Inquisitor (Witch & Wolf Book 1) (25 page)

“I don’t know where here is,” I admitted. I glanced at the medical equipment and the white walls. “A hospital, of course, but which one?”

“This is the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I’m Dr. Shepard. How much do you remember?”

“Minnesota?” I frowned. Minnesota didn’t sound right. I lived in Atlanta. After a moment, I recalled the location of Oleran’s funeral. “I was in Washington.”

Dr. Shepard humored me with another one of his triumphant smiles. “Very good. You were transferred from John Hopkins to here after emergency treatment. You’ve been here for just over two weeks.”

“Something happened at the funeral,” I muttered, wondering how much I should tell the doctor. I suspected if I told him it was a grenade, I’d be questioned by him
and
the police. If I didn’t answer their questions well enough, they’d probably accuse me of murder again.

Keeping my mouth shut was for the best, I decided.

“You’re very lucky to be alive, Ms. Hanover. As you correctly recall, something did happen at the funeral you were attending. You were found several hours after the incident. You dodged death by a very close margin. Your skull fractured in two different places. There was notable swelling. Fortunately, we didn’t have to open a window in order to alleviate the pressure on your brain.”

“There was an explosion,” I commented, once again taking note of the doctor’s reaction.

His smile faded, and his already dark eyes turned black. “Yes. You were found near one of the blast sites.”

“What happened?”

There was a long moment of silence followed by a gusty sigh. “From my understanding and the reports on the news, someone threw three grenades and a pipe bomb into the crowd at the funeral you were attending.”

I felt my eyes widen, and all of the suspicions I had evaporated into dust. One person like James couldn’t have coordinated a huge event. If James had been involved, he hadn’t been working alone. “Three grenades,” I echoed, trying to wrap my aching head around the impact of such explosive power in such a thick crowd.

The phantom pains of shrapnel tearing through my back made my eyes water. Dr. Shepard nodded. “It was quite a tragedy. But, I think I can say with confidence that you’ll live. With how well you are healing, I think it is very probable you will make a full recovery. If you cooperate, of course.”

Dr. Shepard took a pen out of his pocket and clicked it. He flipped the pages on the clipboard, staring at me expectantly. “Can you answer questions for me?”

I risked nodding. It hurt.

If the blast had been enough to almost kill
me
, they hadn’t just found me at the blast site. They’d found me among the corpses of those who hadn’t been as ‘fortunate’ as me.

“What do you need to know?” I couldn’t manage anything more than a whisper around the lump in my throat.

“First, I want to test your memory. It isn’t uncommon with head trauma for amnesia, partial or complete, to be a serious concern. Once we have a better idea of the state of your memory loss, someone from the FBI has questions for you, if you’re up for answering them.”

That caught my attention. I answered him with a careful nod. It still hurt.

“Your full name?”

“Allison Victoria Hanover.” I gave him my fake date of birth for good measure.

“Your age?”

My cheek twitched, but I humored him. “Forty-six.” Maybe math was a part of the diagnosis for amnesia? Either that, or he took a perverse satisfaction in making me repeat myself.

“Your address?”

I had to think about that one for a second. I gave it to him, and then explained I had purchased the property recently.

From there, he dove into a long list of questions regarding my childhood, growing up, college, my career, and personal life. I answered each one, careful to keep the truth hidden behind the facade of my fake life. Dr. Shepard’s grin broadened with each answer.

“Your recall is extraordinary,” he complimented. “I was worried about impairment, but I suspect your incoherence and amnesia were a combination of temporary trauma and medications. In a few days, we’ll begin physical therapy to restore motor function. But if your progress with that is similar, you won’t be staying with us for too long, Ms. Hanover.”

I forced a smile. If I wasn’t careful, Dr. Shepard would clue into the fact that something was drastically different about my rate of healing. I wondered how hard it would be fool someone who had spent much of his career fighting death and encouraging recovery.

“Do you think you can handle a few more questions?”

“For the police?” I asked.

“Not exactly. The FBI. An agent has been waiting to ask you questions. It will only be a few minutes, if you’re feeling up for it.”

I sighed but nodded. Answering the questions would ensure I wouldn’t have to deal with it later, although it was the last thing I wanted to do. Each time I remembered the funeral, all I felt was guilt that I might have been the cause of the attack on the crowd.

~*~

Dr. Shepard returned with a tall, pale-haired man in a suit. He frowned at me before taking a long look at all of the machines attached to me.

“Ms. Hanover, this is Agent Anthony Gerard from the FBI,” my doctor said, staring at the agent with furrowed brows.

“If you’ll excuse us, this won’t take long,” Agent Gerard said.

“I will be right outside the door if you need me, Ms. Hanover.” After a moment’s hesitation, Dr. Shepard left.

Agent Gerard pulled out a notepad from his pocket. I caught a glimpse of his handgun holstered under his shoulder. Pretending I hadn’t noticed the weapon, I focused my attention on his face.

Then I made the mistake of drawing a deep breath. Scents flooded my nose as my wolf chose that moment to awaken. I tensed.

The smell of cats didn’t normally bother me, but there was something about how it clung to Agent Gerard that put me on edge. Unless FBI agents enjoyed visits to the zoo and rolling in the lion cage, there was more to the man than I wanted to know about.

Inquisitor, then.

It shouldn’t have surprised me. With such a blatant attack on the public, the Inquisition would need to get directly involved to cover up their activity—if they were responsible for it. Why would the Inquisition send a cat—probably a shaman—to question me unless they were involved in some fashion or another?

I wondered what sort of cat he became when he fully embraced his magic. In a way, I was a little jealous of him. Shamans could use their inner beasts without risks of becoming a wild animal. They couldn’t do it long, limited to minutes or hours at a time, but it was far more useful than transforming into a dangerous, rabid
thing
under the influence of the full moon.

Agent Gerard pulled a stool to him and sat down. “I’ll try to make this quick so you can rest and recover, ma’am. This is a preliminary questioning.”

I decided cooperation was my best option. “What do you need to know, sir?” Addressing him as sir was safe; appealing to the pride and superiority of a suspected cat shaman wouldn’t hurt me at all.

With a visible relaxing of his shoulders, Agent Gerard settled, flashing me a brief smile. “Between you and me, I’m going to pretend I read this long disclosure to you. You’re going to tell the truth, right?”

“Yes, I swear I will tell the truth and nothing but the truth,” I replied, struggling not to laugh. While I was getting away with slight movements of my head, I didn’t want to think about the agony a good chuckle would cause me.

“Good. Let’s begin. Why were you at the Washington Monument?” he asked.

“I was attending Alan Oleran’s funeral.”

Agent Gerard wrote my answer down. “Why?”

“He worked at a legal firm my corporation oversees.”

Arching a brow, he looked up from his clipboard. “That
your
company oversees, Ms. Hanover?”

“Yes, I’m the primary CEO of Marrodin Inc.”

The FBI agent wrote that down, and I could see the tension in his shoulders again. Was he aware of being in the same room with another hunter? While shaman and werewolves could get along, wolves and cats clashed. It was natural for us to antagonize each other. I tried not to notice his wariness.

Fortunately for both of us, my wolf went back into hiding.

Agent Gerard tapped his pen against his notepad. “How did you know Mr. Oleran?”

“I didn’t, not personally. He worked with Smith & Sons, Marrodin’s primary legal firm.”

“I don’t expect you to remember these details, but tell me what you can,” the agent said as he wrote down my answers. He paused, underlining something on his pad. “Did you see anything suspicious at the funeral?”

I shook my head, hissing at the surge of pain in my skull. “Ouch. No, I didn’t.”

“What do you remember of the attack?”

“Someone used a grenade launcher. I think there was pepper spray, too.”

He stared at me with a slack jaw and wide eyes. “How do you know there was a grenade launcher?”

“The sound.”

“The sound,” Agent Gerard repeated, still staring at me. “How did you recognize the sound?’

I blinked at him. What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t exactly tell the man I’d been at Saigon. I didn’t look old enough to get away with telling the truth. “Training videos. I know some folks in the army, and they showed me some. I got to see some training exercises, too.” It wasn’t that far from the truth. My training videos had been live action, though.

“Do you know where the grenades were made?”

I stared at him, my mouth dropping open. “Is that an actual question?”

With a grin, Agent Gerard flipped his notepad around to show me. I whistled. “Your answer, Ms. Hanover?”

“No idea.”

“Were you aware of any other weapons being used?”

“Just the pepper spray I mentioned before.”

“Is there anything else you can remember?”

I considered. Was there anything else I could remember? When I couldn’t think of anything, I risked shaking my head. “No, sir.”

“Then I think we’re done here. We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions for you.” With a nod of his head, Agent Gerard left the room.

Dr. Shepard returned to my bedside and checked all of the machines, pausing to scowl at the opened door. “I hope he didn’t tire you.”

“It’s fine,” I replied, forcing a smile for his sake.

“You’re fortunate, you know. Many patients have no recollection of what happened so close to when they suffered an injury as catastrophic as yours. I suspect if the FBI needs anything more from you, they’ll come and ask. In the meantime, is there anyone you want me to contact for you?”

A surge of emotion kept me silent for a long moment. I stared at the sterile-looking phone attached to the bed. “Can I use the phone?”

“Of course. No more than ten minutes, and only after we finish some tests. If you need to contact someone immediately, I’ll have a nurse place the call for you.”

I weighed my options. “I was taking care of two kids. They were with me at the funeral.”

Dr. Shepard drew in a breath in a long hiss. “I will see if I can find anything out, Ms. Hanover. What are their names?”

“Emily and Alex Peters,” I replied. I didn’t mention James. “You’ll need my insurance information. And if you could contact one of the CEOs on the Marrodin board, I’d appreciate it.” I waited until Dr. Shepard was ready with his pen before giving him the information.

“You don’t have to worry about the insurance information, Ms. Hanover. Your treatment has been paid for in full.”

“What?”

“An anonymous donor has paid for the treatment of all survivors,” he explained.

Once again, my mouth opened, but this time I couldn’t force any sound out. I swallowed and tried again. “How many were injured?”

Dr. Shepard stood, nudging the stool back to its proper place. “Over seven hundred were injured, and over three hundred died, Ms. Hanover. Unless the news has changed, it’s expected another hundred or so will not be as fortunate as you and succumb to their injuries. You’re truly fortunate.”

I hesitated before asking, “How long?”

The doctor’s triumphant smile returned. “You were in a coma for two weeks, Ms. Hanover. It’s been six days since you woke from your vegetative state.” With a dip of his head, he left me alone.

I’d been in a coma for two weeks? That was pushing it, even for me. No wonder my wolf had been frightened. If I died, so did she. If I died, so did the witch in me.

The three of us were one and the same, after all.

~*~

The possibility of Anderson and several of the other CEOs of Marrodin being victims of the blasts didn
’t occur to me until I listened to the phone ring. Sweat beaded on my brow.

“Anderson,” a sleepy mumble answered after the fifth tone.

“Layabout,” I replied, swallowing back my relieved sigh. “It’s not even eight there. Are you asleep?”