BlackWind

by Boyett-Compo

  Her jaw clenched, Bronwyn nodded without speaking and drove forward, turning onto the road the guard had indicated. She looked to her right, wondering where the winding gravel road led.

  As she wound her way toward the main facility, Bronwyn worried that she had made a bad mistake in coming to work for the people her late father had worked for. Despite Dr. Hesar's assurance that Bronwyn's degree in behavioral science, with a minor in criminology, was something Wynth Industries could use for a new program they were implementing, she had reservations. She had spent her externship at a major computer company, helping to design software for law enforcement agencies worldwide to aid in tracking down serial killers and child molesters.

  A month before her mother called to alert her to the job opening at W. I., Bronwyn had applied for a position with the F. B. I. Her dream was to work in the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico, but since the agency's policy was to recruit from present employees, she would have had to get a foot in the door as a field agent.

  “Bronwyn, a glorified cop?” her mother had exclaimed worriedly.

  “I want to make a difference, Mama,” she'd tried to explain. “If I can help prevent what happened to Daddy and...” She stopped, unable to say her dead son's name. “I have to do this. I have to do what I can to help catch these monsters!”

  “I know that and that's why I will add my encouragement with Neal Hesar's for you to take this job at Baybridge,” her mother insisted. “They are as concerned about violence as you are. The facility out here is the best of its kind. Important, high-impact research is being conducted on what makes those monsters tick and how to stop them. W. I. is connected worldwide with every conceivable agency devoted to stamping out violent crimes. They have the contacts, you have the knowledge. You could benefit from one another.”

  After several weeks of long-distance phones calls and hours of discussion with her mother, Bronwyn had met with a representative from Wynth Industries, who had flown down to Ft. Walton Beach to recruit her. She had taken to Rebecca Woods instantly.

  “As a private company, we are able to offer you a great incentive package. We'll start you out at $125,000 a year with stock options, 401K, major medical/dental, the usual yadda-yadda-yadda packets,” Becca had explained. “You'll be working with some of the best minds in behavioral research.”

  “I'm impressed with your roster of staff members,” Bronwyn said, scrolling through the names, awards, and honors on the brochure Becca handed her. “I'll feel like the proverbial red-headed stepchild.”

  “You'll fit in nicely. Now, let's get serious for a moment.”

  “All right.”

  “Baybridge is a major mental hygiene facility,” Rebecca continued. “It is what is being touted as a super max prison. Housed within the facility are criminals the court system has declared either incompetent to stand trial for various reasons or too dangerous for regular prisons—spree and serial murderers, violent rapists/sexual torturers, pedophiles, people who fancy themselves human vampires, and those who have become cannibalistic. In other words, very sick people.”

  “So I gathered,” Bronwyn admitted.

  “We work closely with VI-CAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and with the F. B. I. in general. Local, state, and government agencies across the U. S. have come to rely on Baybridge and Wynth Industries to house their worst inmates.”

  “A hodge-podge of the nation's most lethal, I take it.”

  “Worse than the average citizen can even begin to imagine.”

  “I would imagine some medical personal are loath to work in such an environment.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Indeed, and that is one of the reasons the incentive package is so lucrative. Especially to a newly-minted physician,” she added with a grin.

  “What about living facilities? How is the real estate market in and around Jasper County?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I'm afraid living on the economy is discouraged. Because of security precautions, housing is on site, but you can decorate your condo—at W. I. expense, of course—in any fashion you find comfortable and relaxing. Dr. Wynth wants his employees to be surrounded by things they like and that will make them as productive as possible. There is, however, a cap on what you can spend to furnish your condo. Budget is equal to your annual salary, but you can charge your additional purchases at 9.34% interest per annum.”

  Bronwyn's eyes widened. “That's a helluva incentive!”

  “We even put it in writing!” Becca laughed. She pulled a pen from her briefcase, along with a preliminary statement of intent. She held out the pen to Bronwyn. “What do you say? Willing to take a chance on conquering the world with Wynth Industries?”

  Bronwyn had hesitated only a moment before shrugging, taking the pen, and signing away her future with a flourish. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she quipped.

  “You won't regret it.”

  Now, as Bronwyn caught sight of Baybridge's main building, she said, “Lord, I hope I don't.”

  Turning into the huge parking lot presided over by a six-story megalith of a building, Bronwyn felt perspiration ooze onto her upper lips and her palms grow clammy. The building was a marvel of glass and stone, with sweeping banks of dark-tinted, copper-colored windows that reflected the scuttling clouds lowering from the gray sky. In the distance lightning flared, and its image pulsed across the building's shiny façade as a few fat raindrops plunked against Bronwyn's windshield.

  “I don't like bad weather,” she said, an edge to her voice.

  She found Lot A and her parking slot as the rain increased in intensity and the wind began to buffet the vehicle.

  Brownie opened her eyes and sat up. She pressed her wet nose to the window glass and whined.

  “Yeah, I know,” Bronwyn responded. “And you know what I told you about Midwest storms.”

  The little dog looked around as if to inquire if one of those twister things might be in the offering.

  “We just may regret having—”

  Lightning stitched across the sky with a horrendous crack, and both Bronwyn and her pet yelped. One threw her hands over her head; the other bolted into her mistress’ lap, wedging her pudgy body between the steering wheel and Bronwyn's flat belly. As the sky opened and the rain began pummeling the car, making it impossible for Bronwyn to see anything but the cascading sheet of water flowing down the windshield, she picked up her overweight pet, held it in her arms, and buried her face in Brownie's golden brown fur.

  CHAPTER 26

  Dr. Sage Hesar stood at the window, reveling in the storm raging outside. He loved bad weather as much as his twin sisters, Thyme and Anise, hated it. Feeling exhilarated by the flare of the lightning and the howl of the wind, Sage took every opportunity to witness nature's spectacle. Iowa's ever-changing weather never failed to provide the Georgia-born psychologist with all the meteorological thrills he had time to enjoy.

  “One of these days, you're going to get toasted like a marshmallow at a Boy Scout Jamboree,” his father quipped from the doorway. “Get the hell away from that damned window, Sage!”

  Sage sighed, rolling his eyes to the heaving heavens. “The McGregor girl is here,” he said as he turned reluctantly from the window.

  Dr. Neal Hesar's forehead crinkled. “She hasn't checked in.”

  Sage jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “She's sitting in her car.” He sat at his desk and leaned back in the $20,000 chair that had been molded especially for his athletic 6 foot 3 frame. “Been there since the storm started.”

  “And you didn't see fit to inform anyone so they could get her?” his father snapped.

  “Well,” Sage drawled, “she's sitting clutching her dog, hiding her face against the mutt.” He braced his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers. “Does that suggest she'd be willing to venture out in that torrential fury, Dad?”

  Neal Hesar mumbled something under his breath, then plopped down on the sofa across from Sage's desk. “Have you spoken to the captain
today?” he inquired, a look of disgust on his handsome face.

  “No.” Sage cocked his head to one side, grinning. “Have you lost your pet again, Dad?”

  A growl issued from between Neal's clenched teeth. “I know where he is.”

  Sage's grin widened. “But do you know what he's up to?”

  “I don't need to know,” his father grumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa arm. “He gets things done and that's all that matters.”

  “It never fails to amaze me that you prefer to call what he does ‘getting things done.’ That's like saying Jeffrey Dahmer had a good appetite.”

  His father's quelling look failed to have the desired effect on the younger Hesar.

  The intercom buzzed on Sage's desk.

  “Yes?” he replied to the voice-activated machine.

  “Mrs. McGregor to see you, Doctor,” Sage's secretary informed him.

  “Send her in.”

  Neal sat up on the sofa, tightened the tie at his collar, and smoothed his lush brown hair into place.

  Sage chuckled. “You've already won her, Dad. The woman has seen you with bed head. Looking a bit crumpled at the end of the day isn't going to send her into shock.”

  “Watch your mouth!” Neal snapped, scowled, and stood as the door opened. His face softened as Deirdre McGregor walked in. “Hello, my dear.”

  “I'm getting worried, Neal,” Deirdre said. “She should have been here by now.”

  Neal took her hand. “She's in the parking lot, waiting out the storm.”

  “The parking lot?” Deirdre moaned. “Oh, Neal! She's terrified of storms. She has been since she was a little girl.”

  Sage saw his father glaring daggers at him and sighed. He pushed up wearily from his chair. “What if I fetch her, DeeDee?”

  “Would you?” she asked, her eyes lighting up. She eased her hand from Neal and walked over to Sage, enfolding him in a motherly embrace. “You are a godsend, sweetie.”

  Neal snickered. “More demon-sent than god-sent, DeeDee. Just ask his twin brother, Savory.”

  Sage wrinkled his nose at his father on the way out the door. “What's her name again? As I recall, you and Dr. McGregor weren't part of the Flower Child Movement when you named your daughter.”

  “Bronwyn,” DeeDee replied with a giggle. “Thank you, Sage. I know she'll appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem.” Sage closed his office door behind him, giving his father and future stepmother privacy.

  He took the elevator to the parking garage, nodding at the attendant in the glass booth. “I need to get someone from the parking lot.”

  The attendant unhooked a key from the board. “I hear it's pretty bad out there, Doc.”

  “Gotta rescue a fair damsel from the clutches of the Storm God,” Sage replied. “We Super Hero-types can't let a little inclement weather keep us from our appointed tasks.”

  “Better take the Ravenmobile, then. That always impresses them.” The attendant laughed as he tossed the keys to Sage.

  Sage caught the keys and headed for a low-slung black sports car crouched in the front row. He climbed in, turned the key, and drew in a deep, satisfying breath at the sound of sleek power roaring from the car's ultra-expensive engine. Maneuvering the stick into first gear, he drove into the blinding plummet of lashing rain.

  Even with the windshield wipers on high, he could barely see the aisles between the rows of cars. If he hadn't known exactly where he was going, he might have bumped into something. As it was, he was able to judge his whereabouts by the flashes of lightning gleaming on the parked cars he rolled slowly past and found Bronwyn McGregor's navy blue sedan with little problem. He parked behind her and slightly to the left of her driver's door, leaving plenty of room so he could open his door to usher her inside his car.

  Not averse to getting out in the slashing rain, he made sure the passenger side door was unlocked, then exited the sports car. By the time he reached her side of the sedan, he was soaked to the skin. Lifting his hand to tap on her window, he thought he saw the shadow of someone sitting in the car with her, but when he called out, the shadow melted away.

  “Bronwyn?” he called again, this time louder.

  * * * *

  Bronwyn flinched, looking at the watery figure standing at her door. She turned her key in the ignition so she could lower her window. Rain splashed through the opening as it lowered.

  “Hi!” the soaking wet man said, leaning toward her. “I've come to bring you to your Mom.”

  Bronwyn wiped away the water stinging her face. “I can't leave my dog. She's afraid of the storm,” she said, licking at the moisture on her lips.

  “Bring her along. I wouldn't think of leaving her.”

  Bronwyn gave the stranger a grateful smile. She twisted in the seat to retrieve her purse from the backseat. “Can you take this?” she asked, thrusting the large shoulder bag toward him.

  “I don't know. It really doesn't go with my outfit.”

  A sharp shriek of lightning rent the air. Bronwyn screamed, dropping her pocketbook through the window as she covered her head with her arms.

  * * * *

  Sage felt the woman's absolute terror and made no effort to pick up her bag. He snatched open the car door, thrust his arms under her knees and behind her back, and lifted her from the vehicle. “Come on!” he commanded the fat bundle of fur crouched against her mistress’ leg.

  The dog didn't appear to need to be ordered again. She bounded from the car, following as close to Sage's heels as space would permit. She whimpered as he stood Bronwyn on the pavement, yanked open his car door, and ushered his charge inside. Before he could shut the door, the dog leapt into Bronwyn's lap and trembled.

  Sage ran back to Bronwyn's car, shut her door, and picked up her pocketbook. He cursed when he realized some of its contents had spilled on the wet pavement. Scooping up what items he saw, he jammed them into the bag and sprinted back to his car.

  * * * *

  As the black sports car rolled carefully back into the underground parking garage, a hand snaked under Bronwyn's car to retrieve her wallet, lying behind the driver's side rear wheel. Wet fingers unsnapped the leather wallet and folded back the top section to reveal the recent driver's license.

  While thunder shook the ground and brilliant flashes of light scrawled child-like across the firmament, Bronwyn McGregor's driver's license was slipped from its plastic casing before the wallet was placed once more beneath the car.

  * * * *

  “Good Lord, you are soaked through!” Deirdre exclaimed as Bronwyn ambled into Sage's office.

  She laughed. “You think?”

  “She said she needed a bath anyway,” Sage observed.

  “Don't you have somewhere you need to be?” his father snapped.

  “Ah, if you'll notice, this is where I'm supposed to be,” Sage said dryly. “This is my office, I believe.”

  Neal Hesar ignored him. “I am Neal Hesar, this lout's father. Do you remember me from Albany?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bronwyn admitted. “Vaguely, though.”

  “I hope we'll get to know one another quite well.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to Baybridge and Wynth Industries. We are so pleased you decided to take the job.”

  Bronwyn wiped her wet hand down her equally wet suit jacket, then took his hand. “I'm happy to be here, although I swear I didn't bring this weather with me.” She grinned. “When I left Florida, it was sunny and bright.”

  “If you don't like our weather, just wait a few minutes and it'll change,” Sage advised.

  “Don't pay any attention to my poggleheaded son. His mother dropped him early on and he hasn't been right since.”

  “Mom said you dropped me. Wish you two would get your stories straight.”

  After casting his son an annoyed look, Neal looked at Deirdre. “I'm sure Bronwyn would like to get out of those wet things, DeeDee. Why don't Smart Mouth and I leave you two to chat?” He caught sight of Brownie and blinked. “Is
this the lovely Schnoodle?”

  Bronwyn laughed. “That's Brown Stuff. Ask me how she got her name.”

  “Bronwyn Fiona!” her mother groaned, her face turning red.

  “Glad to see I ain't the only one who makes ye olde parental units blush,” Sage whispered to Bronwyn.

  “Brownie for short, though, eh?” Neal asked with a twitch of his lips. He squatted and gave the dog a gentle pat. “My, but you are a precious little thing.”

  “The Terminator will love her,” Sage said.

  Bronwyn frowned. “Terminator?”

  Deirdre sighed. “That's what Neal named my Chihuahua.”

  “Her jealous suitor,” Sage corrected. “The blasted little booger chewed up a pair of Dad's best loafers.” His black eyes twinkled. “He shouldn't have left them under Dee Dee's bed—”

  “Out!” Neal said, shoving his son toward the door. He sent Sage staggering into the hallway, then firmly shut the door behind them.

  Deirdre put her hand over her mouth and turned away, her face infused with color.

  “Is there something I need to know, Mom?” Bronwyn inquired.

  Her mother went to the sofa to get her purse. “He's a very nice man and quite handsome, don't you think?”

  “He looked like a drowned rat to me.”

  “A drowned...” Deirdre shook her head. “I was referring to Neal, not Sage.”

  “Oh, him. He seems quite pleasant and, yes, he is very handsome.”

  “As is his son.”

  “I'll let you know when I see him without his hair plastered to his forehead, although...” She linked her arm through her mother's. “Those clothes he was wearing clung to all the right spots, you know?”