Jane pulled halfheartedly against the restraints. “Where am I?”
The nurse pushed slanted glasses up her nose. “In the hospital, of course.”
“Which hospital? What happened?”
The woman made a face and ignored the first question. “Because you are committed.”
“Why? I’m not crazy.”
“Of course, dear.” Her words didn’t match the eye roll.
Jane licked her dry lips. “Why am I tied down?”
“For your safety.”
“What’s going on ... in my stomach?”
“Yes, well, you have a bit of an infection from, um, the infection. Well ...”
“Infection?”
The woman glanced around, and a tiny iota of sympathy flitted across her severe features. “You lost the baby.”
“Baby? What?”
Oh God. In a rush, images blasted in and out of her mind, like a Super 8 movie at the end of the reel. Flip, flip, flip. Light, shadow, specks. New images piled on top of old ones until she couldn’t tell where reality started and her imagination stopped.
The nurse’s cold pat on the arm brought her back to reality. “My dear, you lost the baby. Your husband, Mr. Thompson, brought you here, but you were out of your mind. He thought it would be better if you received treatment in the psych unit. For your own safety.”
“No. That’s wrong.” Jane frowned. “I’m not crazy, and I’m not married.” A flash of recognition hit her, and panic choked her. “Oh my God. He’s a bad man. Please, I need to get out of here.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere. Mr. Thompson is one of our hospital benefactors, and he’s very concerned for your welfare.” She lifted the syringe and flicked a bead of liquid from the tip of a long needle.
“What are you giving me?” Her heart pounded.
“Something to help with your anxiety. And something for the infection.” She swabbed Jane’s upper arm and arced the first syringe down to bite into muscle.
“Please. I need— What day is it?” The world fuzzed around the edges, but Jane fought to stay conscious.
“July 10, 1974, of course.”
She’d lost three months?
“How long have I been in the hospital?”
“A little over a week. Treatment has been ... challenging. We were waiting for you to get over that infection so you’d be strong enough for ECT.”
She struggled against the medication fog. “ECT?”
“Electroconvulsive therapy.”
“You’re going to shock my brain?” Breathing became difficult.
“Yes, so you don’t say those crazy things anymore.”
“About what?”
“Silly things about Mr. Thompson being a criminal. And how the government is involved.”
Oh God, what else had she said?
The nurse sighed. “He’s such a patient and loving man who hasn’t given up on you. He’s even coming by to check on you later today.”
What the hell had happened to her?
Blasts of sensation smacked into her. A bedroom that smelled of sex and desperation, then his big, sweaty body laying on her, grabbing her, forcing her to ... Over and over, endless invasion clouded by drug after drug. Bad shit, burning her tongue. A pill going into her mouth and a hand holding her head until she swallowed it. And she’d let it happen, all to get the information to complete her mission.
Her mission. What a ridiculous mistake. God. Memories slid through the nurse’s medication. The horrible pain, all of the bleeding while she was trapped in that room. Thompson wouldn’t help her. How had she survived that house of horrors?
If Thompson suspected she was a narc, he would’ve let her die. So why was she alive? How had she ended up in the hospital?
A vague image formed of her crawling down the stairs and into the street. Somehow, she’d flagged down the police. Then she recalled an ambulance and a concerned Thompson.
By sheer luck, she had done the one thing possible to buy herself time and stay alive. She’d made a spectacle and thrust Thompson right in the limelight.
So why was she still alive?
Too much attention on Thompson. He had to bide his time.
Besides, he needed to find out what she knew first. Then he could kill her.
The meeting with Thompson today.
With an extra dose of medication and a sprinkle of plausible deniability, just like that, there would be no more Jane. She yanked at the unyielding restraints.
If Thompson didn’t finish her off, then the mole in the DEA would figure out how to get rid of her. Implicating a member of the DEA as participating in a cult financed by drugs would destroy the entire organization. If the DEA went under, they’d take her with them.
Her breathing came fast and harsh as the drug took over and mixed with bare fear.
Then psychedelic swirls of light, the sharp scent of rubbing alcohol, and mindless pain in her gut created a wild howl of confusion that blended poorly with whatever the nurse had given her. Confusion blanketed her mind. The howls weren’t coming from down the hall.
They were coming from Jane’s own mouth.
Chapter 6
Barnaby swabbed the floors with a thoughtful flourish. His shoulders chafed against the starched white uniform. Did these uncivilized hospital folk never test garments on real people before distributing them to new hires?
With another slosh and a splat, he worked his way down the locked hallway. Eerie moans and screams peppered the otherwise quiet efficiency in this psychiatric ward. Such a cold environment improved no one’s sanity, and even Barnaby felt mad fingers creeping up his neck at every odd sound.
Becoming a janitor had been a stroke of genius. He was like a ghost to the professionals who worked here. Even now, an older nurse with precise posture stepped out of a patient room and turned on her heel with the barest of nods to Barnaby.
Exactly as he wanted it. No impression. Blend into the bland walls and endless, same doors and rooms. Nothing interesting to see here, just a guy mopping a floor.
Only, as he passed each room, he cleaned his way over to the door and looked in each window.
He’d performed this same action hundreds of times already today, starting on the first floor as assigned. Unfortunately, his shift was drawing to an end, and he’d found nothing.
Maybe there was nothing to find.
His instincts tingled. No. Something’s here.
Hopefully, Dante was having a productive shift as an orderly. Leave it to that oaf to land the women’s health wing.
With another wet arc on the floor, Barnaby mopped his way toward another patient room.
As part of the routine, he absently peeked through glass and wire mesh.
And froze.
A gaunt figure lay on the bed, immobilized by leather straps. Bruises dotted thin legs and arms.
The patient opened her mouth as if to speak, and a low moan of despair came out.
That tone of voice was so familiar.
Shadows formed in the hollows of her cheeks, stark and severe under a harsh light.
Barnaby’s heart stopped.
Jane?
Couldn’t be. This person looked like a tortured POW with bony knees and a harsh angle to her jaw.
But the tangled brown hair on the pillow?
His skin turned hot then cold. His head swam. So wrong, her presence here. Even his extra sense flogged him to action. Get her out of here!
Z’wounds! What had been done to her?
He tried the door. Locked.
Shite. He had no idea what had happened, but he’d bet his right chestnut that she didn’t belong in this wretched place.
“What are you doing, sir?”
He spun around, only to go nose to cap with the prim nurse.
Thank Christ for his gift of gab. “Good afternoon, madam. Barnie Blackstone. I’m assigned to clean this department.” When he stuck out his hand, the woman edged back and frowned.
“People li
ke you don’t go in these rooms.” Cold fish had more personality than this ... woman. He checked her hands. No ring. No surprise.
“Ah, my fault. Well, then, I’ll carry on.”
“I didn’t hear about anyone new being sent here. And I know everything in this department.”
Leaning on the end of his mop handle, he produced a rakish grin and tilted his head. It took all of his willpower not to check on Jane.
“You must be pretty important, milady.”
The nurse blinked then blushed. She stood even straighter. “Well, yes. I’ve been in charge here for at least two years.”
“Whoo whee. I bet you know a lot of stuff.” For good measure, he bent his arms, showing off his biceps right at her eye level. It had been quite some time since he’d needed to use such overt flirtation, and he didn’t know how it would work in the modern age.
She darted a tongue to lick her lips.
Four hundred–plus years old and he still had talents.
Patting the lapels of her white-buttoned dress, she smiled. “Why yes, I even know about important people coming in here.”
He modulated his voice to a low purr. Dante, the typical Casanova, would be so proud of Barnaby’s powers of sensual manipulation. “Even more important than you? No way.”
“Oh yes, tonight we’re expecting a visit from one of the hospital benefactors.”
“What’s a benefactor?” He rubbed his thumb over his mouth and mentally patted himself on the back when her lips parted.
“Someone who has lots of money that they’ve given to the hospital. We treat this man’s family very well.”
Barnaby didn’t miss how her eyes flitted to Jane’s door and back.
“Wow. Who’s coming?”
“You know I can’t give out that information.” The woman attempted a giggle, but it came out high-pitched, too eager.
He straightened up and flexed his muscled chest. By Jove, Dante would be so much better at this game. Oh well. Beggars and choosers.
“As if I would tell anyone.” He grinned. “Look at me.”
She did.
Barnaby’s heart thudded while she patted her stiff hair.
“Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to say.”
“Of course not, my lovely.”
Her lashes fluttered then she peeked up at him from under them. She glanced up and down the hallways. Empty.
“In this room is a VIP: the wife of Tim Thompson. You’ve heard of him, right?”
Barnaby nodded.
The woman pressed a bony hand to her chest. “He’s amazing, you know, how he can cut through the layers of people and reveal the truth.” The woman’s eyes turned glassy. “No one understands the world like Mr. Thompson. If we follow his teachings, we’ll all ascend to a higher plane of existence one day.”
Barnaby might have been born over four centuries ago, but he’d heard enough news and local gossip to know Tim Thompson ran a huge organization called the People’s Palace. A cult, maybe doing illegal drugs, but no one could pin anything down. The guy was like a slippery eel. Sure convenient that he had a devotee running the psych ward.
Then it hit him.
The zaps of his sixth sense all but grabbed his head and wrenched it back toward the emaciated figure on the bed. With effort, he kept his eyes on the nurse.
Jane? Thompson’s wife?
Never let it be said that Barnaby would ever steal a man’s wife.
But Jane as Thompson’s wife? Lying here in the psych ward? Looking as sick as she did?
Something was dead wrong here. The air burned in his lungs.
Forming words had become difficult. His mind churned. “When is he visiting? I’ll make sure this floor is sparkling.” He’d rather ram the mop handle up the man’s arse instead. The wood protested, and he relaxed his hands to keep from splintering the cleaning implement.
“In about an hour, actually. Oh gosh! I’d better get ready.” The disappointment in her eyes was replaced by avid fanaticism. “I’m hoping he’ll reward my good work.” She fanned herself. “He’s simply amazing.”
I just bet.
As the nurse whirled and hurried to the end of the hall, Barnaby chanced another glance into Jane’s room. She rolled her head from side to side.
Maybe she was the man’s wife. Maybe she’d had a nervous breakdown. Who was he to judge?
Her skeletal face turned back toward the door, and one ocean-blue eye cracked open.
He caught the barest whiff of a subtle floral scent, like the yellow apricot flowers in Saigon. Or maybe it was his imagination.
But the very real voice that reached out to him through the door hobbled him like a hammer to the knees.
“Help me.”
Chapter 7
In her dreams, Jane saw Barnaby. Of course that was impossible, but for a few seconds, the vision of his handsome face took away the pieces of her hell-filled memory.
No more pain, no more drugs, no more undercover mission, no more of Thompson’s sweaty face bouncing while he ... God, she couldn’t even process it all. The relentless medication meant she didn’t have to figure everything out right now. Couldn’t.
As the fog retook her consciousness, her last image was of familiar blue eyes and handsome brows and grimly set mouth.
For the first time in ... no idea ... she relaxed.
Time and space blended and shifted.
Bright light shone over her head. Voices drifted by.
“Herr Gud, Barnaby, what happened?” A voice with a strange accent came from somewhere near her feet.
“I don’t know. But it will never happen again.” That voice, unusually hard and tight—she’d never expected to hear it again and almost wept at the comfort it brought.
When she tried to open an eye, the light blinded her. Then a shadow displaced the light.
“You’re going to be fine, Jane.” Sound drifted from the backlit figure. “I swear it. I’m taking you out of here.”
Air blew across her face, like the door opened and closed. Damp, cool lines formed on both temples. Tears?
“Oh, dear, what did they do to you?”
Working her jaw, she could only manage an unladylike grunt.
The gown getting pulled down over her legs was followed by a rancid expletive.
Embarrassment flooded her. If she could move her hands, she’d hide herself from view. Even though her wrists were now free of the restraints, she still couldn’t move the numb limbs.
Then she floated above the hated bed, suspended by two warm, strong arms.
Now out of the light, she studied the hard line of his handsome jaw, the worried expression on his face. His blue eyes searched her as if she might disappear if he looked away. As she watched, his eyes turned black.
She shook her head. Must be the drugs making her see things.
“Bring the gurney, Dante,” he growled.
Footsteps and the rumbling of wheels sounded like hope right about now.
“This shit is bad juju, dude. What are we going to do?” the accented voice called out.
“My friend, you are going to use your charm to try to get her patient file. If you can figure out which medications she requires, obtain them. And anything else you believe she needs.”
The warm supports slid out from under her as she landed on another bed. A crisp sheet slid over her body and tucked under her neck. The men, one at each end of the gurney, rolled her out of the hated room. Sound warped when the bed passed through the door into the hallway. Each bump made her cramping abdomen clench again, but she didn’t care as long as the journey took her to freedom.
“What about you, Barnaby?” the big blond man asked.
“I’m going back to my place. You still know the address?”
“Yeah. The hospital going to know where you live?”
“Of course not,” Barnaby snapped.
“Good.”
A booming voice outside the opposite end of the hall echoed over the walls.
S
he knew that voice. Knew it far too well.
She twisted to her side and curled into a ball, trying to cover her face with a still-numb hand.
“Oh no,” she whispered.
“Dante, buy us some time.” Barnaby’s voice carried an edge she’d never heard before.
“Will do, man, get going. Catch you on the flip side.” Footsteps pounded away from them.
A warm pressure soothed her cheek. Barnaby’s palm. His hand felt like heaven and freedom. How had he found her?
Who cared?
The bed picked up speed as the doors of rooms flew by her. Flick, flick, flick. Lifeless, hard metal doors, all the same, sped past. With each door, her chest unclenched. With each door, she was getting closer to her deliverance from this hell. But not free yet.
Right as they passed through a set of metal doors, Thompson called from the far end of the hall. “Get out of my way, jerkoff!”
“My apologies,” came Dante’s voice.
And the doors to the psych ward clunked closed behind her.
Barnaby pushed her down another hall; then there was a ding and a whoosh.
Just as the elevator doors closed, the roar of a pissed-off Tim Thompson curdled her blood. “Find her!”
Every muscle jumped as Barnaby stroked hair off her forehead. “If you want, he’ll never touch you again. I swear it.”
This time she would get the words out. “Thank. You,” she whispered.
“Of course. Now, my dear, please hold perfectly still. We are going to get the hell out of here.”
Why was he helping her?
Didn’t matter. Barnaby was here. That’s all she needed to know.
When the doors opened, the scent of gasoline and echoes of traffic matched the dim glints of vehicles. Parking garage. Twilight.
Out of the hospital. Freedom. Not yet, but close.
The sounds of engines and people on the nearby street made her gulp big lungfuls of air. She didn’t care that it was polluted. She just needed to breathe not-hospital air.
Alarms exploded around them. Sirens screamed and lights flashed.
Barnaby cursed. She bounced hard as the gurney flew across the concrete. He braked so hard that she would have slid off the end of the bed if he hadn’t grabbed under her arm to stop the momentum.
Flame's Dawn Page 5
