Season Of Strangers. Kat Martin
time is it?” Julie asked, grateful the noise had finally stopped though the weird vibrations continued. Her body tingled from head to foot, her fingers felt numb, and her heart was throbbing strangely.
At the same time she felt unaccountably sleepy.
Laura glanced down at her diamond-faced wristwatch, a present from Julie last Christmas. “That’s weird…my watch has stopped working, too.” She grimaced and plopped the paperback book down over her face. “Nothing works when you want it to.” The words whispered out from beneath the pages.
“You’re not going to sleep, are you? One of us had better stay awake or we’ll wind up with a doozie of a sunburn.”
But already Laura’s eyes were closing.
And as the odd numbing sensations became more intense, Julie’s limbs began to feel heavy. Her eyes drifted closed and her thoughts slowly faded. A few moments later, she was soundly asleep.
When the stray black dog sauntered over from the edge of the surf, dripping water from the hair under his belly, he cocked an ear at the once again softly playing radio. A low growl rumbled from his throat and the thick black ruff of fur at the back of his neck shot up as he sniffed the terry-cloth folds of the two vacant beach towels, the empty backrests, and the cast-off book he found carelessly abandoned in the sand.
He growled again and glanced up, then whimpered and began to back away. Tucking his tail between his legs, the dog turned and bolted off down the beach.
Val lingered a moment in front of the monitor on the narrow metal table, studying the glowing blue screen. He’d been examining his research notes ever since the tests had been completed and all of the data assembled. Nothing he saw on the screen or in any of his other case studies gave him the answers he searched for, answers he so desperately needed.
He shut down the power and the monitor went blank. Panidyne would be waiting for a report and he still hadn’t reached a decision. He wasn’t usually so indecisive. Back home he tended to be somewhat outspoken, not a particularly desirable trait, considering the position he held. But this time the action he was considering was far too risky, too important to undertake without a great deal of thought.
The fact was, he needed more data before he put his radical notion before the council.
He moved away from the table, a sudden calmness settling over him. His superiors had wanted more testing, but he had disagreed. It was harmful to the subject, life threatening, they now knew.
But perhaps this time the council was correct. Perhaps it was worth the risk. Another round of tests might give them the key, hint at where to find the knowledge that up until now had remained so elusive.
More data would give him more answers. Perhaps he would know for sure if the perilous proposal he was about to make was worth the terrible risk.
Two
Julie Ferris shoved open the front door of her office on the corner of Canon and Dayton in Beverly Hills. Donovan Real Estate, a company that specialized in palatial-sized homes and properties, had been a fixture in the area for more than twenty years. Julie had been with the company for eight of those years, starting as a receptionist during her term at UCLA. She never thought she would wind up in a sales position—top sales—she corrected, thinking of the money she earned each year and the plaques that covered her office walls.
She stopped at the receptionist’s desk, dark mahogany, polished to a mirror-gloss sheen, the Queen Anne tables in front of the off-white sofa and chairs equally expensive and well-cared for.
“Any messages, Shirl?” Julie asked the voluptuous bleach-blond girl behind the desk, the only thing out of place in the elegant, conservative interior. “I meant to get in earlier, but my car wouldn’t start. I had to call Triple A and have them jump-start the battery.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose, trying to ignore the painful headache building behind her eyes.
“It’s been kinda slow so far,” Shirl said as she popped open a tube of bright red lipstick and began to smooth it over her pouty lips. Shirl was Patrick Donovan’s contribution to the office staff. His father had founded Donovan Real Estate and run the business for all but the last three years. A stroke had left Alexander Donovan partially paralyzed and his playboy son in charge. Shirley Bingham was a leftover from one of Patrick’s numerous affairs.
“There’s a call here from Owen Mallory and one from a Dr. Marsh,” Shirl said, putting the lipstick back in her purse. “The rest are on your desk.”
“Thanks, Shirl.” At least the woman was conscientious. She still carried a torch for Patrick, but then so did half the women in Beverly Hills. “Has Babs come in? I’ve got a client who’s interested in one of her listings.” Barbara Danvers was another sales associate, and Julie’s best friend.
“Sorry, Ms. Danvers hasn’t come in yet, but she phoned in a couple of times for her messages.”
“If she calls again, find out if she’s got plans for dinner. Tell her I’m tired of eating alone.”
“Will do, Ms. Ferris.”
Julie picked up her burgundy leather briefcase and started toward the door that led to her private office, one of the perks of being in a top sales position. Unconsciously, she rubbed her temple. The headache was building, growing with every minute. They’d been getting worse each day for the past two weeks, the first one hitting after she and Laura had spent the day together on the beach.
That was the reason for the message from Dr. Marsh. Three days ago, she’d awakened with a migraine so severe she couldn’t get out of bed. She’d been dizzy and nauseous, the pounding in her temples so excruciating four Advils hadn’t been able to numb it. She had gone to see Dr. Marsh that afternoon in an effort to discover what might be causing the headaches, and he had begun a series of tests. The doctor had promised to call with the results.
Lifting the receiver, Julie dialed his number, then waded through a barrage of secretaries and nurses until he finally picked up the phone.
“Julie, how are you feeling?”
“Not so good. My head’s beginning to pound. I hope I’m not getting another bad one. What did the test results show?”
“The MRI and CAT scans were clear. No sign of a tumor, nothing like that. The X-rays revealed no spinal problems. As a matter of fact, so far we’ve found nothing at all that would indicate headaches of the magnitude you’ve been suffering.” He paused and silence descended on the phone. Julie didn’t know whether to feel relieved or more worried than ever. “You’ve been working terribly hard, Julie. Stress can cause any number of problems. Severe migraine headaches are certainly among them.”
Julie said nothing. She had worried the headaches might be stress related. Though it would be simpler, in a way she hoped they weren’t. She had to work for a living. If stress was the trouble, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
“I’m not saying that’s what this is,” the doctor continued. “There are several more tests we need to run before we’ll know for sure. I’ve set them up for Thursday afternoon at two o’clock. If that doesn’t work, just call my assistant and have her reschedule.”
“Thursday’s fine, Dr. Marsh.” Julie said goodbye and hung up the receiver. She needed to return the stack of phone messages on her desk, especially the one from Owen Mallory, but the pain in her head had begun to worsen. So far the headaches had lasted no more than several hours. She could turn off her cell phone and have Shirl hold her calls, then close the door to her office and lie down on the sofa for a while. In a couple of hours she was sure to feel better. By then Patrick might have come in.
Giving instructions to Shirl not to be disturbed, Julie got up from the stack of paperwork on her desk, closed the door and the blinds over the window into the office, then lay down on the overstuffed camel-backed sofa. She had a bone to pick with Patrick over his bungling of the Rabinoff deal while she had been out of town. Typical Patrick,