Page 57 of Hunter

“I heard Emerson talking to Beckton. By the end of the week, John Doe is on his way to Gravan. And you can take credit for a job well done.”

In the darkness, the other man’s fists clenched. “And what about Dr. Kelley?” he asked.

“Come on. Do you really think Emerson is going to let her leave?”

The younger one smiled to himself in the darkness, thinking he’d imparted good news. The older one hid his look of alarm. It appeared he was going to have to speed up his own timetable, and he wasn’t sure if he could pull that off.

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Hunter made no comment as Kathryn stood between him and the computer screen.

“I read some of the personnel files. Then I accessed the information on the decathlon champions,” she said.

As she took in the tension in his face and body, she understood why he hadn’t wanted to be the one to read the thumb drive. He was afraid to unlock the secrets of his past. Well, she could help him deal with that. Stepping aside, she revealed the picture of Ben Lancaster, watching Hunter’s expression as he scanned the image. He stared into the mirror over the dresser, then flicked his gaze back to the sports figure.

“He looks like me,” he said. “But . . . he’s older.”

“Yes. He died at the age of forty-two in an automobile accident. He was a star athlete. Then he went back to school and got a PhD in physics.”

“He must have been smart.”

“Yes. Like you.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. You’re very smart.”

While he chewed on that, she took advantage of the light from the bedside lamp to examine his well-honed muscles, supple body, and thick head of almost black hair. His face was almost unlined. And his skin was smooth and young looking. There was no way he could be over thirty, even if he had kept himself in excellent shape.

She reached for one of his hands, turning it over and examining the pads of fingers. They belonged to a young man.

“You can’t be him,” she said. “But—does the picture make you remember anything?”

He stared at the man on the screen for a long time. “No. I’m sorry.”

“Why?”

“You want to know who I am.”

“You don’t?”

He swallowed. “You ask me too many questions. In some ways it was better before you came.”

She turned her palms upward, unsure of how to answer.

“I was peaceful. I followed orders. I didn’t get angry.”

“McCourt warned me you attacked some of the instructors.”

“Yes.” He opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “In the early practice sessions, I didn’t know when to stop fighting. I had to learn that.”

She nodded, understanding.

“You stir up questions in my mind. I can’t answer the questions, and they make my chest feel tight.”

“Everyone has scary things they’re afraid to face,” she whispered, reaching for him.

“Everyone?”

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