The Missing Heir novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: Intake
Gwen refuses to ship a nameless van patient to the county hospital and admits him herself; he wakes with no name and begs her not to call his family.
The man on my table had no name, no wallet, and a head that was still bleeding into his collar.
The paramedics had found nothing in his pockets but a wet bus transfer.
"Delivery van hit him on Butler Street," the lead medic said.
"He went over the hood and came down on his head.
He was talking when we got there, then he stopped."
I cut the sleeve off his left arm and found the wrist bent the wrong way.
"Dr. Pallister, his pressure's holding at one-ten," Bev said.
Bev Sobczak had been the charge nurse in St. Brendan's emergency department for thirty years.
She could read a bay from the doorway and she was reading this one now.
"Get me a head CT, a wrist film, and a type and screen," I said.
"Does he have a name?" the scribe asked.
"Write John Doe until he gives us a better one."
He was maybe thirty-five, tall and lean, with gray eyes under an old white scar that split his left eyebrow.
His hair was dark gold and soaked.
His shoes were the only dry thing about him.
They were brown leather oxfords, the kind that cost more than my car payment.
I told myself it was none of my business.
Then I put two fingers on his jaw and turned his face toward the light.
"Sir, can you hear me?" I said.
His eyes opened.
They went to the ceiling, the monitor, the IV pole, and me.
He did not look afraid.
He looked like a man reading a page in a language he used to know.
"You're at St. Brendan's," I said.
"You were hit by a van.
I'm Dr. Pallister.
Can you tell me your name?"
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
His eyes moved from side to side, searching.
"I don't have one," he said.
His voice was low and clear and perfectly calm.
That was what scared me.
"Do you know what day it is?" I asked.
"No."
"The year?"
"I know the year," he said slowly.
"I don't know how old I am.
I don't know where I live."
"Okay," I said.
"That's okay.
You hit your head hard.
We're going to scan it right now."
The curtain behind me snapped open.
The man who came through it wore a lanyard and a quarter-zip vest, and he did not look at the patient at all.
He was the administrator on call, and I had seen him exactly twice.
"Dr. Pallister, a word," he said.
"I'm in the middle of a trauma."
"I'm aware.
This is the unidentified male from the Butler Street strike?"
"Yes."
"No ID, no insurance card, no payer," he said.
"The county hospital has a bed.
We can transfer him as soon as he's stable."
Every nurse in the bay stopped moving.
"He has a head injury," I said.
"We don't know how bad.
I'm not moving a man I haven't scanned."
"Then scan him and move him.
We're at capacity, and nobody authorized a charity admission."
"I'm authorizing it," I said.
"You can't authorize an admission without a payer."
"Watch me."
I took the tablet from the scribe and typed my own name into the attending field.
"Admit to observation under Pallister, neuro checks every hour, no transfer.
If anyone wants to argue with it, they can argue with me in the morning, in front of whoever they like."
The administrator's mouth went flat.
"Doctor, you're making a very expensive decision."
"It's the only one I've got," I said.
Bev did not say a word.
She just walked to the foot of the bed and set the brake on the wheels, loudly, so he could hear it.
He left.
The curtain swung shut behind him.
I let my breath out and turned back to the man on the table.
He was watching me.
"Thank you," he said.
"I don't know what I did," I said.
"You said no to him.
I don't know why, but that mattered to me."
I almost smiled.
Then the CT tech wheeled the scanner around, and for the next twenty minutes I forgot about everything except his skull.
The scan showed a bruise on the left side of his brain, small and shallow, with no bleed and no swelling that frightened me.
His wrist needed a cast.
His body would heal fine.
I stood at the head of the bed with the images in my hand and told him so.
"You're going to be okay," I said.
"The memory might come back in hours.
It might take weeks.
I can't promise either."
He nodded slowly.
Then his hand shot out and closed around my wrist.
His grip was strong and cold.
"Dr. Pallister."
"Yes?"
"Somebody's going to come looking for me.
The police, a hospital, a name on a list.
I don't know who, and I don't know how I know it.
But I'm asking you not to call my family."
"What family?" I said.
"I don't know."
His eyes held mine, gray and steady and very afraid.
"I only know I don't want them to find me."
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