Angel Face (6 page)

Dr. Fremont settled the glasses on the cushion next to her and folded her hands in her lap. She was a pleasant-looking woman, probably in her midforties and roughly twenty pounds over what the insurance actuarial tables said was the ideal weight for a woman of average height. In fact, average would have described her in most ways, except for her clothing. She was head to toe in blue. Today, it was a silk blouse and slacks set, but Angela had never seen her when she wasn’t wearing something blue, including the metal frames of her eyeglasses.

Most people would have called it royal. What Angela
saw was the hue of a peaceful brain. Blue was a good color. It meant less abnormal electrical activity.

“Angela, how did you feel when I asked you about Adam?”

“Adam?” Angela brushed at her temples, flicking away the strands of hair that were forever drifting into her eyes. “Did you say that? I didn’t hear you.”

The psychiatrist went quiet, gazing at her. Angela wondered if she were looking for some sign of evasion, an eyeblink or a shallow breath. But Angela merely gazed back.

“Yes, I did say
Adam.
But you don’t remember me saying it? Or your response?”

“Did I respond?” There was something wrong here. Angela sat up slowly. She shook her head. “Doctor? Did I respond?”

The psychiatrist moved on. “When I said
doctor,
you answered with the word
devil.
Tell me about that.”

Angela remembered that answer. “What came to my mind was the power they have . . . and too often abuse.”
She could still hear the muted cries, the moans.

“You don’t believe that doctors do good, that they save lives?”

“Not always; sometimes lives are sacrificed. They experiment. . . . You must know that, Dr. Fremont. They experiment on their patients and call it research. Not all of them, of course. I didn’t mean that you—”

Dr. Fremont looked distressed. “I hope you don’t feel that way about me, Angela. We try many things in here to help you gain insight into your behavior, but I never think of them as experimentation in a bad way. In fact, I was just going to suggest we try hypnosis. I think we have some fertile ground to work with here.”

They’d tried hypnosis before, and it had never worked. But that was more Angela’s fault than the technique. There were certain things locked up inside her that would
never come out. She had intentionally blocked those memories. No, that wasn’t true. She’d done a great deal more than block them. She’d erased them herself because there were things she couldn’t bear to remember. Didn’t
dare
to remember. She had wiped out a part of her own memory using methods she’d learned in her grad school research that included hypnotic autosuggestion and psychotropic drugs, so of course standard hypnosis alone didn’t work. How could she allow Dr. Fremont to unlock the door that she herself had locked and barred?

Angela looked up in surprise to see Dr. Fremont standing above her. She had a glass of water in one hand and a red capsule in the other.

“I’d like you to take this,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Something to relax you. It’s very mild, but the more relaxed you are, the easier it will be to remember.”

“Why is it so important to remember?” Angela asked softly, although it was no longer quiet inside her mind.
What if I don’t want to remember? What if whatever’s locked up in there is supposed to stay there? What if—

“Angela, it’s difficult to make progress when so much is unknown . . . to both of us. You do want to get well?”

Angela nodded and took the capsule.

“Good, because I have something else here that will help you talk more freely. If fear is the block, this will make the memories seem less frightening.”

She knelt beside Angela and opened her arm. Angela allowed her to swab the inner joint with alcohol and tap the vein to plump it. Neither doctor nor patient spoke, and with silence came the understanding that Angela had surrendered herself to this process, that she was forfeiting all other options. Her fate now lay in another’s hands, a doctor’s hands. That was a terrifyingly familiar feeling, and one that Angela had struggled with all her life. It made
her want to stop the psychiatrist, yet something wouldn’t let her.

She did want to get well. She wanted that more than anything, and how could that happen if she didn’t, finally, face her fears?

There was a sharp prick, a searing stream of fluid, and Angela closed her eyes. Was she taking responsibility by allowing these drugs in her system, by giving up conscious control? Or was she evading it? She didn’t have the answer to that, and it was too late now, anyway. The drug was rushing through her veins, carried by the force of her pounding heart. Whatever would happen would happen.

“Rain, rain, go away,” she whispered.

W
HEN
a man approaching his fifth decade braved the world of women’s bras and panties for the first time, he needed some moral support. Or a drink.

They damn well ought to serve booze in this place,
Peter Brandt thought as he gingerly picked up a spidery black wisp of silk and studied it. He didn’t know what it was or where it went, which was probably just as well, since he couldn’t imagine his wife, Barbara, wearing it anyway. Not on a bet.

He wasn’t alone in the lingerie department, but he was the only man, and the sales clerks were hovering like miniature rescue helicopters, anxious to ease his pain. Maybe he should have let them, but to have strange women describing the pros and cons of thongs and miracle bras was more than his forty-eight-year-old heart could handle. He didn’t want to give away how uncomfortable he was. God forbid he should blush.

He was already sweating. Moisture beaded his temples, which meant that even the plaster of Paris hair gel he’d used that morning wouldn’t keep his naturally curly hair
from springing into corkscrews. Maybe his glasses would steam up, too. That would be a nice touch.

“Did you see our teddies?” one of the clerks called out to him. “They’re on sale right over here.”

She was standing by a rack of skimpy things across the room, but Peter would rather have walked through a live minefield. He was nervous about looking past the next display case for fear what he might see. He thanked her with a quick nod and turned to a rack behind him, pretending to be engrossed with the silk nighties and robes.

A luminous kimono and gown set in magnolia white caught his attention. It was done in a rich satin fabric, and the gown looked as if it were made of one large magnolia flower with petals so creamy and pink-tinged he couldn’t keep his hands off them. He hoped no one noticed the way he’d brushed his fingertips over the fabric and stole a caress. It probably wasn’t against the law to fondle the lingerie, but the images filtering through his mind ought to be.

The gossamer softness brought a fantasy of pale skin and quickened breathing. And the unfurling magnolia elicited other images, including how beautiful its rich, milky tones would be against long, dark hair and misty, meadowlark eyes.

The trouble was, Peter’s wife didn’t have pale skin, dark hair, or meadowlark eyes. It was another woman he was thinking of, someone completely off limits for several reasons, not the least of which was that he loved his wife of twenty-five years. That, however, had never stopped him from also wanting Angela Lowe, his protégée at SmartTech.

Angela didn’t know how he felt. All of his efforts on her behalf had been strictly professional, but he’d been forced to go out on a limb for her in ways that had put his career—possibly even his life—at risk and he lived every day wondering if he’d made a mistake, wondering
if she would revert and cause irreparable damage. And praying. Peter Brandt hadn’t prayed a whole lot in his life, but he’d made up for that in the last year.

“Isn’t that set beautiful?” One of the clerks had found the courage to approach him, despite the force field he’d created.

“It is,” he agreed, “but I’m not sure it’s right for my wife. Her birthday is today.” There was no need to mention that he’d just walked off a plane at LAX and realized it. He couldn’t go home empty-handed.

“What size is she?” the clerk asked.

Peter shook his head. He didn’t know what size Barbara was anymore. Maybe he’d even stopped thinking of her in those terms, and that was sad. The love was still there, but the physical attraction that had brought them together had faded over the years. He assumed it was because of him that things had changed, and that compounded everything.

His work was consuming, and the pressure had increased, now that they were nearing the completion of SmartTech’s brain-tapping software. He’d been traveling for weeks, immersed in secret talks with customers and setting the stage for the upcoming launch. There were too many distractions and demands on his time, but none of them had distracted him from a fawnlike and totally unpredictable creature named Angela. For that he felt profoundly guilty and wasteful. All that longing directed where it could do no good.

I have to get out of here,
he thought. He could hear the clerk calling him as he turned and headed for the escalator, but he didn’t respond. This wasn’t one of his better ideas. Barbara wouldn’t have been expecting lingerie, anyway. He would take her to one of her favorite restaurants and the theater for her birthday, maybe pick up a Limoges piece to go with her collection.

Once he’d reached the parking lot and was safely inside
his car, life quickly improved for Peter Brandt. Here he knew where everything went, what it was for, and most important, how it was supposed to make him feel. He was in the driver’s seat, literally. Strange how he hated being out of his element, which was probably why he preferred spending time at the lab to all the traveling he was doing.

Still, someone had to sell the snake oil. His partner, Ron Laird, was the brains of the operation, so the day-to-day management and marketing had fallen to Peter. He consoled himself with the knowledge that if everything went well, SmartTech would soon be a Wall Street tsunami, and they would all be rich.

That elicited his first smile of the day.

The familiar hum of the Ford SUV’s engine brought peace to his soul as well. It was unusually bright outside for June, so Peter popped on the BluBlocker sunglasses he kept on the dash. He’d already dialed his office voice mail by the time he pulled out of the parking lot. Like most Southland business commuters, he used driving time to catch up on his messages. Fortunately, the caller ID function stored the incoming numbers, so he could select the messages he wanted. He went straight to one from Dr. Fremont, Angela Lowe’s psychiatrist. She’d left it at ten that morning, and it was now two in the afternoon.

“Mr. Brandt,” the doctor said in her low, measured tones, “I saw Angela this morning, and I’m sorry to say I have some concerns. She’s reporting anxiety, as well as violent impulses, so we did a free association exercise. Her responses were deeply hostile and directed at doctors, and when I questioned her, she justified her responses. If I had to put a label on her state of mind, I’d call it volatile. I don’t consider her dangerous at this point, but I couldn’t rule it out.”

She went on to say that she would be doing evaluations at the hospital the rest of the week and could be reached there. She also assured him that she would work Angela
into her schedule ASAP. And then she apologized again.

The shaking started somewhere below Peter’s rib cage. He’d dreaded this moment yet known it was coming. He hit the Flash button, then speed-dialed the lab and got Sammy Tran on the phone.

“Sammy, put Angela on, would you?”

“Is this Peter? She didn’t come in today. She’s out in the field, doing interviews for that genius study.”

“Who told her to do that, for Christ’s sake?”

“She said you did. She told me you sent her an E-mail.”

“I’m on my way there, Sammy. If Angela calls in, tell her to terminate the interviewing and report to the lab. I want to see her as soon as possible.”

He flipped the phone shut and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He had not told Angela to interview the experimental subjects. He wondered who the hell had. He wondered if anybody had.

B
IRDY
was taking a nap in her cage when the pager went off next. She opened one eye, but only reluctantly, and then she was snoozing again. Apparently, the bright, shiny toy had lost its appeal for her, which meant that no one was going to see the incoming message, at least not in time to do anything about it.

I DON'T LIKE BEING STOOD UP, DR. CARPENTER. I WISH YOU HAD TAKEN ME SERIOUSLY. PERHAPS NOW YOU WILL.

There was no way for the sender to know that her implicit threat wasn’t being read, that in fact, none of her messages had been read. Maybe that was why she typed out her name in full, as if she wanted no confusion about who the offended party was:

ANGEL FACE

“H
OT
sex this afternoon? Anybody?”

Jordan posed the question in a purely conversational tone. He’d stopped at the nurses’ station in the Cardiac Care Unit, and he knew what his odds were of getting anyone’s attention if he asked for what he really needed. Not that he didn’t need hot sex. But his first order of business that afternoon was tracking down Teri Benson, the senior surgical resident.

“Only if you say please, Dr. Carpenter.” One of the male orderlies batted his eyelashes.

The charge nurse stepped forward, a rope-thin woman with wisps of gray in her auburn hair and an uncanny resemblance to Nurse Ratched. “I have genital warts
and
a set of brass knuckles. They’re sewn into my bra.”

“Would you
stop
!” The male orderly shot her an outraged glare. “Shameless vixen would stoop to anything to lure a man. Don’t listen to her, Dr. Carpenter. Cover your ears.”

“I’m holding myself back,” Jordan assured him.

“I have prostrate trouble,” the orderly said hopefully.

Jordan pretended to be torn between the two of them. “You’re making it tough, but I’m going to need a rain check.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m organizing a little search party for Dr. Benson. Anybody seen her?”

“I wouldn’t be counting on her for hot sex,” the charge nurse replied. “Unless you like working against a stopwatch.”

That got a big laugh and a few scathing comments about Benson’s “anality,” which Jordan doubted was a word. He already knew Teri wouldn’t win any popularity contests with the staff. She put everyone to shame with her work ethic, him included, which might not have been
a problem if she hadn’t been so intolerant of her “underachieving” coworkers. She expected them to be as dedicated as she was, but what she saw as self-sacrifice they saw as naked ambition.

Still, she was the standout among the residents in surgical rotation, and she had more experience because she wasn’t shy about volunteering her skills. Benson was the one you could count on when another resident got sick or scared, which had made her the object of both awe and fear among her peers. And some of the surgeons, Jordan thought ironically.

Not that he couldn’t relate. He’d been a target himself. His surgical advances had put him in the spotlight, and medical hierarchies, by tradition, weren’t fond of the nonconformist thinking that Jordan was always being accused of. He’d made himself some enemies along the way. He hated hospital politics because it never had anything to do with patient care or doctoring. It was about egos and/or money, and he hadn’t always been the most diplomatic soul in making his feelings known.

“Last time I saw her, she was coming out of Exam Three,” Ratched said.

“I thought that room was closed because of a plumbing leak.”

“It’s one big mud puddle, but you know Benson. She probably snaked the pipes herself.”

“She snakes pipes?” The orderly was hopeful again.

Ratched gave him a quelling stare.

Jordan was already on his way down the hall. “I’ll check it out,” he called back. “Meanwhile, if you see her, tell her I’m looking for her—and her stopwatch.”

Jordan slowed down long enough to look through the windows of the surgeons’ lounge, thinking he might spot Benson there. As he scanned the room, he saw something that brought him to a full stop. A woman’s face was reflected in the glass pane. It was mirrored in such detail,
he knew instantly who it was. And it was not Teri Benson. Jordan couldn’t have mistaken the dark hair and porcelain skin. He knew those eyes, round and searching.

This was the woman in the CIA dossier.
It was her . . . behind him
.

Her image was still framed in his mind as he turned. But she wasn’t there. There was only the normal hospital bustle. Jordan searched up and down the corridor. He saw a woman in silhouette, turning down a hallway. She was headed in the opposite direction of Exam Three, but he started after her.

“Wait!” he called out.

A team of paramedics blocked his way. They were rushing at him with a gurney, and he had to shove aside a supply cart to avoid them. The woman was gone before he could get himself free. But just before she disappeared from sight, she turned her head and looked at him. Looked straight at him with her hauntingly tender gaze.