Night Mist

Suppose he decided it was time they did meet? What if he challenged her the moment she tried to reach the sanctuary of her room? Who could she rely on for help? Mr. Bernard, the retired railroad conductor on the floor below? The poor soul was practically deaf, and Celia Nichols, the sloe-eyed divorcée who had her eye on her boss, the married owner of the Black Water Creek Lounge, spent most of her time over there.

Don’t be a fool. The man has never bothered you, and he’s done nothing to suggest anything will change.

She was overtired and stressed, that’s all. Her job kept her steeped in responsibility. And she couldn’t forget the added pressure brought on by her alienated relationship with her family. Even without the burden of the past three nights, she had a lot taxing her mind.

It would do her a world of good to try to let go of everything—including this last episode on the bridge—and start fresh in the morning. She doubted she would get much sleep, but simply relaxing might help. In the morning she would consider confiding in Sammy. He was, after all, her sponsor, advisor and friend, as well as her boss. Most important, he had more background in psychiatry than anyone between here and Baton Rouge; as real as the episode on the bridge had seemed, it wouldn’t hurt to make certain she wasn’t fabricating the whole thing in her mind due to emotional overload.

But even with her new resolve, Rachel was cautious as she circled the balustrade and entered the bathroom. In fact, she found herself holding her breath until she set the lock.

She placed her bag on the side of the tub and faced her reflection in the mirror, wincing at what she saw. It was worse than she’d expected, worse than when she used to pull marathon shifts as an intern. Her eyes were bloodshot and rimmed in red, as though she’d been crying, and her face appeared as pale as a cadaver. Her dark brown hair, her personal vanity point, was no longer styled in a sleek pageboy cut, but rather a frizzy tangle. Add to it that her jeans and lab coat were stained with who-knew-what she’d picked up from crawling around on all fours on the bridge, and she was a visual horror herself.

A shower would be heavenly, but it could wait until morning when she knew she would be alone on the floor. Instead, she settled for a quick scrub of her hands and face.

When she was done, she leaned over to retrieve the jacket she’d laid beside her bag. At that moment she heard the doorknob twist.

Jerking upright, she inadvertently knocked her bag into the tub and several items fell out.

“Damn it, are you still in there?” a familiar voice growled.

“Yes, but…but I’m almost…”

“I need in. Now.”

Strange, Rachel thought. Five minutes ago, the prospect of having to face the man had filled her with dread. Indignation, however, provided a blissful swell of courage.

She released the lock and swung the door open, her first impulse being to tell the impolite jerk what she thought of bullies, not to mention voyeurs. Then she met the piercing dark eyes that the light revealed were midnight-blue, stared at the face that was etched forever in her memory and felt the room spin like a child’s top gone haywire.

“Hell, lady, whatever you do, don’t faint, because I’m in no mood to play gentleman.”

His voice, but without the aching tenderness. His face, once again grim with pain—but also with frustration and resentment. Joe Becket, but a Joe Becket who was very much the flesh and blood of this world.

What was going on?

“I need to use the sink,” he continued, holding up his wrapped left hand. “This has started bleeding again.”

Seeing the blood on the thin, filthy rag saved her. Whatever doubts Rachel had about her ability to cope as a woman, or as a specter’s medium, they were insignificant in the face of a medical emergency. Drawing herself straight, she reached for his injured limb.

“Let me see.”

He jerked back. “I can take care of it myself. It needs to be rinsed off, that’s all.”

“From the amount of blood soaked through that unsanitary rag, I think it’s going to need substantially more. I’m a doctor,” she added when he simply glared at her.

“I know who you are.”

Rachel wasn’t sure whether it was the fact that he could be so blatant about spying on her or that he was rudeness incarnate and a disappointment; whichever, it prompted her to lift an eyebrow and affect a cool hauteur that was poles apart from the wariness and tension she actually felt. “Then you have the advantage, Mr….?”

She wanted him to say it. She already knew what she was going to hear and that it was already compounding the mystery she’d let herself get caught up in, but she wanted the words to come from his own lips.

“Barnes,” he ground out. “Jay Barnes.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rachel stared, certain she’d misunderstood. When she’d first opened the door, she’d been shocked. She was just as shocked by not hearing him say, “Joe Becket.” Of course, if he had said it, it would have made things more bizarre and creepy than they already were. But it would also have given her the next piece of the puzzle—clarifying what, or rather, who Joe had meant when he’d warned her not to come back here. For an instant she’d believed she had her answer; instead she had a deeper mystery.

Joe Becket…Jay Barnes…J.B. What was going on?

“You going to stand there and let me bleed to death, or are you going to get out of my way?”

This time she almost welcomed Joe’s—Jay’s rudeness. It helped remind her that until she knew more, she couldn’t afford to let him see her confusion.

Hoping he didn’t sense her nervousness, too, she reached out again, waiting for him to give her his hand. “As I said, Mr. Barnes, I’m a doctor. By the looks of what you deem as ‘care,’ it would be in your best interest to let me help.”

He seemed on the verge of refusing—and not politely. Beneath his pronounced five o’clock shadow, the naturally taut muscles along his long jaw worked as he ground his teeth together; his midnight-blue eyes narrowed with suspicion, not to mention disapproval.

Maybe he was one of those relics who believed women couldn’t be as good as men in any profession, let alone the sciences. She was used to their small-mindedness, and to the type who found her youth disconcerting.

But was that what she felt emanating from Jay Barnes? She didn’t think so. She had a hunch he would have been reluctant and rude no matter who was offering him help. It allowed her not to take his rejection personally. It also raised her initial question all over again: Why was he behaving this way?

As pain seemed to win out, he slowly extended his left hand toward her, while the look he shot her warned she better be all she’d advertised.

Rachel ignored that. “Come in here so I can work with better light,” she said, stepping back to make room for him.

Once again she sensed his unwillingness, an almost palpable sensation, but at least this time he didn’t take forever to make his decision. When he did step forward, she found herself with yet a new problem—she had to deal with the room itself.

Converted years ago from a closet, the bathroom was narrow and cramped, clearly a room designed for no more than one person at a time. Despite the decorating wisdom of crisp white walls and fixtures that helped add a slight sense of space, she had to work to close herself to a surge of claustrophobia.

Hoping he didn’t sense her uneasiness, she began unfolding the rag. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

“Only when someone reminds me of it.”

She didn’t bother glancing up at him. Didn’t dare. “There are reasons for the question besides a concern for your comfort, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’d be fine if I hadn’t accidentally bumped it.”

As the final covering fell away and she saw the angry tear of flesh across the outer edge of his palm, Rachel winced inwardly before replying, “No, you wouldn’t. In another twelve to twenty-four hours infection would have set in. What’s more, a simple bandage won’t get it. You need stitches.”

“No stitches.”

Neanderthal, she thought, and shot back, “All right, have it your way. I’ll do what I can with a pressure bandage and an injection of—”

“You’re not giving me any shot, and I’m not paying for one.”

Exasperation won ground. “Who asked you to?”

“Don’t tell me you’d give me a freebie out of the goodness of your heart?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”