“No, it doesn’t.” Joan resented that, too. “I’m not sure which is worse. Telling someone they’re dying, or telling someone that somebody they loved has died. Both leave me a total wreck for a week.”
“I’m down to three days,” Morgan confessed. “If I work really hard to tell someone who is going to live. If not, it drags on.” She took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “This one is going to be bad.”
“It’s a double whammy,” Joan agreed. “You shot him.”
“Twice.”
Joan flinched. “Ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Sucks,” Joan said again. “But you’ll get through it.”
“One minute at a time.” Morgan repeated an old med school saying. The students were run ragged, and when it got unbearable, they’d stop thinking in shifts and start thinking in hours. Getting through the next hour. And when that seemed too hard, they’d drop back to one minute. Just get through one minute. And then the next. And then the next. Everyone in her class had used the method more often than any of them would like to remember, much less admit.
“Or if that’s too long, one second,” Joan said.
“Yeah.” Morgan swallowed hard, and shifted the topic. “You look exhausted.”
“I’m pretty wrung out,” Joan confessed. “These sessions can get rough, and right now I just don’t have the stamina I need to do them.”
Jazie walked in, carrying chips and sodas, in time to hear that remark. “No salty chips for you,” she told Joan. “If your ankles swell much more, we’re going to have to call them thighs.”
“Nasty thing to say to a woman in this delicate state.” Joan smiled and looked down, pivoted her foot side to side. “True, however. They are enormous.”
Morgan couldn’t disagree. “When is the baby due?”
“Three weeks.” Joan let out a little groan and parked her forearm on her stomach. “I am so ready.”
“I’ll bet.” Pregnancy was rough in winter, but going through that last trimester in the summer with the heat and humidity running at record highs had to be sheer hell. “Get off your feet for a while.”
“I’m on my way home now. Dr. Vargus will type up our report. If I’m lucky, I’ll get to see Jeremy before he goes to day camp.”
Jeremy was Joan’s seven-year-old son. Very bright and very serious, thanks to a couple of years of living as a hostage in a G.R.I.D. compound. “Tell him hello for me.”
“I will.” Joan walked back toward the double doors. Her hand resting on the metal plate, she stopped and looked back at Morgan, winked, then spoke to Taylor Lee. “You can wake up now, Taylor Lee.”
“Who’s sleeping?” Taylor said, taking a brazen tact on her eavesdropping. “I’ve been awake the entire time.”
“Yes, I know,” Joan said, a weary smile tugging at her lips. She glanced at Morgan. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. Feel free to use my office, if you want privacy to talk.”
“Thanks.” Jackson Stern would need that privacy. What she had to say was going to put him in a world of hurt.
Jackson Stern walked through the double doors and into the waiting room looking more angry than Tropical Storm Lil footage. His gray shorts and once-white shirt had dried stiff from the salt spray. His black hair was wind-tussled, clinging to his broad forehead and ears, and sheer fury flashed in the depths of his flinty gray eyes. “Well.” He paused, clenched his jaw, and glared at each of them. “Which one of you assassins is going to explain what the hell is going on here?” His gaze landed on Morgan, and recognition lit. “You.” He jutted his jaw and hiked his chin. “Start talking.”
He knew she had shot him, all right, and his tone rivaled the wind howling outside the bank of windows on the waiting room’s far wall. Wouldn’t that just do wonders for their discussion? Crowning glory. Morgan glanced at Taylor Lee and Jazie. “Please go meet the commander downstairs,” she said in her best formal tone, hoping he’d remember sooner rather than later that he was a professional. “Captain Stern and I will be with you shortly.”
Jazie looked worried about leaving Morgan with him. Taylor Lee had that curl in her lips proving she was jealous as hell that she had to leave and miss the fireworks. But both women walked out silently, Jazie giving Stern a friendly nod that he returned with a frosty glare.
Morgan watched them head down the hallway and waited until they turned the corner and their footfalls faded to be sure they were out of earshot. “We need to go where we can speak privately, Captain Stern. If you’ll follow me, please …”
He didn’t budge. “I realize you’re a little blurry on details. Otherwise, you’d know who is on your side and you wouldn’t have dropped me with a tranq, much less popped me with two of them,” he said in a voice dripping sarcasm. He paused, gave the waiting room an exaggerated scan that set her teeth on edge, and then frowned at her. “But has it escaped your notice that there’s no one else here, um … just who the hell are you?”
“Dr. Cabot,” she said, tolerating his smart-ass comments and using her title to put professional distance between them. “You’re right, of course. At least, in part.”
“Still blurry, I see.” He folded his arms over his chest.
“Which part?”
Again, she took his tone in stride, but if the jerk swaggered and threw her another barb, she was going to let him have it. Even she was only willing to go so far in this situation. If he didn’t have to look hell in the eyes, and if she weren’t the one about to put it there, she would have verbally smacked him down already. “We are alone here, but this waiting room isn’t private.” When she told him what she had to say, he would want that privacy, even if he didn’t yet realize it and, when he did realize it, he still wouldn’t be grateful to her for it. He’d be too preoccupied with other emotions. Darker, meaner, more relentless emotions.
Dread seized her stomach and compassion slid through her chest, tightening it.
Damn it. Don’t feel, Morgan. Don’t dare feel …
“I see.”
He couldn’t register anything, except maybe the red haze of anger in his eyes. But she couldn’t expect him to feel gratitude toward her now or, for that matter, ever. She had shot him. Twice. And now she was going to deliver a blow that would change his life forever. That, summed up, gave them an unpleasant history. Few in their line of work ever got past unpleasant histories.
He’ll remember you forever.
He’d hate her forever. Damn it, don’t care, Morgan. Would you wise up? Don’t care. He’s just an associate. Get through the mission, finish the case, and close the book.
Calmer, more in control, she hiked her chin. “As I said, if you’ll follow me …”
“Fine.” He moved toward the door. “Somewhere private and close, Dr. Cabot. I’m typically not a patient man,” he said rubbing his neck, where the trickle of blood from her tranq dart still stained his skin. “At the moment, I find I’m even less patient than usual.”
“I understand,” she said, answering honestly, then walked out ahead of him. Joan’s office was close and empty, if small. Someplace where she could put more distance between them, like her own office, would be better. He could react to the news violently, and a little spare room to dodge him could come in handy. But Morgan’s office was back on the coast; she didn’t maintain an office on base at Providence. The entire S.A.T. team used her private practice’s office in Magnolia Beach. Jazie and Taylor ran her office and acted as her assistants, and when not otherwise occupied on missions, Morgan counseled military members who carried top secret or higher security clearances. On occasion, she also counseled members of their families, which was how she had first met the victim who tied her to this case. “This way, Captain.” She tensed her shoulders against the daggers he glared into her back.
He fell into step behind Morgan and they moved on down to the first corridor, turned left, continued to the second door on the right, and then entered Joan’s office.
Morgan clicked on the light. It w
as small but, by military standards, it ranked relatively large. There was no window. A worn green leather sofa, chairs, a gray metal desk, filing cabinet—locked, of course—summed up the majority of furnishings. Generic. The office could have belonged to anyone, except for the tons of personal items littering the walls and desktop. All files had been secured—a requirement one didn’t dare to violate under any circumstances; not in this litigious society—and her blotter was bare except for spiral doodles. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” Morgan asked.
He frowned at her and didn’t bother to try to hide it. “I think I already have enough foreign substances, not to mention adrenaline, in my body—don’t you?”
Guilt flushed heat in her chest that swept up her neck. She shouldn’t feel it. In her position, he would have done the same thing: his job. But she did feel it. It angered her, and it irritated her. She let the anger flow through her and released it. The irritation, she squelched. Even if he didn’t know the pain coming his way, she did, and that bought him a moment of grace. “I expect you do,” she said, conceding the point.
Lifting a hand, she motioned to the small leather sofa and then to the two well-worn chairs on the visitor’s side of Joan’s desk. “Please, have a seat.” Morgan walked around and sat down behind the desk, then clicked on the green banker’s light. A soft glow spilled over the blotter and warmed the room.
Wary and tense, Stern opted for a visitor’s chair and lowered himself into it.
Rather than using Joan’s chair, Morgan sat in the visitor’s chair beside him. “I suppose you have a lot of questions.”
“Damn right.” A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, I would,” she admitted. “Fortunately, I’ve been given the necessary authorization to answer them.” She swept wisps of her shoulder-length blond hair back from her face. Tons had escaped the topknot she’d twisted into place over twenty-four hours ago. “But for the sake of clarity, perhaps it would be best if I just explained.”
He curled his fingers around the padded chair arms as if only his will was keeping them from going for her throat. “By all means,” he said, sounding far more controlled than his body language or her intuition signaled. “Brief and succinct,” he warned her. “Please.”
Morgan nodded. “Have you heard of the S.A.S.S., Captain Stern?”
He didn’t answer. His eyes and expression were poker-face blank with no outward signs of recognition, but she intuited his knowledge and his uncertainty beamed through, loud and clear. He wasn’t certain of her security clearance.
They could hesitate and trip over ambiguity for hours, or she could make an adjustment. “Let me back up a little,” she said, taking a different tack. “I’m a psychologist,” she said. “With your security clearance, you know that it can be challenging at times to not be able to speak freely aboutyour experiences. Well, it’s my job to listen to those things and more—classified things.” She got more explicit. “And to help those having difficulty working through the challenges that come with jobs in our … realm … constructively.”
She paused, but he still showed no reaction. It cost him to bury the questions he burned to ask, so she spared him and went on. “I also assist family members of people in, shall we say, delicate positions. Often they have issues with their spouses’ or sponsors’ jobs that they need to work through, too.”
Again, no reaction—and apparently no clue yet where this was leading or how it tied into his abduction in the gulf.
“I have other duties, as well,” Morgan said. “Ones for the S.A.S.S.”
Finally, he responded with a noncommittal, “I see.”
“No, you really don’t.” Unable to delay the inevitable any longer, she worried her lip with her teeth. After this next disclosure, he’d probably look at her as if she were out of her mind. Most people she told were skeptical, and even more assumed she was delusional. It normally irked her, but she’d become fairly adept at forcing their less-than-generous opinions to roll off her back. However, he’d snagged her attention. Touching him had given her erotic tingles. It’d been a long time since she’d felt a spark of interest in a man—a bad experience can do that to you. Now, having remembered the pleasantness of it—even if it had come at the worst possible time—she wasn’t eager to replace those memories with new ones of him calling her crazy. “I’m sorry I had to shoot you, Captain.” He grunted.
“I had to verify that you were who we believed you were before you could be brought ashore and to the hospital here to verify it.”
Lowering his lids, he hooded his eyes. “Who were you afraid I might be?”
“Someone from G.R.I.D.” If he knew about the S.A.S.S., he knew about G.R.I.D. Regardless, Kunz’s organization definitely had come up during his debriefing with Joan. And, from what Morgan was picking up from him now, he’d made some deductions of his own about the intervention and abduction. “Yes, we feared you could be connected to G.R.I.D.”
“As a spy?”
Wily as a fox. “No, Captain.” She tilted her chin and looked him right in the eye. “As a body double.”
Uncertainty swam across his face. Surprise followed it. “Why?”
“Because Intel couldn’t be certain either way. They intercepted communiqés between Thomas Kunz and two of his G.R.I.D. associates, Merk and Stick. Both of those men are new to the S.A.S.S. list of known Kunz associates, but Intel had previously pegged them both.”
“So these communiqés claimed I was a body double?”
“No.” She laced her hands in her lap. “They warned that you or your G.R.I.D. double would be returning your brother’s boat to Magnolia Beach and that three G.R.I.D. assassins would be waiting for you at the harbor.”
“Three?” He looked less angry, but far more troubled.
Understanding why, she nodded. Who wouldn’t be troubled at learning they’d showed up on Thomas Kunz’s radar?
“Merk and Stick are the would-be assassins?” he asked.
Quick grip on the situation. Impressive. “Yes,” she verified. “The third man is new to the S.A.S.S. and to Intel, though he’s apparently an established G.R.I.D. operative. Mason is his name.”
“Never heard of him,” Stern said. His forehead wrinkled, and he frowned. “So am I me, or a body double?”
The question was reasonable. Joan had deprogrammed many operatives who were doubles and had no idea. “You are not a body double.”
Relief washed through him. But before he absorbed it, he tensed again. “Why is Kunz after me now? These days, I just fly into hurricanes. I’m no threat to him or his cutthroat organization.” Stern rubbed his nape, confused. “If I were still in Tactical, I could better understand this.”
The dreaded time was at hand. Morgan paused, gathered her strength, steeled herself to block out her emotions, and then looked him in the eye. “Jackson, we believe the reason Kunz wants you dead is related to your brother,” she said softly, addressing him by his given name. News like this was horrific and hard to swallow at the best of times, but it was nearly unbearable when delivered by a stranger. The illusion of an attachment between herself and Stern was better than nothing, and it was the best she could offer.
Puzzled, he stilled. “This is about Bruce?”
Bruce Stern was also a military captain; a biological warfare expert who, less than three months ago, had returned home from an extended assignment in the Middle East. “Yes, it’s about Bruce,” she said, then added, “and, regrettably, it’s about his wife, Laura, too.”
“What?” Jackson’s puzzlement gave way to shock. “How does Laura fit into this?”
Feeling his concern, both for his brother and his sister-in-law, Morgan battled herself and lost. To hell with the proper reactions. He was terrified down to the marrow of his bones, and what she had to tell him would only make him feel worse. She reached over, clasped his hands in hers, and held on tight. “Jackson, I wish there were an easy way to say this, but there isn’t.” His pain seeped through her
, and she bore its heavy weight.
His eyes dulled. “It’s bad.”
“The worst,” she said, helping him brace. “I’m afraid that Laura has been murdered.”
His face bleached white. “Laura? Murdered?” He gasped, blew out a forceful breath. “No. No, that’s impossible. No one could ever want to hurt Laura. She’s … she’s … No, that’s not possible. I … I just talked to her on Sunday.”
“She’s dead, Jackson,” Morgan said firmly. “The ME says she died between midnight and 2:00 A.M. Monday morning.”
“Hours.” He stared up at the ceiling, seeing far beyond it. “Just hours after we talked.”
The truth hadn’t yet fully settled in. He was still in shock. “When on Sunday did you talk to her?”
“It was after dark, probably around nine o’clock.” He nodded. “Oh, God.” He stared at the pool of light spilling onto the desk, and the truth rolled over him in unrelenting waves. For a long moment, he just sat there. Didn’t move. Didn’t utter a sound. Didn’t blink.
Morgan waited. Giving him time to come to terms. Aching for him. Nothing was as bad as this. Losing someone you loved was harder than learning you were dying. She’d seen and sensed that far too many times to doubt it.
Finally, he cleared his throat. His voice had deepened. Grown reed thin from the unshed tears clogging his throat, burning the back of his nose and his shiny eyes. “What happened to her?”
He loved Laura, as a brother loves his sister. The pain of losing her was crippling him—tightening his chest, making his heart race, his pulse throb—and Morgan was feeling the brunt of it right along with him. She didn’t want to tell him the rest. Didn’t want to be explicit and make Laura’s death even more devastating. Would he let her avoid it? Could she?
Morgan, don’t you dare be a coward. Don’t you dare. He deserves better. He deserves the truth.
But he’s in so much pain!
Coward, her conscience insisted. Tell him the truth! Remorse swam through her stomach, coupled with the grief, and she met his eyes. Tears blurred her own, and she blinked hard. “I’m so … sorry.”
Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04] Page 5