Blind Run (4 page)

Adam wiped at his eyes, his body sagging.

Morrow started as if struck. “What?”

“Wait,” Avery said. “Let’s see where Turner’s going with this.”

The boy’s relief lasted only a few seconds, until Turner reached the counter and started doing something Avery couldn’t see. “I don’t need a shot, Dr. Turner.” Panic cracked Adam’s voice. “I’m not sick. Really.”

Turner turned, needle in hand. “The dormitory monitor told me you were coughing in the middle of the night.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“It seems you have a very faulty memory today.” Turner returned to the boy’s side. “Think very hard, Adam. Are you sure you don’t know where we can find Danny and Callie?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the needle in Turner’s hand. “No.”

“That’s too bad.”

Adam scooted sideways, slipped off the table, and backed toward the door. “I don’t need a shot.” He was sobbing now. “I’m not sick.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Turner reached beneath the counter and pushed a button. “It’s for your own good.”

Two orderlies burst through the door and grabbed the boy.

“Hold him,” Turner instructed the men.

It was over in a matter of seconds, the boy not standing a chance against the two burly men and the needle in Turner’s hand.

“There now,” Turner patted Adam on the head, “that wasn’t so bad.” And he nodded to the orderlies, who took the crying boy away.

Avery stepped into the examination room. “That was quite a show, Dr. Turner.”

“And pointless,” Morrow added.

Turner looked nervously at him, then focused on Avery. “I think he knows more than he’s admitting.”

“Maybe, but he doesn’t seem ready to tell us anything.”

“I still think I should have a go at him,” Morrow said.

“That won’t be necessary,” Turner said quickly. “Adam’s about to get very sick. If he knows anything, he’ll talk.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Avery asked.

A glint of anger sparked in Turner’s eyes. “Well then, he’ll die.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE DAY
had been long, and Dr. Sydney Decker felt the effects down to her bones. Unlocking the door to her condominium, she stepped inside and entered her security code on the keypad, shutting off the alarm and locking the door behind her.

She hated having to be so cautious. The alarm system had been Charles’s idea after a neighbor’s apartment had been broken into and robbed. She supposed she didn’t have much choice; it was the price she paid for living in the city. Dallas, like most major metropolitan areas, had a high crime rate.

She dropped her mail on the hall table and kicked off her shoes. The cool tile felt good beneath her stockinged feet as she started for the living room, where she flipped on the stereo. Strains of Chopin filled the room, and she sighed, heading for the kitchen. She wanted a glass of wine, a long hot bath, and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. Maybe then she’d start to feel human again.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, she went straight to the refrigerator and pulled out a chilled bottle of chardonnay. She set it on the counter, then opened a nearby cabinet. As she reached for a wine goblet, she heard heavy footsteps and spun around, sending the glass shattering to the floor.

“Jesus, Sydney, take it easy.”

“Charles.” She pressed her hand to her racing heart. “What are you doing sneaking up on me like that?”

He frowned. “I wasn’t sneaking up on you. I was in the den watching the news when I heard you come in.”

“But what are you doing here?”

He took a step toward her, noticed the broken glass at his feet, and stopped. “I told you this morning that I’d be here when you got home.”

“Of course.” She felt foolish and petulant, and it seemed like years since she’d spoken to Charles. Had it really only been this morning? “You’re right, I forgot.”

“And you forgot about our dinner plans as well.”

Sydney glanced at the wall clock. It was after nine. “What time were the reservations?”

“Eight-thirty.” His voice held a slight edge, and she knew she’d disappointed him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the first time.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I got tied up at the lab.”
Again.
She didn’t have to say it, the word hung just as heavily between them without having been spoken. “I know you’ve had those reservations for weeks.”

For a moment she thought he’d let his anger show—she almost wished he would, just this once. Then he sighed. “Sit down and I’ll get your wine.”

“Charles, really, I—”

He raised a hand to stop her objection. “Just this once, Sydney, don’t argue with me.”

“Okay then, I’ll get the broom and clean up my mess.”

She saw another flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Just sit down. I’ll do it. You’re liable to cut your feet on all this broken glass.”

She wanted to object but held back. Charles was accustomed to giving orders and having them followed, and though he tried to hide it, she knew it irritated him that she refused to jump at his every command. At times she contradicted him for the sole pleasure of being the only one who seemed to have the courage to do so.

However, this once, if it made him happy to take care of her, she’d let him. After all, she’d been the one who’d ruined their evening. With a nod of acquiescence she settled onto a counter stool and watched him retrieve a couple of glasses and pour the wine before going for the broom and dustpan.

“You’re obviously beat.” He started cleaning up the broken glass. “Rough day?”

She sipped her wine and nodded, letting the alcohol work on her frayed nerves.

“Dr. Mathews?”

“Who else?” She and Tom Mathews had an ongoing battle. The man was old-fashioned and considered women an unwelcome addition to the scientific community. Unfortunately, he was also her supervisor.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Charles asked. “You know I could—”

She cut him off. “No.”

Technically, Charles was both her and Mathews’s employer. He’d founded and now headed the board of Braydon Labs, one of the finest genetic research laboratories in the country. Although Charles liked telling people he acted only as an adviser, everyone knew nothing of consequence happened without his approval. All it would take was one phone call, and her troubles with Tom Mathews would vanish.

Charles had offered several times to make that call. He wanted to help, and it was a sweet thought. But it was her life and her career, and she wouldn’t have anyone pulling rank to smooth her way.

“Charles, please,” she said. “I can handle Tom.”

She thought they might be in for another round on the topic, but Charles surprised her by changing the subject. “So, what would you like for dinner?”

Nothing, she thought, but knew he would never accept that. “I could throw together an omelet or something.”

His frown was all the answer she needed. Sydney wasn’t much of a cook, and they both knew it. “Well, we could still go out,” she offered. “Not to La Belle’s, but we could go over to Mario’s. They’re never busy during the week.”

“With good reason.”

She sighed. She didn’t have the energy for this tonight.

Charles and food, or she should say, restaurants. He prided himself on his gourmet taste and frequented the best restaurants in the city where he could see and be seen. It was his one obsession, though looking at him you’d never know it. He was as lean and firmly muscled as any twenty-year-old athlete.

“What do you want to do, Charles?”

He considered, then said, “Why don’t you relax for a bit, and I’ll go out and pick up something.”

She eyed him warily. Takeout wasn’t Charles’s favorite choice. He liked being served. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“What I mind is that you’re working yourself to death.”

She tried to make light of the comment. “But think of all the money you’re saving by not having to feed me as often.”

He came over to her, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t joke. You work too hard.”

“My work is important.”

“I know, Sydney, but fourteen, sixteen hours a day.” His disapproval was evident in his tone.

“We’ve been over this before, Charles.” She slipped from beneath his arm, got up from the stool, and headed into the living room, where the Chopin sonata offered comfort.

Charles followed her. “All I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re saying.” Irritated, she stopped in front of the mantel, looking at the picture of a blond five-year-old with bright blue eyes and a smile that never failed to stop her heart. She closed her eyes and let the music flow over her, hoping it would soothe her.

Charles came up behind her and rubbed her upper arms. “It’s because of your son, isn’t it? That’s why you’re driving yourself like this.”

She didn’t answer. Three years ago yesterday she’d lost her Nicky. For everyone else, the date had come and gone without incident. But she’d remembered.

“Sydney, your son’s death was a tragic accident.” Charles gave her arms a gentle squeeze and lowered his forehead to rest against the back of her head. “But you need to get on with your life. We need to get on with our life together.”

She pulled away and turned to face him. “This has nothing to do with Nicky.” It took effort to keep her voice calm, when she wanted to scream at him. “I’m looking for candidate genes to prevent childhood leukemia. Not a remedy for little boys who fall from trees and break their necks.”

Silence filled the room, except the Chopin, which wound its way between them, tantalizing and frenzied as the piece neared its finale.

Charles reached over and shut off the stereo. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about Nicky.”

She lifted her chin, not yet ready to forgive him.

“It’s just . . .” He backed away, straightening and smoothing his tie. “I understand what it is to lose someone you love, and I worry about you.”

The anger left her in a rush. He always seemed to know just the right thing to say to make amends. Several years ago, he’d lost his brother. It had been before she’d met him, but she knew Charles had taken it hard. “I know you do,” she said, feeling guilty for forgetting she wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone they loved. “But please try to understand how important this project is to me. We’re so close.”

When he didn’t respond, she closed the distance between them and pressed a light kiss to his lips. “Please, Charles. It won’t be much longer. I promise.” She saw the doubt in his eyes and maybe even a bit of jealousy.

“Marry me, Sydney, and I’ll give you more children.”

Surprised, she took an involuntary step back. It wasn’t the first time he’d asked, nor the first time she’d put him off. It
was
, however, the first time he’d mentioned having children. “Charles—”

“Don’t.” He grabbed her hand before she could say more. “Don’t answer me now. Just think about it. Please.”

She blinked, then nodded, though there really was nothing to think about. She thought he knew that. There would be no more children. Not for her. Not ever. Her one and only child had died three years ago, and she’d never risk caring that much again.

“Okay then, you relax,” he said, smiling a bit too brightly as he went into the den and came back out with his suit jacket. “By the way, I was expecting a call so I checked your phone messages for you.”

She bit back another rush of annoyance. “And?”

“Just a couple of hang ups.” He slipped on his jacket.

She nodded, exhausted and not wanting to argue further.

“Have a bath,” he said, kissing her on the cheek before heading toward the door. “I’ll be back with your dinner.”

With arms wrapped tightly around her middle, she watched him go. He meant well, worrying about her long hours and handling things for her, like dinner and phone messages. It wasn’t his fault she preferred doing things for herself. In time they’d reach an understanding, a compromise between his desire to take care of her and her need for independence.

What really concerned her, however, was his claim that she wasn’t getting on with her life. Maybe she wasn’t ready to jump into another marriage, nor would she ever be ready for another child, but hadn’t she gotten on with her life? Hadn’t that been what she’d been doing these last few years, learning to live without Nicky? Without Ethan?

She walked slowly to the bedroom, pulled off her jacket, and dropped it on the bed. It had been an uphill struggle, but she’d survived. At first she hadn’t wanted to. It had been an effort just to get out of bed in the morning and face another day. She’d often wondered if it had been her anger at Ethan that had pulled her through, pushed her on until she’d begun to heal.

Giving up her pediatric practice had been the first step in the process. Unable to face the string of children who paraded through her office day after day, she’d taken a research job and discovered an affinity for the laboratory that she hadn’t known she possessed. But mainly, working gave her a reason to get up in the morning, something to do. Then one night she’d realized she’d gone an entire day without once thinking about her son or ex-husband, and she knew she’d found a new reason for living.

Braydon Labs had saved her life.

Some time later she’d met Charles at a fund-raiser, and her life had taken another turn. Their relationship had developed gradually over months of charity functions, dinners in expensive restaurants, and evenings at the theater.

When he’d asked her to marry him the first time, it hadn’t surprised her. He was everything Ethan wasn’t: steady, considerate, responsible. And if their relationship lacked the intensity or passion she’d known with Ethan, that was all the better. She’d learned the hard way not to trust feelings based on anything other than common background and companionship. She and Charles were comfortable together, and she was content with that.

Still, something had stopped her from accepting his proposal. She’d told herself, and him, that she just wasn’t ready. She needed more time, and to his credit, he’d been patient. Only tonight he’d accused her of not moving on with her life.

She unbuttoned her blouse and tossed it on the bed next to her jacket, wondering if Charles was right. Maybe she hadn’t put the past behind her as well as she thought. From her walk-in closet, she retrieved the small step stool she kept for reaching the upper shelves. Climbing up, she pulled down a large box and carried it to the bed.

When she’d finally surfaced from the depths of her depression, she’d gotten rid of the daily reminders of all she’d lost. She’d sold her house, left her practice, and given away her son’s clothes, furniture, and toys. She’d kept very little, only the single picture of Nicky in the living room and the contents of this container.

For several minutes, she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Inside was all that remained of her child’s life, and as long as she left it untouched, she could keep the pain at bay. Putting the past to rest, however, was what this was all about, why she’d taken this box from the shelf for the first time since she’d stashed it away. She had to go through it or continue letting the past rule her present.

With trembling hands, she finally lifted the lid, bracing herself for the rush of grief. Instead, as she gazed at the contents, a bittersweet melancholy filled her. Tentatively, she touched each item in turn: the soft-blue baby album, decorated with blocks and booties; the tiny plastic hospital beads, spelling Nicky’s name; the first drawing he’d brought home from kindergarten, depicting a mom, dad, and little boy under a bright sun; a slim stack of progress reports from sweet, twenty-something teachers who doted on their young charges; and the single pale blond curl from his first haircut, held with a navy ribbon.

Tears slipped down Sydney’s cheeks, and she brushed them aside.

God, how she missed him, how she hated that this box wasn’t filled with more little-boy treasures. She wished there were report cards and school programs, or maybe a ticket stub from a baseball game. He might have given her homemade Mother’s Day cards as he grew, or a favorite rock he’d found just for her. By now he’d be in fourth grade, and the keepsakes might include sports or school awards, or just more photographs, tracing a child’s growth toward adolescence. But there was none of that, of course. Her son had died before experiencing any of those things.