Part 4 (1/2)
”You had a seizure. Lie still,” she said.
”I what?”
”Do you have epilepsy?”
He frowned. ”That's a crazy question.”
Jo was board-certified in both psychiatry and neurology, but as a forensic psychiatrist, her work dealt almost exclusively with history. When the police or medical examiner couldn't determine why somebody had died, they called her to perform a psychological autopsy on the victim. She spent her days deciphering the countless ways the pressures of the world could end a person's life.
Now she had a live case, a man with a huge and unidentified problem, who she sensed might turn on her at any moment.
”Do you recall hitting your head?” she said.
”No.” Hands on his jeans pockets. ”Where's my phone?”
”I have it.”
”I need to make a call.” His gaze zinged to Jo. ”You're American? Did the emba.s.sy send you?” He looked around the ambulance and his face tightened with alarm. ”Where am I?”
”On your way to San Francisco General Hospital. Are you on medication?”
”No. San Francisco?” He tried to sit up. ”Who are you?”
”Dr. Beckett.” She pressed a hand on his chest. ”You were in southern Africa. Are you taking antimalarial drugs?”
”Quinine? Sure-Tanqueray and tonic.”
”Lariam?”
Lariam could have severe side effects, including seizures and psychosis.
”No,” he said.
”What were you doing in South Africa?”
His pale eyes looked eerie. She couldn't tell why he hesitated. But whether he was confused or calculating, it took him ten full seconds to say, ”Business trip.”
The wind rattled the ambulance and a burst of rain sprayed the window. Jo didn't tell Kanan the two reasons they were heading to San Francisco General-it was the area's only level-one trauma center and San Francisco's designated evaluation facility for patients placed on psychiatric hold. Kanan glanced around. His gaze reached Officer Paterson and stuck.
Jaw tightening, he lurched against the straps on the gurney. ”My family. Did something-”
”Hey.” Paterson moved instantly to Kanan's side. The paramedic pressed Kanan back against the pillow.
Jo put a hand on his arm. ”What about your family, Mr. Kanan?”
For a second he looked fearfully bewildered. Then he blinked and forcibly slowed his breathing. ”What happened to me?” He looked at Paterson. ”Am I under arrest?”
Paterson said, ”Not yet. But you wanted to get off your flight so bad, you tried to jump out while the plane was rolling.”
”Did we crash?” He looked around the ambulance. ”Did the plane go down?”
Jo gazed at him, puzzled. In the s.p.a.ce of two minutes Kanan had gone from unconscious to intensely alert, articulate, strong, and confused.
”Mr. Kanan-”
”Ian.”
”Ian, I'm a psychiatrist. The police called me to the airport to evaluate you because-”
”You think I'm nuts?”
”I think you have a head injury.”
He stared at her for a long moment. A look of pain, and understanding, seemed to jolt him. His breathing became choppy. ”They'll say it's self-inflicted.”
The cold trickle ran down Jo's back again. ”Your injury?”
”It's over, isn't it? I failed.”
”Failed at what?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. For a second, Jo thought he was fighting back tears. Paterson's radio guttered. The sound caught Kanan's ear. He opened his eyes and looked at the young cop. And as Jo watched, Kanan's face relaxed. He blinked, breathed deeply, and turned to her, eyes s.h.i.+ning and untroubled.
”Hey. What's going on?”
”We're taking you to the hospital.”
Puzzlement. ”Why?”
Slowly, Jo said, ”Do you recall what I told you a minute ago?”
”No. Who are you?”
The paramedic wrapped her stethoscope around her neck. ”Man.”
Paterson braced his hand against the wall of the ambulance. ”What is it?”
Jo felt grim. ”Amnesia.”
She looked at Kanan, thinking, And not the good kind.
Seth sat on the floor with his back against the frame of his bed. He was quiet. He'd been quiet for days. The men had told him to keep his mouth shut.
But inside, his mind was full of noise, like feedback from an amplifier. Because he hadn't kept his mouth shut when the men dragged him into the park. He had talked. He'd told them about his dad.
His stomach hurt. It hurt like a fist was squeezing it, a fist made of wire. He wrapped his arms around his s.h.i.+ns and put his head down on his knees.