by Mary Stone
After all, hadn’t she devoted her life—not to mention a substantial sum of money—to working in a healthcare field? And which type of doctor did people dislike more, a regular physician or a shrink?
Most of the time, she was pretty sure the average person trusted a witch doctor more than a psychologist. It was a thankless job, but she figured it was one that someone ought to do. Never mind that her specific line of study would lead her to a career wherein her clientele were hardened criminals bound to the justice system.
After she had received her Juris Doctorate as part of the Ph.D. program for forensic psychology, she had debated dropping the clinical program to become a lawyer. But then, she realized that if there was an occupation the average person hated more and trusted less than a psychiatrist, it was a lawyer.
She might not have been the only person who was leery of the doctor’s office, but Autumn’s reservations were atypical.
Her insurance was good, and she was fortunate enough not to have to worry about the expense. But each time she visited a new physician, she had to go through her entire family and medical history all over again. And each time, she had to put on a face to pretend that the topic didn’t bother her.
The drive to the sleek office was uneventful, and for much of the trip, she let her mind wander. Only when a nurse stepped into the waiting area to call her name did she return her focus to the present.
“Autumn?” the woman called.
With a practiced smile and a nod, Autumn pushed herself to stand and made her way to follow the blue-clad nurse down a quiet hallway and into an exam room.
“So, what brings you in today, Ms. Trent?” Clipboard in hand, the corners of the woman’s green-flecked eyes creased as she offered a warm smile.
“My stomach,” Autumn answered as she rested a hand over her belly. “I’ve been experiencing a lot of stomach pain and nausea.”
“Are you on any medications?”
Autumn shook her head. “Just the occasional allergy pill. For pollen, though. I’m not allergic to anything else that I know of.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
Even though she had expected the question, she still couldn’t help a snort of laughter. “I’m a grad student, so I don’t know exactly, but my ex and I broke up before Thanksgiving, if that’s any indication. Nothing since.”
“So, seven months?” the nurse surmised.
“Sure.” Autumn shrugged. She didn’t mind the topic of discussion when she was around one of her girlfriends, but with a perfect stranger, she always felt like she was being judged.
“Any history of surgical procedures or any chronic illnesses?”
HIPAA or not, she was always reluctant to answer the question.
“Yeah,” she started. “No chronic illness, but I had a traumatic brain injury when I was eleven. I had to have surgery to relieve the pressure. I was in a medically induced coma for a couple weeks.”
She left out that she had to repeat the sixth grade because she spent so long in the hospital, and she left out that during those months, her only visitor was her math teacher.
She also left out that, when she awoke, her senses had been overloaded to the point she thought she was losing her mind, or that she had woken from her coma in a different dimension. It took years for her to get a handle on the newfound keenness.
Even before the injury and the subsequent surgery, Autumn hadn’t been fond of physical contact, especially with people she didn’t know. But after she woke from the medically induced coma, she avoided touches even as innocuous as a handshake.
She hadn’t known what was happening when she touched another person, but the onslaught of foreign emotions—feelings that were most definitely not hers—made her even more uneasy.
In the seventeen years since the head injury, she hadn’t told a soul about the inexplicable sixth sense.
But Autumn was nothing if not determined, and she had learned to use the ability to her advantage by the time she was a sophomore in high school.
“Any family history of serious illnesses? Stroke or heart attack, cancer, anything like that?” The nurse’s question snapped her out of the reverie and back to the little exam room.
Biting back a knee-jerk hell if I know, she shrugged. “I’m not sure. I think there might have been a stroke or something on my mom’s side, her great-grandfather, but it wasn’t until he was getting close to a hundred. Both my parents are dead, but not because of a medical issue.”
Not unless you count a syringe or a bullet to the chest.
Autumn glanced down to where she had folded her hands in her lap.
If the pain from the last few months hadn’t been so pervasive, she would have stayed at home. And if the nurse asked her how she had sustained the head injury, she would be inclined to hop down from the exam chair to walk out the doors altogether.
To her relief, no such inquiry was forthcoming. The nurse took her blood pressure, her pulse, and asked for a more in-depth description of the stomach pain. After a quick smile and a promise that the doctor would be with her shortly, the shorter woman departed.
There, she thought. The worst part is over.
None of her experiences with doctors had been bad, and she wondered how realistic the fear that her ability would be discovered was.
She’d been through so many MRI and CT scans of her head that she’d lost count, and none of the tests or images had revealed an abnormality that might have pointed to her enhanced senses or her ability to size someone up with a touch.
Whatever in the hell had happened to her was not easily captured in an image, even with the aid of modern medical technology.
Regardless of what her rational mind knew, Autumn’s fear of being discovered and subjected to a series of experimental procedures was still persistent. And every time she stepped foot into a hospital or a doctor’s office, that trepidation reared up to smack her logic and reasoning away like it had never been there in the first place.
If anyone had the know-how to discover the abnormality, it would have been the woman who had performed Autumn’s surgery in the first place.
Despite the impression conveyed by her folksy, northern accent, Dr. Catherine Schmidt was one of the best pediatric neurosurgeons in the entire state of Minnesota.
Dr. Schmidt took a personal interest in many of her patients, especially those who didn’t have much in the way of a support system. Once Autumn awoke from the medically induced coma, Dr. Schmidt had been the second person to visit her.
The bedside table in Autumn’s room had been sparse—the only items were a couple cards and flowers from the hospital staff, and then a potted African violet from her math teacher. Autumn still had the flower, and she had even topped the soil with rocks so her animals wouldn’t dig at it.
A couple hours after Dr. Schmidt had gone through a handful of medical questions with Autumn, she had returned with a box of cookies and a bouquet comprised of candy. Autumn hadn’t been able to conceal her excitement, and despite her tendency to avoid any form of physical affection, she threw her arms around the surgeon’s shoulders.
Though Dr. Schmidt’s warm smile remained, Autumn could still remember the sensation that had overtaken her at the close contact. At the time, she was still unfamiliar with her new sixth sense, but she knew enough about what she felt to keep the sentiment to herself.
Before the embrace with Dr. Schmidt, a couple different nurses had taken Autumn’s pulse and listened to her breathing with a stethoscope. Their slight touches had conveyed a deeply ingrained sense of kindness and sympathy that had helped to put her at ease.
When her math teacher, Mr. Sellers, had hugged her, she had been struck by a fatherly affection she doubted she would have received from her biological father.
But with Dr. Catherine Schmidt, Autumn’s mind had plummeted into a shifting abyss, a place of eerie nothingness tinged with little more than ambition and anger.
Autumn might not have known much about her ability
at the time, but she knew that Dr. Schmidt was not what she seemed.
13
As Aiden replaced the stout glass atop the coffee table, the last swig of the pricey scotch burned its way down his throat before it settled in to warm his stomach. Though he had started to compile the information while he was still in his office, he realized soon that this was the type of sensitive work he would be wise to keep out of the building.
The ability to throw back a stiff drink as he sifted through the files was an added bonus.
The day’s search for Justin Black had turned up little and less, aside from confirmation that Jaime Peterson was a stolen identity.
No matter Aiden’s personal distaste for the man, he knew Noah Dalton was a keen observer, and he knew that regardless of her personal stake in the outcome of the investigation, Winter was just as sharp as her Texan friend.
And then, of course, there was Bree.
From organized crime in Baltimore to violent crimes in Richmond, the woman had seen it all. She’d put away murderers whose notoriety rivaled, even surpassed, that of Douglas Kilroy, and she’d landed the arrests before most of them had even thought to pursue an FBI career.
Bree Stafford had put away mob bosses. Over a career that spanned more than twenty years, she’d been face to face with the worst of the worst, the lowest of the low.
All three of them—Noah, Winter, and Bree—were better than good. They were some of the best.
But when it came to Justin Black, he couldn’t help but wonder if they were blinded by the potential to find the kid intact, both physically and mentally. Aiden did not doubt that Justin was physically healthy. After all, Douglas Kilroy wouldn’t have harmed his protégé.
Or had all Aiden’s years analyzing the motivations of mass murderers and psychopaths jaded his perception? Was he the one who was biased? As he scrolled through Bree and Winter’s handwritten notes, he doubted it.
By all accounts, Justin—or Jaime, as he had been referred—was outgoing and personable. None of the friends who Winter contacted had a bad word to say about Jaime, and only one teacher had vocalized even a hint of concern. However, the older man’s worry had more to do with the fact that he had never met Jaime’s parents than anything.
High school hadn’t been a joyous experience for Aiden. He had been tall, thin, and awkward. He had no interest in sports, and he was too shy to approach his classmates to make new friends. Until he graduated, his only friends were the same group of geeky outcasts he had associated with since the fifth grade.
His high grade point average gave him a way out, and he took the opportunity as soon as it arose.
In a new city, surrounded by unfamiliar faces, by people who did not know about his social standing in high school, he reinvented himself.
The loss of his older sister, Emily, came with a new, cynical outlook, and with that outlook, the awkward Aiden Parrish from South Chicago vanished.
More outspoken and assertive, he found himself with a new circle of friends almost overnight. He changed his major from engineering to a double major in criminal justice and psychology. At first, he had been determined to maintain a spotless academic record to earn a spot in a competitive graduate program for clinical forensic psychology.
However, after a handful of discussions with the graduate students who oversaw behavioral research at the university, he formulated a backup plan.
Clinical psychology programs were among the most competitive Ph.D. tracks, and often, students who “knew somebody” were selected for the coveted spots. No one in Aiden’s family had even gone to college, so he decided not to hedge his bets on a path that was so full of uncertainty.
All in all, the realization had been for the best.
Forensic psychologists were not profilers, they did not carry a badge and wear a Glock on their hip. Though the profession was responsible for much of the understanding of criminals’ motives, he hadn’t wanted a career in a clinical setting.
After Emily’s murder, he wanted the badge, and he wanted the Glock.
Sure, he still wanted to understand the motivation that drove murderers like Emily’s husband, Dave Lemke, but he did not want to try to treat them.
He wanted to put them away. And if Justin was one of them, then Aiden would put him away too.
Swallowing against the sour taste in his mouth, he forced his attention back to the laptop.
From what Aiden had dug up via social media websites, Justin’s friends at Bowling Green High had belonged to a few distinctly different sets of social cliques. By itself, the knowledge was not damning, but when he sifted through the differing accounts of Justin’s personality, a clearer picture formed.
Around one set of friends, Justin was soft-spoken and humble. He went to Wednesday night youth groups and even joined their families for dinner.
Then, with another group of friends, he had been brash and daring, cocky, and rebellious. He’d tell those friends stories about his antics in previous school districts, about how he had gotten into fights and openly disobeyed his teachers.
With yet another cluster of friends, Justin had been creative and thoughtful.
Justin Black, also known as Jaime Peterson, was a chameleon.
All his friends loved him because they all thought that he was just like them, and they didn’t know that he was pretending to be someone else when he was in the company of a different group. As luck would have it, Justin hadn’t stuck around Bowling Green long enough for all his classmates to compare notes.
But as luck would also have it, Aiden could compare those notes to form a more complete picture of the true nature of Justin Black.
So far, the picture was bleak.
Robert Ladwig didn’t have a client scheduled that morning, and when Sue called back to his office to tell him he had a visitor, his stomach dropped.
The night before, he had ripped off the band-aid and called Sandra Evans as soon as he returned home from the trip to Quinton. Each statement he made had been greeted with a laconic response that bordered on curt. By the time the call ended, his hands shook.
He spent more of the night tossing and turning than he had sleeping, and as he strode out to admit the visitor, his only goal was to get the meeting over with.
As he suspected, the only occupant of the waiting area was a familiar woman.
Her amber, gold-flecked eyes were fixed on the saltwater fish tank that his other receptionist, Kiera, had convinced him to install. Even as she watched a little octopus scuttle along the colorful rocks, he could tell that she had noticed his arrival.
“Dr. Evans,” he declared. “It’s been a while.”
With the slightest smirk, she nodded as she turned to face him. “It sure has. Looks like you’re doing pretty well for yourself here, eh, Robert?”
He fought against bristling at the cool indifference in her voice. Nodding, he swept his arm toward the hall. “Come on back, Sandra. I just brewed some coffee if you’d like some.”
“Of course, that sounds great.” Sandra flashed the woman behind the reception desk a quick smile.” Thanks again, Sue. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“You, too, Dr. Evans.” Sue returned the pleasant expression as if nothing was amiss.
Then again, as far as Sue was concerned, nothing was amiss. As far as Sue knew, Sandra was just another colleague from the medical community. As far as Sue knew, the blonde, middle-aged surgeon was just another visitor.
“What are you doing here, Evans?” Though he had closed and latched the heavy wooden door, Ladwig kept his voice hushed as he spun around to face her.
“Wow, that’s not much of a greeting.” With feigned exasperation, she crossed both arms over her white button-down blouse.
Every emotion Sandra Evans had was feigned, Ladwig knew. The woman was a fucking sociopath.
“Cut the bullshit, Evans. You know how risky this is, don’t you?” He made sure to keep his tone cool and dismissive. The pediatric neurosurgeon might have terrified him, but he w
ouldn’t reveal the abject fear in her presence.
“I’m aware.” Her response was flat, and he didn’t miss the dangerous glint behind her gold-flecked eyes. “But we need to talk, and it’s about time we had a face-to-face discussion about Patient Zero.”
“Fine. Sit down.” Grating his teeth together, he made his way around the desk and dropped to sit.
The ghost of a smug smile was on her lips as she took a seat in one of the two chairs that faced him.
“You want Patient Zero’s name, don’t you, Evans.” The vocalization wasn’t a question. Not at all.
“The people I do this work for are starting to get impatient, Robert. And believe me when I say that when they get impatient, bad things happen.”
If it hadn’t been for the grave look that replaced her self-assuredness, he might have been inclined to think she was lying.
He knew there were others involved, and though he tried not to give the idea too much consideration, the discovery of how Winter came into her enhanced senses would be a lucrative breakthrough for Sandra’s associates.
“What do you want me to do about it?” he finally asked.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
“And you know my answer to that. Patient Zero is off-limits, and for a good fucking reason. Listen, Sandra. If you and your employers want me to take your word about this ‘research,’ then you’ll have to do the same for me. You have to trust that I’m keeping Patient Zero’s identity a secret because involving this individual would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.”
Eyes narrowed, she leaned forward. “And why might that be?”
“He’s in federal law enforcement,” Rob answered through clenched teeth.
Despite the changing demographics of the last decade, the vast majority of law enforcement agents were men. Referring to Patient Zero as a man would throw Sandra far enough off the correct trail that the likelihood of discovering Winter would be minimal.
At the same time, the lie held enough truth to come across as believable.