In Graywolf’s Hands

by Marie Ferrarella

  “Alone?”

  Half asleep she still would have been able to hear the hopeful note in her mother’s voice. “Yes, unless you count Dean Martin on the radio.”

  Her mother made no effort to silence the sigh that escaped. “Sorry, I was just hoping…”

  She knew what her mother was hoping. It was an old refrain. “Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but not tonight, all right?”

  “Something happened, didn’t it? I heard about the bombing.”

  Here it comes, Lydia thought. The real reason for the call.

  “Was that you—”

  “Doing the bombing?” Lydia cut in cheerfully. “No.” She decided to toss her mother a bone. Even the Bureau wasn’t entirely heartless. “Doing the picking up of pieces? Yes. We’ve got a suspect in custody—that’s all I can tell you.”

  There was disappointment and frustration in her mother’s voice. “I can get more from the evening news, Lydia.”

  When she was small, her mother had been her first confidante. They would talk all the time. But she wasn’t small anymore. On an intellectual level, she knew her mother understood why she couldn’t say anything. It was the heart that gave them both trouble.

  For a second her thoughts sidelined to the surgeon who had pushed her out of the operating room. Who had insisted on stitching her up. She forced her mind back to the conversation.

  “They’re at liberty to talk, Mom, I’m not. They don’t have a possible case to jeopardize.”

  She heard her mother sigh. Louise Wakefield Evans had been both the daughter and the wife of a policeman. She, better than anyone, knew about procedures that had to be followed.

  Still, she said, “I hate being shut out this way, Lydia.”

  Lydia shifted in the tub, then quickly sat up. She’d nearly gotten the bandage wet.

  “I’m not shutting you out, Mom. I’m shutting evidence in.” The water was turning cool. “Mom, I’m turning pruney, I’d better go.”

  Her mother knew when to take her cue. “All right. Good night, Lydia. I love you.”

  “Love you, too, Mom.”

  Before her mother could change her mind, Lydia pressed the talk button, breaking the connection and ushering in silence. She dropped the receiver onto the mat.

  Lydia felt bad that she couldn’t share what had happened to her today with her mother, but she knew it would only have served to agitate and worry Louise. In the long run, she’d rather her mother had semipeace of mind by remaining in the dark than live with daily terrors—even if she could give her details, which she couldn’t.

  Her mouth curved slightly as a question her mother had asked echoed in her brain.

  Was she alone?

  That would place her mother among the eternal optimists. Louise still nursed the hope that Lydia would be swept off her feet, marry and chuck this whole FBI special agent business.

  Lucky for her, Louise hadn’t seen that surgeon tonight. There was no doubt in Lydia’s mind that her mother would have been all over Graywolf, plying him with questions, inviting him over for Sunday dinner. Louise Wakefield Evans was desperate for grandchildren and Lydia was the only one who could provide her with them. She’d had a brother, born first, but he had died before his first birthday, a victim of infant crib death syndrome. With no other siblings available, Lydia was the only one left to fulfill her mother’s hopes.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Lydia murmured as she leaned forward to open up the faucet again.

  The next moment, hot water flowed into the tub again, merging with the cooling liquid that was already there.

  First chance she had, she was going to talk to Arthur about getting her mother a puppy. She knew her stepfather was sympathetic to her. A new puppy should occupy her mother, at least temporarily.

  Closing her eyes, Lydia let her head fall back against the inflated pillow lodged against the back of the tub. An image of the surgeon materialized behind her lids.

  Startled, she pried her eyes open.

  What was she doing, thinking about him? She was supposed to be trying to make her mind a blank.

  Maybe it was the medicine, making her woozy.

  Lydia blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs. She decided that soaking in the tub might not be the smartest thing to do if she were truly sleepy. Death by Suds was not the way she wanted to go.

  Lydia reached for a towel.

  The rhythmic staccato of high heels meeting the freshly washed hospital floor had Lukas looking up from the chart he was writing on. Half a beat before he did, he knew it was her. He’d picked up on the cadence last night. Fast, no nonsense, no hesitancy. A woman with a mission.

  Closing the chart, he replaced it on the nurse’s desk, still watching the woman approach. He wondered vaguely if Ms. Special Agent was focused like that all the time or if it was the job that brought it out. Did she know how to kick back after hours? Did she even have “after hours”?

  Lukas had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t.

  That made two of them.

  Even after he’d gone home last night to catch a few hours of well-deserved sleep, he’d wound up calling the hospital to check on Jacob Lindstrom, the patient he’d operated on before Ms. Special Agent had thundered into his life.

  Lukas’s eyes swept over her as she walked toward him. The woman was wearing another suit, a powder blue one; but this time she had on a skirt instead of pants. The skirt brushed against her thighs as she walked and gave him the opportunity to note that her legs were as near perfect as any he’d ever seen. Long, sleek, and just curved enough to trigger a man’s fantasies.

  It made him wonder why Harrison hadn’t hit on her last night. Special agent or not, she looked to be right up his best friend’s alley.

  But then, maybe Harrison had hit on her and she’d set him straight. That would have been a first. Lukas made a mental note to catch up with Harrison to ask for details when he got the chance. If there had been a conquest last night, something told him he would have known it. One way or another.

  “You’re here bright and early,” he commented as she came up to him.

  He didn’t look as tired, she observed. His sharp, blue eyes seemed to be taking in everything about her. She’d always thought that Native Americans had brown eyes. “So are you.”

  Her mouth looked pouty when she said the word “you.” Something stirred within him, but he dismissed it. He’d been around Harrison too long. Maybe the other man’s ways had rubbed off on him. “I have patients to see.”

  Lydia inclined her head, as if going him one better. “I have a prisoner to interrogate.”

  And here, Lukas thought, was where they came to loggerheads. It hadn’t taken long. Less than a minute, by his estimate.

  “Not until he’s up to it.”

  “If he’s conscious, he’s up to it, Dr….” Lydia paused and, though she knew his name, made a show of looking at the badge that hung from a dark blue cord around his neck. Since the back of the badge faced her, she turned it around. “Graywolf.” Releasing the badge, she raised her eyes to his face. “This wasn’t some spur-of-the moment, impulsive act by a deranged man acting out some sick fantasy. This was a carefully planned act of terrorism. This man is part of a group that call themselves the New World Supremacists. I assure you, he wasn’t alone at the mall last night. I want to make sure his friends don’t go scurrying off to their garages to concoct some more pipe bombs to kill more innocent people. The only way I’m going to do that is to get names.”

  He understood all that, but he was coming at this from another angle. He had to put the welfare of his patient first. “Ms. Wakefield—”

  “That’s Special Agent Wakefield,” she corrected him. Taking out her wallet, she opened it for him. “It says so right here on my ID.”

  Holding her wallet for a moment, Lukas looked at the photograph. She looked better in person. The photograph made her look too hard, too unforgiving. There was something in her eyes that told him that might not be the entire picture.

>   He dropped his hand to his side. “I always wondered about that. Is ‘special’ a title, like lieutenant colonel?” he deadpanned. “Are there any regular, nonspecial agents at the agency?”

  “We’re all special,” she informed him, finding that she was gritting her teeth.

  “In our own way,” he allowed magnanimously. “Even people accused of crimes.”

  Not in her book. “Just why are you yanking my chain, Doctor?”

  Because it was there, he realized. But he gave her a more reasonable answer.

  “Maybe it’s because you insist on getting in my way. The man you shot almost died on the table last night. Twice. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t. Having you go at him like a representative of the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to help his recovery. I think it might be better if you hold off asking any questions.”

  Not hardly. And she didn’t particularly like being told what to do. “I don’t give a damn about his recovery, Doctor. I just want him to live long enough to give me the names of his buddies.” She watched him shiver and then turn up the collar of his lab coat. It wasn’t particularly cold. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to protect myself from frostbite.” He slid his collar back into place. “You always come off this cold-blooded?”

  She could almost literally feel her patience breaking in two.

  “I happen to be a very warm person,” Lydia snapped, then realized how ridiculous that sounded coming in the form of a growl. A smile slowly emerged to replace her frown. “Ask anyone.”

  It was amazing. He wouldn’t have thought that a simple smile could transform someone’s face so much. But it did. The woman in front of him seemed light-years removed from the one he’d just been talking to. This one looked younger, softer. Way softer.

  “Maybe I will.”

  He was being nice. So why did she feel so uneasy all of a sudden? And why was he still looking at her as if he was dissecting her a layer at a time? “What are you staring at?”

  “Your smile.”

  Instinctively she began to press her lips together to blot out her smile, then stopped. The smile was replaced by a glare. “What’s wrong with my smile?”

  He spread his hands. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Makes you look like a completely different person, in my opinion.”

  As if she gave a damn about his opinion. “I’ll remember that the next time I need a disguise.” It was getting late and she had to get down to business. “Have you moved my prisoner since last night?”

  She had remained long enough for Conroy to be transferred from recovery to a single-unit room, where she’d made certain that a policeman from the Bedford police force was stationed.

  Lukas was about to remind her that the man was his patient before he was her prisoner, but he let the matter drop. He’d learned early on that butting his head against a stone wall never brought victory.

  “I wouldn’t dare. I left him just where I found him this morning.”

  She could do without the sarcasm. “How is he?”

  It was Conroy’s chart he’d been writing on when he heard her approach. “Still weak.”

  That was a relative term in her opinion. “I don’t want him to dance, I just want him to talk.”

  “That might be difficult. He’s on a great deal of pain medication—speaking of which,” he segued smoothly, “how’s your shoulder?”

  Graywolf’s question only reminded her of how much the shoulder ached. “If I was a bird, I’d have to postpone flying south for the winter, but under the circumstances, I guess it’s all right.”

  Lukas nodded. “I need to see you back in a week to take the stitches out.” She was favoring her left side. Would it have killed her to follow his instructions? “I see you’re not wearing a sling.”

  She’d actually toyed with the idea this morning, arranging and adjusting several colorful scars around her arm and shoulder. They’d only made her feel like an invalid. “I don’t want to attract attention.”

  Too late, Lukas thought. Three orderlies had passed by since she’d stopped to talk to him and all three had been in danger of severely spraining their necks as they turned to look at her. “Then maybe you should wear a paper bag over your head.”

  “What?”

  Was she fishing for a compliment, or was she wound up so tightly about her job that she didn’t see her own reflection in the morning? “I’m just saying that a woman who looks like you do always attracts attention.”

  Her eyes narrowed in surprise. “Are you coming on to me, Doctor?” She’d dabbled in profiling. Graywolf didn’t seem the type.

  “Me?” He raised both hands, fingers pointed to the ceiling. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to come on to someone like you. I’m just making an observation, that’s all.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the rest of my rounds to make.”

  He was turning away from her when she called after him. “You mean you’re not going to hover over me while I try to question the prisoner?”

  Lukas stopped to look at her one last time. “Would it do any good?”

  A smile crept back to her lips as Lydia shook her head. “No.”

  “Then I won’t.” He crossed back to her, fishing into his coat pocket. He took out a card and pressed it into her hand. “There’s my number if you need me.”

  She glanced down at the card. Three numbers were neatly printed above one another. “Pager, cell phone and office number.” Lydia raised her eyes from the card. “What about your home number?”

  “Unlisted. On a need-to-know basis,” he added just before he left.

  Looking after him, Lydia thoughtfully folded the card between her thumb and forefinger and tucked it into her jacket pocket.

  “Damn but I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

  Roused from her thoughts, Lydia spun around to face Elliot. “See what day?”

  He was grinning. Wait until Janice hears about this! “The day you were flirting.”

  “Flirting?” Lydia echoed incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? I was not flirting.”

  “No?” Elliot crossed his arms at his chest, waiting to be convinced. “Then what do you call it?”

  “Talking.”

  “I see.”

  There were times when her partner got on her nerves—royally. “Don’t give me that smug smile.”

  He made no attempt to eliminate it. “I wasn’t aware that it was smug.”

  “Well it is,” she told him. Because one of the nurses had stopped what she was doing and was obviously eavesdropping, Lydia pulled her partner aside, out of earshot. “What is this, a conspiracy? My mother calls to find out if I’m alone in the bathtub and then you come along and tell me you think I’m flirting.”

  Elliot made a mental note to later ask her what had prompted her mother’s question. For now, he shrugged innocently. “Can’t help it. In spring a person’s mind often turns to thoughts of love, remember?”

  What did that have to do with anything? “It’s autumn. Remember?”

  Unruffled, Elliot laughed. “I’m late, it’s been a busy year.”

  Okay, she’d been a good sport long enough. This had to stop. “Elliot, I’m packing a gun.”

  The look he gave her was completely unimpressed. “I’m shaking.”

  This was getting them nowhere. And the day stretched out in front of her, long and unaccommodating. “Let’s go, we have a prisoner to interrogate.”

  “Lead the way.” Her partner’s expression had turned appropriately serious, but there was a twinkle in his eye she had trouble ignoring.

  Chapter 4

  John Conroy was not a particularly large man. The height of five foot eight listed on his driver’s license was charitably stretching the truth. Bandaged, bruised and buffered by white sheets in a bed, he looked small and non-threatening.

  Looking at him, it was almost hard for Lydia to believe that this was the man who had helped to carry out an attack whose ultimate goal was t
o kill as many people as possible. Which made her wonder why he had picked a weeknight. Was it that he couldn’t wait, or that he had thought there was less of a chance of being caught?

  There was something to be said for impatience, she thought as Elliot closed the door behind them.

  “Evil comes in all sorts of packages, doesn’t it?” Elliot commented, noticing the way she was looking at the man in the hospital bed.

  “The Bible says that Satan was the most beautiful of all the archangels,” she murmured, moving closer to the prisoner.

  She noted with satisfaction that along with the various devices hooking Conroy up to vigilant monitors, a tarnished steel bracelet encircled his wrist, chaining him to the railing, keeping him from escaping if he could somehow summon the strength. She’d made a point of putting it back on him last night. Nice to see that the doctor hadn’t removed it again.

  Conroy looked as though he was unconscious. Lydia studied his face intently, watching for a telltale flutter of his lashes that would give his game away. There was none.

  “Not that,” she added, “this puny, unimpressive piece of work could have ever been remotely placed in that category.”

  Not getting a reaction to her insult, Lydia bent until her face was level with Conroy’s.

  Elliot came closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting in his face.” She spared her partner a momentary glance before looking back to Conroy. “Seeing if he’s really unconscious. Are you, Conroy?” she asked loudly. “Are you really out, or just playing possum? Not going to do you any good, you know. You have to come up for air sometime.”

  Elliot laughed to himself. “Well, those golden tones would certainly rouse me right up.” Finding a place for himself in the single-care unit, Elliot took a pistachio nut from his jacket pocket and began to work at it with his nails.

  Straightening, she saw Elliot shell the nut. For as long as she’d known him, he’d always carried a supply of pistachio nuts in his pocket. With the understanding of a loving wife, Janice replenished his supply every morning. “Isn’t it kind of early for that?”