Page 43 of Hunter

Hunter felt Kathryn grab his arm. “What?” she wheezed. “What did you say?”

Patiently, he began again. “I am an expert—”

“No.” She waved her hand for him to stop. “The last part. What did you hear Dr. Swinton say?”

“He said that—” he halted, his chest tightening as he realized what came next. “—that in one of my brilliant careers before I died, I was a decathlon champion.”

“But you aren’t dead!” she exclaimed with a combination of frustration and elation, her hands trying to shake him the way Beckton sometimes tried to shake some sense into him. But her touch was very different.

“I—” He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a rush as he considered the meaning of the words. His mind worked like that sometimes. He had information. Yet he didn’t know the significance until someone else pointed it out. Holding up his right hand, he clenched and unclenched the fingers. “I feel alive.”

“Of course, you are!”

Her palm flattened against his chest, feeling the beat of his heart, making the rhythm speed up. Could she detect his reaction?

He closed his eyes and covered her fingers with his for a moment, pressing her hand tight to himself, feeling the imprint of each separate finger like a brand. Then he made himself take his hand away.

“When did he say it?” she demanded. “When did Swinton say you were an athlete before you . . . before you died?” she demanded.

His eyes blinked open. “A long time ago, in the lab. He was lecturing Beckton. He said to push me hard because I had been a decathlon champion.”

She stared at him, cleared her throat. “Only one of your brilliant careers!”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember any careers.” He had thought nothing came before waking up in Swinton’s laboratory. Was it possible he was wrong?

“In your computer session, can you get onto the Web? Can you download me information on decathlon champions who died?” she asked.

He didn’t let himself get excited about it. Or hopeful. Hope could be dangerous, he had learned. “I can try,” was all he said.

“We can find out who you are,” She sounded breathless. Transformed.

This morning had been bad. He had been cold with her, thinking that pretending he wasn’t aware of her every move, her every look would make life easier. He had been wrong. The sad expression on her face had made him want to hold her close. Stroke her. Tell her he was sorry for making her feel bad.

Now she was happy, and he allowed himself the luxury of enjoying her enthusiasm. She was so pleased. So excited.

“On television there used to be a show about the ‘Six Million Dollar Man,’” she went on in a rush. “He was nearly killed in an accident, and scientists repaired his body using bionic parts. Then they trained him and sent him out on important missions. It was just a story, but maybe they found a way to do it.”

He gave a casual shrug, sorry she had thought of it. “I have training,” he said curtly. He didn’t have to tell her the other things. That wasn’t lying, he told himself firmly.

“I—” she stopped.

“What?” He waited, afraid that she was going to ask for information he didn’t want to give.

“This is important for you.”

Her eyes were bright. Her skin flushed. Like when he’d kissed her.

“Don’t hope too much,” he said in a voice that was harsher than he intended.

“Don’t be afraid,” she answered.

She didn’t know his fears. He wouldn’t voice them, but he would remind her to be careful. “Winslow was angry when he left us last night. He will ask me what we talked about. You must order me to keep this conversation confidential.”

Her face took on a kind of resignation. “Yes. I order you not to discuss this conversation with anyone.”

“I will keep this between us, too. But now I must go.” Abruptly he started back to the house.

“Wait!”

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