Ranger Defender. Angi Morgan
odd was a waste of time. That’s what had sent her to Dr. Roberts to begin with.
A mistake. But a corrected mistake. Using Victor Watts had been an uncontrollable moment of fury. Talking to him before his test had always been nice. Pity because he seemed perfect for the ultimate experiment.
Taking a job at the Veterans Affairs Hospital eighteen months ago had been a moment of brilliance. Her father’s attorney had used very little energy to convince the owner of a pathetic little box of a house on Denley Drive to sell. She would have preferred to continue living in the five-star hotel. Her parents could afford it. Instead, her parents insisted things would be better if she didn’t.
At least the new house had a specific and organized place designed to meet her more than rational needs. And if she wasn’t allowed to drive, walking across the parking lot to the Dallas Area Rapid Transit station was at least convenient. The last time she’d met with her father’s attorney, he joked how fitting it was that the two stores nearby were a pharmacy and second-hand shop. He’d laughed at her.
The light rail arrived to take her down Lancaster Road. The job was mundane, her social life nonexistent, but it was all worth it for her research.
The Veterans Affairs Hospital gave her the subjects she needed. Broken, easily manipulated men who had the strength and the wherewithal to perform the necessary duties. Ha. Duties. They had the strength to fulfill the experiment Dr. Roberts wrote would never come to fruition.
The doctors were wrong. Everyone was wrong.
Perfection in death was possible.
So close. So so close.
Moving from this venue would be difficult. But working with this group of men and women was coming to an end.
Changing a variable in last week’s test would be interesting today. The small amount of excitement she could feel recharged her with purpose.
“Hi, Abby,” Dalia said from reception. “Looks like we have a full day of appointments. You’re going to be busy.”
“Wonderful.” She’d practiced the good-morning smile and mimicked the intonation most used when they were excited for their day. The smile that continued on Dalia’s face indicated that Abby had managed to keep her voice free of sarcasm.
She picked up the charts as she did every morning and took them to their small, efficient office. There were tapes ready to be transcribed and yes, a full day of veterans checking in for their sleep studies. The private at eight o’clock would be perfect. According to the notes in Simon Evans’s chart, he didn’t have a history of violence, but she could change that.
She could definitely change that.
Simon arrived right on time. Abby prepped him for his EEG and then the technician applied the nodes to begin the procedure. No one could connect her to the actual study, which was in a sleep lab, on a different floor, on different days. No one at the shorthanded Veterans Hospital ever questioned her competent help.
The electroencephalogram monitored brain waves while a patient slept. It set up a baseline and then monitored the volunteers throughout the sleep studies. Perfect for her needs since each participant needed a session per month.
Two of her experiments had succeeded recently.
It wouldn’t be long. Not long at all.
Simon was snoring. She checked the monitor. He seemed to be in full REM. She locked the outside door so they wouldn’t be disturbed, cautiously placed earphones over Simon’s head and turned on her carefully recorded message.
For the next hour, her softly spoken words about injustice, violence and murder repeated. Keywords that helped the subject draw the logical conclusion that death was the only possible solution for their problems.
The tape ended. Three hours of sleep was all the patient was allowed. The timer dinged, she awoke Simon and alerted the technician it was time to finish. Once he cleaned up, she brought the questionnaire to be completed along with the second page for her own study.
Simon passed the next appointment on the way out—Private Second Class Rashad Parker with debilitating night terrors. He’d already tried to choke his girlfriend in his sleep. Abby went through all the steps, waited until he entered rapid eye movement and introduced her tape.
Curiosity was the closest she got to elation. She thought Rashad would have succumbed to her mind-manipulation last week. With her new keywords, culmination was probable within the next couple of days.
Wouldn’t Dr. Roberts be surprised if she was still around?
She covered her lips and giggled.
Wiping down yet another table, Vivian Watts stepped back to let a man slide into the booth. “I’ll be right back with a menu.”
The lunch rush was over and in another hour she’d be off until she came back for the double tomorrow. And then she’d be done and never wanted to see another chicken wing as long as she lived. When she told the manager she’d need off next week for the trial, he agreed and promptly fired her.
Nothing personal, he’d said. Of course it was, she’d replied. And that was the end of the conversation. One more day to feel greasy. At least she’d be clean while standing on the precipice of bankruptcy.
Was it really bankruptcy if you didn’t own anything to be lost? Probably not. So technically, she’d be homeless without two shiny dimes to her name. Technically.
If all else failed, she could reenlist in the army. Who knows, this time she might be a commissioned officer since she’d earned her degree. She really didn’t want to go back into uniform. Of course, it would be better than wearing this little chicken wing thing.
She dropped the dirty stuff behind the bar, stuffed her last tip into her apron, grabbed a water and snatched a menu on her way back to the new table. It would be another single instead of the four-top that just filled up.
“Here you go. Can I get you something else to drink?” The nice hands taking the menu drew her to take a closer look at her latest customer.
Beautiful blue eyes shone bright in a tanned face. Very clean-shaven cheeks and chin, which was unusual with the beard fad for the twentysomething crowd. Crisp, overly starched shirt. There was a cowboy hat resting on the table to go along with the open badge of a...Texas Ranger.
Open in the way they identified themselves. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“I get it, Miss Watts, and I’m sorry to bug you at work. I’m not here in an official capacity.”
“The badge looks pretty official to me.”
“Yeah, I get that. I wanted you to know who I am and that I’m legit.” He pushed the badge back into his pocket. “I know now’s not a good time, but I’d like to ask you a few follow-up questions at your earliest convenience.”
“That also sounds very official.” She glanced around at the emptying tables. “If you aren’t going to order anything, I’d appreciate you leaving. The manager is particular about wait staff fraternizing with the customers. He particularly hates it.”
“Oh, I’m ordering. I’m starved. I’d like a basket of ranch habanero wings, side salad, fries and sweet tea.”
“This is a real order. You’re not expecting it on the house or anything? If you want the cop discount, I have to get the manager or it comes out of my check.”
“Real order. Real tip. Especially if the tea glass never runs dry.” He handed her the menu. “I’m Slate, by the way.”
“I’ll be right back with your tea.”
A week before Victor’s trial and a Texas Ranger shows up saying it’s unofficial business? Hope. A slim chance of it bubbled into