by Cate Noble
Erin scribbled as Winchette moved down the list. It wasn’t unusual for his entire roster to include drug study patients. As a matter of fact, over the past few months he’d grown increasingly vocal about his desire to focus exclusively on such studies. Almost like he was obsessed with these patients.
In fact, Colby Deets had let it slip that the Springfield facility would be nothing but research and development, a joint collaboration with several major pharmaceutical companies. Bristling with self-importance over his role as Winchette’s newest pet, Deets had made it clear that he expected to be reassigned there as well.
“Hold on.” Once again, Winchette impatiently tugged his cell phone free and held it out to glance at the caller ID. His scowl deepened. “I have to take this one.” He opened the phone. “Winchette.”
Erin looked out the window, taking in the crowded freeway as she idly wished for this excursion to end. Maybe a getaway was what she needed. Time alone to regroup. Maybe Alice was right. Maybe a good old-fashioned booty call would help reset her circuits. Ground her back in the real world of flesh and blood lovers, not imaginary men who existed only in dreams.
“Did you say there were two men? Good Lord! When did this happen?” Dr. Winchette’s voice rose. “No need to do that. I can let Dr. Houston know.”
His tone was impossible to ignore. She noted the rising flush in his cheeks. He was getting more agitated by the moment. And judging by the accusatory look he’d just thrown her way, she was involved.
Guilt climbed up her spine.
“What is their ETA?” Winchette looked at his watch now. “I’m on my way. And I don’t want those men taken to the Naval Hospital. Tell them I’ll call back with the name of a private facility with a neurologist on staff where these men should be taken. Also find out who the agent in charge is and whom he reports to. That’s the person I want to speak with.”
When he disconnected, Erin cleared her throat, waiting for an explanation of why her name had been mentioned. “Is everything okay?” she prompted when he remained quiet.
“No. It’s not.” Clearly displeased, Winchette pressed the intercom button.
“Yes, sir?” The driver’s voice came over the speaker.
“There’s been a change of plans. I need to return to the hospital at once.”
Erin frowned. “You’re canceling your trip?”
Dr. Winchette peeled off his glasses before responding. “I’m needed for an urgent matter in California. Two men have been recovered and are en route to San Diego.”
“Recovered” meant the men had been missing; likely captured. Winchette being called in meant the suspicion of psychological abuse. His experience and background in mental coercion techniques, psychological warfare, also meant the case was ugly, messy.
“One of these men apparently worked with Dante Johnson,” he went on.
Aha. Erin nodded, careful not to overreact. Dante was Winchette’s former patient, the one that had requested Erin take over his case.
Far from a model patient, Dante had resisted assistance, bending only when his job required it. Initially it seemed he’d been around just long enough to cause trouble—for her—before disappearing.
Then he’d contacted her a few months ago, wanting to voluntarily complete their session. They’d since developed a great rapport.
Erin had learned a lot about Dante and the type of person it took to do the job he did. She’d also gotten a glimpse of what he’d gone through. Pure hell.
“Are these men in the same shape as Johnson?” Dante had been brought in near death. Recalling all the scars on his body made her shiver. She also remembered his rantings. The horrible nightmares.
“Worse perhaps,” Winchette said. Both are unconscious; one was shot in the head. They haven’t even landed in San Diego yet and there seems to be doubt whether either will survive the flight. I promised to make a couple calls, pull some strings.”
“What can I do to help?”
Winchette looked directly at her now, his gaze resigned. “You need to accompany me to California. Someone at the CIA has requested your presence as well.”
Chapter 5
Calder Center, San Diego, California
September 19
It was after 6 p.m. by the time Erin and Dr. Winchette made it to the Calder Center hospital.
Fighting rush-hour traffic in an unfamiliar city left her with a short temper that matched her sour mood. With the hospital’s main lot torn up because of the new parking garage going up, the surrounding streets were jammed. The closest spot she could find was still two blocks away.
Winchette had been on his cell phone nonstop since they’d deplaned. At first she’d been pissed with his secretiveness, thinking it was a ploy to keep her in the dark. It was painfully obvious that he was not thrilled about her coming.
But during the ride, she’d realized that Winchette’s caginess was mostly due to his own lack of facts. Winchette viewed “I don’t know” as a sign of weakness. Brushing her off, acting too busy to talk, was his signature modus operandi in those situations.
The scant details he had shared about this case were intriguing. Two men, both unconscious, had been pulled out of what she half-jokingly referred to as the CIA’s Cosmic Lost and Found Box.
These were the don’t ask patients who were smuggled into hospitals and kept under wraps. They usually disappeared with an equal measure of stealth, leaving a wake of hushed speculation about their identity and circumstances.
That was another thing about Lost-and-Foundees: a higher authority dictated when they came and went. In Spyville, ships didn’t just pass in the night. They just totally disappeared, their existence likened to ghosts. Spooks.
In this case, one of the men, Max Duncan, was a colleague of Dante Johnson, himself a Lost and Found alumnus. She knew two other operatives had originally disappeared with Dante a couple years ago. But according to Winchette, only one of those missing men had been recovered.
So who was this other man brought in with Max Duncan? That he’d been dubbed “John Doe” could mean anything from a true unknown to an honest-to-God Elvis recovery. Given that the men had been routed here, to a private facility, meant Mr. Doe wasn’t a threat or high-profile criminal, like say, bin Laden, but still her curiosity was piqued.
She already knew a little bit about Max Duncan, from Dante talking about him. And she’d seen a photograph once. The guy had been dark fantasy material. I could give you an orgasm, but then I’d have to kill you. Of course, most everyone she’d met who worked with Dante had that quality. Alice had nicknamed them the Macho Squad.
Leaving her carry-on luggage in the rental car’s trunk, Erin snagged her briefcase and purse and hurried toward the hospital after Winchette.
Winchette went straight to the information desk in the lobby and was given two badges. He handed one to Erin.
“Dr. Giles is expecting you,” the clerk said. “Take the red elevator to the third floor.”
“Giles is the staff neurologist I mentioned. We’ve worked together before,” Winchette said before stepping into a crowded elevator.
Since he was licensed to practice in a number of states besides Virginia and California, Winchette had an established network of colleagues.
That Giles had worked with the intelligence community before made it easier to cut hospital red tape. Giles had had the two patients admitted quickly and anonymously, keeping them isolated from staff and other patients. From what Erin gathered from the phone conversations she overheard, Giles was already deferring completely to Winchette.
As soon as they stepped off the elevator, an older man with thin sandy hair approached and introduced himself as Dr. Giles.
“You must be Dr. Houston. Welcome to San Diego,” he said. “Stanley, good to see you again.”
Winchette nodded. “I was just telling Erin how invaluable your discretion and assistance are in this matter.”
Her smile tightened at the small lie.
Giles’s shou
lders, however, straightened. “Glad to help. We can talk in here.” He led them into a small alcove hear the nurses’ station.
Winchette was all business now. “Any change in their condition?”
“No. Sedation levels were increased due to seizure activity during the flight. I’ve maintained that dosage since I knew you were en route.”
“Yes. We’ll review that in a moment. Have you had a chance to order MRIs?” Winchette asked.
Giles nodded. “As a matter of fact, the patient with the head wound was just returned to his room. I believe the other patient is still down in radiology, but I’ll check on that. I’ve also secured an unused meeting room at the end of the hall for you and your associates.”
“Associates?”
“The two agents that accompanied the patients. Johnson and Taylor?” Giles looked from Winchette to Erin. “Er, they flashed CIA identification after I questioned their presence. Then they grilled me like a sandwich.”
“Ah, them,” Winchette said. “Where are they now?”
“Getting cleaned up. I gathered they had a long flight and were kept on their toes with the patients’ seizures and other problems. They said to tell you they would be back shortly.”
Winchette’s pained expression said that he wasn’t looking forward to dealing with either of the CIA operatives. Dante Johnson and Rocco Taylor had both managed to clash with Winchette during Dante’s hospitalization. She’d bet none of them had any fond memories of the other after that.
“Here are the patient files, by the way.” Dr. Giles picked up two folders from a table. “I’ve kept everything segregated. Even their rooms, 320 and 322, are at the far end of the hall.”
Winchette took the files and handed them to Erin. “Why don’t you go on to Mr. Duncan’s room? I’ll be along shortly.”
While his brusque dismissal was irritating, it didn’t surprise her. Winchette was jostling for control, no doubt practicing for a face-off with Dante.
She welcomed the chance for a few minutes alone. When she reached Max’s room, she paused outside to read his file. Most of what she saw confirmed what she already knew. Maxwell DeWayne Duncan, Caucasian male, age thirty, had been wounded during an extraction, his head grazed by a bullet that could have easily killed him.
In addition to a skull fracture, he suffered a concussion and a deep scalp laceration, which had likely been crudely stitched in the field. She was a psychologist, not a medical doctor. She’d missed all the blood and guts training, but she knew enough to recognize that while Max’s injuries sounded slight, they could render a patient vegetative for life.
You’re lucky to be alive, Max.
He’d been kept in a drug-induced coma to ease brain swelling, a standard procedure, which also helped forestall further seizures. Max’s prognosis, while incomplete pending further tests and assessments, seemed more promising than the second patient’s.
John Doe had been found unconscious and had suffered multiple seizures, with increasing frequency. Doe, too, was heavily sedated but that he suffered no obvious injury was puzzling. And ominous. Much was omitted here. A familiar sensation rippled over her, the one that warned she should be alert and keep her ears open.
She flipped back to the earliest report in Max’s file. According to it, he’d arrived at a Singapore hospital less than twenty-four hours ago. The initial CT scan revealed a fracture at the base of the skull and several small hematomas, which were suspect in the seizures.
There was no indication that he’d ever regained consciousness, which could be attributed to the sedatives given to him at the Singapore hospital.
Erin paged through the last of the reports, but nothing she saw indicated the circumstances of how Max had been found or what hellhole he’d been pulled from. The fact that his medical records originated in Southeast Asia was somewhat telling. Hadn’t Dante Johnson been held in a prison in that same area?
She needed to speak to Dante. He could fill in the blanks about what conditions Max was held under. She would also find out more about Max personally, to help him better.
Straightening her blazer, she pushed open the door. As soon as she entered Max’s room, her earlier irritation with Winchette dissipated. Professional compassion flooded her system.
Setting the files and her briefcase on a corner table, she moved closer, her eyes taking in the unconscious man strapped to the bed. Surrounded by a host of monitors and IV poles, Max’s skin was ashen, his head partially bandaged.
As she drew closer, she did a double take. Aside from the paleness and bandage, Max appeared to be in excellent health. She had anticipated that he’d look, well, a hell of a lot worse. Dante Johnson had been so sick and emaciated following months of torture.
And while she had no idea what further injuries lay beneath the sheet, Max’s physique, what she could see of it anyway, appeared normal, even robust.
She could guess at the conjecturing taking place. Did the CIA think Max had earned preferential treatment by bartering information? Dante had complained bitterly of being treated with suspicion after being in enemy hands for eighteen months. Max would likely be viewed more harshly.
She scowled. In light of the circumstances surrounding her father’s death, that whole conjecture game left a bad taste in her mouth. It was so easy to toss stones.
Assume nothing, her father always said.
She stepped closer to the head of the bed and let her gaze sweep across Max’s face. Immediately she felt a softening in her knees. The pictures she’d seen of him before paled by comparison.
Max Duncan was one of those drop-dead gorgeous types rarely seen outside the pages of glossy magazines. Long lashes fanned down, toward sharp cheekbones. His beard was thick, but not heavy. She’d guess he normally kept his face clean-shaven.
His file indicated no next of kin, but the fact that Max was so attractive made it difficult to imagine there wasn’t at least one femme fatale pining away over him.
In fact, hadn’t there been a rumor that Max had been involved with the same female operative that Dante Johnson had initially blamed for his capture? That Erin knew Dante and Catalina Dion were together now didn’t mean she was privy to all their secrets.
Max’s hair, what she could see of it, was practically blue-black. Stick-straight and short, it was also matted with dried blood.
She made a mental note to ask one of the nurses to wash that part of his hair. A small thing perhaps, but she liked to think that if she were the patient, someone might remember the kindness of a little grooming.
“Hello, Max. My name is Dr. Erin Houston.” She kept her voice low and even.
Just because a patient appeared unconscious didn’t mean he couldn’t hear. Countless studies reported patients being aware of everything said during surgery, even though they had been fully anesthetized.
“I’m going to check your pulse,” she continued.
But the moment her fingers grasped his wrist, she jerked to a stop, feeling as if an invisible force coursed through her, holding her in place. To touch him was electrifying.
She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Her breath caught as desire shot through her. A vision of kissing him flashed in her mind, a memory so real she closed her eyes.
In her mind’s eye, she was standing in Max’s embrace; he’d been searching for her and had been furious that she’d been…lost. His desperation, born of thinking he’d never see her again, never touch her again, was tangible and she ached to soothe him, to reassure him.
Except this wasn’t her fantasy anymore. It was his and he wanted her naked and open and longing for him. Only him.
Yes…yes…yes…
The intensity of the moment peaked and burst so rapidly Erin stumbled sideways. Throwing her arms out to catch her balance, she turned away from the bed. Mortified.
What the hell had just happened?
For a moment she’d felt…possessed. Taken. Owned.
Damn Alice! Clearly her friend’s suggestion that Erin didn’t ha
ve a sex life had brought all this up.
Get a grip.
Drawing a sharp breath, she looked back at the bed.
And stared into Max’s fully open eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but as he held her gaze, his pupils constricted.
“Max! Can you hear me? Can you blink?”
He blinked. This was not the sightless gaze of the comatose.
Erin scrambled to grasp his hand once again. “Can you feel me squeeze?”
He blinked again.
She placed her fingers beneath his. “Can you squeeze my hand?”
At first there was nothing, and then she felt slight pressure. A definite response!
One of the monitors started beeping loudly. She glanced at the flashing display. His blood pressure kicked up, spiking over two-twenty. His hand grew slack now, and when she looked back, his eyes had closed.
“Stay with me, Max!” She squeezed his hand again, but got no response.
The door opened just then, and Dr. Winchette and a nurse came into the room.
“And then I want—” Winchette broke off his instructions as soon as he heard the beeping alarm. “What’s going on?”
“The patient just opened his eyes and responded. Twice,” Erin explained. “Then his blood pressure shot up.”
“He’s going into a seizure.” Winchette grabbed the syringe from the nurse and marched straight to the bed. He quickly muted the alarm, then injected the syringe contents directly into the IV port.
“But—” Erin’s voice faded as the flashing numbers on the machine began to drop and slow dramatically.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Erin. I’ve seen what you described enough to know it’s a precursor to a tonic-clonic seizure, which this patient has a history of.” Winchette turned to the nurse. “I want this new medication carefully monitored. And let me know as soon as the other patient is back in his room.”
