“Hold that thought. My cell phone’s ringing.”
Sophie cradled the home phone in the crook of her shoulder and fumbled through her giant purse searching for her cell phone.
“Just call me back,” Regan said.
“No, wait,” Sophie replied. “I want to tell you something.”
The cell phone was, of course, at the bottom of her purse. “Ah, found it. Hello?”
“Hi, Sophie.”
The male voice was cheerful and familiar, but she couldn’t place where she’d heard it.
“Who is this?”
“I’ll tell you in a second. I don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“What surprise?”
“Look out the living room window, and you’ll see.”
Even though she knew it was a silly request, she was walking into the living room as she asked, “Can’t you just tell me? I’m busy.”
“Be a sport. You have to look, or I can’t do it.”
She was still trying to put a face to the voice. She reached the window and looked out. “Or you can’t do what?”
“This.”
She didn’t hear his last whispered words. The bullet shattered the double-paned glass and struck her chest. The velocity threw her backward, and she crashed to the floor.
JOURNAL ENTRY 260
ARCTIC CAMP
It’s been three months since we left our arctic home in March, and now Kirk and I have returned. Brandon and Eric should arrive in a few more weeks.
The wolves mate in March, and the gestation period is a short sixty-three days. To our delight, Lucy has three new pups and is once again being fed by the males who hunt for her.
One of the older males, the one we called Lester, is no longer with the pack. Our tracking device didn’t indicate a separation, so we can only speculate what happened to him.
Ricky is still definitely in charge. We’ve estimated his age to be six years, and since the average lifespan of the arctic wolf is about seven years, we would expect to see him slowing down, but he seems more vigorous than ever.
Eric and Brandon will arrive within days of each other. As soon as I have the opportunity to get Eric alone, I will confront him.
I know what he’s been doing. The question is: will he admit it?
TWELVE
SHE JUST HAD TO LOOK.
Sophie was furious, mostly because of her own stupidity, though she would take that admission to her grave.
She was lucky to be alive. The bullet had struck her dead center, just below the front clasp of her bra. But the distance of the shooter on the roof of the apartment building across the street and the rising north wind slowed the bullet’s velocity, as did the double-paned window and the thick metal clasp of her purse. Still, the bullet cut through her skin, leaving behind a small, perfectly round hole.
All things considered, it was really just a minor wound—at least according to the emergency room physician who gave his diagnosis even as he was backing away from the curtained-off cubicle to distance himself from Sophie’s wrath. The doctor’s nurse had already called security.
Sophie understood their reaction. After all, she had threatened to kill an aide, a woman wearing the name tag “Trainee Louanne,” and if Sophie had been the one holding the scissors, she just might have followed through on her threat. Trainee Scissor-Happy hadn’t gently removed Sophie’s beautiful blouse. Oh, no. She’d used her scissors to cut it off her, and Sophie had been too woozy to stop her. When Sophie had tried to protest, the aide gave her a contemptuous grin and continued to shred the delicate silk.
The blouse, being unbuttoned during the shooting, had escaped the ravages of the bullet, but now it was in tatters. Her beautiful, beautiful Dolce & Gabbana blouse was ruined. Sophie knew she was being foolish, even a little crazy maybe, to love something as much as she loved that blouse, but she also knew it wasn’t actually the blouse she loved as much as what it represented. It was the last thing she had bought with the birthday money her father had given her. She had worn the blouse several times before she’d developed scruples, and because it wasn’t a new purchase, she didn’t have any qualms about continuing to wear it. Since she would not allow herself to accept money from her father to buy such an extravagant gift, she doubted she’d ever buy anything that luxurious again. Any extra money she saved on her paltry salary went to charity. It was just the way things had to be. She wasn’t sure why she was so obsessive about it. Perhaps she was doing penance for her father’s supposed sins, or maybe it was her own pathetic attempt at damage control.
As soon as the nurse and the trainee left Sophie alone, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Even though they’d given her a shot to ease her discomfort, she felt a jolt of pain. She winced, grabbing hold of the sheets on either side of her to keep from pitching forward. She heard raised voices coming from the nurse’s station down the hall. Men were arguing. Probably doctors and security officers bickering about who was going to have to deal with her.
She felt a little embarrassed by the scene she’d caused, and she knew she had been a pain in the backside. But then she looked down, saw the tattered remains of her blouse, remembered the smug look on the trainee’s face, and was once again furious.
Trainee Louanne pulled the curtain aside and returned to pick up the remnants. Her expression was downright ugly. It took Sophie about ten seconds to figure out what Louanne was all about. She was a bitter woman who felt she deserved better. There was a hard, mean look about her. She was in her forties, Sophie estimated, but her bloodshot eyes and red-veined nose suggested a liver that was pushing eighty. Her heavy, nauseatingly sweet perfume was, no doubt, poured on liberally to hide the smell of the alcohol she added to her drinks during breaks.
“I know who you are,” Louanne said with a contemptuous snort.
“Good for you. Now go away.”
“Your last name isn’t Summerfield. It’s Rose.” Trainee Louanne all but spit out the name as though it was the most foul of words. She looked over her shoulder to make certain no one was listening before continuing. “You can’t threaten me and get away with it. You’re nothing but trash. You know what? Your daddy’s a money whore, and you’re his daughter, so you have to be a whore, too.” When she didn’t get any reaction, Louanne’s anger intensified. “The police are going to arrest you. I’ll file a complaint,” she added. “They’ll have to arrest you.” Still no reaction. Louanne became incensed. “You better apologize.”
That got a reaction.
“Apologize? That was a Dolce & Gabbana,” Sophie railed. “Ga…bbana.”
“Fine. I’ll tell the police you struck me. That’s called battery.”
“No, that’s called lying.”
The one good thing about FBI agents was that they could be quiet when they needed to be. Louanne turned around and found Jack MacAlister standing just a foot behind her.
She looked back at Sophie. “It’s my word against yours.”
Jack didn’t have the patience for stupidity. “Alec, you getting this?”
Only then did Louanne notice the badges and guns. “I didn’t mean nothing by—That crazy woman yelled at me, and I didn’t think that was right, and she threatened to kill me with scissors!” she added, bobbing her head frantically. “She’ll probably deny it, but she did.”
“I won’t deny it. I did threaten to kill you. Hand me those scissors, and I’ll do it.”
“Sophie, for God’s sake…” Alec began.
“See?” Louanne shouted. “Do you see? And she was screaming at me about a stupid blouse.”
“It was a Dolce & Gabbana. Have a little respect.”
“She’s crazy.”
Jack and Alec didn’t say a word. They simply stared at the woman.
Louanne swallowed and stammered. “I wasn’t really going to lie to the police. But she was terrible to me. Just terrible. And I was just trying to do my job. I’m behind on my work, so I better get to it. There are other patients more appreciative.”
She pulled the privacy curtain closed and was sniffling as she hurried down the hall. Both men waited until she had disappeared around the corner.
Alec said, “I’m going to go get Regan. You keep Sophie company.”
Jack took a step back. “I’m not going in there. I’ll go get your wife.”
Alec slid the curtain back and walked over to Sophie’s bed. “Are you in much pain?”
“No, not really.”
“Sophie, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”
The sympathy in his voice made her feel weepy. She put her hand up and said, “Don’t be nice to me, not yet anyway. I’m on the edge, Alec, right on the edge.”
He smiled at her dramatic warning. “You should be ashamed of yourself. You made that trainee cry.”
“I guess I’ll have to find a way to live with that.”
“I think my partner’s afraid of you.”
Now that cheered her up. “You always know just the right thing to say.”
“I’d hug you and pat your back and tell you it’s going to be all right, but I don’t want to get blood all over me.”
“You can show your love by shooting someone for me.”
“Sure, why not?”
“How much longer do I have to wait? I’ve been X-rayed, CAT-scanned, prodded and poked. I lost some blood, and I think they may have taken the rest.”
She felt nauseated again. The adrenaline rush from her anger had ebbed, and pain was now radiating up her chest.
“The surgeon’s looking at the films now. Then he’ll come in to talk to you.”
“Why aren’t you asking me what happened?”
“I know what happened. Someone shot you. I also know you couldn’t have seen the shooter. He was too far away. There are some details you could clear up for me, but that can wait until you’re sewed back together.”
“Does Agent MacAlister go everywhere with you?”
“Actually, it’s the other way around. I’ve been assigned to him. I go wherever he goes. That might change soon, though. Jack might be taking a leave of absence.”
She didn’t bother asking why. “Both of you should go home. This isn’t a federal matter. I’ll give my statement to the police.”
“I’m not going anywhere, and it hasn’t been decided yet if this will stay local or be a federal investigation. Besides, I want that bullet as soon as they pry it out of you.”
She shuddered at the thought. “I’ll mail it to you.” She sighed and added, “I want to go home.”
“You won’t be here long.”
Sophie didn’t remember much after that. The surgeon came in with a nurse who gave her another shot, and sleep was almost instantaneous. She didn’t know how long she was out, but when she next opened her eyes, she was in a hospital bed with an IV drip. Regan and Cordie stood together by the window whispering. Sophie knew they were worried.
“Did you see it?” Sophie asked.
Jack was in the doorway. He had heard what she asked and thought the question odd. Why would she think her friends had seen her injury? Or maybe she was asking them if they had seen the bullet that had done the damage.
Apparently Cordie and Regan knew exactly what she was asking.
“Who would deliberately destroy a Dolce & Gabbana?” Cordie asked. “It’s criminal.”
“It’s just a shirt,” Jack commented.
It was the wrong thing to say.
“It was a beautiful blouse,” Regan snapped.
“It was symbolic,” Cordie added. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“A symbolic blouse with blood all over it.”
Regan groaned. “We could have tried cleaning it. The bullet didn’t tear it. That woman who cut it was barbaric.”
“And that’s why you threatened to kill her?” he asked, addressing Sophie as he walked into the room. “What’s the big deal about a cabana anyway?
“Gabbana,” Cordie corrected.
“He knows what it is,” Sophie said. “He’s making fun of me.”
He shrugged. He watched for her reaction as he asked her friends, “You tell her about the skirt yet?”
“No…not the skirt,” Sophie whimpered. “I loved that skirt. It was—” His smile stopped her. “You’re such a jerk.”
His smile widened. “Bite me.”
JOURNAL ENTRY 283
ARCTIC CAMP
I finally had the opportunity to talk to Eric in private. I insisted that he accompany me to set up a temporary shelter to observe the pack.
I didn’t beat around the bush. I told him I had a sample of Ricky’s blood, that it was one of the first vials taken, and that there was no unknown hormone evident, not a trace, even though the samples he took showed high levels of the mysterious stuff.
Eric bluntly admitted he had been experimenting on Ricky, but he swore he hadn’t injected any of the other wolves. He knew what he was doing would get him in trouble, so he begged me to keep silent until I had read the data he’d collected.
We spent hours and hours going back and forth, but in the end Eric convinced me to go along with the experiment. If his incredible claims prove to be accurate, he’s stumbled upon a wonder drug.
THIRTEEN
SOPHIE WAS RELEASED FROM THE HOSPITAL THE FOLLOWING evening. Regan pleaded with her to come and stay at The Hamilton, and Cordie lobbied for her to move in with her in her not quite yet renovated brownstone. Sophie refused their kind offers, insisting that she would be just fine at home. She wanted to sleep in her own bed. There would be round-the-clock protection until the shooter was in custody.
Alec insisted on driving her home, which meant she also had a second escort, Jack MacAlister.
Once she was in her own place and had changed into sweatpants and an old flannel shirt, she could finally relax. She sat on the sofa, swung her feet up on the ottoman, and let out a sigh of relief.
“Have you talked to Detective Morris?” she asked Alec. “I don’t remember his last name.”
Alec smiled. “You mean Detective Morris Steinbeck?”
“Steinbeck, like the author?”
“Like the detective in charge of your case, and no I haven’t talked to him yet. I’ll call him in the morning.”
“I’m curious,” she said. “How come John Wincott didn’t take the case? He’s a detective and he’s your friend, too.”