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

by Rebecca York

  Kathryn helped herself to a turkey sandwich and coffee. But as she tried to eat, an image of Hunter being dragged away by the security team flashed into her mind.

  Dropping her sandwich on the paper plate in front of her, she started to rise from her seat, seized with the irrational notion that if she could make physical contact with him—grasp his hand or something—she could somehow make him understand that she hadn’t tricked him on purpose. But she didn’t even know where to find him, she conceded as she sank back into her chair. Even if she did, she’d only be demonstrating an unprofessional personal involvement with the Stratford Creek research subject. Not a smart move, under the circumstances.

  At that moment, the door opened, and Winslow strode in. After several seconds hesitation, he gave her a curt nod and took a seat across the table. Where he could keep an eye on her? Or did he want to make it clear they weren’t allies?

  “How is he?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

  “Sleeping. Dr. Kolb is checking him out.”

  At least that was something. Before she could ask any more questions, McCourt arrived. To her surprise, he turned out to be the Assistant Chief of Security. What was he, the boy wonder?

  Other men followed, each introducing himself and briefly filling her in on his job. Sam Winslow worked under Jerome Beckton, the Chief of Training. Doug Granger, who looked like a college wrestling champion with bulging muscles and a ruddy complexion, was also on the training staff. As Emerson had already mentioned, Dr. Swinton was Chief of Research. Dr. Kolb, the facility’s physician, a small man with a pale complexion and a deeply lined face, came hurrying in last.

  Like Emerson, everyone was dressed in civilian clothing. But as she studied the men he’d referred to as the Senior Staff, she noted that they all projected a military bearing, except for the tall, balding Dr. Swinton. She pegged him as an academic type when she spotted his white socks and plastic pocket protector stuffed full of ballpoint pens. Of the men in the room, he looked the most uncomfortable in her presence. Maybe he was sensing her antipathy to his line of research.

  Apparently, the staff members often combined a meal with meetings because everybody helped himself to sandwiches and a drink. None of them went out of his way to be friendly, but they were definitely curious about the new recruit.

  Of the group, she found Dr. Kolb the most unsettling. Although he didn’t want her to know he had any special interest in her, his bloodshot eyes kept swinging in her direction when he thought she wasn’t looking

  Emerson came in late, poured himself a cup of coffee and snagged a ham sandwich before taking the place at the head of the table. “Where’s Anderson?” he asked.

  “My assistant had other duties,” Dr. Swinton answered, making it sound like he didn’t feel Anderson was entitled to a place at the table.

  Emerson gave a curt nod, then turned abruptly to Dr. Kolb. “How is John Doe?”

  The doctor jumped. “Uh. . . his vital signs are normal, under the circumstances, colonel.”

  “Good.” Emerson took in the information, then addressed the rest of the men. “I trust you’ve all met Dr. Kelley, our newly hired psychologist, and that you are all familiar with her excellent background in working with various types of disadvantaged individuals.”

  There was a chorus of murmurs around the table.

  So, he’d already circulated her résumé, Kathryn thought. Fast work.

  “As you know, Dr. Kelley was added to the Project Sandstorm team as an outgrowth of the monthly progress evaluation being made of our subject—our prison volunteer, John Doe.”

  Project Sandstorm, she mused. It conjured up a stealth attack in the desert. Was that where he was going?

  “When it was determined that our subject’s lack of social skills was affecting the timetable of the project,” Emerson continued, “various remedial solutions were suggested.”

  As Kathryn listened to the convoluted speech, she noted that the men around the table were judging her reaction.

  Why? Everyone here surely knew they were experimenting with a prison volunteer, so what was the point of emphasizing the man’s peculiar status? Unless the Chief of Operations was subtly reminding them of something else. She found herself conjuring an entirely different scenario. Suppose Emerson was lying about how they’d acquired the services of the man they called John Doe. Suppose their “volunteer” had met with an unfortunate accident that had wiped out his memory, and the Stratford Creek team was capitalizing on the circumstances. Suppose they were using a cover story about a prison volunteer until she was inculcated enough to be trusted with the truth.

  She could well be jumping to unwarranted conclusions. Maybe she was way off base with her speculation. Yet intuition and training both told her that the colonel was twisting the truth again.

  Emerson stopped talking, and she realized with a start that he was waiting for a response from her.

  Straightening in her chair, she gave him an encouraging smile. “I could see you were having problems with him the moment I met him on the road.”

  From his place down the table, McCourt nodded, and she knew she’d given the right answer as far as the security man was concerned.

  “And I think I’ve already begun the process of speeding up his socialization,” she said, hoping she was still on the right track.

  “How?” Winslow demanded.

  “By making him feel more accepted. No disrespect intended, but the use of the name John Doe appears to be a deliberate attempt on the part of the staff to distance yourselves from him as an individual. However, he can hardly learn interpersonal relationships without experiencing them,” she said, leaning heavily on professional jargon.

  “Bingo,” Dr. Kolb muttered and earned a dirty look from the research director.

  She noted the not-so-friendly byplay between the two senior staffers as she continued. “In the locker room, I suggested that he give himself a more agreeable name. He chose Hunter. After that, it was easier to communicate with him.”

  Mixed reactions erupted around the table—from guarded approval on the part of Dr. Kolb to undisguised hostility from Sam Winslow.

  “Hunter? Where did that come from?” Dr. Swinton demanded.

  She kept her reply conversational. “He says he’s a hunter.”

  The Chief of Operations laughed appreciatively. “Yes. I guess it fits.”

  Granger managed to echo the commander’s chuckle. McCourt didn’t bother to mask his disapproval.

  Swinton had taken out one of his ballpoint pens and was twisting it in his fingers, staining them with an occasional slash of blue ink. “I’m not sure socialization should be one of our goals,” he said.

  Kolb ignored him and asked, “First or last name?”

  “First,” she answered, hoping she’d read Hunter’s intention correctly. “I think it would be beneficial if you can all start using it.”

  They swung their heads in unison toward Emerson like spectators at a tennis match, and he gave a little nod.

  “And I have some other ideas that may help solve your problems,” she added, only steps away from improvising. “Most people learn their early socialization during years of interacting in a family setting. Because Hunter doesn’t remember a home life, he is seriously handicapped in his ability to interact on a meaningful level.”

  “He doesn’t have to interact on a meaningful level,” McCourt growled. “He only has to remember to zip his fly when he comes out of the men’s room. And close his mouth when he chews.”

  Several of the group laughed again. But Swinton pushed back his chair as if to leave. Apparently thinking better of the gesture, he sat down again. “This is ridiculous,” he growled. “From the reports I’ve heard, it appears to me that Dr. Kelley’s interactions with the subject have only set his training back.”

  “I’m sorry if—” Kathryn tried to jump in.

  But he plowed on, drowning out the end of her sentence. “I want to see a copy of Dr. Kelley’s Omeg
a clearance before she has any additional access to the subject.”

  ” You know that hasn’t arrived yet,” Emerson answered. “She just got here.”

  “It’s procedure, and I demand that we follow procedure.”

  For several seconds there was silence in the room. Then Emerson cleared his throat. “I will make sure that Dr. Kelley’s paperwork is expedited. But until the proper forms arrive, she will be restricted to alternate duties.” Standing, he left the room.

  Kathryn sat there stunned, aware that most of the men were coldly judging her reaction again. God, what a callous bunch of bastards. It was clear they didn’t give a damn about Hunter’s welfare. They were just doing a job. Which one of them had told Swinton so much about her interaction with Hunter? Or did he have some other spy in the training department or on the security force?

  “I’ve been instructed to take your things to guest cottage three,” McCourt said, breaking into her thoughts.

  She wanted to tell him she wasn’t at Stratford Creek as a guest. Instead, she nodded politely.

  ###

  Frank Decorah turned from the window of his office and walked back to his desk where he scrolled through the computer file on his screen. The head of Decorah Security was up way past office hours worrying about Kathryn Kelley. She was a psychologist being stalked by an inmate she’d helped put away. He didn’t know her, but he knew she’d wanted a job where security would be tight, and she’d ended up at a place called Stratford Creek.

  A knock at the door made him sit up straighter. “Come in.”

  Jonah Raider walked into the room. “You’re working late,” he said.

  “You too. Why aren’t you home with Alice?”

  “Because I knew you were worried about something, and I wanted to make myself available if you needed to talk.”

  Frank gave his agent a hard look. “You weren’t reading my mind, were you?”

  “You are on edge, aren’t you?”

  When Frank didn’t respond, Jonah added, “I never pry into your mind—or anyone else’s at Decorah—unless they asked me to. But the look on your face earlier clued me in that there’s something going on.”

  Frank sighed. “I got a call from a colleague about a woman named Kathryn Kelley who wanted to hide out from a stalker. Tom Albright asked my advice about recommending her to the staff at Stratford Creek. I said I didn’t know anything about the place. But the question got me doing some checking around.”

  “And now you have the scoop?” Jonah gestured toward Frank’s computer screen.

  “Well—I know I would have told Tom to dissuade her from going there. But it’s too late. She’s already accepted their offer.”

  “Uh huh.” Without being asked, Jonah took a seat across from Frank’s desk.

  “There’s something strange about the place. None of my Defense Department contacts will talk about the project Bill Emerson is running up there. Either they don’t know how he’s spending a couple of million dollars, or they won’t admit they know.”

  “A lot of our work is secret,” Jonah pointed out. “We don’t advertise that we have a bunch of werewolves and some telepaths on the staff.”

  Frank laughed, then sobered again. “Secrecy is one thing. Hiring a team of guys I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley is another.”

  “What?”

  He gestured toward the screen. “I’ve gotten a list of the Stratford Creek personnel. Starting with William Emerson, U.S. Army, retired. He’s a real super patriot type. I mean the kind of guy who can justify breaking laws, if he thinks he’s acting in the interests of national security. If he gets caught, he puts the evidence in the paper shredder.”

  “That’s a bad combination,” Jonah murmured.

  “And the rest of the staff—” He grimaced. “Either they’ve got Emerson’s attitude, or they’ve gotten in trouble on other assignments.”

  Jonah’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know all this?”

  “I called in a couple of favors.” He scrolled through the file. “One of the worst of the bunch is the also-retired Lieutenant Chip McCourt. Emerson rescued him from being court-martialed for assaulting a civilian worker on the base in Wiesbaden, Germany. He was allowed to leave the Army with an honorable discharge. The head of training, Jerome Beckton, has been jailed for several bar fights.”

  “Jesus.”

  Frank plowed on. “The doctor, Jules Kolb, got into some trouble at the VA, but maybe he’s the best of the lot. I want to get some more information on him.”

  “Can you trust him?”

  “I don’t know. But under the circumstances, I may have to take a chance on him.” His expression turned hard.

  “And you’re saving the worst for last,” Jonah guessed.

  “Yeah. Dr. Avery Swinton. His specialty is biological research. On human subjects. He lost a research grant at Berkeley for illegally experimenting with human fetal tissue. After that he dropped out of sight. Now he’s at Stratford Creek—doing God knows what under the shield Emerson has provided.”

  “Is there anything we can do for Kathryn?”

  “I put in a call to her a couple of hours ago, hoping I could give her some kind of warning without arousing suspicion. They told me she was unavailable. I could keep trying, but I won’t be able to say much over the phone. I’d like to find a way to get her information about these guys. And maybe arrange to pull her out of there if she wants to leave.”

  “How?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

  ###

  Wiping a trickle of perspiration off her forehead, Kathryn climbed the steps of guest cottage three, a stone and wood bungalow set about twenty yards back from one of the winding Stratford Creek roads. This was the third time in two days that she’d been out for a jog, ostensibly familiarizing herself with the grounds. But she was also working off her frustration. Since the scene in the locker room, she hadn’t been allowed to see Hunter. She didn’t even know how he was or what they were doing to him—because she was out of the loop as far as information was concerned.

  So, she was reduced to the dim hope that she might run into him. But he wasn’t jogging. She told herself it was for security reasons, not because he was suffering any ill effects of the tranquilizers.

  A surge of helplessness welled up inside her. She’d had plenty of time to replay the staff meeting over and over in her mind—and also her two previous meetings with Hunter. She always came back to the awful moment when he’d stared at her with such fury.

  More than ever, she wanted the chance to show him somebody cared. But so far, she was batting zero. Of course, she’d tried to talk to Emerson about gaining access to Hunter. But the Chief of Operations had been unavailable to her. And her only assignment over the past two days had been the boring task of flagging personnel with below average performance appraisals. Talk about wasting a nice fat government salary on diddly-squat, she thought with a snort. If she could only send a message to The Washington Post, they’d be up here in a minute to do an exposé on government waste.

  Only she wasn’t going to be contacting the Post anytime soon. One of the disturbing things she’d found out was that new personnel were restricted to Stratford Creek grounds for the first two weeks. And only emergency phone calls were allowed! She bitterly resented the restriction to her freedom, but until she talked to Emerson, there seemed to be nothing she could do to change the situation.

  Squaring her shoulders, she marched through the living room of the little house. It was comfortable but not plush, with a humpbacked sofa, two overstuffed chairs, and somewhat worn beige area rugs over oak floors. The television sat on a low chest across from the couch. To the right was a dining area and a small kitchen from the living room.

  There were two bedrooms in the back, both with standard hotel room furnishings. She’d taken the one on the right, which had a window overlooking the street and a sliding glass door that opened onto a small cement patio in the weed-choked back
yard.

  While she showered and dressed, she planned a sort of stealth attack on Dr. Swinton. Pulling out the copy of the Stratford Creek phone directory that had been issued with her information packet, she found the address of the research center. Swinton’s office was in room 101. Perhaps if she went over there, she could act interested in the project—flatter him—and get some background information on Hunter.

  Of course, she was supposed to be working on the vitally important performance appraisals, she reminded herself. But she’d bet her first month’s paycheck that she wouldn’t be missed.

  There were few cars parked in front of the research center, she noted as she pulled into a prime space near the front door. The lobby was deserted, and she was looking for a directory board, when a thin, stoop-shouldered man with wispy brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses approached. Apparently deep in thought, he was carrying a can of soda and a bag of cheese twists.

  He almost ran into her, then looked up, startled.

  “Sorry—” she apologized. “I was trying to find Dr. Swinton’s office.”

  “He’s out of the building at the moment.”

  She struggled with a surge of disappointment.

  “You must be Dr. Kelley. The psychologist,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t be at the strategy meeting the other day. I’m Dr. Roger Anderson, the Deputy Director of Research. I’d offer you my hand, but, um—” he said, holding up the soda can.

  She nodded her understanding, then switched smoothly to Plan B. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you the other day.”

  “Likewise. I had some things to take care of. Why don’t you come down the hall, and we can have a chat?”

  “Thank you.” She followed him to a small office furnished with a government-issue metal desk and swivel chair. The computer on the ell beside the desk, however, was a state-of-the-art model.

  He set down his food and gestured toward the guest chair. “Do you mind if I drink my soda? I’ve been here since early in the morning.”

  “That’s fine,” she assured him.