Anya fumbled for the phone in the dark.
“Doctor Crichton,” she droned, eyelids too heavy to open.
No one spoke back.
“Hello,” she mumbled, hoping the caller had changed their mind.
As she was about to hang up, she heard what sounded like someone crying in the background.
“It’s Violet Yardley.” The voice was high-pitched. “You told me I could call. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Anya reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. The clock showed 12:15 A.M. No wonder her limbs and head felt like lead as she tried to sit up.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m scared and I need your help. Someone’s in trouble.”
Anya was suddenly alert.
“Where are you? The police can be there-”
“No, no police.” Violet became more shrill. “That’ll make everything worse. She’s hurt. It’s bad this time.”
“Wait, Violet.” Anya needed to know how severely injured this unknown person was. If she needed an ambulance, they could be wasting critical time. The image of Giverny Hart’s body and what a difference a few minutes made flashed through her mind.
“How badly hurt is she? Was there an accident? Do you need an ambulance?”
“No. No ambulance, no other doctors and no nurses! We want you to look after her.”
So far Anya had no idea what had happened to the friend. She hadn’t ruled out a drug overdose or attempted suicide or an accident. Fear of police and hospitals suggested she’d done something illegal, possibly drugs or drunk driving. Then again, she could have been sexually assaulted. She needed a lot of information quickly, if she was to help in any way, without Violet becoming histrionic and panicking.
The background had gone quiet.
“Can you tell me if your friend is still awake?”
Anya heard muffled crying in the background. At least the victim was conscious and breathing.
“If I’m going to help I have to know what I’m dealing with and how badly she’s hurt.”
Violet waited before answering. “She’s beaten up, her face is swollen and she can’t move her left arm. Please help, she’s in a lot of pain.”
Asking for pain relief over the phone instantly aroused a doctor’s suspicion. It could be a ruse to get hold of narcotics. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict had feigned injury, although that usually entailed stories of miscarriage, ectopic pregnancy or a bone disorder.
Anya spoke slowly and clearly, trying to quell Violet’s rising panic.
“I don’t carry pain relief in my bag or at the assault unit attached to the hospital. If she needs something strong, I can’t give it to her. Hospital’s the best place for her.”
In case drugs were the reason for the call, it should be enough to discourage an addict from continuing with the sham.
Instead, Violet became more frantic. “She’s straight-edged-she doesn’t even take headache tablets. And she isn’t drunk. I’m really scared, you’ve got to help us. There’s no one else we can turn to.”
“Is the person who did this near you?”
“No. He’s gone for now.”
Committed now to seeing the girl and her friend, Anya climbed out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans. The crumpled oversized T-shirt she slept in was replaced with a bra and shorter, ironed version. She glanced past Ben’s empty bedroom on the way downstairs.
“I’m on my way to the hospital, the same place you saw me the first time.”
“I remember.”
“Let’s meet out front and I’ll let us in.”
“Please hurry.”
Violet hung up and Anya dialed Mary Singer, to keep her informed of what was happening. Mary, who sounded surprisingly alert for this time of night, wanted to come along, citing a policy to always have a counselor in attendance, but Anya promised to call back if Mary were needed.
Twenty minutes later she pulled up outside the center and immediately saw two small figures in the shadows of the streetlamp, one bent over. She rushed over to offer support but Violet urged her to take them somewhere safer.
Once inside, Anya locked the entrance and quickly glanced out the glass door to make sure no one was outside. She switched on the light and led the girls to the examination suite.
The girl with Violet staggered to the lounge chair, her friend at her side. Anya would not have recognized the face even if they’d met before. The cheeks and eyes were swollen, and blackened. Blood stained her pale shirt. With one hand, she held a blood-soaked towel to the back of her head. The other showed a deformed wrist and forearm, which on a quick glance had to be a displaced fracture.
Anya immediately pulled on latex gloves and grabbed a thick surgical pad along with a pillow. Violet made way as she moved over to the lounge.
“That’s a pretty nasty gash to the head. Can I take a look?”
The girl seemed to defer to Violet, who nodded.
Anya carefully lifted the broken forearm onto a pillow on the owner’s lap. The woman grimaced but did not resist. Next came a cursory examination of the scalp wound.
“Looks like someone really did a job on you. This might sting a bit.”
Anya pressed around the seven centimeter split in the skull, feeling for boggy swelling, anything to suggest a fractured skull beneath. Relieved not to find any abnormality, she then studied the jagged laceration more carefully.
“Can you tell me how this happened? It’s pretty obvious someone wanted to hurt you.”
Violet had folded her arms and sat on a single seater, bent forward, with her long black skirt stretched over her knees. “Is this confidential? Like you promised when you saw me?”
Anya looked across. “Yes, but if someone’s life is at risk, that confidence may have to be broken.”
The two women exchanged looks. “Told you she was all right,” Violet said. “We’re safe here. Go on, tell her.”
The laceration had temporarily stopped bleeding but would need stitches, so Anya sat, gloved palms facing upward on her lap.
The unknown woman spoke through a split bottom lip.
“My name is Savannah. Savannah Harbourn.”