by Rita Herron
Megan had to escape the fear that had swept into her life since Tom had died and nearly stolen her senses. She needed to escape Cole Hunter.
“Take a deep breath,” Cole said. “Inhale. Exhale. Come on and sit down, Megan.”
She shook her head when he motioned toward the chair, but she did as he’d instructed and forced herself to do some deep breathing exercises to calm herself. Panicking wasn’t going to help Daryl Boyd. Or bring him back.
Still, the accusations he’d ranted the last time she’d been in to see him echoed in her mind.
The fact that Tom’s death had been called accidental, but now police suspected he’d been murdered. The microbiologist’s death that had been similar five years ago. Cole’s accident and appearance at Tom’s funeral. The fact that someone had tampered with her car, then shot at her.
Was Daryl Boyd’s death really a suicide or was it related to the other mysterious things that had been happening at CIRP?
COLE AND MEGAN SPENT THE next hour at a staff meeting Dr. George Ferguson, Jones’s assistant, had called to discuss Daryl Boyd’s alleged suicide. Apparently Jones and Parnell were both away for the day at a medical convention in Atlanta.
“The police are checking the possibility that Boyd’s death wasn’t suicidal,” Dr. Ferguson said.
“Did he leave a suicide note?” one of the nurses asked.
“Yes. The police are checking it out also, as a precaution, but it looks legitimate. His handwriting matches. There will be a full investigation, but meanwhile I hope our staff will keep all the other patients calm.” His voice rose with authority. “Although I don’t think Boyd had formed friendships with any of the patients at the center, be on alert for any patient who needs grief counseling. We don’t want to mention the police investigation either and create a panic among the patients.”
“Like they’re not paranoid enough,” one of the doctors muttered, earning a low rumble of chuckles from the staff, laughter which they all knew resulted from much needed tension release, not anything funny.
Ferguson cleared his throat. “Now, this episode brings us another problem. We need to double-check security regarding the dispensing of all medicines.”
“How did Boyd obtain the drugs he supposedly used to kill himself?” Cole asked.
Ferguson eyed him over his clipboard. “We don’t know yet, but we’re looking into it. If he had assistance, rest assured we’ll find out from whom and we’ll deal with them.”
The staff dispersed, huddling in various smaller groups to chat, others rushing back to duty or home depending on their schedules.
“Who was Boyd’s primary psychiatrist?” Cole asked.
“Dr. Jones,” Megan said in a low voice. “Although Tom treated him before that.”
And Boyd had accused Cole of doing horrible things to him? Had he instinctively sensed that Cole was Tom? Had Tom performed some unethical type of treatments on Boyd? Was that the reason Tom had been so secretive?
“I think I’ll hang back and talk to Dr. Ferguson,” Cole said.
“I want to see how Connie is.” Megan stuffed her hands in her pockets. “And then I’d like to take another look through Tom’s files. We have to find his backup disk.”
“I’ll meet you at the office in a little while,” Cole said. Hopefully Ferguson could give him some information on Tom Wells’s work. He’d question him about the hypnosis treatments Wells had used, too. Maybe it was time he thought about taking steps to force his memory to return.
MEGAN WAS SURPRISED TO FIND Connie’s door closed; she normally left it open during office hours. She knocked but no one answered, so she turned the knob. The door squeaked open and Megan slipped inside, frowning at the empty desk. Connie had probably taken a coffee break. She would wait and check on her, then she’d search Tom’s files one more time.
Inside Connie’s office, she paused to study little Donny’s photo, his cherublike face resurrecting her own nurturing instincts, when a noise sounded from Tom’s office. She froze and listened. Cole couldn’t have arrived that quickly; she’d left him waiting to speak to Dr. Ferguson. The rattling continued. A footstep. A low voice. Someone mumbling.
She tiptoed toward the door and peeked between the cracks. Connie stood at Cole’s desk, rifling through several files. The paper shredder churned and spit out the remnants of whatever papers Connie had fed it.
What in the world was she doing?
Connie glanced up just as Megan rounded the corner of the door. Her mouth flew open, her hands trembled. “What…what are you doing here, Megan?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.”
Connie bit her lip, that little nervous flutter of her eyelashes a telltale sign. “I…I was getting rid of some of Tom’s old files. He asked me to clean them out before he died, and I never got around to it.”
Megan raised a brow, waiting to see if she elaborated.
“I haven’t been that busy since Dr. Hunter took over so I’ve had plenty of extra time and I thought it would make things easier for him.” She halted as if she realized she’d lapsed into rambling mode, but Megan refused to let her off the hook. There were too many strange things happening at the center to not pay attention to every detail. Instead she walked over and glanced at the file folders, skimming the labels.
Daryl Boyd’s name flew out at her.
“You were destroying Boyd’s files?”
“No, of course not.”
Megan picked up the folder and found it empty.
“That was a duplicate one,” Connie said. “I consolidated his file into one.” She indicated the drawer. “It’s right here if you want to see it. We never should have had two files…that was a mistake. I was new and accidentally typed two different labels.”
Megan examined the file. Everything seemed to be intact. But what if she had shredded some papers about Boyd? “I’m sure Dr. Ferguson and the people investigating Daryl’s suicide will need to see this.”
“I figured they would,” Connie said, her eyelashes fluttering anew.
Another glance at the folder and Megan read two more names. Fred Carson. Jesse Aiken.
Where had she heard those before?
The names she’d seen in Tom’s notes—the patients who’d had adverse reactions to their medication and had later died. Another name, Harry Fontaine. The third man, still unaccounted for. What had happened to him?
The last file surprised her even more. Connie Blalock. “You shredded your own file?”
A nervous laugh escaped Connie. “Listen, Megan, I realize it’s not the norm—”
“You shouldn’t even have access to your own file.”
“But I haven’t been a patient for a while, and Terry is making noises about suing for custody of Donny, and I was afraid he might get hold of them and use that information against me. With father’s rights activists raising a stink lately, I was afraid some judge would ignore the fact that he was abusive, and I panicked.”
Megan didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but Terry Blalock had been abusive. Tom and confided that much. She had seen the bruises on Connie more than once. Connie’s ex-husband didn’t deserve his son.
But even if she could justify Connie destroying her own file, what about the others?
She needed to see what had been in those files.
She struggled for a solution, then remembered the backup system the center used. A file room in the basement that contained duplicates of patient’s files. It was worth a shot.
“Listen, Connie, you shouldn’t destroy any more files, old or not, until Dr. Hunter gets a chance to review them.”
Connie nodded, looking relieved not to be reprimanded or fired. She gathered herself and strode toward her own office. Megan silently memorized the numbers on the files in the trash and followed Connie back into her office.
After Connie locked Cole’s door, Megan headed downstairs to the file room. She didn’t want to believe that Connie might be connected to Tom’s death or wi
th Daryl Boyd’s or the danger surrounding her, but she had acted suspiciously. And Megan wanted some answers.
COLE HAD TO WAIT IN LINE to speak to Dr. Ferguson. Meanwhile he studied the reaction of the staff. Most of the nurses seemed to have calmed although Megan’s friend, April, seemed agitated as she answered Ferguson’s questions about the day and Boyd’s death.
Finally she turned to leave, her gaze nervous as it met Cole’s. Then she disappeared down the hall.
“Dr. Ferguson, do you have a minute?” Cole extended his hand. “My name is Cole Hunter.”
“Yes, Dr. Jones mentioned you were here. It’s nice to have you.”
“Can we step into the lounge for a minute?”
Ferguson gestured for him to lead the way and Cole did. When they both had coffee, Ferguson turned to him. “What can I do for you?”
“Did Jones mention my amnesia?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the hypnosis techniques Tom Wells was working on.”
“I wish I could, but I haven’t been here very long. I’m afraid Wells was already gone when I came to work here.”
“Have you used hypnosis with amnesia patients?”
“Yes, if you’re interested, I’d have to conduct a full exam first, though. I need medical charts as well.”
“All right.”
“Do you think you’re ready for hypnosis?”
Cole shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m willing to give it a try. I need to figure out what happened in my past.”
“All right, we’ll schedule a time. I’ll be out of town next week, so let’s shoot for the week after.”
Cole agreed. “Megan Wells claimed that her husband Tom treated Daryl Boyd the last few months before he died. When I first met Boyd, he mentioned some kind of treatment with a helmet? Do you know what he might have been talking about?”
Ferguson jerked his head sideways. Cole had noticed the nervous tick during his talk with the staff. “No. Boyd was paranoid—”
The fire alarm suddenly sounded, the wail piercing in intensity. The door flew open and a nurse poked her head in. “It’s not a drill. This one’s real. We have to evacuate.”
MEGAN HAD JUST LOCATED the files on Carson and Aiken and had started searching for Harry Fontaine’s when the fire alarm rang. Darn it. She wanted to find Connie’s file, too, and see if she could learn anything about M-T. Hopefully this was just a drill.
Dust motes hung in the stale air, the scent of moisture strong as if the roof might have a leak somewhere that needed to be fixed, and a spiderweb dangled above her. She combed the rows, hurriedly searching the stacks for Cole’s file. Footsteps pounded above her though and she halted. It sounded as if they were clearing the building.
An odd odor permeated her nostrils. Not moisture this time.
Smoke.
The fire was real. Somewhere close by.
Her heart jumped in her chest, skipping a beat. She ran toward the door, scanned the room and noticed a thin stream of foggy smoke curling through the bottom opening. Fear splintered through her. But she ordered herself to be calm. She was in a secure building. The fire alarm would alert the security. Firemen would arrive any second.
Reminding herself not to panic, she pressed a hand to the door, but quickly jerked it back. The door was already hot. A sob welled inside, but she swallowed it.
Frantic now, she glanced around the wall of files for another escape. No back door. No window. If a fire spread inside, the paper files would go up in a second. She had to get out. Take a chance. Run through the fire if she had to.
Even knowing the door was hot, she reached for the doorknob and tried to turn it.
But the door was locked. Megan choked on a sob.
There was no way out.
And not a single soul knew she had come down here.
COLE’S HEART HAMMERED as he helped the nurses and staff evacuate the thirty-something patients in the psych ward. Calming them and reassuring them that things were fine had been difficult, but since the fire had broken out in another part of the building, they had rationale on their side. Out of sight made it seem surreal, but the staff couldn’t take any chances.
“Are we going to die?” an elderly woman shrieked as he pushed her wheelchair toward the exit.
“No, ma’am. Everything is fine. The firemen are already here.”
“Mercy, is it the Fourth of July!” a man screeched.
“I got to save my cats,” another woman shouted.
“Your cats are at home and they’re fine,” a nurse murmured patiently.
“Get those damn spies who bombed the place!” a deranged man yelled.
“They burning the witches?” another patient cried.
Nurses and volunteers combed the crowd trying to calm them while firemen raced toward the building, storming inside with rescue equipment to scope out the source. Emergency vehicle lights swirled in the cloud-covered sky, the lawn was a chaotic mess, filled with hospital beds, wheelchairs and staff, all staring as smoke fogged the lower windows and flames streaked through the first floor.
“We’ll try to contain the blaze, folks, and hopefully have you all back inside shortly,” a rescue worker announced over a bullhorn.
“You’ll be fine here, ma’am.” Cole settled the woman’s chair beside another patient’s. “I have to check on some other folks.”
She nodded, squinting as if her hearing was impaired. He ran through the confusion, searching and shouting Megan’s name, but couldn’t find her.
“Have you seen Megan Wells?” he stopped to ask one of the psych nurses he’d seen talking to Megan earlier.
“No, not since the meeting with Dr. Ferguson.”
His heart hammered as he continued to search. He found an orderly he’d seen on the psych ward. “Have you seen Nurse Wells?”
The man shook his head and Cole ran on. Finally he spotted April huddled by Jones. Oddly Jones had his arm around her in a comforting gesture, but Cole didn’t have time to contemplate their relationship.
“April, have you seen Megan?”
April’s eyes widened in alarm. “I thought she left.”
“She went to check on Connie. Have you seen her?”
“There’s Connie!” April pointed and Cole spun around to see Connie running from the building. He raced toward her. She looked wild-eyed and nearly collapsed as he reached her. He steadied her with his hands and caught the faint scent of smoke on her clothes.
“Connie, have you seen Megan?”
She shifted her gaze, tears blurring her eyes. “A little while ago. But I thought she left.”
No, she wouldn’t leave without telling him. Would she?
“Did she say where she was going?”
She shook her head. “No, I figured she went home. Maybe she’s helping with the patients.”
“I’ve already looked, she’s not here. And she doesn’t have a way home. I gave her a lift earlier.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “She said she wanted to look through Tom’s files again.”
Connie gaped at him. “She…she came in his office, but she left.”
He struggled to think of where she might have gone. “Are duplicate copies of the files stored anywhere in the building?”
Connie’s face paled. “The basement. There’s a storage room down there.” She slapped her hand to her mouth and pivoted, a low cry tearing from her throat. “Oh, my God. The file room is in that wing. If she went there, she might be trapped inside.”
Chapter Fifteen
Megan banged on the wall and yelled until her throat was raw, silently cursing herself for not bringing her purse with her. At least then she’d have her cell phone. Determined not to give up, she scanned the room for a backup system to open the door or another entrance, but found nothing. Damn. The smoke grew thicker, nearly filling the room. Once the fire crept inside, it would catch the paper and the room would be ablaze in minutes.
She took a calming breath but gagged on the smoke.
&
nbsp; Don’t panic. Someone will come.
Only no one knows you’re down here.
The fire alarm was still ringing, though, she reminded herself. Firemen had to be here by now. Surely they would find her. Knowing smoke naturally floated upward, she dropped to her knees, coughing as more smoke wrenched the air from the dark basement room.
She scanned the room for something to create a noise and spotted an old metal ladder in the far corner. She crawled toward it, gasping and coughing. By the time she reached it, sweat trickled down her face and neck, and her limbs felt weak.
She yanked it down and dragged it toward the door. When she crossed the room, she grabbed the metal rungs and banged it on the concrete floor. Once, twice. A few more times. But exhaustion pulled at her, and heat pounded her from all sides, draining her. Smoke filled her lungs, suffocating and thick. She coughed, fighting the terror, but her eyes grew heavy. Her chest heaved as she struggled for air. She finally collapsed, unable to fight any longer. The bitter taste of death filled her mouth as her face met the cold hard floor.
COLE’S HEART POUNDED as he ran toward the building, but a fireman grabbed him and yanked him to a stop before he could move any further. “You can’t go in there—”
Cole tried to jerk away. “I think a woman may be trapped in the basement file room.”
“The basement is where the fire started.”
“I know.” Cole fought for calm. “You have to find her. She’s a nurse here. Her name is Megan Wells.”
He gestured toward the lawn. “Have you looked out there?”
“Yes, dammit, and she’s not there.” He pushed past him. “And if you won’t look for her, I will.”
The fireman chased after him, but Cole didn’t stop. He ran down the hallway, tugging his shirt over his mouth to stifle the smoke. Seconds later, he dodged a small blaze in the hallway, found the stairs and sprinted down them two at a time.
“Wait!” The fireman followed, close behind.
“We have to get to her!” Cole shouted.
Flames ate at the basement in sporadic patches while several firemen hosed them down. Where was the file room? He scanned the hall, his pulse clamoring when he saw the fire spreading through the downstairs. A blaze crept along the wall, splintering wood and sending sparks flying. Heat poured off the fire, drenching him in sweat. Smoke rose like a heavy fog through the halls.
