The Guardian's Wildchild (9 page)

“Explain.”

“There’s a luminescence, almost a glow or halo around each red blood cell. Figure it’s a reaction to the truth serum. Can’t think of any other explanation for it.”

“Show me her clothes.”

The medical staff retrieved Sidney’s clothes and handed them to Waterhouse. He checked for labels and any other identifying markers. There were none. Her panties and bra were simple. The white silk blouse, stained with blood, had been cut in half. Her faded blue jeans were slightly frayed at the cuffs. Her faded denim jacket was also blood stained and frayed at the cuffs.

He pondered the character of the person who owned these clothes. With the exception of the silk blouse, these were not the clothes of a well-to-do person. He smelled the clothes, almost unconsciously searching for the wearer’s scent, markers of fear or hatred. There was only the odor of sweat and blood. The sickening sweet smell of the blood reminded him of Joy’s face and her blood soaked dressings. He stood up straight and threw the clothes back into the laundry bag.

“The blood stains still have a strong odor. How old is that wound in her hand, exactly?” he asked Butchart.

“She was shot trying to escape. Nearly got away,” Butchart said in an attempt to sidetrack Waterhouse. “Like the doc said, she’s pretty fit. Good runner.”

Waterhouse merely waited for an answer and held onto Butchart’s eyes.

“When?” responded Butchart. “She was shot yesterday, shortly before noon.”

“Impossible,” retorted Dr. Duncan. “That wound is nearly healed.”

Waterhouse stepped closer to Sidney’s bed. She was unconscious.

“Her blood pressure is borderline,” Dr. Duncan said. “What’s really strange is that our drugs and fluid therapy are having no effect on her. I just don’t understand it. It’s like she completely rejects everything we give her. I can tell you, Captain, she’s not following the rules.”

“Uh huh. Sounds like that could be a habit of hers.” Waterhouse took Sidney’s hand into his and studied the bullet wound on her palm. He could see that the bullet had traveled cleanly through. Little swelling remained, and the wound had almost completely healed over. He gently squeezed her hand, not expecting any response.

She responded. Ever so slightly, her fingers wrapped around his.

He bent down to her ear and whispered, “Hope you’re not leaving, Sidney. You should see the sun outside. It’s a beautiful day. Better stick around.”

Sidney took a deep breath and opened her eyes. It shocked everyone. Waterhouse didn’t know what had possessed him to say what he had. The words had come tumbling out of his mouth. For a few seconds, Sidney gazed at his face and held onto his hand. Then she closed her eyes.

The comlink badge on Waterhouse’s coat sounded an alarm. He let go of Sidney’s hand and activated the device.

“Captain Waterhouse.”

“Sir, Lieutenant Commander Smart. We’re well on our way to Acapulco. Weather report update indicates severe weather heading our way. We’ll be in rough seas by thirteen-hundred hours, sir. Gives us two hours to ready the ship and crew. Readings predict gale force winds by twenty-one-hundred hours, sir.”

“Any chance of going around the storm?”

“No, sir. It’s affecting the entire Pacific, right to Hawaii.”

“Notify the on duty officers. I’ll meet with you in half an hour. Waterhouse out.” He flicked off the voice link and stepped into the main infirmary. “Number one, Captain Butchart, there will be no execution tonight. Number two, you’re welcome to remain on board for the duration of the sail to Acapulco. Is there anything you require in the meantime?”

Butchart was momentarily stunned by Waterhouse’s decision. He lowered his voice so only Waterhouse could hear. “Careful, Sam. There’s more at stake than just that broad.”

Waterhouse let the remark go. He waited for Butchart to ramble on, knowing the officer’s ego was likely to reveal more than he intended.

Butchart glanced in Sidney’s direction momentarily. “Lieutenant Bridges, I’ll be disembarking. Notify my pilot. Captain Waterhouse, until notified by myself, you’re not to send any communication to the base about this prisoner.” He stepped up close to Sidney’s room, turning his back to Waterhouse. Watching her through the glass window, he fidgeted with something in his pocket.

Waterhouse casually moved to Butchart’s side. Together they stood, watching Sidney. “What’s happening on the base?” Waterhouse prodded.

Butchart smirked. “Important visitor.” He puckered his mouth as if restraining further explanation. “You may live to regret your decision today, Captain.”

“I’ll risk it.” Waterhouse smiled at the insinuation of a threat.

Butchart remained focused on Sidney’s face. “If she survives, she won’t tell you a damn thing; I promise you.”

It seemed to Waterhouse that Butchart was counting on the prisoner remaining silent.

“You haven’t tried my methods.” Waterhouse spoke softly. “I plan to be nice, win her confidence. You know what I mean?” He winked and began to leave the infirmary. At the door, he turned to Bridges. “Lieutenant, from now on only Commander Moon, you, medical personnel, and myself have access to the prisoner.”

“Yes, sir,” called out the lieutenant.

Returning to his office, Waterhouse verbally entered the familiar coded numbers into his comlink.

“Lieutenant Weir here. Who’s calling?”

“Sam Waterhouse. Is this still a secure line, Chris?”

“Still private, sir. Things could change. Word is the brass is hunting for a traitor. Today the admiral was strutting around with some civilian woman demonstrating our security systems. Never seen him look so pumped up. We were ordered not to mention anything about the prisoner. In fact, all records of the incident have been destroyed.”

Over the past year, Waterhouse had privately cultivated a relationship with Lieutenant Chris Weir. Lieutenant Weir kept a look out over his sons, and through the lieutenant, he was able to secretly remain in contact with the New Seattle Police Force’s attempt to hunt down Joy’s killer.

“Interesting. Do you have any
interesting
information about her that I might not find in the official report?”

“Plenty. That night she was here all kinds of strange stuff happened. One of the elevators went to the admiral’s floor, then later on it went down to the subbasement when no one was in it. A light had been found on in Admiral Garland’s office. There was a major power failure in the missile room. Every computer and security system was shut down. Nowhere else, just in that room. And there were no marks in the dust or fingerprints on the missiles. She’d have had to touch them to open the locked electrical compartment. You explain that one, sir.”

“Interesting, Chris. See if you can get Butchart’s interrogation staff to talk. Maybe something was said during the interrogation that’s not in the report.”

“Yes, sir. That shouldn’t be a problem with those two.”

“Use discretion, Chris. Has Clay got information on Joy’s killer?”

“Not exactly. But Captain, you told me Mrs. Waterhouse had known someone who went by the name of Badger, right?”

Waterhouse’s gut tightened. “What about him?”

“He’s dead. Apparently he was found in his home, shot in the head — same day your prisoner was captured on this base. Had red lipstick on his face. The killer cleared a patch of blood off his face and kissed him. Christ, that’s sick. The rest of his troop has vanished, maybe dead or gone into hiding.”

“Any clues on the identity of the killer?”

“Not yet. His computers are gone. Clay said that since Joy was probably in his files, the killer will come after you once they decode them. Says you’d better watch your back.”

“Use discretion, Chris.”

“No problem, Captain. You’re still sure the admiral didn’t have anything to do with Joy’s accident?”

“Quite sure. He wouldn’t risk his political career. But he’s surely involved in something unusual right now. Perhaps there’s a connection with Badger’s death and this prisoner. And this guest of the admiral’s — a civilian, you say. See if you can find anything more about her.”

“Yes, sir. And your boys are doing fine. Watching ’em like a hawk, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll contact you when I arrive in Acapulco.”

Butchart disembarked without another word to Waterhouse. The officers and seamen were occupied with tending to the ship and preparing for the storm. The ship was now twenty years old, and though kept immaculate and in good repair, Waterhouse believed one more big storm would be more than the engines could handle. They’d been updated to provide speed, but felt the strain of pushing a hull meant for more leisurely travels.

In the evening, Waterhouse returned to the infirmary. As he approached Sidney’s bed, he saw she’d been cleaned up. Her hair had been washed and she had a fresh hospital gown on. She no longer needed the respirator and had more color in her face. She was beginning to resemble the photo in Butchart’s records of the attractive woman who’d entered the base on Tuesday. “She looks better, Doctor. You think she can make it?”

Dr. Duncan was startled and stood at attention.

“At ease, Doctor.”

“We cleaned her up.” The doctor shifted from one foot to the other. “She changes from one minute to the next. One moment she seems to be on the verge of taking her last breath, and the next, she seems more stable. I’ve never seen a case like this in my life.”

“Has she been awake? Talked at all?”

“Yes, I mean no, haven’t seen any response from her at all.”

Waterhouse picked up a chair and brought it over to sit close by her bedside. “Take a quick break, Doctor. I’ll watch her. So it doesn’t appear there’s anything we can do for her?”

“Not that I’ve found. I’ll be just fifteen minutes, Captain.”

Waterhouse listened to the sounds of the room after Dr. Duncan left — the hum of the ship’s engines, soft grunts and groans from within the ship. The
Nonnah
was feeling the ocean’s response to the storm. Everything in the room swayed as the ship rocked in rhythm with the sea.

The room had a peaceful feel to it. Waterhouse never spent much time there. Anything that reminded him of Joy’s last days was avoided. He paced aimlessly around the room, thinking of nothing and searching for nothing. Picking up medical instruments, he inspected their structure. The prisoner’s imminent death was nearly a replica of his wife’s. Were both women victims of the admiral’s secrets?

Doctor Duncan returned, and Waterhouse made his way to the navigation room.

Though the sun had nearly disappeared below the horizon, enough light remained to see the storm in the distance was full of wrath. The ocean waves surrounding the
Nonnah
were dark and seething with foam. The clouds were the color of slate with a slight tinge of green — like a vengeful monster moving and twisting, the gale thrusting them into shapes like dragons. The wind sprayed seawater high up onto the ship’s upper decks.

As Waterhouse entered the navigation room, the men and women there stood at attention.

“As you were. Any problems?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied Smart.

“Any other ships in the vicinity?”

“We have our sub cruising along with us a mile to our starboard. A Canadian freighter is one hundred seventy miles to the south, heading our way on its way north to Vancouver, and one Egyptian cruise ship is eighty miles on our port, heading east toward Mountiago, sir.”

“Our ETA to Acapulco?”

“We should arrive at Acapulco shortly after noon tomorrow, depending upon what this storm throws at us.”

Just then Commander Moon arrived. “Commander, what’s the intensity level of the approaching storm?”

“It’s been building up steam, sir. So far the reports don’t show signs of hurricane force. It should remain only as a gale. Everything has been fastened down and covered. We’re ready for a ride.”

Waterhouse nodded. “You have the bridge, number one. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Evening, July 4

It took Danik one full day to arrive back at Hawk’s Island. He’d been able to telepathically contact Ryan, who covertly picked him up on a small mountain near New Seattle and deposited him safely in the haven of the Guardian community. By evening, Danik was seated in the meditation lodge, surrounded by the Elders. He sought their wisdom. What was he to do? He suffered pains of guilt for a mission gone terribly wrong. When attempting to contact Sidney again, he’d encountered a wall he couldn’t penetrate. He looked to Sidney’s mentor for guidance.