Authors: Vicki Hinze
Lou didn’t acknowledge her existence. She left his room fighting a knee-buckling sense of defeat and wondering why Foster hadn’t just tagged his operative. She could answer that question, of course.
Unsalvageable.
Yet his Shadow Watcher’s identity seemed obvious to her already. She might be making a hasty, premature judgment; it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, or the first time she’d been wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong. It felt inevitable. Which meant she had to go back to see Joe.
The prospect terrified her, professionally and personally. And it intrigued her. Maybe she was fretting over nothing. Maybe she’d been wrong and misinterpreted her instinctive reaction to him. With everything happening, her intuition could be on overload hiatus. Joe couldn’t be
the
one. Mentally diminished, her patient, a man who had attempted to choke her to death—she
had
to be wrong. Yet she was wary of putting herself to the test and finding out.
Face it, Sara West. You’re more afraid of that than another attack. But you’ve put it off as long as you can. It’s time to face it.
Wishing she could ignore her conscience, and knowing she couldn’t, Sara turned down the wide corridor leading to the Isolation Wing. Her stomach lurched, her throat constricted. The tender skin on her neck had bruised from him choking her, and the idea of subjecting herself to that violent behavior again made her queasy. She’d do it, of course, because she had to and because, after the way he’d countered her defensive and offensive tactics, she instinctively knew Joe was Foster’s operative. Sure, there was a chance Foster’s operative could be Michael, or maybe Ray. But the as-yet-unseen Fred and Lou were too damaged to be serious contenders. Foster knew that as well as she did
. . .
A light bulb went on inside Sara’s head. Foster
did
know that as well as she did. Which meant Foster intended for her to easily and quickly detect his operative.
She couldn’t confirm it, but the tactic made sense. Foster could rest assured she would be working with Joe without having to compromise security by pointedly identifying him as a Shadow Watcher. Joe was the most likely candidate. The one Foster could most rationally question whether or not he was salvageable.
Maybe she suspected Joe was the operative because he had reacted automatically to her self-defense maneuvers. Maybe because he was the only PTSD patient in Isolation. Or maybe the need she felt to pay special attention to him had nothing to do with Foster and everything to do with that damned the one feeling and the anguish she’d seen in the man’s eyes when he’d screamed, “I wept.”
She glanced over at Koloski. Talking still set her throat on fire, but she forced her words past her lips. “Keep a close eye on the monitor for me, okay?”
His brows shot up on his forehead. “You’re going back in?”
Sara nodded. “I can’t help the man from out here.”
Frowning, Koloski looked torn between admiring her and requesting an immediate sanity evaluation. Cocky by nature, he clipped a nod, but in his eyes she noted his worry. “Yes, ma’am, Major.”
She glanced at the monitor. “What’s that in Joe’s room?” A white cylinder of some sort.
“A trash drum. William put it in there last night as a barrier between him and ADR—er, Joe.”
Brilliant move. Joe would use it as a weapon against William—successfully, judging by his attack on her. “Thanks,” she said, then walked on to the main door.
The buzzer sounded. She went through, entering the wing, walked down the corridor, and then stopped in the hallway outside Joe’s room. Her hands shook, her heart beat hard and fast, threatening to rupture through her chest wall, and tiny beads of sweat broke out on her skin and trickled down between her breasts. She was scared, and smart enough to admit it. Who in their right mind wouldn’t be? But she was determined that this second attempt to get to know her patient would end far differently from her first. She glanced down at her lab coat. Blue flowers, black slacks and top. Not a speck of white anywhere.
The room’s door buzzer sounded.
A shiver slithered up her backbone. Shaking it off, she sent up a quick prayer.
Please, please let me be wrong about him. Please!
She took in a deep breath and then opened the door and paused at its threshold. Joe sat on the floor, leaning back against the far wall, his head lolled back and his chin thrust upward, dark with a stubbly five o’clock shadow. He was an attractive man. Strong face, fit, with broad shoulders capable of carrying a lot of weight. He didn’t look at her or give any signal that he had heard her enter, but he knew she was there. She sensed it down to her bones. Just as she sensed that, regardless of challenges and ethics, she was not wrong. God help her, he was the one. “Joe?” Shutting out her personal feelings, she gripped the edge of the door and waited for him to acknowledge her.
No reaction.
Emotional numbing? Maybe. Maybe avoidance. Sara set the trash drum out in the hall, then stepped back inside. The door shut behind her, and her mouth went dry. He was straitjacketed, but he had removed one before and could again. He could lunge at her at any moment, and she feared him. After the attack, what woman or doctor in her right mind wouldn’t fear him? She mentally prepared for defense and focused intently, watching for early warning signs. “Joe?”
He swiveled his gaze to her. His eyes narrowed, gleamed like steel shards caught in the sun. “Is Joe my name?”
He didn’t know? There’d been nothing about amnesia in his chart. Had to be suppression, not amnesia. Maybe the white lab coat bad brought back a memory that triggered the attack. Or the attack could have triggered a memory. It could have happened either way.
“I asked you a question.” He stared up at her. “Is Joe my name?”
“No. No, it’s not.” A lucid moment! Excited, Sara swallowed hard. “I don’t know your name, but I didn’t want to call you by your patient number, so I named you Joe. Is that all right?”
“Would it matter?” He leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “Does what I want ever matter?”
“All the time, to me.” Sara wanted to walk over to him, to sit down beside him, and get the lines of communication open. But she didn’t dare to move. Not yet. The bond between them was too fragile and new. Joe needed time to adjust and to accept her being here, and she needed time to gauge him and to work past her fear. His chart was pitifully absent of notes. So far, she hadn’t seen signs of shock or disbelief, or fear or grief—all of which were essential elements to a PTSD diagnosis. But she had noticed disorientation and the episodic rage earlier, and she was picking up on a sense of betrayal now. Betrayal trauma was prevalent in war veterans and sexually abused children, and both often experienced psychogenic amnesia to maintain attachment, which greatly enhanced their chances for survival and return to mental health. So some of the classic symptoms of PTSD were present, including maybe emotional numbing and psychogenic amnesia.
“I don’t care what you call me.” Bracing against the wall, Joe stood up.
Mesmerized, she stared at him. “I’m Dr. Sara West,” she said, wishing her voice sounded stronger and held more authority. With the rasp, it sounded as husky as a bourbon baritone. “Do you know where you are right now?”
He looked around the stark room. “The white place.” His pupils intensified to points, and his face paled. “Get me out of here.”
“I will as soon as I can.” Sara licked her lips. He was at least six-two, powerful shoulders, lean and in good condition. More evidence that he was Foster’s operative—and that he could snap her neck in two seconds, if he chose to do so. Her knees went weak. “Do you remember attacking me earlier?”
He looked at her as if she should be locked up. “I don’t attack women.”
No recollection whatsoever, and he clearly and genuinely deemed the attack totally out of character for himself. That was good news in her book.
“I’m tired of people messing with my mind.”
“I’m not messing with your mind.”
He slid her a skeptical look. “If I attacked you, then why did you come back?”
Valid question. “I’m your doctor.” She shrugged. “I can’t help you if I don’t see you.”
He stared at her so hard she felt sure he was seeing just how afraid she was of him. “You don’t attack women?” she asked, letting him hear her need for reassurance. In her experience, exposing her vulnerabilities often aroused an inherent desire in the patient to protect and defend her.
“No, I do not.”
Even straitjacketed he maintained the military posture. That too was telling. “What do you do?”
Opening his mouth, he started to speak but stopped, clamped his jaw shut, and said nothing. Tense moments passed, and then he stiffened his shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “I want out of here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like it here. I want out.” He dragged an impatient hand through his dark hair. How did he do that straitjacketed? “I want out—now.”
Sara considered the risks. Some innate instinct was telling her to get him out of this room, but if she did and he turned on her again, she’d be out of luck, and he could hurt himself—or someone else. She couldn’t risk it. Not yet. The other patients too would be vulnerable. “I understand, Joe. As soon as it’s safe, I’ll get you moved.”
He rolled his eyes back in his head. “That’s what they all say.”
She had to prove herself different. Fast. She was losing him already. “I’m not one of them. I’m a private doctor who agreed to come here short-term to work with five patients who are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. You’re one of them. I don’t like the military much, and I don’t give a damn what the others did, I do things my way.”
“Then why come here?”
“Because here is where the research grant is, and here is where you are.” She gave him an imp’s smile. “And the other four patients.”
No response. But he studied her intently, gauging her.
She stepped closer, leaving about eight feet between them. Showing a growing trust, yet still close enough to make it to the door, if necessary. One thing she knew was that she couldn’t go toe-to-toe with Joe in a physical altercation and win. Unusual, considering her training, but a fact. And she had the bruised neck and raw throat to prove it. “Earlier, you told me, ‘I wept.’ What did you mean by that?”
His expression hardened, turned as unflinching as his eyes. He let his gaze drift wall to wall, ceiling to floor. When he looked back at her, he had totally detached. “Get out.”
“I need to talk with you.” She stared at his back, determined not to show fear by moving toward the door. “I want to help you, Joe. I can’t do that if every time I come in here, you attack me or force me to leave.”
He glared at her over the slope of his shoulder, his face a contorted mask of rage. “Damn it, I told you to get out. Do it—now!”
He began shaking, head to toe, as if it were all he could do to hold himself in place. He was fighting against an urge to attack her, she realized. Fighting it, hard. “I’ll be back.” She motioned at the monitor for the attendant to open the door. “Koloski.”
“Get me out soon.” Anguish again flooded Joe’s face. “Please.”
It ripped at her heart. “Just as soon as I can.”
He stiffened, his eyes wild. “Go!”
The door buzzed. Sara rushed through it, yanked it closed behind her. Joe stormed across the room, slammed his body against the door. Pressing his face against the cool Plexiglas window so he could see out, he pounded on the door with his fists.
Sara watched him work through his rage in awe. Stunned. Overwhelmed. And so happy she feared she might cry.
Joe had protected her. From himself.
He was attaching.