Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

She had always known the difference between what was real and what was imagined. It was the kind of thing you figured out by the time you were five years old. Of course, you could pretend to deny it. Sometime around age four she had created an imaginary friend she called Linda. Her nanny would set up tea parties for the two of them in the gazebo, and when no one was looking, Beth would drink Linda's tea, too, and then tell the nanny how much Linda had enjoyed it.

  At the same time, the boy who lived on the estate next to theirs claimed he flew regularly to the moon on his rocket ship. His stories were wild and exciting, and he would fight anyone who accused him of lying. But about the time her interests switched from Linda to books and movies, he moved on to soccer and computer games. They admitted to each other that Linda and the rocket ship had never existed. Bonded by the truth, they left that part of their childhoods behind.

  Now she felt like a preschooler, shaken in her belief that she could decipher the difference between real and imagined. She sighed, raised her arms above her head, and stretched. She needed to give her brain a rest, to forget this mess for a time. She went into her office to find something to occupy her. There on her desk was her briefcase, and she remembered the printout of the secret list of HanTech owners, which was still inside. She had forgotten not only the list but Michelle Philmalee.

  Michelle's loyalty had turned out to have the staying power of a gnat, and Beth pitied her shortsightedness when it came to men. Some abused women were victims in most aspects of their lives, while others were like Michelle—highly functional, but with a dangerous blind spot when it came to men and love affairs. She hoped Michelle would figure that out someday.

  In the meantime, Michelle really needed the HanTech data to save her endangered uranium deal, and the truth was, Beth liked Michelle. All clients came with a few wrinkles and dents, and Michelle was no different. Besides, there was no point in punishing Michelle; Beth had been stupid enough to date that weasel Phil Stageman, too.

  Relieved to be doing something useful, Beth copied the list of owners on her Xerox machine, wrote Michelle's name on a manila envelope, and slid the copy inside. She considered a moment, then jotted a note, wishing her all the best. Considering that Michelle was now hooked up with Phil, she was going to need all the good wishes she could get. Then she drove through the twilight to Michelle's house and left the envelope in her mailbox.

  At home again, she set herself up in her living room. It was large and airy, with tall windows that looked out onto the dark residential street. There was a faint odor of lemon polish. Her television was hidden in an antique armoire. Beth sat in her favorite wing-back chair, propped her feet up on her marble-topped coffee table, and surfed channels. But the situation comedies bored her, the dramas paled next to her own new life, and the news depressed her.

  She switched off the TV and phoned two longtime friends in Washington. They talked about inconsequential things, and momentarily she felt relieved by the normality of it all.

  Cheered, she took her medicines and made herself a healthy dinner. She did another round of exercises and showered again. When her hair was dry, she threw on her bathrobe and returned to her office once more in the hopes that this time the businesslike atmosphere would give some order, some direction, to the swirl in her mind. That was when she saw the red light blinking on her answering machine.

  She stared at it, not certain she wanted to know who had phoned while she was in the shower or what the message was. Maybe it was Travis Jackson calling back to apologize, to say it was entirely possible her heart was sending her messages. She looked at her watch. It was past eight o'clock. It could also be Jeff Hammond. She swallowed hard. No, surely he was still in West Virginia.

  She girded herself and punched the NEW MESSAGES button.

  The snotty voice of Zach Housley's personal secretary announced: "Mr. Housley has asked me to inform you that security's packed up the private things in your former office. The boxes will be delivered to your house tomorrow. COD, of course. I stayed late to expedite this. As a courtesy, Mr. Housley wanted me to warn you to be there to pay the shippers. And if I may add, Ms. Convey, we're all terribly disappointed in you." She hung up.

  Beth froze. She stared at the silent machine. Courtesy? That snotty . . . No, that message was from no one but Zach. The woman would never have dared unless Zach Housley had told her to or shown her by example that Beth was fair game. It had all the Housley trademarks—mean, arrogant, a touch vicious.

  All at once, her knees turned to water. Overwhelmed, she reached for her desk, for the wall, for anything to hold on to. It was pure reflex, and her hand clutching the edge of her bookcase was the only thing that kept her upright. She tried to take a deep breath, but tears burst from her eyes. Sobbing, she groped through the suddenly alien office for her chair.

  She was never going to make partner. She did not even have a job, much less a career. The horrible nightmares pounded her night after night, and she had no idea why. It was as if her whole life had not simply changed but mutated. The telephone number in her head had led her to the murder of a man from her nightmares. The killer—Jeffrey Hammond—had threatened her. She had awakened in a strange motel room with no idea how she had gotten there. How? Why? To save her from Hammond? To hide her, keep her out of the way? She understood none of it, and certainly none of it could ever have happened to the Beth Convey she once knew.

  Just as abruptly, the anger she had felt while talking to Travis Jackson returned. No, she was Beth Convey. They were not going to defeat her. Nothing was going to destroy her. Her tears slowed, and she wiped her eyes with her fingers. Who had done this to her? Who were these strangers in her nightmares, at least one of whom had turned out to be real? Were they all real? And who was Hammond? Why had he killed that KGB defector, Yurimengri?

  She grabbed Kleenex from the box on her desk, blew her nose, and marched into her living room. At her home bar, which she kept well stocked for guests, she poured herself a vodka on the rocks and drank half of it in a gulp. The all-but-tasteless liquor burned her throat. Damn. What was she doing? She should not drink vodka like that, and the taste reminded her again of how different she was. Her career was gone, and she seemed not to care. . . . She would be on massive medication probably the rest of her life . . . a restricted life, and perhaps a shorter life span. Was that her future? If Jeff Hammond or someone else did not murder her first?

  Exhaustion overtook her. The glass fell to the carpet, spilling vodka and ice. From the recesses of her weary mind, a voice reassured her—don't worry, vodka doesn't stain. She wanted to laugh, but her lungs would not respond. Trembling, she made her way into the foyer and used the handrail to drag herself upstairs. She forced herself to go through her usual nighttime routine.

  She fell into bed, put out the light, and weakly rolled up in a fetal position on her side, staring out her second-floor window. She studied the stars and listened for night sounds. A shiver ran along her spine, but only the familiar noises of the city and the low moan of the wind reached her ears. She told herself she was Beth Convey. Killing machine with compassion. Queen of the Cosmos. Star of the Universe. All she needed was sleep.

  Halfway down the block, Nikolai Fedorov sat slumped and apparently drowsy in his Chevrolet van. He and the vehicle were facing away from Convey's house to lessen the chance she would notice, not that he expected trouble. She was a civilian. An amateur.

  He kept watch in his sideview mirror. He saw her lights go out until only the bedroom was illuminated. When that finally went dark, too, he used his scrambled cell phone to call Alexei Berianov. Fedorov was startled by the voice that answered.

  "Report."

  The booming tones sounded nothing like the former KGB general. Plus, Fedorov could hear the rhythmic chop of a helicopter's noisy rotors. Cautiously, Fedorov said, "Shto vi dúmayitye ab étam?" What do you think? "It looks to me like she's in for the night."

  The general's voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Stay where you are. She and her hou
se must be watched at all times. We have to know who goes in, who comes out. Whom she sees, what she does. Everything." The connection went dead.

  14

  The three men stamped out the campfire. The leader, a handsome man resplendent in a general's uniform, urgently waved them forward into the dark night.

  With the two other men, Beth followed at a fast clip, her AK-47 ready in both hands, her eyes alert for signs of the enemy. With a shudder, she realized she was running between dead men. Pacing her on one side was the nameless man she had killed on the motorcycle, while on the other was Yuri. Yuri was furious. He was pointing at their leader, angry with him, while yelling to her, but no sound came from his throat. She strained to hear, to understand Yuri's warning. . . .

  Her eyes jerked open. She'd had a new nightmare. Oh, Lord, when would it end?

  She heaved a sigh and moved her gaze around her bedroom, orienting herself. Morning sunlight played across her ceiling, and the scent of newly cut grass drifted into her room through her open window. Below in the neighbor's yard, a lawn mower growled.

  As she listened, she realized she had awakened from this bad dream with a sense of inevitability that was strangely reassuring: She was beginning to believe the nightmares were not going to go away, which meant she might as well quit trying to explain them by the ordinary terms with which she had always dealt with life.

  She flung back the covers. It was a new day, Thursday, and her clock read 10:25. She had slept ten solid hours, and she felt good. She jammed her arms into her robe, took her pills, ran down to the kitchen, and started her morning coffee. Despite Travis Jackson's opinion, she would look into the outlandish, ridiculous, unthinkable, irrational idea that her heart was communicating with her. She must talk to that psychologist who had visited her in the hospital. The truth was, all year she had been curious to hear what the woman had to say.

  Beth was digging hungrily into her eggs when the phone rang. She stared at the one on the kitchen wall. Who could be calling? Not the firm. She had no firm anymore. For a moment, the fear and despair of last night threatened, but she pushed the emotions away. She picked up her plate and carried it into her office, waiting for the answering machine to pick up.

  It was Michelle Philmalee, and her voice was excited: "Beth, darling! You angel. And I was so nasty to you. Stop it, Phil! No! I don't care. That was Phil, Beth. He's sorry for doubting you, too. Say you're sorry, Phil."

  There was a pause.

  Michelle snarled, "Dammit, Phil! She's proved us both wrong. I was just as much a turd as you were. Apologize! That's what grown-ups do."

  In the background, a door slammed hard.

  Michelle sighed. "Well, Lady Queen, the male child just jumped ship. I had to fire him. Guess he doesn't get the difference between waving a dick and being one. And he was so attractive. Such nice shoulders and other accessories. Oh, well. If I beg, will you take me back?"

  Beth found herself smiling. Michelle was shameless. But this morning Michelle seemed much less important than she had yesterday. Edwards & Bonnett was a worry from the past. Whatever her future held, Michelle was no longer material.

  "Please, Beth. You know I was the only one who wanted to believe you. I'm afraid I let the old hormones cloud my judgment and listened to bad advice from Phil and Zach. Talk about sharks. Which makes me wonder . . . how could you have worked for Zach Housley so long? Do you know he personally told your clients they should be realistic because you wouldn't live long? He told me, and I assume the others, too, that I'd be smart to stick to the great attorney he was carefully selecting for me. No wonder you were deserted, and it was personal with Zach, my dear, I assure you. He's just a short-peckered weasel who doesn't like assertive women, and he jumped at the chance to get rid of one of the firm's most dangerous. You were one of the few they'd hired who was going places, and he didn't like the way that rattled his bigoted chain."

  Beth stopped eating, her fork midway to her mouth, as black rage shook her. So that was what had happened. How could she have missed the degree of Zach's sexism in all the years she had worked at Edwards & Bonnett? And then she knew: She had never believed any form of prejudice could stop her. All she had to do was win negotiations and suits, protect her clients, take care of all their legal needs, produce, produce, produce. How naive she had been. That much was not Zach's fault. It was hers.

  Michelle laughed. "But you showed him who the winner was, darling. Indeed. What a good girl you are. Remember, as an attorney, I always liked you more. So will you take me back? The Philmalee Group needs you. I need you. With that, I'll say good-bye. I've humiliated myself enough for one conversation. Oh, and if there's anything I can do to repay you other than keeping current with your enormous legal bills, and I'm sure the one for the HanTech ownership list will be a lollapalooza, please let me know. I mean it. Anything. I figure I owe you. I await word. I do hope it will be that you've forgiven me."

  As the call ended, Beth chuckled. It had been days since she had found anything amusing to laugh about. Michelle had that effect, and that was just one of the reasons Beth liked her. But then, at the thought of the casually cruel way "important" people like Zach could toy with her life and career, she felt herself grow angry again. Damn it, she was Beth Convey, killer lawyer. She was good. She could take care of herself. Never again would she rely on, or need, people like Phil Stageman or Zach Housley. They were not going to beat her, and neither was a pack of violent strangers, or her new heart. She would find out what was going on, and she would make a new and better life for herself.

  She set down her plate of eggs and toast and rummaged in her office until she found the business card for the scientist who had visited her in the hospital—Stephanie Smith, Ph.D., psychoneuroimmunologist. Dr. Smith's office was in Alexandria, but her home was right here in Georgetown. She dialed Smith's office.

  The day had progressed to dusk, and the rising moon cast long gray shadows across Beth Convey's street. Halfway down the block from her Victorian, Nikolai Fedorov slept soundly in the back of his Chevrolet van until the soft pulse of an alarm awoke him. Attached to ultrasophisticated surveillance sensors, the alarm went off in response to movement around Convey's house.

  Fedorov scrambled forward into the driver's seat in time to see her—dressed in black, her blond hair glowing platinum in the twilight—walk toward her garage. By the time the garage door slid up and Convey had backed her Mercedes out into the street, Fedorov's engine was running, too, and he followed as she drove away into the darkening night.

  Ashen clouds drifted across the black sky as Beth arrived at Stephanie Smith's white board-and-batten cottage near Georgetown Presbyterian Church. A gnarled wisteria vine framed the roof line, and large, deep-purple blossoms cascaded around the door. In the yellow porch light the flowers seemed almost ominous as Beth stepped past and rang the doorbell.

  That morning when Beth had phoned Stephanie Smith's office to make an appointment, the answering machine had announced the doctor would be out all day, seeing appointments, but the caller could leave a message. Since Dr. Smith's house was nearby in Georgetown, Beth decided to wait until evening to try to talk with her in person. So she spent the day mostly at home, unpacking the boxes that had arrived from Edwards & Bonnett and integrating the files and supplies into her office. In the afternoon, she took advantage of the fine spring day to go for a run around the Ellipse. It all made her feel almost normal, and she managed to ignore the few strange thoughts and words that tried to worm their way into her consciousness.

  And now she hoped to find some answers. One of the advantages of Georgetown's relatively small size was addresses were easy to find. But as Beth stood in the porch's gloom and listened to footsteps approach from inside, all her good feelings vanished. An unknown past seemed to hover over her.

  Dr. Smith opened the door. She frowned. "Yes?"

  In the hospital, Dr. Smith's long hair had been pulled back in a severe French twist. Tonight, her business day finished, it lay in a tum
ble on her shoulders. At her temples, the hair was silver-gray, showing her age, which was somewhere in her late forties. But with her round face, soft cheeks, and long, loose hair, she looked like a schoolgirl in her blue sweatshirt, matching sweatpants, and bare feet.

  Beth introduced herself and reminded her of their first meeting. "We're neighbors," she added lamely. "Please call me Beth."

  The doctor's brow knitted in puzzlement. Then she grinned and went straight to the point. "I remember. You're a lawyer. I imagine you're here because you're wondering whether you're being logical about cellular memory or simply prejudiced against it. I find my prejudice sometimes masquerades as logic. It's something to watch out for. Come in. We'll talk. Call me Stephanie."

  "And I thought I was direct."

  Stephanie smiled as she led her into the kitchen and put water on to boil. "Have a seat. Since you're here, may I deduce you've been having some of the posttransplant experiences I was asking about?"

  Beth sighed. "Apparently so."

  Red gingham curtains hung at the large kitchen window, and classic blue-and-white delft tiles crowned the counters. The bungalow had been built sometime in the 1950s, and the kitchen with its white cabinets and straight lines still had that Ozzie and Harriet air. But then, so did Stephanie. Despite being an obvious career woman—Beth remembered she had looked and acted the complete professional in the hospital—there was something about Stephanie Smith that said wholesome homebody, too.

  "But you're still not convinced," Stephanie said.

  As the rich aroma of drip coffee filled the room, Beth admitted ruefully, "I don't want to believe any of it. A heart with a brain? A heart that talks? There's some dead guy trying to communicate with me through his heart, which is now inside me? This is beyond insane. It's stupid."

  Stephanie poured two mugs and brought them to the table. "Milk? Sugar?"

  "Skim milk. No sugar." With her new taste for black tea, it had been a while since she'd had coffee. Under the circumstances, coffee seemed appealing.