Page 17 of Hunter

“And you’re saving the worst for last,” Jonah guessed.

“Yeah. Dr. Avery Swinton. His specialty is biological research. On human subjects. He lost a research grant at Berkeley for illegally experimenting with human fetal tissue. After that he dropped out of sight. Now he’s at Stratford Creek—doing God knows what under the shield Emerson has provided.”

“Is there anything we can do for Kathryn?”

“I put in a call to her a couple of hours ago, hoping I could give her some kind of warning without arousing suspicion. They told me she was unavailable. I could keep trying, but I won’t be able to say much over the phone. I’d like to find a way to get her information about these guys. And maybe arrange to pull her out of there if she wants to leave.”

“How?”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

###

Wiping a trickle of perspiration off her forehead, Kathryn climbed the steps of guest cottage three, a stone and wood bungalow set about twenty yards back from one of the winding Stratford Creek roads. This was the third time in two days that she’d been out for a jog, ostensibly familiarizing herself with the grounds. But she was also working off her frustration. Since the scene in the locker room, she hadn’t been allowed to see Hunter. She didn’t even know how he was or what they were doing to him—because she was out of the loop as far as information was concerned.

So, she was reduced to the dim hope that she might run into him. But he wasn’t jogging. She told herself it was for security reasons, not because he was suffering any ill effects of the tranquilizers.

A surge of helplessness welled up inside her. She’d had plenty of time to replay the staff meeting over and over in her mind—and also her two previous meetings with Hunter. She always came back to the awful moment when he’d stared at her with such fury.

More than ever, she wanted the chance to show him somebody cared. But so far, she was batting zero. Of course, she’d tried to talk to Emerson about gaining access to Hunter. But the Chief of Operations had been unavailable to her. And her only assignment over the past two days had been the boring task of flagging personnel with below average performance appraisals. Talk about wasting a nice fat government salary on diddly-squat, she thought with a snort. If she could only send a message toThe Washington Post, they’d be up here in a minute to do an exposé on government waste.

Only she wasn’t going to be contacting thePostanytime soon. One of the disturbing things she’d found out was that new personnel were restricted to Stratford Creek grounds for the first two weeks. And only emergency phone calls were allowed! She bitterly resented the restriction to her freedom, but until she talked to Emerson, there seemed to be nothing she could do to change the situation.

Squaring her shoulders, she marched through the living room of the little house. It was comfortable but not plush, with a humpbacked sofa, two overstuffed chairs, and somewhat worn beige area rugs over oak floors. The television sat on a low chest across from the couch. To the right was a dining area and a small kitchen from the living room.

There were two bedrooms in the back, both with standard hotel room furnishings. She’d taken the one on the right, which had a window overlooking the street and a sliding glass door that opened onto a small cement patio in the weed-choked backyard.

While she showered and dressed, she planned a sort of stealth attack on Dr. Swinton. Pulling out the copy of the Stratford Creek phone directory that had been issued with her information packet, she found the address of the research center. Swinton’s office was in room 101. Perhaps if she went over there, she could act interested in the project—flatter him—and get some background information on Hunter.

Of course, she was supposed to be working on the vitally important performance appraisals, she reminded herself. But she’d bet her first month’s paycheck that she wouldn’t be missed.

There were few cars parked in front of the research center, she noted as she pulled into a prime space near the front door. The lobby was deserted, and she was looking for a directory board, when a thin, stoop-shouldered man with wispy brown hair and horn-rimmed glasses approached. Apparently deep in thought, he was carrying a can of soda and a bag of cheese twists.

He almost ran into her, then looked up, startled.

“Sorry—” she apologized. “I was trying to find Dr. Swinton’s office.”

“He’s out of the building at the moment.”

She struggled with a surge of disappointment.

“You must be Dr. Kelley. The psychologist,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t be at the strategy meeting the other day. I’m Dr. Roger Anderson, the Deputy Director of Research. I’d offer you my hand, but, um—” he said, holding up the soda can.

She nodded her understanding, then switched smoothly to Plan B. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet you the other day.”

“Likewise. I had some things to take care of. Why don’t you come down the hall, and we can have a chat?”

“Thank you.” She followed him to a small office furnished with a government-issue metal desk and swivel chair. The computer on the ell beside the desk, however, was a state-of-the-art model.

He set down his food and gestured toward the guest chair. “Do you mind if I drink my soda? I’ve been here since early in the morning.”

“That’s fine,” she assured him.

He opened the bag of cheese twists and took a bite before asking, “So what can we do for you?”

“I guess you know that I’ve been prohibited from working with your research subject—Hunter—until my clearance comes through.”

“Um, yes. Sorry about that.” He lowered his voice. “Dr. Swinton is a stickler for procedure.”

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