Chapter Seven
Catherine sat staring at the page, feeling that familiar sensation of nausea start to bubble in her stomach. Mornings were often the worst times of the day. She’d wake possessed to find her notebook.
What scared her is that when she opened it, she lost herself. It might be merely for minutes, or it could be hours, but when she finally returned to reality, she would find drawings and words that frightened her because she didn’t know why she’d drawn or written such things. The worst part is she couldn’t be sure she had written it and that was somehow more frightening.
She’d feel sick to her stomach and her head would pound and nothing could sooth her but physical exhaustion. So, she ran, and she exercised, and she swam in the nearby lake and of late, she took on the obstacle course at the nearby military training center.
That was the best because it took everything she had to beat it and left her feeling exhausted and empty. As awful as it might sound to another, emptiness beat the hell out of feelings of grief that you couldn’t understand, fear that had no apparent motivation or anger that had no direction.
“It won’t be this way forever,” Trina promised.
“You mean you hope it won’t, but you don’t know for sure.”
“You’re right but if we lose hope what’s left?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then stop thinking about it. And stop writing.”
Trina put the notebook in the cabinet where Catherine liked to hide it. Now she felt as on edge as Catherine. She quickly changed clothes and was about to leave when Catherine stopped her. “I wish you’d let me go this time.”
“It’s almost dark.”
“I know, but I need to. I know you hope to see him.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes.”
For a moment she considered saying no, but the truth was, she needed a rest. “Fine.”
“Thanks.” Catherine smiled and left the house. It made no difference that it was dark. She knew the way. Apparently, that was a skill she hadn’t realized she possessed, but she knew how to navigate her way through the dark landscape. Along the bottom edge of one of the fence supports the fencing was loose. Due to the brush that grew along side it, it was unnoticeable from the inside. When she pulled back, there was just enough space for her to slip through.
Catherine made her way to the start of the obstacle course, scanning the area for any signs of movement. Finally, convinced no one else was there, she hit the timer on her watch and began. Within minutes the only thing in her mind was the next step, hand-hold, jump or crawl, whatever the course demanded.
She made it to the half-way mark, a section that required you to crawl beneath thirty feet of big telephone size posts less than three feet off the ground. She imagined it would be far more difficult for a man than she, considering the size difference. Still, it was no picnic.
When she reached the end and bounded to her feet, she ran smack into something and would have fallen on the rebound had strong hands not captured her arms. The surprise of it had fear scalding its way through her and galvanizing her into action.
There was no conscious decision made to fight, her body seemed to have its own innate knowledge that required nothing from her conscious mind. She heard a grunt as her blow connected with a wall of hard muscle.
“Whoa, girl.” She recognized the voice and desire was suddenly injected into the well of fear, diluting its power. Not, enough, however, to keep her body from remaining in motion. One part of her recognized Brody and had no wish to strike him. Another part, one that seemed quite foreign and unrecognizable, would not abandon the fight. And it was the warrior aspect that seemed to hold the power.
“Red, come on, chill baby.” Brody blocked her punches and kicks but made no offensive moves of his own.
A garbled growl was all the sound she was capable of producing and it scared her. Where was the fountainhead of this rage and how did she stop its flow? She didn’t want to fight and yet she wanted very much to beat the life out of the enemy before her.
There was no way to wrest control from the warrior and so she pressed forward, lashing out with punches and kicks. She heard the harsh expulsion of her breath as her blows landed, and the answering soft grunt from her opponent.
Why did the enemy not fight back? As if in answer to that question, she heard a voice. “Sorry, Red.” Almost immediately, something slammed into the back of her shin, taking her feet from beneath her.
She’d have hit the ground if arms had not wrapped around her, immobilizing her. “No!” Being restrained honed her fear to a razor sharpness, and she struggled with every ounce of energy she possessed.
Fear exploded into bone deep terror when she realized she was outmatched and could not escape. In the next moment memories rushed at her, buffeting her like a storm, pounding at her from every direction.
She couldn’t stop the scream from rising, or the rigidity that held sway over her body. All she could do was scream as horrors rained down on her. She had no clue where she was or how long she was prisoner to the hell that embraced her, but little by little she became aware of other things.
A voice whispered to her, words of comfort, words that sought to lure her from the torment. Arms held her against a strong, warm body. Her face pressed against flesh that was warm. She heard the beat of a heart beneath that firm skin.
“Help.” It was the one word she could manage.
“I’ve got’cha, Red. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Safe. Was it possible? Miraculously, the storm abated, driven back by the strength of the arms that held her and the voice that promised protection. She felt a tremendous fatigue roll in like fog that follows the storm as the heat vanishes and cold seeps in.
“You’re okay, Red. I’m here. I’ve got’cha.”
“Brody,” she whispered in recognition. “I’m—so—tired.”
“I’ll carry you home, Red. Just hang on.”
She felt him rise with her in his arms and turned into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. For the first time she could remember she felt safe and the relief in that feeling robbed her of the rest of her strength.
“You’ll have to guide me, Red. I don’t know where you live.”
“The little house by the creek that feeds into the lake south of here. Three miles south, south-west.”
Her last conscious thought was to wonder how in the world he was going to carry her three miles.
*****
Etta knew there was trouble the moment she opened the door and saw Mason. His was not the face of happiness. The faces of the two men with him were about as readable as rock, which did more to spell trouble than if they’d actually had expressions.
“Come in.” She stepped aside and let them enter. “Can we speak here, or should we go into my office?”
“Your office.” Mason replied.
“Very well.” Etta led the way, stopped outside the door and waved her hand for the men to enter.
She followed them in, closed the door and sat on her desk chair, consciously choosing to use her desk as a buffer between herself and her visitors.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
“These gentlemen are with the CIA, Doctor. They’re here because you’ve been making inquiries about Catherine Mermet and Sadie Rockler.”
“And?”
“And they want to know the reason for the inquiries.”
“Why does it matter to the CIA?”
“Etta, please.” Mason’s tone was less imploring than his expression and she almost backed down simply because of the unease she sensed in him.
“Why does it matter?” She looked at the men who had not bothered to introduce themselves.
“Etta.” Mason’s voice drew her gaze. “Please.”
“Tell me why, Mason. Either give me a reason or get out of my office.”
He looked over at the men and one of them gave a slight nod. Mason’s attention returned to her, and he cleared his throat.
“Before I came here, some years ago, in fact. I had a partner. A woman. She and I were working in cooperation with an operative from the Mossad. They were taken prisoner and when an exhaustive manhunt turned up nothing, they were assumed dead.
“Until two years ago when she walked into the Consulate in Yekaterinburg, asking for protection as an American citizen. She was flown back to the States and spent a year in—debriefing.”
“Which is a term used to avoid saying what actually happened to her.”
Mason looked away and after a moment one of the other men spoke. “According to the leading specialists, she had undergone intensive interrogative procedures that resulted in a severe loss of memory and personality fragmentation.”
“In other words, narcointerrogation.” Etta said, not trying in the least to keep the scorn from her voice.
“Indeed,” the man agreed. “Along with other equally unpleasant techniques. Despite our best efforts, she was unable to give us any useful intelligence on what transpired during the years she was missing.”
“And did she stabilize?”
“No. According to the profile compiled by a panel of psychiatric experts, she now is the host of three personalities. Her cover persona Sadie Rockler, along with an identity that was established outside the confines of the agency, and one she is currently using, Catherine Mermet.”
“You said three.”
“Yes. There is another, but one that has only emerged once. Someone she calls Trina. This Trina seems to be the base personality the other two protect.”
Etta nodded. “And the others?”
“Sadie is the protector. She emerges when the subject feels threatened. She’s highly trained, skilled and quite dangerous. Catherine is the personality most often in residence and was labeled the Seeker. She’s soft-spoken, confused and always trying to figure out who she is and reconcile the personalities that live inside her.”
“And you’re telling me this now because?”
“Because she is obviously in this area and we need to find her.”
“Why? Is she a criminal?”
“No, but we fear that since she and Mr. James had an encounter, it may trigger—something.”
“You’re afraid she’ll remember.”
“Not afraid.”
“Yes, I believe that’s exactly it. But if she’s not a criminal, what would you do if you found her?”
“Take her somewhere that she would be safe and be given proper treatment.”
“She can get that here.”
“Doctor, I don’t—"
“But I do. I’m qualified and if the need should arise, I can get the proper clearance. She’s obviously here for a reason, so the best course of action would be to discover what led her here and help her find whatever it is she seeks.”
Mason spoke up, for which she was grateful. “I agree. And she and I were close at one time.”
“How close?” Etta almost dreaded the answer.
“Close.”
She didn’t press him for more but turned her attention to the men with him. “Call your boss and have him contact my boss, Admiral Frank Angel. Let’s see what we can work out.”
The men looked at one another and finally the one who’d spoken, gave her a nod. “We will be in touch.”
With that they stood and left the room. Etta waited until they’d gone before speaking to Mason. “Were you and this woman lovers?”
“In a non-emotional fashion.”
“You mean sex for the sake of sex?”
“Something like that.”
“Can you tell me about seeing her?”
“Of course. But—can we keep this all between us?”
“You mean am I going to tell Savannah that one of your old sex partners has shown up? Of course not. This is obviously a matter of some secrecy. Besides, your past is your own and not for me to share. And the truth is, Mathias brought this woman to my attention. He seems to think she’s quite a powerful Empath.”
“And more.” Mason said. “She has—had a gift. She can read people. Uncanny ability and frighteningly accurate.”
“Do you know where to find her?”
“I think so.”
“And you told the CIA?”
He shook his head. “I probably should have but I didn’t. Not that they can’t find out. She’s in a small house not far from here.”
“Let’s get the address and see if we can find out if she bought it or is renting.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll have to pay her a visit.”
“And tell her what?”
“The truth.” Etta replied.
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“I think it’s what I would want, if I were in her shoes.”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Etta nodded, thinking to herself that she hoped it stayed that way because for the first time she didn’t trust Mason. She believed he would turn the woman over to the CIA and she had a bone deep feeling that they didn’t have this woman’s best interest at heart.
Not one little bit.