Midnight Caller

by Rebecca York

  SHE WAS DRIFTING in the stream, letting it carry her where it would, making no demands on herself. You could do it for a long time, she’d discovered, if you kept your eyes closed and your mind in neutral.

  She slipped into the comfort of sleep again, then woke when she felt hands on her body. A man’s hands. Large, strong, but very gentle—and very personal—pulling the covering away from her body, touching her skin, pressing something hard between her breasts and moving it around on her chest.

  She tried not to react, tried not to let him know she was unnerved by his touch. A millimeter at a time, she lifted her lids, letting her lashes screen her eyes. It was him. The doctor who was taking care of her. Last night he’d been dressed in jeans and a knit shirt and his face had told her he cared about what happened to her. Now he wore a white coat and a hard expression. He was listening to her heart.

  She couldn’t hold back an involuntary little shiver.

  “You might as well stop pretending to be asleep.” He pulled her gown into place, gazing down at her with unnerving impersonality.

  “You woke me up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  When he said no more, she asked, “How did the tests come out?”

  “Fine. You remember going to the lab?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does your head still hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than before? Not as much?”

  “Not as much,” she answered, licking her dry lips, seeing him watching the movement.

  “Do you need a drink?”

  “Yes.” She sat up, dragging the sheet with her so that it covered the front of her thin gown.

  Bending, he worked the controls that elevated the head of the bed. When she was settled in the new position, he handed her a glass with a bent straw, watching her while she sucked in water. The water tasted wonderful. His scrutiny was disconcerting.

  When he took the glass, she tried giving him a little smile. “I remember you. But I’m sorry, I can’t recall your name.”

  “Glenn Bridgman,” he said, as if he expected it to mean something. She tried and failed to dredge up an association.

  Pulling up a chair, he sat down beside the bed.

  “What happened to me?” she asked.

  He gave her some basic information, then demanded, “What do you remember?”

  He had posed the question she so desperately wanted to avoid as she’d lain with her eyes closed, letting herself drift. A tide of cold fear rose in her chest, threatening to choke off her breath. She felt as if she were standing at the edge of a bottomless pit—with the ground shifting out from under her feet. She was going to cry, and she didn’t want any witnesses. Especially him. When she turned her face into the pillow, he crooked his finger under her chin and slowly turned it back so that she had nowhere to hide—from him or from herself.

  She watched him through a film of moisture, her lower lip quivering as she struggled for control.

  “Meg, it’s okay,” he said, his voice gritty as he stared down into her eyes. “Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.” His hand found hers, clasped her chilled flesh firmly, and yet there was the hint of an underlying tremor in his touch. “I can imagine what you were told about me.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “We won’t have to go to the police. If you’re just straight with me.”

  “The police—” Her voice hitched.

  His fingers tightened over hers, and she clung to him with all the strength she could dredge up. “Just say it,” he urged. “You’ll feel better if you tell me.”

  “Tell you what?” God, what was he expecting her to say?

  He gave a little sigh. “Tell me why you hatched some elaborate plan to get into Castle Phoenix.”

  “Castle Phoenix.” The name meant nothing. With a gulp, she forced herself .to confront the dark, bottomless chasm of her fears. “I don’t know!”

  His eyes had turned hard as flint. “Are you working with The Jackal?” he demanded.

  “Who?”

  He made an exasperated sound. “Sorry. Johnson.”

  “No. I mean…I don’t know. Who is Johnson?” When he didn’t speak, she continued in a halting voice. “I don’t remember…anything. Except a few things from last night.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” he snapped.

  “It’s the truth,” she said simply, sitting forward in the bed, stretching out her hand toward him and letting it fall back. “If you want to know the honest truth,” she whispered, afraid that if she spoke louder, she would dissolve in tears. “I’ve been lying in this bed, afraid to let myself think. Because…because I can’t come up with anything personal. You called me Meg. Meg what?”

  “Meg Wexler.”

  She shrugged. “I can’t remember that name. You said I’m in a place called…Castle Phoenix. I can’t remember that place. You expect me to know something about you. And someone named Johnson. I don’t know him. I don’t know you, even by reputation. Last night I think you said I was in an accident and that I was unconscious.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, all I have to go on is what you’ve told me.”

  The long speech exhausted her energy, and she sank back against the pillows. There was more she wanted to say, but she wasn’t sure it was safe to take the chance. She was in this man’s power, and she didn’t know what he planned to do with her.

  His eyes never left her face, and she found herself waiting for his verdict like a criminal at a judicial hearing.

  “All right.”

  “All right, what?” she managed.

  “A blow to the head can cause memory loss.”

  “For how long?” she whispered.

  He shrugged. “It could be temporary. It could be of longer duration.”

  She wasn’t sure what that meant, and she was afraid to ask.

  “What country is this?” he suddenly asked.

  “The United States.”

  “And who was the first president?”

  “George Washington,” she answered, feeling a kind of relief. Her mind wasn’t a total blank.

  Then he went back to something that might be relevant in her life. “What kind of car do you drive?”

  She gave a little shrug, defeated once more. “How do you know I drive a car?”

  “Most people have cars. You came here in one.” He stood. “Let’s see if your effects trigger any memories.”

  “Okay.”

  He opened a closet door and brought out a suitcase—the kind with wheels and an extension handle so you could pull it like a cart. Not the smallest model, she thought. Mediumsize, which meant that she had memories of suitcases, but not of her own life. How odd.

  She moved, tucking up her legs to make room on the bed. Awkwardly, she opened the suitcase. Inside were knit tops, blouses, casual skirts, slacks, a pair of jeans, silky underwear. By the way some things were pushed to the side it looked as if the interior had been searched. The clothing was nothing flashy. But apparently she liked sexy fabric next to her skin.

  At the bottom were sandals and a pair of sturdy hiking boots. A flowered case held toiletries. She smelled the shampoo. Citrus. The toothpaste was mint-flavored. The supply of cosmetics was limited to the basics.

  She touched the personal items, as though some magic might transmit an association from her fingertips to her mind. Try as she might, though, she could dredge up no feeling of connection, no sense that these things might belong to her.

  “Do you want a mirror?”

  The question was asked in a casual tone, yet she caught an underlying edge in his voice.

  “Yes.”

  He turned to the dresser on the other side of the room, opened a drawer, and pulled out a large hand mirror. Taking it from him, she wrapped her fingers around the handle in a death grip, saying a little prayer in her mind.

  Please, God, let me recognize my own face.

  Then she raised her eyes. She was staring at a blond, green-eyed woman who would have be
en attractive, she thought, if dark smudges didn’t mar the skin under her green eyes and if her hair hadn’t been matted and stringy.

  Her nose was small and straight. Her lower lip was larger than the top one. Her eyes were set fairly wide. She looked for more details and saw that her brows were neatly plucked.

  She cataloged all that, but she didn’t know the woman in the mirror, and she had to clamp her lips together to keep from making a strangled sound.

  When she raised her eyes, Bridgman was looking at her expectantly.

  Her throat was so dry, she knew she couldn’t get any words out. Snatching up the glass of water, she took a long gulp. “I don’t recognize the face,” she finally whispered.

  Chapter Four

  Glenn’s stomach muscles tightened as he watched the play of emotions on Meg’s face. She was struggling not to cry. If she was faking panic, she was damn good.

  She set down the mirror and turned back to the suitcase to sift through the contents. Silently she lifted a shirt and put it down, then pulled a strand of blond hair from the hairbrush and twisted it around her fingers. Laying it carefully back on the surface of the brush, she felt in one of the bag’s side pockets and pulled out a pair of earrings in a small plastic envelope. They were little gold rings for pierced ears. Raising her hand, she fingered her earlobe and toyed with the small gold stud she found there.

  She said nothing, and a new thought occurred to him. Maybe this suitcase full of stuff was as bogus as the recently issued credit card. Maybe the contents had been assembled with the intention of creating a specific impression. Plain clothing. A minimum of makeup. Sexy underwear. A woman who promised more than the surface impression.

  Finally, when he couldn’t stand either her tension or his own, he asked, “Does any of this help?”

  Her eyes remained fixed on the objects. “I can infer certain things,” she said in a low voice, using the same word as Hal. “Nothing makes me remember anything specific.”

  “Too bad,” he retorted.

  She flinched as if he’d slapped her, and he silently admitted that if she really couldn’t remember anything, she was in a pretty frightening situation. She looked shellshocked, like a refugee who’d been allowed to take one suitcase of personal belongings. And when she’d opened it, she’d found the possessions of a stranger.

  A swift knock at the door made him turn. “Yes?”

  Jay Trescott stepped smartly into the room. He came toward Glenn, but his gaze flicked to Meg, who gathered the covers against her chest. Her eyes were wide as they took in the young man’s neatly pressed khaki uniform and the holstered weapon at his waist.

  “Do you have a reason for being here?” Glenn asked.

  Trescott’s face went a revealing shade of red. “Sir, you wanted to be informed immediately when we had the access road completely cleared.”

  “Yes.”

  “The rocks have all been removed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Dr. Ryder said to tell you he’d have something soon on the plants,” the kid continued, obviously trying to prolong the exchange. Probably a dozen guys were waiting for him to describe the woman who hadn’t emerged from the medical facility since her midnight arrival.

  “Thank you, Trescott.”

  “Sir.” The boy turned like a Prussian officer and left.

  When they were alone again, Glenn saw Meg swallow. “Who was that?” she asked.

  “One of my security men.”

  “He had a gun.”

  Glenn nodded. “The security force is armed.”

  A shiver rippled over her, and she slid her hands up and down her arms. “What kind of place is this, exactly?” she asked in a low voice.

  He considered the query, tried to imagine what she was thinking. If she’d really lost her memory she’d be frightened by Trescott, all right. And if she already thought she knew the answer to her own question, then maybe he had a chance to correct some mistaken impressions.

  “I do medical research here.”

  “With armed guards?” she asked, her voice rising on the last word of the sentence. “Is this some kind of government operation?”

  “No. This is a private research facility. I gather plants from around the world and test their medical potential,” he said, watching her reaction. She was listening carefully. “Some of my projects lead to commercially valuable discoveries. There have been serious attempts to steal some of my work before it could be brought to market. So you can imagine that we’re wondering about your unexpected arrival.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s quite unlikely that you would have wandered in here accidentally, so it would be helpful if you could tell me the purpose of your visit” He waited for some response.

  She offered a look of genuine apology. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew.”

  Neither of them spoke for several moments.

  “You’re a physician?” she asked.

  “I graduated from medical school—Georgetown. But my interest has always been research. I’ve gotten more into clinical practice because I do periodic health assessments of the men from Operation—” He stopped. “Of men accidentally exposed to a biological-weapons agent.”

  She nodded.

  He shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for her to ask more questions. When there were none, he said, “You’d probably feel more comfortable if you got dressed.”

  He moved toward her, touched the bandage on her head. “I’ll take this off, so you can shower. Pat the stitches dry when you finish.” He carefully peeled away the bandage and inspected the wound.

  “How does it look?”

  “Good. I’ll wait for you down the hall in the lounge.” He started to turn, then heard her make a small noise.

  When he raised a questioning eyebrow, her chest gave a little heave.

  “You said amnesia could be of long duration,” she whispered. “Does that mean I might never remember who I am or why I came here?”

  “Let’s not manufacture worst-case scenarios.” Unable to stand the look of anguish on her face, he turned and fled the room.

  MEG GRABBED THE BAG of toiletries, pulled some clothing from her suitcase, and dashed into the bathroom. After locking the door, she cradled her head in her hands. According to the man who said his name was Glenn Bridgman, she’d been on the road to his armed camp of a medical research facility when a rockslide had hit her car. She’d been knocked out and had awakened with amnesia. She shuddered. It could all be true. Or it could be an elaborate story; he could have drugged her and was holding her against her will. That would fit in with a place like this, wouldn’t it? But then why would he have admitted so much?

  The questions spinning in her brain made her knees weak. God, she was scared. But she wasn’t going to turn into a pool of jelly. She was going to figure out what to do. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in details. She was in an ordinary bathroom with white fixtures. The only window was small and high on the wall at the top of a small shower stall. Behind the sink was a medicine cabinet.

  The normality of the room made her feel a little more confident, until yet another sickening thought grabbed her by the throat. What if she had lost her mind? What if she were a patient in a mental hospital, and Dr. Bridgman hadn’t shared that information with her yet?

  Would a doctor do that? Maybe, if he thought it was in the best interests of the patient. She felt tears of fear mixed with frustration blur her vision. Waking up with no memory in this place was like being trapped in a nightmare. Only she knew she wasn’t sleeping.

  Raising her eyes, she gazed into the mirror, hoping that something had changed in the past few minutes. But the face that stared anxiously back at her still meant nothing.

  Turning away, she started toward the shower, thinking that she’d feel better once she was clean and dressed. Then she glanced at the window again. If she could get a view of the outside, she might have a better idea what kind of place this was.

  But that wasn’t go
ing to be easy. The window was some eight feet above the floor and set at the back of a deep ledge.

  She might have simply abandoned the idea, but a stubborn spark of determination wouldn’t let her give up. Purposefully, she looked around the room and spotted a white terry robe draped over a towel bar. Pulling out the belt, she tested its strength before making a loop at one end. Then she climbed on the toilet seat and tossed the loop upward toward the casement window’s handle. It took about six tries to get the range. Finally she was able to snag the handle.

  Sweat was already beading her brow, and she stopped to drag in several deep breaths. She was in no shape for acrobatics, and the thought of giving up crossed her mind. Instead, she braced her back against the tile on one side of the shower niche and her feet against the other, cautiously making her way upward, using both her body and the belt. By the time she reached the wide ledge at the top, she was panting and dripping with perspiration. Turning, she rested her arms on the ledge, and yanked on the crank until it finally turned.

  As the window swung open, she was rewarded by a view of a wide lawn, interrupted every so often by outcroppings of gray rock. To her surprise, it appeared to be late afternoon. So much for her internal clock.

  She was in a ground-floor room, which didn’t exactly give her a panoramic view, but by easing to the side, she could see that the building lived up to its name. It was a large stone castle that looked as if it had been transplanted from—

  She stopped, searching her mind for a reference. To her relief, she came up with several—from a Hollywood-movie set, and from Europe.

  She was about to close the window and lower herself again when she saw four uniformed men like the one who had spoken to Bridgman come up the driveway.

  Several others joined them, and they all gathered under a low-hanging tree. After looking around to see if they were being observed, they started talking. From their posture, it was evident that they wanted to keep the conversation private. One positioned himself so that he could watch a door about fifty yards to their right. When a tough-looking broadshouldered blond man stepped outside, the group immediately dispersed.