A Murder in Time(11)

“Miss Donovan?” The voice was a quiet hum of concern, hovering somewhere above her.

With considerable effort, Kendra opened her eyes, and met hazel ones behind horn-rimmed glasses. Round face. Sixtyish. The man was a little blurry around the edges, but she realized that could be her eyesight. She blinked a couple of times, and he sharpened in focus.

“God. My head.” And her right arm ached unmercifully. That pain joined the throbbing of her head. She licked her lips. “Hurts. Water.”

“Of course.” He poured water into a plastic cup and brought it over, holding a straw to her parched lips. Greedily, she sucked, unable to get enough of the icy liquid as it slid down her sore throat.

“We’ll see about getting something for your head. We don’t want you to lose consciousness again. Gave us a scare—we expected you to come out of the coma a couple of days ago.” He pulled the straw away from her, ignored her tiny mewl of distress as he set the plastic cup on a metal tray table. “I’m Dr. Campbell.”

What happened? She didn’t think she said that out loud. But he turned back to survey her, asking, “Do you remember anything?”

“No.” Something wiggled in her consciousness, a slight parting of the wispy gray layers. “Yes. I-I don’t know.”

“Do you know your name?”

“Donovan . . . Kendra Donovan,” she whispered.

“Who’s the president of the United States?”

“What? I . . .” Oh, God! The memory, when it came, was like a flash flood, uprooting and destroying her peace of mind. “Sheppard. He’s dead. Oh, God.” Her breath caught on a dry sob. “They’re dead. Terry . . . Terry Landon. Traitor. The bastard! Shot him. Shot him!”

“Calm down, Miss Donovan. Your memory appears intact—”

“Did I shoot him?”

“Who?”

“The bastard. Landon.” Her throat was still so parched, it was like pushing words through a cheese grater.

The doctor reached for her wrist, holding it lightly as he timed her pulse against the ticking seconds of his wristwatch. “Yes. I believe you did.”

“Dead?”

“I believe so.”

“Good. Balakirev? Greene?” She shook off his touch, but by then the doctor had finished and was letting her go. She tried to push herself into a sitting position but was too weak, her arms as limp as wet noodles. She found herself sagging back against the hard pillows. “Get them?”

“Miss Donovan, please, lie still.” He waited for a second, then leaned over her, flicking a penlight in her eyes. Appearing satisfied by what he saw, he slipped the penlight back into the front breast pocket of his white jacket and moved to the foot of the bed, where he unclipped the medical chart and began jotting down notes. “I’ll need to call your superiors. They left explicit instructions that I call as soon as you regained consciousness.” He touched her foot. “Can you feel this? Move your toes?”

“Yes.” She wriggled her toes for good measure, although it took an astonishing amount of energy. “Balakirev? Greene?” she repeated hoarsely.

“We need to do some tests. And I need to call your superiors,” he repeated. His expression softened as he stared down at her. “I can wait before making that call.”

Kendra understood he was offering her more time. She shifted her gaze away from the doctor’s to the bland white ceiling of the hospital room. She was in the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, according to one of the nurses. Private room. Slightly upscale décor with cheerful floral curtains framing the window that revealed a dull gray sky. Paint the color of a not-quite-ripe cantaloupe splashed on the wall. Nice—for a hospital room. But it was still a hospital room: an EKG machine, green line silently bouncing on the darkened screen, to her left, next to the IV bag, its thin tube doing a slow drip into her left hand. Her nostrils felt slightly pinched. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she must have an oxygen cannula inserted in her nose.

Aware that the doctor was waiting for her answer, she shook her head and instantly regretted it. The movement sent a fresh avalanche of pain crashing through her, followed by a greasy roll of nausea.

“No,” she whispered huskily, and licked her lips again. She wanted to close her eyes, to somehow find her way back to that fuzzy, floating world where she’d been before she woke to discomfort, both physical and mental. But she refused to give into the temptation.

“Call them. Now,” she ordered. “I want answers.”



“Kendra.” This time, she recognized the gravelly voice even before her eyes popped open and she stared into the lined face of Philip Leeds, the associate director for the Behavioral Science Unit. Her boss.

Except he hadn’t been her boss for almost a year, she remembered with a frown. Not since she’d been loaned out to the New York office’s special task force.

“Sir.”

“Welcome back.” The smile he offered didn’t erase the worry that shadowed his eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been shot in the head.”

The door swung open, and Dr. Campbell swept in. “Ah. I heard you’ve come to see our star patient, sir. I’ll have to ask you to keep this initial visit brief. Miss Donovan has a way to go before she’s up to answering any questions.”