Hunter (Decorah Security Series, Book #20): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel

by Rebecca York

  The unexpected words hit her like a blow to the stomach, and she gasped in a startled breath of air.

  A little smile played around Emerson’s lips. At first, she thought he was enjoying her shock. Yet, as his gaze slid away from hers, she saw something more disturbing. His eyes gave him away. For some reason, he was telling her a lie. Or he was filtering the truth.

  To find out which, she’d have to encourage him to keep talking. “Is that the big secret up here? You’re using behavior modification techniques the rest of us haven’t discovered yet?”

  “No. Our Dr. Swinton is conducting experiments which are on the cutting edge of biological research. We’re doing socio-biological engineering using tools unavailable just a few years ago.” Warming to the subject, he continued, “We’ve developed a protocol for complete rehabilitation of criminals, if you will.”

  “Complete rehabilitation. That’s hard to believe,” Kathryn ventured, recalling the many experiments she’d read about. The success rate for preventing recidivism was abysmally low, even with the most ambitious programs—which required strong incentives for offenders to change their view of the world. John Doe didn’t seem to be enjoying any special incentives.

  Emerson lowered his voice and leaned across the desk as if a hidden microphone from miles down the road could pick up his words. “Dr. Swinton has used a completely new approach. John Doe won’t repeat his criminal activity, because we’ve been able to erase the antisocial memories from his mind.”

  She goggled. “How?”

  “Through intensive drug therapy that interrupts the flow of neurotransmitters and scrubs away previous behavior patterns and learned responses.”

  He was apparently unaware of the effect he was having on Kathryn as she tried to imagine someone who would want to do that to a human being.

  “Are you telling me you’ve given him mind-altering drugs that wiped out his memory?” she managed.

  “That’s right. Which is why we need to have you work with him.”

  “Me?” she asked in a choked voice.

  “Yes.” He shook his head. “Sorry. I forgot you haven’t been given the whole picture. During phase two of our project, he’s absorbed a great deal of technical information and acquired impressive physical expertise. But his social development is lagging way behind. Your assignment will be to bring him up to speed on people skills. “

  She was trying to come to grips with that when a loud buzzer sounded in the room, making her jump.

  “What now?” he muttered in annoyance, reaching for the telephone.

  She couldn’t hear any of the conversation on the other end of the line, but she could tell from the rush of words and the thunderous response on Emerson’s face that the news was bad.

  “When?” he asked. Then. “How in the hell did that happen?”

  He listened to the answer, then cursed. “Well, try not to damage him. I’ll be right there.” Standing, he moved around the desk. “John Doe assaulted one of his instructors and is tearing the gym apart.”

  “He couldn’t have,” she protested, wanting to be right.

  Emerson gave her a dark look. “Dammit to hell. I thought this time we’d done it.”

  “I’m good in a crisis situation,” she answered. “Let me see what I can do.” Without waiting for an answer, she hurried after him out the door and down the hall, moving in double time to keep up. He was certainly in great physical shape for a man his age, she thought as she stepped outside a back door, breathing heavily.

  A government issue brown Chevrolet was parked in front of a sign that said, “Reserved for Director of Operations.”

  Lips pressed grimly together, Emerson climbed behind the wheel. Kathryn slid into the passenger seat. He didn’t wait for her to fasten her seat belt before shooting backwards out of the space, reversing with a screech of tires, and barreling down the hill.

  She braced her hand against the dashboard, trying to keep from being flung about by the wild motion of the car and, at the same time, trying to understand everything she’d just heard. All her instincts screamed that Emerson’s claims about John Doe’s background were all untrue. He couldn’t be a criminal. And they couldn’t have cold-bloodedly wiped out his memories. Yet she had no other information to go on. And no explanation for why he’d gone berserk.

  As she struggled to keep her seat, an ambulance with siren blaring passed them in the opposite direction. She’d almost worked out a system for staying in place when they skidded to a stop in front of a large building with a curved roof.

  Emerson jumped out of the car and took the cracked sidewalk at a run. Kathryn trotted after him.

  A small crowd of men was grouped around the door. Some were cut from the same mold as McCourt. Others wore lab coats. And a sizable contingent was dressed in blue uniforms, like a private security force. Most of them eyed her curiously as she came to a halt behind the Chief of Operations.

  “Where is he?” Emerson demanded.

  “In the locker room.” The answer came from a broad-shouldered black man who stepped forward. His name tag identified him as Winslow.

  Emerson glanced around at the crowd. “Get back to your duties,” he said in a voice that demanded compliance.

  The group immediately began to disperse.

  “Inside,” he said to Winslow.

  Deciding she was included in the terse invitation, Kathryn followed them into a small lobby.

  “Let’s have it,” Emerson demanded after pushing the door shut.

  Winslow stood with his arms stiffly at his sides. “He was late from his run. Beckton was angry ‘cause he’d been waiting for the hand-to-hand combat session. He shoved him around a little bit the way he does when he’s riled up.”

  “Stop using so damn many pronouns. Who shoved whom?” Emerson demanded.

  “Sorry, sir. Beckton shoved Doe. At first, Doe stood there and took it like usual. Then he said he was given an extra two miles by McCourt. Beckton told him to shut up and punched him on the arm. Doe got this strange look on his face and turned and socked Beckton in the gut. Beckton went down. He got up cursing and went in low. But Doe kept at him. A couple of guys dived in and tried to pull him off. He decked them and retreated into the locker room. We were able to pull Beckton out. He was unconscious when they took him away.”

  “What happened today that was different from past sessions?” Emerson demanded.

  Winslow looked flustered. “Nothing, sir. He—Beckton’s—been rough with him before. Rougher than this.”

  “Like how?”

  “Nothing serious. Just punches where he knew it would hurt. He—Doe’s always took it. Except when he was supposed to be fighting, of course.”

  Kathryn listened, appalled at the casual acceptance of violence.

  “Has anyone tried to get Doe out of the locker room?” Emerson asked.

  “No, sir. We were waiting for your direct orders. We have Reid standing by with a Taser. Or we can use the tranq gun. I assume you don’t want to terminate the subject,” Winslow added in a low voice.

  Kathryn felt the blood freeze in her veins. They were discussing the man she’d met as if he were a dangerous animal that had escaped from a zoo—or a homicidal maniac.

  “Certainly not!” Emerson shot back. “We’ve gotten farther with him than any of the others.”

  “Let me talk to him,” she said.

  The men’s heads snapped toward her.

  “I don’t think that would be such a good idea, ma’am,” Winslow said.

  “I’m Dr. Kathryn Kelley,” she answered. “I was hired to work with Doe.”

  “You’re Dr. Kelley?” he asked, and she got the impression he’d been expecting her to be ten feet tall and built like a Sherman tank.

  She squared her shoulders. “I believe I’m up to the job.”

  Emerson nodded. “She and McCourt encountered Doe on his run. McCourt said they had quite a conversation—for Doe. She seemed to click with him.”

  Winslow looke
d from her to Emerson and back again. “What the hell did you say to him?”

  “I—” she stopped, shrugged. “Not much. I asked his name. He said I was different . . . from the other people here.” She related a few more lines of the conversation, knowing she hadn’t conveyed the flavor of the experience. Too much of it had been on a nonverbal level.

  Was it possible she had anything to do with his aberrant behavior? Maybe. Or maybe it was simply a coincidence. Before Winslow could say anything else, or she could change her mind, she pulled open the door behind him and stepped into a large room with a wooden floor, a basketball hoop, and a track marked off around the perimeter.

  “Come back, you damn little fool,” he called.

  Emerson said nothing. He was a pragmatist, and he was probably thinking that he didn’t have anything to lose by letting his new recruit try her luck. If she got herself killed, he could hire somebody else.

  She looked around at the gym, searching for signs of a madman on a rampage. The indications were minimal. A clipboard lay on the floor with the pages ruffled. A few feet away was a service revolver and ballpoint pen with a crushed barrel.

  Still, as her gaze zeroed in on some red droplets spattering the floor, she knew she was viewing the evidence of the fight. Was she out of her mind to be in here?

  Slowly she turned and found that Emerson had followed her into the gym. “Don’t let anybody else come in unless I call for assistance,” she said in a firm voice.

  “Do we have a live microphone in there?” he asked Winslow through the partially opened door.

  “It’s shorted out.”

  “Damn.”

  She was only wasting time, she told herself as her gaze swept the room. At the far end, was an exit to the outside of the building. Through the glass she could see several of the men in blue uniforms standing guard. So presumably Doe hadn’t escaped.

  Trying to ignore the pulse pounding in her temple, she marched to the door on her right, pulled it open, and found herself facing an ordinary dressing room, about fourteen feet square. Gray metal lockers lined two of the walls, and wooden benches were positioned in front of them. The air smelled like damp towels and male bodies, but the room was empty. The only exit was an archway at the back from which she saw steam billowing and heard running water.

  It appeared that John Doe had beaten one man unconscious and decked several others—and now he was calmly taking a shower.

  Before she could change her mind, she stepped into the locker room and felt the door swing shut behind her. Seconds later, she heard the water stop. God, what was she doing, she suddenly wondered, glancing from the shower room to close the door and back again? Coming in here alone might be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done.

  She wanted to bolt from the room. But she remembered the face of the man on the road. She’d seen a bleakness behind his eyes that had wrenched at her heart. No wonder, when you considered the implications of Emerson and Winslow’s callous conversation.

  Instead of running away, she crossed the tile floor on unsteady legs and dropped quickly onto one of the benches.

  There was no noise from inside the shower room besides the steady dripping of water. And she could see nothing beyond the billowing steam.

  “Hello?” she called.

  No answer.

  “Hello. It’s Kathryn Kelley. Do you remember me? We met while you were on your run. I’m in the locker room.”

  She sat staring into the mist, wondering if he had heard. Or if he even remembered her, for that matter, she thought with a jolt. If they’d been feeding him mind-altering drugs, there was no telling what they’d done to him.

  After several seconds she saw a form moving indistinctly in the vapor. A tall, man-shaped form. Moving closer. Moving slowly on feet that were silent as a cat. Then he stepped through the doorway and into the locker room, and she couldn’t hold back a gasp. A towel was draped across his shoulders. Otherwise, he was as naked as the day he was born.

  She saw her own feeling of shock mirrored on his face as he came to an abrupt halt, staring at her with a mixture of recognition and astonishment. Well, he remembered her, all right. Apparently, their meeting had been as unique for him as it had been for her.

  The disbelief vanished as he continued to regard her, standing comfortably with his feet several inches apart. He was tall and intimidating, towering over her where she huddled on the bench. Droplets of water clung to his skin. His dark hair was wet, making it look almost black.

  “You were with McCourt,” he said, his features filling with a roiling mixture of emotions before he got control of them.

  She struggled to keep her posture relaxed as she looked up at him. He had been compelling in running shorts and a tee shirt. Naked he reminded her of Michelangelo’s David. And he stood with the same unconscious nobility, as if nudity were the norm and she was overdressed in her beige skirt and jade silk blouse. His shoulders were broad, his hips lean, his stomach flat. And his sex was proportioned to inspire some very erotic fantasies.

  But this was no time for fantasies or recklessness. One wrong move and she could be in serious trouble. The two of them were alone, and he could hurt her if he wanted, she reminded herself. The thought of rape leaped into her mind, to be dismissed at once. He wasn’t looking at her like a would-be rapist. In fact, he didn’t look as if he were trying to embarrass her or make a point about a woman invading the guys’ locker room. There was no smirk on his face—only an expression that had become carefully neutral.

  Still, she swallowed hard, resisting the impulse to put more space between them. Dragging her eyes upward, she saw a narrow slash along his ribs that looked like a recent knife wound. There were other injuries to his olive-colored flesh, all of which appeared to have been inflicted within the past few months, judging from their color. He’d taken a lot of physical punishment, and the knowledge made her throat tighten.

  She wasn’t sure what she expected him to say. When he spoke, his words were a shock. “Why are you sad?” he asked, picking up on the emotion she had neglected to hide. She knew then, that whatever else he was, he was very good at reading people.

  Her gaze moved higher still and collided with his dark, almost black eyes. They held a kind of aching vulnerability that made her fingers curl around the edge of the bench. “I... I was thinking about how you got all those injuries.”

  “Fighting. Or sometimes they hit me,” he said, his voice even as if his words were of no importance.

  She winced. “Like Beckton?”

  He nodded gravely.

  “This time he made you angry?”

  The naked man didn’t answer. But she could tell he was considering the question as his gaze turned inward.

  Seconds ticked by. Her mind raced as she remembered what Emerson had said about him. She didn’t want to accept the claim that he was a criminal. But she could believe the parts about his memories having been stolen. His present behavior was enough to convince her that he lacked a basic understanding of the social interactions of Western society. Either that, or he was a master at faking total unconcern for his state of undress.

  Well, it might be natural for him to be conducting an extended conversation in his birthday suit. It was hardly the social norm for her.

  “You have to put some clothes on,” she said, watching his face. It was as innocent as a child’s.

  “Why?”

  “It’s not polite to be naked.”

  “Beckton, Winslow undress. We shower. We dress.”

  She nodded, deciding to take his answer at face value. “It’s okay for men when they’re alone in a locker room. It’s not okay in front of a woman.”

  She watched as he moved the towel briskly across his shoulders, then down his lean but muscular body. When she realized she was still staring, she pivoted her body in the other direction.

  It dawned on her that she’d just turned her back on someone who had sent a man to the hospital a short time ago. She should be afraid, but
she didn’t brace for an attack.

  Behind her, the locker door opened. She heard the towel, then the rustling of clothing. When she turned back, he had pulled on a pair of blue jeans. His chest was still bare, and he was rubbing the towel vigorously across his head. Then he ran his hands through the long strands of his hair, combing them back from his face before reaching inside the locker for a dark green knit shirt and pulling it over his head.

  As he sat down to pull on socks and running shoes, she framed and rejected several questions.

  Again, he took the initiative from her. “The men are afraid to come in here. They are large and strong. You are small and . . .” he stopped and searched for the right word. “Defenseless. But you found the courage,” he said.

  “It didn’t take so much courage.”

  He looked up in the act of tying his shoe. “You are not telling me the truth.”

  She was shocked at the bluntness of his observation.

  “Okay. I was afraid at first. Then I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

  “How?”

  “Your eyes,” she said.

  He narrowed them, making his expression harder. She wasn’t fooled by the feigned look of aggression.

  “I’m not afraid of you. But I’m afraid of what Mr. Emerson might do to you if he doesn’t hear from me soon. I’m going to open the door and tell him I’m all right. Okay?”

  Seconds ticked by before he nodded.

  She crossed to the door and pulled it open. Emerson and Winslow were where she’d left them—on the far side of the gym. “We’re fine in here,” she called out.

  “Bring him out,” Emerson ordered.

  “Not yet.”

  “Bring him out, or we’re coming in.”

  “Give me a few minutes to talk to him.” She closed the door firmly and turned to find John Doe watching her intently.

  “Why did you come here?” he asked.

  “I want to help you.”

  He tipped his head to one side, examining her from a slightly different angle. “Nobody wants to help me,” he said in a flat voice. “They want to train me. Like an animal who can do tricks. I have many tricks.”