Jean-Pierre looked at his son in sympathy. "That is your own problem speaking, my son. You and your wife are unable to have children, so, to you, all children are precious. Evidently to Janine, they were not. Nor to their father. But, their uncles and aunts evidently did not agree with that evaluation. They took the children. All except this boy. I wonder why?""Perhaps he was too intelligent, and too strange. He strikes me as a strange man. I'm sure he would also have been a strange child. Then again, perhaps it is the fact that no one seems to want him that makes him strange. It can, you know. It runs into a self- fulfilling prophecy. They expect him to be strange because he is so intelligent. Most geniuses are not like other people. They do not tend to do well in relationships. However, he seems to be different in that respect."
"Maybe, maybe not. But, his parents may not have had the time to spend on him. They had many other children, you know."
"Father, you and Mother had ten children. I do not ever remember a time when you did not have the time (take the time perhaps) to give your children a hug, a little kiss. You were always there for us. We were never neglected. Ever. One or both of you always made sure we could take any problems to you. They didn't. In fact, they seem almost to have abused their children by neglect. Murray got more care and attention from a street person than from his family. On either side. I've never been ashamed of my family until now. I expected something like a bandit, a murderer, a slave trader in the family. But, I never expected to have a child abuser."
"People never do. And it's a pity, because child abuse can happen in any family. Your Aunt Janine was behaving as her father behaved toward his own children. You see, your grandmother was the affectionate one. She tried to make sure we could always come to her with any problem. I promised myself that I would be like her, not my father. He ignored his children until they were grown - all but his first born son. He lavished all his time on the first born. So did Janine. Your Uncle Louis was killed in the war by the Nazis. Your grandfather was never the same after that. That may have been why he wrote what he evidently did. I have no explanation really. However, after Louis was killed, he put his care to the one he felt was more likely to survive the war - your Aunt Janine. And he felt she failed him when she married Mathias Bozynski. In actuality, of course, she may have saved her children's lives by moving them to the United States. There was no danger there from the Japanese or the Nazis...or at least not from bombs or immediate invasion."
"I would think he would have wanted her and his grandchildren safe," Phillippe offered.
"You would have thought so, but he didn't. And he did not understand why she did it. You see, she and Louis were twins. Yet, Father lavished all his love, care, and attention, on Louis. There was never any left for the rest of us. And, she never forgave him for that. And, frankly, neither have I. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair. But, life is seldom fair, is it? I tried to make sure that I did not play favorites with any of my children. I tried to treat you all the same and show my love equally, not just to the baby or to the first born. To all of you, regardless of age, sex, or intelligence. I may not have succeeded, but I tried."
"I think you did very well, Father. We always knew you cared. This business with Grandfather - is that why we only rarely went to see Grandfather?"
"Yes. And, it also explains why, when your grandfather couldn't find any of us around, he would always find us in the kitchen with Mama."
"Speaking of Mama, are we going to tell her?"
"About what?"
"About him. About all of them."
"I don't know. She should know. But, if she knows about them, she'll want to meet them. And, I'm not sure we can do that. Not without explaining how we found out. And how do we do that? It won't make him love us, that's for sure."
"His family is dysfunctional. We are dysfunctional. You know it. I know it. He probably knows it better than anyone. I don't think we can ever put the family together again. We're like Humpty Dumpty. It can never be repaired."
"We're not asking anyone to repair it. Just put in a few missing pieces to hold things together. He may be the piece that will pull the family together."
"But not if he's not a part of the family. And speaking from the benefit of the psychology courses given in medical school, I doubt he feels part of anything. He's got some major problems, Father. Almost all of them are caused by his family - even when he doesn't know we're his family."
Just then Jean-Claude rushed in. "He's beginning to wake up! And the damn taxi's not here yet!"
"Oh, shit! Don't let him go wandering off! He's in no shape. If you have to, show yourself to him. You're the only one of us with a legitimate reason to be on the waterfront. Your boat is moored here at the pier."
"Your boat, too, cousin, or have you forgotten?"
"I haven't forgotten, but my voice was the one voice he could hear under the pentothal. I don't want to run the risk of him recognizing it so soon after the session if I can help it. It has to be you."
"All right." He looked at his cousin. "But, don't be too far away, O.K.? I may need you."
"I'll be close," Phillippe promised.
Jean-Claude left in a rush.
"Will he remember?" Jean-Pierre asked.
"It's not likely. Most of the time, the subject does not remember what was said under the drug. But, I could not give him a normal dose. I don't know if the lesser dose would let him remember what was said under the influence or not."
"It should be quite safe for Jean-Claude to 'find' him. After all, he's only been in town a few days to pick up his cousin who will be sailing back to France with him. There are benefits to you're having been in Vancouver, B.C. for a medical convention. You were free to help your cousin sail home."
"I hate sailing," Phillippe remarked. "I'm always wet and cold."
"You'll get over it." Jean-Pierre said with a smile. "Go help your cousin."
"At least I'm dressed for the part," Phillippe muttered as he pulled on his mackintosh and went outside.
"Here, mate, what's going on here?" Jean-Claude said as he lifted Murray's head and shoulders off the damp pavement.
Murray twisted in his arms. "Who? What? Where am I?" He stared blearily at the man holding him. He was beginning to be frightened. Something about the man seemed familiar for some reason.
"My name is Jean-Claude Rivers. That's the who. Where? You're on Pier 33, in King Harbor, California. What? I don't know. Did you get mugged? Where are your clothes?"
"I don't know," Murray said, beginning to panic. "The last I remember is being in the hospital. Where are my glasses?" He groaned as the pain from his wound began to creep up on him. He also began to shiver as the damp cold of the waterfront began to penetrate.
"Here," Jean-Claude took off his jacket and wrapped it around Murray.
Murray was startled when Jean-Claude called off into the shadows in French.
A voice answered him. Phillippe moved out of the shadows. "What's wrong, Jean-Claude?" he asked in French.
"I found this man on the street. He seems to be disoriented, and he says the last thing he remembers is being in hospital. Would you take a look at him? He's shivering badly."
"Certainly." Phillippe looked at Murray. "Hello," he said softly. He reached gently for Murray's wrist.
Murray tried to twist away, and cried out as pain lanced through his chest.
"Gently, sir, gently. I'm not going to hurt you." He gently took Murray's wrist and took his pulse. "Rather thready, m'sieu. You say you were in the hospital. Which one?"
"I don't know. I was on the Riptide, and then I woke up in the hospital. The next thing I know, I'm out here. God! I'm scared! I think I'm going mad!" Murray's face took on a very scared look. "How did I get here? Who are you? What am I doing here?"
Phillippe smiled at him. "My name is Phillippe Delagardie. I am a French physician. I was in Vancouver at a medical convention. My cousin, Jean-Claude, called me in Vancouver and asked me to help sail his sloop back to France. His companion had had to fly back to Paris due to the sudden illness of his mother. His boat is moored here. So, I flew down here. That explains who we are and why we are here. As for you," he said, peering under the bandages on Murray's chest, "it appears you have been shot, and the wound dressed. As to how you got here, I don't know. Why you are here, I do not know either. Jean-Claude, see if you can find a taxi. He must get to a hospital quickly. And, bring a blanket from the boat. He's freezing. He's going to be in shock soon."
"Tre bien, Phillippe." Jean-Claude said. He raced off to the boat and came back with a blanket. Phillippe wrapped Murray in the blanket. "Were you able to find a taxi?"
"No. I hope I did the next best thing. I stopped the guard at the marina...at the marina office. Told him we'd found a man who appeared to have been shot. He asked me where the man was, and I told him. He told me to go back there while he called 911. Whatever that is." Jean-Claude concluded.
"911?"
"It's the all services emergency number," Murray said weakly. "You dial that for the police, the fire department, and medical emergencies." He groaned in pain. "I hope they get here soon. I hurt..." His voice faded off as he lapsed into unconsciousness.
"You called the police?" Phillippe asked incredulously.
"No, the clerk did. That would be the normal thing to do in a strange land. Notify the authorities when you find someone injured. At least, that's what I would do at home," Jean-Claude stated innocently, but with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Yeah, sure," Phillippe said sarcastically.
A patrol car pulled up where they were, and two armed police officers got out.
"What's going on here?" one of the officers asked.
Phillippe and Jean-Claude both began talking at once.
"One at a time, one at a time, if you please," the older beefier cop said quietly. "Joe, see how bad the guy's hurt, O.K.?"
"Sure, Sarge." The younger man bent closer and turned on his flashlight. He saw Phillippe's hands covered in blood, on Murray's chest. "Sarge, if the blood is anything to go by, this guy's been hurt pretty bad!" He lifted the light to shine on Murray's face. "Sarge, I think it's Dr. Bozynski!" he exclaimed.
"What?" The sergeant, keeping a close eye on Jean-Claude, leaned down to look at Murray. "Dear God! Half the force is looking for this man! He was abducted from a local hospital this evening! Notify headquarters!" he ordered his partner. He looked at the two men. "Where did you two find him?"
"Right here!" Jean-Claude shrugged in the French fashion. "We went out to dinner earlier in the evening. Then, we went looking to see...what we could see. If you know what I mean." He looked at the sergeant, who nodded. "It has been a long time between ports for me."
"I told him we needed to find a discrete house," Phillippe interjected, "but, we've never been here before. We do not know anyone here to recommend a good place."
"Why are you here in the first place?" the sergeant said while his partner phoned in the news that Murray had been located.
"On the pier, or in King Harbor?" Phillippe inquired.
"Both."
"My boat is moored at this wharf." Jean-Claude said. "My sail-mate had to fly home because his mother had been taken suddenly ill. We had been sailing south and pulled in here as the closest port with a major airport. He took a flight home two days ago."
"Why haven't you left?"
"Because I was waiting for Phillippe to arrive. My boat requires two to sail her. I couldn't sail home alone. I knew my cousin," nodding toward Phillippe, "was at a convention in Vancouver. So, I called him to see if he would help me sail her home."
"I hate sailing," Phillippe muttered. "Cold, wet. But I also know my gran mere will never let me hear the end of it if I did not help my cousin." He grimaced faintly. "So, I flew down from Vancouver yesterday. We decided that, as long as we were here, we would rest a day or two. Before getting wet, I mean."
"Phillippe, I told you we would take the shortest possible route home."
"I know! I know!" Phillippe said. "I also know Aimee will not understand."
"If your nurse, my dear cousin, does not understand such things, then she needs educating that family comes first."
"But, she is my nurse."
"Yes, your nurse! Not your wife or your mistress!"
"I don't have a mistress!"
"Perhaps you need one."
"What? A mistress to give me children I can never acknowledge without shaming my wife?"
"Sorry. I forgot."
"Gentlemen!" the sergeant said. "I do not think the middle of the wharf is the place to air the laundry." He looked at them somberly. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you gentlemen to come with me."
"Why? We've done nothing wrong!" Phillippe protested.
"The man you found is a friend of one of the lieutenants and had been abducted from one of the local hospitals earlier in the evening. She'll want to ask you a few questions. How you found him? What did he say? Was anyone near him? That sort of stuff."
"Very well. If we must. But I really don't know how we can help you."
"Perhaps you can remember some small detail that will help us discover who abducted this man from the hospital. Some small detail that may seem unimportant may have a great deal of importance."
"Perhaps, but I would not count on it."
The younger patrolman came up. "I called for an ambulance, Sarge. I think we're going to need them. He's beginning to bleed pretty bad!"
Then Phillippe sighed. "Perhaps I can help? But, only if you promise not to arrest me for practicing medicine without an American license."
"How?" the sergeant asked.
"The convention I was attending in Vancouver was a medical convention. I am a physician - a pathologist to be precise, but still a fully trained physician. I may be able to help - at least until the...paramedics?...get here."
"Go for it, doc," the sergeant said.
Phillippe knelt down beside Murray. He raised the bandage a little and looked under it. Then he looked up at the sergeant. "Do you have a first aid kit in your car?"
"A small one," the sergeant affirmed. "Go get it, Cardenas."
"Sure, Sarge." The younger policeman moved off.
When he got the kit, Phillippe opened it quickly. He pulled out several rolls of bandages and some 4 x 4 gauze pads. "Someone hold him up so I can wrap the fresh bandages." he ordered. He quickly took off and discarded the dirty bandages and covered the wounds with clean gauze pads. Then he wrapped the bandages tightly around Murray in order to put pressure on the wounds to slow the bleeding. "That will help, but he needs to be in the hospital as quickly as possible. Do you have any idea when the ambulance will arrive?" he asked randomly.
"Not for certain, but that sounds like it now." Cardenas said as the sound of an ambulance drew near.
"I hope that is them," Phillippe said quietly, "or he may not live to reach the hospital."
"Can't you stop the bleeding?" the sergeant asked.
"I've put a makeshift pressure bandage on. I'm hoping that will turn the trick. I don't know what was done to him. I can see he has been beaten, but the bruises appear to be about the same age as the gunshot wound. At least, from what I can see in this dim light. These bruises on his face appear to be several hours old. Not much more than that. I don't see any new bruises or new wounds, but I am not used to doing exams in dim light. I could easily miss something. He has a puncture wound or two in his arm. Needle tracks. However, he said he was in the hospital, so that's probably from his IV. Especially since the heparin well is still in. But, that's a two way road. The heparin well would let someone inject him with a drug through an IV in the well without leaving another needle track. The hospital may need to do a drug screen on him to find out if he was given any drugs." Phillippe rocked back on his heels. "Oh, by the way, sergeant, are you going to report me for practicing without a license?"
"Sir, as far as I can tell, all you did was some basic first aid similar to what I was taught in the army to take care of field wounds. The rest is your considered opinion. You administered no drugs. You did no surgery. I can't tell that that was against the law."
The two men smiled at each other and then turned to watch the ambulance pull up. The paramedics rushed over. The sergeant gave them the information he had. They contact their base.
Per the MD's instructions, they started an IV of D5W and Ringer's Lactate. Then they loaded Murray into the ambulance and rushed him back to the hospital.
Phillippe and Jean-Claude rose with the sergeant and Patrolman Cardenas to the hospital.
Parisi watched the two men walk in with Sergeant Herbert and Patrolman Cardenas. They were both tall, blonde-haired, with very regular features. There was a distinct family resemblance. They reminded her of someone. She wasn't sure who, but it was someone she knew.
"Evening, "Lieutenant," Sergeant Herbert said. "Did Dr. Bozynski get here O.K.?"
"Yes. He's in the OR. They're going in to try to stop the bleeding. They're afraid he'll bleed to death."
Jean-Claude and Phillippe exchanged glances. Murray had been in worse shape than Phillippe had thought.
"Gentlemen, I'm Lt. June Parisi. I'm with the Homicide Division of the King Harbor Police Department. I need to ask you some questions."
"Homicide? Has someone been killed?" Jean-Claude asked.
"No, but attempted homicide is under my division as well. It takes in all the violent crimes involving bodily injury. Dr. Bozynski was physically assaulted twice. That comes under my jurisdiction. Additionally, he is a friend. He's a harmless little man with a mania for computers. We have not been able to discover anyone who would have a reason to harm him. It's very puzzling." She looked at Phillippe, and then over at Jean- Claude. "Have we met? You seem very familiar?"
The two men exchanged glances. Phillippe shrugged. "I am Phillippe Delagardie, a pathologist. I was born in the province of Lyon. My family has been there for generations. My cousin," indicating Jean-Claude, "is Jean-Claude Rivers. To the best of my knowledge, we have never met. And I'm sure that Jean-Claude would have mentioned meeting such a beautiful woman."
"You know I would have," Jean-Claude murmured.
Parisi flushed a bit at such an open compliment. "Nevertheless....oh, well. I'll remember one day."
"Madame," Jean-Claude said softly, "you cannot remember a meeting that has never happened."
"True. But, back to the matter at hand, how did you happen to find Dr. Bozynski?"
"As I told the sergeant, we...I was walking down the pier. I was ahead of Phillippe. I saw a figure under a...how do you say...a...uh...lamp-post?"
"Streetlight is the more current usage," Parisi offered.
"Merci, mam'selle. I walked over because the figure did not appear to be clothed. And, that is, for me, an unusual sight. Naked men under streetlights. Women I could understand, but men?" He shrugged. "Then I saw the bandages and the blood. I lifted his shoulders off the pavement. He asked what I consider to be normal questions under the circumstances? Who? Where? How? Why? When? Normal questions. He did not know how he got where he was or how he came to be in that condition. He mentioned that he had been in a hospital, but did not know which one. He started shivering so I put my jacket on his shoulders. Then I called Phillippe. We had been to dinner and to see the sights. We had been looking for a safe...um... establishment, shall we say? A professional establishment is usually safest, but we are strangers here. Nor do we have any contacts here. So we were headed back to my boat, which was moored nearby."
"Why did you call him?" indicating Phillippe.
"He's a doctor," Jean-Claude said with a shrug. "He would know more than I do about how to care for him."
"A doctor?" Parisi said with a suspicious gleam in her eye.
"A pathologist, to be precise, and a forensic zoologist. I don't normally practice. I teach. I sometimes do consulting work in forensic zoology or pathology. I help identify unusual substances and organic matter. I also help the police as a specialist in bacteria, germs, etc. I do not normally do autopsies, although I occasionally assist. I am a teacher at a small university in the city near my village. My father is the local mechanic, tinker, and blacksmith/farrier. My cousin Andrew is the baker. My third cousin teaches in the school. There are about 900 people in town. We are related in one degree or another, to almost all of them. I relieve the local general practitioners whenever they need me to do so. So, I at least knew what to do to take care of him. But, I'm not licensed to practice here. I really could not help him except with the most basic first aid. Besides, there wasn't much I could have done for him with no supplies nearby. I had nothing."
"Did you happen to notice anyone at the scene?"
The two men though for a moment and then both shook their heads.
"As I told your sergeant, Lieutenant, we did not notice anything unusual. We wouldn't even know what was unusual here. This is not our home. Everyone here is a stranger. Who belongs where? We don't know. I did not see anyone moving away from Dr. Bozynski or toward him for that matter. What can I tell you?"
"Were there any fibers on him?"
"I did not give the man a microscopic examination for fibers!" Phillippe exclaimed. "He was bleeding! For all I knew, he had escaped from a violent ward and was just wandering the streets! I was more concerned about him than how he got there. I did not pay attention to fibers. There was nothing overt under his nails - no dirt, no flesh, nothing like that that I could see. There were the obvious bruises - several hours old as far as I could see. Not less than four hours old, nor more than 36 hours. Someone has beaten him fairly severely within that same time period. The gunshot wounds had been well treated. He had been stabbed 4 or 5 times some time in the last 3 months. The wounds appear to be healing well. He has a heparin well inserted. That rules out any possibility of determining if he had been injected with some drug. He was going into shock. He was confused as to where he was and how he got there. When he couldn't remember how he got to that strange place, he began to get frightened. The longer he was awake, the more frightened he became. Not that we would hurt him, but that he was going mad! And the fear exacerbated all his other symptoms. It worsened an already bad condition. Then he passed out. It did not appear that Jean-Claude putting the jacket around his shoulders was of any comfort to him."
"As I said, he was physically assaulted. As you noted from the bruises, I don't think that he appreciates anyone touching him - male or female."
"Probably not. I'd wager he's in a fair amount of pain." He looked over at Jean-Claude. "In point of fact, raising him probably merely increased his pain. He needed to be in the hospital. That's where the paramedics took him. And that's where he should be. And all that we do or say has nothing to do with the matter. Do you have any other questions?"
"No. Not at this time. If you will go to the waiting area, the sergeant will take you back to your boat." She watched as the two men moved off.
"Do you believe them, Lieutenant?" the sergeant asked.
"I don't know. This whole thing has been so strange that I'm not sure I know what to believe anymore. I think the only one I believe is Murray, and he can't tell me squat! Either can't or won't. I don't know which.
"It's not likely the doctors said, that Dr. Bozynski saw his assailant. The shot was long distance. The only thing that kept him from being killed was the lessened force of the projectile."
"I wasn't talking about the gunshot, or even the stabbing assault three months ago. I'm talking about the beating." She frowned
The sergeant looked down at the floor. "Lieutenant, even if he hadn't been beaten, he might not remember the last few hours before he was shot. I don't care what the doctors say. When he was shot, he hit his head a good one when his body hit the deck. When you combine that with the beating, the effect of several severe blows to the head can be a loss of memory for several hours around the time of the incident. And I'm afraid that, no matter what you want, those facts can't be changed, Nothing that has already happened can be undone." He looked up at her. "No matter how much we may want to change them, we can't. Nothing can, except God, and I'm afraid he's not taking a hand in this."
She looked over at him. "You're right, of course. But that doesn't make it any easier to accept. But, I've still got the feeling that Murray knows who beat him up."
"What makes you say that? Did he say anything?"
"No. It's just this nagging little itch. You know the kind. The one where something sticks in the back of your mind and just gnaws away in little bites. And finally you figure out what's been bugging you about whatever it is, and you wonder how you ever missed it. Like looking at the photos of a crime scene of...say...a bathroom, and something being missing. But you can't figure out what it is. And then you realize that there is no razor, or no soap. No wash rag or towel. Something that should be there but isn't. Or there is something extra there that shouldn't be, like an extra washrag, toothbrush, or razor."
"Yes, ma'am. I know the feeling," Herbert said. "But, if it's meant to happen, it will. What do you know about him?"
"About his past, nothing really. I've known him the past couple of years. He's always seemed open and above board. Like he's had a relatively quiet uneventful life."
"Have you seen his body, Lieutenant? Judging from the scarring, I'd say that his life has been fairly eventful. To say the least."
"I found out that he'd been in a helicopter crash when he was in the army, and sustained some fairly severe damage."
"I'll say. But, I'm not talking about the surgical or shrapnel scars or the recent stab wounds. I'm talking about the old scars...very old. Given his age, I'd say they were inflicted when he was a child. They looked like knife scars to me, but I could be wrong. He has more scar tissue than undamaged skin. I've never seen a man that scarred. Wait! Let me correct myself. I have...a 40-year-old mercenary. He'd been in every brush war and battle since he was 18...in 1942. He was a Ranger in WWII, and a behind the lines operative in Korea and Viet Nam, and countless others in between. He was a member of my gym. I saw him naked in the showers. His body looked a lot like Dr. Bozynski's. Found out he'd been abused as a child."
"Where is he now, your friend?"
"He was killed a few years ago in Africa - Angola, I think."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not...not really. He was a ticking bomb. If he'd stayed here any longer, we'd have been burying people accused of abusing children, instead of arresting them." The sergeant smiled. "And I'd have been hard pressed to arrest him for it. He was good. So good he'd probably have taken several policemen down with him."
"Are you saying that Murray was abused as a child?"
"I mention it as a possibility, nothing more. Besides, I may be wrong. The only one who could tell you is him."
"Yeah, but will he?"
"No, but you may be able to find out some info from his home town police department. Those wounds had to have been treated and reported to the police. there has to be some record of him. Some where."
"I don't like going behind his back. I'd rather he told me."
"All you can do is ask, Lieutenant., And, it really never hurts to ask." The sergean6t nodded his head respectfully at Parisi and headed back to his patrolcar.
"I suppose he's right," she thought to herself, "but I don't have to like it. And I don't! Not one little bit!"
She looked down the hall. The doctor was coming down the hall in surgical greens with several blood stains. She went to meet him. "How is he, doctor?"
"Better than I anticipated actually. He had some care while he was gone. And the pressure bandage was a good one. It held wonderfully. I'd like to meet6 the man who put it on. It was done in a way I'd never seen before. Although I have seen pictures of the style. It's used in Europe -- France, Germany, the Scandinavian countries too a bit. I think. They had an article on it in the NEJM not long ago. But, whoever did it, did a good job."
"Did it help Murray?"
"Kept him from losing so much blood. Probably saved his life. I'd like to meet this man from the wharf."
"He's down in the waiting area. I'd say you two would probably have a lot in common. He's a forensic pathologist in France. So you two may have a lot to talk about." They walked along the corridor.
"Have you discovered any information on Dr. Bozynski's assailants? Assailants? Whoever shot him? Who kidnapped him?"
"We have no discovered anything new. Not even when we brought Murray back in. I was hoping we would be able to find out something from Murray when he came to."
"I wouldn't count on it. We ran a quick drug screen on him. Not a complete one, but a quick one. We'll get the final tox screen tomorrow. But, one of the things the quick screen showed was the presence of sodium pentathol. That's one of the truth serum drugs. What that means is that he probably will not remember anything that happened to him while he was gone."
"Oh, damn! I was rather hoping he'd remember something," Parisi remarked.
"I wouldn't count on it. Even if he did, it might not be valid. He might get things mixed up in his mind. It may come back to him all at once, in bits and pieces, or never at all."
"God help us! Poor Murray! Has he said anything? Anything at all?"
"He asked for Donnie once or twice. Then he said that he didn't want anyone to tell Nick Ryder or Cody Allen what had happened...tried to get me to promise."
"He has already made me promise." Parisi stated painfully. "He won't even let me tell Nick or Cody that he's been sick, or at least as sick as he's been." She looked at the doctor. "You know, he also had some kind of respiratory infection that settled in after the first attack. He was very ill. And he didn't want to go to the doctor."
"That's foolish!" the doctor said.
"Doctor, Murray's body is covered with scars. How old are they?"
"The bullet wounds are new, of course. The new knife wounds are, as we know, about three months old. There are numerous scars that look to be about twenty years old, give or take three years either way. Those are bad on his torso, but worse on his legs. There is a strong possibility that he was never expected to walk again or possibly even live."
"I found out about those wounds earlier yesterday. Before he was abducted. Are there any others?"
"There are some old scars - very old. I'd say he was probably no older than six or eight years old. Someone stabbed him three times. I do not understand how he survived, but he did."
"You say he was about six or eight years old?"
"Yes, about that."
"How old did he tell you he was?"
"45."
"So, that would put it somewhere around 1956, 1957, or 1958."
"Yes."
"Did he give you any information about where he was from?"
"No. That's not necessary medical information."
To Be Continued
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