Radclyffe's Shield of Justice

Chapter One

She was half-way to the door when the intercom on her desk buzzed. With a frown of surprise, she turned at the sound. At this time of night, with her office hours over, her secretary, Joyce, rarely put a call through. Puzzled, she leaned across the wide teak desk to push the return button.

"Yes?" Catherine asked.

"There’s a Detective Sergeant Frye here to see you, Doctor," Joyce replied in the voice she reserved for professional exchanges. Catherine noted the serious tone and replied immediately, "Show him in, Joyce."

Catherine sat down behind her desk, wondering what had prompted a visit from the police. She occasionally did consultation work for the police, but it was never on an emergent basis. She looked up as Joyce pushed the heavy mahogany door open. Joyce’s face revealed her curiosity, but she had no time to speak before a figure moved from behind her and strode into the room. Catherine was used to revealing little of her inner feelings by the expressions on her face, and she was glad of that now. For she would not have liked her surprise, and chagrin, to be displayed to the woman who approached her.

Catherine noted the gold shield clipped to the waistband of the detective’s grey gabardine trousers and the tailored fit of her navy-blue blazer. Viking was a term that flashed through Catherine’s mind, and it certainly seemed appropriate. The woman was tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and moved with a degree of assuredness that suggested she was rarely intimidated. She was slender, but there was power in the sleek lines of her shoulders and narrow hips. Altogether, Detective Frye presented a most imposing and attractive figure.

Catherine rose to accept the detective’s outstretched hand.

"Dr. Rawlings, I’m Detective Sergeant Rebecca Frye. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you a few questions." Her voice was as cool as Catherine expected it to be, totally professional, revealing nothing. Catherine nodded, settling into her high-backed leather chair, waiting expectantly.

Rebecca chose her opening words carefully. She was a relentless interrogator when she needed information, and she desperately needed it now. However, she was also experienced, and this was a situation in which professional issues were cloudy. She studied the psychiatrist seated across from her, trying to get a fix on the best way to proceed.

She saw a woman in her late thirties, classically attractive, composed, not appearing anxious or hostile, regarding her expectantly. Rebecca found her unreadable. She decided on the straight-forward approach. She pulled a small black notebook from the inside of her jacket, flipped it open and glanced at it cursorily. Maybe a little surprise will soften her up.

"Dr. Rawlings, do you have a patient by the name of Janet Ryan?" she asked. Rebecca had hoped to catch her off guard, but the grey-green eyes that regarded her were calm, almost gentle.

"Detective," Catherine said softly, leaning forward over her desk, "surely you know that I can’t answer that question."

Oh, fuck, not this again! Rebecca’s irritation was intense, but she fought to contain it. God, how she hated dealing with these ethically rigorous types, when all she needed was a little assistance. These were the very people who kept saying that the special crimes unit—read sex crimes unit—wasn’t responsive enough to the needs of the community. It was damn hard to be effective when no one wanted to tell you anything, including the victims themselves sometimes. But Rebecca was effective, precisely because she wouldn’t allow the resistance of professionals or the fear of victims to deter her. She could be persistent to the point of belligerence, but she never harassed the victim. With them she was infinitely patient, explaining as many times as necessary how she could help if given the chance. Most of the time her sincerity and compassion won their cooperation, and she was able to bring an offender to trial who might otherwise have gone free. This time the stakes were so high that her usual imperturbation was taxed to the limit.

"Believe me, Doctor, I wouldn’t be here if this weren’t serious. I understand that you have to protect your patients’ privacy, but this is official police business."

"I believe you, but police business or not, that does not supersede my responsibility to my patients," Catherine replied quietly, lacing her fingers together. "Perhaps if you could tell me what this is about?"

"I presume you’ve heard of the recent attacks along the River Side Drive?"

Catherine’s face grew tense as she nodded.

Good, that got some reaction!

"We have reason to believe that Janet Ryan witnessed the third attack by the same perpetrator around six o’clock tonight. I need to find out what she saw."

"Why don’t you ask her?"

"Because she’s in the intensive care unit at University Central. She’s got some pretty nasty bruises; she’s nearly incoherent; and the best we’ve been able to ascertain is that she can’t remember anything about what happened. Your business card was in her purse."

Oh, lord, Janet! Catherine stood up and walked to the window that overlooked the downtown skyline. After a moment’s deliberation, she turned her gaze on the detective who sat silently watching her.

"Would you mind stepping into the waiting room for a few moments? I need to make a phone call."

Rebecca rose immediately, sensing that the psychiatrist was trying to meet her half way. Before she broke eye contact, Rebecca said vehemently, "I want this bastard, Doctor. I want him off the streets before he touches one more woman." She thought she saw a flicker of rage that matched her own in the green eyes that held hers. "Right now, I can use any help you can give me."
 
 

Chapter Two

As soon as the door closed behind Rebecca, Catherine reached for a file from her bottom drawer. Turning to the personal intake form, she jotted down a number. She dialed quickly, praying she wouldn’t get one of those infernal answering machines. To her relief, a human voice answered after only two rings.

"Hello?"

Sensitive to the slightest nuance of tone or expression, Catherine heard the anxiety and fear in the young woman’s voice, and began gently.

"Barbara? This is Dr. Rawlings—"

"It’s Janet, isn’t it?" Barbara interrupted tremulously. "She should have been home hours ago, and she always calls if she’s going to be late. What is it? What’s happened?"

"I don’t know all the details, but I know that Janet is in the hospital. She’s alive and in no immediate danger. Do you understand that, Barbara? Janet is injured, but she was able to speak with the police a little."

"Oh, god! Where is she?"

"University Central. I was afraid you hadn’t been notified." Catherine cursed the system that ignored the most important relationship in a person’s life when it mattered most. "I know you want to be there, Barbara, but there’s something I need to discuss with you first. The police are here at my office. They believe that Janet may have witnessed a crime. They need some information. I’d like to help them as much as I can if you’ll trust me to protect Janet’s confidences." She hated to do this to Barbara now; her anxiety was practically palpable over the phone, but she couldn’t discuss Janet Ryan with the police without the consent of Janet’s designated medical power of attorney. She was stretching the definition as it was, but she knew Janet well, and made the judgement that Janet would have given her permission herself had she been able.

"Yes, of course—we both trust you. Do what you think is best. Please, I need to go now!"

"Do you have someone to drive you there?"

"I’ll call Carol--she’ll go with me. Thank you for calling me--"

Catherine was left with a dial tone sounding in her ear. She replaced the phone gently in its cradle and walked to the door. Pulling it open she found Detective Frye slumped in a chair, her head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. For the first time Catherine noted the deep circles under her eyes and the lines of fatigue that marred her otherwise flawless face. The well-tailored clothes were also rumpled from hours of wear. She looks like she hasn’t been to bed for days.

"Detective," she called softly.

Rebecca Frye jolted upright, her eyes snapping open. She focused instantly on Catherine. "Yes?"

"Come in, please."

When they were once again seated, Catherine spoke. "Janet Ryan is my patient. I’m not sure how I can help you, however."

"I don’t know either," Rebecca responded in obvious frustration. "We need a statement from her as to what happened tonight, but she claims she doesn’t remember anything that happened. Is she likely to lie to us?"

"I doubt it," Catherine answered with certainty, "but it would help if you could tell me what the circumstances are."

"A twenty-year old woman was savagely beaten and sexually assaulted around six pm tonight. We found your patient wandering around not far from the site just before seven pm. The rape victim is in a coma, Dr. Rawlings. She’s one of the lucky ones. The first two victims are dead. We need a break--and your client may be that break."

"Surely you’ve had the psychiatrist on call see her?"

Rebecca nodded and consulted her notes. "A Dr. Raymond Bauer."

"I know Ray," Catherine remarked. "What did he say?"

"That it could be traumatic amnesia--shock induced by whatever she may have seen."

Catherine nodded in agreement. "Very possibly."

"Is Janet Ryan a stable person?"

"What do you mean?"

Rebecca was too tired to hide her annoyance. Why did these people insist on answering one question with another one? "I mean, Doctor, is Janet Ryan likely to fake this amnesia thing-- for attention, or a thrill, or to fuck with the police?"

Catherine regarded Rebecca silently for a moment. She would have been irritated if she hadn’t recognized the frustration and fatigue in the woman’s face. This case obviously affected her strongly.

"Janet Ryan is a very reliable young woman, and I would be very surprised if she didn’t do everything in her power to assist you."

Rebecca started to point out that people were capable of all types of subterfuge, given the right motivation, but she was interrupted by the sound of her pager. Grimacing at the intrusion, she flicked it off with her thumb and pointed to the phone.

"May I?"

"Of course," Catherine replied. She watched Rebecca as she dialed, appreciating again the tension that radiated from her body. She had leaned one hip against the edge of the desk and was facing toward the windows, her profile to Catherine. If she was aware of Catherine’s scrutiny, she didn’t show it. Her eyes were fixed on the streets below, but Catherine doubted that she actually saw the life passing outside. She seemed impervious to distractions. Catherine wondered what price that kind of focus and control exacted from the self-contained woman before her.

"Frye here," Rebecca said as the dispatcher picked up. She raised an eyebrow as she listened, "When?--Yes, I’m there now--All right, fifteen minutes." She replaced the receiver and turned to Catherine. "Janet Ryan is asking for you."

Catherine rose quickly. "I’ll go now."

Rebecca reached the door first, pulling it open. "I’ll drive you."

Catherine understood that this was not a request, and lengthened her stride to match that of the taller woman’s beside her. It was clear that Rebecca Frye was not used to giving up until she got what she wanted.
 
 

Chapter Three

Jeffrey Cruz found Rebecca in the patient waiting area on the fifth floor of University Central, feeding nickels into the coffee machine. He banged her lightly on the shoulder as he stepped up beside her.

"Hey, Reb--how’s it hanging?"

She looked at her partner, noting the sallow color of his normally tanned skin, and shrugged tiredly. "Better than yours. You get anything?"

"Not much--same perp--blood type O, semen matches, and he did her up the as--uh, sodomy, just like the first two."

Rebecca took a deep swallow of her coffee, wincing at the cardboard aftertaste. "Yeah, well, the rest of it fits, too. A jogger again, same time of day--early evening, not yet dark. No pattern to the location though--nothing suspicious in the area either. There’s miles of park along the river; we can’t possibly cover it all."

Jeff slumped into the plastic seat beside her, shaking his head. "Something’s funny, Reb. The park is always crowded--kids on bikes, runners, not to mention cops--and nobody sees nothing. Nobody notices anyone just hanging around, or in a hurry to get somewhere--he just comes and goes without a trace." He laughed sourly at his own joke.

Rebecca shook her head, as frustrated as her partner. "There’s a lot of brush along those trails, Jeff. Once he grabs someone, he can just pull them off into the scrub. Then they’re invisible." She had been to her Captain twice since the first assault, pleading for extra patrols to stake out the River Drives. His answer had been the same each time--yes, this was a nasty crime; yes, he cared about catching the son of a bitch; and, no, he couldn’t spare the people to beef up surveillance. They had to do the best they could with what they had, and Rebecca was haunted by the knowledge that it wasn’t enough.

"Well, he’s still got to get out," Jeff observed. "He has to leave on foot, or maybe on a bicycle.

"Maybe somebody did see something--maybe Janet Ryan did."

He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. "Maybe."

"There’s something we’re missing, Jeff, I agree with you," Rebecca mused aloud, not even sure if Jeff was awake. "Serial criminals--rapists, murderers--they follow some pattern. At least a pattern that makes sense to them. We just have to find it."

"You’re probably right," Jeff answered, his eyes still closed. "But whatever it is, it isn’t simple. Different days of the week, no set time interval, no physical resemblance between the victims, and nothing symbolic left behind. Did you get anything out of the shrink?"

"Still waiting. She’s in there with the witness now."

"Who’s the other one?" Jeff asked, craning his neck to see through the small windows in the double doors marked "Hospital Personnel Only". "Blond, early twenties, nice body?"

"The roommate, I think. I haven’t had a chance to talk with her yet." Rebecca didn’t add that she hadn’t had the heart to question the girl earlier. The young woman with Janet Ryan was clearly distraught and probably didn’t know anything anyway. There’d be time enough to talk to her once she’d had a chance to see her girlfriend.

Jeff looked at his watch and groaned. "Shit, it’s almost eleven. Shelley’s gonna have my balls if I don’t get home before midnight again tonight."

Rebecca stood and stretched. "Why don’t you go ahead. I want to see what the shrink gets anyhow. You can write up what we’ve got so far in the morning--deal?"

Jeff grinned happily, all vestiges of fatigue gone. He rose beside her, wishing for the thousandth time that he was as tall as his good looking partner. He didn’t let on that it bothered him that she was half a head taller, but he couldn’t help noticing the admiring glances she got, from men and women. She never seemed to notice, though. Oh, well, his wife thought his body was spectacular, so what the hell. He thumped her affectionately on the arm and sprinted for the elevator.

"I got the best part of this deal!" he called over his shoulder.

Rebecca didn’t doubt it. There was no one waiting for her at home, and there hadn’t been for a long time. She had forgotten what it felt like to open her door on anything other than the cold emptiness of her apartment, and she didn’t want to remember now. She closed her eyes on the thought, adjusting her long frame into a more comfortable position for the wait ahead of her.
 
 

Chapter Four

Catherine wearily pushed the doors of the intensive care unit open and stepped out into the quiet corridor. It took her a moment to adjust to the dimness after the bright lights inside, and when she could see again, she noted Rebecca asleep down the hall. Even in repose, she didn’t appear relaxed. Her right hand twitched slightly as it rested against her thigh. Her jacket lay abandoned on the chair beside her, and the silk shirt she wore stretched over the tight muscles of her arms and outlined her firm breasts. Catherine’s pulse quickened as her eyes wandered from Rebecca’s face down the sensuous planes of her body. She smiled slightly at the unbidden response and reminded herself why they were both there.

"Detective," she called gently as she approached.

Rebecca sat up immediately, rubbing her face briskly with both hands. She looked up at the psychiatrist who somehow managed to look fresh despite the hour. Rebecca grinned a little sheepishly, taken off guard by the welcoming softness in Catherine’s eyes.

"Sorry," Rebecca said, "I tend to fall asleep wherever I can."

Catherine laughed. "I know what you mean. When I was a resident, we had a saying—`See a chair, sit in it; see a bed, lie in it; see food, eat it!’"

Rebecca stood, stretching to her full six feet. "I’m sorry," she said, "I have to talk with you. I know it’s late. If there’s someone you need to call—"

"No, there isn’t," Catherine replied. "But I have no intention of saying one more word to you unless I’m fed first. Can you wait that long?"

Rebecca regarded the elegant, composed woman before her, sensing the smile in her voice, and felt suddenly energized.

"I’m on my own time now, anyhow," Rebecca offered. "There’s a diner up the street—"

"Arnie’s? Not at this hour! My digestive system would never survive," Catherine exclaimed in mock horror. "My apartment isn’t far. Could we finish up there? It will just take me a minute to fix something."

Rebecca was momentarily surprised, and then realized she would like nothing better than to have a late dinner with Catherine Rawlings.

"Sounds fine. I can’t take one more burger anyhow."

~

The address Catherine directed her to was in an old brownstone, recently renovated, in a gentrified part of the city that bordered the sprawling university area. Catherine’s was a large ground floor apartment that opened onto a private rear garden. Rebecca couldn’t see much of the patio through the sliding glass kitchen doors, but the rest of the apartment was decorated in warm earth tones that Rebecca found soothing. The atmosphere was warm and welcoming, and Rebecca finally began to unwind. She decided she liked the doctor’s style. She wandered into the large living room and perused the titles on the floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined one wall. Many of the titles were recent novels and biographies. Rebecca noted several she had been meaning to read but kept putting off. Something usually came up at the station that devoured what little spare time she had. She reminded herself she still had work to do as Catherine came through the archway from the kitchen with a bottle in one hand.

"Glass of wine?" she asked.

"Just seltzer and lime, if you have it," Rebecca replied.

Catherine had changed into a loose white cotton blouse over black brushed silk trousers. Rebecca was suddenly aware of what a beautiful woman she was. Her angular face, framed by wavy, richly highlighted auburn hair and accentuated by prominent cheekbones, was just short of perfect. Her wide-set green eyes and generous mouth bestowed a human quality to her beauty that made her even more attractive. Rebecca found herself really appreciating another woman for the first time in months. She realized she was staring when Catherine’s full lips parted in a soft playful smile.

"No drinking on duty?"

"No drinking for me any time--at least not for the last four years," Rebecca said evenly. Four years, three months, and two days.

Catherine heard the tension in her voice and asked, "Will it bother you if I drink?"

Rebecca smiled then herself. "Most of the world still drinks--and honestly, it rarely bothers me now. It would be harder if you didn’t drink because of me."

"Well, then, come into the dining room so I can feed you," Catherine said.

~

Rebecca pushed back her chair with a sigh. She had forgotten how pleasant it was to sit down at a table and enjoy a meal. And to enjoy the company of a warm, intelligent woman.

"Thank you," she said, "it was wonderful."

Catherine smiled at her, unaccountably pleased by the compliment. She felt almost rewarded by Rebecca’s pleasure.

"I take it you don’t cook much."

Rebecca shrugged ruefully. "Never did. It’s worse when you live alone. I just don’t think about eating as something to enjoy any more." She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Christ, Frye, why don’t you tell her all your problems! "At any rate, it was great."

Catherine sensed Rebecca’s discomfort. It was apparent that her charming guest felt awkward discussing herself. Catherine was not surprised. She found people in Rebecca’s line of work reluctant to reveal intimate details and slow to trust. She wasn’t sure if it was the work that made them that way, or if those pre-existing traits were what made them so good at their jobs. It was something that suddenly interested her very much. Rebecca interested her. Catherine wondered what lay beneath that cool, controlled exterior—for she was certain that there were depths to Rebecca that the woman herself was unaware of. She remembered the barely contained rage in Rebecca’s voice when she described the rapist’s last attack and her passionate declaration to stop him. Oh, yes, there was much more to this woman than she revealed to the world.

Catherine knew intuitively that Rebecca would not confide anything easily, and she sensitively changed the subject. "What do you need to know, Detective?" she asked. She poured the last of the wine into her glass and leaned back, waiting.

"Probably more than you can tell me. Does Janet Ryan have any memory for the last eight hours?"

"Not much. She remembers pulling into a drive-off on the River Drive about five forty-five. There was a regatta and she stopped to watch. She left her car and headed toward the water. The next thing she remembers is waking up in the ICU."

Rebecca frowned. "Does she recall any one else around? Anything out of the ordinary?"

"I don’t know. I didn’t specifically ask her. She was pretty disoriented, and frightened. I was trying to establish the extent of her amnesia and get her calmed down."

"Of course," Rebecca said tersely. She couldn’t expect a psychiatrist to think like a cop. She’d planned to interview the girl in the morning anyhow. "Anything else? Anything at all?"

"I’m sorry--her amnesia is total for the time in question."

"And you have no doubt that she’s telling the truth?"

"None at all."

"How long will it last?"

"I don’t know," Catherine said regretfully. "I wish I did."

Rebecca stood up, her jaw set with determination. "I can’t wait for her to remember. The time between attacks is getting shorter. I’ve got to find some other way to get to him." She thanked Catherine absently, her mind already planning her next move.

Catherine watched her as she walked to the door, thinking it would be a long time before Rebecca Frye let herself rest again.
 
 

Chapter Five

Rebecca let herself into her apartment and tripped over a gym bag she had left lying on the floor several days earlier. The air had the musty, close smell of an unoccupied house. She pushed a window open and stood looking out. The night air held just the hint of a breeze, and she leaned against the window ledge, hoping to wash away the depression that had settled over her the moment she got home. The empty apartment was too clear a reminder of her own empty life, an aching emptiness she tried hard to ignore. Usually she was successful. The demands of her work left her little time for reflection, and when she did have a spare moment, she spent it at the gym, lifting weights until the fatigue in her body blocked out any other thought. The interlude with Catherine Rawlings had unsettled her. The quiet intimacy of the doctor’s apartment, the shared meal, the soft, but insistent strength she sensed in the woman, touched some chord in Rebecca. She didn’t want to think about it, but she couldn’t ignore the loneliness she had felt as Catherine’s door closed gently behind her.

She looked at her watch. Three A.M. She was tired, but too restless to sleep. It was one of those times she longed for a drink. Or, as had been the case, more than one. She fought the urge, as she usually did, by turning her mind to the River Drive case. There was something there, she knew, that she just couldn’t connect with. Something she had heard, or seen, that would give her a handle on him. Whatever it was, it eluded her now.

Unconsciously her thoughts returned to Catherine Rawlings. Her integrity and compassion were obvious when she spoke of her patients, and her desire to put an end to this mad man’s rampage was obvious, too. But it was more than just her intensity that drew Rebecca’s attention back to her. Catherine Rawlings had touched some chord in her, some long-buried yearning for the company and solace of a woman. Or had she merely imagined the warmth in the doctor’s green eyes when she looked at Rebecca, or the welcoming smile as she approached? It doesn’t matter, and it sure isn’t going to help me solve this case

Rebecca shook off her memories with an irritated shrug. She tossed her jacket on a chair and pulled off her shoulder holster before stretching out on the worn couch. She rarely slept in her bed--the empty space beside her only made sleep more elusive. What she couldn’t know as she finally closed her eyes was that across town Catherine Rawlings turned in her sleep and smiled at the image of a tall, blond woman with lonely eyes.

~

It was not yet seven when Rebecca pulled her red Corvette into the police lot beside the police cruisers and vans. She knew Jeff would be there before her, typing out their report of last night’s events. She smiled to herself at the thought of Jeff’s face as he labored over the typewriter.

She found him hunched over his rickety metal desk in the tiny vice squad room, slowly two-finger typing a report in triplicate.

"Hi, Reb," he said without glancing up. "Anything from the shrink?"

"About what you’d expect," Rebecca answered, shedding her jacket to the back of her chair. "Want some more coffee?"

"Yeah," he said, looking up with a lecherous grin. "Shelly was still awake when I got home last night."

"Nice to know someone’s making out," she grumbled good-naturedly as she headed for the table at the back of the room. She threaded her way between dilapidated chairs and dented desks haphazardly crowded together, and filled two Styrofoam cups to the brim with the evil looking black liquid that passed as coffee. She carried them at arm’s length back to the desk that faced Jeff’s and pushed a stack of files to one side with her elbow. She settled herself into her chair, steeling herself for the first taste of the bitter brew.

"Ah," she murmured after her first swallow, "nectar of the gods."

"You must still be asleep if you think that swill is good," Jeff said, reaching for his own cup.

She shrugged and reached for the first page of his report. As usual it was neat and complete.

"Nothing new, I take it," she said, skimming the brief review of the latest rape.

Jeff stretched out his legs and pushed his chair back from the cramped table. "I ran a background check on the shrink."

Rebecca looked up in surprise. "Why? She’s not a suspect."

"Yeah, I know--but she’s tied in with our only witness to date--and she may be the one to open that particular box for us. It never hurts to have a little leverage."

Rebecca had to agree. If they were going to get anything from Janet Ryan, she suspected they would need Catherine Rawlings’ help.

"So, what did you find?" she asked, careful not to reveal her interest. Jeff might be her closest friend, but even with him she rarely disclosed anything personal. She certainly wasn’t about to tell him of the disturbing effect Catherine Rawlings had had on her.

"Well, it seems the lady is quite a mystery. I talked with a couple of the docs I know, and they all say the same thing. Professionally above reproach—medical degree from University, residency at University Central. From there she accepted a teaching position at the medical school and is now a…" he paused to check his notes, "…clinical professor of psychiatry."

Rebecca listened intently. She wasn’t surprised. It fit with the impeccable professional image she had gotten of Catherine the night before.

"So--what’s the mystery?"

"No personal info available--lives alone, apparently always has. Everyone is happy to tell you about her professional accomplishments, but nobody will say squat about the rest of her life."

"Maybe there isn’t anything to say," Rebecca countered, just a hint of irritation in her voice. "Some women are pretty consumed by their work, you know."

Jeff looked at her thoughtfully, thinking if anyone should know about that, it was his solitary partner.

"Yeah--well, that may be. But I did dig up something interesting. Her private practice--she specializes in rape and incest cases. She’s even done some work with us on that kind of thing."

Rebecca whistled, thinking of Janet Ryan and her amnesia.

"And that’s not all," Jeff continued, "a lot of her private patients are dyk--uh, lesbians."

Rebecca slowly raised her eyes to his. He looked away.

"Might be useful information," she said nonchalantly. She felt anything but nonchalant, her mind racing with questions about Catherine Rawlings. She forced herself to consider the information Jeff had gathered.

"Maybe I should have another talk with Dr. Rawlings."

"Thought you might want to," Jeff replied dryly.

~

Catherine was nearly finished with morning rounds when her pager went off. She excused herself and left the group of residents and students discussing the latest drug therapy for depression. She picked up a wall phone and dialed the extension registered on her beeper.

"Dr. Rawlings," she said as the call was picked up.

"Rebecca Frye, Doctor. I wonder if we could talk?"

Catherine glanced at her watch. She had an outpatient clinic to supervise in an hour. "I’m in-between right now. How about joining me in the cafeteria?"

"Fine."

"It’s on the second floor."

"I’ll find it," Rebecca replied.

Catherine picked up a chef’s salad and seltzer and glanced around the cafeteria. She saw Rebecca at once, looking slightly out of place in her grey jacket and black trousers amidst a sea of white coats. She made her way across the room to join her at a small table near the windows.

Rebecca watched her approach, thinking she looked at home in her knee-length white lab coat. The coat did nothing to detract from her trim figure. Rebecca tried not to notice the shapely legs or the hint of full breasts under the pale green suit she wore. Rebecca waited until Catherine was seated before speaking.

"I have a few more questions, Doctor."

"I gathered that, Detective Frye," Catherine commented dryly, studying Rebecca’s face. She was glad to see that the circles under her clear blue eyes had diminished and some of the tension had left her face. She was also simply glad to see her.

"Is it true that you specialize in rape and incest cases?"

Catherine was a little taken aback--not with the directness of Rebecca’s approach, she expected that of the forthright detective, but with the rapidity with which she gathered information. She had known that this, among other things, might come up. She just hadn’t expected it so soon.

"Not exactly specialize--but it is a particular interest of mine."

"Don’t give me double talk, Doctor. I’m not the enemy," Rebecca said quietly.

Catherine sighed and pushed aside her unwanted salad. She met Rebecca’s penetrating gaze.

"Yes, it’s true that the majority of my practice involves sexual abuse survivors."

"Why didn’t you tell me this last night?"

Catherine looked genuinely surprised. "I didn’t think it was relevant."

"You didn’t think it was relevant?" Rebecca asked incredulously. "We finally have a witness, we hope, to a brutal rape—a series of rapes we can’t get a single lead on, and our only witness suddenly has amnesia. You happen to be an expert in such crimes, and you didn’t think it was relevant." Rebecca didn’t raise her voice, but her anger was evident. God, save me from dealing with civilians!

"Detective Frye, I am not an expert on the crimes. I am an expert, if you will, on the effects of the crimes. That’s a very big difference."

"And what about Janet Ryan--is she a victim of the crime?"

"Don’t ask me questions you know I can’t answer," Catherine said quietly, her eyes holding Rebecca’s.

Rebecca sighed slightly. "I have to try."

Catherine leaned forward, her face intent. "Rebecca, I will do anything I possibly can to assist in this case, but I cannot, and I will not, disclose client confidences. Please try to understand."

The use of her first name did not escape Rebecca. She tried to ignore the quickening of her heartbeat, reminding herself she was in the middle of a hospital cafeteria, and in the middle of an investigation.

"I do understand. I appreciate your desire to protect your patients, and I respect you for it. I’m just grasping at straws here. I can’t get a handle on this guy, and it’s driving me nuts!"

It was an uncharacteristic outburst for her. Catherine’s heart filled with compassion as she watched the torment play across Rebecca’s fine features. In that moment she felt every shred of Rebecca’s frustration and helplessness.

"I’m seeing Janet at three this afternoon. She requested that I take over from Ray Bauer. Perhaps she’ll remember more."

Catherine’s caring showed in her voice, and Rebecca met her gaze gratefully. For an instant the room retreated from view as she surrendered to the understanding and comfort in those green eyes. It felt like a caress. She flushed and looked away.

"I’d like a report either way."

Catherine accepted Rebecca’s withdrawal reluctantly, acutely aware of the fleeting connection and the equally sudden distance between them. She pushed her chair back, replying formally, "Of course. You can call me around six tonight. I should be done here by then."

"Fine," Rebecca replied. Impulsively she added, "Why don’t I pick you up--we can talk over dinner. And you won’t have to cook."

Catherine nodded with pleasure. She would like nothing better than spending more time with this intriguing woman.
 
 

Chapter Six

Rebecca pulled into the No Parking zone in front of University Central Hospital at five forty-five pm. She took out the notes she had made at the crime scene that afternoon. She and Cruz had decided to do another walk-through of the area, hoping to find something that might have been overlooked by the lab crew. The assault had occurred in a copse of trees bordering the water on River Drive. A narrow path separated the trees from the road fifty yards away. The ground between was a thicket of low shrubs and grass. Although the park was frequented day and night by bicyclists and runners, this section of the trail was unpaved and poorly maintained, which tended to discourage all but the most serious joggers. The isolated location was similar to that of the previous two rapes. The most recent victim had been found by a middle-aged man chasing his errant golden retriever. It was probably a coincidence that saved her life. Trampled shrubbery suggested she had struggled. That was the only difference from the first two incidents, in which there was little sign of resistance. Jeff theorized that their assailant knocked them unconscious before pulling them off the trail and assaulting them. The evidence supported that, but Rebecca found it hard to believe that the women hadn’t been warned of his approach. Even if he had been well-hidden, he would have had to reveal himself to get close enough to subdue them. No weapon had been found, and the injuries sustained by the victims only indicated that some kind of blunt object had been used. The details of the crime continued to elude them.

Rebecca had surveyed the scene, distancing herself from the mental images she constructed of the events. If she allowed herself to hear their cries, feel their fear, experience their helplessness, her own anger and revulsion would paralyze her--she would never be able to do her job. It was a lesson she had learned early in her career, and the emotional detachment came naturally to her now. The price she paid was the gradual, almost unnoticeable, inability to bridge that emotional chasm in the rest of her life. The very people she wanted to reach most found her cold and uncaring. Her frustration, and theirs, led finally to an isolation she almost welcomed. Her life was simpler even though her most human needs lay buried and ignored.

"Jeff," she mused, "how about this--our guy waits in the trees until a lone jogger comes along. He pulls her off the trail, knocks her out, then rapes her. He has to go from here up to his car, or maybe he has a bike?"

"Could be--we didn’t find a rock, or a club of any kind. He must take the weapon with him. I guess a guy with a baseball bat wouldn’t seem that unusual. Still though, you’d think someone would have seen something. It’s been in all the papers. No one has even come forward with a bad tip!"

Rebecca nodded. It was too hard to believe that no one had seen or heard anything--but then, perhaps someone finally had. Which brought them right back to Janet Ryan.

"Did you get a report yet on the tissue under Janet Ryan’s fingernails?" she asked.

"Due later today," Jeff replied, pushing aside the shrubs that edged up to the water. There was a narrow strip of sand along the river bank and then the bottom fell steeply away. He could make out the shapes of the boathouses a few hundred yards down the river. There was nothing unusual about the place.

Rebecca led the way back to the path. "I bet you find that the tissue type matches the semen analysis we have. Janet Ryan must have seen the rape in progress, or she heard something and went to investigate. My guess is that she tried to fight the guy off. She has scratches on her arms and legs as if she got tangled up in the brush. He probably leaves her for dead, or just panics and runs."

"Could have gone down like that," Jeff agreed. "That makes Ryan one gutsy lady, or a crazy one. Most people would have run for help, don’t you think?"

Rebecca shrugged. "Who knows--maybe she didn’t even think about it. She sees what’s happening and just reacts."

"Then we really need to know what Janet Ryan saw," Jeff said with finality.

~

When Catherine spied Rebecca waiting in the car across the street, frowning over her notes, she felt a welcoming surge of pleasure. The convertible top was down and Rebecca looked attractively windblown. She had shed her jacket in the car, and the thin leather strap that circled her shoulders, holding her holster against her side, was obvious. Catherine had no particular fondness for firearms, and the sight of the gun under Rebecca’s arm reminded her forcefully of the kind of life Rebecca led. Her response was a mixture of admiration and fear. She was drawn to Rebecca’s strength, but it was the hint of vulnerability within that truly captivated her. The complexity of the contrasts made Rebecca all the more appealing.

She approached the passenger side slowly, reminding herself that Rebecca was here on business. Still, she couldn’t quite dismiss the excitement Rebecca’s presence stirred in her.

"Hi," she said.

Rebecca looked up, and in a rare unguarded moment welcomed Catherine with a blazing smile. "Hi."

Lord, she’s stunning For a moment Catherine stood motionless, transfixed.

Rebecca leaned over to push the passenger door open. "You’re very prompt."

Catherine laughed as she settled into the contoured leather seats. "Don’t be fooled. It doesn’t happen often." She waited until Rebecca maneuvered into the dense traffic crowding the road in front of the hospital before speaking.

"Have you made any progress with the case?" Catherine asked.

"Not much," Rebecca replied, frowning. "I have a hunch your patient interrupted him, possibly physically intervened. That means she saw him. She might give us a description--" She gave Catherine a questioning, hopeful look.

Catherine shook her head. "Not yet. She’s heavily sedated and has only slim recall of last night’s events. It could be a few days--perhaps a week."

"Can I speak to her?"

"She spoke with the officer who brought her to the hospital."

"I know that," Rebecca responded. "But that was just a preliminary. I need to go over things in detail, and I know what to ask."

Catherine thought about Janet’s fragile emotional state and tried not to consider her ever increasing desire to assist Rebecca Frye. Janet must remain her primary concern.

"I have an hour scheduled with her tomorrow afternoon. If she’s ready, I’ll let you know. I’d like to be present when you question her. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Rebecca said quickly. "In fact, I’d prefer it."

"Well, then--it seems we don’t have much to discuss over dinner," Catherine remarked with regret. She realized then just how much she had been looking forward to this time with Rebecca.

"I still want to take you to dinner," Rebecca replied, turning her eyes from the road to glance at Catherine expectantly. She didn’t want to think about what it meant, she only knew she didn’t want to say good night to Catherine Rawlings quite so soon.

"Good," Catherine answered softly. "I was hoping you’d say that."
 
 

Chapter Seven

Rebecca drove to a small restaurant on the mainline known for its excellent food and quiet intimate decor. The owner greeted Rebecca by name and seated them personally at a secluded table that offered them a view of the sweeping lawns and luxurious gardens. He left them to ponder the eclectic selections artistically displayed on fine parchment menus.

"Do you come here often?" Catherine asked, curious about the special service they were receiving. They had been seated immediately despite several parties waiting before them.

Rebecca shrugged uncomfortably. "Not for a long time. But whenever I do, Anthony insists on waiting on me himself."

She’s embarrassed, Catherine thought. She waited, knowing there was more.

"I found his daughter for him a few years ago," Rebecca continued in a low voice, remembering the run down rooming house and the frightened young girls inside. When she looked at Catherine, she couldn’t quite disguise the pain of the memory. After so many girls in so many squalid squats, the sorrow had become a dark ache in her eyes. "She was fifteen years old, working on her back for a pimp who had promised her the excitement a girl her age longs for. What he gave her was a needle in the arm and a beating if she didn’t earn enough." She didn’t know how to describe the rest of it—how she felt when she found Anthony’s youngest daughter strung out on smack and turning tricks for twenty dollars a pop. Her anger so intense that she almost forgot she was a cop. Her overwhelming need to stop the waste and the abuse. If Jeff hadn’t interceded, she would have beaten the young pimp with her bare hands. She was grateful Jeff stopped her, but the rage still seethed, fueled by the daily destruction of lives and dreams she witnessed everywhere around her. She remained silent, alone with her anguish.

Rebecca didn’t know that the feelings she had forgotten how to share were clearly displayed in the sweeping planes of her face and the ever changing depths of her dark blue eyes. Catherine, so sensitive to the sounds of silence, caught glimpses of Rebecca’s secret tears. She ached for Rebecca’s pain, and she stood in awe of the strength it required to face such horrors every day.

"To him it must seem like life’s greatest gift-- the return of his child. He’s trying to thank you without making you uncomfortable," Catherine said softly. Rebecca winced, and Catherine continued lightly. "You’ll just have to bear it. I don’t imagine he’s going to stop."

Rebecca heard the gentle mocking in Catherine’s voice and caught the glimmer of a smile on her full lips. The knot of anger in her chest began to loosen, and she felt herself relaxing. She broke into a grin that brought a flash of brilliance to her eyes and a youthful energy to her face.

"If that’s your professional opinion."

"It is," Catherine responded, rewarded by the light in Rebecca’s eyes. She’s so beautiful Never could she remember being moved so deeply by anyone, and the force of her response was a little frightening. I hardly know her—why do I feel like I’ve been waiting for her?

Rebecca startled her from her reverie with the words, "Then it’s my professional opinion that we should enjoy dinner and have no more talk of business."

Catherine agreed happily, and after following Rebecca’s suggestion to try the house special, settled back contentedly with a glass of wine. Over the course of the delicious meal she found herself telling Rebecca about her life. Rebecca learned that Catherine was the only child of a college professor and his wife, also a psychiatrist. She was close to her parents, but saw them only rarely. They were both still active in their professions and otherwise involved with joint pursuits. Catherine had grown up in a loving and supportive environment, but her parents had always maintained an emotional closeness with each other that sometimes made Catherine feel excluded. As a result, although this was something she didn’t share with Rebecca, Catherine was reserved in her own personal life. Unconsciously she was searching for the same depth of commitment she had observed between her parents. Rebecca was a good listener, and she watched Catherine intently as she talked. Somehow she knew that these were things Catherine rarely spoke of.

"What do you do for entertainment?" Rebecca asked at one point.

"I love to read and take long bike rides. I’m a sucker for old movies, too," Catherine answered. "How about you?"

Rebecca laughed. "I’m afraid I’m one of those obsessive workers. When I’m not working, I’m working out."

"How did you decide on law enforcement?"

"I didn’t decide. I was born into it, like a lot of cops. My father was a beat cop for forty years, just like his father. I always knew I would be a cop, too. I took a slight detour and went to college first, but there was never any question I would be a street cop."

Rebecca’s pride and satisfaction were evident in her voice. Catherine thought she looked more relaxed than she had ever seen her, and she was glad. Rebecca’s charm and quick humor surfaced as she grew more comfortable. Catherine found her even more enchanting as the evening passed.

They lingered long after the other diners had gone and only left when neither of them could hide her weariness. They drove in companionable silence through the now quiet streets. For the first time in weeks, Rebecca didn’t think about work. When she pulled up in front of Catherine’s brownstone, she realized suddenly that she didn’t want the evening to end.

"Catherine, I—" Rebecca stopped, unused to putting her feelings into words. She wanted to tell her how wonderful the evening had been, and how much she wanted to see her again. Old habits, old fears, held her back. When are you going to learn, Frye. What in hell do you have to offer a woman like this?

Catherine’s eyes were warm and welcoming as she gazed at Rebecca, waiting for her to go on. Rebecca flushed and looked away, her jaw tightening. She sensed Catherine waiting, but still painful disappointments haunted her, holding her a silent hostage.

Catherine touched her arm gently, speaking instinctively, without her usual restraint. "Rebecca, I am a lesbian. If you didn’t already know that, I’m sure you would soon. I also find you incredibly attractive. Regardless of how you feel about me—or women in general—that fact remains. However, I can assure you that I have no intention of doing anything to make you uncomfortable."

Rebecca turned to her, stunned by her honesty, her pulse racing at Catherine’s words. She grinned, unable to hide the lightness in her heart.

"Catherine, there is nothing about you that makes me uncomfortable."

Catherine grinned back as she slipped from the car. "That, Detective Frye, is very good news!" She was still smiling as she watched Rebecca drive out of sight.
 
 

Chapter Eight

At seven forty–five the next morning, Rebecca walked into the squad room to face a routine day. She had a court appearance at noon to give evidence in a racketeering trial. She planned to spend the morning finishing reports on cases headed for the dead files—cold trails abandoned after fruitless weeks of searching for witnesses who were willing to appear in court. She hated to abandon cases she knew she could get convictions on, but too often people refused to cooperate, either from fear of exposure or retaliation. It was another frustrating part of working vice she had learned to live with.

Jeff joined her a few minutes later, carrying a cardboard cup of coffee precariously by the rim. He scowled at the mountain of paper work piled on his desk, muttering, "I can’t face this today."

"Give me some," Rebecca said amiably, reaching out a hand. "I’m almost done here."

Jeff raised an eyebrow and took a good look at his partner. She was dressed as usual in well-fitting linen trousers and a tailored cotton shirt, but something about her was different. There was an aura of freshness and energy about her that he hadn’t noticed in months.

"Something happen?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Rebecca said absently, tossing a finished folder to one side.

"You look like something good happened. Something break on the River Drive case?"

Rebecca blushed. After dropping Catherine off the night before, she’d found herself more restless than usual. Her normal antidotes hadn’t seemed to work. She’d driven around, stopped at the gym for a late workout, even contemplated cleaning her apartment. Finally she stripped down to a tank top and pulled on a pair of loose boxers, deciding to attempt sleep. She stretched out on the bed, something she hadn’t done since her lover left. Amazingly, it wasn’t the case she thought about, but Catherine. The astonishing warmth in her eyes, the gentle tone of her voice, her quick laughter. Rebecca remembered too the light scent of her perfume and the outline of her breasts against the silk blouse she had worn. Without intending it, Rebecca found herself imagining the soft weight of Catherine’s breasts in her palm, the nipples stiffening under her fingers, and the heat of Catherine’s skin under her lips. She brushed her hand under the thin cotton of her shirt, gasping at the quick contraction of her nipples. She squeezed them lightly, her legs parting as she began to swell. She continued to stroke her breasts and belly, teasing herself, as she trailed one hand up her inner thigh, slipping her fingers under the edge of the loose shorts. She was breathing faster, no longer thinking, concentrating on the increasing pressure between her legs. She remembered moaning softly as she spread her wetness over her hard clit, circling it, pressing the shaft from side to side, feeling it become impossibly larger. Her legs twisted in the sheets as she clenched her teeth, denying herself as long as she could. When the distention became almost painful, she bore down harder with her fingertips, working her twitching clit back and forth roughly, pushing herself to the edge. She was whimpering as she tugged at the engorged base, arching her back as every muscle tensed for the explosion. She shouted when it hit, grabbing herself with her whole hand, squeezing out the last spasm as she jack-knifed on the bed from the force of the orgasm.

Something had happened all right, but she wasn’t about to tell Jeff that she woke, still wet from the night before, with Catherine Rawlings on her mind. She didn’t want to admit to herself just how good it felt to be with her. She knew only too well how devastating it could be to need a woman, only to find barriers in her own soul she couldn’t surmount.

"Nothing new. I’m going to interview Janet Ryan this afternoon though. If Catherine gives us the green light."

Jeff didn’t miss the first name reference, but he let it pass. They were as close as two partners could be, and he considered Rebecca his friend, but he knew better than to ask for details. He respected the distance Rebecca demanded in their relationship.

"Sounds good to me. Want me along?" he asked.

Rebecca thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. "Not this time. She might talk easier to me alone. Then again, she might not talk at all."

Jeff loosened his tie a fraction of an inch, which was his only concession to the stifling heat in the room. "I agree—the two of us could put her off. I’ve got a meet with our contact guy on the Zamora undercover deal anyhow. Let’s hope you get something from the girl."

~

Rebecca stepped off the elevator onto the inpatient psychiatry floor shortly after four P.M. Catherine was leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station, studying a chart. Rebecca observed her unaware, noting the easy way she stood, her figure-hugging skirt outlining shapely legs. Even the slight frown of concentration couldn’t diminish the delicate allure of her features. Rebecca knew what she was feeling as she looked at Catherine Rawlings, and it frightened her. She didn’t want to be stirred by her, but she was, physically and emotionally. To make matters worse, she was in the middle of the ugliest case she’d ever been involved in. The last thing she needed was a personal complication. Rebecca was still standing there, awash with conflicting reactions when Catherine looked up.

"Hi," Catherine called, as she pushed the chart aside. She didn’t try to hide her obvious pleasure at seeing Rebecca. Catherine surveyed Rebecca’s tall figure with appreciation and smiled a welcome.

Rebecca forced herself to ignore the warmth spreading through her body at the sound of Catherine’s voice. It’s probably all in my mind, she chided herself, but it was hard to overlook the tension between them. She deliberately kept her face impassive as she approached.

Catherine waited where she was, sensing something of Rebecca’s uncertainty. Detective Sergeant Rebecca Frye might know exactly who she was in the world, but it was plain to Catherine that the woman behind the badge was much less certain of what she wanted, or needed. Catherine was struggling to control her growing attraction to Rebecca, but every time she saw her, her desire intensified. Go slowly. She doesn’t trust you yet—or herself.

"I’ve just finished speaking with Janet," Catherine said as Rebecca joined her.

"Good. Does she know I’m coming?" Rebecca asked, her attention now focused on the task before her.

"Yes—I thought it best to prepare her."

"How is she?"

Catherine shrugged, a small frown puckering the fine skin between her elegant brows. "She’s still quite disoriented, and badly shaken. She knows there are things she can’t remember, and the dread of what they might be is terrifying. She wants to remember and is scared to death at the same time. She’s very frightened, Rebecca."

Rebecca recognized the cautionary tone in Catherine’s voice and responded defensively. "I’m not going to interrogate her, Catherine." She immediately regretted her flash of temper when she saw the surprise in Catherine’s eyes. God, I’m too sensitive around her. She placed her hand on Catherine’s arm, leaning toward her slightly.

"I’m sorry. I just want to find out how much she can remember. I won’t push her, I promise."

Catherine covered Rebecca’s hand lightly with her own, very conscious of the pressure of Rebecca’s fingers. Even that innocent touch sent her pulse racing.

"I trust you, Rebecca. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t let you see her." She pressed Rebecca’s hand again and stepped away. "Come on, I’ll take you to her."

~

Janet lay propped up on several pillows. The blinds were drawn against the afternoon sun. The television, perched on the wall opposite the bed, was tuned to a TV talk show. The hostess raced up and down the aisles, thrusting her microphone at the members of the audience. There was no sound.

The left side of the young woman’s face was swollen and discolored. Her eye on that side was a mere slit, the lashes caked together with dried blood. Fine black sutures closed a series of lacerations on her forehead. She clutched the covers up to her breasts, despite the July heat. Her hands were covered with scratches. Looking at her, Rebecca thought she had put up a hell of a fight.

Catherine went to the bed and took Janet’s hand.

"Detective Frye is here, Janet."

Janet’s head nodded slightly. "Please stay with me."

"Of course," Catherine said, pulling a chair up to the left side of the bed.

Rebecca dragged a similar worn plastic chair to the opposite side and sat down, opening her notebook as she did so. She leaned forward so Janet could see her face.

"Janet, I’m Rebecca Frye. I’m a police officer. I’m trying to find out what happened the night you were injured." She watched Janet carefully, looking for any unspoken reactions to her questions. "Can you tell me what you did that day- - Tuesday-- three days ago?"

Janet glanced at Catherine, who nodded encouragement. Then she began to speak in a slow halting whisper. "I was late for work—I missed the train. So, I drove to work."

"Where is that?" Rebecca asked.

"Compton Building—I’m a data programmer." She halted uncertainly, her grip on Catherine’s hand tightening.

"Go on," Rebecca urged.

"Barb called at lunch—I told her I’d be home around seven."

A single tear slipped from between her lashes and dampened her cheek. Rebecca reached for a tissue and pressed it into Janet’s free hand. She waited a moment, then asked, "What did you do after work?"

"It was beautiful outside. -- I decided to go home on the Drive, even though the traffic is slower—" She stopped again, a slight tremor noticeable in her hands.

"I remember," Rebecca said softly, "it was cool, there had been a shower—"

"Yes! It had been so sticky all weekend! I stopped -- oh, it’s all so confusing! I can’t remember where I stopped!"

Her anxiety was more pronounced now.

"That’s okay, Janet, you’re doing great," Rebecca soothed. "You don’t have to get everything straightened out now. Just tell me anything you can remember, even if it doesn’t make sense."

Catherine gave Rebecca a startled look but remained silent. Maybe I should take her on rounds with me. She’s better at this than some of my residents. Rebecca continued to surprise, and intrigue, her.

"That’s just it! I can’t make sense of what I can remember. There are so many colors!"

"What colors, Janet?" Rebecca asked quickly, writing the word on her pad and circling it.

"I don’t know!"

"Do you remember a man? Did you see a man, or a woman and a man?"

"No."

"Did you hear a woman scream?"

"No." She looked at Catherine, her face pale. "I’m sorry—I can’t remember!"

"I believe you. It’s all right," Catherine soothed. "Close your eyes for a minute, and tell me anything you see—any image, any picture in your mind at all."

"Just the number—"

Rebecca sat up straight in her chair, her face tense. "What number?"

"Ninety-seven."

"Ninety-seven what? Were there letters with the number?"

"I can’t remember—please, I can’t remember!"

"That’s all right, Janet," Catherine interrupted. "You’ve been wonderful. We’ll talk again when you’re a little stronger."

Rebecca forced down a protest. She knew Janet had seen something—she could feel it. She also knew it would be futile to try to prolong the interview. Clearly Catherine felt the young woman had had enough. Rebecca pocketed her notebook and stood up, her anger surfacing as she surveyed the battered, terrorized woman before her. She intended to put an end to this reign of terror.