Silent Surrender. Rita Herron

almost childlike squeak.

      “I—I just want an interview,” he stammered. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Why don’t we go someplace and talk?”

      His nasally voice sounded unpleasant, and the look of avid curiosity in his eyes reminded her of all the taunting she’d received as a child. This man knew about her past, about her father. He wanted to write about her in the paper as if she were some sideshow freak in a circus.

      She shook her head and mouthed “Go Away,” yanked the keys from his hand, then spun around and crossed the distance to her car. She was sliding inside when he caught her, wedged a hand in between her and the door, and stopped her from shutting it.

      “I’m going to find out everything I can about you and what’s going on at that research center,” he said, “so you might as well talk to me.”

      She glared at him, her chest constricting. What did he mean? What was going on at the research center?

      She held up a hand as if to ask him to wait a second, grabbed her Palm Pilot and wrote, “If you want to talk about the Coastal Island Research Park, talk to my godfather, Sol Santenelli. He’s the director. Leave me alone.”

      “No. You know something’s going on. That’s the reason you went to the police.” A nasty sneer covered his face. “Since they didn’t believe you, maybe you should try me. I might take your story more seriously than the cops did. And I know all about Cutter’s Crossing.”

      Sarah flinched. The term had been coined by the local scientific community after her father to symbolize the point where a doctor or scientist crossed the line between noble, ethical practices and unethical ones.

      She didn’t like this man, didn’t trust him, and refused to have herself and Sol, the only family she had left, dragged through the papers. “I asked you to leave me alone,” she wrote. “If you don’t let go of that door right now, I’ll hit my panic alarm.”

      His irritated gaze flickered over her, sending an uneasy feeling up her spine, but he released the door. “This isn’t over, Ms. Cutter,” he said in a low growl.

      She slammed the door, tore out of the parking spot and wound through the parking deck on screeching tires, checking over her shoulder to see if he followed her.

      ADAM RACED OUTSIDE to the parking lot. He had to talk to that Cutter woman again. But just as he reached the first row of cars, a red Jetta flew round the corner on two wheels. A swirl of black hair flashed in his eyes and he realized the driver was Sarah Cutter. She was tearing from the lot as if death rode on her heels.

      Knowing he couldn’t catch her, he memorized her license plate, then headed to his car and radioed back inside to find out where she lived. While he waited for her address, he’d swing by the research center.

      Although it was past five, his sister never adhered to a nine-to-five schedule. Maybe he’d find Denise there now, totally immersed in test tubes and cultures, obsessed with a new discovery or near breakthrough. Then he could breathe easily again. And forget about Sarah Cutter’s bizarre story. And those bewitching eyes…

      He crossed the bridge to Catcall Island, inhaling the salty air and pungent odor of the marshland. Catcall Island was the main hub of CIRP, the Coastal Island Research Park. The island had been given its name because locals claimed the sea oats were so thick in the marsh that when a wind came through, it sounded like a cat’s low cry. On the map, Catcall resembled the shape of an old woman’s shoe. The Institute of Oceanography and main campus were located near the tip of the island with some mountainous parts farther north, the toe of the shoe, with residential areas in the middle, and the marshland at the base. A smaller group of facilities had been housed on the neighboring Whistlestop Island, with future development planned there.

      He frowned at the name—Whistlestop had garnered its name from an old ghost tale about a sea captain who lost his bride to a pirate during the turn of the century. Legend claimed the sea captain rode the coastal waters for years, grieving for her, whistling her favorite love ballad as he searched. Locals said she was his one true love, that he vowed not to stop whistling until he found her. Some still insist that they’d heard him whistling late at night when they’d been on the water.

      A bunch of romantic gibberish.

      A few miles to the south of Whistlestop lay the third island, Nighthawk Island, a smaller piece of land shrouded with such thick mist and fog that it appeared dark and eerie, almost twilight twenty-four hours a day. An ancient legend told about an unusual breed of dark-red legged hawks that inhabited the island; the nighthawks preyed on weaker animals, and had also been known to attack people. Supposedly, secret government-funded projects were conducted there. The island was guarded by a strict private agency called Seaside Securities—an innocuous name that seemed deceptive in view of the classified research projects conducted under its realm.

      Three years ago the Savannah Economic Development Group had joined forces with several environmental agencies, universities and the governor, and pushed to grow the economy by plotting a research park similar to the Research Triangle Park in the Raleigh-Durham area in North Carolina. Since then, several pharmaceutical and medical research companies as well as microbiologists and marine biologists had relocated on Catcall, along with some government and university funded research projects. Some were affiliated with university projects and Savannah Hospital. Adam didn’t know what type of research his sister was working on at the moment, but it had something to do with neurology.

      Rain drizzled from the sky as he parked in front of Denise’s building and hurried inside. A thin young brunette with a severe eyebrow line and a brown knot of hair on top of her head turned from her computer. “May I help you?”

      “I’m here to see Dr. Harley.”

      A moment of apprehension flashed in her eyes. “She’s not here.”

      “Look, Miss—” he paused and read her nameplate “—Johnson, Dr. Harley is my sister. I’ve been trying to reach her for days and she hasn’t returned my calls. It’s important I talk to her.”

      “I believe she went on vacation.” She checked the calendar on her desk. “Yes, she’s been penciled out for two weeks.”

      “That’s impossible,” Adam said. “She wouldn’t have left town without telling me.”

      She tugged the beads around her neck. “I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. Bradford said she phoned to say she was going away for a few days.”

      Adam’s hand tightened around the woman’s polished desk. “Then she must have left a number where she can be reached.”

      She shuffled the files on her desk. “No, I don’t believe so.”

      “Not even with Bradford?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Let me see him.”

      “He’s not here, either.”

      Adam gritted his teeth. “Where can I reach him?”

      She glanced at her calendar again, looking impatient. “He’s also out for a couple of days. I’ll tell him to phone you if he calls in.”

      Adam handed her a business card and watched her eyes widen with alarm at his identity. “That’s Detective Black,” he said in a hard voice. “Is there anyone else from her department I can talk to?”

      She glanced pointedly at the green clock on the wall. “I’m afraid they’ve all left for the day.”

      “Then let me into my sister’s office. I’d like to see if she left something that might indicate where she is. It’s urgent that I reach her.”

      She shifted, looking agitated as she shut down her computer for the day. “I can’t do that, sir. All our scientists’ work is highly confidential. Only classified personnel are allowed in the research offices, and then, only with clearance from Dr. Bradford and Seaside Securities.”

      Adam strode