After the Wilderness

By Gordon Kearns

Chapter 6

Hunger won out. Maybe Patrick can live off the land, but that's not in my book yet. Rachel waved quickly, easily, and confidently back to Bollinger's, reformed at the Chapel in the Woods, and strode nonchalantly down to the lodge just in time for lunch.

Rachel took full advantage of her lately granted vacation. For the first time in many months she was able to have a normal, relaxed lunch in the company of good friends, the Schulmans. Naturally, the conversation wound around to the subject of Patty Flanery.

Jerry Schulman: "You were with Patty yesterday morning, weren't you?"

Rachel: "Right."

Jerry: "What do you think? Does she have the magic?"

Rachel: "That's a good question. But first, what do you know about magic --Patrick's, I mean. You knew him when he used to come here --you, Ernie Bergen, and the MacCLeans Did you ever see him do any magic?"

Jerry: "Almost, once. Marnie and I were out walking up by the Chapel in the Woods. I swear there was nobody around in the woods at all that afternoon. It was as quiet as it could be. We sat down on one of those concrete benches, enjoying the outdoors, when suddenly on the bench next to us were Patrick and Patty's mother, Marianne, giggling for all they were worth at the looks on our faces."

Marnie: "Mind you, we didn't actually see them materialize out of nothing. We were kind of involved in each other at the time. But as far as I was concerned they weren't there one second, and the next they were. They said they had just come down the path."

Jerry: "But there wasn't anyone on that path. They just appeared out of nothing ...just like that."

Marnie: "The MacCLeans never did believe us. They thought we were imagining things. But Jack, he believed. He said he had actually seen them disappear and reappear one time."

Rachel: "Look, you guys are talent agents."

Jerry: "The very best." He laughed.

Rachel: "... What if ...what if they could do that --you know, appear and disappear at will --suppose they could do that. And just for purposes of discussion, suppose Patty could do the same thing ...and maybe a little more, such as ...being able to read minds, say. Would that make for a good nightclub act ...or maybe television?"

Marnie: "Do you know something, Rachel?"

Rachel: "Not really. But you know me, I like magic ginunicks ...and I like to put on magic shows. What would be the chances for an act like that?"

Jerry: "Mind reading and disappearing are both great gimmicks --hooks. But there'd have to be something else for it to be a big success."

Marnie: "Even if it were real magic, the audience would perceive it as no more than a trick. If it were done well, the audience would eat it up. But if our Patty could do such things, yes, you would have the basis for an act, but you have to have more than a hook."

Rachel: "You mean like showmanship ...pizzazz."

Marnie: "Right."

Rachel: "Suppose ...suppose she'd have to be nude to do the trick, would that add to the pizzazz?"

Jerry, laughing: "That would add pizzazz. For once around the circuit, the act would sure draw crowds, but then two things would happen: one, the blue noses would take over, the police would start to hassle her --she might even end up spending more than one night in jail for indecent exposure; and two, the novelty would soon wear off --even Vegas would only draw standing room for a short time --totally nude wouldn't last at all; there's an unwritten rule about bottomless (for more than a glance, anyway). However, give her a couple pasties, a G-string, and some bangles and she might catch on ...if she has the talent ...the personality. Now I don't know much about Patty. She's a good kid, and, God, is she cute. If she were anything like her mother, she'd have the world eating out of her hand. So it adds up: totally nude wouldn't work; short of that, it depends on what she's made of. But the ginunick --the magic going and coming, and the mind reading --there's some good potential there."

Rachel frowned a little on hearing that. For the rest of their lunch she did a decent job of evading questions about Patty's abilities (and her own, for that matter). Mostly she talked about Patty's family history, with strategic omissions, of course.

When lunch was over, Rachel went down to the lobby, intent on heading out the back entrance in order to return to the woods where she could safely go into her wave. She was somewhat impatient, fearful that she might have lost her newly discovered powers in the time she spent eating. But as she hurriedly walked through the doors, Jack, coming from behind the desk, rushed to overtake her. "Hold up a second, Red," he said when he caught up. "I'll walk with you a spell if you don't mind."

Sure she minded, but she couldn't --she wouldn't cut her father-in-law off, not even for the wave. "Sure, Jack, come on along." They continued up the path together.

"Darren really dropped a bombshell, didn't he?" Jack said.

"About the school thing? Yeah, it was kind of a shock."

"Well... what do you think?"

"I'm stunned. Can you imagine, he wants me to run everything?"

"The 'everything' being ...?"

"Bollinger's ...whatever that involves."

"What do you think about going back to school?"

"That ...that's one of the things I have to think about. I'm not a kid any more."

Jack laughed. "Depends on your point of view."

Rachel thought to herself, "Yeah, all things are ...relative, aren't they?" However, she said, "Going to school is only a part of it. It would mean a change in my whole way of life. Being a nudist is a full-time thing with me. You know how I feel about it."

They walked along silently until they reached the Chapel in the Woods. They sat side-by-side on one of the benches on the outer ring.

"I think you were right the other day," she said, touching Jack on the knee. "I think Darren intends to expand out of the nudist business."

Jack: "Darren always did have big ideas. I guess I can't fault him for that."

Rachel: "No ...but I do have to get my own mind cleared out on the subject. One thing, though: I wouldn't feel always the incompetent apprentice. It's quite a compliment, you know ...the faith he has in me. I almost feel ungrateful to be taking time to think about it. When he offered me the holidays, I jumped on the opportunity ...because I do have to think about it. Besides, there are a couple other issues ...new issues that ...I have to consider."

"New issues?"

"I don't think I want to talk about them ...yet --even with you, Jack. It all adds up to my needing time ...to pull my thinking together ...time by myself"

Jack: "I understand, Red. Look, what I really want you to know is ...I love you, kiddo. I know more about what's going on inside you than you think. I know it's more than nude or clothed, or a second fiddle or boss. It's you're not sure any of this is where your soul is."

Rachel: "Worse. I don't know what my soul is. That sounds funny, I know. It's like Patty's problem. She's got several good choices, but she doesn't know if any of them are for her."

Jack: "Meeting her father should help."

Rachel: "If it were me just discovering an aspect of my life I never knew existed ...I'm not sure it wouldn't complicate things more than they are. At least she does have a brand new father to maybe point her in a direction."

Jack touched her cheek. "You're crying. You've been doing a lot of that lately. You do know you have a willing surrogate father right here anytime you want him?"

Rachel smiled, taking his hand. "I know that, Jack. You're closer to me than my own ...father was. But for now I've got to get my own bearings."

They both rose. Absently, Rachel, while still holding Jack's hand, put her feet slightly apart and --you guessed it --urinated a not insignificant puddle on the leafy floor of the Chapel in the Woods. Then taking note of Jack's surprised expression, she laughed lightly. "Sorry, Jack. Must be something I learned from ...something I learned recently."

Jack kissed her on the tip of her nose. "Yeah, I know. It seems Patrick's influence is spreading. I'll let you be for now, Red, I'm already late for my shift at the desk. We're doubling up these days, you know," he said wryly. Then he walked back down the trail, leaving Rachel standing alone in the Chapel in the Woods.

As Jack disappeared around a turn in the trail, Rachel slipped effortlessly into her wave and plain disappeared. This time she went westward to the ocean and then up the coast seeking, and finally finding the secluded little beach where she and Patty frolicked the day before. She sat on the damp sand at the tide line and looked out over the ever-moving, ever-sighing ocean. So what's the value of a wave? she thought. You can only use it to get from here to there. You can't carry anything with you; you can only ever appear where there are no people to get hot and bothered by your state of undress ...or at nudist havens like Bollinger's. Jerry and Marnie were right: there's no fun future in a night club act. Hey, how about the C.I.A.?

I bet they'd love to have somebody like me who can zip in and out of places without being seen, and can even read the enemy's mind. But I don't know ... doesn't seem quite ...proper. It's an idea, though. I'll have to think about it later. But I sure can get from here to there. How about that! I was to the north pole and back --almost --in seconds this morning. The eating problem's a big one. Maybe when Patty and Patrick get back, he can show me about living off the land. In the meantime, I'll see if I can work something out as I go ...or keep going back home at mealtimes. For now I have to find out how far I can go without getting lost. "Go up real high" if I lose my direction; I hope it works.

Rachel waved straight out over the ocean; the Hawaiian Islands are out there someplace. Remarkably, she found them. She had to do some high and wide circling, but there they were, like stepping stones in a mountain stream, and as pretty as a travel agency poster. She settled down on a pleasant looking strand of black volcanic sand.

"Hey you, bitch. We don't put up with that kind of crap around here. Either get a suit on or I call the police."

Go west, old girl; go west. Over the Philippines she flew --at least she thought they were the Philippines. By now her confidence was growing, so she allowed herself to travel lower to Earth level, enjoying zipping through foamy wave crests and just over the heads of peasants in a near-jungle village. On west. Keeping to a good pace (she had no way of judging local or Bollinger's time --and she had to be careful), she glided over Vietnam and then Cambodia --still nighttime, but illuminated by a clear, full moon (really not necessary, she discovered: everything was as clear in her mind as if it were full daylight) ...Cambodia, where a sad, eerie ...warmth came over her. Keep moving.

India passed below, and the sands of Arabia, pockmarked here and there with derricks and refineries. She tacked north to south --without realizing it encompassing thousands of miles in each swing. She zoomed low over western Ethiopia and a splotch of buildings surrounded by innumerable torn-cloth tents and fly-filled mud huts --a refugee center for Sudanese escaping destruction by both sides of an unending civil war. One building, and one building only, radiated light from its windows --and that same warmth she had felt earlier. The building sported a giant red cross on its corrugated steel roof, obviously a hospital. An unaccountable urge took hold of her, and she zipped through the front door of the building and into its corridors and wards. Starving, emaciated, people --children mostly --stared dully up from atop pure white sheets. A dark-skinned nurse stepped from bed to bed, checking vital signs ...and touching foreheads. She wore one of those abbreviated habits some orders of nuns prefer these days. She was young. She was sad. Rachel left the hospital. At least the children here were getting care. From what she had seen on television she knew that thousands more were not, and were dying --most having only known dying since birth.

Rachel drifted through the encampment and out over the sere land. West into Sudan about a hundred miles she found another mostly sleeping village -- this one without a hospital building with its caring nurse/nun. A dim light flickered from one of the huts, and Rachel's curiosity impelled her through its doorway. A child, a boy of impossible to determine age, his stomach ballooning in contrast to his meatless limbs, lay naked on a straw pallet. is mother sat beside him, a baby at her breast, waiting for him to die ... in a minute, an hour, or days --themselves in not much better shape. The time of his dying was unscheduled, but the certainty of it was unquestioned. Without thinking, Rachel materialized at the doorway. The forlorn-faced black

mother looked indifferently at the nude, white, red-headed woman. Rachel slowly and tenderly reached out and one by one removed the few rags the woman had draped over her body. The forlorn-faced mother said nothing and made no move to interrupt Rachel. There was a kindness in Rachel's face, and the woman let herself trust this strange apparition.

When the mother was completely relieved of her sparse garb, Rachel gently pulled her to her feet, and with awkward hand signs encouraged her to hold the baby securely in her arms. Then Rachel leaned over the pallet and picked the dying boy up in her own arms. When the three were finally standing side by side in the little hut, Rachel freed her right hand as much as she could while keeping an adequate hold on the boy and touched the woman's hand as it rested on the baby's head. In an instant they were all gone, dissolved in Rachel's wave and zooming in a straight line for the hospital building Rachel had visited earlier.

The nurse couldn't imagine where they had come from. It almost seemed as if they had materialized from nothing as she sat at her station making entries in her charts. An incredible sight --not the starving mother and the baby at her breast --the nurse was used to that sight, but beside her --the apparition --a naked red-headed white woman holding a starving black child in her arms. The nurse walked around her desk to the little group. The red-headed woman now pressed the child into her arms. "Can you make him live?" she said in English.

The nurse sighed. "I'll put him on a bed," she said, "and I will pray. But the boy will probably die by morning, as will another dozen like him in the fenced compound outside the hospital. You are a good person to have brought him here. But at such an advanced stage of starvation, we can give, at most, some comfort and a damp cloth on the forehead. Yet I thank you ...and your magic. The woman and the child in her arms, these we might save."

Rachel: "Fenced compound?"

Nurse: "In this camp alone we have perhaps two hundred children dying untreated."

Rachel: "Two hundred ...?"

Nurse: "But we haven't the facilities or the supplies to handle them all. Those who come here are isolated; some of the advanced symptoms of malnutrition ...are best contained. We take as many as possible into the hospital, but they represent but a small percentage of those in need."

Rachel: "Two hundred? Outside?" She thought for a moment. "A damp cloth on the forehead."

The beautiful red-headed woman walked to a sink in a dark alcove of the hall, took a clean towel from the shelf, wet it with cold water, and walked out the door. For three hours Rachel tended to the emaciated children scattered in jerry-built cardboard shelters outside the hospital. Periodically, the nurse watched from the window. Finally, tired, sweaty, and smudged with the dirt of Ethiopia, Rachel re-entered the building.

Rachel cleaned herself as best she could. Before she left she joined the nurse, who was making her last round before finishing her shift. The nurse told her that the boy she brought in had died, as expected. However, the mother and baby were resting easily. They would probably live. "May ...I come back," Rachel asked.

The nurse touched her cheek. "You would be most welcome," she answered. At no point did the nurse make any comment about Rachel's nakedness. Rachel considered departing in the conventional manner and go into her wave in a more secluded spot. But then she thought better of it, and dissolved to nothing before the nurse's shocked eyes.

The nurse kept the events of that night to herself. Who would believe her anyway? She told the Superior the next day that the mother had walked in with her children during the night. It was nonsense, of course; the boy could not have walked in his condition, and the mother could not have carried both him and her baby. The mother swore an angel had come to her during the night and carried her and her children to the hospital through the night sky. Everyone smiled indulgently at her --except the nurse, of course, who could think of no better explanation of what occurred.

Rachel headed northwest and into the Sahara. She had no trouble at all finding the Mediterranean, Italy, Rome and then the Vatican. The "boot" was easy to spot and she knew Rome was almost half way up just below the knee. The great city stood out clear and sprawling in the thin dawn air, the ancient coliseum affirming her calculation, as well as St. Peter's dome, square, and the famous balcony. Through and through the old corridors of Vatican City she zipped, past and through hundreds of somber looking men dressed in black with their mostly less than holy thoughts. Rachel was shocked at the griping and self-justification clouding their spirits. Why, these guys are no different than the rest of us human creatures, she thought. And then she found it, what had inspired her to come this way in the first place: the Sistine Chapel.

Stopping at the hospital had taken more time than she really felt she could afford, but how could she have done otherwise. And now, well, the Sistine Chapel: the opportunity of a lifetime. She reformed rather adeptly for an amateur, perched comfortably on the screen dividing the chapel. The recently renovated art lived up to its billing. Rachel was overwhelmed by the color jumping at her from the ceiling, vaults, and front of the room --not to mention the beautiful Rafael tapestries along the walls. She mused over the famous nudity of Michaelangelo's figures, smiling to herself at the daintiness of the penises that were visible (most were discretely hidden by weirdly draping flaps and strips of cloth.) "How far evolution has come," she observed wryly. "They didn't even have pubic hair back in biblical times."

Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by someone calling loudly in a foreign language. She looked down at the door to see several very flustered priests at the entrance shouting and frantically pointing at her. "Oh, oh," she thought, "better get going before the Swiss Guards come after me." And like that she was on her way again, headed generally west.

Ah, the cote d'Azur: Monaco, Cannes, San Tropez --just the place. Rachel had heard of the nude sunbathing on the beaches so she figured she'd be right in her element. She reformed on the cool white sand at the wet edge of a gently washing Mediterranean. It was still early in the morning in these parts: the sun was only touching the eastern horizon, and the strand was sparsely populated by dedicated beach lovers and early joggers.

Now it is true that varying degrees of nudity are tolerated along some sections of the shoreline. But this was an area of private estates, not all of whose occupants were so liberal minded. The local police immediately received several calls about the naked redhead walking the beach behind influential landowners. As Rachel soaked in the wonderful morning sea breezes, she heard in the distance the discordant notes of gendarme whistles. She turned in idle curiosity. As the uniformed men came gradually closer, Rachel wisely concluded she was the object of their hot pursuit. Teasingly, she allowed them to approach to within twenty feet of her before she evaporated before their eyes. On west, longways over the Pyrenees, then the Bay of Biscay, and finally the Atlantic Ocean. She would liked to have seen Paris and London, but by now she was really getting concerned about her time --and she was feeling more and more hungry (rather, that she should be

hungry --there are no body-type feelings in the wave). There will be other times ...probably. She'd already proven to herself that she could go anywhere she ever wanted in the whole world in just minutes. Around the whole world in only a few hours for a girl who had never been out of California, even if she did miss Paris and London, wasn't bad. But better not dally along the way ...and the dark did concern her more than a little. Searching her memory of grade school geography, Rachel angled generally south along her westward line. She seemed to remember that the United States was found in latitudes mostly south of Europe.

She had caught up with nighttime before she reached the ocean, but it didn't matter: there was little to see once passed the Canary Islands. Her line of flight would bring her into North America, headed straight toward Atlanta, Georgia.

The time: ten thirty at night. The place: a fast-food restaurant, the only well-lit place in this mid-Atlanta neighborhood --attracting teen-age school and non-school types as those blue zapper lights attract curious night insects --occasionally with the same fatal results. This particular evening a group of young gentlemen had just come from a curfew-closed party in the band gazebo of the park. Their blood boiled with more than diet soda. The crowd of teenagers killing time on the parking lot looked to be a great audience for some fun hi-jinks. The less ...adventurous group on the parking lot sipped on chocolate shakes and stood in a circle to watch the antics of these loud and prancing party-goers.

One thing led to another, and a pretty girl in the audience was abruptly pulled involuntarily into the action. One thing led to another: a car door was opened; the girl was unceremoniously thrown onto the back seat, her feet hanging out the door flailing in unsuccessful efforts to push away from her tormentor. The air was filled with raucous noises of encouragement for the daring young man who had the balls to do such a thing wide open out in public. Barbarianism is often rampant in our culture, but there are still some who rebel against it. The restaurant night manager, not much out of his own teen-age, dialed 911. It was doubtful the police would arrive in anything close to sufficient time to stop the rape. Sirens would of course presage their appearance in time enough for the fun group to assume the pose of cool, innocent dudes.

Rachel was zooming low over the city when she came upon the bright, noisy arena. Quickly assessing the situation, she thoughtlessly --and very, very imprudently --bodied-out in the center of the circle, amidst the rapist's buddies, who were busy ogling their friend and wondering if there'd be time for them to get a turn. Rachel began beating the assailant's back with her fists and pulling at his arms to get him away from the screaming victim.

It worked. She had attacked him as he was about to forcibly insert his penis through the girl's labia. He turned in surprise, hands up defensively as Rachel continued to beat on him.

"Well, waddya know! A nakid whitey. She wants me." Before Rachel realized what was happening he backhanded her across the face, sending her falling backward into the hands of his buddies, who graciously pulled her to the ground and held her down as the drug-drunk assailant, his hard member still exposed over his lowered pants, bent down to continue his rape, but now on the pretty red-headed whitey.

Rachel, because of her good physical conditioning, was able to fight more vigorously than the girl he first meant to rape, scratching and biting until the buddies completely de-activated her arms. By this time, the assailant was himself pummeling her face with his fist. Finally, Rachel, completely dazed, ceased resistance.

A second time in but a couple minutes, the young gentleman was interrupted in his coital efforts, this time having penetrated for one or two good thrusts before having to withdraw due to the simultaneous timely arrival of two whining patrol cars on the restaurant's parking lot. Fortune would have it they were both within blocks when they received the dispatcher's call.

The party-goers faded into the excited crowd. All that remained in the center of the circle were an unconscious, naked, red-headed white girl lying on the ground and a sobbing teen-ager trying to cover herself with the remaining shreds of her ripped clothing.

The night had been a horror. Rachel had regained a semblance of consciousness as she was being rolled into the hospital's emergency room. Immediate panic. She tried desperately, but vainly, to throw off the sheets tightly strapped over her body. Her only thought was to get out, to strip to the skin and wave away from this place --and fly home to Bollinger's. Darren can't find out about this. He'd never understand. So she tore at the sheets, and she screamed like crazy. All of which served to intensify the paramedics' and nurses' efforts keep her in place. And then there were the bright lights and the stirrup examination --and the scrapings. And the social worker. And the questions, questions, questions: what's your name? your address? are you married? where are your clothes? And poor Rachel could not respond --would not respond. How could she explain the unexplainable? How could she bring Darren in on this ...horrible situation? She only knew she had to get out, and she put all her thoughts and energies to that end. But the questions went on and on; however, her thoughts remained devoted to not allowing Darren to discover her secret ...to not bringing a horrible public spotlight on peaceful little Bollinger's Resort. So she answered nothing, concentrating only on escape at the first opportunity. But the first opportunity wouldn't come.

And then there was the detective, Art Sargeant --Lieutenant Sargeant, of all things --and his questions ...and innuendos. "They did get the guy," he told her. "The girl pointed him out. But all we can get him for is assault." Thoughtful pause. "And then only on the kid ...maybe. On you: nothing. It's that nude business. There's no way we can get him for what he did to you. You'd be chewed apart. A nude woman prowling the streets of Atlanta after ten at night. Everyone knows what she's after. And she got it. Maybe rougher than she bargained for. But what did she expect? That's what they'd say."

Rachel didn't respond.

"That's a legitimate question, don't you think? Why were you on the prowl and nude at that hour of the night?"

Rachel said nothing.

"First things first, though, I guess," he continued. "I know you were upset earlier. But now that things have calmed down, we do need your name -- at least that."

Rachel said nothing.

"Look, if nothing else, the hospital has to know for its records."

Rachel said nothing.

"Sure, we can keep you in the books as 'Jane Doe,' but you know we can't let you just walk out of here without getting some kind of explanation."

Nothing.

Changing his approach, "Where'd you come from? Witnesses said you appeared out of nowhere ...like magic. That true? Or were you and your John making out in a car when all the action broke out?"

Nothing.

"Gotta hand it to you. Real gutsy move. Dumb, but gutsy. What did you think the s.o.b. would do when he saw it was a naked red-headed white lady beating him on the back?"

Nothing.

"By the way, it worked ...I mean, he didn't get in the girl. And they said there wasn't any semen in you. Witnesses said he did get in though ... at least they thought so. Not sure enough to testify in court. But then it's going to be hard to get any of them to testify to anything in court."

Nothing.

"Unless we can get another good witness --willing to talk --I suspect he'll walk free."

Rachel involuntarily glanced sharply at the detective's face.

"So, what's your name, kid?"

Nothing. Rachel looked off toward the wall.

"Look, we can't keep on with this 'mystery woman' schtik. If you don't cooperate, you could be hauled up in front of a judge --naked in a public place, you know --that would be enough to hold you. Then if you don't answer his questions, you'll catch a 'contempt' judgment. You'd end up in jail, you know."

Rachel again looked sharply at him.

"Probably not, though. Most likely he'd send you to the mental health center --for psychologicals and stuff.

"Ironic, isn't it? The s.o.b. walks, and the heroine gets locked up."

To the wall again.

"It's going to get out, you know. The news guys are already on the story of the nude red-head who broke up a rape attempt. One way or another they'll get your picture; you can bet on it. We'll keep them away from you the best we can, of course. A little cooperation on your part would help us with the effort. Otherwise, it just might be to our advantage to let a few pictures of you hit the presses. Might be a good way to get some identification on our mystery girl. What do you think?"

Eyes back to the detective --this time opened wide in apparent fright. Then to the wall again to hide the tears welling under the lids.

"Here's a kicker for you. The reporters tell me in the past few hours there've been reports coming over the wires from all over the world about a naked red-head appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as mysteriously. Places like Hawaii, The Vatican, and France. Just a coincidence, naturally. That couldn't be you, could it? You're not a spirit thing; you'd have shed this place long before this. But it is a fascinating speculation, don't you think?"

Still nothing except that sharp look again.

"Look, this his been a rough experience for you ...no question about it. I'll leave you in peace for now. Get a few hours rest. Think it allover. I'm really on your side ...but it would sure help if you'd cooperate. I'll see the media is held off ...for now. My day-shift counterpart will be in to see you in the morning. After breakfast sometime. If you're not ready to go along with us by then ...well, I guess we'll have to turn the problem over to the judge."

One o'clock on Friday morning found Rachel in a sparsely lit room of some six beds, only half of which were now ocupied. The beds were situated three on each side of the room. Rachel was in one of the beds nearest the door. The other two patients were sleeping soundly in the beds by the windows. The door was snap-locked shut; there was free access to the room from the hall, but only the floor nurses and aides had the key to open the door from the inside. A window lined with chicken wire graced the top half of the door. This was the "security" ward of the hospital, reserved for city jail prisoners and ..."special cases" --Rachel's present category. She was now held to her bed by straps running through a thick belt around her waist and attached to the lower bed frame. Loose straps were also fixed from her wrists to the raised side bars to minimize arm movement. It seems that shortly after Rachel's placement in the ward, an aide had come in to check her vital signs and found her trying to tear the identification tag ("Jane Doe," of course) from her wrist.

Now it was morning --after breakfast. Rachel hadn't slept all night. There's no way they'd let her alone until this was all resolved. Even for her toilet they preferred to bring bed-pans; her wrists were never unleashed. Anyway, she couldn't do anything with this damned bracelet around her wrist.

Her mind kept going over and over the same territory. "God, my life has exploded. Until yesterday I was leading a happy ...a mostly happy, simple, secure --insulated --life at good old Bollinger's, safely nestled in the Sierra foothills. I'd have been happy to have lived out my whole existence there. Then, boom! Patty ...and Patrick ...and the secret. Cheez, Patty, you have no idea of what you started in me. The Athrydians, Arcadia, the wave ...the time limit. The wave, God, how I love that. That's what got me in all this trouble. But God, how I love the wave. When this is all over, the wave will be all I have. Darren, Darren --what's Darren going to say about this? Displaying myself all over the world. Getting involved in a rape. Me, little insulated me, involved in a rape ...and magic. They're worried about me by now. I had the free time, but they'd have expected me to tell someone if I was leaving. God, what's going to happen next? Oh, my! what about the school business? Will I even be free from here by Monday? Will Darren still have faith in me? God, do I still want to go to school? Oh, I do wish I was snugly back at my precious Bollinger's nudist haven."

Rachel didn't go to court Friday. At the Circuit Attorney's request, the judge issued a temporary order to hold "Jane Doe" in the hospital until Monday when a full competency hearing could be arranged. The media did come through as would be expected. The story of the nude, red-headed crusader who appeared out of thin air was all over the papers and local television. Worse: the wire services had picked up on the story, and by noon Rachel's mysterious exploits were national news --of course, tied in with those eerie reports from France, Italy, and Hawaii --and of course, with pictures: an enterprising paparazzi acting the role of an orderly mopping floors got several distorted full-face pictures of the beautiful red-head during one of her few moments of fatigue-forced sleep in the morning.

The aides, the nurses, the resident, a psychiatrist, the day-shift detective, and an assistant circuit attorney showed up during the course of the day. Rachel was talked at and talked at and questioned and questioned, but she would speak to no one. By dinner, she was resigned to the total disintegration of the life she'd once known.

The climax would come upon her all too soon. Friday night at about eight o'clock, Lieutenant Sargeant was at Rachel's bedside. "What do you think of this, honey? Got a 'missing person' report from way out in California --a Rachel Bollinger. Seems to suit you to a 'T' : a pretty, twenty-eight year old red-head about your height. The picture circulating around the papers and television wasn't very flattering, so the husband, Darren Bollinger, couldn't make a positive i.d., but there is apparently some resemblance."

Rachel's eyes widened with fear again.

"It doesn't seem possible. She was last seen by her father-in-law at about one in the afternoon --walking by herself in the woods. I don't know how you could get from there to the airport and to Atlanta, and mysteriously appear at a rape scene on the parking lot of a fast food restauraunt in the center of town --all by ten that same evening. Otherwise, things fit pretty well. The woods were a part of Bollinger's Resort, run by this guy Darren. And get this: Bollinger's is a nudist camp. The missing Rachel is a bone-fide nudist. How about them apples!"

Tears appeared at the corners of Rachel's eyes.

"The really weird stuff comes when we think about those reports from other parts of the world. Those descriptions sure fit you, honey."

Rachel said nothing. She just turned her head to the side and cried silently to herself.

"Your reaction here seems to be telling a whole lot more than words." He paused. "We talked to this Darren Bollinger. He seems quite upset about your disappearance. But that story in the news ...and the picture -- as bad as it is --well, he wants to come here."

Rachel gave no response; she continued crying to herself.

"Looks to me like the Case of the Anonymous Naked Joan of Arc is about to bust wide open. Don't you think it's time to open up?"

No response.

"Come on, now. Let's get the air cleared. You are the missing Rachel Bollinger, aren't you?"

No response at all.

"O.k., so there's problems. Must be." He stood up and began pacing along side the bed. "Look, honey, I'm not such a bad guy. Help me a little; I'll help you. I need this case wrapped up. Talk to me, and I'll do whatever you want about this Darren Bollinger."

Nothing.

"We do have a time limit. If we don't get back to him soon, he'll probably fly here anyway to see for himself if you're his missing red-head." He thought to himself for a moment. "Okay, how about we give you till morning? Think it all over; you're not going anyplace in the meantime, anyway --and I don't suspect you'll get much sleep tonight. Think it over. I'll be back at about eight tomorrow morning --that's overtime for me, you know. But I really do want to get this wrapped up. And I really do want to help you. You deserve at least that for your act of courage last night. Okay?"

Rachel turned to look at him again, her cheeks shining with tears. But she said nothing. Lieutenant Sargeant gave her leashed wrist a fatherly couple of pats. "See you in the morning," he said, and knocked on the door to be let out.

Before leaving the hospital, Lieutenant Sargeant put in a quick telephone call to Milt Herzog, a close friend. Milt taught literature at Emory University, specializing in myths and folklore. The lieutenant made arrangements for a late visit at Herzog's home to discuss an unusual case he was working on.

In spite of her tormenting thoughts, Rachel did manage a few short samples of sleep since the room lights were turned off at ten o'clock. However, now at three in the morning Rachel lay wide awake staring out through the chicken-wired window, watching the unmoving hall shadows at the limits of the light from the nurses' station. That dim light was enough to enable her to make out the closet and other five beds and the two sleeping patients sharing her room. Through and under the door drifted muffled sounds of voices and the occasional clatter of a bedpan. Alone and awake in the middle of the night again brought back to Rachel the same dark thoughts of the night before.

Then in rapid succession three singular events occurred. First, Rachel was taken with a sudden chill that shook her whole body --not unlike the chill she felt a few days earlier when Patty had waved through her. Next, she became aware of the insistent buzzing of several patient call buttons all at the same time, and the resulting scurrying and squeaking of quick moving nurse and aide shoes. And finally, the appearance from the shadows at the side of her bed of a woman, a smiling, friendly-faced woman. Even in the dimness, Rachel could see the woman was quite nice looking, perhaps in her mid-thirties. As best as could be judged she had short-bobbed wavy brunette hair. For now, the woman reached out and affectionately put her hand to Rachel's cheek. It was at this point that Rachel realized the woman was wearing no clothing; she was as naked as the guests at Bollinger's Resort.

"Hi, Rachel. How are you doing?" A soft, compassionate voice.

Rachel, nervous and confused: "Who ...how did you ..."

"I'm Denise." The door opened and closed quickly, and the woman was joined by a lean, quick-moving man --also very nude. "This is Jeffrey. Look: if you don't mind, I think we'd better hurry along if we're going to get you out of this place."

"But who. .."

"We're your people, Rachel."

By this time the man, Jeffrey, had used the scissors he had brought with him from the hall to quickly snip the plastic bracelet from her wrist. Then he and Denise worked rapidly at undoing the straps attached to Rachel's wrists and waist belt. Once those binding items were dispensed with, the two strangers moved immediately to divest her of the covering bed-linens, the belt, and the silly backless hospital gown. Jeffrey quietly eased the side-bars down, and both he and Denise carefully helped Rachel first to a sitting position with her legs dangling over the side of the bed, and then slowly to her feet; over twenty-four hours trussed up in bed left Rachel very wobbly indeed. As Denise supported her, Jeffrey scanned Rachel from head to foot. "Just a couple. more things," he whispered as he delicately pulled off the butterfly and two band-aids decorating Rachel's cheeks. These he dropped indifferently into the small trash receptacle by the bed. All through these fast-paced, but complicated processes Rachel remained speechless, stunned by this sudden strange turn of events. Another thorough check of Rachel's naked state seemed to satisfy the man called Jeffrey. "That should do it," he said. And with Denise holding onto Rachel on the left and Jeffrey holding onto her from the right, the three of them disappeared. They didn't leave by window or door. They just disappeared.

The other two patients in the room slept through the whole thing. At least, that's what they told later investigators over and over.

The next morning the Crime Scene Unit took dozens of pictures and dusted everything in sight for fingerprints; the night-duty staff was questioned and questioned and questioned; hospital administrators came and went and came and went; detectives and uniformed police flooded the halls; and the media reaped a great story. And when all the excitement was over, and when the Crime Scene Unit was gone and the hospital night-duty staff went home and the detectives and uniformed police were back in their stations writing reports and the administrators were drinking coffee around a polished table, the only non-patient remaining in the room was Lieutenant Sargeant. Then even he turned to leave, stopping only for a moment to reach into the trash receptacle for the band-aids and butterfly that caught his eye. These he put in a plastic bag, which he slipped into his coat pocket alongside the bag containing the discarded neatly cut plastic identification bracelet, the bracelet identifying the former wearer as "Jane Doe." The hospital scissors obviously used to cut the bracelet had been found on the bed. They were in a third plastic bag in the detective's coat pocket.

On to Chapter 7

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