.”
“Come back so you can drive me home before you take a nap.”
“You got it.”
Alone, Bodine took another moment to consider something else interesting. If Jessica wasn’t halfway in love with Chase, she was one step away.
“Sweet,” she said aloud, then turned to her computer.
*
Sheriff Tate stood outside the hospital room where he’d assigned one of his female deputies. He’d checked first thing that morning with the nurse on duty, and knew the Jane Doe had been sedated because when she’d finally come to, she’d been hysterical, nearly violent.
Terrified was the word the nurse had used.
He’d read the report from the responding officer, the statements from the nine-one-one callers, and now wanted a rundown from the doctor before he took a look for himself.
“I wasn’t on when they brought her in.” Dr. Grove, a stern-faced man with gentle hands, continued to study the chart as he spoke. “I did consult with the ER resident who examined and treated her. He did a rape kit, and we’ll have that for you. She exhibited signs of forced and violent sex. She’s been treated for frostbite on her feet. The air temperature wasn’t cold enough for hypothermia, but her clothes were wet. Severe abrasions, the heels and palms of her hands, her knees, elbows. Gravel in the cuts and scrapes. Severe contusions and lacerations on her right temple and forehead, most likely from striking the ground. She’s concussed.”
He looked up now, met Tate’s eyes. “There’s scar tissue around her left ankle, and scars on her back.”
“Would that be ligature scars, from being bound?”
“I would give you a most likely on that. And another most likely on the scars on her back resulting from repeated beatings. A belt or a strap. Some are years old, some not.”
Tate blew out a breath. “I need to talk to her.”
“I understand that. You need to understand that when I attempted to do so this morning, she was incoherent, hysterical. We’ve sedated her to prevent her from injuring herself further.”
“She didn’t tell you her name?”
“She did not. As the sedative took hold, she begged us to let her go, that she had to get back. She spoke of someone she called Sir. He’d be very angry.”
“When’s she going to be awake enough to talk?”
“Soon. I’m going to advise you to go slowly. Whoever she is, whatever happened to her, she’s suffered long-term abuse. Our staff psychiatrist will speak with her as well.”
“Have you got a woman for that? If she’s been raped and abused by a man, a woman might do better with her.”
“We’re on the same page there.”
“All right then. I want to take a look at her. We got her prints, and we’re going to see if she’s in the system somewhere. May take a couple more days, seeing it’s Sunday, and the red tape’s always a tangle anyway. I’d like to try to get her name, at least.”
“I’ll go in with you. I can treat her more successfully if she begins to see me as a familiar face, and not a threat.”
They went in together.
The woman on the bed lay still, seemed to barely breathe. But the monitors beeped. The IV tube in the back of her hand led to a bag hanging on a stand.
In the dim light she looked pale as a corpse, the long, gray-streaked hair witch-wild.
“Can we bring up the lights some?” Tate asked.
He moved closer to the bed as Dr. Grove turned the lights up. “My deputy has her as early sixties, but he’s young. She’s lived hard, but I’d go more like fifty.”
“I agree.”
Tate studied the bandaged head and hand wounds, the bruising on her jaw. “She didn’t get that jaw from falling on the road.”
“No, sorry, I neglected to say. I’d speculate she was struck. A fist.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen enough of it to say the same.” He judged his deputy had been more accurate judging the height, the weight.
“She’s given birth more than once,” Grove told him.
A hard life, Tate thought again, a brutal one to have driven those lines so deep in her face, to have given her what he thought of as a prison pallor. And even so, he could see she’d been pretty once—good bones, a well-shaped mouth, a delicate jaw, despite, or maybe in contrast to, the bruise.
Something struck him, gave him a slow burn in the belly. “Can I?”
Grove nodded when Tate held a hand over the sheet, over the right ankle. Tate lifted it, studied the thick scar tissue. “How old do you figure this is?”
“As I said, some of the scarring’s newer, but the widest area, ten years, at least.”
“So it could be older. She could’ve been bound longer?”
“Yes.”
“What color are her eyes? The deputy missed it. He’s young, like I said.”
“I’m not sure myself.” Grove moved over and, with a gentle hand, lifted an eyelid. “Green.”
The burn intensified. “Does she have a birthmark? I need you to look at the back of her knee. Left knee, right in the crease. See if there’s a birthmark.”
Grove moved down the bed, but kept his eyes on Tate. “You think you know who she is.”
“Check. Just check.”
Grove lifted the sheet, bent to check. “A small, oval birthmark, in the crease behind the left knee. You know her.”
“I do. Jesus God Almighty, I do. It’s Alice. It’s Alice Bodine.”
As he spoke she stirred, and her lashes fluttered.
“Alice.” He spoke as quietly as he would to a fretful baby. “Alice, it’s Bob Tate. It’s Bobby. You’re all right now. You’re safe now.”
But when her eyes opened, terror lived in them. She screamed, a high wailing, shoved her hands at him.
“It’s Bob Tate. Alice, Alice Bodine, it’s Bobby Tate. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.” Tate gestured Grove back. “You’re safe. You’re home.”
“No. No. No.” She looked around wildly. “Not home! Sir! I have to get home.”
“You got banged up some, Alice,” Tate continued in that same calm, quiet tone. “You’re in the hospital so you can get fixed up.”
“No. I have to go home.” She wailed again while tears flooded her cheeks. “I disobeyed. I have to be punished. Sir will drive the devil out.”
“Who is Sir? I can try to find him for you. What’s his whole name, Alice?”
“Sir. He’s Sir. I’m Esther. I’m Esther.”
“He called you Esther. He named you that, but your ma and pa named you Alice. We went skinny-dipping together one summer, Alice. You were the first girl I ever kissed. It’s Bobby Tate, Alice.” Say her name, say her name, over and over again, soft and clear. “It’s your old friend Bobby Tate.”
“No.”
But he saw something come into her eyes—or try to. “Don’t you worry about it. You’ll remember later. What I want you to know … Can you look at me, Alice?”
“E—Esther?”
“Look at me, honey. What I want you to know is you’re safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”