Doane?
She stood there, listening. No rustle of brush. No harsh sound of his breathing in the stillness.
Safe?
Good God, no. There was no way she was safe, but maybe she’d have a brief respite from the fear that had been with her since she’d been taken from everything she knew that was safe and good.
Joe, Jane, the cottage on the lake where they’d lived so many years.
She could still hear nothing but the flap of an occasional bird’s wings and the wilderness night sounds. But they weren’t the same sounds as the ones she heard in the forest on the lake. This was wild country.
Keep moving. Put distance between herself and the place where she’d last seen Doane. Providing that she didn’t move in circles. She knew a little about the basics of surviving in a forest, but she wasn’t an ex-SEAL like Joe. He could survive anywhere with no problem. Her profession of forensic sculpting kept her indoors most of the time, and even as a child, she had been a city girl.
So there were a few obstacles against her. She wouldn’t overcome them by self-pity or remembering how good Joe was at this kind of thing.
Or remembering Joe at all. The look of him, the way he’d tilt his head and stare quizzically at her with those tea-colored eyes, the feel of him. There were moments when you could afford to remember the ones you loved, but this was not one of them. The thought of Joe made her painfully conscious of the loneliness of being here without him. Perhaps that was what Doane had intended by mentioning him before he’d left. He’d meant to make her more aware of her isolation. Salt in the wound. Joe Quinn, her lover, and Jane, their adopted daughter, the two people she loved most in the world. Eve would never have wanted to have them here and in danger but it was the—
A sound in the bushes up ahead!
A large animal. A bear. A deer?
Or Doane? He might have circled around and gotten in front of her.
Damn, she had no weapon.
Freeze. Don’t move. The threat might dissolve and go away.
Darkness all around her.
She tried to breathe lightly so that she wouldn’t be heard.
Please, go away.
Doane wouldn’t go away. She just had to hope it was another beast looking for prey.
She was not prey, she thought with sudden fierceness. She would get out of this. She would find a weapon.
To hell with Doane and this mountain he thought belonged to him.
It’s not your mountain any longer, you bastard. I’m going to make it my own.
University of Southern California
Los Angeles
IDIOTS!
Kendra Michaels pushed open the heavy main door of Alexander Hall and stalked down the tree-lined pathway that would take her to the parking lot.
Idiots. Narrow-minded fools.
“Dr. Michaels.” The voice came from behind her.
She didn’t turn around.
“Dr. Michaels, please!”
She didn’t have to look back to know it was Steve Whitty, one of the conference organizers. Kendra hated these things, and her experience here, at the American Psychological Association’s Conference on Autism Causes and Treatment, reminded her why.
She finally stopped. He wasn’t going to be discouraged.
Whitty ran around to face her. “You were brilliant.”
She pointed back toward the auditorium. “Try telling them that.”
“You got a lot of people thinking in there.”
“… Thinking I’m some kind of fraud. Were you even listening to the Q&A?”
“Naturally they’re going on the attack. You’re on the bleeding edge in this field. Uncharted territory. Your work could make a good many of those people’s life’s work obsolete.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“Look at it from their point of view. You’re telling them that music can actually help cure autism.”
“It’s not a cure. It’s a treatment. And I never said it was the only treatment.”
“But you told them that your study had results far more impressive than anything they’ve done. Of course you’re going to ruffle some feathers. Which is exactly why I wanted you to be here.” Whitty placed his hand on her forearm. “And when those researchers get over being scared and pissed off, they’re going to examine your data and look at those hours of sessions you posted on the Web. They’re going to see what I saw. They’re going to see how this amazing young woman was able to draw patients out of their shells and help them join the human race.”
Kendra took a deep breath, angry that she had let those fools get under her skin. She always tried to tell herself that the work was its own reward, finding the right instrument, the right chord progression, the right anything that would engage the interest of her patients and help coax them into a world beyond themselves. But she needed more, dammit. She needed to know that she was able to open those educators’ eyes so that they would follow her.
She looked away from Whitty. “Look, part of me understands why they’re skeptical. Believe me, I know that the music-therapy field is populated with all kinds of nuts and woo-woo, and they give my profession a bad name. But I treat it like the science that it is. I got input from ten researchers in that room when I was designing the study, and I was tougher on myself than any of them were in their initial feedback.”
“They’re surprised at your results. Just give them a chance to digest it.”
“I’ve found a way to help those kids, Whitty. And that study is proof of it.”
“Kendra, there’s a significant variable that some people feel you haven’t addressed.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “Impossible. I considered every variable.”
“Not quite.” He smiled. “The variable I’m talking about … is you.”
“Me?” Then she realized what he meant and cursed under her breath. He could be right. She had been nervous about the presentation and several times had caught herself trying to impress the other attendees. It was completely unlike her. “Oh, you mean the dog and pony show? I knew they thought I was a little weird. I just kind of slipped into it. I didn’t mean—”
“Hell of a carnival act, but there’s already been some speculation that’s how you get your positive results. By being so perceptive and empathetic with your subjects, giving exactly what they need in terms of body language, tone, positive reinforcement, the whole package.”
Kendra’s eyes narrowed on him. “That’s what they’re saying? If they read the study, they’ll see I wasn’t the only therapist. My techniques got the same results from everyone.”
He smiled. “I know that because I’ve read the study. And they’ll know it soon enough. You just need to relax.”
“If I’d wanted to relax, I would never have come to this conference. I thought for once that I could make a difference.”
“Kendra, come back inside.” He placed his hand on her arm again. He was trying to soothe her, dammit. He wasn’t a bad guy, and the mistake had probably been her own, but it didn’t matter.
She wanted to deck him.
Her BlackBerry vibrated in her pocket. Thankful for the opportunity to pull away from Whitty, she stepped back, pulled out the phone, and answered it. “Hello.”
“Kendra? Joe Quinn. I need your help.”
“Quinn?” She didn’t like the tone in his voice. Grim. Ragged. She turned to Whitty and mouthed an apologetic “sorry.” He nodded and headed back toward the auditorium. “What’s wrong, Quinn?”
“You name it, everything. I need your help.”
“Dammit, I’m not a detective. And I’m busy as hell. You can’t pull me into—”
“You’re always busy. You’ll have to drop whatever it is.” He paused. “It’s Eve.”
“Eve?” Kendra’s hand tightened on the phone. “What’s happened? Talk to me.”
* * *
FORTY MINUTES LATER, Kendra was at her condo throwing clothes into a suitcase on her bed.
“You didn’t answer the door, so I used my key. What on earth are you doing?” Kendra Michaels’s mother was standing in the doorway of Kendra’s bedroom watching disapprovingly as Kendra threw clothes into the suitcase on the bed. “Besides packing with no regard to neatness or order. I taught you better than that, Kendra.”