Dark Depths of Love

By Jeanette Cooper

When Dr. Heather O’Neal saves a young boy’s life after he is kidnapped and left to die, falling in love with his corporate tycoon father represents the dream of a lifetime—until she discovers that Anthony Trevor Hampton’s emotions are filtered through layers of childhood abuse, which corrupts his emotional control.

Anthony’s interest in her began when his mute son—-a boy with unstable emotions like his father—-spoke his first words in over two years to Heather following the murder of his mother. His father, upon overhearing his son talking again, is elated. Because Heather has bonded with the boy, Anthony decides he wants her in Wally’s life, and is willing to go to any lengths to make it happen—-even marriage.

From that moment on, Anthony sets a course of disaster by uprooting Heather’s safe world. Their marriage is a farce. Then he believes she masterminded his son's kidnapping. She is charged and booked--while Anthony continues to declare his love for her.

Her problems will only get worse before they get better...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeanette Cooper
• Release date: Jan 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458046796

Jeanette Cooper

Jeanette Cooper, a native Georgian, a former elementary school teacher, graduate of University of Central Florida with a Bachelor’s Degree in Elementary Education and a Master’s in Reading instruction, is mother of a son, grandmother of a grandson, and lives in North Florida near the Suwannee River.Jeanette enjoys walking, reading, cooking, and gardening, but her greatest pleasure comes from writing and watching characters come alive as they interact with one another in adventurous life-like dramas that motivate reading pleasure.Her latest romantic suspense novels are Passionate Promise, Vulnerable to Deceptive Love, Stripped of Dignity and The Wrong Victim..

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Dr. Heather O’Neal drove along familiar streets toward the clinic that she managed on a part-time basis. Her old Bronx neighborhood, suffering a spreading decline for years, came into view. She drove a little further and pulled up to the curb in front of a white painted building with a plate glass window bearing the printed name, Dr. Rosenberg’s Health Clinic. It sat among a group of stores and shops, many closed. Numerous others, now demolished, once created a skyline for the area.

We have a full house today, said Carmen, the young receptionist who greeted Heather as she stepped inside.

So I see, Heather remarked, turning on the television for the benefit of patients filling the chairs along two walls. She kissed the tiny hand of Carmen’s baby lying in a little plastic tub that served as a makeshift bed setting on a table next to Carmen’s desk. Unable to afford a babysitter on the small salary Heather paid her, Carmen brought the baby to work with her.

Did you stop by here anytime today, Heather? Carmen asked.

No, I’ve been at the hospital all day. I haven’t been here since yesterday. Why do you ask?

Carmen’s eyebrows knitted into a puzzling frown. Somebody has been here. The back door was unlocked.

How can that be? No one has a key except me and you.

That doesn’t matter. Even a kid can pick a lock if he knows how.

Was anything taken.

Not that I could see. Nothing has been disturbed. Unless they were looking for drugs, which we don’t have, I can’t imagine why someone would break in here.

I’ll have to put a stronger lock on the door.

You better if you plan to keep sleeping overnight here, Carmen warned, fearing gangs might infiltrate the neighborhood.

Heather went to work and the line of patients diminished within a couple of hours. She and Carmen sat down with a cup of tea while the television played quietly in the background.

Carmen was rambling on about the ailments of various patients. Mrs. Herzhaft’s leg sore seems to be healing much better. If she would watch her diet her diabetes wouldn’t act up so much.

You’re probably right, but when eating whatever you can afford is your only option there’s not much one can do.

I suppose you’re... She stopped in mid-sentence and gazed at the television. Listen to this," she said.

…early yesterday morning, shortly after he was dropped off at his school by the families’ chauffeur. The eight-year-old son of multi-millionaire Anthony Trevor Hampton disappeared from the school campus soon after his arrival there according to classmates. Unconfirmed sources say Mr. Hampton made a ransom drop of an undisclosed amount last evening after receiving a ransom call. There is no word at this time whether or not young Wally Hampton was returned to his father.

A picture of the boy suddenly filled up the screen on the television.

Carmen made a scoffing sound. I bet they’ll never see that boy alive again now that the ransom has been paid.

Well, let’s hope that’s not the case, Heather said, stretching and feeling much too tired for a lengthy conversation. I’m exhausted. I need a good night’s sleep for a change.

You’re not going to sleep here tonight, are you? Whoever broke in could come back, Carmen reported.

Whoever it was discovered there’s nothing here to steal, so I doubt they’ll be back. I’ll make a sandwich and warm a can of soup before I shower and turn in. I’ll be okay. You go on home and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Just as Carmen was preparing to leave, the phone rang. She lifted it to her ear, said hello, and listened, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

Is something wrong? Heather whispered.

It’s for you, Carmen said, passing the phone to Heather. It sounds like someone with a voice problem. I could hardly understand him.

Dr. O’Neal speaking, Heather said into the phone. No one said anything for a second and Heather started to hang up. Then an odd, muffled sounding voice suddenly spoke anxiously.

Doc, you have to come quick. The boy is dying. You’ll find him at the old ruined building east of you next to the abandoned bank. A junked car is out front. When you get inside go toward the back. You’ll see a door to your right. Go through the door, then on the wall to your left is another door. You’ll find the boy in a room there. Hurry, Doc! The muffled voice was obviously disguised and hard to understand. Heather listened carefully, trying to remember the directions.

What’s wrong with him? Heather asked. She heard an immediate click on the other end. She looked at the phone, turning thoughtful. The call could be a hoax, but it could be for real.

Heather thought about the kidnapped boy. Could the caller have been referring to him? Could it be the Hampton boy?

Call the police, Carmen, and send them to the old ruined building east of here next to the abandoned bank building. An old junked car is in front of it. I think the caller just informed me of where the kidnapped Hampton boy is being held.

CHAPTER TWO

Hurrying back to the examining room, Heather grabbed her medical bag and ran past Carmen to the front door.

Hey, wait! It might not be safe to go alone, Carmen yelled.

Heather kept going.

She drove to the abandoned building in short minutes. Wariness settled over her with the quickly fading dusk. This was no place to be after dark, especially a lone woman. Heather glanced nervously about for signs of activity in the area that might hint of a plot against her. No movement caught her attention.

She pulled up in front of the building, fear keeping her from turning off the engine. She was not a squeamish person normally, but this peculiar situation posed unknown threat.

Hesitating, she scanned the area for observable activity. Seeing none, she turned the key off in the ignition, realizing how vulnerable she was in such a deserted area. She could almost taste fear, not to mention the smell of the sickly odors of mold, mildew, dust, garbage, and the dead carcass of a large rat nearby with maggots and buzzing flies infiltrating the rotten tissue. Tense with apprehension, she pushed open the car door. A paralyzing sense of dread of someone pouncing upon her made her nearly immobile.

No apparent movement caught her attention except a dark van a couple of streets over. It was moving away from the area. Heather relaxed her concern. Leaving the safety of her car, she locked it. Spotting a jaggedly broken broomstick on the debris-strewn sidewalk, she picked it up to use as a weapon if needed.

Hesitantly, she went into the abandoned building, its crumbling walls and rotted beams making it an unsafe place for humans. The smells were putrid, filling the stale air with the strong scent of urine and feces from stray animals and likely humans as well. The interior lay in shadow, darkness quickly following dusk.

Recalling the directions given her, she walked slowly through the dark interior palely lighted by the faint glow of fading dusk through holes where windows had been. Despite quaking fear, she saw the door on the right and took slow, deliberate steps toward it. She raised the broomstick in readiness, just in case. She moved her head from side to side, taking glances over her shoulder for assurance no one was stalking her.

She stopped. Thinking she heard something. It was only eerie silence.

On her left on the far wall was a closed door. She pressed her ear against the wood panel to listen. Not a sound came from within, or from the strained beams that sagged dangerously overhead. The silence was frightening. In every corner was a suspicious shadow.

Hearing nothing, she turned the rusty doorknob on the badly scarred door. Pushing it slowly forward to the sound of creaking hinges, she stared into a black maw. The only light was a faint glow around the edges of a burlap sack covering the window. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out the metal frame of the cot on her left.

A shudder of fear zapped through her like a streak of lightning.

Upon the cot’s bare springs lay a small boy in a spread-eagle fashion with his wrists and ankles tied to the bed frame.

With light fading quickly, Heather knew she would be helpless in total darkness. With a sense of urgency, she ripped the burlap bag from the window, wishing she had remembered to bring a flashlight. Even with the burlap stripped from the window, it was nearly impossible to see anything.

Then her eyes lit on something in one corner, a wooden crate standing on end. Something white was on it. She raced to it, touching the objects until her fingers recognized the stub of a candle and a book of matches. She struck a match, the flame jumping to life as she lit the candle. The room flooded with a shadowy yellow glow.

Understanding the importance of time, she hurried back to the lifeless form on the broken springs of the cot. A huge rat with eyes looking the size of small grapes inched toward the cot. Heather dashed him across the room with the broomstick.

She could hear night noises now, the small window seeming to echo the sounds from outside. She heard skittering sounds as rats or mice crept across the filthy floor, smelling the boy, prepared to use him for food. She used the stick to send another one slamming across the room.

A cursory examination of the still figure made her believe the boy was dead or at least near death. She was certain he was the same little boy whose picture was shown on television.

She lifted his eyelids, feeling diminishing hope upon seeing those lifeless eyes. She felt his pulse and found a throb so weak it was barely noticeable. Then she saw what she decided was the problem. Packed into his mouth was a cloth of white fabric. Heather grabbed a tiny piece of the fabric and started pulling. There seemed no end to it as she pulled it from the boy’s mouth, gaining momentum as she hurried to remove it. It was obviously a long strand torn from a bed sheet. With his hands tied and no way to pull the cloth from his mouth, it had lodged in his throat and was suffocating him.

She snatched the last of the cloth from his mouth.

Suddenly the boy gave a noticeable gasp and then he was quiet again. Immediately, Heather began giving mouth-to-mouth respiration, thinking there might still be enough life in him to bring him back. While she breathed air into his lungs, one hand quickly moved to find a pulse, and a faint beat gave her hope. The boy was still alive. She kept breathing air into his lungs while she heard sirens screaming nearby. She heard voices outside the room, finally growing louder as they came inside, but she continued breathing air into the boy’s lungs, every breath likely the critical one that might save his life.

Heather’s back was to the door opening, but she was aware of flashlights shining into the room and many feet crowding inside. Voices became a jumble of sound, but she allowed nothing to disturb her breathing air into the boy’s lungs. She failed to hear the medic tell her they would take over, his voice only one among many talking, some loudly, some nearly hysterically. The sounds ran together in a burst of noise and activity, and Heather continued breathing for the boy, afraid to stop for fear he might die.

All at once, strong, ruthless hands jerked Heather away from the boy. A sharp defensive gasp tore from her lips. She struggled against the hand holding her. She saw the medics moving in quickly to render aid to the boy. Still struggling against the iron strength of the restraining hand, she cringed away from the hysteria in the voice yelling at her.

Get the hell away from him! the voice bellowed above the other noises in the small room. With animal strength, the man slung her forcefully against the far wall.

Heather’s arm hit the cement wall at an odd angle, causing pain to shoot up and down her arm. The mixture of candle light and flashlight grew dim in her consciousness. She slid downward to the dirty floor covered with debris, filth, and hungry mice looking for outside exits against dozens of feet stomping about the small room. She crumpled to the floor. Splintery stabs of pain brought choked-back groans.

A police officer rushed toward her, directing his flashlight beam in her face. She threw up her good arm, blocking the blinding light. The noises of many men talking at once, none very distinct, echoed off the walls. The beam of light swept away from her eyes. A gun pointed toward her face. She froze, daring not move, not even to relieve her painful position. She was certain she had sustained a bone fracture from her impact against the wall.

Adjusting her eyes to the glare of several flashlights, Heather watched the incredible scene unfurl before her, medics, police officers, and plain-clothes detectives all jammed into the small room in complete confusion. The man in executive garb who threw her against the wall hovered near the boy as medics worked on him.

He’s still alive! yelled a medic excitedly. Let’s stabilize him and get him to a hospital.

A police officer bent down and jerked Heather to her feet. He handcuffed her hands behind her. Pain shot through her arm, and she choked down a scream in her throat. She twisted and turned in every possible manner trying to relieve the pain of her broken arm. Her breath came in short gasps.

Why are you doing this? she cried breathlessly. I’m a doctor. I was trying to save the boy.

The police officer ignored her outburst while reciting, You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney… His voice echoed a monotone to the end of the statement.

Heather’s attention diverted to the medics. She watched them place the boy on a stretcher. The darkly tanned man bent over the little boy. A mercury glow on his cheeks shone from a stream of silent tears.

Hang on, son. You’ve got to hang on, the man repeated, obviously the boy’s father, and the man who hurled Heather across the room into the wall.

The pain in her broken arm made coherent thinking impossible. One thing was obvious though, the handcuffs sent an undeniable message. The police were arresting her. They were confusing her as a suspect in the kidnapping of the boy.

Heather glanced at Anthony Hampton whom she recognized from the news on television. He glared at her in an expression of deadly rage. He, too, believed her guilty of some crime against his son.

Two police officers dragged her from the small room.

Her predicament hit her like a horrible nightmare!

Every person present suspected her of being the boy’s kidnapper.

CHAPTER THREE

Never in her life was Heather so brutally treated. Hustled off to police headquarters, policemen jerked and snatched her all the way from the car, into the building, up a flight of stairs, then shoved her into a small room with a table and a couple of chairs where the smell of sweat and stale cigarette smoke attacked her nostrils. Every movement jarred the hot pain in her arm bringing moans she valiantly tried to smother. Water filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks, but she wasn’t crying. She was hurting, and the hard straight-backed chair offered little comfort. Beneath the pain was the belief the police would soon realize her innocence and release her.

On one wall of the rectangular room was a large glass enclosed window reflecting her too pale face.

Someone took off the handcuffs. She breathed a relieved sigh following the release of pressure on her arm. Her shocked disbelief of what was happening left her traumatized. If she didn’t believe this horrible mistake would be set right soon, she would scream her head off for a lawyer.

Two suited men opened the door and walked into the small room. They sized Heather up and down, read her rights—again—and started asking questions. She suddenly breathed easier, believing she could explain away their wrongful suspicions.

****

The detectives were relentless. They dashed questions so fast that before she could answer one, they shot another at her. Through the pain, she started to answer one question, sputtered when another was asked, soon tripping over her tongue. She sounded like a blabbering idiot, and her discomfiture only drew more questions. She glanced back and forth from one detective to the other, her head swimming with answers they didn't give her time to articulate.

Who are your accomplices? Who is the brain behind it? Who snatched the boy from his school? What kind of vehicle did you use? Who does it belong to? Who was driving? Where is the money? Do you have it? Did you split the ransom among you and your accomplices? Where is the money? Do your accomplices live in the same neighborhood where you live? Why were you trying to save the boy when you had already received the ransom? Why didn’t you just leave and get away from there? On and on they continued until Heather’s head spun so dizzily she stuttered and rambled incoherently.

Finally, with a grimace of sheer pain, she rubbed her arm, took a deep breath, stood up, and actually yelled. If you’ll be quiet and listen, I’ll tell you why I was there!

They shoved her back down in the chair, and she gasped from their abuse, rubbing her arm where it throbbed with excruciating pain. Do you have to push me around? I’m in pain, she groaned, water pouring from her eyes. They ignored her comment. She was being treated like they might treat a hardened criminal.

The smell of sweat and stale air made her sick. Air flowed through the vent, but it did little to ease the stench. Heather felt choked, stifled on the poor quality of recycled air that smelled of sickening second-hand cigarette smoke. The pain, the questions, the smelly room, all had her stomach churning nauseously. She kept swallowing the bile surging up in her throat. On top of the nausea was dizziness, and she feared she might pass out. She fought determinedly, taking deep breaths to settle her stomach.

They initially told her she had a right to an attorney, but she knew the cost of an attorney and considering she was innocent saw no reason to request one. However, the borrowed strength from the righteous indignation she maintained thus far was quickly slipping away.

Suddenly she felt hot self-pitying tears welling up behind her lids. She fought bravely trying to swallow them back down, determined she would not let these heartless oafs witness their effect on her.

After nearly two hours, the first two men went out and two others came in. They began firing questions at her. She put her head down in the crook of her good arm and pretended to be asleep. One of them dashed her upper body off the table like dirty dishes. She felt the pain in her arm stab sharply as her chair tilted, careened and nearly dumped her to the floor. Her sharp scream pierced the confined space of the room.

Angered at the harsh treatment, she glared at the man. Must you be so abusive? I think I have a fractured bone in my arm, she groaned.

He gave no response to her statement, probably not believing her.

Heather took a deep breath of air and continued. My name is Doctor Heather O’Neal, she said breathlessly, nearly gasping through the pain. I work at the hospital and also run a small clinic part time near where the boy was found. She saw the two detectives glance derisively between them.

Go on, one said

I was working at my clinic when I received a call from an unknown person. He said, and I quote, ‘Doc, you have to come immediately. The boy is dying.’ End of quote, she said. "He gave me directions, so I told Carmen Mindel, my assistant, to call the police.

"I hurried to the location and found the boy barely alive. A long strip of cloth torn from a sheet stuffed in his mouth was choking him. Another minute and he would have been dead.

"I removed the cloth strip and administered mouth to mouth respiration, stopping only when the boy’s father threw me against the wall. I sustained a fractured bone in my arm and am in extreme pain. I need my arm set.

Please call Carmen Mindel and she will confirm my story.

Why didn’t you tell that to the men who questioned you earlier?

I tried to, but they were both so taken by the sound of their own voices they wouldn’t be quiet long enough to listen.

Your clinic is advertised as a free clinic. Where do you get the money to run it?

Heather winced.

The implication hit her like a fist. She sent both men a long glare before answering. Doctor Rosenberg owns the building. He had a heart attack and had to retire. He gives a small allowance to the clinic, and I volunteer my time for free.

Does this allowance pay all the expenses?

I contribute as well. The patients pay what they can. But surely you can’t think…

Needing funds for your clinic gives you motive.

Look, either you’re crazy or you’re kidding. Then mumbling, she added, Now I know why people shy away from involvement in such situations. If I had ignored that telephone call the Hampton boy would be dead now.

Why should we believe you? You run a free clinic and you need money for operating expenses.

She shot the men a scornful look and ground out through her pain, And you think that makes me a kidnapper?

If you need money, how do we know you didn’t kidnap the boy yourself for the ransom?

"You’ve got to be kidding! If it was my intention to help the people of my neighborhood through crime by playing Robin Hood I would never have spent all those years in medical school to become a doctor.

My God, she cried, your accusations and abuse are unconscionable. I have a broken arm sustained after the boy’s father threw me into a wall. I have had guns pointed at me, have been jerked about, dragged across floors, shoved into a police car, pushed into this building and this room, and was slapped off this table when I rested my head on my arms. I have suffered more abuses tonight than in my whole life, and I insist that you check out my story and get me out of this stinking, unhealthy room. Otherwise, I want an attorney and plan to sue the city and everybody who has pushed and shoved me around this evening.

They stared at her, looked at each other, and went out the door.

Heather lowered her head in her arms and dozed despite her pain.

****

Captain, she had nothing to do with it, one detective said. She’s a doctor. We have checked her story. There was no way she could have been anywhere near the school when the boy was kidnapped. Her shift begins at five o’clock every morning. In the evenings, she works at her clinic until around nine. Then she sleeps. Not only is she innocent, she saved the boy’s life.

The big burly-looking captain had listened to the entire interrogation from behind the mirror. Let me understand you, he said, his voice beginning in a quiet controlled manner, growing louder and more irritated by the second. "You arrest the first person you see who just happens to be the doctor who saved the boys life. Then you and the damn police contaminate the crime scene by letting every damn body and his mother trot about the area to destroy trace evidence. You make no effort to discover any further leads, and you have absolutely no idea who in the hell kidnapped the boy. His father is out a million bucks ransom, and to top all that, the man is a damned multi-millionaire who can buy all our asses right off the force if he chooses.

Get the hell out of my office and go find some damn leads. Send the girl home.

****

Miss, a weary voice called. Wake up, miss. You can go home, Detective Miller said sheepishly.

Heather lifted her head, her lids fluttering sleepily. It’s about time. Tell all your manhandling colleagues an apology would be appropriate with a worthy donation to my clinic. It was supposed to be a joke, but it sounded serious.

Consider it done, Doc. No hard feelings? he asked.

I’ll answer that when I get the donation, she stated dryly.

****

Despite everything, Heather got nearly four hours sleep before she went to work. She had put a makeshift splint on her arm with her mother’s help. Taking a strong dose of Tylenol to ease the pain, she slept soundly from exhaustion.

The next day at the hospital, an x-ray confirmed a fractured bone. She received a cast, and her arm hung in a sling. Thinking she could still function on the job with one good arm, she refused the prescription painkillers, and took Tylenol instead before starting rounds.

As soon as she found some free minutes before noon, she inquired at the nurses’ station for news on the Hampton boy. Everyone by now had seen or heard some version of her part in rescuing the boy, and Heather read and heard several accounts about her face splashed on the news with her wrists handcuffed behind her. None were favorable since the paper had gone to press before she was released. People stared at Heather as though she was an escaped convict.

He’s alive and right here in this hospital, the duty nurse told Heather, eying her suspiciously.

He’s here?

Yep, we were closest to the scene so the ambulance brought him here. Should you be here? she asked, wondering how she had gotten released so quickly.

Thelma, I’ve been coming to work here since I got out of medical school. Why should today be any different?

The papers say you were suspected of kidnapping the Hampton boy, Thelma replied rather pompously.

There is a big difference between actually doing something and being suspected of doing it, Heather replied curtly. What room is the boy in? she asked, already on the move when the nurse called out the number.

CHAPTER FOUR

A uniformed police officer sat by the door to Wally Hampton’s room, probably a safety precaution since the kidnapper was still on the loose. Heather’s identification badge, classifying her as a doctor, cleared the way for her to enter the room.

The boy was awake, looking almost as healthy as he might have before his abduction. A private nurse sat in a recliner in the corner reading.

Hi, Heather said to the boy after first nodding at the private nurse. She stood beside the bed. How do you feel? She turned on her angelic smile that people had complimented and praised since her childhood.

He doesn’t talk, the nurse said without looking up, her nose buried in the book held with her thumb and splayed fingers.

Oh? I bet your throat is sore, isn’t it? Heather asked, touching her fingers lightly to the boy’s neck.

His silence isn’t due to a sore throat. He hasn’t talked in over two years. His father said so, the nurse stated solemnly without raising her head from her book.

Wally stared at Heather suspiciously, his lips a thin line of distrust that reflected darkly in his green eyes. He saw the way she was dressed with a white coat like doctors wore. He glanced at her identification badge that told him she was a doctor. With that, he decided she wasn’t the enemy. He studied her as if trying to place where he had seen her.

Then if you can’t talk, I’ll just do the talking, Heather said gently. I’m Heather. Doctor Heather O’Neal. I’m the one who found you.

The boy’s eyes opened wider and stared at Heather with a spark of recognition. He made some strange grimaces, touching his lips, then her lips, puffing air out of his mouth. Heather deduced that he referred to the mouth-to-mouth respiration she administered to him.

Yes, she replied, it was me. I breathed air into your lungs. I helped you to breathe.

The boy reached out and put his arms about Heather’s waist. He pressed the side of his face to her chest, clinging to her, hugging tightly. When he finally let go and laid back on his pillow, tears streamed down his cheeks. He grabbed Heather’s hand and stared at her face with an expression that bordered on worship. He pointed a finger at himself, cupped both hands over his heart, and then pointed to Heather. The pantomime was a clear indication that the boy was declaring his love for her. Heather smiled and kissed his cheek to let him know she understood.

Neither the boy nor Heather noticed the door opening behind them. A dignified figure of a man stepped into the room. A breeze from the fanning door brought Heather turning about just enough to see stormy eyes staring darkly at her.

She recognized Anthony Hampton immediately. He was tall, handsome and well sculpted, an extremely attractive man. At that moment, however, he looked like a wild panther tensing and bracing for an attack. Heather involuntarily cringed at the savagery in his expression.

Anthony Hampton had a moment to observe Heather before she became aware of his presence. At first, he thought she was a doctor checking on Wally. When he looked closer, he recognized her face, one he would never forget. It was the first thing he’d seen after he’d caught sight of his son in that crumbling old building on a dilapidated cot with broken springs and no bedding.

Now, his first thought was to wonder how the police could be so inadequate. They obviously gave the woman bail and here she was in Wally’s room pretending to be a doctor. Fearing Wally was in immediate danger, he went ballistic with rage.

What the hell are you doing here? he demanded explosively, his infuriated face a dusky red behind his dark tan.

Heather winced, sensing the danger zone around him. She chose not to answer, knowing an answer wouldn’t matter. She let go of the boy’s hand. Sliding off the bed, she set her feet on the floor, making a wide sweep around Anthony Hampton with the intention of getting to the door. He edged like a panther toward her, his manner stalking and frightening. He looked like a wild animal ready to claim her as prey.

How did you get in here? he demanded, looking like he might pounce upon her any second.

She gulped. Through that door, she said timidly, pointing with her good arm, immediately realizing how foolish she must sound.

He grabbed her good arm and moved her with angry strength to the door. Snatching it open, he then gave her a shove, which nearly sent her crashing into the wall across the hallway.

Get out! Get the hell out and don’t come back or I’ll have you put away where there’ll be no more bail for you!

You don’t understand. Heather implored, shaken by the man’s violence.

The young boy watched the confrontation. When he saw his father’s face, saw him grab Heather, he was astonished. Shaking his head vigorously, a strange cry sounded deep in his chest and throat. He flew from the bed, and started pounding his father’s chest, his young fists expelling a fury similar to his father’s rage. Tears poured from his eyes. The only sound he made was a strangling noise that gurgled up from his chest and throat.

Not waiting to hear more, Heather gained her feet after nearly falling, faced Hampton, and slowly backed down the hallway. Ripe fear reflected in the gaze she sent him. The thought of getting as far away from this man as possible was her goal.

Anthony disengaged himself from his son’s pummeling fists and held the boy's hands. Locking his gaze on the police officer who jumped to his feet at the first sign of an encounter, Hampton demanded fiercely, What the hell do you mean letting that woman in my son’s room? She would be in jail if not for a bungling police department who gave her bail. She is not to enter this room again for any reason. Do I make myself clear?

Jesus! He’s a raving idiot, Heather decided. Couldn’t he see she was a doctor? She wore the white jacket and her identification badge. What was wrong with the man? The police surely must have informed him she had gone to the crime scene to help his son.

Maybe no one told him.

The young police officer nodded his head profusely, overawed by the prominence of Anthony Hampton. Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir. She’s a doctor, so I thought it was… he started explaining and Tony cut him off.

Like hell she is! Don't you realize anyone can wear one of those damn coats? She is not to come near this room again. Neither does anyone else unless they've been given clearance by the attending physician or me.

Heather backed away, keeping her eyes on Anthony Hampton. It occurred to her that he was a man hardened by more than the kidnapping. Something in his past patterned the kind of man he was, leaving a war of unresolved issues fueling his rather violent nature.

****

Young Wally Hampton was upset. Unable to pound sense into his stubborn father, he turned a sullen look on him and went back to bed. He visualized Heather’s face with the angel smile, it identical to the picture conjured inside his head of an angel breathing life into his lungs. She saved his life, and no one knew it better than he did when he was struggling for air and felt those faint whiffs blown into his lungs.

Anthony Trevor Hampton picked up the telephone and called the police station asking to speak to someone in charge. I would like to know why the woman you arrested last night for my son’s kidnapping has been set free to roam at leisure into my son’s hospital room. I demand that you send someone down here and arrest her immediately. Where the hell do you people get off putting a criminal back out on the street? Angry at the world for what happened to his son, he desperately needed someone to blame, someone to take the brunt of his fury.

Detective Miller took the call. Good morning, Mr. Hampton. I tried to get in touch with you earlier. I called your home several times, but your housekeeper said you didn’t leave a number where I could reach you. I tried the hospital, but you hadn’t arrived there at the time. Anyway, the young woman you are referring to actually saved your son’s life.

Anthony absorbed this information. Instead of his anger diffusing, it took on steam. Why in the hell wasn’t I told this? For that matter, why should I even believe it? He had built a strong case in his mind against Heather, and needed a scapegoat on which to air his seething rage.

Mr. Hampton, Dr. O’Neal has a clinic near where your boy was found. An anonymous caller gave her the location of your boy. She went there on your son’s behalf.

Anthony listened, still hostile. Are you absolutely certain she had no part in the kidnapping? Have you investigated her? How can you be sure she isn’t the one responsible for masterminding the entire plan?

We checked out her alibi. She’s innocent. Your son was technically dead when she found and breathed life back into him. She saved your boy’s life. Even the medics acknowledged that he would have died without what she did. Rest assured her alibi has been carefully checked and there’s no indication of any involvement on her part.

Hampton began backing down, his anger sizzling to lukewarm after hearing the news. Then is it fair to say you’ve gotten other suspects by this time?

No, sir, we haven’t. As soon as we do, we’ll let you know.

Tony started to make a retort, but signed off instead and set the phone on the hook. He thought about what the detective said. The girl saved his son’s life. Tell me her name, he told Wally, handing a pad and pencil to him.

Wally, still angry at his father’s treatment of Heather, refused to accept the pad.

Heather, the nurse interposed, lifting her nose from her book. Doctor Heather O’Neal.

In one swift movement, Wally flipped over so he was facing his father. Why did he want to know Heather’s name? What were his intentions now? More shoving as he did by pushing her out of his room.

Wally yearned to open his mouth and speak out on the frustration of seeing his father’s abusiveness toward Heather. He shook his head at his dad, his eyes pleading while accompanied by facial grimaces and hand movements.

After two years of the boy’s silence, Tony could nearly read Wally’s mind when he pantomimed his thoughts, but the boy was a bit overwrought now and his grimaces weren’t making much sense—except for one thing. When he pointed a finger to his own chest, cupped his hands over his heart, and pointed toward the door through which Tony had shoved Heather, Tony understood his meaning. It was an expression of his feelings for the girl.

Wally grabbed the pad and pencil from his father’s hand. He scribbled, She saved my life.

I know. The detective just told me on the phone, but we still can’t be too careful. What do you want me to do, son? Tony asked, wishing Wally would just open his mouth and talk.

Given every test that medical professionals knew to give, not one gave a single clue as to why Wally couldn’t talk. Numerous doctors believed his silence stemmed from an emotional problem. Tony was prone to agree. The trauma the boy went through with his mother’s death was enough to cause anyone