by Rebecca York
The harsh words and the level tone sent a great wave of anguish crashing over her. Her face contorted, and unconsciously, she reached out a hand toward him. “I want to be your friend,” she said, realizing that it wasn’t just a ploy to get him to trust her. It was the truth. If anyone had ever needed a friend, it was this man who was so obviously cut off from normal human contact.
He searched her eyes, slipped one hand into his pocket and said nothing more. His posture and his face told her that he wasn’t prepared to believe her.
She asked herself briefly why she cared. Or why she desperately needed to prove the truth of her words. She had no answers, except that she wanted to contact him as one human being who takes responsibility for another. Going on blind instinct, she stood and crossed the room. Warily he watched her progress, but she didn’t stop until she was standing about a foot away. Reaching out, she touched his forearm. She felt the muscles under the fabric of his shirt quiver; otherwise, he stood very still, like an animal sniffing the air for danger.
She moved her hand, the barest caress, and heard him draw in a deep breath.
“That feels good,” he said, and she heard the wonder in his voice. It was like a little boy on Christmas morning finding the floor under the tree unexpectedly piled with presents. Yet it had taken only the touch of her hand on his arm to elicit the response.
She felt a strange fluttering around her heart. At that moment she was achingly convinced that he had no recent memory of any gentle touch. It was the strongest proof yet that Bill Emerson wasn’t totally lying about his history. If it was true, though, the implications were staggering. Was this really a man without memories of human interaction—good or bad?
God, what would that be like? Maybe a little like having amnesia.
If she stopped to examine the logic of the situation, she was lost. This encounter was like nothing she had ever experienced in her life. He was like no one she had ever met. They could have been two people from different galaxies making first contact. Two people trying to find common ground that would let them understand each other.
“Why do they call you John Doe?” she asked in a low voice.
It was a simple question, but more seconds ticked by while he thought about the answer. Finally, he shrugged.
“If you could pick a name, what would it be?”
He raised his head, stared into the distance. “Grendel,” he said in a low voice.
She felt her throat constrict and had to swallow before she could ask, “The monster in Beowulf? Why?”
This time his shrug had a slightly different quality. “That is how they think of me. I am apart. Different. They fear me.”
“No.”
He made a low sound. “Maybe you do not. They do.”
She heard the resignation in the words and had to blink back tears. “If you could pick a name you really liked, what would it be?” she asked.
Again, he considered her question. “Hunter,” he finally said.
“Why Hunter?”
“That is what I am.”
She didn’t know him well enough to follow his reasoning, but she nodded. “I like that name.”
“Then I will tell them I am Hunter.”
“Yes.” She liked the way he said it, his tone clear and decisive. “You chose it yourself.”
He nodded, a look of pride on his face. It brought a subtle change to his features
Such a little thing, she thought with a surge of wonder. A name. Yet it made an enormous difference to him. As she gazed at him, she felt an invisible net tightening around her, pulling her toward this man who needed her more than anybody had ever needed her before. It was empowering, yet frightening. She sensed that he had let her past a barrier no other person had crossed. He was so open to her. Vulnerable. She could hurt him badly if she didn’t handle things in the right way.
He watched her eyes intently as he lifted his hand and very gently ran his thumb over her cheek, down to her lips. The pad of his thumb was rough.
“Your skin is soft,” he said in a barely audible voice. “I touched a yellow flower in the field once. You are soft—like the petals.”
The way he said it made a shiver go through her. All she could do was nod the barest amount. The emotional turmoil of the past few days had been staggering. She had come to Stratford Creek because she thought she’d be safe—that she could stop worrying about being stalked. But nothing that had happened so far had been what she’d expected. She hadn’t met anyone here who made her feel safe. Except, oddly enough, a man who was supposed to be a criminal.
A sense of unsteadiness, of confusion made her heart beat faster. The effort of holding herself together was suddenly too much. Without conscious thought she let her head drift to his broad shoulder. It was solid and strong. Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to conjure a little fantasy. If she delivered herself into this man’s hands, he would shield her from harm.
The notion was deeply appealing, and she sighed. So did he.
“Where did we meet before?” he asked.
“On the road.”
“Before that. I do not know when it was. All I know is that it is important to remember,” he continued in an urgent voice. “More important than the music. Or the other things.”
“What other things?” She raised her head and stared at him.
He tugged on his left earlobe the way he had done before, thinking. “The things that come to me. A color. Or a sound. A smell. The sunset over the desert at night. They flit into my mind like a moth. Then they escape into the darkness.”
“You remember things?” she asked, suddenly hoping for proof that Emerson had been lying.
“I . . . do not know for sure. What is the difference between memories and wishing?”
She had no answer, for she knew that it was perfectly possible, under the right circumstances, for people to remember things that hadn’t happened. But the mixture of uncertainty and longing on his face tore at her, and she raised her hand to his cheek. For a long moment, neither of them moved, then he turned his head so that his lips brushed her fingers, so lightly that she wondered if she imagined it.
“Another thing I remember. . . the touch of soft flesh against my flesh. Or perhaps I want to think it is true,” he said wistfully.
His voice was husky with emotion she suspected had been bottled up inside him for a long time. She wanted to turn and gather him to her. Then she remembered that the Chief of Operations and a squad of security men were waiting outside, and she’d promised to defuse a tense situation.
Straightening, she cleared her throat. Although it wasn’t easy to make herself pull back, she took a small step away from him. “I told Mr. Emerson I’d find out about what happened with Beckton,” she said.
His expression hardened. “He asked why I was late. I told him. He said I was lying, and he punched me. I do not lie.”
She tried to keep her voice neutral. “He hit you before, and you didn’t hurt him. Why was this time different?”
“It just was.”
“Why?”
His brows knitted. Seconds ticked by. “You,” he finally said. “Seeing you. And talking.”
“I don’t understand. What does it have to do with me?”
“You made me want to be different,” he said, then looked startled by the revelation.
“What do you mean?” she persisted in a shaky voice.
“I—” Before he could finish the sentence, the sound of running feet echoed through the gym.
Hunter’s gaze shot from her to the door through which she’d entered. He gave her a look that was equal parts hurt and anger. Then his face went blank. Whirling, he crouched in a defensive stance, just as the door opened and a swarm of men wearing riot gear poured into the locker room.
Chapter Three
Kathryn screamed as the riot squad swarmed over Hunter like predators fighting over fresh meat. He had remarkable strength. At first, he was able to defend himself with several well-placed mart
ial arts moves, but there were six of them and only one of him. She saw them landing blow after blow designed to inflict pain. Then, as if on an unspoken signal, a man in the back calmly lifted a gun with a needle-shaped barrel and fired into Hunter’s shoulder.
Even as her mind registered that it must be a tranquilizer gun, an anguished gasp tore from her lips.
Although the dart was clearly embedded in his flesh, Hunter redoubled his efforts, fighting like a wild man to free himself from the hands that held him fast. Still, his incredible physique was no match for a tranquilizer.
She saw consciousness slipping from him, but he fought to stay awake. Raising his head, he scanned the room for something. He was looking for her, she realized with a start as his dark gaze cleared for a moment, boring into her with the force of a drill bit gouging through solid rock. She had never been truly afraid of him until that moment. Suddenly she was thankful that four men were restraining him. Anger blazed in the depths of his eyes like cold fire.
“You. . . tricked. . . me,” he flung at her, fighting to get the words out as the dart did its insidious work.
“No!”
“You came . . . here with soft words . . . so they. . . could . . ..” The effort to speak sapped the last of his strength, and his body sagged.
“No,” she repeated, shaking her head violently, still protesting her innocence, even as he lost the effort to keep his eyes open.
The four men hanging on to him were left supporting his dead weight. Even as he slipped toward the floor, the man with the gun uttered a vile curse and punched sharply on the back of the neck.
The last sound he made was a deep groan of pain.
“Stop it!” Kathryn clenched her fists, wanting to rush across the room and pummel the man who had landed the gratuitous blow on Hunter’s defenseless body. Helpless rage bubbled up inside her. There was nothing she could do, not even strike out in anger. According to their view of events, that would only make them think that she was some kind of nut case.
“Get him out of here, Reid,” Emerson ordered.
“Where should we put him—in a cell?” the man asked. He was the one who had rabbit-punched Hunter as the others had held him.
“In his bedroom,” Kathryn jumped.
Emerson turned in her direction, his expression indicating he’d forgotten she was on the scene.
“Are you afraid of an unconscious man?” she asked in as detached a voice as she could manage.
“He’ll come around in a couple of hours,” Reid said. “Then we’ll have a bleeping mess on our hands.”
“If you’re afraid to deal with the consequences, I can be there to manage him,” she answered, deliberately trying to use a word they would respect. “In fact, I was managing him very well until you came bursting into the room.”
The men ignored her, waiting for orders from Emerson. “Take him to his quarters,” he said.
“And don’t hit him again,” Kathryn added. “That’s counterproductive.”
“He needs to be knocked upside the head,” Reid growled.
“You’ve already done enough of that.”
“We weren’t having any trouble with him until you showed up,” a familiar voice said from the doorway.
She turned and saw Chip McCourt watching her with interest.
“No trouble?” she asked, her voice edged with sarcasm. “Then why did you say—how did you delicately put it—that he’d beat the crap out of me if I got close to him?”
The man’s face darkened, and she realized her jangled nerves had resulted in another tactical error.
“We haven’t had an incident for a while,” he mumbled. “But you obviously triggered regressive behavior.”
“Maybe it was more mature behavior—in some private context of his own,” she countered.
“Oh, come on!”
“I’ll be better equipped to make judgments when I’m up to speed on his previous history,” she said, retreating into her role as newly hired psychologist. “Perhaps we should have a strategy session before he wakes up. Those who are working with him can fill me in on what I need to know, so I won’t make any mistakes.”
McCourt’s expression told her he thought she’d already made plenty of mistakes.
“That’s an excellent idea,” Emerson agreed. He turned to McCourt. “Be in my office in half an hour. You and the rest of the senior staff. Winslow, Kolb, Swinton.” He paused for a moment. “And Anderson.”
“Yes, sir.” McCourt wheeled and left the room.
Emerson strode back into the gym.
Kathryn followed him to the car, still haunted by the mixture of anger and anguish in Hunter’s eyes—and by the cryptic statement he’d made just before the security men had grabbed him.
He’d told her the two of them were tied together. But he was too striking, too remarkable for her to have met him before and forgotten him. It made more sense to assume that he had dredged up a half-buried memory and inserted her into it as part of a defense mechanism to cope with a situation any sane person would find untenable. Yet even as she struggled for an explanation, she felt the truth of his words deep inside herself, as sure as the pounding of her heart and the blood rushing through her veins. Perhaps they hadn’t laid eyes on each other before today, but something remarkable had happened between them.
She sensed he’d told her things—private things—he had never shared with anyone else. He would have told her more, except that the cavalry had charged into the room, and he’d thought she’d abused his trust. Unfortunately, there was a grain of truth to his assumption. The Chief of Operations had been using her to make Hunter relax his defenses—so he could bring in the riot troops.
The car started, and she swung her head toward the window, feigning a deep interest in the red-brick buildings when what she really wanted to do was round on Emerson and shout out her outrage and frustration. Instead, she kept her lips pressed together. No more avoidable errors, she warned herself. No emotional outbursts. She had to stay cool and figure out how to work within the system that had been established here if she was going to help Hunter. And she was going to help him, she silently promised herself, because in her professional career, she’d never seen anything that disturbed her as much as what they’d just done to him.
Was he really being subjected to cruel and unusual punishment as part of an official U.S. Government project? It was hard to believe, yet she had to assume from her own observations that it was true. The man was being abused physically and mentally. What if she could gather enough information to write up a report that would close down Stratford Creek? Though the plan had appeal, it would be risky—both to herself and Hunter—she suspected.
She worried her lower lip between her teeth, acknowledging the all too familiar symptoms in herself. She was getting involved again—opening herself to the depths of someone else’s pain. But this time was different, she realized. It was stronger, sharper, suffused with a sense of urgency she’d never felt before. She had never met a man quite like Hunter and never been affected on quite such a personal level.
Bill Emerson’s voice pierced her thoughts.
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” he said, and she knew that while he’d been driving, he’d been covertly observing the play of emotions on her face.
“I’m fine,” she lied, clamping down on the need to press a hand to her temple, which had begun to throb.
“Well, I’m impressed with the way you came in here cold and figured out what needed to be done. I was worried we might damage him.”
The casually delivered comment made her lower her hand so that he wouldn’t see it tremble. “Damage,” she repeated. “You sound like you’re referring to a piece of equipment.”
“Yes. Sorry. Habits die hard.” He paused for a fraction of a second. “We’ve thought of John Doe as a test subject for so long that it’s difficult to shift our attitudes.”
“Perhaps it would help if you told me what he’s being trained to do,” she sai
d in as nonconfrontational a voice as she could manage.
“Yes, I was about to fill you in on some pertinent background when we were so rudely interrupted. Our subject has volunteered for a dangerous mission in a foreign country. He must go in by himself, maybe set up a temporary base of operations, which means he’s got to function in a public setting without drawing suspicion to himself. In other words, he needs a crash course in acceptable social behavior. That’s where your expertise will be needed.”
Several pointed observations flitted through Kathryn’s mind. The first was that Hunter was backward socially because he was living with a bunch of jerks. The second was that it was a bit unfair to be undertaking a dangerous assignment when you couldn’t remember having volunteered. All she said was, “What kind of mission?”
“You don’t need to know any more than I’ve told you.” Emerson answered crisply. “You just have to make sure he’s ready to go.”
The way he said it made her blood run cold. But she only gave him a little nod of acknowledgment.
Emerson pulled into the same parking spot behind the administration building. However, instead of taking her to his office, he showed her into an adjoining conference room.
“Take a few minutes to relax before the meeting starts,” he advised before leaving her alone.
She didn’t have any problem following his advice. The moment he closed the door behind her, she slumped in one of the seats around the conference table. She’d only gotten a few moments of blessed repose when a disturbing thought drifted into her mind. Emerson had mentioned that the surveillance equipment in the locker room was broken. What if he had a recording system in here? Sitting up, she looked around, seeing nothing as obvious as a camera. Maybe it was hidden behind a picture—like in Orwell’s 1984, she thought with a grim little twinge as she inspected a landscape on the opposite wall. Well, she’d have to learn to adapt to the conditions here, she told herself, and knew she’d made the decision to stay.
Minutes later, the brunette secretary bustled into the room with a tray of sandwiches and muffins and a pot of coffee. She also opened a lower cabinet and brought out a selection of canned sodas.
