BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn (2 page)

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BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

“You people don’t leave anything to chance, do you?” she inquired as she clipped the badge to the lapel of her suit jacket.

“We can’t afford to, Doctor,” the guard whose nametag read Cahill replied. When she looked up at him, he held her gaze behind the polished surface of his dark glasses.

“Baybridge is a maximum-security facility. In the thirty-five years we’ve been in existence, we’ve never had an escape. We’ve never had anyone successfully breach our security, either. Some of our measures might seem harsh at first, but believe me, you will appreciate them once you’ve taken the tour of the prison.”

“I’m sure I will,” Bronwyn said quietly.

The guard reached into his pocket and withdrew a second badge. “This is for the dog.” Before Bronwyn could comment, he told her Brownie must have the badge clipped to her collar at all times. “We have a sample of the dog’s DNA in case we ever need to identify her.” He glanced in the backseat. “We’ll have to draw some blood from the feline though, so we can get her a badge if you plan on keeping her here.”

“It’s a him,” Bronwyn said, “and, yes, I do plan on keeping him here.” She shivered.

“How did you manage to get a sample of Brownie’s blood?”

The guard smiled for the first time, but the gesture seemed awkward and stiff. “You were required to have the dog’s records up to date before you could be allowed to bring it into the facility. We simply took what we needed from your veterinarian.” He looked at the cat again. “Didn’t know about that one. Did you pick him up on the way here?”

Bronwyn’s jaw tightened. “No, he’s been with me for more than nine years. Did you get Brownie’s blood with or without my vet’s permission?”

“Does it matter? It’s curious that we knew nothing of the feline, though.”

Anger shifted through Bronwyn as she attached Brownie’s badge to her collar.

“Apparently the inmates aren’t the only crazy people here,” she grated. “I can’t believe my dog and cat need a security badge! Does someone think they will aid an inmate to escape?”

“Take that paved road to your left, Doctor,” the guard said as though he hadn’t heard her question. “You’ll need to turn onto the first road you come to and keep following it until you reach the dead end. Take a right and follow that road to the main facility. Park in Lot A, slot fourteen. Look for the large red letter ‘A’ as you pass the statue of Justice—you can’t miss it. That is your reserved parking and requires a permit.

Don’t worry about that—someone will place the sticker on your windshield before you’re shown to your quarters this evening.”

Her jaw clenched, Bronwyn nodded without speaking and drove forward, turning onto the road the guard had indicated. She looked to her right, wondering where the winding gravel road led.

As she wound her way toward the main facility, Bronwyn worried that she had made a bad mistake in coming to work for the people her late father had worked for.

Despite Dr. Hesar’s assurance that Bronwyn’s degree in behavioral science, with a minor in criminology, was something Wynth Industries could use for a new program 9

Charlotte Boyett-Compo

they were implementing, she had reservations. She had spent her externship at a major computer company, helping to design software for law enforcement agencies worldwide to aid in tracking down serial killers and child molesters.

A month before her mother called to alert her to the job opening at W. I., Bronwyn had applied for a position with the FBI. Her dream was to work in the Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico but since the agency’s policy was to recruit from present employees, she would have had to get a foot in the door as a field agent.

“Bronwyn, a glorified cop?” her mother had exclaimed worriedly.

“I want to make a difference, Mama,” she’d tried to explain. “If I can help prevent what happened to Daddy and…” She stopped, unable to say her dead son’s name. “I have to do this. I have to do what I can to help catch these monsters!”

“I know that, and that’s why I will add my encouragement with Neal Hesar’s for you to take this job at Baybridge,” her mother insisted. “They are as concerned about violence as you are. The facility out here is the best of its kind. Important, high-impact research is being conducted on what makes those monsters tick and how to stop them.

W.I. is connected worldwide with every conceivable agency devoted to stamping out violent crimes. They have the contacts—you have the knowledge. You could benefit from one another.”

After several weeks of long-distance phones calls and hours of discussion with her mother, Bronwyn had met with a representative from Wynth Industries who had flown down to Ft. Walton Beach to recruit her. She had taken to Rebecca Woods instantly.

“As a private company, we are able to offer you a great incentive package. We’ll start you out at $125,000 a year with stock options, 401K, major medical/dental, the usual yadda-yadda-yadda packets,” Becca had explained. “You’ll be working with some of the best minds in behavioral research.”

“I’m impressed with your roster of staff members,” Bronwyn said, scrolling through the names, awards and honors on the brochure Becca handed her. “I’ll feel like the proverbial redheaded stepchild.”

“You’ll fit in nicely. Now, let’s get serious for a moment.”

“All right.”

“Baybridge is a major mental hygiene facility,” Rebecca continued. “It is what is being touted as a super-max prison. Housed within the facility are criminals the court system has declared either incompetent to stand trial for various reasons or too dangerous for regular prisons—spree and serial murderers, violent rapists/sexual torturers, pedophiles, people who fancy themselves human vampires, and those who have become cannibalistic. In other words, very sick people.”

“So I gathered,” Bronwyn admitted.

“We work closely with VI-CAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, and with the FBI in general. Local, state and government agencies across the U.S. have come to rely on Baybridge and Wynth Industries to house their worst inmates.”

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BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

“A hodgepodge of the nation’s most lethal, I take it.”

“Worse than the average citizen can even begin to imagine.”

“I would imagine some medical personal are loath to work in such an environment.”

Rebecca nodded. “Indeed, and that is one of the reasons the incentive package is so lucrative. Especially to a newly minted physician,” she added with a grin.

“What about living facilities? How is the real estate market in and around Jasper County?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I’m afraid living on the economy is discouraged. Because of security precautions, housing is onsite but you can decorate your condo—at W.I.

expense, of course—in any fashion you find comfortable and relaxing. Dr. Wynth wants his employees to be surrounded by things they like and that will make them as productive as possible. There is, however, a cap on what you can spend to furnish your condo. Budget is equal to your annual salary but you can charge your additional purchases at 9.34% interest per annum.”

Bronwyn’s eyes widened. “That’s a helluva incentive!”

“We even put it in writing!” Becca laughed. She pulled a pen from her briefcase, along with a preliminary statement of intent. She held out the pen to Bronwyn. “What do you say? Willing to take a chance on conquering the world with Wynth Industries?”

Bronwyn had hesitated only a moment before shrugging, taking the pen and signing away her future with a flourish. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she quipped.

“You won’t regret it.”

Now, as Bronwyn caught sight of Baybridge’s main building, she said, “Lord, I hope I don’t.”

Turning into the huge parking lot presided over by a six-story megalith of a building, Bronwyn felt perspiration ooze onto her upper lip and her palms grow clammy. The building was a marvel of glass and stone, with sweeping banks of dark-tinted, copper-colored windows that reflected the scuttling clouds lowering from the gray sky. In the distance, lightning flared and its image pulsed across the building’s shiny façade as a few fat raindrops plunked against Bronwyn’s windshield.

“I don’t like bad weather,” she said, an edge to her voice.

She found Lot A and her parking slot as the rain increased in intensity and the wind began to buffet the vehicle.

Brownie opened her eyes and sat up. She pressed her wet nose to the window glass and whined.

“Yeah, I know,” Bronwyn responded. “And you know what I told you about Midwest storms.”

The little dog looked around as if to inquire if one of those twister things might be in the offering.

“We just may regret having—”

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Lightning stitched across the sky with a horrendous crack, and both Bronwyn and her pet yelped. One threw her hands over her head, the other bolted into her mistress’s lap, wedging her pudgy body between the steering wheel and Bronwyn’s flat belly. As the sky opened and the rain began pummeling the car, making it impossible for Bronwyn to see anything but the cascading sheet of water flowing down the windshield, she picked up her overweight pet, held it in her arms and buried her face in Brownie’s golden-brown fur.

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BlackWind: Viraiden and Bronwyn

Dr. Sage Hesar stood at the window, reveling in the storm raging outside. He loved bad weather as much as his twin sisters Thyme and Anise hated it. Feeling exhilarated by the flare of the lightning and the howl of the wind, Sage took every opportunity to witness nature’s spectacle. Iowa’s ever-changing weather never failed to provide the Georgia-born psychologist with all the meteorological thrills he had time to enjoy.

“One of these days, you’re going to get toasted like a marshmallow at a Boy Scout jamboree,” his father quipped from the doorway. “Get the hell away from that damned window, Sage!”

Sage sighed, rolling his eyes to the heaving heavens. “The McGregor girl is here,”

he said as he turned reluctantly from the window.

Dr. Neal Hesar’s forehead crinkled. “She hasn’t checked in.”

Sage jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “She’s sitting in her car.” He sat at his desk and leaned back in the twenty-thousand-dollar chair that had been molded especially for his athletic six-foot-three-inch frame. “Been there since the storm started.”

“And you didn’t see fit to inform anyone so they could get her?” his father snapped.

“Well,” Sage drawled, “she’s sitting clutching her dog, hiding her face against the mutt.” He braced his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers. “Does that suggest she’d be willing to venture out in that torrential fury, Dad?”

Neal Hesar mumbled something under his breath then plopped down on the sofa across from Sage’s desk. “Have you spoken to the captain today?” he inquired, a look of disgust on his handsome face.

“No.” Sage cocked his head to one side, grinning. “Have you lost your pet again, Dad?”

A growl issued from between Neal’s clenched teeth. “I know where he is.”

Sage’s grin widened. “But do you know what he’s up to?”

“I don’t need to know,” his father grumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sofa arm. “He gets things done and that’s all that matters.”

“It never fails to amaze me that you prefer to call what he does ‘getting things done’. That’s like saying Jeffrey Dahmer had a good appetite.”

His father’s quelling look failed to have the desired effect on the younger Hesar.

The intercom buzzed on Sage’s desk.

“Yes?” he replied to the voice-activated machine.

“Mrs. McGregor to see you, Doctor,” Sage’s secretary informed him.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Send her in.”

Neal sat up on the sofa, tightened the tie at his collar and smoothed his lush brown hair into place.

Sage chuckled. “You’ve already won her, Dad. The woman has seen you with bedhead. Looking a bit crumpled at the end of the day isn’t going to send her into shock.”

“Watch your mouth!” Neal snapped, scowled and stood as the door opened. His face softened as Deirdre McGregor walked in. “Hello, my dear.”

“I’m getting worried, Neal,” Deirdre said. “She should have been here by now.”

Neal took her hand. “She’s in the parking lot, waiting out the storm.”

“The parking lot?” Deirdre moaned. “Oh, Neal! She’s terrified of storms. She has been since she was a little girl.”

Sage saw his father glaring daggers at him and sighed. He pushed up wearily from his chair. “What if I fetch her, DeeDee?”

“Would you?” she asked, her eyes lighting up. She eased her hand from Neal and walked over to Sage, enfolding him in a motherly embrace. “You are a godsend, sweetie.”

Neal snickered. “More demon-sent than god-sent, DeeDee. Just ask his twin brother, Savory.”

Sage wrinkled his nose at his father on the way out the door. “What’s her name again? As I recall, you and Dr. McGregor weren’t part of the flower child movement when you named your daughter.”

“Bronwyn,” DeeDee replied with a giggle. “Thank you, Sage. I know she’ll appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.” Sage closed his office door behind him, giving his father and future stepmother privacy.

He took the elevator to the parking garage, nodding at the attendant in the glass booth. “I need to get someone from the parking lot.”

The attendant unhooked a key from the board. “I hear it’s pretty bad out there, Doc.”

“Gotta rescue a fair damsel from the clutches of the Storm God,” Sage replied. “We superhero types can’t let a little inclement weather keep us from our appointed tasks.”

“Better take the Ravenmobile, then. That always impresses them.” The attendant laughed as he tossed the keys to Sage.

Sage caught the keys and headed for a low-slung black sports car crouched in the front row. He climbed in, turned the key and drew in a deep, satisfying breath at the sound of sleek power roaring from the car’s ultra-expensive engine. Maneuvering the stick into first gear, he drove into the blinding plummet of lashing rain.