The Brahms Deception by Louise Marley

it so he could watch the little tableau, the balding, narrow-shouldered man, the long-legged, thin-lipped woman. Poor Frederica. She had inherited the worst features of each of her parents.
    â€œThey know now,” Elliott said mournfully. “Max went to call Gregson and Braunstein about half an hour ago. Chiara’s been great with the Bannisters, calming them down, pointing out that their daughter’s vital signs are all strong.”
    â€œAre you going to let me go back?”
    â€œWe’re waiting to see what Gregson says.”
    â€œWould the Bannisters’ being here change his mind? They’re still going to want her found. They can hardly go after her themselves.”
    â€œYou’d think so.” Elliott pushed back his chair, and stood up. “Uh-oh. Here they come.”
    The Bannisters came down the long room, the father with quick, decisive steps, the mother trailing a little behind, her hand under her husband’s arm. Mrs. Bannister looked both miserable and frightened. Mr. Bannister looked angry. They both looked exhausted. Kristian stood up, and went to meet them.
    He put out his hand. “Mr. Bannister? I’m Kristian North. I’m going to do everything I can to help your daughter.”
    The man’s face was drawn with tension, but his gaze was sharp. He assessed Kristian in one sweeping glance, and took his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m Frederick Bannister. My wife, Bronwyn.”
    Kristian put out his hand to Bronwyn Bannister, as well. She took just the tips of his fingers and gave them a salutary shake. “Mrs. Bannister,” Kristian said. “I know how worried you are. I’m sorry.”
    She blinked at him, and put a hand to her fashionably frosted hair. “I don’t understand what happened,” she said. “Why won’t Frederica wake up? She should have awakened right after . . . I just don’t understand.”
    Chiara came up behind the Bannisters. “Please, will you sit down?” she said, indicating two of the folding chairs beside the desk. “Max went to prepare beds for you. You must rest a little.”
    Bronwyn Bannister sank onto one of the chairs with a little sigh, but her husband didn’t move. “When are you going after her, Mr. North?”
    â€œAs soon as they’ll let me. I’m ready right now.”
    Frederick Bannister turned his sharp gaze on Elliott. “What’s stopping him?”
    Elliott said, “We’re waiting for approval from Chicago.” Bannister didn’t hesitate. “The hell with Chicago. Let’s do it.” His wife winced at his harsh tone, but Kristian nodded approval.
    Elliott said, “Well, we could—that is, Max . . .”
    Chiara said, “Max is our physician assistant. Elliott programs the transfer, and Max monitors the subject.”
    Elliott said, “Gregson dug in his heels, Kris. He and Braunstein can’t agree on whether it’s safe for you to—”
    Mrs. Bannister said tearily, “Frederick told me it was just . . . like watching television!” She fumbled in her bag for something, which turned out to be a handkerchief. As she pressed it to her eyes, an American Airlines ticket stub dropped out of its folds and fell to the floor. Kristian bent to pick it up. First class. Figures. He schooled his face as he handed it to her.
    â€œElliott,” he said. “Can I speak to you? Mr. Bannister, will you excuse us a moment?”
    Chiara moved forward to put her hand on Mrs. Bannister’s bony shoulder. Elliott, looking relieved to escape from the worried parents, followed Kristian toward the banks of equipment. The amber lights of the monitor blinked, reflecting on the unconscious Frederica’s sallow cheeks. Someone—probably Chiara, who seemed both practical and sensitive—had covered her with an extra blanket, a large flowered quilt, so