Who Are You? (9780307823533) by Joan Lowery Nixon Page B

looks as if he just walked out of an operating room on a TVshow. In a few steps he reaches the door of Mr. Merson’s room and enters.
    Weird
, I think.
Something about all this isn’t right.
I’m pretty sure that doctors don’t leave surgery when dressed like that and then go visiting patients in their rooms.
    I walk to Mr. Merson’s door, which is shut now. I grip the handle and slowly open the door.
    Blinking, I can barely make out shapes in the room. The blinds and drapes have been closed, turning the once-bright room into a dark cavern. The doctor is bending over Mr. Merson’s bed, a large pillow in his hands.
    In bed Mr. Merson twists and struggles. His muffled moan terrifies me, but I yell at the doctor. “What are you doing?” I run toward him, shouting, “Put down that pillow! Take that off his face!”
    The figure whirls and swings the pillow at my head. He shoves me in the chest so that I stagger backward, hit the wall, and fall to the floor.
    As he dashes out the door I manage to get to my feet then into the hall, but he’s disappeared.
    “Help!” I yell, and nurses pop out from their center station. “Help! Someone tried to kill Mr. Merson!”

C HAPTER N INE
    I eople appear from everywhere. I explain to a uniformed security guard about the doctor who tried to smother Mr. Merson, and he heads for the stairs. I tell the story over and over to nurses and doctors and people in business suits.
    “No, I didn’t get a close look at the doctor,” I say. “The room was dark. The doctor shoved me against the wall.”
    “You didn’t get a good look at his eyes?”
    “No.”
    “Did you notice any unusual identifying marks?”
    “I told you, the room was too dark.”
    “How tall was he?”
    “I’m not sure. Average height, I guess … No.Maybe taller. I think he was a little bit taller than I am.”
    “Color of hair?”
    “I don’t know. The hospital cap covered all of it.”
    “Male or female?”
    “I don’t know!”
    Finally the questions stop. I realize that most of the people have left, and those going in and around Mr. Merson’s room are now moving normally and quietly. The security guard informs me that a hospital scrub suit like the one I described was found on the second-floor landing. He holds it up, and I identify it as like the one the attacker was wearing.
    The security guard takes my name. Then a nurse asks if I’m hurt. She tells me Mr. Merson wants to see me.
    “How is he?” I ask.
    “He’s fine,” she says.
    I can’t believe her matter-of-fact attitude at a time like this. “He’s fine? After almost being murdered?”
    “He was upset, but his blood pressure has returned to normal and his vital signs are good.”
    She leads me into his room, cheerfully chirping, “Here she is, Mr. Merson. Here’s the young lady who chased away your attacker.”
    “Hello,” I say to this stranger I have been waiting eagerly to meet, “I’m Kristi Evans.”
    He raises his left hand and points toward one of the armchairs. Then he motions as though he wants it moved closer.
    I push the armchair close to the side of his bed and sit in it. Again he reaches out with his hand, and I think I know what he means. I hold out my left hand and clasp his in a backward handshake.
    I’m wrong. That’s not what he wants. He turns my hand so that it’s resting on the blanket cover, palm up. Then, with his index finger, he draws the shape of letters in my palm, T - H - A - N - K Y - O - U .
    I tell him, “A person you know, Ms. Chase, said that whoever tried to kill you might come back and try again.”
    His eyebrows rise, and I answer the questions in his eyes. “I went to your house. She came while I was there. She told Frederick she wanted to pick up some paintings you had promised her.”
    Once again his eyebrows rise and fall. I say, “Detectives came to our house Sunday because they’d found the folder you’ve been keeping about me.”
    I pause, waiting for him to respond, but he lies