by Rita Herron
“—said he suffered some kind of head trauma.” April washed the bagel down with a sip of coffee. “He said Hunter suffered memory loss, that he might never recover to full capacity.”
“You’re saying he might be…brain damaged?”
April shrugged. “They don’t know if he’ll remember all of the details about his work, or if he’ll ever be able to apply it again. The center plans to bide its time and see.”
“That’s too bad.” Did Hunter know about Dr. Jones’s diagnosis? “Did he mention anything else?”
April thumbed a strand of red hair behind her ear, her fingers tapping on top of her files. “That the medication he’s on sometimes makes him say crazy things. So, you probably shouldn’t believe everything he tells you.”
Megan’s hands tightened around the coffee cup. “You mean he hallucinates?”
April shrugged. “Sad, but he may need psychotherapy. He may be delusional or suffering from emotional trauma from the accident. Jonesy said that he exhibited signs of paranoia while he was in the hospital.”
Megan tried to assimilate that information. It made perfectly good sense. After all, the story he told her had been bizarre.
But she couldn’t forget the intimate way he’d touched her, his promise to protect her. Or that he had known things about her and Tom that no one but the two of them could know.
COLE SPENT THE MORNING scrutinizing the files and old notes he found in Tom Wells’s office. He sensed something was missing. That some of the files and information had been censored. He also found nothing on the three patients Megan had mentioned.
Occasionally, as he skimmed notes on a certain disorder, he found sections that had holes in them. Files that seemed incomplete. Had someone else already examined the papers and removed things they didn’t want him to see?
But why? If they’d brought him here to work, why wouldn’t he be privy to all of the information on the projects Wells had worked on?
Notes on Wells’s work with autistic patients seemed the most complete. He had detailed the history of treatments from the past as well as other research facilities. Everything from shock treatment, which had been taken to extremes, and had been legally banned two years before when a patient had died in a small hospital in New York, to a program called TEACCH which worked with early intervention techniques and appeared to have miraculous success with children.
A knock dragged him from his thoughts and he looked up to see Connie in the doorway.
“Good morning, Dr. Hunter. I thought I’d check and see if you needed anything.”
He needed answers, but somehow he didn’t think this innocent woman could help him. Then again, she had worked with Wells. He smiled, trying to put her at ease. “Connie, how much did you know about Tom Wells’s work?”
She fiddled with the doorknob. “I usually typed up his notes on patients after a session. Made appointments for him. But he never showed me any of his research notes—he preferred to log them in himself.”
Cole nodded. “Do you know anything about his studies with hypnosis?”
“Only that he was excited about its possibilities. You may want to look at it.” She went to the file cabinet, rummaged through and pulled out a folder. When she opened it, a puzzled look covered her face.
“What is it?”
“This is weird.” Connie thumbed through the pages. “The information on the experimental drug he ordered is missing.”
“He drugged the patients during hypnosis?”
Connie made a noncommittal gesture. “The medication was supposed to relax the patient. Some people resist the hypnotic state, so this drug simply helped their subconscious relinquish control so they could accept hypnotic suggestions.”
“What was the name of the drug?”
“Cognate.”
Cole jotted it down. “Wells was also working on a project called M-T. Do you know anything about that project? Did this drug have something to do with it?”
Connie twisted her mouth in thought. “I’m not sure. You probably should talk to Dr. Jones and Dr. Parnell. They oversaw all his research projects.”
“Right. Thanks, Connie. I think I’ll do that.”
His curiosity piqued, he wondered what other uses Wells and the other doctors had found for this mind-altering drug. Was Cole given something similar while he was in the hospital?
WHAT WAS COLE HUNTER UP TO today? Megan wondered. Had he had found anything in Tom’s files to indicate what might have happened to her husband? And to Cole himself? She fought the temptation to go to his office and ask, but the uncertainty of his identity and April’s comments disturbed her.
She’d ask a few questions of her own. Right after she dropped in to see Daryl Boyd.
In light of Cole’s suspicious, Boyd’s barely coherent rantings took on a more ominous feel. She had checked Boyd’s file and discovered that at one time he had been a patient in the sister facility on Nighthawk Island, that he had opted for an experimental drug doctors hoped would control his schizophrenia. Notations showed it hadn’t worked.
But why would he have gone there instead of here for the treatment?
She didn’t understand the placement logic at all. All of the research conducted on Nighthawk Island was highly restrictive, whereas nothing on his chart indicated he’d been involved in anything but a normal treatment program. Except for that one visit.
When she opened his door, she grimaced at the sight of his pale, thin face. Early-afternoon sunlight painted the room with a golden glow, highlighting the dark shadows beneath his eyes. He lay sleeping on his side, turned away from the window. He complained sometimes that the bright light hurt his eyes, but the doctors had found no physical reason for the problem; it was just part of his paranoia. She picked up his chart and studied the nurse’s notation. He hadn’t been sleeping or eating well, and had obviously lost weight. Not a good sign.
But he seemed to be resting peacefully now, so she hated to disturb him. Maybe she’d come back later.
She stepped closer to the bed to tuck the blanket around his thin shoulders. Just as she moved to touch it, he grabbed her arm.
“Thank God you came back.”
Megan stifled a gasp and tried to remain calm. So far, Daryl Boyd hadn’t exhibited dangerous behavior, but with his illness and the combination of medication, she had to be careful. “Yes, Mr. Boyd, I wanted to see how you were doing.” She gently tried to extricate her hand, but he gripped it tighter.
“You have to get me out of here.”
She had heard this plea before, from several patients. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Haven’t the nurses been paying enough attention to you?”
His eyes took on a wild-eyed look. “I’m not joking, Nurse. You have to help me.”
“We’re trying to do that, Mr. Boyd. That’s why the doctors have been treating you.” She smiled, trying to calm him. “Maybe I could arrange to take you up to the solarium for a while. Or to the game room. You like to play cards, don’t you?”
He forced her to lean closer. “No cards. I have to get out of here. Please, you have to help me.” His voice grew more agitated.
“I know you want to leave, and if you follow the doctor’s orders and work hard in therapy, I’m sure they—”
“You don’t understand. They tried to take my mind before.” His voice grew higher, almost a shriek. “If you don’t help me, they’ll kill me.”
AFTER CONNIE LEFT, Cole searched Tom’s computer files, not surprised to find that he needed a code to access most of his material. He would have to talk to Megan, see if she knew Tom’s password, or if he had backup files at home. He did tap into some personal files and discovered Tom had accumulated some sizable debts. He checked further and found he’d received a hefty payment a few weeks before he’d died and had paid off most of the debt. Did Megan know about the transactions? Had Wells received the bonus for going along with unethical practices at the center?
Frustrated and tired, he stood and stre
tched, then left the office in search of Davis Jones. Maybe the man would have some answers for him. But he’d have to play his cards right…
A few minutes later, he found him in his office. Jones waved him in. “What can I do for you, Dr. Hunter?”
Cole scanned the walls, noting Jones’s impressive credentials framed in the center. “I have some questions about Wells’s research.”
Jones rocked back in his leather chair and steepled his hands. “So, your memories of your work are returning?”
“Slowly.” Cole claimed a seat in one of the brown wing chairs facing Jones’s desk. “The patient files are familiar, but I’m curious about Wells’s project, M-T. I can’t find any details on the project, and I haven’t been able to access Wells’s files.”
“That project was scratched. No need to even bother with it. I suggest you focus on remembering your own research regarding hypnosis.”
Cole nodded, determined to ask a few other questions while he was here. “After my accident, why was I brought here instead of the main hospital in Savannah?”
Jones didn’t miss a beat. “The paramedics who pulled you from the wreckage found a notebook with the center’s name in it—you were on your way here for a meeting and had a file in the seat beside you. They phoned Dr. Parnell and he immediately insisted they bring you here.” Jones pulled up his appointment book and glanced at it as if he’d just remembered a meeting. “Why all the questions, Hunter?”
“Just curious, I guess.” He had to tread lightly. “Maybe I should visit Oakland for a few days, see my old home turf, old office. That might trigger my memories.”
A frown pinched Jones’s deep-set eyes. “I don’t think you should leave just now. You suffered a terrible trauma. And with the plastic surgery, it’s no wonder you’ve felt disoriented.” He extended his palms in a thoughtful gesture. “Take the advice you’d offer your own patients. Give yourself time to heal.”
Cole hesitated. Had he seen a flicker of panic in Jones’s eyes when he’d mentioned visiting Oakland?
THE DOOR FLEW OPEN and Megan sighed in relief when Dr. Parnell strode in Daryl Boyd’s room. Parnell’s thick eyebrows bushed out above his glasses as his gaze landed on the way Boyd was clutching Megan’s arm. “Ms. Wells, is there a problem?”
“Uh, no.” Megan freed her arm, well aware Daryl Boyd’s pale face turned a pasty-white at the sight of the doctor. “Mr. Boyd was telling me he wants to go to the game room later. That is, if you approve a small outing.”
Parnell angled his head sideways to study the patient. “We’ll see what we can do. Let me have a talk with him first and I’ll let you know.”
Megan backed away from the bed, hating the way Daryl Boyd had suddenly retreated back into his shell. It wasn’t the first time a patient had accused the doctors of trying to hurt them. One patient last year claimed he’d been attacked by several of the orderlies, then beaten by two doctors. Another had sworn that during surgery to repair his knees, the doctors had implanted sensory devices to track his whereabouts and connect with aliens.
So why did Daryl Boyd’s behavior bother her so much? And why did she suspect that he wasn’t acting out of paranoia because of his condition, that something else might be triggering his erratic behavior?
COLE HAD HIT A BRICK WALL with Jones. The man obviously didn’t intend to tell him anything. Megan seemed to be the only link he had to the truth.
Maybe he could convince her to check the files, check his medical records and hunt for anything suspicious. An odd notation about medication, his blood-type… He froze in the hallway near the nurses’ station. He’d get Megan to draw some blood and do a blood test. Results wouldn’t ID him 100%, but they could tell if he had the same blood type as Tom Wells.
She was walking down the hallway with her friend, April, when he approached. Her friend gave him a once-over, too, a myriad of questions in her eyes.
He greeted them as they converged at the nurses’ station.
“Getting settled in, Dr. Hunter?” April asked.
“Yes, thanks.” Cole smiled, hoping to alleviate the tension between them. He gestured toward Megan. “Can we talk for a minute?”
She and April traded odd looks while he waited silently. What had they been discussing in the hallway?
“My shift’s over anyway.” April rolled her shoulders. “I’ll see you later, Meg. Be careful, okay?”
“I will.” Megan braced her hands on the nurses’ desk. “What is it, Dr. Hunter?”
He leaned closer for privacy. “Did you find out anything today?”
Megan shrugged. “Not really. And you?”
“Nothing concrete. Just a few missing files. I asked Jones about that project, M-T. He said it had been scratched.”
Megan angled her head in thought. “That could explain why Tom’s notes were incomplete. But why white out the data? Normally he’d keep all the information so he’d have a record of anything that didn’t work on a project for future reference.”
“Some notes on an experimental drug he used to induce hypnosis were missing, too. Do you know anything about Cognate?”
“Not much. But from the notes I saw the other day, I think it’s been tried with Alzheimer’s patients to help with memory.”
Cole contemplated that information. “I tried to access his files but failed. Do you know Tom’s password?”
“No.”
“Think about it, Megan. Those files might explain the project. Do you know if Tom had backup disks at home for any of his work?”
“I’m not sure.” She tapped her chin in thought. “Wait. There’s one drawer of his desk I haven’t cleaned out yet. There might be some things there.”
“Can I come over and have a look tonight?”
A frisson of fear lit her eyes but she quickly masked it. “I suppose so.”
“Megan, did you know Tom had accrued some heavy debts, that he recently received a bonus and paid them off?”
“No.”
He grimaced as disappointment darkened her eyes. Obviously more secrets Tom had kept. “I want you to give me a blood test.” She started to speak, but he cut her off. “I realize a simple blood test won’t tell us who I am. But if my blood type doesn’t match Tom’s, then at least we’ll know I’m not your husband.”
MEGAN’S FINGERS TREMBLED as she tightened the tourniquet around Cole’s arm, her gaze studying his bent elbow. Did this arm belong to Tom? Cole was about the same size as her husband had been, a little leaner, but his accident would have accounted for that. Was the coarse brown hair on his head thicker than Tom’s had been? Had Tom been graced with strong veins the way this man’s arms were?
She should know these things, yet the details seemed blurred now.
His breath bathed her face as he watched her tap the needle and insert it into his arm. She stared at the dark red blood seeping into the tube and wondered how she would feel if she discovered Cole Hunter was Tom.
And how he could know things about her if he wasn’t.
She didn’t believe in ghosts or reincarnation.
His eyes seemed to be boring into her, his intense look so unsettling she nearly dropped the tourniquet as she snapped the thin rubber tubing off his arm.
“It’s going to be all right, Megan,” he said in a quiet voice. “I’m sorry for putting you through this. If I’m not Tom…”
Her gaze rose to meet his. “If you’re not?”
“If I’m not, I’ve upset you for nothing. Given you false hope. Dragged you into my problems.” He brushed a tendril of hair from her face, the movement so gentle that Megan’s breath caught.
“I just want to know the truth.” She placed the blood sample in the plastic holder, then wiped his arm with a cotton swab and placed a bandage over the spot.
He rolled down the sleeves of his white dress shirt and buttoned the cuff while she ran the blood test. Her pulse raced as she checked the results.
“AB positive,” he said quietly. Their gazes met and locked.
The same blood type as Tom Wells.
MEGAN’S HEART THUNDERED in her chest as she drove home. They didn’t know anything for certain, she reminded herself. Only that Cole shared the same blood type as Tom. So did thousands of other people. It proved nothing.
Yet she couldn’t escape the uneasy feeling that the test results added more doubt to an already gnawing suspicion that something was very wrong with her husband’s death. And with Cole Hunter’s appearance.
She’d fled the hospital as soon as she’d seen the results. She couldn’t deal with Cole right now. She couldn’t look into his eyes and see the uncertainty, the questions, the hope that she might be able to help him unravel the truth.
And she couldn’t face the fact that he might be Tom.
Or that if he wasn’t, he still looked at her as if he wanted her. That she still wanted him.
If Cole was Tom and he’d been shot, then who had shot him? Why had someone tried to kill him? And why had they buried another man in his place and sent Tom back with a different face and name?
It made no sense.
The secrets he’d kept taunted her. The debts he’d accrued. Had Tom taken money to cover up something illegal at the center?
She checked over her shoulder to change lanes and spotted a dark sedan a few cars back. Was it the same car she’d seen outside her apartment the other night?
Her insides quaking, she sped up and turned off a side road, glancing behind her to see if the car followed, but she didn’t spot it. Thank God. Ten minutes later, her stomach still knotted, she parked in the parking lot behind her town house and hurried up the steps. The shadows of the huge oak trees backing the property blocked the last remnants of daylight. She could barely see to fit her key into the lock. Maintenance needed to put up a back light; she’d call them tomorrow. Finally she jammed the key in the door, but the door screeched open on its own. Megan’s heart stopped. Someone had been in the apartment. Magazines and books were scattered on the floor, the lamp lay on its side…
