followed by the sheriff, carrying his coffee in one hand. John Doe whirled to confront a new threat.
“Don’t!” Audrey shouted, afraid either man would attack the other. “He’s okay. It’s okay. Everyone’s okay.”
The sheriff held up his free hand. “Whoa, there, son. No one is here to hurt you. My name is Sheriff Crump. You’re safe now.” To the nurse, the sheriff said, “We’ve got this.”
She clearly wasn’t reassured, as her scared gaze zinged from the sheriff to the patient and back again. “He shouldn’t be up. He’s bleeding where his IV line was. I should check on his wounds.”
Audrey glanced at the smear of blood on the unknown man’s arm. The amount wasn’t life threatening, just messy.
“You can come back in a bit,” David said in a tone that left no room for argument. “I need to question the man.”
With a frown, the nurse retreated, leaving them alone with the mysterious man. John Doe let out a string of words that made no sense to Audrey. Worry churned in her gut. What was going on? Obviously he was a foreigner, but from where? She couldn’t place the language.
The sheriff cocked his head, his gaze going to Audrey. She shrugged, at a loss for how to communicate with the patient. The sharp sense of helplessness was too familiar. She hated the feeling. She’d felt this way the night her father hadn’t returned from the sea. Only then it had been more intense. Now it was enough to make her jittery.
“I can understand a few words,” the sheriff said. “I think he’s speaking in Cree. One of the professors I worked with at the university taught a class in Native American studies and had a segment on languages. Cree has a very distinct dialect.” He turned his attention back to John Doe. “Does that sound right?”
Confusion played over the man’s face. He took a shuddering breath and then spoke in English. “I don’t know. I can hear the words in my head, but they mean nothing to me. Where am I?”
“You’re in Calico Bay,” Audrey supplied. “Were you on a boat?”
John Doe backed up so he could see both Audrey and the sheriff. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Calico Bay?”
“Downeast Maine,” the sheriff supplied. “The northern tip of the state.”
The man kept his gaze on Audrey. “I’ve seen you before. Where?”
“You woke up for a moment on the beach and again last night while I was here.”
John ran a hand through his dark hair. He stilled when his fingers touched the bandage near his left temple. “What happened?”
“We were hoping you could tell us,” the sheriff said. “There’ve been three attempts on your life since you washed ashore on our beach. Why is someone trying to kill you?”
The man frowned and paced a few steps. “I don’t know.”
Audrey fought the urge to tell him it would be all right. She didn’t know if it would, and she wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the platitude.
He staggered to the bed and sat, dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t remember anything. Every time I try to recall, my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
Her heart ached to see his distress. The need to comfort prodded her to take a step closer. The sheriff arched a disapproving eyebrow at her. She halted. Her great-uncle had warned her often enough not to become emotionally involved in cases. She needed a clear, objective head. And if she wanted to be sheriff one day, she had to remain detached and professional at all times.
The patient rolled his shoulders then lifted his gaze to Audrey. “Only your face seems familiar. Nothing else.”
The defenselessness on his handsome face tugged at her. She swallowed. Her heart beat erratically. No way was she going to repeat his delirious proclamation that she reminded him of a Christmas ornament. “On the beach you muttered the word betrayed. Ring any bells?”
His mouth gaped and he shook his head.
She tapped her fingers against her utility belt. “You can’t remember your name?”
He stared at her, the panic returning to his eyes. “No. I can’t remember my name. Or who I am. Or where I’m from. I don’t know what I meant by betrayed.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Or why someone wants me dead.”
He couldn’t remember his name.
Sitting on the hospital bed under the scrutiny of the deputy and the sheriff made him feel vulnerable. An antsy sort of energy buzzed through him. He might not know his name, but he knew in his gut he didn’t do vulnerable.
His body ached everywhere. His head pounded like a jackhammer going to town inside his skull. His mouth felt like cotton. An encompassing terror gripped him. A shiver racked his body. Cold. So very cold. How could he not know who he was? Or recall his past?
Why did someone want him dead?
His heart slammed against his ribs. A looming sense of dread and foreboding threatened to pull him back into darkness. He hung on to the edge of the bed and fought the tug. He needed to stay awake. Some innate knowledge told him he needed to keep a clear head if he were to survive. He grabbed the water pitcher on the bedside tray and poured a glass. He drank it down and then another.
“Then we’ll call you John.”
“What?” He stared at the blonde, blue-eyed deputy. Her hair was pulled back away from her face and secured behind her head in a knot. She wore little makeup. She didn’t need any. She was absolutely stunning with her high cheekbones, delicately carved beneath smooth, unblemished skin and full lips. He forced himself to concentrate on what she’d just stated. “Is my name John?”
It didn’t ring any bells. And every time he tried to concentrate, to conjure up a memory, his head felt like someone was taking a pickax to his skull, bringing on a blinding pain that was nearly incapacitating. Only keeping his focus on the beautiful woman’s face kept him from keeling over.
She smiled and her eyes filled with compassion. “John as in John Doe. I don’t know your name. You weren’t carrying identification.”
That explained why they didn’t know his name. “Where did you find me?”
“The tide deposited you on the public beach early yesterday morning,” the man who wore the gold sheriff’s badge replied. Sheriff Crump, he’d said. He sipped from his coffee and eyed John with a mix of wary suspicion and empathy.
He’d washed up on the beach like driftwood, which accounted for the bone-deep chill he felt even though the room was heated. Had he been on a boat and fallen overboard? Something else the sheriff said finally registered like a punch to the gut. “You said someone tried to kill me after you found me?”
“Yes.” The woman told him of the attempts made on his life.
Pressure built in his chest, and his head throbbed. He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, hoping to ease the tension that was taking root in the muscles. “I’m sorry about the ambulance. And your patrol car. I’d offer to reimburse you for both, but I’ve no idea if I have the means to do so.” The enormity of the situation weighed him down. “This is all so surreal, like I’ve walked into a bad horror flick. Has the doctor said how long my mind will be blank?”
“I haven’t talked to her yet. We should let her know you’ve regained consciousness.” The deputy reached for the call button.
The deputy smelled like sunshine on a spring day. He breathed in deep, letting an image of a grassy meadow form. Was it a memory or just a generic thought made up of a lifetime of images that had no emotional attachment?
As she moved away,