A Murder in Time (5 page)

“Hmm.”

“My nephew, Joey, just broke up with his girlfriend—”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Pamela! The girl hasn't regained consciousness since she was brought in.” There was a thread of laughter now in the other woman's voice. “And you're trying to set her up with your nephew!”

“Her vital signs are excellent. Now that we're weaning her off the sedatives . . . I just feel sad for her, that's all. No family—”

“Oh, my God! Kendra Donovan.”

“What?”

“
Kendra Donovan
. This girl—the patient. I just realized . . . I've heard about her, you know.” The voice dropped back to a whisper. Annie's voice. For some reason, floating as she was, it was important to Kendra to know who was talking, to be able to identify the voices. “It was on
20/20
or
60 Minutes
—one of those news programs. Her parents were part of some movement to bring superbabies into the world.”

“
Super
babies? That's . . . wait a minute. I think I read about that! Designer babies.” The disapproval was back in the other woman's—Pamela's—voice. “Genetically engineered, tinkering around with their genes to make them smarter than normal.
Frankenbabies
.”

“I don't know if they went that far. Not back then. God only knows what they do
now
. But the scientist who founded . . . I guess you could call it a society—”

“Cult.”

“Cult, then,” Annie conceded. “The goal was to bring these superintelligent scientists together to have superintelligent offspring. Crazy, huh?”

“More like sick.” Pamela's voice went from disapproving to appalled. “It's
breeding
, like cattle. Put the best livestock together to breed a better cow. It's not normal for people.”

The fuzziness was dissipating, leaving a dull ache in its place. Kendra didn't want to listen anymore. She didn't want to hear the revulsion in the women's voices.

Special, or a freak
. In the eyes of Pamela and Annie, definitely a freak.

“So . . . she's one of those Frankenbabies?”

“Yeah . . . I think she started college at fourteen or fifteen.”

“Jeez, that's young.”

“I can't believe she's here. That this girl is
her
. Small world, huh?”

“Crazy world. Where are her parents? Why aren't they here?”

“I think they had some sort of falling out—”

“What's wrong?”

“I don't know. Her blood pressure is spiking.” Annie sounded worried. “Should we notify Dr. Campbell?”

“Maybe she's in pain.”

“They told us to wean her off the morphine.”

“I'll page Dr. Campbell, then. He can check her.” There was a shuffling sound, and the voice was farther away.

“Are you going to call your nephew?” The other voice—Annie—was also moving away, but Kendra could hear the ripple of sly amusement. “Play matchmaker?”

The other woman seemed to hesitate. Then, “I don't think she's Joey's type.”

“What? Too pretty for him?”

“Too weird. There's something off about a Frankenbaby, even if she's all grown-up and gorgeous.”

It was pain, not voices, that woke Kendra the next time. Her skull felt like it was being cleaved in two. If she wasn't mistaken, she was going to have the mother of all headaches. No, correction. She
was
having the mother of all headaches. It throbbed from the right side of her head and radiated outward in jabs that shuddered all the way down to her toes.

“Miss Donovan?” The voice was a quiet hum of concern, hovering somewhere above her.

With considerable effort, Kendra opened her eyes, and met hazel ones behind horn-rimmed glasses. Round face. Sixtyish. The man was a little blurry around the edges, but she realized that could be her eyesight. She blinked a couple of times, and he sharpened in focus.

“God. My head.” And her right arm ached unmercifully. That pain joined the throbbing of her head. She licked her lips. “Hurts. Water.”

“Of course.” He poured water into a plastic cup and brought it over, holding a straw to her parched lips. Greedily, she sucked, unable to get enough of the icy liquid as it slid down her sore throat.

“We'll see about getting something for your head. We don't want you to lose consciousness again. Gave us a scare—we expected you to come out of the coma a couple of days ago.” He pulled the straw away from her, ignored her tiny mewl of distress as he set the plastic cup on a metal tray table. “I'm Dr. Campbell.”

What happened?
She didn't think she said that out loud. But he turned back to survey her, asking, “Do you remember anything?”

“No.” Something wiggled in her consciousness, a slight parting of the wispy gray layers. “Yes. I-I don't know.”

“Do you know your name?”

“Donovan . . . Kendra Donovan,” she whispered.

“Who's the president of the United States?”

“What? I . . .”
Oh, God!
The memory, when it came, was like a flash flood, uprooting and destroying her peace of mind. “Sheppard. He's dead. Oh, God.” Her breath caught on a dry sob. “They're dead. Terry . . . Terry Landon.
Traitor
. The bastard! Shot him.
Shot him!
”

“Calm down, Miss Donovan. Your memory appears intact—”

“Did I shoot him?”

“Who?”

“The bastard. Landon.” Her throat was still so parched, it was like pushing words through a cheese grater.

The doctor reached for her wrist, holding it lightly as he timed her pulse against the ticking seconds of his wristwatch. “Yes. I believe you did.”

“Dead?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Balakirev? Greene?” She shook off his touch, but by then the doctor had finished and was letting her go. She tried to push herself into a sitting position but was too weak, her arms as limp as wet noodles. She found herself sagging back against the hard pillows. “Get them?”

“Miss Donovan, please, lie still.” He waited for a second, then leaned over her, flicking a penlight in her eyes. Appearing satisfied by what he saw, he slipped the penlight back into the front breast pocket of his white jacket and moved to the foot of the bed, where he unclipped the medical chart and began jotting down notes. “I'll need to call your superiors. They left explicit instructions that I call as soon as you regained consciousness.” He touched her foot. “Can you feel this? Move your toes?”

“Yes.” She wriggled her toes for good measure, although it took an astonishing amount of energy. “Balakirev? Greene?” she repeated hoarsely.

“We need to do some tests. And I need to call your superiors,” he repeated. His expression softened as he stared down at her. “I can wait before making that call.”

Kendra understood he was offering her more time. She shifted her gaze away from the doctor's to the bland white ceiling of the hospital room. She was in the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, according to one of the nurses. Private room. Slightly upscale décor with cheerful floral curtains framing the window that revealed a dull gray sky. Paint the color of a not-quite-ripe cantaloupe splashed on the wall. Nice—for a hospital room. But it was still a hospital room: an EKG machine, green line silently bouncing on the darkened screen, to her left, next to the IV bag, its thin tube doing a slow drip into her left hand. Her nostrils felt slightly pinched. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she must have an oxygen cannula inserted in her nose.

Aware that the doctor was waiting for her answer, she shook her head and instantly regretted it. The movement sent a fresh avalanche of pain crashing through her, followed by a greasy roll of nausea.

“No,” she whispered huskily, and licked her lips again. She wanted to close her eyes, to somehow find her way back to that fuzzy, floating world where she'd been before she woke to discomfort, both physical and mental. But she refused to give into the temptation.

“Call them. Now,” she ordered. “I want answers.”

“Kendra.” This time, she recognized the gravelly voice even before her eyes popped open and she stared into the lined face of Philip Leeds, the associate director for the Behavioral Science Unit. Her boss.

Except he hadn't been her boss for almost a year, she remembered with a frown. Not since she'd been loaned out to the New York office's special task force.

“Sir.”

“Welcome back.” The smile he offered didn't erase the worry that shadowed his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I've been shot in the head.”

The door swung open, and Dr. Campbell swept in. “Ah. I heard you've come to see our star patient, sir. I'll have to ask you to keep this initial visit brief. Miss Donovan has a way to go before she's up to answering any questions.”

Kendra flicked the doctor a look. “I'm the one with questions.”

“Or up to conducting an interrogation,” he continued smoothly. He turned to the associate director of the BSU. “We need to bring Miss Donovan down to Diagnostics. I've scheduled her for an MRI.”

Leeds nodded. “Give us five minutes, Dr. Campbell.”

Aware that the associate director was asking—no,
demanding
—a few minutes alone with the patient, Dr. Campbell moved toward the door. “Five minutes,” he agreed, but there was a stern note in his voice. While he was aware of Leeds's clout, Dr. Campbell was the one with authority in this room, in this hospital, and with this patient.

Leeds waited until the door swung shut before turning back to Kendra. “Peter Carson is flying down here. He wants to talk to you.”

“I'm sure he does. Could you please pass me that water?” As Leeds glanced around, Kendra fiddled with the gadget on her bed, elevating the mattress so she was in a sitting position. There was something undignified about talking to your boss while flat on your back.

He took the plastic pitcher and filled the cup. “Are you all right?”

Kendra hated the weakness in her arms as she reached for the water. “I said I felt like I'd been shot in the head,” she muttered irritably, sticking the straw in her mouth. “Sir.”

Leeds smiled, a little more genuine this time. “Well, your attitude's the same.”

“I feel like shit.”

The smile disappeared. “I'm sorry, Kendra. Carson will be the one to debrief you, but what the hell happened?”

Kendra's hands trembled as she put the plastic water cup on the metal-arm tray that had been wheeled beside the bed. “Major clusterfuck—sorry. Terry Landon sold us out. Or would've, if he'd had time.”

Briefly, she closed her eyes; saw Sheppard's head explode. She opened her eyes, and Leeds could see the torment swimming in the inky depths. “He killed Daniel Sheppard right in front of me. Fucking bastard.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah. He's a fucking bastard.”

“Kendra.”

“He's the one who shot me. I wanted to go after Balakirev, Greene. That's when Landon . . . shot Daniel. Then me.” Her gaze fell to her hands restlessly twisting the bed linen. She forced herself to stop. “If I hadn't tried to go after Balakirev, Daniel would be alive.”

“You know better than that, Agent Donovan.” Leeds waited until she lifted her eyes. “You didn't kill Sheppard.”

“I sure as hell didn't help him.” Her breath hitched. “I worked with Landon. I'm a profiler, for Christ's sake. I should've seen him . . . should've recognized—”

“You're not that powerful. Or that perfect.”

She raised her hands, pressing her knuckles against her eyes. She shook her head. A mistake, since it once again sent the merciless knives slashing into her skull. They'd offered to increase her morphine intake, but she'd refused. She sighed, dropping her hands. “I took out Landon. The doctor . . . Dr. Campbell said he's dead.”