Free The Guardian's Wildchild by Feather Stone

respiratory monitors. He thumped a screen impatiently.
    “Damn thing,” he muttered.
    Waterhouse stepped toward Dr. Duncan. Without saying a word, his body communicated with clarity his impatience. Dr. Duncan placed his hands on his hips and began the report, speaking more to the wall behind Waterhouse rather than making contact with the dark eyes.
    “Um, simply put, she’s severely dehydrated. Yes, sir, that seems to have been her undoing. Electrolytes are way off kilter. Kidneys are shutting down. No life threatening injuries. Her wrists and ankles are pretty much battered from restraints.”
    Dr. Duncan hesitated and picked up his patient’s file and read over his notes before continuing.
    “Yes, and there’s a lot of serum residue left in her system. Lethal dose, perhaps. Quite remarkable, really. Should have died last night.” He glanced up from the chart records. Seeing the stern expression of the captain, he quickly returned to his notes. “Took a bullet in her left hand. Healing is fairly advanced so she must have been shot at least a week ago. Let’s see, yes, that’s about it.”
    “What’s her general health? Can you tell where she might’ve come from?”
    “Good muscle tone throughout, probably runs a lot. Perhaps she lives in high altitude, has the lung capacity of an athlete. Maybe she’s a climber. Yes, and very little air pollution particles in her tissues, so she probably doesn’t live in or near a city. Figure she’s in her late teens. Doesn’t appear she has any bad habits, such as illegal drugs. She takes good care of herself. Took a sample of blood. Cells appear abnormal.”
    “Explain.”
    “There’s a luminescence, almost a glow or halo around each red blood cell. Figure it’s a reaction to the truth serum. Can’t think of any other explanation for it.”
    “Show me her clothes.”
    The medical staff retrieved Sidney’s clothes and handed them to Waterhouse. He checked for labels and any other identifying markers. There were none. Her panties and bra were simple. The white silk blouse, stained with blood, had been cut in half. Her faded blue jeans were slightly frayed at the cuffs. Her faded denim jacket was also blood stained and frayed at the cuffs.
    He pondered the character of the person who owned these clothes. With the exception of the silk blouse, these were not the clothes of a well-to-do person. He smelled the clothes, almost unconsciously searching for the wearer’s scent, markers of fear or hatred. There was only the odor of sweat and blood. The sickening sweet smell of the blood reminded him of Joy’s face and her blood soaked dressings. He stood up straight and threw the clothes back into the laundry bag.
    “The blood stains still have a strong odor. How old is that wound in her hand, exactly?” he asked Butchart.
    “She was shot trying to escape. Nearly got away,” Butchart said in an attempt to sidetrack Waterhouse. “Like the doc said, she’s pretty fit. Good runner.”
    Waterhouse merely waited for an answer and held onto Butchart’s eyes.
    “When?” responded Butchart. “She was shot yesterday, shortly before noon.”
    “Impossible,” retorted Dr. Duncan. “That wound is nearly healed.”
    Waterhouse stepped closer to Sidney’s bed. She was unconscious.
    “Her blood pressure is borderline,” Dr. Duncan said. “What’s really strange is that our drugs and fluid therapy are having no effect on her. I just don’t understand it. It’s like she completely rejects everything we give her. I can tell you, Captain, she’s not following the rules.”
    “Uh huh. Sounds like that could be a habit of hers.” Waterhouse took Sidney’s hand into his and studied the bullet wound on her palm. He could see that the bullet had traveled cleanly through. Little swelling remained, and the wound had almost completely healed over. He gently squeezed her hand, not expecting any response.
    She responded. Ever so slightly, her fingers wrapped around his.
    He