The Cove

Scott wants me to make you more malleable. He doesn't like women who are aggressive, all tied up in their careers. Trust me to see to it, Sally."

    "Either you or Scott called me up in The Cove pretending to be my father. Either you or Scott came to The Cove and climbed that silly ladder to scare the hell out of me, to make me think I was crazy. There's no one else. My father is dead."

    "Yes, Amory is dead. I think personally that you killed him, Sally. Did you?"

    "I don't know if you really want the truth. I have no memory of that night. It will come back, though. It has to."

    "Don't count on it. One of the drugs I'm giving you is excellent at suppressing memory. No one really knows yet what the long-term side effects will be. And you will be taking it forever, Sally."

    He rose and walked to her. "Now," he said. He was smiling. She couldn't help herself. When he reached for her, she cracked a fist as hard as she could against his jaw. His head flew back. She hit him again, kicked him in the groin with all her strength, and ran to grab that table.

    But she stumbled, her head spinning, nausea flooding through her. Her legs collapsed beneath her. She fell to the floor.

    She heard him panting behind her. She had to get to that table. She struggled to her feet, forced one foot in front of the other. He was close behind her now, panting, panting, he was in pain, she'd hurt him. If she didn't knock him out, he would take great pleasure in hurting her. Please, God, please, please.

    She clutched the table, lifted it, turned to face him. He was so close, his arms stretched out toward her, his fingers curved, coming toward her throat. "Holland!"

    "No," she said and swung the table at him. But it was a puny effort, and he blocked it with his shoulder. "Holland!"

    The door flew open and Holland ran into the room. "Hold the little bitch, hold her!" "No, no." She backed away from the men, but there was no room, just the narrow bed and the table she held as a shield in front of her.

    Dr. Beadermeyer was holding his crotch, his face still drawn in pain. Good, she'd hurt him. Anything he did to her would be worth it. She'd hurt him.

    "That's enough, Sally." Holland's voice, soft and hoarse, terrifying.

    "I'll kill you, Holland. Stay away from me." But it was an empty threat. Her arms were trembling, her stomach roiling now. She tasted bile. She dropped the table, fell to her knees, and vomited on Dr. Beadermeyer's Italian loafers.

    "You either help me or you don't, Dillon, but you don't tell a soul about this."

    "Damnation, Quinlan, do you know what you're asking?" Dillon Savich leaned back in his chair, nearly tipping it over, but not quite because he knew exactly how far to go. His computer screen was bright with the photo of a man's face, a youngish man who looked like a yuppie broker, well dressed, easy smile, well-groomed hair and clothes.

    "Yes. You're going with me to that sanitarium and we're going to rescue Sally. Then we're going to clean up this mess. We'll be heroes. You won't be gone from your computer for more than a couple of hours. Maybe three hours if you want to be a hero. Take your laptop and the modem. You can still hook in to any system you want."

    "Marvin will cut our balls off. You know he hates it when you try to go off on your own without talking to him."

    "We'll give Marvin all the credit. The FBI will shine. Marvin will be grinning from ear to ear. He'll give the credit to his boss, Deputy Director Shruggs, so Shruggs won't cut Marvin's balls off. Shruggs will be happy as a loon.

    "And on and on it goes. Sally will be safe and we'll get this damned murder solved."

    "You still ignore the fact that she might have killed her father herself. It's a possibility. What's wrong with you? How can you ignore it?"

    "Yeah, I do ignore it. I have to. But we'll find out, won't we?"

    "You're involved with her, aren't you? It was only one bloody week you were with her. What is she, some sort of siren?''

    "No, she's a skinny little blonde who's got more grit than you can begin to imagine."

    "I don't believe this. No, shut up, Quinlan, I've got to think." Dillon leaned forward and stared fixedly at the man's photo on the computer screen. He said absently, "This creep is probably the one who's killing the homeless people in Minneapolis."

    "Leave the creep for the moment. Think, brood, whatever. You're going to try to figure all the odds. You're going to weigh every possible outcome with that computer