Amelia Autin - Killer Countdown

“Because I just found out.” Shane waved a hand that encompassed the room. “It wasn’t until I came here that I learned—” He broke off, fighting down the sudden upwelling of emotion. Guess I still haven’t quite accepted it, he told himself. When he finally trusted his voice, he said, “Apparently the head wound I received a few years back caused damage to my left temporal lobe. I knew that at the time and so did my surgeons. But no one knew the TBI—that’s short for—”

“Traumatic brain injury,” she finished. “Yes, I know.” For an experienced reporter—which Shane knew she was—Carly’s reaction was unexpected. She’d lost all color and her eyes had widened...in what looked like shock. Shock, and recognition.

He paused a moment, waiting for her to say something more, but when she didn’t he said, “No one knew the TBI would eventually cause focal seizures. It doesn’t happen in every case, but it did in mine.”

“Focal seizures?” The question came automatically, but for some reason Shane felt she wasn’t really focusing on his answer...and that intrigued him.

“The official term is focal seizure without dyscognitive features.” He grinned suddenly. “That’s a mouthful, isn’t it? All it means is that it’s a small, localized seizure in one hemisphere of the brain—kind of like an electrical ‘short’ in that area—which doesn’t cause any loss of consciousness, loss of memory or anything like that. In my case it manifests itself with a symptom that can best be described as a sudden chill...accompanied by goose bumps.”

She seemed at a loss for words. “Is that all? Just goose bumps?”

Shane allowed his eyes to wander from her face down to her legs—long, lovely legs, he noted—then back up again. And he felt a twinge in his groin he hoped wasn’t too obvious beneath his running shorts. “That’s all. I feel cold everywhere, as if I’ve walked into a freezer. And the goose bumps on my arms, my legs, make it very real. For about thirty seconds. Then the symptoms go away.”

“But you don’t lose consciousness?”

“No, and my memory of each episode isn’t affected. I can walk and talk normally while the symptoms are occurring, as well.”

“That doesn’t sound like epilepsy to me.”

“You’re thinking of what the general public knows of epilepsy—which isn’t a heck of a lot. I didn’t know any better, either, until the doctors here diagnosed me.”

All of a sudden Carly clicked the button to turn the mini recorder off. She swallowed once—visibly—then said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. This is personal and private. I don’t need to hear any more to know it’s not news. Not the kind of news I report on.” She stood up abruptly, shoving her notebook and mini recorder into her purse. “I’m very sorry, Senator. Not just that it happened to you, but that you had to share this with me, when it’s really no one’s business but yours.”

Without another word she walked out of the room.

Chapter 2

Shane tried to chase after Carly, but the strap locking him in the bed held firm. “Damn it,” he cursed, tugging futilely at the strap. For just a second he thought about ringing for the nurse, but he knew by the time anything could be done to prevent it, Carly would be long gone. “Damn it!”

He lay back against the pillows, seething with frustration. He hadn’t liked being bound to the bed from the beginning. He understood why it was hospital policy. And as he’d said to Carly, if he lost consciousness with his seizures or even lost motor control, that would be one thing, because the strap would keep him from falling out of bed. But he didn’t, so he’d mentally railed against the restriction from day one. This was the first time he’d actively cursed out loud, however, and he suddenly announced to the empty room, “Sorry.”

“Not to worry, Senator,” answered the technician constantly monitoring him from the other room. “Believe me, we understand how frustrating it can be for our patients, especially the ones who think they don’t need protection.”

“Thanks.”

Shane punched up his pillow, then settled his big frame more comfortably in the bed, thinking about his recent visitor. Carly Edwards. He’d never actually met her before, but he knew who she was, of course. She’d been a fixture on the nightly news as a war correspondent and then reporting from Capitol Hill on one of the major cable news networks. She’d just recently moved to another cable news channel, one that had surged into prominence recently, surpassing most television news agencies for hard-hitting news coverage. Everyone said she was the next Christiane Amanpour.

He wondered why she’d cut their interview short. Carly had the reputation for being unstoppable where a news story was concerned. Once she got her teeth into something, she refused to let go. It wasn’t like her to cut an interview short, especially on an exclusive. And while he’d hoped she would agree with him this wasn’t legitimate news, he’d figured he’d have to tell her everything before she decided not to broadcast what he had to say. It didn’t make sense that she’d run out in the middle of an interview.

For a minute he also wondered what she’d been doing there without a camera operator, but then realized no way would they have been able to sneak the camera gear into the Mayo Clinic, past the various stations that guarded their patients’ privacy. Not to mention Carly didn’t have a reputation as an ambush journalist...although she had used subterfuge to gain access to him. By pretending to be his fiancée.

Shane smiled. Whether she’d intended it or not, Carly had been a bright note in his otherwise bleak week. His body hardened in a rush as he let himself fantasize about what it would be like if she was his fiancée. If he could peel that jacket off her, the one she wore that was not-quite-good-enough camouflage for a body that would tempt a monk. And Shane was no monk.

* * *

Carly was already in her car in the parking lot before she lost it. Before memories of Jack swamped her, bringing unaccustomed tears to her eyes. God, oh God, who knew?

She stared down at her engagement ring, the brilliant diamond shimmering through the haze of tears. When Jack had asked her to marry him more than eight years ago she’d been the happiest woman in the world. They’d been in love. Not just the crazy, Tilt-A-Whirl kind of love, but the solid, let’s-make-this-last-a-lifetime kind of love, with dreams of children in the not-too-distant future and grandchildren far down the road.

In mind-numbing slow motion the memory of the car accident replayed in her mind. The drunk driver weaving head-on into their lane. Jack’s desperate swerve to avoid the collision. Sliding sideways on the treacherous, ice-slick road. The sudden impact and the side air bag that failed to deploy. Jack’s head making sickening contact with the window—numerous times—as his body was flung side to side.

After a year of mourning, she’d taken off Jack’s engagement ring and placed it in the back of her jewelry box. Never to be worn again...until today. Until she’d used it as a prop to sneak into Senator Jones’s hospital room.

Carly didn’t believe in omens, good or bad. And she didn’t believe in fate—life was what you made of it. But guilt overwhelmed her now, as if by wearing Jack’s ring for a purpose he’d never intended, she’d somehow brought this whole sequence of events about. As if she was responsible for what had happened to Senator Jones the way she was responsible for Jack’s death.

* * *

Shane picked up his cell phone and hit speed dial for his executive assistant in Washington, DC, a grandmotherly type who reminded him of his own mother—not surprising since she’d been his mother’s best friend as long as he could remember. He still had difficulty calling her by her nickname, especially since she insisted on calling him Senator now instead of Shane. He was more inclined to call her Mrs. Wilson as he’d done growing up, but when she’d first gone to work for him when he was running for the House, she’d flatly told him to call her Dee-Dee, so he did...reluctantly.