Retrospect 4/7 (Without a Trace)
Retrospect
4/7
Ten minutes later, Marissa had relieved Gail and the doctor had arrived to discuss the CT scan results.
Dr. DuMont was a lean, towering man in his late fifties, with close-cropped, jet-black hair that failed to match his bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His brusque manner reminded Martin of his father.
“The CT scan showed no fractures and no bleeding,” the doctor reported. “You’ve got a good-sized lump, but no laceration. That means no stitches or chance of infection. You’re a lucky man, all things considered.” He thoughtfully studied his patient. “Now, can you tell me how you got this concussion? I asked you when you were first brought in, but you weren’t very oriented.”
Martin’s brow furrowed. “We’ve met before?”
“Yes, although I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Now, let’s talk about what you do remember.”
“Uhh … ” He tried to think past the pounding that jarred his brain. “I got hurt at work.”
Nodding, the doctor motioned for him to continue.
“Someone hit me … ” Martin paused as a ying-yang symbol popped into mind. “It was Bart. I saw Maggie’s backpack on the floor at his apartment, and I realized he’d taken her. He must’ve known that I knew, and he coldcocked me.” He frowned as he realized how badly he’d screwed up by going to talk to Bart alone. He now had two strikes against him at work: being Victor Fitzgerald’s son, and making a big-time mistake on his first case.
Martin’s frown grew as he observed Dr. DuMont’s reaction to his recollection of recent events.
Raising a bushy eyebrow, the doctor briefly rubbed a thumb over his lower lip. “Can you tell me what day it is?”
A chill crept up Martin’s spine. He’d remembered something wrong, hadn’t he? Or not remembered something at all … Amnesia. Did he have some kind of amnesia? He gripped the side of the gurney, straining to focus despite the merciless headache. The Maggie Cartwright case had been in September 2002, but …
It wasn’t 2002, was it?
Fighting through the hurt, he latched onto the piece of information the doctor had requested. “April 18, 2005,” he murmured, sure of the answer but perplexed by it nonetheless. “Why did I think it was 2002?”
“Think of your brain like a computer that crashed,” Dr. DuMont suggested. “It’s rebooting right now, starting to make connections. But sometimes, it accesses the wrong files. In your case, you associated this concussion with one you’d received before.” The doctor paused. “Now, think carefully. Do you remember how you were hurt?”
Sighing hard through his nose, Martin closed his eyes. Frustration mounted as he tried to recall the day’s events. At first, his memories were like faded photographs, smudged and grainy and utterly useless. But as he willed himself to be calm, to be patient, they sharpened. “We were working on a case, trying to find a little girl … Becky Spenser. We went to her aunt’s house to question her father … ” He opened his eyes. “I remember getting out of the car, but that’s it. Nothing else until I woke up here.”
Dr. DuMont eyed the chart and scrawled on it while speaking. “With concussion patients, it’s not unusual to not remember the moment of injury, or the hours leading up to it. It’s also not unusual to be confused for a while afterward. You might wake up and have difficulty remembering where you are or why, or what day it is. In fact, some concussion patients have problems for weeks, or even months. ”
Martin hadn’t thought his misery could deepen, so greatly did the pain drag on him, but the doctor’s words made him sharply suck in his breath. Memory lapses for weeks, or even months? It’d keep him out of the field, maybe even out of the office, for far longer than he cared to consider.
Looking up from the chart, Dr. DuMont shook his head. “Try not to worry about it too much, Agent Fitzgerald. You remembered the date quickly, when prompted. There’s a good chance that your confusion will be minor and clear up sooner rather than later.”
Coming from this no-nonsense man, the words carried some weight. Martin relaxed a bit, his grip on the gurney finally loosening. He started to nod, but caught himself just in time, wary of aggravating the beast that still perched alongside him, merrily beating on his skull. “Okay,” he replied, squinting against the headache.
The doctor handed the chart to the nurse. “You look like a man in need of some pain relief. How’s the stomach? Think you can keep some water and Tylenol down?”
“Yeah.” He was fairly desperate for something to take the edge off the pain. His head felt dangerously close to exploding. But despite the headache, the doctor’s earlier question, still unanswered, nagged at him. “So what did happen to me? How’d I get hurt?”
“Apparently, you slipped and fell on a driveway.”
Martin’s jaw dropped. Slipped and fell? He had a concussion because he’d been clumsy? Damn. That was downright embarrassing. It ranked right up there with puking all over his nurse.
“One of your co-workers said there was a small oil spot on the concrete. The rain made it extra slick, and you stepped on it just right.”
Well, that made it a little more bearable. It hadn’t been totally his fault. And it sure as hell was better than getting hurt because he’d made a serious error that put himself and the missing person in danger. Still, it would have been nice if he’d been injured while doing something incredibly heroic.
“We’ll get you some Tylenol now, and move you to a regular room,” Dr. DuMont said. “We’re keeping you overnight for observation. We’ll wake you up periodically, and provided your condition doesn’t deteriorate, you’ll go home tomorrow. Once you’re released, it’s best if you have someone stay with you for the first 24 hours, or maybe longer, depending on how you feel. Is there someone who can do that?”
Sighing, Martin winced, not at the unrelenting headache but at the question. Had this happened a few weeks ago, he knew exactly who would have taken care of him. And she would have been more than happy to nurse him back to health. Now, however … Well, he’d have to go with Plan B. “Yeah, there is. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good. One more thing, Agent Fitzgerald. “ The doctor crossed his arms over his chest, expression stern. “This is your second concussion in less than three years. Repeat concussions, especially this close together, aren’t something I recommend. The more you have, the harder it is to recover. So do yourself a favor. Try to make your next work injury to a different part of your body.”
Martin nearly rolled his eyes. As if he had control over getting concussed.
Well … theoretically, he could have avoided the first concussion by not going to talk to Bart alone. But the second one? How could you guard against an unexpected moment of clumsiness?
The doctor moved to leave, paused, and turned back around. “I almost forgot. There are two federal agents here, waiting for information on your condition and asking to see you.”
“Two agents?” Martin was sure Danny was one of them, but wondered about the other’s identity. He had a hard time picturing his gruff boss rushing to the hospital just because he’d fallen and knocked himself out. But would Sam race over, given the rather public and not exactly sensitive way he’d broken up with her? “Is one of them a woman with long, blonde hair?” Dr. DuMont nodded, and the confirmation both touched him and made him apprehensive.
“Should I ask the front desk to send them back? It’ll be fifteen or twenty minutes before we have your room ready.”
Martin wanted to say no. He simply didn’t feel up to seeing Sam. Things had been strained between them lately, and he didn’t want to feel guilty or worried or frustrated right now. His head hurt badly enough as it was. But he couldn’t ask to only see Danny. He didn’t want to be that rude to Sam.
It was either see both of them, or neither of them. And turning them both away seemed a bit childish.
Still, the less talking he had to do, the better.
“Go ahead and send them back, but can you fill them in on my condition first?”
The doctor nodded and left.
Closing his eyes, Martin raised his hands to cup his forehead and waited, hoping the visit would be less awkward than he anticipated.
**
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together, wishing the Tylenol he’d taken five minutes ago would magically start working right … about … now.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“Stop hitting me,” he moaned softly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
He’d loved “The Stand,” he really had. He’d loved it so much he’d read it three times. But never, ever again. In fact, he was seriously considering burning it when he got home.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
“Bastard,” he mumbled to his unseen tormentor.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Danny’s amused voice gently reprimanded.
Martin peeled his eyes open and lowered his hands to reveal his smirking partner standing just inside the curtain.
“Careful, Fitz, there’s a lady present.”
And there was. Standing next to Danny, Sam looked nervous, her lower lip caught between her top and bottom teeth, worry lines around her eyes. She also looked beautiful. Her long, blonde hair fell in gentle waves around her shoulders, and her black slacks, black top and white jacket fit attractively over her curves.
Her beauty was almost painful, a vivid reminder of everything he’d had and rejected. Martin knew he’d made the right decision in ending their strained relationship, but it didn’t make this moment any easier.
Trying to set aside his emotions, he raised one hand in a small wave. “Hey, guys.”
Sam managed a tight smile in return but said nothing, instead tucking a length of blonde hair behind her ear.
Danny, on the other hand, moved alongside the gurney, cocked his head to the side, and quipped, “You look better than the last time I saw you, which isn’t saying much.”
Martin snorted softly. “Your bedside manner sucks, Taylor.”
As Danny grinned, Sam took a tentative step forward so that she stood at the foot of the bed. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay,” she said.
“Thanks,” Martin replied, noticing her reluctance to get too close to him. He wondered if they could ever put what had happened behind them. Could they go from friends to lovers to friends again? Or would they always be this awkward around each other?
It felt like minutes passed as they stared at one another, the busy ER’s sounds fading until he swore all he could hear were his heartbeat and soft breathing.
His nurse broke the moment, poking her head in to announce that she’d be back in five minutes to move him to his regular room.
Sam glanced briefly at Danny before looking at Martin again. “I should get going. I uhh … I have some things to take care of at the office.” She offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You take care of yourself, Martin. Feel better soon.”
“Thanks,” he replied softly, watching her go. When she was out of sight, he released a long sigh. The visit had been as uncomfortable as he’d expected. Closing his eyes, he briefly pinched the bridge of his nose against weariness and pain. Hearing Danny pull a chair next to the gurney, he blinked and watched his friend sit down and rest one ankle on top of a knee.
“Well that was awkward,” Danny murmured, rubbing at his chin before dropping his hand in his lap. “You two have been acting weird around each other for the past few weeks, but after what happened in the waiting room and then here, I guess I was wrong.”
“Huh?” He really wasn’t up to following his partner’s meandering train of thought.
“Well, I thought you guys were just having a fight. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? I mean, when we were talking to the doc, he mentioned how you’d need to stay with someone for the next day or two. I thought Sam would jump right in and tell him she’d take you home, but … she didn’t.”
The observation made Martin wince. He could picture how uncomfortable Sam must have been at that moment. She would have been acutely aware of Danny’s eyes on her as she failed to volunteer to play Florence Nightingale.
“Martin?” Danny prodded gently.
He sighed. He didn’t want to discuss Sam or anything else right now. He just wanted to stay very still and wait for the pills to work. Wait for an end to the incessant beating on his head.
“Hey,” the other man said, “you don’t have to give me any details if you don’t want to, all right? Just … I know how much you cared about her, and if you need to talk … I’m here.”
Grateful for the reprieve, and the words of friendship, Martin smiled. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” Danny tilted his head to the side. “So. Who are you gonna stay with when they spring you? Your uncle?”
“I would,” Martin agreed, “but he and my cousins are out of town on vacation.” He paused. “I was wondering … If it’s not too much trouble -- ”
“Say no more,” the other man interrupted, grinning. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“You sure? I don’t want to put you out.”
“No problema, bro.”
“Thanks.” Shutting his eyes, Martin took a deep breath and released it, wincing at the relentless pounding in his head. A gentle pat on his arm brought his focus back to Danny, who stood over him, smiling sympathetically.
“You look like hell, Martin. I’m gonna take off and wrap up some stuff at the office. I’ll drop by later tonight.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t mind.” Danny’s expression grew serious. “Sam’s not the only one who’s glad you’re gonna be okay, you know. You scared the hell out of me back there.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get you to wake up … Don’t ever do that to me again, all right?”
“I’ll try not to.” Martin massaged the back of his neck. “Believe me, I don’t want to go through this again, either.”
Marissa arrived then with another nurse, pleasant smiles on both women’s faces. “You ready to go, Martin?”
“Yeah,” he replied wearily, the pain draining his reserves.
“He’ll be in room 509,” Marissa informed Danny.
“Thanks.” Danny reached out to pat his partner’s leg, eyes soft with concern. “I’ll be back later, all right? Get some rest.”
Smiling faintly, Martin closed his eyes as the nurses pushed him toward the elevator.
**
Part Five
4/7
Ten minutes later, Marissa had relieved Gail and the doctor had arrived to discuss the CT scan results.
Dr. DuMont was a lean, towering man in his late fifties, with close-cropped, jet-black hair that failed to match his bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows. His brusque manner reminded Martin of his father.
“The CT scan showed no fractures and no bleeding,” the doctor reported. “You’ve got a good-sized lump, but no laceration. That means no stitches or chance of infection. You’re a lucky man, all things considered.” He thoughtfully studied his patient. “Now, can you tell me how you got this concussion? I asked you when you were first brought in, but you weren’t very oriented.”
Martin’s brow furrowed. “We’ve met before?”
“Yes, although I’m not surprised you don’t remember. Now, let’s talk about what you do remember.”
“Uhh … ” He tried to think past the pounding that jarred his brain. “I got hurt at work.”
Nodding, the doctor motioned for him to continue.
“Someone hit me … ” Martin paused as a ying-yang symbol popped into mind. “It was Bart. I saw Maggie’s backpack on the floor at his apartment, and I realized he’d taken her. He must’ve known that I knew, and he coldcocked me.” He frowned as he realized how badly he’d screwed up by going to talk to Bart alone. He now had two strikes against him at work: being Victor Fitzgerald’s son, and making a big-time mistake on his first case.
Martin’s frown grew as he observed Dr. DuMont’s reaction to his recollection of recent events.
Raising a bushy eyebrow, the doctor briefly rubbed a thumb over his lower lip. “Can you tell me what day it is?”
A chill crept up Martin’s spine. He’d remembered something wrong, hadn’t he? Or not remembered something at all … Amnesia. Did he have some kind of amnesia? He gripped the side of the gurney, straining to focus despite the merciless headache. The Maggie Cartwright case had been in September 2002, but …
It wasn’t 2002, was it?
Fighting through the hurt, he latched onto the piece of information the doctor had requested. “April 18, 2005,” he murmured, sure of the answer but perplexed by it nonetheless. “Why did I think it was 2002?”
“Think of your brain like a computer that crashed,” Dr. DuMont suggested. “It’s rebooting right now, starting to make connections. But sometimes, it accesses the wrong files. In your case, you associated this concussion with one you’d received before.” The doctor paused. “Now, think carefully. Do you remember how you were hurt?”
Sighing hard through his nose, Martin closed his eyes. Frustration mounted as he tried to recall the day’s events. At first, his memories were like faded photographs, smudged and grainy and utterly useless. But as he willed himself to be calm, to be patient, they sharpened. “We were working on a case, trying to find a little girl … Becky Spenser. We went to her aunt’s house to question her father … ” He opened his eyes. “I remember getting out of the car, but that’s it. Nothing else until I woke up here.”
Dr. DuMont eyed the chart and scrawled on it while speaking. “With concussion patients, it’s not unusual to not remember the moment of injury, or the hours leading up to it. It’s also not unusual to be confused for a while afterward. You might wake up and have difficulty remembering where you are or why, or what day it is. In fact, some concussion patients have problems for weeks, or even months. ”
Martin hadn’t thought his misery could deepen, so greatly did the pain drag on him, but the doctor’s words made him sharply suck in his breath. Memory lapses for weeks, or even months? It’d keep him out of the field, maybe even out of the office, for far longer than he cared to consider.
Looking up from the chart, Dr. DuMont shook his head. “Try not to worry about it too much, Agent Fitzgerald. You remembered the date quickly, when prompted. There’s a good chance that your confusion will be minor and clear up sooner rather than later.”
Coming from this no-nonsense man, the words carried some weight. Martin relaxed a bit, his grip on the gurney finally loosening. He started to nod, but caught himself just in time, wary of aggravating the beast that still perched alongside him, merrily beating on his skull. “Okay,” he replied, squinting against the headache.
The doctor handed the chart to the nurse. “You look like a man in need of some pain relief. How’s the stomach? Think you can keep some water and Tylenol down?”
“Yeah.” He was fairly desperate for something to take the edge off the pain. His head felt dangerously close to exploding. But despite the headache, the doctor’s earlier question, still unanswered, nagged at him. “So what did happen to me? How’d I get hurt?”
“Apparently, you slipped and fell on a driveway.”
Martin’s jaw dropped. Slipped and fell? He had a concussion because he’d been clumsy? Damn. That was downright embarrassing. It ranked right up there with puking all over his nurse.
“One of your co-workers said there was a small oil spot on the concrete. The rain made it extra slick, and you stepped on it just right.”
Well, that made it a little more bearable. It hadn’t been totally his fault. And it sure as hell was better than getting hurt because he’d made a serious error that put himself and the missing person in danger. Still, it would have been nice if he’d been injured while doing something incredibly heroic.
“We’ll get you some Tylenol now, and move you to a regular room,” Dr. DuMont said. “We’re keeping you overnight for observation. We’ll wake you up periodically, and provided your condition doesn’t deteriorate, you’ll go home tomorrow. Once you’re released, it’s best if you have someone stay with you for the first 24 hours, or maybe longer, depending on how you feel. Is there someone who can do that?”
Sighing, Martin winced, not at the unrelenting headache but at the question. Had this happened a few weeks ago, he knew exactly who would have taken care of him. And she would have been more than happy to nurse him back to health. Now, however … Well, he’d have to go with Plan B. “Yeah, there is. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good. One more thing, Agent Fitzgerald. “ The doctor crossed his arms over his chest, expression stern. “This is your second concussion in less than three years. Repeat concussions, especially this close together, aren’t something I recommend. The more you have, the harder it is to recover. So do yourself a favor. Try to make your next work injury to a different part of your body.”
Martin nearly rolled his eyes. As if he had control over getting concussed.
Well … theoretically, he could have avoided the first concussion by not going to talk to Bart alone. But the second one? How could you guard against an unexpected moment of clumsiness?
The doctor moved to leave, paused, and turned back around. “I almost forgot. There are two federal agents here, waiting for information on your condition and asking to see you.”
“Two agents?” Martin was sure Danny was one of them, but wondered about the other’s identity. He had a hard time picturing his gruff boss rushing to the hospital just because he’d fallen and knocked himself out. But would Sam race over, given the rather public and not exactly sensitive way he’d broken up with her? “Is one of them a woman with long, blonde hair?” Dr. DuMont nodded, and the confirmation both touched him and made him apprehensive.
“Should I ask the front desk to send them back? It’ll be fifteen or twenty minutes before we have your room ready.”
Martin wanted to say no. He simply didn’t feel up to seeing Sam. Things had been strained between them lately, and he didn’t want to feel guilty or worried or frustrated right now. His head hurt badly enough as it was. But he couldn’t ask to only see Danny. He didn’t want to be that rude to Sam.
It was either see both of them, or neither of them. And turning them both away seemed a bit childish.
Still, the less talking he had to do, the better.
“Go ahead and send them back, but can you fill them in on my condition first?”
The doctor nodded and left.
Closing his eyes, Martin raised his hands to cup his forehead and waited, hoping the visit would be less awkward than he anticipated.
**
Pound. Pound. Pound.
Martin squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together, wishing the Tylenol he’d taken five minutes ago would magically start working right … about … now.
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“Stop hitting me,” he moaned softly, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.
He’d loved “The Stand,” he really had. He’d loved it so much he’d read it three times. But never, ever again. In fact, he was seriously considering burning it when he got home.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
“Bastard,” he mumbled to his unseen tormentor.
“Uh, uh, uh,” Danny’s amused voice gently reprimanded.
Martin peeled his eyes open and lowered his hands to reveal his smirking partner standing just inside the curtain.
“Careful, Fitz, there’s a lady present.”
And there was. Standing next to Danny, Sam looked nervous, her lower lip caught between her top and bottom teeth, worry lines around her eyes. She also looked beautiful. Her long, blonde hair fell in gentle waves around her shoulders, and her black slacks, black top and white jacket fit attractively over her curves.
Her beauty was almost painful, a vivid reminder of everything he’d had and rejected. Martin knew he’d made the right decision in ending their strained relationship, but it didn’t make this moment any easier.
Trying to set aside his emotions, he raised one hand in a small wave. “Hey, guys.”
Sam managed a tight smile in return but said nothing, instead tucking a length of blonde hair behind her ear.
Danny, on the other hand, moved alongside the gurney, cocked his head to the side, and quipped, “You look better than the last time I saw you, which isn’t saying much.”
Martin snorted softly. “Your bedside manner sucks, Taylor.”
As Danny grinned, Sam took a tentative step forward so that she stood at the foot of the bed. “I’m glad you’re going to be okay,” she said.
“Thanks,” Martin replied, noticing her reluctance to get too close to him. He wondered if they could ever put what had happened behind them. Could they go from friends to lovers to friends again? Or would they always be this awkward around each other?
It felt like minutes passed as they stared at one another, the busy ER’s sounds fading until he swore all he could hear were his heartbeat and soft breathing.
His nurse broke the moment, poking her head in to announce that she’d be back in five minutes to move him to his regular room.
Sam glanced briefly at Danny before looking at Martin again. “I should get going. I uhh … I have some things to take care of at the office.” She offered a small smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You take care of yourself, Martin. Feel better soon.”
“Thanks,” he replied softly, watching her go. When she was out of sight, he released a long sigh. The visit had been as uncomfortable as he’d expected. Closing his eyes, he briefly pinched the bridge of his nose against weariness and pain. Hearing Danny pull a chair next to the gurney, he blinked and watched his friend sit down and rest one ankle on top of a knee.
“Well that was awkward,” Danny murmured, rubbing at his chin before dropping his hand in his lap. “You two have been acting weird around each other for the past few weeks, but after what happened in the waiting room and then here, I guess I was wrong.”
“Huh?” He really wasn’t up to following his partner’s meandering train of thought.
“Well, I thought you guys were just having a fight. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? I mean, when we were talking to the doc, he mentioned how you’d need to stay with someone for the next day or two. I thought Sam would jump right in and tell him she’d take you home, but … she didn’t.”
The observation made Martin wince. He could picture how uncomfortable Sam must have been at that moment. She would have been acutely aware of Danny’s eyes on her as she failed to volunteer to play Florence Nightingale.
“Martin?” Danny prodded gently.
He sighed. He didn’t want to discuss Sam or anything else right now. He just wanted to stay very still and wait for the pills to work. Wait for an end to the incessant beating on his head.
“Hey,” the other man said, “you don’t have to give me any details if you don’t want to, all right? Just … I know how much you cared about her, and if you need to talk … I’m here.”
Grateful for the reprieve, and the words of friendship, Martin smiled. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome.” Danny tilted his head to the side. “So. Who are you gonna stay with when they spring you? Your uncle?”
“I would,” Martin agreed, “but he and my cousins are out of town on vacation.” He paused. “I was wondering … If it’s not too much trouble -- ”
“Say no more,” the other man interrupted, grinning. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“You sure? I don’t want to put you out.”
“No problema, bro.”
“Thanks.” Shutting his eyes, Martin took a deep breath and released it, wincing at the relentless pounding in his head. A gentle pat on his arm brought his focus back to Danny, who stood over him, smiling sympathetically.
“You look like hell, Martin. I’m gonna take off and wrap up some stuff at the office. I’ll drop by later tonight.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t mind.” Danny’s expression grew serious. “Sam’s not the only one who’s glad you’re gonna be okay, you know. You scared the hell out of me back there.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t get you to wake up … Don’t ever do that to me again, all right?”
“I’ll try not to.” Martin massaged the back of his neck. “Believe me, I don’t want to go through this again, either.”
Marissa arrived then with another nurse, pleasant smiles on both women’s faces. “You ready to go, Martin?”
“Yeah,” he replied wearily, the pain draining his reserves.
“He’ll be in room 509,” Marissa informed Danny.
“Thanks.” Danny reached out to pat his partner’s leg, eyes soft with concern. “I’ll be back later, all right? Get some rest.”
Smiling faintly, Martin closed his eyes as the nurses pushed him toward the elevator.
**
Part Five