“They had to give you some medication to relax you. It put you to sleep for a while.”
Angela had never seen Julie doing her job as a nurse, caring for patients. She had only seen her with paperwork for samples that needed to go to a lab. She seemed so professional, so competent and caring as she looked over the readings on the monitors.
Julie reminded her of Carrie Stratton. She had been a nurse here, too, until Owen had murdered her. They were about the same age and their hair was similar.
Angela’s throat hurt. Her jaw hurt. Her abdomen hurt. In fact, she hurt all over. Her voice sounded raspy to her.
She looked around and realized she was in a hospital room, rather than the emergency ward. She was aware that she had been in and out of consciousness. She remembered the exam, and the CT scan, but little else. She didn’t remember being brought up to the room. She vaguely recalled them injecting something into the IV line they’d put in the back of her hand, and then the world fading away.
“If you need more pain medication, Dr. Song left orders that you could have it,” Julie said. “Just ask.”
Angela nodded. “My cheeks feel numb. There’s something crusty inside.”
“You’re feeling the stitches. They had to stitch up the inside of your cheeks,” Julie said.
Angela squinted in disbelief at the woman. “What?”
“They got cut on your teeth when you were hit. The doctor used medication to numb the area where she had to put in stitches, so it’s going to feel a little strange for a while.”
Angela remembered the way the men kept punching her as if it were a game. Even though she was still in pain, she didn’t want any more drugs. The ones they’d already given her were probably what was making her feel nauseated. She hated drugs. She had been born a freak because of drugs.
Angela was more than glad to be finished with the embarrassment of the examination. She had immediately agreed to it. In fact, she had insisted on it. That was a main reason she had come to the hospital in the first place. She wanted those men to be prosecuted. To do that, the police would need DNA evidence. At least the CT scan had been easy enough. Now, after the ordeal of the examination, she just wanted to be left alone so she could go to sleep.
As Julie was making notes on a chart, Dr. Song appeared at the side of the bed. “How are you feeling? Is the pain better?”
Angela reached up with her right hand to touch her left shoulder. “My left shoulder hurts. Did they break something?”
Dr. Song smiled as she rubbed Angela’s arm in a reassuring manner. “No, your shoulder is fine. That’s referred pain from your spleen.”
“My spleen?” Angela found it hard to believe. “That can’t be it. Are you sure?”
“Yes, the CT scan showed that you have some bruising and possible injury to your spleen from blunt-force trauma to your abdomen. That is what’s causing the pain you’re feeling in your shoulder.”
Angela found it difficult to believe that a problem in her abdomen could cause such aching pain in her shoulder.
“We need to keep you here under observation for a couple days,” Dr. Song said. “I want to do another CT scan after twenty-four hours, and then, depending on the results, possibly another one the next day to make sure your spleen isn’t ruptured and that everything is okay. We’re hoping to avoid the need for surgery. The best news is that the CT scan didn’t show any internal bleeding and your brain doesn’t show any signs of injury.”
“I want to go home.”
Dr. Song smiled. “Don’t worry, we want to get you out of here as soon as possible.”
“The police are waiting outside,” Julie said to the doctor. “They want to know if it’s okay for them to talk to her.”
“I think so,” Dr. Song said. She looked down at Angela. “Is that okay with you?”
Angela nodded. Julie checked the flow on the drip and then left. Dr. Song went out to update the police.
After a few minutes, the female police officer came in. Her expression creased with concern when she saw Angela’s condition. Angela wasn’t sure what she looked like, but the alarm on the woman’s face gave her a pretty good indication. Angela could see a male officer out in the hall, talking to a nurse at the station.
The female officer, in her late thirties, looked both impressive and authoritative in her uniform. Her light brown hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. When she approached the side of the bed and leaned over a little, Angela saw that her service weapon was a Sig Sauer.
“Ms. Constantine, I’m Officer Denton. Can you tell me anything about the men who did this to you? Do you know who they were, or their names?”
She sounded professionally sympathetic. Angela didn’t want sympathy. She wanted the bastards caught and put in jail forever.
Or else down the hell hole.
“They came into the bar where I work, once.” Angela’s voice sounded strange to her. “Do you have a pad and pen?”
Officer Denton pulled a small pad out of a pouch in her black leather equipment belt and handed it over along with a pen. Angela wrote down the names of the four men—Miguel, Emilio, Juan, Pedro—and the license number of their car.
She handed the pad back to the woman. “That’s their names and the license number of the car they’re driving.”
Officer Denton looked at the pad a moment, then looked up. “Okay. Do you know the kind of car, or at least the color?”
“Beige Toyota Camry. Probably six or seven years old.”
The policewoman arched an eyebrow. “You have a good memory.”
“I tend to remember people who try to kill me.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Anything you remember would be helpful.”
Angela met the officer’s gaze. “I have a courier service. I had a package for Hartland Irrigation. When I made the delivery the four of them overpowered me. They pulled off my clothes, raped me, beat me, and after each of them finished having a few turns at me,” Angela said in a bitter tone, having to look away and pause to control her rage, “then they put a rope around my neck, hanged me from a beam, and left me to choke to death hanging there a few feet above the floor while they drove off. They wanted me to suffer as I was dying. They fully expected me to choke to death.”
Officer Denton wrote down what Angela had said on a report on a clipboard. Finally, she spoke again.
“Where did this happen?”
“In the old industrial area.” Angela gave her the address.
“Can you describe these four men? What did they look like? Height, weight, that kind of thing.”
“They were all Hispanic. Darkish skin, dark hair, average build. Under six feet. All of them probably between five-eight and five-ten at the most. Each had a little facial hair, but not what you would call beards. They were in their mid-to late twenties, maybe early thirties. They were wearing work overalls. Medium bluish gray. Miguel seemed be the one in charge. He has a zillion moles all over his face.”
“Okay, that’s good,” Officer Denton said as she wrote.
She finally looked up. She stared a moment at the tattoo—DARK ANGEL—across Angela’s throat.
“By the look of those bruises and the abrasions from the rope around your neck, you’re one lucky girl to be alive.”
Angela didn’t answer.
The woman’s penetrating gaze moved to Angela’s eyes. “How’d you get the rope off your neck?”
Angela saw her boots standing on the bottom shelf of the hospital cabinet at the side of the room. She could just see the tip of the black handle at the rim of the boot. The knife, in the sheath, was down between the lining and the leather. Angela always put the sheath of her knife in her boots that way. It kept it from chafing against her bare skin.