The Guardian's Wildchild (8 page)

Rapid healing would decline and connection with the Guardian Elders would be lost. It wouldn’t allow another foreign substance to have any effect on her body. The secrets of her Guardian people would not be revealed through another drug assault. Sidney knew her choice could result in her death because the energy would also interfere with medication that could save her life. The shield would remain in place until Sidney either died or became strong enough to remove what she had created. She relaxed and became oblivious to the captain beside her and the jostling of the chopper.

6. Captain Waterhouse’s Prisoner

July 4, Mid-Morning, Near New Seattle’s Naval Harbor

Sidney felt the helicopter shift altitude and woke to see beneath her the gray Pacific Ocean and what appeared to be a modified cruise ship. At the perimeter of the ship’s helipad was an officer and a dozen or so armed seamen. Below the helipad were the ship decks, gun turrets, and the spray of the ocean against the ship’s silver hull. The helicopter touched down lightly, and its door swung open.

“Let’s go,” hollered Butchart.

Sidney’s hands were still handcuffed behind her, making it difficult for her to maintain balance. Taking a deep breath, she managed to step down. Butchart clutched her neck to push her head below the rotating blades and led her toward the waiting officer.

The formal military greeting was a blur of salutes and stiff postures. Sidney’s gaze stayed fixed on the ocean. She longed for its wetness in her parched mouth. Though she wouldn’t have had the strength to stay afloat, the thought of the cool waves washing over her feverish skin was refreshing. No one spoke to her until her knees weakened and she faltered.

The ship’s officer grasped her arm and commanded, “Stand up. Put your feet farther apart to keep your balance. Understood?”

The officer’s voice was unsympathetic, and yet it didn’t carry the hatred of Butchart’s. She tried to smile, to convey something along the lines of gratitude rather than indifference to his assistance. The officer looked into Sidney’s face.

“Captain Butchart, sir, the prisoner appears sick. Why is she so pale? She seems to have a fever, too. Captain Waterhouse is quite clear on not accepting injured or ill prisoners, sir.”

“Lieutenant Bridges, the captain’s going to have to make an exception in this case. Special circumstances. Anyway, she’s to be executed this evening. No need for him to conduct an interrogation on this one. Let’s go.”

Inside the captain’s office, both men stood at attention on either side of Sidney.

“Captain Butchart reporting with the prisoner, Sidney Davenport, sir,” called out Bridges.

Behind a massive desk, the captain sat stiffly in his chair. He glanced at Sidney, then gave an almost imperceptible nod to his lieutenant. His gaze shifted to Butchart. A tense silence followed. It stirred Sidney’s reserves. She noticed that Butchart’s breathing became shallow and his hand gripping her arm was sweating.

Neither Butchart nor Waterhouse spoke the usual words of greeting. The silence troubled Sidney. Finally, Waterhouse rose from his chair. “At ease,” he ordered. His voice was crisp and deep. “
Frank
, it looks like you’ve been rather busy.” He eyed Sidney’s tangled hair, filthy clothes, and bare feet. “Who or what have you delivered to the
Nonnah
?”

“Nothing you’ll have to be bothered with for long. She’s to be executed this evening. The details are on this file.” Butchart pulled out a memory rod from his tunic and tossed it onto the desk. “I’ll remain on board until after her execution.”

Waterhouse walked up to Butchart and smiled. “You want to watch, Frank? You’re short of blood on the naval base?”

Butchart snorted. “This is a special case. She’s quite dangerous.”

Waterhouse raised his eyebrows. “Is that so?”

Sidney sensed that under the military fiber of their equal rank something wanted to be unleashed. She felt it in Butchart’s tightening grip and saw it in Waterhouse’s dark eyes. But she felt a warmth in him even though he held his mouth in a firm expression of cold indifference. While every cell of the ship’s captain screamed authority, she felt the word “safe” when she looked at him. And there was something more behind those eyes, something that reminded her of Greystone. But she had no energy to inspect his aura, was no longer able to focus for more than a few seconds at a time. The room’s floor swayed, and her mind began to drift. More and more, an adversary more lethal than Butchart took hold of her body.

Waterhouse walked to a counter behind Sidney. “Coffee, Frank?”

“Coffee would be fine once this prisoner is stowed away in a cell. You’ll need to post someone in front of her door continuously. I’ll escort her there now.”

“She looks pretty sick. Or have you just been hard to please?” Waterhouse chuckled as he returned to stand in front of Sidney.

“Captain Waterhouse, she’s tougher than she looks. And I wouldn’t trust her.”

“Carla Smart,” Waterhouse called into the comlink on his tunic. He continued to stare into Sidney’s face, studying her.

She tried to speak to him with her aura and telepathic gift
. I surrender, my friend, and place my body in your good wisdom and care.

In seconds, a reply was heard from the captain’s comlink speakers. “Lieutenant Smart here, Captain.”

“Carla, commence heading to Acapulco.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Sam,” protested Butchart, “we’re to remain near New Seattle Naval Base until after this evening’s execution. I need to return immediately after this business is finished.”

Sidney slumped toward the floor.

“Put her in a chair, Bridges, before she makes a mess on my floor.”

Sidney felt a chair pushed against the back of her knees, and she collapsed into it.

“A storm’s brewing out near the California coast. I hope to sail past it before it gets too fired up. Lieutenant Bridges has your room ready for overnight. Will you join my officers and me for dinner at eighteen-hundred hours?”

Butchart hesitated as he sorted his thoughts. “Of course. Perhaps we can discuss the execution protocol in more detail. Lieutenant Bridges, take her to her cell.”

Bridges looked to his captain for confirmation.

Addressing the lieutenant, Waterhouse asked, “Did she give you any trouble, Bridges?”

“She just had trouble walking, sir.”

“On your way to the cells, have Dr. Duncan look at her. I want a report on her medical condition in twenty minutes. Carry her, if you have to. Understood?”

Butchart frowned. “She’s merely reacting to the truth serum. Administered well within protocol, I assure you.”

“I’m quite familiar with the protocol on Admiral Garland’s home naval base. Procedure on my ship is also strict. I don’t tolerate disorder. This prisoner is in obvious disorder.”

Waterhouse nodded to the lieutenant, who lifted Sidney to her feet and picked her up as she collapsed into his arms. As he left, Waterhouse motioned toward the two chairs in front of his desk.

“Have a seat, Frank. Tell me about Miss Davenport. How did that little thing outfox your security systems?”

He knew the electronic file provided details — the truths mixed in with whatever was required to arrive at the desired outcome. But he was betting a verbal response from Butchart would reveal fabricated knots that might easily unravel under his scrutiny.

“John and I believe she had an accomplice on the base.” Butchart used the admiral’s first name to emphasize his casual familiarity with him. “So far, we have no leads there.”

Waterhouse returned to his desk and popped the memory rod into his computer. “Computer, download file with security codes.” With his back still turned to Butchart, he asked, “Another unsolved mystery?” He threw out the taunt as a stinging reminder that his wife’s murder hadn’t been solved. “If this woman didn’t reveal her accomplice during your interrogation, then none exists.” Waterhouse winked and grinned. “I’m aware of your techniques. You know she didn’t have an accomplice. Why the smoke screen?”

“Christ, Sam, you’re paranoid. There are no more pertinent details. I’ll help myself to that coffee now,” Butchart said, walking to the coffee machine. “I see you’ve let your hair grow. Didn’t notice until I saw how it was fastened at the back of your neck. Not exactly protocol. How interesting to see there’s a bit of a rebel in the meticulous Captain Waterhouse.” Butchart chuckled. “It’s been nearly a year since we last met. How’s life as captain of the
Nonnah
? All the pretty ladies in the ports have broken hearts, Sam?” he asked, deliberately stirring more than just his coffee.

Waterhouse sat down in front of his computer and focused on the reports. “Why the rush to execute the prisoner?”

Butchart waved his free hand in the air. “Why not! Truth serum filled in the blanks. We’ve found her guilty of committing an attack on the U.S. Navy.”

Waterhouse sat back in his chair. “This isn’t the admiral’s usual style. No, the activities of the previous seven prisoners were well-documented with supporting evidence. Terrorists and ruthless military spies. Lives had been lost or gravely threatened.”

His comlink beeped.

“Captain Waterhouse, Dr. Duncan here.”

“Yes, go ahead with your report.”

“The prisoner is rapidly deteriorating, Captain. She should be immediately returned to the mainland. We don’t have the capability to manage her.”

“What’s your diagnosis?”

“Her kidneys are shutting down. The buildup of poison is causing a cascading collapse of all her organs. Anything on her file to explain this, Captain?”

“She’s been interrogated using a potent truth serum. Dosage may have exceeded the recommended limits.” He winked at Butchart, who made no attempt to disguise a threatening glare. “Has she said anything?”

“No. She’s not coherent.”

“Do you what can. I’ll get back to you in a few minutes.” The comlink was disconnected. “Frank, you heard the doctor. The prisoner has to return to the base.”

Butchart slammed his cup down on Waterhouse’s desk, spilling the coffee. “She’s never to leave this ship alive.”

Waterhouse watched Butchart regain his composure as quickly as his anger had flared. He wondered what he was afraid of.

“Computer, initiate standby mode. Security on,” Waterhouse said. Ignoring Butchart, he pulled a napkin from a drawer and meticulously mopped up the spilled coffee. Tossing the soiled napkin into a wastebasket, he turned to Butchart. “It’s time to see if the prisoner will reveal more of her secrets, Waterhouse style.” He grinned.

“Waste of time. You heard the doctor.”

Waterhouse was already heading out of the office. Butchart swung around to keep in step with him. “This isn’t your business. Just execute the damn bitch.”

Waterhouse stopped abruptly. In complete control, he replied. “Everything that occurs on my ship is my business. I alone determine precisely when the execution will occur.”

He and Butchart continued to the infirmary in silence. Inside the isolation unit, Dr. Duncan and his three assistants hovered over the unconscious prisoner.

“Frank, stay out of her visual range,” Waterhouse ordered.

Butchart momentarily glared at him but had to comply. Waterhouse stepped into the isolation unit and moved to the prisoner’s bedside.

“Do you have a more definitive assessment on her condition, Doctor?” he asked.

Dr. Duncan smoothed down his disheveled, thinning brown hair. It was obvious the doctor preferred to maintain as much space as possible between himself and the man who managed to find fault with everything from his untidy office to his incomplete and illegible reports. The doctor anxiously glanced from the scanner unit to the heart and respiratory monitors. He thumped a screen impatiently.

“Damn thing,” he muttered.

Waterhouse stepped toward Dr. Duncan. Without saying a word, his body communicated with clarity his impatience. Dr. Duncan placed his hands on his hips and began the report, speaking more to the wall behind Waterhouse rather than making contact with the dark eyes.

“Um, simply put, she’s severely dehydrated. Yes, sir, that seems to have been her undoing. Electrolytes are way off kilter. Kidneys are shutting down. No life threatening injuries. Her wrists and ankles are pretty much battered from restraints.”

Dr. Duncan hesitated and picked up his patient’s file and read over his notes before continuing.

“Yes, and there’s a lot of serum residue left in her system. Lethal dose, perhaps. Quite remarkable, really. Should have died last night.” He glanced up from the chart records. Seeing the stern expression of the captain, he quickly returned to his notes. “Took a bullet in her left hand. Healing is fairly advanced so she must have been shot at least a week ago. Let’s see, yes, that’s about it.”

“What’s her general health? Can you tell where she might’ve come from?”

“Good muscle tone throughout, probably runs a lot. Perhaps she lives in high altitude, has the lung capacity of an athlete. Maybe she’s a climber. Yes, and very little air pollution particles in her tissues, so she probably doesn’t live in or near a city. Figure she’s in her late teens. Doesn’t appear she has any bad habits, such as illegal drugs. She takes good care of herself. Took a sample of blood. Cells appear abnormal.”