Clearly they had heard about what had happened.
Straightening her spine, Liliana approached, determined to not let hospital gossip and her association with Harrison weigh her down.
From the stairs, Mick was able to see that Caterina had not yet awakened that morning. Of course it was still early for most. Barely seven.
He had managed to get a few hours of sleep before planting his butt in his office chair to search for additional information on Wardwell and its two founders. Waiting to call his old buddy Franklin.
Franklin Pierce might have been his friend for nearly a decade, but if Franklin was being paid anything close to what he was for this assignment, that old friendship likely would not count for much. Especially since they hadn’t really seen each other very much in the last couple of years.
Taking one of the prepaid cell phones from his file cabinet, Mick dialed the personal cell phone number he had for Franklin. If his ex–Army Ranger buddy answered there, he might be one up on him, assuming Franklin hadn’t shut off the GPS tracking on the phone.
Leaning back into his leather office chair, Mick waited while the cell phone rang.
With each ring, he wondered if Franklin had changed much over the years. If his old buddy was still as trustworthy as he had been during their days in the military and after.
His old friend answered with a sleepy, “Hullo?”
In the background a baby cried, possibly awakened by his early morning call. That didn’t stop Mick from engaging the GPS tracking service he had hacked from the phone company.
“Don’t tell me you’re a dad now, Franklin,” he said, the tenor of his voice friendly as he waited for the Web site to return a location for Pierce’s signal.
“Man, oh man. Is it really you, Carrera?”
A muffled voice said, “Who is it, honey?” as the wailing sounds of the baby grew louder.
A second later, the GPS identified the location of Pierce’s cell phone—a building in a residential section of South Philly. Probably Franklin’s home, judging from the area and the clear signs of family in the background.
“An old friend,” Franklin answered the woman and then the ambient sounds in the room faded. He was obviously leaving the woman and child behind in the room as he walked away to make their conversation more private.
“Old? Hell, Franklin. I’m not as ancient as you are,” he said playfully, prompting his friend to chuckle and reply, “But this old man can still kick your ass.”
Mick doubted it, but didn’t say. “I know you’re on the Shaw job, old man. I need you to back off.”
A heavy and tired sigh drifted across the phone line. “Can’t do, mano. I need the money.”
“You need it enough to have your goon kill a helpless woman? She was shot by your em-ploy-ee,” he said, injecting each syllable of the last word with sarcasm.
Franklin’s words were hushed as he spoke. “My man says she attacked him. That she wasn’t human.”
Mick forced himself to laugh to attempt to dissuade his friend from such thoughts. “Come on, Franklin. She’s just a frickin’ musician. Tell your man to stop using the crack. If you give Edwards his money back and quit the job, we’ll be square.”
“Can’t do. Seriously. It’s my kid, Mick.”
“Is something wrong?” Mick asked, concern for his old friend rising up.
“My daughter’s sick and I need the cash,” Franklin replied.
Mick sat up in his chair, planting his boots firmly on the ground as he dragged a hand though his short-cropped hair in frustration. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“No bullshit. Some kind of anemia and the insurance doesn’t cover all that much for the treatments. I’m going broke from the medical bills.”
In his days as a Ranger, Mick had understood the meaning of trust. So had Franklin. They had survived more than one hairy mission together based on that trust.
He decided to rely on that trust. Well, trust and a little fear.
“There won’t be anywhere for you to hide if you’re not being square with me.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I’ll give you the doc’s name if you want.”
Mick didn’t want it, and it occurred to him in that moment what to do. “Give Edwards his cash back. Tell him you didn’t bargain on Shaw being a psycho.”
“Is she? A psycho?”
Mick supposed that was as good an explanation as any. “Definitely a major EDP. Anyone who manages to catch up to her needs to watch out.”
“But I need the money,” Franklin said, the tones of his voice holding a desperation Mick had only heard once before—during their last mission together when everything had gone to hell.
“Just tell me how much you need and I’ll wire it to your account. You still have the account, right?” he asked, thinking that Edwards’s check in his wallet would go a long way toward helping his friend.
“Still have the account, although it’s virtually tapped out,” Franklin readily admitted.
Franklin had always been good about keeping that safety account with a nice amount of cash, much like he did. Enough money to last for a couple of years if he needed to disappear. Things had to be pretty bad for his friend to dip into that emergency stash.
“The money will be in your account in the next few days.”
“I can’t take the money for doing nothing,” Franklin replied, pride evident in his tone.
Mick laughed good-naturedly to ease his friend’s ego. “Who said you were getting it for nothing? I need you to help me out with some things. Are you game?”
“I’m five-by-five with that. I’d rather work for you than Edwards.”
“Good. Do you still have that secure e-mail account?”
When Franklin confirmed that he did, Mick said, “I’ll send you some instructions and a cell phone number where you can reach me. Keep your ear to the ground on this case. If you find out anything, send a message to my secure account or call me. Roger that?”
“Roger, Mick. I’ll be watching your back.”
“I’m counting on it. Don’t disappoint me.”
CHAPTER 10
Mick hung up and rose from the chair, needing to stretch his legs. He had been at his desk for over two hours since his call to Franklin and he was growing hungry. He hurried to the kitchen to prepare some breakfast and then returned upstairs.
As he reached the door to the bedroom, he paused when he realized Shaw had somehow made a tangle of the sheets which had once covered her body. The shapely length of one leg was now exposed, along with her breasts.
Rather nice, perfectly shaped breasts, he thought, dragging his gaze from them because to continue looking would create too many problems.
Placing the tray on the nightstand, he grabbed the edge of the sheet and carefully raised it back over her upper body.
Not carefully enough.
Caterina snapped her eyes open and, seeing him, strained against her bindings, yanking on them and twisting her body from side to side, the calm of the night before lost.
He held up both hands in a gesture meant to calm her and crooned, “Easy, Cat. Remember. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She recalled that voice, offering peace and comfort in the dark of the night. The deep timbre of his voice resonated calm within her and slipped into Caterina’s consciousness. It was a pleasing tone, reminding her of something musical.
Focus. Focus, she urged herself even as she tugged at the bindings keeping her prisoner. Something else registered as well. The smell of food. Her stomach grumbled loudly and she stopped tugging at the bindings.
She was hungry. Incredibly so.
Caterina dragged the words into her consciousness and said it aloud. “Is that food?”
He chuckled and smiled. “Yes, it’s food. If you stop struggling, I’ll help you sit up so you can eat.”
She did as he asked and he became all action guy, bending to allow her greater slack on the ties on her left arm. When she moved that appendage, the m
otion brought a painful reminder that she had been shot the night before.
She glanced at her shoulder, noting the clean white gauze bandage taped to her skin.
A second later, the ties loosened on her other arm and she tried to sit up, but the room spun and tilted unsteadily as she did so.
Mick was immediately there, providing a solid place for her to rest her head until the wave of dizziness passed.
He took a moment to drag the sheet upward so she could hold it to her and cover her nakedness before he was in motion once again, returning to the other side of the bed and the chair that sat there.
Who was the real man? Caterina wondered, but that thought was immediately replaced when a fork laden with scrambled eggs came into her line of sight as he began to feed her. He offered bite after bite until she heard the final clink of metal against china. Then came a second desire.
“I’m thirsty,” Caterina rasped, suddenly aware of how long it had been since she had drunk or eaten anything substantial.
Mick held up a bright red plastic cup. “Can you handle this on your own?”
The ties were loose enough for Caterina to drink with the cup. She assumed Mick hadn’t trusted her with a real glass because it would make an effective weapon if broken, but she was too parched to care. Greedily, she drank the contents of the cup: cold, refreshing milk. “I know you’re probably used to champagne,” Mick began.
“No, I like milk,” she said as a memory popped forth in her mind. Sitting beside her mother as a child and eating wonderfully nutty cookies with ice-cold milk.
She drank down the entire glass and then returned the empty cup to him. He placed it on a small tray sitting on the nightstand, then braced his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together.
Mick had large hands, she noticed. Nicely shaped with elegant fingers. Along the knuckles of one hand were a series of scars from old nicks and cuts. He wore no rings or other jewelry. Only a large black watch with lots of buttons.
Caterina watched him, uncertain.
And Mick, in turn, watched her, equally puzzled. She had eaten like a bird, literally pecking the food off the fork the action instinctive.
The milk, however, had awakened some kind of thought process within her. A small smile had inched across her lips, and her eyes—those amazing blue eyes—had widened with remembered pleasure.
“Do you know who you are?”
“Cat,” she immediately answered but with a hint of question in her voice. It made him worry that the response was merely a repetition of what she had been hearing from him since last night.
“Do you know what you did?”
Her eyes narrowed and she looked away from him, down to where her hands clutched the sheet to her body. After a quick shake of her head, he pressed forward.
“Do you remember Dr. Wells?”
She nodded and began to pluck and wring the sheet with her fingers.
“Do you remember what happened?”
He leaned forward until she couldn’t avoid meeting his gaze, confronting her with his presence and the question she needed to answer.
“No,” she said and closed her eyes. Mumbled something unintelligible before she started a rhythmic rocking.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have time for a Rain Man act this morning.
Grabbing her forearms, Mick lifted her toward him as far as the restraints allowed and brought his face close to hers.
“Open your eyes, damn it.”
Caterina did as he commanded but averted her gaze, only glancing at him from the corner of her eye. As she did so, the blue hue of the sheets immediately began to bleed onto her skin.
“What happened that night? Why did you kill Dr. Wells?”
She shook her head and struggled against his grasp, surprisingly stronger than the night before. “What happened that night” was a question Caterina had been asking herself over and over again.
Mick held on tightly, bracing his legs on the ground; maintaining his balance and control of Shaw even as she attempted to break free.
“Please let me go,” she finally said. But he held on, needing to break her and get an answer to his questions.
“Who killed Wells?”
“I don’t know,” she cried and fought him, twisting from side to side as she attempted to break free.
A sharp piercing trill broke into their battle. His cell phone.
He tossed her onto the bed so forcefully that she bounced up for a moment before turning onto her side and curling up as much as the restraints permitted. Small, indistinct noises escaped her lips as she nearly became lost on the sheets, blue on blue, except for the dark wealth of her hair.
He looked at the caller ID and mumbled, “Shit.”
Liliana. Hopefully with some news.
CHAPTER 11
“Hermanita. Tell me you’ve got something. Anything.”
“DNA analysis will take a day or two, but my friend rushed the tox screens. Cat has been medicated with an assortment of hallucinogenic drugs, including some dissociative ones.”
Meaning that maybe she wasn’t a raving loon, Mick thought. Maybe something was scrambling the signals to her conscious mind from other parts of her brain, accounting for her erratic behavior.
“I’d ask why, but unfortunately I think I know why—someone wanted to control her,” he said.
“As in mind control?” his sister asked.
He shot a quick glance at Shaw. Her knees were drawn upward as far as the restraints would allow. Her earlier cries had subsided, replaced by incoherent mumbling. Some parts of her were beginning to lose their camouflage color, returning to the normal color of human skin.
Interesting. A fight-or-flight response?
He shook his head, wondering, and left the room to keep the discussion with his sister private. Leaning against the wall in the hall, he said, “CIA experimented with LSD and other psychedelic drugs in the fifties and sixties. The MK Ultra Project. Maybe someone took a cue from that.”
“If that project involved an assortment of alkaloids, that’s a possible scenario. The tests showed small traces of LSD, larger amounts of ketamine and some other spikes of unknown origin, although they contained nitrogen, like most alkaloids.”
Mick walked back to the door and examined Shaw as she rested fitfully on the bed. With a heavy sigh, he said, “She could have coded last night when we medicated her. The sedative together with all that crap might have clobbered her heart rate and breathing.”
“We can’t administer anything else until these other drugs are out of her system,” Liliana advised.
Another voice intruded from a distance. “Dr. Carrera. You’re needed in the ER.”
When his sister spoke, providing a reply to whoever needed her, her words were muffled, as if she had covered the mouthpiece with her hand. Then she came back on the line. “I’ve got to go.”
“Roger, hermanita. Call as soon as you’ve got anything else,” he said and hung up.
He stalked back to the side of the bed and glanced down at Shaw. She had quieted somewhat, but he didn’t trust that she wouldn’t become agitated again, especially considering the mix of drugs someone had pumped into her.
The LSD alone could have residual effects that might linger for some time, depending on how much of it she had received and for how long. He’d even heard of cases where people tripped years after receiving the drug. Since Liliana had mentioned that the traces of LSD had been small, he hoped the effects might be gone within a few days.
With the drugs out of her body, Shaw might become more coherent and cooperative, although doubts lingered about her condition. And about the weird traits she was exhibiting—the extra-human strength, skin that went all camo when she lost control. That was something she had done a few times, but was it only due to the drugs?
Could she have committed Wells’s murder during one of those incoherent and possibly violent times?
Mick had to figure out what was going on, and he had to figure out what
had actually happened with Wells before he turned Shaw over to Edwards.
Shaw might be a drug-crazed lunatic, possibly even a murderer, but she was still higher on his list than the urbane Dr. Edwards. Even if the physician hadn’t actively participated in what had been done to her, he’d had a hand in it as the owner of the company.
He didn’t much care for people who took advantage of those who were weaker.
Mick tossed down his pen, frustrated by his enforced confinement.
Although he had taken care of more than one wounded comrade and enjoyed his time as an EMT, being a nursemaid was an entirely different thing. Especially when combined with his patient’s continued outbursts.
He’d been listening to them for the better part of the late morning as he attempted to obtain more information on Wardwell. He surged from his office chair, determined to put an end to the noise, when he spotted his iPod sitting beside the computer.
They say music quiets the savage beast. Maybe it could quiet Shaw. If she connected with the music, she might also make some kind of association with who and what she had been. That in turn might trigger more recollections about the night of the murder.
He snagged the iPod and bounded down the hall to the guest bedroom.
As she had before, Shaw immediately reacted to his presence, her skin transforming before his eyes. He tempered his actions, measuring his pace as he neared the bed. Keeping his movements nonthreatening and his voice even.
“I won’t hurt you, Cat.”
He slipped the iPod into the unit on the nightstand. With the push of a button, Shaw’s music spilled from the speakers.
Dvorak’s Cello Concerto in B minor. She had played the piece at the Kimmel Center last year.
“That’s you, Cat. You playing the cello,” he said in soft tones, crouching down so that he would be eye level with her.
“Do you remember? Do you remember what you were? Who you are?”
“I’m Cat,” she said brightly, but her answer seemed to displease him.
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