by Elle Thorne
So, where? For the millionth time, she thought of her phone, in the clutches of that damned Wheeler. The agent headed toward one of the corrugated walls.
Meri noticed the scatterings of doors every twenty or thirty feet. “Agent Grisham.”
Reaching the door, hand on the knob, he glanced over his shoulder. “Doctor?”
“These circumstances are highly unusual.” God, she wanted to say they were highly suspect but bit that back. For now. “I’m not accustomed to being shuttled in a vehicle—not even a classy limo. Or being knocked unconscious. Not to mention, all the secrecy. I mean, if you don’t trust me…”
Grisham fixed her with a steady gaze. “I understand your concern. I’m not the one to ask questions, though. Maybe you’d like to save them for the briefing.” He glanced at his watch. “That’ll be at oh-eight- hundred, tomorrow. For now, restroom? Then a quick meal at the canteen. After, I’ll show you to your quarters.”
“Yes, the restroom.” She squeezed her legs. Because really, was this a good time to have started a conversation? In the next few moments, she might make an embarrassing puddle on their concrete floor.
Inside the steel door, a passage that reminded her of an office building awaited. Granted, a stark, no-nonsense office building, but still, at least it didn’t look so military-austere as the passageway—more like a super-large tunnel, actually—they’d just left. There was carpeting. If you wanted to call low-pile, low-grade, navy-blue tiles carpeting.
On the left, a sign depicting the ladies’ restroom. Not saying a word, Meri hustled in and barely had time to drop trou before beginning to drain her bladder. Seems the second her body sensed she was at a restroom, it had set off the evacuation process. She released a long exhale of relief through her nose and checked out her panties to be sure she hadn’t leaked before she’d lowered them.
Whew. Lucky. Not a drop. She really should have pressed the issue and told Wheeler to stop mid-trip. Or the rude bastard could have offered. Right. He didn’t seem the type to think of anyone’s needs.
Business done, hands washed, she glanced in the mirror.
Tugging the band out of her hair, she released dark curls and fluffed them. Looping the band around her wrist for safekeeping. Damn, she looked pale, green around the gills, even. Probably from thinking about Josh. Well, she told herself, quit that. Quit giving him headspace.
Yeah, a chorus of voices that sounded like no one she knew cheered in her head, quit that.
Plastering a grim smile on, she opened the door to find Agent Grisham leaning against the opposite wall. Silent. Next to him, her least favorite person—next to Josh!—watched her as she joined them.
“Hungry?” Wheeler asked. As if he cared.
Agent Grisham gave him a look. “The canteen closes in thirty minutes, Doctor Morales. Let’s go get you something to eat because it doesn’t open until oh-six-hundred again.”
“Sounds like we’re going to dinner, then.” What choice did she have? She should eat.
“I’m not going to make it,” Agent Grisham said. “I’ve got to ensure everything is set up for the briefing.”
“Joy.” She didn’t realize she’d said it out loud until Wheeler smirked.
“It will be my pleasure to escort the doctor to dinner,” he said. The note of sincerity clearly lacking, though there was a tinge of amusement in his tone.
The walk to the canteen was more of the same. Non-descript gray bland walls, navy carpet tiles that weren’t really carpet, office doors without windows, occasional locks on some doors. A left turn, a right one, then a lobby—for lack of a better word—that was more like a large area—football-field-sized—for congregating. High-ceilinged Quonset again, with bare bulbs. Large, thick metal doors, big enough for vehicles to travel through, at different spots against the walls.
People milled around. Some in uniform, others in suits, a few in scrubs.
“This is the Quad. That”—he pointed to one of the large doors—“leads to quarters. This one”—more pointing—“leads to the hospital. That one”—he inclined his head—“goes to the canteen. The rest of the doors are off-limits to you.”
Meri studied the entrances. “How am I supposed to tell them apart? They aren’t even labeled.”
“You won’t need you. You’ll be escorted at all times. No wandering, no exploring, no trespassing. It’s a criminal offense if you do. Federal.”
“Got it.”
With a wave, he indicated a direction and for her to precede him. “The canteen.”
She stepped under the arched doorway, studying the steel door that could seal it off from the Quad. It was a foot thick. Looked like solid steel. “Why so thick? Why so many security measures? What do you have here? Nuclear weapons?”
No reply from Wheeler. She glanced back. He was watching her, his expression absent.
Seemed she couldn’t get answers, nor could she bait him. She led the way, heading down the passageway of more corrugated steel and hanging lightbulbs, but not as large as the area they’d been in when they’d gotten out of the limo.
The passageway came to a dead end at a large, brightly lit building with white drywall. The front of the building was wide open, with roll-down grill gates you could see through but not get through, presumably when the canteen closed, Meri assumed. With the exception of those roll-down doors, the canteen reminded her of a hospital cafeteria. An unadorned, sanitized version of a Luby’s restaurant.
She reached in her purse for her wallet.
“That won’t be necessary,” Wheeler said from behind her. “All meals are part of the arrangement.”
“Will you be dining?” She —grabbed a tray and silverware—not relishing the thought of his staring at her while she ate.
He seemed caught unaware and paused. “If you would feel more comfortable.” She nodded, then he added. “I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”
“We could have stopped along the way.” Meri strived for niceness.
“Not part of the mandate.”
“Right, we have rules.” She shuttled the tray along the metal tube tray rails, stopping in front of the entrée station. She offered a cordial smile to the attendant, dressed in white, actually appearing more like a Luby’s employee than a part of a secret government installation. “Roast chicken, please.” Moving along, at the sides station. “Mashed potatoes, corn, green beans.” She took the plate. “Thank you.” At the dessert station, she paused. Oh, to hell with it. It wasn’t as though she was trying to watch her figure for Josh—or anyone.
Food was her comfort. Especially at a stressful time. Which this part of her life was proving to be. Cheating boyfriends, under-wraps missions, what was next? “Chocolate cake, please.” The attendant pointed to a large slice. “Yes, thank you.”
A glass of water and one iced tea, then she was at the register.
The cashier smiled at her, clearly waiting.
“She’s with me,” Wheeler said, catching up, his tray full of food, no dessert.
Hardly. But she didn’t bother to correct him.
He handed the cashier a badge, which she swiped then handed back. “Pick a table,” he instructed Meri.
“Don’t want to go somewhere I don’t have clearance for,” she popped off, walking toward a nearby table.
“That’s smart,” he said, his tone serious, not appearing annoyed she was a smartass. “It would be a shame if you were shot.”
She did a doubletake. He wasn’t smiling. “I didn’t notice anyone with any weapons.” She set her tray on the table.
“You’re not supposed to see them. Makes them more effective.”
Great. Just great. What have I gotten myself into? She switched topics, taking her seat. “No dessert? Is dessert not good here?” She eyed the cake, because it did look good. Damned good.
“Food is fuel.” He sat and grabbed a forkful of food. “I only consume what my body needs.” With that, he shoveled it into his mouth.
Food is comfort. But
she wasn’t going to argue with him. Or talk to him at all. She began to eat her food, surprised it wasn’t bad at all.
He spent the whole meal communicating on a device that looked like a smaller version of an iPad. She spent the meal eating. After bussing their trays, he took her to her room.
“These are your quarters. You’re one of the few who has a personal restroom. Most are relegated to using one of the community—assigned by gender—restrooms.”
“Don’t I feel lucky.” She examined the room. Not much different than a dorm room, actually. Or what she imagined officer quarters would look like in a bunkhouse.
Wheeler frowned at her flippancy. “You must have some skill they need for them to go to these lengths. It seems odd they didn’t bring in the usual forensic examiner.”
She didn’t respond. Until she knew what the job entailed exactly, she had no idea what specific skill they needed from her. Speaking of, “What time is the briefing, again?” How could that have slipped her mind already?
“Change of plans. It’s been moved to tomorrow morning.”
“Why?”
He raised a brow. “I’m not informed of these decisions. Consider me a humble messenger. And your escort.”
She almost scoffed at the humble part, but she definitely didn’t catch herself in time to stop from wrinkling her nose at the mention of the word escort. “So, eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“There’s a TV. Plenty of movies on-demand. A bookshelf, decent book selection. I’ll be here to pick you up and take you to breakfast at oh-seven-hundred.”
“I think I can make it on my own.” Couldn’t blame a girl for trying.
“Hate to see you shot because you took a wrong turn.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you’d hate that at all.”
“Good night, Doctor.”
Chapter Four
“So, do you understand, Doctor Morales?” came a male voice from the conference call.
Stomach still full from breakfast, Meri was sitting at a conference table with Agent Grisham, another guy, also a suit, who said his name was Raul Fenske, and a phone in the center of the table on which were several people whose names she hadn’t been given.
Wheeler, who’d taken her to breakfast, now stood near the door, posture straight, silent, waiting.
“I do. You need me to check for cell abnormalities on five bodies that are in the morgue. You want samples from the men, comprehensive samples from all organs, blood, vitals—”
“She has the idea,” another voice, this one female, cut Meri off.
She nodded. She knew her assignment, but still…rude, much?
Agent Grisham cleared his throat, shuffled some papers. “An autopsy technician has seen to the handling, moving, and cleaning of the bodies. All that’s left for you is the dissection and analysis.”
“That could take months,” she pointed out. “Analysis of that many specimens, organs, is no small task. I was told I’d be here for only a few days. I can’t—”
“Three days, maximum,” the female voice said in clipped tones. Nasal, clipped tones. Her voice was grating on Meri’s very last nerve. Not to mention, the damned interruptions.
Meri sputtered. Three days? Did they really expect her to do all of the research and lab work on five—five!—bodies in three days?
“Wait a second,” Grisham said, luckily, since she was about to go off on someone. Probably on the witch on the other end of the line. “What we mean is, you will have the answers we need in three days. We have lined out the specific order we want each test run. And in what order we want them dissected.” He handed her a file.
“Okay,” she managed through clenched teeth. “Got it. Can I get to the lab now?”
* * *
Meri pulled the jacket tighter around herself—the one she’d helped herself to from the coatrack by the door. She glanced up from the papers she’d been studying. Papers listing the order to pull samples, run tests, and even to cut. “Are you going to stand there watching me work all day?”
Was Wheeler really under orders to do exactly that? Or was he just trying to irritate her. Needless to say, she was still aggravated about the briefing that morning.
“I don’t have to.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. Why is it so cold in here? Why are all these bodies not in individual cold lockers?” Especially, when having them out like this was forcing her to freeze her ass off.
“We keep the room cold enough to have the bodies out for a while. Those are their lockers right there.” He pointed. “Each one is labeled. We can put them back when you’re done at the end of the day. We thought it would make it easier to have them out here while you worked.”
She turned her attention back to the paperwork.
“I can come back to get you for lunch.”
Another meal with him. That didn’t appeal. At all. “Any chance it can be brought here? That way I can get back to work much more quickly?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll have them get a menu put together.”
“No need. I’m not picky. A dessert with the meal would be nice, though.”
He quirked a brow. Judging, clearly, but he said nothing and slipped out the door.
She sat at a desk and reviewed the files, spending two hours studying the order that they—whoever they were—wanted everything done. She couldn’t help but wonder what they expected her to find? Surely nothing contagious or they’d have advised her to wear a hazmat suit. She’d dealt with biochemical weapons in a set of postmortem examinations a couple of years ago. This clearly wasn’t that. But what was it?
She turned toward the first examining table
“Dunnigan Youngblood. Now, what happened to put you on my table?” Her gig as a forensic pathologist had given her an interesting perspective. She got to know her patients—except they weren’t really patients, since they were dead, now were they?—but she couldn’t stop thinking of them as patients. As she’d explained to her colleagues at Notre Dame, over and over and over, she was the last doctor those poor dead people would have.
As if she didn’t know what had happened to put this man on the examining table. She could see the body was riddled with bullet holes. She knew what he’d died of. She just didn’t know why. “Who’d you piss off, Dunnigan? Who thought you would look better as Swiss cheese?”
“Doctor Morales.” A head peeked through the previously closed stainless-steel door, violating the privacy of her sanctuary.
The very special sanctuary where she could escape. There was something about being in the morgue that comforted her. She could tell the feeling wasn’t mutual, judging by the countenance of the man looking through the partially open door. His face paled, or maybe greened would be a better word for it. She bit back a smile. He definitely didn’t do well with corpses.
“What, Wheeler?” She barely kept her annoyance at the interruption from showing, turning her attention to the body.
Silence ensued.
She glanced up. Wheeler was glaring at her. “What?” she said with less patience than before. “What are you looking at?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said.”
Shit. No. She sure didn’t. “Sorry.” Not sorry. “What’d I miss?”
“Don’t cut that one yet. They’re waiting on him.”
“Waiting?” She glanced at the gurney he’d indicated. She couldn’t remember the name. “Why? Are they hoping he’ll come back to life?” She laughed at the joke. Yeah, she was one of those who laughed at her own jokes.
Wheeler kept a straight face. “Just don’t mess with him yet. I’m sure the paperwork says this.”
“Fine. I’ll save him for last.” Saving the best for last. She glanced at the naked man on the gurney. His sheet had somehow fallen to the side. She moved closer to pull it over him. Meri wasn’t the type to stare at a dead man’s body—
Well, of course not, that was just eww.
—but his body. It was wow-wow-wow. What a shame a spe
cimen this good-looking, this built, this muscular should have lost his life. She wondered if he had a special woman he’d left behind. She checked at the name on the clipboard. “Cliff Harrigan.”
Not a mark on the body. Not a single one. Five bodies had been brought in. All with the same specs on the page. Four with obvious bullet wounds and shrapnel. This guy—Cliff Harrigan with the awesome pecs and to-die-for arms, not to mention full lips—had only two bullet holes. Chart mentioned it was possibly not immediately fatal. Half of her wanted to think maybe he died of a heart attack in the middle of a shootout or a bombing or whatever these guys had been mixed up in. But he was so in shape. Then again, she’d seen guys on the examining table that clearly worked out regularly and yet, their hearts had given out.
The fact his death was clearly so different made her want to study him first. But—
She felt eyes on her and faced Wheeler. “Is that it? You just wanted to make sure I didn’t go out of order?”
“Just making sure you’re okay. I’m going to get lunch now.”
Why the hell wouldn’t she be okay?
She focused on the blood samples she’d pulled from all of the dead guys and started to put them on slides and slipping them under the microscope, taking notes. She found nothing different on the first four and was ready to start on the fifth when Wheeler stepped in carrying a tray of food.
On cue, her stomach grumbled. She glanced at the clock. Two o’clock? How’d time fly by so fast? “Thanks.” She scrubbed her hands and made space on the desk for the tray.
“You’re welcome. Sorry for the delay. Was called into a meeting.”
“I didn’t even notice.”
“Do you need anything else? I have another meeting. How late do you think you’ll be working?”
She shrugged. “I’d like to work as long as I can. The sooner I wrap up, the sooner I get out of here, right?”