The Enclave by Karen Hancock Page A

the atrium, now plunging to dizzying depths below him, and stepped through the opening doors. He crossed the spacious common area and passed through another pair of glass doors into the foyer where the receptionist nodded him through. He strode past her and turned right into a busy, curving corridor.
    Swain’s office stood on the opposite side of the building. He had a private express elevator for his own use, but everyone else had to walk around from the main elevators, allowing visitors—and subordinates— the opportunity to appreciate the richly paneled walls, thick carpeting, sparkling chandeliers, and expensive paintings and replicas of the ancient artifacts that were Swain’s passion—all of it a not-so-subtle reminder of the fabulous amounts of money and power it had taken to establish the Institute and to keep it running.
    Inexplicably, as he neared the director’s office, Cam’s heartbeat began to accelerate. His hands went cold and damp, and the underarms of his flannel shirt grew clammy—and he had no idea why. He’ d done nothing wrong and had nothing to fear. Besides, Swain liked him and he knew it. He’ d all but begged Cam to join his team.
    “Good morning, Dr. Reinhardt,” said Deena Flynn, Director Swain’s senior secretary, as Cam drew up to her desk. “And congratulations.” Curly black hair framed her pretty porcelain-pale face, wide blue eyes, and fetching dimples.
    Cameron blinked at her. “Congratulations?”
    “On the Black Box Citation.” She regarded him with amusement. “Forgotten already?”
    “Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. “Thank you. And good morning to you, too.”
    She gestured toward the dark-paneled door in the dark-paneled wall behind her. “Go on in. He’s waiting for you.”
    Cam rounded her desk and started toward the door. Suddenly a searing light exploded in his face and a thundering boom slammed him backward as it drove the breath from his chest. White heat flashed around him in the narrow, rough-walled tunnel and was gone. He stood reeling in the smoke that drifted before him, shifting ethereally in the beam of his head lamp. Sulfurous fumes stung his throat and nostrils, and he tried desperately not to breathe it in, but finally could not help himself.
    As he gasped in the air his lungs demanded, the tunnel vanished and he was back in Swain’s reception area, heart pounding. Sweat drenched him, and his knees trembled so violently he feared they might give way at any moment.
    “Are you all right, Doctor?” asked Deena from behind him.
    He swallowed hard, drew another breath, and felt the trembling subside. “Yes,” he said as her chair squeaked and rolled back. He turned to give her a reassuring smile. “Must have been the elevator ride or something.”
    A slim brow arched. “Or perhaps you are working yourself too hard again?”
    He ducked his head in a combination nod and shrug, then turned to close the gap still between himself and Swain’s door. But as he grasped the pewter latch, he saw his hand still trembling and hesitated. Lifting his gaze to the dark, gleaming panels, he stood breathing softly, letting his pulse settle as he came to grips with the fact he’ d just had another flashback. His second in less than twenty-four hours.
    What is going on?! He’ d suffered post-traumatic stress disorder during and after his deployment twelve years ago, and for a time it had ruined his life. But God had found him in the mess he’ d made and pulled him out of it. Oh, Father in heaven, please don’t let me go back to that!
    He heard Deena’s chair squeak behind him. She must have turned to look at him in renewed concern. Before she could speak, he drew himself together and pressed the latch.
    Director Swain’s huge corner office, with its sweeping, high-–ceilinged expanse and odd dimensions, always gave him a sense of disorientation upon entry. Tinted floor-to-ceiling windows formed the two outer walls, providing a spectacular view of the Catalina