Читать книгу Silent Surrender - Rita Herron - Страница 11

A tall lanky man rushed out the door behind Sarah Cutter. The skinny guy had been eyeballing her from the corner, but Adam hadn’t thought much of it at the time. After all, oddballs drifted in and out of the precinct at all hours, reporting crimes, claiming to be victims, sometimes admitting to crimes they hadn’t committed just to get attention. Was the man following Sarah Cutter?

Bernstein handed Clay a note. Clay studied it while Adam retrieved his gun to go to Denise’s. Just as he made it to the door, his partner caught him.

“Hey, Black, what’s your sister’s married name?”

“Harley, why?”

Clayton held out his hand, a note tucked between his fingers. “Maybe you’d better take a look at this.”

Adam glanced at the hastily scribbled message: “Check to see if a doctor named Hardy or Harper, something like that, works at the Coastal Island Research Park on Catcall Island. Make sure she’s okay. Tell the other detectives the weird broad from the psych ward doesn’t need medication. She’s trying to save a woman’s life.”

Adam’s breath caught in his lungs. How had the woman heard their conversation through the closed door? He reread the note. Hardy, Harper—Harley? Was it possible? Could Sarah Cutter have been talking about his sister?

Sarah opened her mouth to scream but the only sound that emerged was a low gurgle. Her heart pounding, she twirled around and pushed at the man’s hand, ready to raise a knee to his groin.

The scrawny reporter stood in the shadows, surveying her with his beady eyes as if she were his prey. He swiped her keys from the ground and held them by his side. “Wait, Ms. Cutter, I’m Robey Burgess from the Savannah Times.”

She pursed her lips, fury welling inside. How dare he scare her like that? For once in her life, she wished she could make her voice work just so she could give him a piece of her mind. She opened her mouth again to do that when she heard her own thick, almost childlike squeak.

“I—I just want an interview,” he stammered. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Why don’t we go someplace and talk?”

His nasally voice sounded unpleasant, and the look of avid curiosity in his eyes reminded her of all the taunting she’d received as a child. This man knew about her past, about her father. He wanted to write about her in the paper as if she were some sideshow freak in a circus.

She shook her head and mouthed “Go Away,” yanked the keys from his hand, then spun around and crossed the distance to her car. She was sliding inside when he caught her, wedged a hand in between her and the door, and stopped her from shutting it.

“I’m going to find out everything I can about you and what’s going on at that research center,” he said, “so you might as well talk to me.”

She glared at him, her chest constricting. What did he mean? What was going on at the research center?

She held up a hand as if to ask him to wait a second, grabbed her Palm Pilot and wrote, “If you want to talk about the Coastal Island Research Park, talk to my godfather, Sol Santenelli. He’s the director. Leave me alone.”

“No. You know something’s going on. That’s the reason you went to the police.” A nasty sneer covered his face. “Since they didn’t believe you, maybe you should try me. I might take your story more seriously than the cops did. And I know all about Cutter’s Crossing.”

Sarah flinched. The term had been coined by the local scientific community after her father to symbolize the point where a doctor or scientist crossed the line between noble, ethical practices and unethical ones.

She didn’t like this man, didn’t trust him, and refused to have herself and Sol, the only family she had left, dragged through the papers. “I asked you to leave me alone,” she wrote. “If you don’t let go of that door right now, I’ll hit my panic alarm.”

His irritated gaze flickered over her, sending an uneasy feeling up her spine, but he released the door. “This isn’t over, Ms. Cutter,” he said in a low growl.

She slammed the door, tore out of the parking spot and wound through the parking deck on screeching tires, checking over her shoulder to see if he followed her.

ADAM RACED OUTSIDE to the parking lot. He had to talk to that Cutter woman again. But just as he reached the first row of cars, a red Jetta flew round the corner on two wheels. A swirl of black hair flashed in his eyes and he realized the driver was Sarah Cutter. She was tearing from the lot as if death rode on her heels.

Knowing he couldn’t catch her, he memorized her license plate, then headed to his car and radioed back inside to find out where she lived. While he waited for her address, he’d swing by the research center.

Although it was past five, his sister never adhered to a nine-to-five schedule. Maybe he’d find Denise there now, totally immersed in test tubes and cultures, obsessed with a new discovery or near breakthrough. Then he could breathe easily again. And forget about Sarah Cutter’s bizarre story. And those bewitching eyes…

He crossed the bridge to Catcall Island, inhaling the salty air and pungent odor of the marshland. Catcall Island was the main hub of CIRP, the Coastal Island Research Park. The island had been given its name because locals claimed the sea oats were so thick in the marsh that when a wind came through, it sounded like a cat’s low cry. On the map, Catcall resembled the shape of an old woman’s shoe. The Institute of Oceanography and main campus were located near the tip of the island with some mountainous parts farther north, the toe of the shoe, with residential areas in the middle, and the marshland at the base. A smaller group of facilities had been housed on the neighboring Whistlestop Island, with future development planned there.

He frowned at the name—Whistlestop had garnered its name from an old ghost tale about a sea captain who lost his bride to a pirate during the turn of the century. Legend claimed the sea captain rode the coastal waters for years, grieving for her, whistling her favorite love ballad as he searched. Locals said she was his one true love, that he vowed not to stop whistling until he found her. Some still insist that they’d heard him whistling late at night when they’d been on the water.

A bunch of romantic gibberish.

A few miles to the south of Whistlestop lay the third island, Nighthawk Island, a smaller piece of land shrouded with such thick mist and fog that it appeared dark and eerie, almost twilight twenty-four hours a day. An ancient legend told about an unusual breed of dark-red legged hawks that inhabited the island; the nighthawks preyed on weaker animals, and had also been known to attack people. Supposedly, secret government-funded projects were conducted there. The island was guarded by a strict private agency called Seaside Securities—an innocuous name that seemed deceptive in view of the classified research projects conducted under its realm.

Three years ago the Savannah Economic Development Group had joined forces with several environmental agencies, universities and the governor, and pushed to grow the economy by plotting a research park similar to the Research Triangle Park in the Raleigh-Durham area in North Carolina. Since then, several pharmaceutical and medical research companies as well as microbiologists and marine biologists had relocated on Catcall, along with some government and university funded research projects. Some were affiliated with university projects and Savannah Hospital. Adam didn’t know what type of research his sister was working on at the moment, but it had something to do with neurology.

Rain drizzled from the sky as he parked in front of Denise’s building and hurried inside. A thin young brunette with a severe eyebrow line and a brown knot of hair on top of her head turned from her computer. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Dr. Harley.”

A moment of apprehension flashed in her eyes. “She’s not here.”

“Look, Miss—” he paused and read her nameplate “—Johnson, Dr. Harley is my sister. I’ve been trying to reach her for days and she hasn’t returned my calls. It’s important I talk to her.”

“I believe she went on vacation.” She checked the calendar on her desk. “Yes, she’s been penciled out for two weeks.”

“That’s impossible,” Adam said. “She wouldn’t have left town without telling me.”

She tugged the beads around her neck. “I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. Bradford said she phoned to say she was going away for a few days.”

Adam’s hand tightened around the woman’s polished desk. “Then she must have left a number where she can be reached.”

She shuffled the files on her desk. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Not even with Bradford?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Let me see him.”

“He’s not here, either.”

Adam gritted his teeth. “Where can I reach him?”

She glanced at her calendar again, looking impatient. “He’s also out for a couple of days. I’ll tell him to phone you if he calls in.”

Adam handed her a business card and watched her eyes widen with alarm at his identity. “That’s Detective Black,” he said in a hard voice. “Is there anyone else from her department I can talk to?”

She glanced pointedly at the green clock on the wall. “I’m afraid they’ve all left for the day.”

“Then let me into my sister’s office. I’d like to see if she left something that might indicate where she is. It’s urgent that I reach her.”

She shifted, looking agitated as she shut down her computer for the day. “I can’t do that, sir. All our scientists’ work is highly confidential. Only classified personnel are allowed in the research offices, and then, only with clearance from Dr. Bradford and Seaside Securities.”

Adam strode out the door, more frustrated than ever. Denise would never leave town without making sure he had a number to reach her. He started his car and headed toward her house. He’d check it out one more time before he relented and talked to Sarah Cutter.

SARAH CLIMBED from her car, fought with her umbrella which completely turned upside down with the gusty wind, and rushed up the sidewalk to her apartment, ducking her head to dodge the drizzling rain. Water seeped inside her shoes, soaking her feet, and she shivered, a chill engulfing her as she ran up the steps. If only she could get the frightened woman’s voice out of her head…

Early spring flowers jutted from window boxes of the downtown Savannah homes and the beautiful historic 1790 bed-and-breakfast across the street, hinting at spring and warm weather around the corner, but Sarah felt a fog of gloom descend upon her. Horns honked, a dog barked, a siren wailed in the distance. The garbled noises around her were loud and frightening, the constant barrage assaulting her from every direction. It was all just too much.

She’d wanted to hear music, laughter, beautiful sounds like the song of the robin or a child singing. But so far, she’d heard a woman’s terrified cry, obnoxious traffic noises, thunder and the detectives’ laughter, which had been harsh and ugly.

Trembling and fighting a massive headache, she unlocked her door, nearly jumping out of her skin when she heard something scraping behind her. Footsteps. Rain sloshing. Had that reporter followed her home? She whirled around, throwing her broken umbrella in front of her like a weapon, her heart pounding.

Sol. She recognized the scent of his aftershave, the smell of the soap he used. Good heavens, she was so focused on distinguishing the sounds around her she’d forgotten to rely on her other senses.

“You scared me to death,” she signed, realizing the sound she’d heard had been his footsteps on the pavement.

“Why are you out by yourself in this weather? My God, Sarah, you just had surgery.”

“It’s just a little spring shower, Sol. Relax.” She waved him inside, smiling slightly at the worry in his eyes. Sol had always been protective. She’d known he wouldn’t want her venturing out by herself, but she’d never let her impairment keep her from being independent and she didn’t intend to relinquish her freedom now.

Worry furrowed his brow. “You look pale.”

“I’m fine.” She rubbed at her head again and his eyebrows rose. “Just a headache,” she admitted.

He cupped the base of her neck, and rubbed the tight muscle. “Where did you go?” Sol asked. “I’ve been sitting outside your apartment for an hour waiting on you.”

Sarah fixed them some tea and settled on the sofa, bracing herself for her godfather’s reaction when she told him where she had been. She wasn’t surprised when disapproval and worry flitted across his features, but the anger in his voice unnerved her.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the police.” Sol paced to the opposite side of the room by the bookcases and studied the family photos on the wall, his shoulders hunched. When he turned to face her, his gray eyes reflected concern, his wrinkles drawn around his mouth. “You had bad dreams, strange dreams, when you were little and underwent all those surgeries, Sarah, remember? Some of the dreams were a direct result of the medication, some of them from the trauma you suffered when you were little. Why can’t you see that this is the same thing?”

Exhaustion pulled at Sarah, making her signing short and jerky. “I know what I heard. And I think it was real.”

“What did the police say?”

She hesitated, picked up her cat, Tigger, and hugged him to her chest. “They didn’t believe me.”

Sol nodded. “Promise me you’ll see Dr. Armstrong—”

“He’s a shrink,” Sarah protested. “I don’t need to see a shrink.” Pain shot through her temple and she swayed on the sofa, but Sol steadied her.

“I think I’d better lie down,” Sarah whispered.

Sol nodded and helped her to her room. “Yes, rest now, honey. We’ll talk about this later.”

After Sol left, Sarah changed into a comfortable blue nightshirt, stretched out, closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds of the storm raging outside along with the worry in Sol’s voice and the sound of the woman’s terrified cries. Sol didn’t want to believe anything bad had happened at the research center. After all, he was the director and cofounder of CIRP and oversaw the various companies that relocated there. CIRP was still campaigning to draw new companies in. He was the perfect man for the job, but he also knew the sting of negative publicity. After all, Sol had been left to clean up her father’s mess.

Still, the woman had sounded so frightened— Sarah had to believe that her cries for help had been real.

ADAM JIMMIED THE LOCK on his sister’s back door and crept into her apartment. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he called her name softly, even though he instinctively knew she wasn’t home. Four days worth of newspapers lay piled on her front stoop, her mailbox had been crammed full of unopened mail and her indoor plants drooped from lack of care.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His sister was a type A personality. She paid her bills on time, tended to her plants religiously and kept her house neat and orderly. Like clockwork, she read the paper with her morning coffee. He’d lectured her on precautionary measures for a woman living alone ages ago, and she adhered to them rigidly, just as she did the other details in her life. When she traveled, she always asked him to bring in her mail so a possible burglar wouldn’t know she’d left town.

Now, although things appeared neat on the surface, the house smelled unoccupied, hinting at her absence. He quickly searched the rooms but found nothing amiss, then checked the bathroom for wet towels but found a lone, dry towel hanging neatly on the chrome bar. Even odder, her makeup was sitting on the vanity. His anxiety growing, he checked the closet in her extra bedroom. Her suitcase was sitting inside, where she always kept it. If she had left town without telling him, why hadn’t she packed a suitcase or taken her cosmetics?

He booted up her computer and scrolled her file manager, searching for her calendar, but he needed her password. What would Denise choose as her password?

His palms grew moist as he punched in guesses— her birthday, his birthday, her graduation date. Frustrated, he pounded the machine. What was the biggest day in Denise’s life? The day she’d earned her doctorate. Bingo.

Minutes later, he scanned her schedule. She didn’t have plans to leave town until July, over three months from now. In fact she had meetings with her research assistant set up this week to discuss her current project, but as usual she had some acronym, a code name, for the project to keep it secret. He’d have to talk to her assistant.

More worried now, he searched the file drawers for notes and found several pads filled with statistics, chemistry and math equations, stuff he didn’t begin to understand but knew were important to her work. Denise had also kept a daily journal since she was twelve. He searched her office, but couldn’t locate it, so he hurried to the den, but came up empty again. Finally he discovered the thick navy-bound book wedged between her pillows. He hesitated before opening it—this journal was private. Denise never allowed anyone to read it, and had been furious when he’d asked her about it as a teenager. He’d violate her privacy if he read it now.

But what if it told him where she was?

The storm reached a crescendo outside and so had Adam’s nerves. Denise never went anywhere without taking her journal. Never. She had only been thirteen when their parents died. The journal had been like a security blanket to her, a place to pour out her troubled feelings.

The simple fact that the book was here confirmed his suspicions. Something bad had happened to his sister, and if she had left town, she hadn’t left of her own free will.