With the Material Witness in the Safehouse. Carla Cassidy
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Ryan protested. “She was walking around, although it was like she was in a daze.”
“Apparently, the street drug has a number of other components to it and one of the effects is that while it doesn’t paralyze, it does put the person under the influence into a state of high suggestibility.”
“You mean, like a hypnotic trance?” Ryan asked.
The doctor nodded and once again gazed at Britta. “And I would attribute your state of amnesia to the residual effects of the drugs combined with some sort of emotional trauma.”
“Is the amnesia permanent?” She was afraid of his answer. She dropped her hand from her hair and instead clutched tightly to the sheet that covered her.
“My professional opinion is I don’t know.” He offered her a smile of apology. “My personal opinion is that probably not. I think if you give your body and your mind some time to rest, time to recover, eventually your memory will probably return. Even though we’re a small clinic with limited resources, I’d like to keep you here under observation for another twenty-four hours.”
She wanted to protest, but then she remembered how weak she’d been when she’d left the bed to retrieve the newspaper. She nodded her assent reluctantly and then added, “But I need to make some phone calls, to check on my job and see what’s happened with my apartment.”
“I’ll leave you two alone for now.” Dr. Jamison stood and smiled at Britta. “I’ll have somebody bring you in a breakfast tray.”
“I’m really not hungry,” she protested.
Dr. Jamison shot her a sympathetic look as he headed for the door, then stopped and wagged a finger at her. “You have to eat. It’s important that you take care of yourself.”
Ryan followed the doctor to the door. “I’m going to have a chat with Dr. Jamison, then we need to have a long talk.”
There was an intensity in those lush green eyes of his that made her want to run and hide. She had a horrible feeling that the bad news wasn’t finished yet.
“YOU KNOW her name isn’t Britta,” Ryan told the doctor as the two men walked down the hallway. It was imperative that Ryan guard her real identity, so when he’d brought her in he’d checked her in as Valerie King. “Her name is Valerie King, and she isn’t from Boston but Chicago.”
Dr. Jamison frowned. “Then it’s possible she’s suffering some false memory issue from the drug. What’s your relationship to her?”
“A close personal friend. She doesn’t have any family. I’m all she has. Four days ago she was supposed to call me when she got settled here in Raven’s Cliff. When she didn’t call and I couldn’t get in touch with her, I decided to come and see what was going on. I arrived yesterday in town just in time to help with the search for Camille Wells.”
Dr. Jamison grimaced and shook his head. “Terrible tragedy. Last I heard they haven’t found her body yet. The mayor and his wife are absolutely beside themselves with grief.”
Ryan remembered that brief moment when he’d seen money pass between the mayor and another man. It had struck him as being odd at the time. There had been something covert about the exchange, but in the wake of Camille’s stumble off the bluff, it had been forgotten until this moment.
Even now he wasted no time or thought on the mayor or the tragic wedding ceremony. “There’s nothing more you can do for Valerie? Nothing to help with the amnesia?”
“I think she’s suffering a temporary fugue state, but I can’t give you any real prognosis. The brain is a complicated thing. Add in a drug that we know little about and don’t know how to counteract, and there’s not much we can do.”
“You’ve seen this drug before?”
“Only twice.” Dr. Jamison glanced at his watch, then looked back at Ryan. “Both times the victims, if you will, were college girls who had been at keg parties. They were brought in by friends who got scared.” He shook his head. “Booze and stupidity are a dangerous combination.”
“Valerie is neither a drinker nor stupid,” Ryan replied. “I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t release any information about her being here or anything else about her condition. Until we know what’s happened to her and who might be responsible, I’d prefer nobody know she’s been found and under what circumstances.”
“I would have no reason to release any information, and I’ll make sure my nurse understands that, as well.” Dr. Jamison glanced at his watch once again. “I’m sorry, I’ve got other patients waiting. I’ll check in with you later this afternoon.”
Ryan watched the doctor walk down the hallway, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He had arrangements to make for Britta. He had no idea what had happened to her, who had drugged her, but her safety was paramount.
With the phone call made and plans in progress, he walked back toward Britta’s room, dreading the conversation he was about to have with her.
When he stepped back into the room, her head was turned toward the window and a shaft of sunlight shone on her platinum hair. His fingers itched, remembering the silkiness of those strands.
She didn’t remember him. Somehow her mind had erased the past seven months. That meant she didn’t remember the shooting she’d witnessed. She had no memory of being a material witness, living her life before the trial in a safehouse with him as her handler.
She didn’t remember that their relationship had become far more than FBI agent and witness. She didn’t remember that they had become lovers.
She turned her head then, as if sensing his presence as he entered the room. “You doing okay?” he asked.
“Of course I’m not,” she replied with a slight edge to her voice.
“You haven’t touched your breakfast,” he said, noting the tray that had apparently been delivered while he was speaking to Dr. Jamison.
“I can’t eat. My head aches from trying to figure out what’s happened to me in the past seven months.” She reached up and grabbed a strand of her hair, twisting it around her finger in what he knew was a nervous gesture.
Ryan sat in the chair next to the bed. “I can help fill in some of those blanks for you.” He tried to figure out the kindest way to tell her of the path her life had taken since the night she last remembered, and decided a direct approach was best. “There is no job for you to worry about back in Boston,” he said. “Nor is there an apartment for you to return to.”
She stared at him as if he’d spoken a foreign language. A pulse beat along the side of her neck and he remembered exactly what her skin tasted like there. It was an unwanted memory that he consciously shoved away.
“Tell me,” she demanded, and pulled her hand from her hair. “Tell me what happened. What I remember is that my life was on track, that I’d landed the job I’d dreamed of and my future looked bright. What happened to bring me here?”
Her Norwegian accent came through strong again, a sure sign of the stress she was under. “What you remember is right, but the night before Halloween all of that changed. That night you witnessed a shoot-out between several FBI agents and members of a sophisticated but deadly street gang. One of our agents died that night, and you were instrumental in testifying against some of the guilty parties.” He paused to allow her time to digest what he’d told her so far.
“So you’re an FBI agent?”
He nodded. “And I was your personal handler, the man who was assigned to keep you safe between the time of the shooting and the trial. Despite one attempt on your life, we managed to get you safely through the process, but because several of the gang members who were still out on the streets had promised retribution, we encouraged you to enter the Witness Protection Program.”
She raised a trembling hand to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear and