Read Online Perfect Trust: A Rowan Gant Investigation by M. R. Sellars - Free Book Online Page B

she brushed my
disheveled hair back from my forehead, “shouldn’t you be resting,
then?”
    Felicity gave the outward appearance of a
fragile china doll standing next to Ben. Petite, with a milky
complexion, her own hair was a pile of flaming auburn resting atop
her head in a loose Gibson girl. Whenever she let it down, it was a
rush of spiral curls reaching almost to her waist. Her green eyes
held more than a hint of concern as she gazed back at me. Her
normally smooth face was wrinkled with mild anguish. A second
generation Irish-American, her voice usually held only the barest
hint of an accent but could blossom fully into a thick brogue—at
times liberally peppered with Gaelic—if she were tired, stressed,
angry, or had recently spent time with certain members of her
family. Right now, it was obvious that at the very least the first
two options were weighing in, maybe even the third.
    “I’m trying to,” I answered, “but it’s a bit
noisy.”
    “Sorry, white man,” Ben offered
apologetically. “Didn’t mean to keep ya’ up.”
    “You weren’t, actually,” I replied. “The
doctor told me I had to stay awake until the test results came
back.”
    “So ya’ wanna help me out and tell the red
squaw here that I didn’t call ya’ in on this.”
    “What were you doing there then?” Felicity
queried without waiting for me to fulfill Ben’s request.
    “Ben didn’t have anything to do with me being
there.” I went ahead and made the statement for his benefit then
addressed my wife’s question. “And, I haven’t quite figured that
part out yet.”
    The last half of my sentence was joined by
the swooshing sound of the door to the treatment room swinging
open. A tired looking brunette woman dressed in blue hospital
scrubs and a lab coat followed the door inward. In her hand she
carried an oversized brown envelope clearly marked with my name and
a handful of other scrawlings that only made sense to someone in
the medical profession or a two-year-old. I wasn’t sure which.
    “How are you feeling, Mister Gant?”
    “About the same, I guess,” I answered.
    “Good.” She nodded as she crossed the room to
the opposite wall. “No new pains or tremors?”
    “No. Just a bit of a headache.”
    After pulling a rectangular x-ray from the
envelope, she deftly popped it into a pair of holding clips on a
wall-mounted box and then switched on the backlight.
    “How about your memory?” she queried as she
stared at the black and white study of my skull. “Can you tell me
what day this is?”
    “Tuesday, December eighteenth,” I answered,
exasperated that I was being put through this line of questioning
for yet a third time. “My middle name is Linden, I’m thirty-nine
years old, I’m married…”
    “All I wanted was the date, Mister Gant,” she
cut me off, sounding slightly distracted. “And by the way, it’s
past midnight, so it is actually Wednesday the nineteenth.”
    “Do I lose any points for that?”
    “There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the
ordinary on your x-rays,” she began, ignoring my jibe and giving
the film a final once over. She then turned and crossed her arms
over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “And your blood work
is fine.”
    “So why don’t you look pleased?” I asked.
    “I’m a little concerned about the fact that
you blacked out, as well as the description of your earlier
dementia provided by Detective Storm. These could be indicators of
a mild ischemic stroke. What I’d like to do is get a head CT and
keep you under observation for a while.”
    “I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I
protested.
    “Well, I do,” she returned flatly. “And while
I certainly cannot keep you here against your will, I strongly
suggest that you have this test.”
    The door whooshed once again, and a nurse
urgently poked her head through the opening. “Doctor Morrison, we
need you in Trauma-two.”
    “Why don’t you discuss it with your wife,
Mister