“So did I. I haven’t really slept for more than a couple of hours for—” she had to stop to calculate, proving the truth of what she was saying “—almost forty-eight hours now.”
“You’d better now. Stay here this time. I’ll be making some calls to step up security around here.”
“I can’t. I need to call Kayla, and then get over to the morgue and take another look.”
She was very aware of how unspecific she was being, how vague, as if avoiding stating the fact that it was the body of their friend she was talking about would somehow make it not true. And she knew by Christine’s expression that she was just as aware. But she said nothing about it, merely nodded.
“You can call Kayla after you rest. You can’t do anyone any good if you’re so tired you can’t think straight.”
Alex opened her mouth to argue, to protest she could keep going. Saw the glint in Christine’s good eye and capitulated so quickly it was almost embarrassing. Some old habits were very hard to break.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, with a meekness that would have astonished anyone who knew Alex but had never met Christine Evans. Christine occupied a unique place in the hearts and minds of all Athenans. She was both disciplinarian and inspiration, stern and gentle, and a teacher who was willing to learn from her students, all rolled into one. It was a rite of passage to earn the privilege of calling her Christine instead of Ms. Evans.
Alex did go to bed and knew she was beyond exhausted when the fold-out sofa bed felt like the most comfortable thing she’d ever slept on. This time she did sleep, and surprisingly the nightmares she had feared didn’t come. She dreamed, but the tangled images of Rainy alive and smiling, telling them it was all a silly mistake, were somehow comforting. After a while even those stopped, and she slept deeply and barely remembered them when she woke up a few hours later.
The minute she sat up she knew Christine had been right. She felt much better. And ready to go. Ready to get to some answers.
And if need be, ready to fight.
There had to be something there, Alex thought as she paced the small morgue, waiting for the doctor to finish.
She had a feeling Christine had pulled some strings and called the woman in from neighboring Luke Air Force Base. Although Dr. Ellen Battaglia wasn’t in uniform, she gave the impression. Alex recognized it because fellow Cassandra and air force captain Josie Lockworth had it, as well.
No one who met Josie was ever surprised to find out that she was a take charge woman, making a success of her air force career. And if that new stealth system she was working on for the Predator spy plane functioned as well as it was supposed to—something Alex didn’t at all doubt, knowing Josie—there was likely no limit to how far she could go.
“Ready,” the doctor said.
Taking a deep breath, Alex braced herself to look at a very intimate part of one of the dearest people in her life, excised from her body with cold steel. Then she turned around.
The doctor had set a gleaming silver metal tray on a table. Knowing what was in it, Alex had to once more beat down her emotions.
It’s a scientific puzzle, just like anything else you work on every day, she told herself. You can do this. You have to do this.
Still, the two small organs on the gleaming tray made her shiver. With a final effort, she made herself focus on the puzzle, of which these were just a single part. But perhaps a crucial part.
Now that she again saw what she’d seen previously, with plenty of time to look carefully, she was certain her first thought was right. And now she noticed something else, something that bothered her even more.
“Dr. Battaglia?”
The doctor, who had turned away with a welcome sensitivity, turned back. “Yes?”
Alex pointed to the areas on the outer surface of the ovaries. “If you had to guess…how old would you say those scars are?”
The woman leaned over for a closer examination. “These things can be tricky,” she said. “There are so many variables. I’d guess they are older, but I’d hate to testify to an exact age. I’ll take some tissue samples, that may help. But one thing I can say with some certainty.”
“What?”
“The majority of those scars are the same age.”
“The same age?” Alex’s breath caught. If all those scars were made at the same time, then her suspicions had to be correct. “And the regularity of the spacing,” she said. “It looks…mechanical.”
The doctor nodded. “I noticed that, as well. No, those scars aren’t the result of natural monthly ovulation. But the work is somewhat sloppy. As if someone was in a hurry.”
Or scared?
“Work, you said. Something was done to her,” Alex whispered, fighting down a growing feeling of dread.
“I’d say so. A procedure of some kind. Was she undergoing fertility treatments?”
“Yes, but only recently.”
The doctor frowned. “That doesn’t fit. That’s what the scars look like, sloppy or hurried harvesting, but these aren’t recent.”
Alex fought off the ripples of nausea that the scenes in her imagination were causing. “Could what was done to her be done and leave a scar that would look like a routine appendectomy?”
“Absolutely. In this case a bikini scar, such as…your friend has.”
A bikini scar.
A new thought careened into her mind, and Alex had to suppress a shiver as Dr. Battaglia turned and went to work getting her tissue samples.
A bikini scar. A fake appendectomy. Mechanical puncturelike marks on the ovaries.
What had happened to Rainy?
Alex left the morgue quickly. This time, as she stepped outside, she welcomed the blast of heat that hit her. She blinked against the brilliant desert sun and freed a tangled strand of curly hair from the strap of her shoulder bag-cum-holster. She pulled her sunglasses out and slid them on. She walked to her car, careful not to touch any metal part while unlocking it. Got in. Set her bag on the passenger seat. Slid the key into the ignition. Started the motor. Flipped on the air.
She concentrated on each routine step as if it could not be done with anything less than full attention.
She leaned back in the driver’s seat. After a few moments the blast of air from the rental’s vents began to come out cooler, soothing her flushed skin but doing nothing at all for her tangled, wild emotions.
And finally, finally, she let the thought she’d been fighting surface.
She had her own bikini scar. From when she’d had her own appendix out, junior year.
Or she thought she had.
More memories flooded her. Rainy soothing her, saying this made them more sisters than ever, and joking about Athena’s water supply causing appendicitis.
But Rainy had never had her appendix out. Instead, she’d had some ominous procedure done, something to do with her ovaries, likely her eggs.
Alex knew she was making a lot of assumptions on circumstantial evidence, but her gut was telling her she was right. That those scars were as old as Rainy’s supposed appendectomy. It only made sense. Perhaps whatever had made them had rendered her infertile, hence her inability to conceive when she and Marshall had so desperately wanted a child.
What if her own operation was also a hoax? What if it had been a fake of some kind, the abdominal pain induced artificially? Perhaps exacerbated by drugs she thought had been given to help?
What if what had been done to Rainy had been done to her?
Alex