Peril (4 page)

Brett wondered if it was time to go wide with publicity about this murderer. The case of Lilly Reeves, Nathan Long's now-wife, had sensitized the department as to when it was most appropriate to give out public information related to a serial criminal. There was a fine line between proper notification and when the ensuing public panic would save lives. There'd been one recent news conference about two prostitutes who had been found strangled in wooded areas. It was surmised that their services were solicited and they'd been brought to the location of their eventual death. Naturally, a press conference about the deaths of a couple of downtown
hookers didn't raise the concern of remote parental suburbanites. Why not let young Zoe go for her morning run on a familiar local trail that hadn't had a bit of trouble reported?

Well, except for the bear and all.

Brett paced a few more steps and stopped. There was a small area littered with cigarette butts and other accoutrements of drug use. “Geek squad know about this?”

“I told them. They're searching the other side of the trail.”

Brett slid on a pair of vinyl gloves. He hated when his hands looked all Smurf-like. Nathan preferred to live in a plastic bubble; Brett loved the feel of dirt underneath his fingernails.

Surely, Nathan wouldn't split up their odd-couple pairing. Not after what happened the last time he'd worked with SWAT as an FBI hostage negotiator. People had died, and died horribly. Nathan still placed the blame squarely on himself. It was only after his wife's rape case was solved that Nathan had fully disclosed his horror in that experience.

And now he wants to go back?

Brett sat on his haunches. “Pictures at least?”

“Yeah, they photographed everything already.”

He noted the section of yellow crime tape. “I don't think any of this is going to be his.”

“Why not?”

In his gut, Brett knew this killer was not likely under the influence of drugs. Too much time waiting for the right girl. Watching her. Tracking her. Finally taking the leap to snuff out her life.

“A man needing a fix isn't going to be able to sit still long enough to do what was required here. Takes a lot of patience for someone to find a target. To wait for the perfect moment to take it out. How many successful hunters are crack addicts?”

Rutledge nodded his head. “Guess you have a point. Even if most of them are bad.”

Standing and taking a few steps back, Brett turned to the side.
Might as well look around some more to see if the killer left anything behind in his hurry to leave
.

He pulled the high strands of grass apart as he walked. Nathan called it God. Brett called it cop's instinct, but something in his gut told him to keep walking this way. He glanced back to the trail. A few steps up and
the perpetrator would have a better view of the bend and more room to pounce on an unsuspecting girl, especially one with music blaring in her ears.

After five steps Brett stopped.

Definitely a better view of the trail from here
. A breeze evaporated sweat that beaded on his forehead.
Anything lightweight would have blown this way
. He began to scour the ground again.

More packages of torn gauze and cotton balls were stuck in the shoots of withered grass. Spring had been hot and dry and the foliage resembled the aged effect of autumn even though his calendar indicated June.
At least this area hasn't been chewed up by fire like many parts of the state
.

A small, folded card sitting about six inches up off the ground, stuck between dried, crispy weeds caught his eye. He pulled it and opened it up.

A name and a number. A hospital business card.

Dr. Tyler Adams.

Now wasn't that interesting. His fine PICU nurse had the same last name as this doctor. And they worked at the same place.

Chapter 3

Late Afternoon, Monday, June 11

D
R
. T
YLER
A
DAMS NEARLY
shoved the phone off his desk as he pushed the intercom button. His clinic coordinator's voice sounded thin through the speaker. “Sir, the PICU is coding a patient. Your wife's not able to come to the phone.”

He checked his watch.
One patient consult left before Morgan and I are supposed to meet
. He eyed the bouquet of flowers at the edge of his desk, each bloom losing a bit of life every minute they were denied water.

One month since their baby had died. Not an anniversary he wanted to celebrate.

“Thanks for checking.”

Grabbing the patient's chart, he skimmed over his last few clinic notes. This visit was unusual. An urgent request from the patient to be seen as quickly as Dr. Adams could fit him in.

At times, Tyler wondered at the wisdom of taking on this consulting position. When he first received the call from Dr. Thomas Reeves, he'd quickly agreed to a meeting, not having any idea what the reason might be. After all, this was the same doctor who had invented MemoryEase—the first medication to show significant, verifiable progress in treating post-traumatic stress disorder. From a purely physiological standpoint, it had revolutionized PTSD therapies and brought a certain amount of notoriety to Reeves as well.

But why would a famed neuroscientist like Thomas Reeves need help from a heart transplant surgeon? Tyler couldn't wait to find out.

That dinner two years ago had been quaint, set here at NeuroGenics, right on the grounds of Reeves's private kingdom. His proposal was mind-boggling, and the money he'd offered was undeniably a gift that could help erase the debt Tyler accrued from over a decade of medical training.
He could still do his first love, transplant medicine, but consulting here did add long hours to his workweek.

When he'd approached Morgan with the idea of taking on a part-time position, she hadn't argued in the negative. But now the time he spent away from her and the tide of their grief potentiated the distance between them.

That bothered him the most.

Morgan's overwhelming sorrow over the loss of their child, and her subsequent medical complications fueled the separation. His eyes lingered on Morgan's picture just a moment, then he gathered the patient's chart and headed to the room next door.

Tyler was surprised to see a man about his patient's age standing outside the door.

“Can I help you?” Tyler asked.

“Just waiting for my friend. He didn't really want me in there during your little chat.” He reached his hand out. “Dylan Worthy.”

Tyler accepted the gesture. “Dr. Adams. Perhaps the waiting room would be more comfortable.” A statement versus a choice.

Dylan shrugged. “I'm fine here.”

There was something about Dylan that Tyler didn't like. Was it the wild, blond spiked hair? The tattoos that peeked out under his shirtsleeves? Or the fact that the scar on the left side of his head indicated he was likely another of Thomas Reeves's patients?

Why don't I know about him?

“Sure,” Tyler said. “Just not very comfortable here in the hallway.”

“No worries. I'll find something to occupy myself.”

Tyler nodded and gave two quick raps on the wooden door. Then he entered the examination room.

Reeves's institute tried to do a lot of things
differently
. Exam rooms were devoid of the normal vinyl-covered rectangular wooden tabletop and instead had a few comfortable chairs. His patient was Scott Clarke, a former Navy SEAL. Scott sat on the edge of the leather recliner. Tyler took the padded, dinner-table-style chair that sat near a wall off to the side. Tyler settled back in his seat, but Scott remained on the edge of his.

Most people thought of Navy SEALs in the same vein as the wrestler and ex–Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura—big, husky, and able to split a baseball bat in two with a swift karate chop. Wasn't the truth always stranger than what the mind thought of as the ideal?

Navy SEALs were trained to blend into any environment they were tasked to infiltrate. At times, getting into remote, barren wildernesses required stealthy agility. Scott was the ideal. Average height. Weight about one hundred ninety pounds. Thin. Quick reflexes. Fast on his feet. His dark brown hair still sported the military-style haircut even though he'd been honorably discharged from military service last month. The only reason Tyler remembered that fact was he'd received a letter about the change in his patient's military status the same day their daughter, Teagan, was admitted to the PICU.

“Good to see you, Scott,” Tyler said, opening his patient file. “What brings you in today?”

The former SEAL leaned his elbows into his knees and tapped his feet against the floor, his face pressed into his hands. The behavior seemed more in line with a nervous ten-year-old than a trained military man.

“Scott?”

When Scott lifted his head and his steely, gray-green, reddened eyes zeroed in, his demeanor fed into Tyler's anxiety about the day.

“What brings you here?” Tyler asked again.

“I want the graft out.”

Tyler sighed. “Scott . . . it's just not feasible. The graft is fused to your own cells. Dividing them out would be impossible. These cells have created a network with your own. They're intertwined.”

Scott's shoulders sagged at the words. He looked as if he would slump to the floor.

“Tell me what's going on. I can only help you if you let me in on some of the things you're feeling.”

The patient inhaled and went for the packet of cigarettes in his front pocket, then seemingly realized where he was and shoved it back down. “It's just too much. I can't explain it.”

“Try?”

“It's painful. Not in a physical sense but . . .”

Tyler crossed his legs and set the open file there, waiting for the man to continue. The military wasn't the best at providing for the mental health needs of its soldiers—possibly because they were equally as unwilling to talk openly about thoughts and feelings. A sure recipe for disaster.

A crazed smile crossed Scott's face. “It almost works too good.”

“Is that possible? Wouldn't you say these increased skills were part of the reason you were awarded the Silver Star?”

He ignored the implication. “Who would've thought these doctored-up neurons would actually do what you said they'd do?”

“Well, honestly, you'd have to thank Dr. Reeves for that. The whole protocol, the idea behind it, came from his mind.”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, and he didn't have help from somebody else like we did.”

Tyler frowned at the statement. Assigning a cluster of cells personal characteristics seemed odd. Like calling your kidney Fred. “What do you mean by that?”

Scott tapped the side of his head. “It's like someone else is there.”

“You're hearing voices?”

He clasped his hands together and squeezed. “No. I'm not hearing voices. No reason for you to line up an admission to the funny farm. Not yet at least.”

“Okay, then what?”

“Did you ever consider what the consequences would be of giving someone the ability to have . . . what is it you call it?”

“A superior autobiographical memory.”

“Yes. Big words for us grunts.” He ran his finger across his upper lip. “Aren't there some things you'd like to forget?”

Tyler fidgeted in his seat. Did Scott know what today was? “It depends. Although painful, some things we'd like to forget are those very things that make us who we are. The pain of the things we endure helps us to be more compassionate toward others.”

Scott chuckled. “That's quite a speech, Doc. Don't think I took you for the sappy type. How's work going for you? Transplanted many hearts lately?”

“There's one young lady that desperately needs a transplant who's on the list. She'll die if she doesn't get one soon.”

“What's her blood type?”

“Why, are you offering yours? Are you wanting to take your own life?”

Scott shrugged his shoulders and eased back into the chair.

“How have things been at home?” Tyler asked. “Job going okay?”

Scott's eyes narrowed as if contemplating how truthful he wanted to be. “Not so well. Haven't been able to hold down a job.”

Tyler motioned toward the door. “Is your friend supportive?”

“Who? Dylan? You met him?”

“Hard not to with him just outside.”

Scott nodded and then chuckled softly. “Dylan may not be the best influence. Never stays in one place too long. We served together so he gets what I'm going through.”

“So he's someone you can talk to.” Tyler situated the file so he could write notes in the chart.

“About some things, I guess . . . like this surgery.” Scott folded his arms over his chest. “I've been reading a lot about memory lately. Probably should have spent some time doing that before I became your guinea pig.”