Memories of Megan

by Rita Herron

  Tom’s tailored suits went into the box first. After that his starched white shirts, monogrammed handkerchiefs, expensive ties, then his casual slacks and polo shirts. Although she was tempted to donate them to charity, Tom’s mother might want to go through them first, so she’d send her everything and let her decide what to do with them.

  She lingered over his running shoes and tennis racket, wondering how long it had been since he had used either one. Since he had done anything but bury himself in work.

  Not that she had been much better. She’d always wanted a big dog, a golden retriever, but Tom had been allergic to animals, so she’d relented. She’d given in on a lot of things—her pottery lessons, for one, because he’d thought they were too trivial. And she hadn’t even unpacked her collection of angels because he’d called them silly.

  Maybe she’d look for a dog this week, one that could keep her company and also alert her if anyone broke in. The memory of the night when she’d suspected someone was in the house made her blood turn to ice. She’d find that box of angels tonight. It was superstitious, but maybe they would protect her. And she’d sign up for pottery lessons, too, as soon as she found a class.

  Being a psychiatric nurse and having several counselor friends, she knew how important it was to keep one’s self involved in recreational activities, especially in times of stress or grief. She automatically toyed with the plain gold band around her ring finger. Why had she let Tom keep her from doing the things she loved?

  Shaking off the troubling thought, she tackled his desk next. Although he kept all of his patient files at the office, he often wrote up comments on his research at home, so various files filled with his typed notes had been jammed into the drawers. She pulled them out, sorting through them by date and title, then labeling them and organizing them into a file box she could store in the attic. According to the notes, he’d conducted several studies on autism, although she saw no notations on shock treatment. Other notes contained information on various mental disorders. The latest data focused on schizophrenics thought to have suffered traumatic incidents before age five. She’d hold on to his papers in case someone at the center needed them.

  A folder had been stuffed in between two of the notebooks. She frowned when she saw several hastily written notes about two patients who had experienced adverse reactions to a new research medication Tom had prescribed. Fred Carson and Jesse Aiken. She scanned the contents, surprised more when she noticed Tom had recommended the medication be changed, but someone had overridden his suggestion. Who? And why?

  Even worse, three months ago both patients had died.

  Being a psychiatric nurse, she should have heard about the patients’ deaths. Yet she had never heard either patient’s name before. And she’d never heard of the medication they had been taking. Even more suspicious, it appeared as if another name had been there, but it had been erased. Who was the other patient and what had happened to him? Was he still alive?

  COLE’S HEAD POUNDED AS HE drove back to his cottage. As soon as he made it inside, he collapsed onto the double bed, the whitewashed walls closing around him, the empty hole inside his head opening up, like a tornado, swirling with memories. He welcomed them, hoping for a clue to his past. Instead dark images bombarded him.

  It was night, nearly twilight, the sounds of the ocean a backdrop to the unnatural quiet. The purr of a boat broke the silence. The whisper of the wind on his cheek, the smell of impending rain, the rumble of thunder in the distance signifying a storm, the ominous feeling of being watched. His senses jumped to alert. The dread in his stomach weighed him down like an anchor, the reality of what he had done pulling at him with guilt.

  He knew what he had to do. But it was dangerous.

  He moored the fishing boat and scanned the murky surface of the shore, searching for the man he was supposed to meet.

  A shadow lurked in the distance, barely visible in the dim light of the quarter moon. The dark image scurried between the swaying boughs of the live oaks and fronds of the palm trees. He tried to distinguish the man’s face. Had they discovered what he’d planned to do? Had they come after him to stop him?

  Hands fisted, his heart racing, he searched the shadows again, ready to climb in the boat and flee. But sounds exploded into the night.

  A scuffle. A man’s loud groan of pain. A gunshot. He had to escape. He grabbed the boat’s anchor rope but a bullet pierced his back. He staggered, swayed, tasted blood. Another sharp sting slammed into him. He’d been hit again. This time lower. Pain and panic blinded him as he fell to the sand. Salt water sloshed into his mouth. He stared wide-eyed as a wave rolled toward him. The force dragged him out to sea. To his death.

  Megan’s beautiful face flashed in front of his eyes. The love they had once had.

  The mistakes he had made.

  If he died, she would have no one to protect her. He had to fight to stay alive. Paddle. Swim. Forget the pain.

  Or they would make her pay for his betrayal.

  MEGAN STARED AT THE FILES again. The only answer she could fathom was that the patients hadn’t been at the facility on Catcall Island, but at the more distant one on Nighthawk Island. Just what was going on out there? And how had Tom been involved?

  His work had always been secretive, to a degree, but he’d never confided that he had anything to do with the classified projects on the government-owned island.

  Were there other things she hadn’t known about her husband? She tucked the folder inside the box, making a mental note to cross-check the files at work for anything related.

  Remembering Tom’s date book, she sat down at the desk and flipped through the pages. Appointment dates with patients and other doctors filled the pages. She compared the dates with the dates of the patients’ deaths. The notations had been whited out.

  A sliver of apprehension snaked up her spine.

  Why had Tom covered them up? Who had he met with then?

  Her curiosity aroused, she scanned a few more pages, the listings of the last three months. Several notations had been made; Meeting about M-T. Obviously M-T was a code word for his latest research. But what did it mean?

  Did it have anything to do with those patients’ deaths?

  Or with Tom’s?

  COLE JERKED AWAKE, DAZED. What had happened? Had he been dreaming? Or had the encounter on the shore been for real?

  He stared at the cane, but refused to lean on it anymore. Instead, he limped to the bathroom, and found the mirror, searching for scars to indicate that he might have been shot in the back, but he couldn’t tell. His shoulders sported rough patches, scars from the scrapes and burns caused by his car accident.

  Dammit, he would confront Parnell and insist he give him some answers. He reached for the phone, his hands shaking. What if the doctors at the center were involved?

  He dropped his hand and headed toward the shower, questions bombarding him. If he was Cole Hunter, why would he have memories of Wells’s life? Of his wife?

  And why would the center tell him he’d been in an automobile accident if he had been shot? Why tell him he was a man named Cole Hunter if he really was Tom Wells?

  Unless they had made a mistake with the identification.

  Or unless they hadn’t wanted him to know he was Wells?

  But what reason would they have to keep his own identity from him? Wells was one of their most valuable employees.

  He had supposedly died in a drowning accident. The memory of the waves lapping at his face, of tasting the saltwater as it carried him out to sea, grew stronger. Supposedly Wells’s body had been attacked by sharks. In fact, he had been in the water so long, he wasn’t even recognizable. Dental records had confirmed his identification.

  The throbbing behind his eyes deepened as he struggled for answers. For more memories. He swallowed another pill, hoping to ward off the headache. He’d ask his doctor about the pain today. Maybe they could change his medication. He plugged in his laptop and checked the Oakland center’s We
b site, hoping to trigger memories of his former life. A few minutes later, he accessed a list of research projects, papers and articles written by the staff. Midway into the list, he discovered an article written by Cole Hunter.

  He accessed the article and skimmed the contents, a piece on nervous tics. But the date on the article couldn’t be right. It was dated twenty years earlier.

  Which meant he had to have been in his late teens when he’d written it. Impossible. Even if he’d been a child genius, he couldn’t have mastered a doctorate in psychiatry and written a study like that before he was twenty.

  Shock waves rode through him at the implication. He couldn’t be Cole Hunter.

  Unless his father’s name was also Cole Hunter and he had written the article. He raced to the counter where he’d left the file Jones had given him about Cole Hunter and scanned the contents, his stomach knotting when he read his father’s name. George Hunter.

  Not Cole.

  The doctors at the foundation had lied to him.

  The images of the shooting played over in his mind, so vivid his stomach clenched. If he wasn’t Cole Hunter and the images had been real, had been memories, then Megan might be in danger. And that car fire had probably not been an accident.

  He picked up the phone to call to confirm that she was okay. His pulse raced when she didn’t answer.

  MEGAN TOWEL-DRIED HER HAIR as she hurried toward the jangling telephone, but by the time she reached the phone, it stopped ringing. She glanced at the caller ID Unknown.

  Just as well. It was probably a bill collector. Financial issues—another burden she had to deal with. She grabbed a cup of coffee, ready to dry her hair when the phone rang again.

  This time it was April. “Morning, Meg. Just thought I’d check in. See if you were coming to work.”

  Megan settled on the edge of her bed. She had considered staying home since she’d barely slept the night before, but she needed to keep busy. “I thought I would. But I have to pick up a rental car.”

  “What happened to the Explorer?”

  Megan explained about the fire, skimming over the frightening ordeal.

  “Oh, my God, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. It did shake me up a little.” Then Cole Hunter kissed me and rattled me even worse. But she couldn’t talk about Cole. Not yet.

  “You want me to swing by and give you a lift?” April asked. “Only thing is I have to be at work at seven.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll probably grab a taxi and go by the rental car place first. I’m doing the nine-six shift today.” Megan remembered April begging off dinner the night before. “So, tell me about your date?”

  “It was great. But I still can’t talk about this guy. I don’t want to jinx it.”

  “Okay, but you have to tell me soon. I’m dying to know.”

  “All right.”

  “April, I need to ask you something about the center.”

  “What?”

  “Have you ever heard of a project called M-T?”

  A second ticked by. “No. Why are you asking?”

  “No reason, really. I saw something in Tom’s notes about it when I was cleaning out his desk. I was just curious.”

  “Listen, Meg. I wouldn’t go snooping and asking questions about classified material. You know how tight they guard those restricted projects.”

  “I can’t help it, April. Daryl Boyd’s comments bugged me. And some of Tom’s notes have been whited out.”

  “Let it go, Meg.” April’s voice sounded concerned. “Just accept his death and try to move on with your life.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Megan said goodbye, then hung up. She should let things go.

  But questions filled her head.

  She fingered one of the soft-sculptured angels she’d unearthed from her collection the night before, wondering at her friend’s sudden resistance to talk about a new boyfriend and her reaction to her question about M-T.

  Of course, Megan had her own secrets now. She hadn’t been able to confide about her reaction to Cole the night before, either. Or the fact that she’d found those mysterious files. The doorbell rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Hot coffee sloshed over the rim of her mug and hit her thigh, scalding it. She winced, dabbing it with her soft cotton robe. Who could be here this time of the morning?

  The bell dinged again, as if the visitor was impatient.

  Belting the robe tightly around her waist, she rushed to the door. If it was a salesman, she would give him a piece of her mind. “Who is it?”

  “Cole Hunter.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed, tensing automatically at the sound of his husky voice. “Look, Dr. Hunter, I don’t think it’s a good idea—”

  “Please let me in, Megan. It’s really important.”

  “What could be so important that you’d come over here at six-thirty in the morning?”

  “I can’t tell you through the door.” He hesitated, and she imagined him turning to leave. She hoped he would leave. But his voice echoed seconds later, full of determination. “It really is important, Megan. I have to talk to you.”

  “Then see me at the hospital.”

  “No, it can’t wait.” His voice turned low, gruff. “I…I think you may be in danger.”

  COLE’S HEART HAD RACED the entire way to Megan’s, the images of the fire the night before haunting him. The sense that Megan was in trouble escalated with every mile.

  Thankfully she was fine. At least for now.

  She opened the door partway, left the chain connected and peered through the narrow opening. He drank in the sight of her creamy skin, her golden hair, those sky-blue eyes and steeled himself against reaching for her.

  Because it seemed the natural thing to do.

  She wouldn’t welcome his touch, though. In fact, she looked terrified of him.

  “Why would you say something like that?”

  He saw the fear, but read anger in her voice, too. Good, he could deal with anger. He was used to dealing with that.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you—”

  “Well, you are frightening me. Now who are you and why are you threatening me?”

  “I’m not threatening you.” Cole had to explain.

  But how could he when he didn’t understand what was going on himself?

  “Please just let me come in.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture, hoping to alleviate her fears. “I…we have to talk. It’s about Tom.”

  Her breath hitched out. “What about Tom?”

  He indicated her robe, her damp hair. The neighboring apartments. “Let me come in. I’ll wait until you dress and then we can talk.”

  She hesitated, still wary. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  He had no idea how to convince her he was telling the truth. “Because I won’t hurt you. I swear I’m trying to keep you safe. For…for Tom.”

  She stared into his eyes for a long second, the tension rippling between them. Finally she relented and opened the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Suddenly conscious of her near-naked state, she gathered her robe tightly at the neck and turned and fled to the back room. Her bedroom.

  A place where she and her husband and lain together. A place he could see in his mind. Brass bed. Maroon walls. A dark green comforter. An antique dressing table that she had bought at a flea market after they were married.

  He staggered back, holding his head in his hands as he wove his way to the kitchen. Hoping to calm himself, he poured himself a cup of coffee and settled down at her oak table, trying to piece together the images in his mind and decide if they were real.

  A box of files had been shoved into the corner. He read the label—Tom’s files.

  Praying the box might trigger more memories and offer some answers, he pulled it near him and began to sift through it.

  SHAKEN TO THE CORE, MEGAN threw on jeans and a pale blue shirt. She wanted answers and fast. Slipping on socks, she padded to the kitchen, shoc
ked to find Cole Hunter pawing through Tom’s files.

  “What are you doing?”

  Cole’s surprised gaze swung to hers, emotions glittering in the depths of his brown eyes. “I…I’m sorry.”

  “Is that the reason you came barging in here? You wanted to snoop through my husband’s files?” She glared at him. He’d shed the cane today and looked even more ominous and masculine than before. “I thought you had access to his work files already.”

  “I…I do some,” he said, a guilty edge to his voice. “But I thought you might have found some things I haven’t seen.”

  He was lying. She wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did know. And his wild-eyed gaze raised the hair on the back of her neck. “I don’t believe you. Now—” she paused, clearing her throat and putting a forceful ring to it “—tell me the truth about what you meant earlier or get out.”

  He dropped the files and nodded solemnly, cupping the coffee mug with both his big hands. Her gaze was riveted to the brown ceramic mug. It was Tom’s favorite. Why had he chosen it?

  “I’m waiting.”

  He nodded again and took a big sip of the coffee. “Will you sit down?” He lowered his voice. “Please.”

  She paused, reheated her own coffee, scraped back a chair, and sat down facing him.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “Well, you did. Now, why would you say I’m in danger? And what’s all this about Tom? Do you know something about his death?”

  His eyes widened. “You think his death wasn’t accidental?”

  Megan shrugged. “I…well, I wondered. Tom was an excellent swimmer. He knew the coves, the weather, if there was a storm that night, he would have gotten out of the water before it hit.”

  He seemed to absorb that information. “I…I don’t know how to say this, Megan. But—”

  “But what?” Her voice took on a shrill note. “Just tell me what you know about my husband.”

  He waited a tense, long heartbeat, then spoke so calmly that she barely heard him. “I’ve had some memory flashes lately. Last night.”