Page 2 of Hunter

No, she had chosen to come to this place called Stratford Creek on a deserted stretch of Western Maryland road, where the mountain scenery took your breath away and the security was tight as a federal penitentiary. But she wasn’t a prisoner. She could leave any time she wanted, Kathryn Kelley reminded herself as the door to the cell-like gatehouse slammed closed behind her.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Emerson,” she said, addressing a man in gray slacks and a blue shirt who stood behind a low counter. He was muscular, with a square jaw, square shoulders, and a crew cut. His unobtrusive plastic tag said his name was McCourt, and he kept his steely gaze fixed on her.

“Please hand me your purse and step through the metal detector.” He waved toward the security entrance that had become a fact of life in today’s security-conscious world.

Kathryn complied, then watched him paw through the contents of her pocketbook as if he thought her lipstick was a miniaturized bomb. Satisfied, he handed back the purse and gestured toward a small wooden table. “You’re on the schedule. Have a seat. May I see two forms of identification?”

“Of course,” she answered, trying to match the coolness of his voice. But she felt a little tremor in her hand as she pulled out the chair behind the table and sat down.

He’s just using standard intimidation techniques,she told herself. But she wasn’t in good enough shape to keep from reacting. At least he hadn’t searched her for hidden weapons.

When she thumbed her driver’s license out of her wallet, he made her wait with it in her outstretched hand while he reached to get a clipboard from the wall behind him. As he turned, she saw the bulge of a gun riding discreetly at his waist.

Feeling like she’d caught him with his fly open, she looked quickly away and unfolded the e-mail she’d received yesterday evening. “This is my authorization letter from Mr. Emerson,” she said, handing it across the desk.

In fact, it was one of the strangest job offers she’d ever received—and accepted. While she’d be temporarily working for the Defense Department, the orders didn’t specify exactly what her duties would be, although she’d been assured during several phone interviews that her background and experience were perfect for the assignment.

As McCourt perused the printout of the e-mail, she tried to gather her composure. Any other time, she would have been better prepared for his subtle little power game. But she was still trying to cope with the aftermath of the attack in the swimming pool, the police interviews, and the dawning realization that Baltimore’s finest couldn’t guarantee her safety. Her attacker, James Harrison, was still at large, probably in the area. The Illinois authorities hadn’t warned her he was coming because they’d thought he was dead. Apparently, he’d set fire to the maximum-security unit at the hospital where he was being held and escaped in the confusion, making sure there was a body in his bunk burned beyond recognition.

After almost killing her in the Cecil Arms pool, Harrison had disappeared into the night, and she had gone downstairs to her apartment only long enough to pack some clothes. For the past two weeks, she’d been staying with various friends and shutting down her private practice—since the cops had no idea where to find her lunatic stalker. He’d already proved himself frighteningly resourceful, and she wasn’t willing to sit around like a tethered goat waiting for him to pounce on her again.

Finished with the fax, McCourt compared her to the blue-eyed redheaded woman in the photograph on her driver’s license and pulled a folder from a drawer behind the counter. “Your temporary clearance is in order.”

“It shouldn’t be temporary. I had it updated when I did some work at Randolph Electronics.”

“Yes, but we have additional requirements here.”

Before she could make any further objections, he handed her a form and said, “Sign here.”

When she’d written her name along with the date and time, he initialed the entry.

“I’m Chip McCourt. Glad to have you with us,” he said, obviously still withholding judgment. “I’ll take you to the headquarters building, Dr. Kelley.”

Kathryn pushed back her chair. “I can find my way if you’ll just give me directions.”

“I am required to escort you,” he said firmly.

Her fingers tightened on the strap of her purse, as she fought the impulse to blurt out that she’d changed her mind. She was only a few hours away from Baltimore. She could turn around and drive back. But then what? She wouldn’t feel safe in her apartment. Or her office. And she couldn’t camp out permanently at her friends’ houses. Instead of resenting the security here, she should be grateful, she told herself.

With a sigh, she stood and let him usher her outside, where he stopped and conferred briefly with another man who had arrived in a Jeep Cherokee.

“All set,” he said, turning back to her.

Manufacturing a smile, she led the way to her burgundy sedan, thankful that McCourt slid into the passenger seat instead of demanding her keys.

Her escort wasn’t much for small talk, simply giving her toneless directions. So she took stock of what had been described as the Stratford Creek campus as he co-piloted her up a winding road lined with white pine trees, then past low, red-brick buildings that might have been constructed as a garden apartment complex in the fifties or sixties. Some campus. The lawns were half dirt, and the wood trim on several of the buildings was flaking. Although she’d been assured by Mr. Emerson that Stratford Creek was well funded, apparently the U.S. government wasn’t putting much money into exterior maintenance.

Many of the windows had a dusty blankness that told her some of the offices were empty. Adding to the ghost-town atmosphere was the lack of traffic. She met no other cars, and as she rounded a corner, she made the mistake of swiveling her head to look at the remains of a flower bed in the center of a weed-choked lawn.

As she turned back to the road, she caught a blur of motion to her left. With a start, she realized that a man had materialized from behind a nearby stand of bushy pines and was on a collision course with the car.

McCourt shouted a warning as Kathryn slammed on the brakes, sending the vehicle to a bouncing halt. But the man must have had lightning reflexes, because he’d already halted.

Time seemed to slow as she stared at him. He stood on the balls of his feet, breathing hard, his body glowing with a fine sheen of perspiration and his hands flexed at his sides as if he were ready for an attack. A myriad of impressions assaulted her at once, the way they often did when she was meeting someone who sparked her interest. She let the perceptions flow, hoping she could sort them out later.

Physically, he was magnificent. His damp tee shirt was stretched across a broad, well-muscled chest, and his running shorts showcased impressive masculine details beneath the skimpy fabric. Below the shorts were long, muscular legs, the legs of an athlete.

He moved his hand to swipe a lock of dark hair away from his forehead, drawing her gaze to his chiseled face. It was all sharp angles and acute planes that were arresting in themselves. But it was his fierce, deep-set eyes that captured her attention as they regarded her with a kind of uncensored curiosity.

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