by Rebecca York
She flushed, looked down at her hands.
The man across from her shifted in his seat. “I should be preparing you for the procedure. Are you familiar with the polygraph?”
“No. It just sounds like something out of a police state.”
“You’ve probably heard of the police using it. But it’s also employed extensively in private industry.”
“It’s not admissible as evidence in a trial, is it?”
“No. But in the hands of a skilled operator, it’s very effective. And Blake Claymore is very skilled.”
“Oh, goody,” she replied.
A smile danced at the corners of Dorsey’s mouth before disappearing. “Let’s stay on track, shall we? Basically, the polygraph measures the body’s physiological changes—respiration, blood pressure, pulse rate and something called galvanic skin response—that are all triggered by emotional responses to specific verbal questions. You’ll be hooked up to apparatuses that record these changes.”
She gave a tight nod, as Claymore reappeared in the doorway, looking like a candy freak who’d been given the keys to the jelly-bean factory. “Ready. Come this way.”
For a moment, she was paralyzed. Then she managed to make her body work so that she could move around the table and across the few feet to the door.
GLENN ROLLED THE CRAMPED muscles in his neck and shoulders. “I want an autopsy report on the dog as soon as possible.”
Dylan Ryder nodded. “Parker already has some of the blood work done. It looks like he was given a massive dose of atropine.”
Glenn swore. “That would have made him psychotic, all right. No wonder he bolted from his pen and attacked. Poor Shipley was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Yeah.”
His eyes narrowed as his mind turned over various unappealing possibilities. “So how did he get it? The same way Lipscomb was drugged?”
“Blake is working on it.”
Glenn nodded, remembering that the phone had rung several times while he was patching up Terry. He’d declined all calls. “I want Shipley to see a plastic surgeon and a neurologist,” he said.
“Is that necessary? You did a superb job of stitching his arm.”
Glenn scowled. “A workman-like job. I want that arm to look normal and function normally. I don’t want that kid’s life ruined because he signed on to work at Castle Phoenix.”
“I’ll make the arrangements. We can have him airlifted out of here to New York City within the hour.”
“Do it,” he ordered as he tossed his white coat into the laundry bag.
He’d kept his mind off Meg while he worked. Now a picture of her snapped into focus—Meg handling a Winchester rifle like Rambo.
“What happened to Ms. Wexler after I left?” he asked.
Dylan busied himself putting instruments in the autoclave. “Blake took her to security for questioning.”
“What? You knew that, and you didn’t tell me?”
“We got a phone call from Hal. He approved it. You were busy stitching up the kid. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“Approved what?” he growled.
“A polygraph test.”
Glenn cursed under his breath.
“It makes sense.”
“She’s in fragile shape. She doesn’t need the stress.”
Dylan was looking at him. “She’s in fragile shape because she invaded our territory.”
“Right,” Glenn retorted, but he was already on his way to the door.
CLAYMORE LED MEG TWO doors down the hall to another room with what looked like a window covered by a venetian blind beside the door. Inside were two chairs and various pieces of equipment. The window turned out to be a large mirror. A one-way mirror, she assumed.
When her escort closed the door behind them, she jumped.
“Where—where is Mr. Dorsey?”
“General Dorsey will be watching through the mirror. The procedure works best if the operator and the subject are alone.”
“He’s a general?”
“Retired. Sit down,” Claymore said, indicating the far chair, which was equipped with huge armrests. Beside it was a machine with dials, a printer-like device, and a number of electrical leads.
She sat and saw her bloodless face in the mirror. She already looked guilty of something, she decided. Closing her eyes, she tried to keep her breathing even as Claymore attached a blood-pressure cuff and several monitors to her fingers. God, if the thing was measuring nerves, the reading must already be off the scale. When he tightened a rubber tube-like apparatus across her chest above and below her breasts, she cringed.
“Am I hurting you?” he asked, not sounding particularly sympathetic.
“No,” she whispered, fighting the desire to rip off the connectors as he adjusted dials on the machine.
“Ready?” he finally asked.
She gave a tight nod, tensed, and ordered herself to relax.
“I want a baseline,” he said, looking at the printout coming from the machine.
“Is your name Meg Wexler?”
“I don’t know,” she answered.
“Have you ever lied to someone who trusted you?”
She gave the same answer and heard him swear under his breath as he watched the bank of pens move across the paper. “I’d like yes or no answers.”
“I wish I could give them to you,” she retorted.
“Did you have an automobile accident on your way to Castle Phoenix?”
An image of the black Volvo filled her mind. “Yes.”
“Did you kill the dog attacking Alex Shipley?”
“Yes.”
“Did you come here to get information?”
“I don’t know.”
GLENN TOOK THE STAIRS two at a time. Four men had already stopped him to ask questions about Shipley, and he hoped there wouldn’t be any more.
Ignoring the two guards at the entrance of the security center, he charged toward Hal, who moved his chair to block the door to one of the interview rooms.
“What the hell’s going on?” he demanded. Through the mirror he could see Meg inside, facing Blake, her face as white as paper, telemetry equipment attached to her body.
When he reached for the door handle, Hal shook his head. “Don’t. He’s already pretty well into the session. Let him finish.”
“She—”
“Glenn, we’re giving her a chance to prove she isn’t lying. Or are you afraid to find out the truth?”
Admitting nothing, he turned and faced the window.
“Did you come here to see Glenn Bridgman?” Blake asked Meg.
“I assume so.”
“I said answer yes or no,” the security chief snapped.
“This was your idea,” she reminded, obviously trying to keep her voice even—and a leash on her nerves. “I told you, I can’t remember anything.”
“Are you telling the truth when you say you can’t remember your name, your background?” Blake demanded, leaning over to mark the question on the graph paper.
Meg raised her head, watched him reading the machine. “Yes.”
“Did you come to Castle Phoenix to seduce Glenn Bridgman?”
His heart skipped a beat, then started pounding in his chest. What kind of question was that, for Lord’s sake?
“No,” Meg snapped.
“Are you sure?”
“No,” she answered in a lower voice.
“Would you like to seduce Glenn Bridgman?”
Her lips trembled. “I don’t have to answer that.”
“Are you using sex to get favorable treatment?”
His nerves screamed as he waited for the answer.
“No.”
“Did you come here to spy on him?”
Meg made a small sound of frustration. “I don’t know.”
“Are you familiar with the Winchester rifle?”
“I must be.”
He kept the questions coming fast now, not giving her time to think a
bout the answers.
“Did you climb up to the bathroom window and see me outside?”
“Yes.”
“Are you familiar with covert operations?”
“No.”
“Have you ever killed a dog?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever killed a person?”
“No.”
“You’re sure about that?”
She raised her face to Blake’s. “As I keep telling you, I can’t be sure of anything.”
“Do you want to have a personal relationship with Glenn Bridgman?”
“Yes,” she whispered, then looked down at the hands twisting in her lap. “Please. No more.”
“Have you already had sexual relations with Glenn Bridgman?”
Her face flamed. “Stop it!”
“That’s enough,” Glenn growled as he pulled open the door and surged into the room, his angry gaze fixed on the security chief.
Blake looked up, his face contorted. “I—”
“Get out,” Glenn growled.
Claymore stood, then retreated.
When Glenn looked back at Meg she was tearing off the equipment that had attached her to the machine. He wanted to help her get the wires and leads off her body. Instead, he stayed where he was.
“Go away,” she whispered, her voice thick, her face averted. “Just go away. Do you think I want to be anywhere near you now?”
He didn’t move. Couldn’t.
After several heartbeats, she lifted her eyes, and he saw that they were filled with tears. “That was—” She stopped, gulped. “How much of that did you hear?”
“The last ten minutes.”
The color in her cheeks deepened.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “That session was…unforgivable.”
“Did you order him to ask me those questions?”
“Of course not! You were with me when I told Blake I didn’t approve.”
“Well, for all I know, that could have been a little performance for my benefit,” she said in an oddly detached voice. “If you were hooked up to the machine, I’d know if you were telling the truth.”
“Meg—”
“I can’t remember anything about my life. But I’d be willing to bet that was the most mortifying experience I’ve ever endured. Like being stripped naked.” She sucked in a shuddering breath and expelled it in a kind of gasp. “I agreed to let them do the polygraph because I thought it would prove something—exonerate me. Now…is there some cell where I sit while you and General Dorsey and the chief of security decide whether to march me in front of a firing squad?”
“I had a room made up for you in the residential quarters. You can—”
She cut him off before he could finish. “Then let me go there. If you have to keep me in your castle like a prisoner, at least give me some privacy.”
Chapter Eight
“The goons who brought me here can take me,” she added in a barely audible voice.
Probably that was best, he silently told himself. He was getting too involved. But he couldn’t stop himself from imagining how he’d feel if someone had asked him the questions he hadn’t dared to ask himself—then checked to see that he wasn’t lying about the answers.
Turning, he strode to the guard station. “Take her to the guest quarters. Room 24.”
“And lock the door?” the senior man asked.
“Yes.” There was no question about that. It was for her own protection—as well as the protection of Castle Phoenix.
He ducked into one of the other rooms so he and Meg wouldn’t pass each other in the hall. Long after her footsteps receded down the corridor, he waited in the sparsely furnished cubicle, his hands clenched at his sides. When he felt calm enough, he went in search of Blake. He found the security chief showing the polygraph readings to Hal.
“I don’t appreciate the two of you getting together and making decisions when I’m in the middle of an emergency,” he said with deceptive composure.
“It was in your own best interests,” Hal answered with no trace of apology. “We need as much information as we can get about Ms. Wexler.”
Glenn silently conceded the point. He hadn’t authorized the procedure, and he hadn’t liked some of the questions, but he would be stupid to ignore the results if they prevented another unfortunate event like the attack on Shipley.
“You might as well fill me in.”
Blake relaxed a notch. “Well, we don’t know as much as we normally would. The fact that she can’t remember her past is…inconvenient.”
“So you’ve established that she’s not lying about the amnesia,” he clarified, feeling a weight lifting off his chest.
“Yes,” Hal replied. “Unfortunately, it would be more definitive if the reverse were true.”
“Want to explain that?” Glenn challenged.
“All we know is that she can’t remember who she is and why she came here. That doesn’t mean her intentions were honorable.”
Glenn gave a curt nod, then said, “You didn’t follow standard procedure.”
“Which standard procedure?” Blake asked.
“I hardly think you went over the list of questions you were going to throw at her.”
“Sue me,” the security chief muttered.
“What the hell were you trying to do to her?”
“Put her under pressure. Get her to slip up.”
He should leave it there, Glenn told himself. Instead he asked the question that had been tearing at him since he’d arrived at the session and heard her grappling with questions about the two of them. “Are you convinced she was answering truthfully to the best of her ability?”
“As far as I can tell.”
“I wouldn’t take that to the bank,” Hal advised.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Glenn retorted.
“It means, keep your pants zipped.”
“I don’t need that kind of advice,” he snapped. In fact, if anyone besides Hal had given it, he would have invited the man to step outside.
For a charged moment, he and Hal stared at each other. Glenn turned away first, addressing his next comment to Blake. “Write me up a report.”
“I want to talk to you about her,” Hal said.
“Don’t push your luck,” Glenn muttered.
Hal ignored the advice. “I enjoyed talking to her. I can see why you’re attracted to her—starting with that gorgeous body. Beyond that, she appears to be a warm, vulnerable young woman—until you start asking yourself the obvious questions.”
“Drop it!”
The older man plowed ahead. “Her innocence is what makes her dangerous. That’s what makes you vulnerable.”
Without bothering to answer, Glenn pivoted on his heel and strode out of the room.
IT WASN’T A GUEST ROOM, it was a guest suite on the castle’s top floor, Meg found as she wandered through the luxurious rooms, switching on lights. There was a bedroom furnished with antiques, except for the obviously new queen-size bed; a sitting room with similar appointments; a little kitchen alcove, and a bathroom that looked as if it belonged in a health spa. The only drawbacks were that the door locked from the outside and the windows were barred. But she wasn’t really surprised by the security precautions. She had a pretty good idea how far they trusted her here at Castle Phoenix.
They. The men who ran this place. Claymore. General Dorsey. Glenn Bridgman.
Men. She made a small sound of frustration. There didn’t seem to be even one woman who lived and worked here. Maybe if there had been, these guys would have had a slightly different perspective on life.
The thought brought back a vivid replay of the session with Claymore.
“Do you want to have a personal relationship with Glenn Bridgman? Have you already had sexual relations with Glenn Bridgman?”
The questions rang in her head, even when she pressed her hands over her ears—the questions and her answers. If she’d known Claymore was going to get into any
thing like that, she would have flat out refused.
A choking sensation rose in her throat, and she stared toward the barred window, knowing there was no escape—from either this place or her feelings.
The feelings were dangerous, she told herself. She’d been drawn to Bridgman for the wrong reasons; had imagined qualities that he didn’t possess. If he’d let his security chief humiliate her like that, there was no telling what he’d do to her—and she’d better not forget that. If she dropped her guard with him again, she would be a fool.
JEROME JOHNSON PACED the length of the terrace, his hands moving restlessly at his sides.
Twelve hours ago he’d gotten a coded message from Castle Phoenix, and he’d sent his response at the designated time.
Unfortunately there was no real-time two-way communication, only prearranged codes to describe certain situations, because security at the castle was tight, and he hadn’t been willing to risk his agent being detected.
All he knew was that something had gone wrong with the damn girl. She hadn’t been following her part of the scenario, so he’d given the order to eliminate her before she spilled the beans to Bridgman. She’d served her purpose. They could get the biological-weapon samples without her. Then his lab team would get to work on the genetic engineering needed to increase the rate of cell destruction. That would make it a much better weapon—better than the original. And anybody who wanted the stuff would have to come to him.
But right now, everything was at a standstill until he got the “microbes” or whatever you called them. Too bad his technicians hadn’t been able to extract it from the sick men. They’d tried, all right. And he didn’t understand all the scientific mumbo jumbo they’d given him to explain why that didn’t work. All he knew was that you couldn’t get enough of the stuff to work with unless you started with a pure, laboratory sample.
He cursed under his breath, angry that he had to depend on other people. If he’d been able to go in there himself, it would all be over now.
He entered the house, his steps carrying him to the indoor firing range with its customized targets that bore various likenesses. His father. His chief competitor in the arms business. His high-school math teacher. And a dozen more, including Glenn Bridgman.
