by Boyett-Compo
He slumped against the window frame, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, as though he could pull the smell of the vile creature from his olfactory nerves.
When had this one entered the picture? he wondered. If he had slipped by all the defenses, he must be powerful and with an ability to disguise his true nature. With a hiss of rage, the captain made a mental note to chastise his men for not picking up on the Nightwind's unwanted appearance.
But he realized he was just as much at blame, for he had not sensed the vile creature's presence, either.
The old one did not concern him. The old one had looked at him with fear, realizing superior power when he saw it. There would be no trouble with that one unless he, himself, provoked it, and the head of security had no intention of doing so. It was the one whose offensive odor clung to Bronwyn that brought up the hackles on his neck.
He closed his eyes to the exhaustion that came from inadequate sleep and the brutal cluster headache that had been pounding like a jackhammer above his right eye for the last three days. At least he had found the source of both his uneasiness and his pain in that brief inhalation of Nightwind fetor.
The captain winced with genuine agony as the sharp trill of the telephone pierced his skull. He cursed as he snatched up the handset. “What?” he barked.
The caller knew him well, knew this was his normal way of answering what he thought was an intrusion.
“Dr. Wynth would like you to join him,” came the summons.
Snarling beneath his breath, he slammed the receiver onto its ivory cradle, making the pencils and pens in the cup on his highly polished parquet desktop rattle and bounce.
His angry stride carried him across the room, where he grabbed a lightweight black denim jacket from the hall tree and shrugged his powerful arms into the sleeves with no care if he tore the seams. Still growling like an enraged dog, he jerked open the door and rocketed out of the room, slamming the portal shut so hard, the adjoining wall shuddered.
Disdaining the elevator because he loathed the closed-in feeling of the metal cage, he took the stairs, his thick boot heels rapping out a hard drumbeat on the metal risers as he descended. By the time he yanked open the outside door, rain was falling in a slanting, silver downpour.
“Son of a warthog bitch!” he exploded in his native tongue as he came up short under the overhang. He glowered at the wet sidewalks, where puddles were already forming.
Rather than go back into the stairwell and take the even more claustrophobic underground convergence of tunnels, which connected the condos with each of the other five buildings of the Eastern complex, he clenched his jaw and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans. He hunched his wide shoulders, then ventured out into the chill rain.
* * * *
From the panoramic bank of high windows in his fifth-floor office, Dr. Brighton Wynth, Executive Director of Operations of Wynth Industries, frowned heavily as he observed his captain of security services cutting a determined diagonal across the Quad.
Turning away from the window once the captain entered the administration building, Dr. Wynth walked to his desk and sat down. His desktop was bare of the usual accouterments of files, papers, books, and the assorted paraphernalia that pertained to his line of work. What sat atop the rich oak slab, however, was the D. E. O. deemed necessary: two phones—one black, one red—sat on the right side of the desk; a white telephone sat on the left. The black and red phones had bug-free, secured lines, while the white phone was for “ordinary” use. In the center of the sleek oak finish sat an expensive, leather-edged blotter, its paper pad pristinely unblemished—no doodles, notations, or scribbling adorned the smooth surface.
When the intercom attached to the white phone buzzed, another man, Burkett, bent forward and pressed the speaker button.
“Dr. McGregor is here,” the secretary informed them.
“Show her into Dr. Wynth's receiving office, please,” Burkett ordered. “Make her comfortable and tell her it will be a few minutes. I believe she has fondness for hot chocolate. Would you make a cup for her? Please add a generous amount of marshmallows.”
“Certainly, sir,” the secretary said.
Dr. Wynth was looking at the row of closed circuit television monitors lined along the south wall of his office. He watched his captain of security services take the stairs two at a time. At level three, he stumbled and nearly fell, then lashed out with a fist, slamming it into the fire door as he passed.
Wynth chuckled, leaned back in his chair, and threaded his stubby fingers over his slight paunch. “My, my. He's a tad ungraceful today. Not in the best of moods this dreary Saturday morning, is he, Alex?”
Alex Burkett grimaced. “I've never known him to be anything but rude and abrasive, sir.”
“Oh, he has his moments.”
The intercom buzzed again. Burkett ran a finger under his collar before he answered.
“The captain is here, sir,” the secretary said in a subdued voice.
Burkett looked to his boss. At Wynth's nod, the thin man squared his shoulders. “Thank you, Corrine.”
Wynth watched his assistant cross the room and put his hand on the door handle. He couldn't see Burkett's face, but he knew there would be precious little color in the already-pasty English complexion.
* * * *
As the door to the E. D. O's office opened, the Captain of Wynth Industries security services looked away from the world map at which had been staring. His eyes narrowed at Burkett. His gaze lowered to fasten on the smaller man's bobbing Adam's apple before shifting upward to lock with the man's jittery gaze.
“Y...you can c...come in n...now,” Burkett squeaked.
As he passed Burkett, the captain turned the full force of his dislike on him, crowding the man against the doorjamb. Pinning the whimpering note taker with the hard length of his powerful body, he leaned over him, putting his deceptively calm face only inches from the ghostly-white, terrified face.
“One of these days, I'm going to rip those elephant ears from your pointed little head and tack them on my wall along with all the others I've collected.”
Sweat popped out on Burkett's thin face and he began to tremble violently. The sour smell of fear wafted into the captain's distended nostrils. Blinking away the fine mist of humiliating tears forming in his eyes, Burkett shuddered as the rain-dampened body pressed against him, the water obviously penetrating the fabric of his neatly pressed Bond Street suit.
“Leave the man alone, Captain,” Dr. Wynth ordered.
With a shrug of indifference, the captain stepped back, then made for one of the two chairs positioned in front of Wynth's desk. Without being bidden to do so, he slumped down in one of the chairs, thrust out his long legs, and crossed them at the ankle in an attitude of unconcern.
“That will be all, Alex,” Wynth said. “Call the others and have them convene in Conference Room Five in twenty minutes.”
“Young Dr. Hesar is not on site, sir,” Burkett reported.
Wynth scowled. “And where, pray tell, is he?”
“I believe he went into Grinnell.”
“Get him back ASAP!”
“Right away, sir!” Burkett bowed and exited the room. The door closed softly behind him.
“Why do you feel the need to terrorize that poor man like that?” Wynth snapped.
“I don't like prissy little Brits.”
“You are not required to like him, but I want you to stop acting like a child.” Wynth's pale blue eyes bore into the captain's stare “Understood?”
A slight shrug was the reply.
When after a full minute had swept the clock on the near wall, the captain sat up in his chair. Brighton Wynth's look held for another thirty ticks of the clock, then he blinked away the hold he held over his employee.
“Now that that's settled,” he began, “I will be meeting with Dr. McGregor. At precisely Eleven-Hundred hours, I would like you to join us in Conference Room Five.
That will give Sage time to make it back here. And pray, dress accordingly. What you have on now is unacceptable.”
“Is that all?”
“For now.”
“Am I free to go?”
Wynth did not reply as he leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. When he remained silent, the captain shot up from his chair and stalked to the door.
CHAPTER 28
“That's basically what your job will be here at Baybridge,” Dr. Wynth explained as he reached for his cup of tea. “Do you have any questions?”
“I'm sure I will once I settle in,” Bronwyn replied. “Right now, I can't think of anything you haven't covered.”
“When Sage returns, I'll have him take you on a tour of the facility. Your office won't be ready until tomorrow, though.”
“That's fine. I...”
The door to the conference room opened and Sage Hesar hurried in. He was out of breath, his face flushed.
Wynth looked up and frowned. “You're late.”
“My apologies. There was a problem on Four East,” he explained, patting Bronwyn's shoulder as he took a seat beside her at the table.
“What kind of problem?” Wynth queried, setting down his teacup.
“James Schulte managed to get out of his pod. He attacked one of the orderlies before he could be subdued.”
“Was the man hurt?” Bronwyn asked.
“Minor scrapes and bruises before one of the S. S. took him down.”
“James Schulte,” Wynth said, looking at Bronwyn, “is the sociopath who murdered everyone in his real estate office one morning, then started taking potshots at passersby on the street. When they went to his home to inform his wife that her husband had been dispatched by the SWAT team, they found her and the four children murdered and stuffed in the family freezer.”
“I remember reading about him,” Bronwyn said with a shudder.
“Is he back in his pod?” Wynth asked.
“The captain is seeing to it personally, sir,” Sage responded. “He said to tell you he'd be along as soon as things are settled.”
Wynth nodded. “Do we know how it was possible for Schulte to get out?”
“Apparently he jammed something into the locking mechanism and the door didn't close properly. He was able to hook his fingers around the door's edge and pull it back. The captain issued an order to the S. S. to check all the pod doors.”
“I want to see Midlin in my office within the hour,” Wynth ordered, then turned to Bronwyn. “Dr. Midlin is the resident physician on Four East.”
“Each of the nine floors has two resident physicians attached to it,” Sage stated. “One on East and one on West. They work an eight-hour, eight on/eight off schedule. Baybridge has a staff of sixteen physicians, fifty nurses, and eighty orderlies, as I'm sure Dr. Wynth has told you.”
“Plus an additional staff of specialty physicians on call from the local area,” Wynth added.
“What about the North and South wings?” Bronwyn inquired. “Are those sections run in the same way?”
“No,” came an answer from behind.
Looking around, she watched the tall man in black walk to the far side of the table and sit across from her.
His uniform was as black as a starless winter night and just as crisp. The creases down the pant legs and long shirtsleeves were knife-blade sharp. A thin, black silk tie at his throat matched the thin, black belt threaded through the loops at his waist. His collar insignia was a set of silver ravens. The only color on his ensemble was a blood-red triangle, with twin silver slashes bisecting the center, near the shoulder seam of his left sleeve.
Bronwyn was impressed with the man, although he bore no resemblance to any law enforcement or security officer she had ever seen. From his neatly clipped goatee, to the shoulder-length, black hair tied in a queue at his neck, to the small gold hoop in his left ear, he looked every inch the part of a ruthless pirate. All he needed was an eye patch to complete the picture.
And what eyes! she thought. Such an unusual color and so striking, especially on a man. They were golden, a rich cast of amber, and glistening as hotly as that precious material. Framed behind long, sable lashes, the man's eyes mesmerized her.
But it was the strange design on the right side of his face that intrigued her most. Sweeping back from the corner of his eye into the thick strands of hair at his temple, the dark blue tattoo reminded her of Celtic artwork she had seen on the Internet, like a tribal tattoo.
“Bronwyn, this is Captain Viraidan Cree,” Wynth grated. “He is head of our security services division.”
Bronwyn did not expect the man to offer his hand, so was not disappointed when he made no effort to do so. Before she could mention that he had broken into her apartment the night before, he reached into his pocket and took out a badge.
“For the old one,” he said, the right side of his mouth lifting in what might well have been a carefully controlled grin. He put the badge on the table and pushed it across to her. “I hope I spelled ‘Cedric’ correctly.”
Bronwyn felt heat gathering in her cheeks. She looked at the badge, stunned to see a photo of a black cat. She raised her eyes to his and wondered if he also knew about Danyon's visit that morning.
“Did I get the name right?” he asked, his left brow arching.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “You spelled it correctly.”
“That cat is as black as the wind at night, isn't he?”
Bronwyn blinked, her heart thudding. He knows!
“Bronwyn, first things first,” Wynth said, drawing her attention to him. “You need to be told—Cree came to us from Fuilgaoth right after the British invaded it and shut it down.”
Bronwyn jerked. “He worked for Daniel Dunne?”
“Cree never worked for Dunne,” Wynth was quick to answer.
“We know Dunne was responsible for your father's death,” Sage said, putting a comforting hand on Bronwyn's arm. “We are hoping the software you helped design will aid us in locating Dunne and those of his followers who managed to escape when Fuilgaoth was shut down, including the other man responsible for your father's death.”
“I know who was responsible,” Bronwyn said, looking at the table.
“We're speaking of the man who actually triggered the bomb,” Wynth countered. “Not the man who placed it under the car.”
His words brought her head up. “I was told Sean—”
“Alistair Gallagher killed Dermot McGregor and Rory Brell,” Cree stated.
“Sean Cullen was killed trying to stop Brell and your father from getting into the car,” Sage said.
Tears filled Bronwyn's eyes. She touched the oval-shaped, golden locket at her throat. “Sean died trying to save my father?” Her tearful gaze skipped from one man to the other, finally landing on the dark, amber eyes of the man across from her. “Please, I have to know.”
“He set the bomb,” Cree said, “but he did not detonate it.”
A soft moan reverberated from Bronwyn's throat. She covered her face with her hands, the news opening up a scab over her heart that had never fully healed. For a long time, she let the tears fall. It had been years since she had cried for her lost love, months since she had spoken his name aloud. When no more sorrow could be dredged up from her aching soul, she raised her head and wiped at the tears on her cheeks.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. I don't usually show my emotions in public like this.”
Dr. Wynth got up and took a box of tissues from a side table. He brought them to her, placing them within her reach.” We understand.”
She blew her nose, then slumped in her chair. “Did you know him, Captain Cree?” she asked, wiping her eyes. When he didn't respond, she looked at him. “Did you know Sean?”
“Aye,” he answered, the word gruff.
“Then maybe you can tell me how he wound up in that awful place.” She stroked the locket.
“His father took him,” Dr. Wynth explained, sitting down.
B
ronwyn shook her head. “That's not possible. His father was dead. His mother—”
“Tymothy Cullen was not Sean's biological father,” Sage interrupted.
Surprise parted Bronwyn's lips. She stared at Sage, too shocked to speak.
“A man named Brian O'Shea is Sean's father,” he continued. “O'Shea worked for Dunne. Dunne sent him to America to fetch Sean, and that's how the boy wound up at Fuilgaoth.”
It took a moment for Sage's words to sink in, then Bronwyn shook her head. “When I was in college in Georgia, I used to go see Mrs. Cullen once a month.”
“We know,” Wynth said. “That information is in your file.”
“She never mentioned anything about a man named O'Shea. She said she had no idea how Sean had wound up in Ireland. Why didn't she tell me the truth? Why didn't she tell me Tym Cullen wasn't Sean's father?”
“I suspect she was trying to protect O'Shea,” Sage said. “Sean was gone, but O'Shea is very much alive.”
Bronwyn drew in a breath. “Do you know where he is?”
“On Five North,” Cree answered.
“He's an inmate here?”
Wynth shook his head. “He's the chief resident physician of that section.”
Bronwyn gasped, her eyes wide. “I must go to him! There are things I have to know about Sean!”
Cree leaned back in his chair. “That won't be possible, Dr. McGregor.”
“Why not?”
“You were asking when I arrived if the North and South complexes were run the same as the East and West. I said they weren't.”
“What difference—”
“North and South are lock-down units. The inmates are in their pods twenty-three hours a day. All nine floors are off limits to all but assigned staff and my men.”
Frustration made Bronwyn groan. “Will you let him know I want to speak with him?”
“I will tell him,” Dr. Wynth said.
Bronwyn stood, needing to rid herself of the anxiety that had claimed her. She realized she was trembling and wanted nothing more than to walk off the nervousness. “I'm sorry, but this has all been unsettling and I need time to—”