by Rita Herron
“Yes, it was quite an ordeal,” Fox said. “But thankfully, I’m back to normal.”
“I understand you think each of the suicide victims contracted a virus,” Detective Black said.
Horn nodded. “We’re trying to learn more about it now.”
“What if the virus has nothing to do with the suicides?” Black asked.
Horn shrugged. “It’s possible. Right now, we’re playing a hunch. We did consider the possibility of a cult, but haven’t found any connections to the victims and any cults.” He gestured toward the files. “What are you thinking?”
“That perhaps the victims were brainwashed, maybe hypnotized.”
“Given a hypnotic suggestion to commit suicide?” Horn chewed the inside of his cheek. “That’s possible, I suppose. But I didn’t think people could be given suggestions that would make them do things against their natural will?”
Black frowned. “I already spoke with a therapist about it. She said if the patient were drugged, it might be possible.”
“After what they did to me,” Detective Fox said, “I believe anything is
“But the victims would have to have a connection to the same therapist, right?”
“The first two victims did see a therapist, a Dr. Janine Woodward.”
“Let me guess,” Horn said. “She works for CIRP.”
The detectives both smiled, confirming his assumption. Horn stood. “Good work, Detectives. I say we pay Dr. Woodward a visit.”
“MISS THORNBIRD, WE DON’T appreciate you trying to break into confidential files.”
“They belonged to my father,” Olivia argued. “I have a right to see them.”
Ian Hall’s accusatory look scalded her. “Not when they pertain to restricted projects that are government classified.”
“I thought you wanted to cooperate with the police,” Olivia argued, “and help find out what’s causing this virus.”
“I am cooperating with the police, but you are not one of them. You’re a reporter digging for a story.”
“I’m one of the victims’ daughters searching for the truth.” Furious, she snatched her purse from the guard and headed toward the door. Another security guard stepped in front of her, barring the exit with his massive body. A third guard approached her from the side, his size towering over her at least three inches, his weight at least a hundred pounds more than her own.
“Miss Thornbird, don’t come back here,” Ian Hall warned. “If you do, I’ll have you arrested.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “And if I find out that you’ve hidden something about this virus, something that poses a danger to the public, or that you’re responsible for the virus here at CIRP, I’ll see that the story is printed, even if it’s from my deathbed.”
“Be careful with your threats, Miss Thornbird. You might wind up eating your words.”
Olivia gave him a last menacing look, then bolted past the guards and out the door. The trembles started as soon as she settled in her car, but she fought them. She wouldn’t let Ian Hall or anyone else deter her. Somehow, she’d find a way to breach the security and unlock the truth about what was going on here at CIRP and why her father had died. And if they knew anything about her mother…
Deciding to go home and check her computer for the name she’d seen on her father’s screen, she swung a sharp right, hit the gas pedal and drove to her apartment. Dark storm clouds threatened above, the sound of thunder rumbling in the sky. Lightning zigzagged above the live oaks, the muggy heat engulfing her as she parked in front of her apartment.
Still shaky, she climbed out, frowning when she noticed her front door ajar. Someone had been inside. Remembering the threatening phone call she’d received earlier, she hesitated, grabbed her cell phone from her purse and slowly walked up the cobblestoned steps. Her fingers poised to punch 911, she peeredBehind her, more thunder cracked. No, it was a gunshot.
The bullet pierced her shoulder, and she bounced backward, pain searing through her. A second bullet pinged off the front door, and she screamed, then ducked and dropped to the ground. Blood gushed from the wound and dripped onto her hands as she crawled to the bushes to hide.
Chapter Six
Craig and the detectives were walking out the door when one of the uniforms caught Detective Black’s arm.
“Nine-one-one just came in from Olivia Thornbird’s home address. Thought you might want to know.”
Craig stiffened. “What’s wrong?”
“She’s been shot. Someone broke into her house. That’s all we’ve got.”
Craig’s vision momentarily blanked as the blood rushed to his head.
Detective Black directed a clipped nod toward the other officer. “Has anyone else responded yet?”
“Officers Morley and Batterson were close by. They’re there now.”
“Come on, Horn.” Black picked up the pace. “You can ride with us.”
Craig and the detectives rushed to the police car, Craig’s mind racing as Black flipped on the siren and sped through town. Images of Olivia, bloody and dying, flashed through his head. Then another image appeared—the attacker waiting for her when she’d arrived home, ambushing her, gunning her down in cold blood.
The Savannah squares and graveyard whirled past. Concrete tombstones and monuments stood in rows, the symbols of death macabre in the murky gray light. The fear that Olivia might be severely injured, that she might be joining her father in the grave twisted his insides.
He had told Olivia that he’d take care of things. Had promised to protect the citizens.
But he’d failed. Her father had died. And now someone had tried to kill her.
It seemed like an eternity, but Black finally reached her street, the tires squealing as he parked. The two uniforms were already on the scene, their weapons drawn as well.
Craig scanned the area for the perp as he climbed from the vehicle. An elderly couple huddled together on the front porch of a neighboring house, their faces strained, while another couple pushing a baby stroller hurried from the area toward a van parked in a metered spot on the street.
As soon as he reached the stoop, he saw Olivia lying on the ground near the flower bed. Blood soaked her blouse and her face was milky white.
“The ambulance is on the way,” one of the officers said.
“Anything on the shooter?” Craig asked.
“Gone when we arrived. Batterson’s searching the inside now.”
“Canvass the neighborhood,” Detective Black ordered.fficer Morley nodded and headed to the neighboring apartments and houses.
“Olivia.” She was unconscious. Craig’s throat jammed as he knelt and checked her pulse. It was weak and thready, but she was alive, although she had lost so much blood. “Olivia, can you hear me?”
Detective Fox retrieved a towel from the apartment and stuffed it in his hand. Craig tore open Olivia’s blouse, the sight of the bullet wound piercing her shoulder wrenching his stomach. But at least the bullet had missed her heart. An inch or two lower…
He couldn’t think about that now. He positioned her head into his lap, then pressed the towel firmly to the wound to stem the blood flow, applying pressure. A siren wailed in the distance, the ambulance zooming toward the house. Rain drizzled from the dark clouds, thunder rumbling louder, nearby. He lifted Olivia in his arms, cradled her under the umbrella of his body as he rushed toward the ambulance.
She moaned and clutched at his shirt, knotting the fabric in her hands. “Horn.”
He leaned closer, rain drenching his clothes, droplets sliding off his chin. “Yeah, I’ve got you.”
Her breath rattled out, unsteady and low. “Didn’t mean to pass out.”
A soft laugh escaped him. He should have known the stubborn woman would be mad at herself for showing any weakness.
“It’s all right,” he said gently. “I don’t like blood myself.” In fact, seeing her so faint made him feel weak-kneed, although he didn’t understand why; he’d certainly s
een much more severe injuries.
She reached up. Brushed at the moisture on his cheek. “S…sorry.”
His throat tightened at her unexpected tenderness. The woman had been shot and she was apologizing for keeping him in the rain. “It’s just water,” he said in a gruff voice. “I’ll survive.”
The EMT and paramedic jumped from the ambulance. One opened the back, and they reached for the stretcher. Craig eased Olivia onto it, keeping the pressure firm on her injury as he dried her forehead with his handkerchief.
Her eyes fluttered open, the ghost of fear haunting her eyes.
“You’re going to be all right,” he whispered.
Black rushed up behind him. “Go with her. We’ll let you know what we find here.”
He nodded, then jumped into the back of the ambulance. The paramedic hooked Olivia up to an IV while the paramedic took her vitals and radioed them in to the hospital. Seconds later, the EMT fired up the engine and sped toward the hospital.
Rain poured down, fat droplets slashing the metal and pinging off the ambulance roof. He gathered Olivia’s hand in his, rubbing her icy skin. “Did you see the shooter?”
She shook her head, licked her parched lips. “No. From behind.” Her eyes fluttered closed, her lower lip quivering. “Please…don’t…go,” she whispered.
The sound of the wailing siren nearly drowned out her request.
Or maybe it was the roaring of his own blood in his ears at the thought that she might have died.
“I’m right here,” he said hoarsely.
She nodded, giving into unconsciousness. His jaw hardened, emotions he didn’t understand welling in his throat. The guilt he expected. The knot of fear he couldn’t handle.
He shouldn’t care what happened to the damn woman. She was obstinate. Nosy. Had probably put herself in jeopardy by investigating her father’s death. And when she awakened, she probably wouldn’t remember asking him to stay with her. Hell, even if she did, she wouldn’t admit it.
But still, he couldn’t tear himself away from her side as they whirled into the hospital and the EMTs rushed her to the E.R. A few minutes later, after they took her to surgery, he paced the waiting room. She’d been hit pretty bad. But she was going to be all right.
So why couldn’t he shake this feeling that something worse was going to happen? That even here in the hospital, Olivia wouldn’t be safe, that he had to watch her every minute or someone might kill her as they had her father?
SHE WAS ALL ALONE. Again.
“Mommy, please don’t leave me. Please come back….”
Her head spun as she reached for her mother’s hand, but her fingers connected with thin air. Tears blurred her eyes and streamed down her cheeks. The smell of her mother’s perfume lingered in the air like the lilacs she used to grow out back. But the flowers had all died; they’d turned brown because her mother hadn’t been there to water them.
“Mommy, please,” she cried, “the lilacs are dying. I miss you….”
“Hush now, Livvy,” her father said. “Mommy’s never coming back. Don’t act like a baby.”
“I’m not a baby.” She lashed out at her father with her fists, but he gripped her hands, picked her up and placed her on her bed in the corner of the dark room, then stalked away. Thunder rumbled. Rain slashed the window, rattling the house. It was scary outside.
Then he was gone. And she was alone in the dark.
She rocked herself back and forth on her bed, clutching the covers around her. “Please don’t leave, I don’t want to be alone…”
“I’m here, Olivia.”
The voice…it didn’t belong to her father. Or her mother. But who was there?
She struggled to open her eyes, but they were so heavy, her limbs felt weighted. Her arm ached, too, and her mouth was so dry.
“Rest now. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
The deep husky voice reverberated through the darkness. Filled the claustrophobic air. Then something warm touched her hand. Fingers closed around hers, stroked her palm gently.
Her breathing steadied. Then she was alone again.
A dizzy feeling swept her into a vortex of darkness. Pain knifed through her. The world spun, and she was falling into the unknown.
And no one was there to catch her.
EVEN AS CRAIG HELD Olivia’s hand in the recovery room and assured her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, fear gripped him. He’d failed his sister. Her father.
What if he failed her?
She looked impossibly small and vulnerable in the hospital bed with the bandage around her shoulder. The harsh overhead lights accentuated her pale face, the listless sound of her breathing troubling him.
The nurse frowned. “There’s a detective asking for you in the waiting room.”
“I’ll be back, Olivia.” He squeezed her hand one more time, then slipped from the room and met Black in the hall.
“How is she?” Detective Black asked.
“She’ll make it. Bullet missed her heart and lungs.”
“Did she get a look at the shooter?”
Craig shook his head. “He came at her from behind. What did you find in her apartment?”
“Someone trashed the place,” Black said. “Her computer files are destroyed.”
“He was looking for something.” Craig shook his head grimly. “Probably trying to find out what she knew about her father’s death.”
“Hell, she’s a reporter,” Black said. “We don’t know for sure that the break-in and assault had anything to do with her dad or the suicide cases. It could have been another story.”
It could be, but that was doubtful. “I’ll check with her when she wakes up. See what else she was working on.” Craig rammed his hand through his hair. “Get any fingerprints at her place?”
“We’ve dusted and are running them now. You still want to question that psychologist?”
He nodded. “Yes, but I’d like to leave a guard at Olivia’s door.”
“I’ll arrange for a uniform to watch her.”
A few minutes later, Craig left a heavyset officer named O’Malley standing guard beside the recovery room, while he and Black drove to CIRP. They met with Ian Hall first.
Hall’s eyebrows rose when Craig relayed the latest turn of events. “Olivia Thornbird was shot?”
“Yes.” Craig studied the man’s cool facade. “You didn’t know?”
“How the hell would I?” Hall plucked at his tie. “Listen, Agent Horn, I told you I was trying to turn the publicity about the research park around and I am. What can I do for you?”
Craig still didn’t know whether to beli“We want to speak to Dr. Woodward.”
Hall immediately phoned her extension, then showed them to her office. Janine Woodward was tall, thin and elegant, with dark hair tucked neatly into a French twist, sensible shoes and green eyes that raked over each of them as if she were mentally assessing them. He supposed it was her nature, just like it was his job to do the same.
“Hello, gentlemen, what can I do for you?”
Craig didn’t waste time. He explained their theories regarding the Savannah Suicides. “Two of the victims were your patients.”
She stared at him dead-on, her reaction schooled. “I only saw them briefly, but was very sorry to hear about their suicides. I…wish I could have done more.”
“We currently have some of your doctors and the CDC testing tissue samples to pinpoint the nature of the virus, cause and cure,” Horn explained. “We’re not convinced these were suicides.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand. Each of the victims exhibited paranoia to the point of agoraphobia. I admit it was odd, but their behaviors were characteristic of suicide victims. I encouraged them to commit to in-patient therapy so I could monitor each of them, but both refused.”
Black cut in, “We’re aware that some of your mental health professionals have experimented with altering memories using a combination of drug therapy and hypnosis.”
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br /> She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, appearing relaxed, but Horn could read people, too. She knew where he was heading, and she was nervous. “You and Clayton Fox were partners,” she said. “I remember reading about you in the paper.”
“Were you on the team who drugged him?” Black asked.
“No.” She shifted, her thin lips tightening. “I only recently transferred to CIRP. Dr. Hall brought me in. I work with schizophrenics.”
“Is it possible that you could give someone a post-hypnotic suggestion to commit suicide when they’re in a psychotic or drug-induced state, and that the patient would follow through?”
She frowned. “I suppose it’s possible, but highly unlikely. Although I was not involved in the experiment with Clayton Fox, I believe he proved that the subconscious mind is strong. He overcame the suggestions.”
“But it is possible?” Horn pressed.
“Under certain circumstances, perhaps.” She rose, folded her arms. “But I can assure you, gentlemen, that no one in my department, especially myself, would indulge in any treatment that’s unethical. What purpose would it serve?”
Horn and Black traded skeptical looks. “I don’t know,” Craig said. “But if that’s the case, we’ll find out. And we’ll be back to see you when we do.”
OLIVIA DRIFTED IN AND OUT of consciousness, her nightmares bouncing between her mother’s death, her father’s suicide and the drug-induced hallucinations caused by the medication. She should have warned the doctors she could’t handle narcotics.
The hazy face of a doctor garbed in surgical clothes and mask drifted in front of her face, and she squinted. He had a small dark mole on his chin, and he smelled like disinfectant. She thought the surgery was over. That she was in recovery.
Then something pricked her arm. Another needle.
“No…” She tried to speak but her voice faded as the drugs seeped though her system. Then suddenly the bed shifted. Someone was moving her.
The face appeared again. No, not a face, only eyes peering at her over the surgical mask. Dark. Black. Empty.