Deadly Seduction (8 page)

The rest of the alley was deserted. The sun was low in the sky, heralding evening. He headed for the row of hedges lining a fenced-in tennis court.

HOSPITAL EMPLOYEES ONLY
, the sign read. Following the hedges, he let himself in the unlocked gate. A plain concrete block building stood beyond the clay court.

The men’s locker room was empty. He searched the stalls and found a discarded wire hanger, which he used to force open the door marked
MAINTENANCE
.

Inside that small closet was a second door. That one opened into a large garage area filled with lawn equipment.

“King Solomon’s mine,” he whispered.

He helped himself to a dark blue jumpsuit and pulled on a pair of rubber boots. Looking around, he found a battered hard hat and a pair of sunglasses.

When he buried the hospital gown in the trash can, he pulled out the folded newspaper on top and eyed the banner:
San Diego Union-Tribune
, September 19th. How long had it been since he actually knew where he was, much less the date? It seemed like a fucking eternity!

He eyed the paper again. He had a vague notion of having been to California before, but trying to recall specifics was useless.

Mission incomplete
, echoed in his mind.

Find Hades.

Find Rufin.

Take what is yours.

The confusing jumble of words, commands, made no sense. Thinking didn’t help—in fact, the act of reasoning, questioning, seemed to compound the pain in his head. He felt dizzy, spacey. And until that passed, he needed a safe place to hide.

And then—he’d unlock the mystery of what he needed to do.

Outside the hospital, Stanley Winchette stepped away from the others to answer his cell phone. Because most of the crowd stayed as close to the building as police allowed, that gave him an opportunity to slip toward the relative privacy of the parking lot.

“Winchette here.”

“What have you learned?” Abe Caldwell demanded before breaking into a hacking cough. “Sorry, I’m fighting a damn cold again.”

Try emphysema
, Stanley thought, not for the first time. Funny that once, in the early stages of their partnership, Abe had implied trepidation about Stanley’s age. As if at fifty-nine Stanley had had one foot in the grave.

How ironic that five years later, Stanley felt better than ever, while Abe was mired in denial. Of course, back then, Abe had also believed his grandfather’s pharmaceutical conglomerate was close to patenting a miraculous antiaging drug that would keep Abe eternally forty-nine, eternally chasing women and money.

Abe’s hobbies were expensive. He liked anything macho and daring: big game hunting in Africa, treks to Nepal, yacht races through the pirate-infested waters of Southeast Asia, for example. The last time Stanley had seen Abe, the man had sported a goatee and had let his hair grow long enough to catch in a ponytail. As if that made up for the receding hairline.

“So what have you learned,” Abe repeated.

“It appears these men were indeed used for Zadovsky’s secret experiments. And judging by their physical condition—” Stanley still couldn’t get over Max Duncan’s superb physique. Supposedly John Doe was equally magnificent. “They are one-hundred-eighty degrees from what we saw with Dante Johnson.”

“Which confirms what we’d suspected: that Zadovsky hid more than any of us imagined,” Abe said. “Any idea what the potential exposure is?”

By that, Abe meant the chance that he and Stanley would be connected to Zadovsky’s nefarious experiments. After Zadovsky’s death, Stanley had been so certain that he and Abe would be exposed that he’d even selected his own method of suicide: an overdose. Zadovsky blowing his own head off had been a little much.

Unfortunately, the CIA had not been able to move into Jakarta fast enough to snatch Zadovsky’s files, which were quickly claimed by the Indonesian government. As rumors swelled on the international front that decades ago Zadovsky had been courted and funded by several Allied nations, the strategy shifted to ass covering. Most countries wanted to put distance between themselves and Zadovsky.

Somehow, in the ensuing mass confusion, Abe, through his uncanny sources, managed to gain access to the Indonesian files only to learn that the records seized were in such bad shape nothing could be surmised. Ironically, it turned out that the research Abe had previously turned over to Stanley, the bits and pieces of data, the shocking video that had been smuggled out of Zadovsky’s lab, seemed to be more than the Indonesian government even had.

After clinking wineglasses, Abe and Stanley had once again decided to pull out the stops on the side-lined projects and plunge full speed ahead on their own. How could they not?

Mind control was science’s Holy Grail, the ultimate quest for power. On an altruistic level, that field of study would likely yield cures to brain diseases like Alzheimer’s. Which had been the reason Abe’s grandfather had gotten involved in secretly funding Zadovsky’s research to begin with.

Abe and Stanley had everything to gain by continuing this research. In a weird way, the two men complemented each other. Stanley was brains; Abe was brawn. And money. Abe’s silver spoon paved many paths.

“I am working to contain matters here,” Stanley said. “Apparently the CIA blew up the lab in Thailand, taking only what they could carry out. Which, besides the two prisoners, wasn’t much. I expect to get full access to everything they got. The real trick is keeping both men stable yet unconscious until I can get them back to Virginia. The last thing we need is for them to start filling in the blanks.”

“Excellent,” Abe said. “Let me know if there’s anything in particular you require.”

“I’ve got this end covered. You need to concentrate on locating this Dr. Rufin. The CIA’s putting up a good front, but it won’t be long before word leaks that they’ve got nothing. What have you turned up on him?”

“Nothing useful,” Abe said. “Zadovsky portrayed him as an idiot.”

A smart way to throw off the competition
, Stanley thought. Especially since it now seemed Zadovsky’s former research assistant, Dr. Rufin, had been continuing work at a secret lab in Thailand. Stanley couldn’t help but wonder if Rufin was the brains behind the arrogant Zadovsky.

“All that trouble Zadovsky went through to tag prisoners,” Stanley muttered. “Too bad he didn’t tag his employees.”

He had been stunned months ago to learn that Dante Johnson had apparently been tracked by Viktor Zadovsky after being
allowed
to escape. The real pisser had been discovering that Abe Caldwell had known all about the tracking devices since he’d supplied Zadovsky with the technology. “For testing,” Abe had argued.

Right. How many other secrets was Abe keeping? Stanley looked around, noting people were beginning to head back toward the hospital entrance.

“One more thing,” Stanley said. “With Max Duncan surfacing, the Agency is expanding its search for Harry Gambrel. Any word on his whereabouts?”

“He’s dead.”

“That’s what you told me about Max Duncan after Johnson returned.”

“I have personal knowledge of Gambrel’s demise.”

Once again Stanley wondered about Abe’s connections and sources of information. “Keep me posted.”

“You do likewise.” Abe paused to have another coughing fit. “Also see if you can learn how the CIA got word about this lab to begin with.”

So your connections aren’t as perfect as you claim
, Stanley thought.

“I must go now. I’ll give you an update after I’ve examined both subjects.”

Disconnecting, Stanley hurried toward Erin.

“Apparently it was a false alarm,” she said. “They are allowing people back inside.”

“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he grumbled. “Where did Travis Franks disappear to?”

Erin pointed to a spot near a side entrance where Travis was huddled with hospital security personnel. “He’s over there.”

Just then, Travis broke away and motioned them closer.

“Bad news,” Travis began. “Our John Doe regained consciousness and panicked while in the MRI machine. The technician apparently thought he was having a seizure and rushed in to help. By that time Doe was extremely agitated and confused. He ended up throwing the tech across the room before fleeing through an emergency exit.”

I should have expected this after Duncan started to come to
, Stanley thought. “I want to speak with that technician,” he said.

“He’s in the ER. Being treated for a broken arm and possible concussion. I sent Rocco to check it out.”

“When did this happen? Are they searching for John Doe?”

“It happened maybe twenty minutes ago, same time the alarm sounded. Hospital security personnel are searching along with police. For all I know, they may have found him already.”

“Then let’s get back inside.” Stanley barged ahead toward the door. “I need to speak with whoever’s in charge and warn them this patient will likely be disoriented and unstable. He will need to be sedated for his own protection as well as to protect others. The next person he attacks may not be so lucky.” God only knew what John Doe might do…or say.

Inside the lobby, Dante Johnson joined them. “What now?”

“Dr. Winchette and I need to speak with the security chief,” Travis said. “Dante, you and Dr. Houston go check on Max. Make sure we don’t have a repeat performance.”

“If he’s receiving the sedatives I prescribed, that shouldn’t be a problem.” Stanley turned to Erin. “Call me if you hear anything.”

The uneasiness Erin had experienced over being forced to leave the hospital—to leave Max—subsided once she learned they could return. She had worked in hospitals long enough to know that the majority of fire alarms were false, or triggered over minor incidents. Still, each had to be taken seriously.

She also wanted to see those photographs again, to study them. Her confusion about her childhood memories and the troubling image of Max trapped inside had increased. Obviously, she had conjured up the image, projecting Max into the scene.

Except…

It wasn’t so much a picture she was seeing; it was more the feeling of his desolation of being trapped inside a cylinder like that. There was physical pain, too, as if Max had struggled to hold on to himself. To resist meant punishment.

Someone in the crowd bumped her. She flinched, startled to realize she’d been so deeply engrossed in thought she hadn’t paid attention to her steps.

Damn it! What was wrong with her? Where were these images of Max coming from? Why were they striking such a strong emotional and visceral response? How could she explain the strange yet erotic episode she’d had in Max’s room?

Enough already.

Was she dodging the real issue here? Indulging in flights of fancy to avoid examining the truth?

Maybe.

Yes.

The sinking feeling in her stomach confirmed it. The notion that her father could have been involved in this type of research was repugnant. She tried to recall specifics about her father’s allegation of stolen research. Research he’d regretted conducting. Until now, she’d never questioned the reason for that regret.

“I see Dr. Evil’s still as cheerful as I recall,” Dante quipped from behind her.

Erin stiffened. “That’s neither funny nor appropriate.”

“Sorry. You’re right. That was uncalled for. Can we chalk it up to nervous humor?”

Embarrassed that she’d snapped at him, Erin forced a smile. “You nervous? Should I be worried?”

“Actually, sleep deprived is more accurate. And despite my remark, I really do respect Dr. Winchette’s expertise. Yours, too. If I hadn’t tried those self-hypnosis CDs you gave me, I never would have found Cat. And I will wholeheartedly suggest Max work with you to get back on his feet ASAP. Same with John Doe.”

Erin met his gaze. “Level with me. Is this John Doe really an unknown? I remember that two men went missing the same time you did. And now two men have been recovered…”

“It sounds crazy, I know, but only one of my partners, Max, was recovered. We’re still searching for Harry. As far as John Doe?” Dante shrugged. “We don’t know who he is. Max said he was an ally, a brother. That was all I needed to hear, though honestly I wouldn’t have left anyone there. Then the mission went south so fast.” He quit talking as others drew close.

They had reached the elevators now but a crowd had gathered. “Let’s take the stairs,” she suggested.

They weren’t the only ones in the stairwell, so they didn’t speak again until they’d reached the third floor. Inside Max’s room, a nurse was changing bandages and IVs, so Erin and Dante decided to stay in the hallway where they could continue their conversation without the nurse listening in.

Dante led Erin toward the quiet end of the hall. “Your turn to level with me, Doc. Do you concur with what Winchette said about their chances for recovery?”

“He didn’t give any actual chances,” Erin began. “He emphasized that his findings were preliminary, based on incomplete data.”

“Then off the record, what do you think?”

The memory of gazing into Max’s open eyes, the feel of his hand in hers, quickly came to mind. But on its heels came another memory of the pain he must have endured inside that machine followed by the impression of distrust. The desire to protect Max suddenly swamped her.

She hesitated. “On or off the record, my answer is the same: incomplete data. We’ll know more when all the test results are in.”

“A lot of people didn’t think I’d recover. And I did.”

“You weren’t brought in with a head injury,” she reminded him.

He narrowed his eyes, his focus suddenly intense. “I sense you’re hiding something.”

Heat bloomed in Erin’s cheeks. “Why do you say that?”

“I’m psychic, remember?”

Erin did remember. Dante had had several incidents of clairvoyance while hospitalized. Winchette had wanted to study the phenomenon but Dante had refused. He later claimed that seizures had ruined his so-called psychic abilities. She made a mental note to remind Dr. Winchette about that.

“I was joking about mind reading,” Dante said. “Still, when you saw those photos, I swear you recognized something. I saw a reaction that seemed to rattle you. Was it one of the drug vials? A piece of equipment?”

Erin struggled to keep her features blank. “You saw a purely visceral reaction. You had just described Max’s scars and then to see that chamber. It looked barbaric. I’m slightly claustrophobic, so the thought of being closed inside a machine like that gave me the creeps.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“Is that because you had seen it before?” she asked. “When you were held overseas?”

“Not that I can recall. But there are still gaps I can’t account for. Dreams that make no sense. Part of me hopes Max will remember more. For both of us. Taz, too…whoever he is.”

“Taz?”

“That’s what Max called him.” Dante rubbed the back of his neck.

Erin caught a glimpse of how tense he was. How difficult had it been for Dante to risk his own life to find Max, only to see him get shot?

“You know I’d be glad to work with you again,” she said. “To work on closing those gaps.” Erin sensed his discomfort in talking about himself, so she changed the subject. “Do you think you’ll find your other partner? Harry? And this Dr. Rufin?”

“Yes.”

They grew quiet as the nurse who’d been in Max’s room approached.

“I’m finished,” the nurse said.

“Any change with him?” Dante asked.

“He seems to be resting more comfortably with the new medication,” the nurse said. “And his scalp wound is closing nicely. He must heal fast. You can go back in now.”

Inside Max’s room, Erin went directly to his bedside. Except for a neater, smaller bandage on his head, Max appeared unchanged. The relief at seeing him was tangible and eased a tension that she hadn’t realized was building in her chest.

She spoke softly. “Max, it’s Dr. Houston. I’m here with a friend of yours, Dante Johnson. I’d like to check your pulse again.”

His wrist felt cool beneath her fingers. His pulse wasn’t as strong as before, a reflection of the sedation, no doubt. But with a heartbeat there was hope.

She watched his face.
I’m here, Max. Please wake up.

He didn’t.

Come on
, she silently urged.
Give me a sign.

His features remained slack.

“Is anything wrong, Doc?” Dante had moved closer. “His pulse okay?”

“It’s fine. I just lost count and had to start over.” Oddly she didn’t want to release Max’s arm. As if by touching him, she could make him feel better. She felt the electricity again, subtle, but there, and wondered if Max felt it, too.

Aware that Dante watched her closely, she tucked Max’s arm beneath the sheets, straightening the blanket before stepping away.

“His records list no family,” Erin said.

“He has no blood relatives that I’m aware of. But there are people, friends, who care deeply.”

She hoped he’d elaborate. Did Max have a girlfriend? Fiancée? Ex-wife? “Am I correct in assuming you and Rocco are two of those friends?”

“Yeah. And my fiancée, Catalina Dion, is on her way here, too. She and Max were—”

Erin leaned forward.
She and Max were…
lovers? Married?

“Extremely close,” Dante finished. “I know I once thought there was more.” He looked at Max, then back at Erin. “But I didn’t have all the facts then. What I thought I knew was far from fact.”

It was clear that Dante had strong feelings for both Catalina and Max. It was also apparent that there was much more to their story.

“And I almost forgot this.” Dante moved to the minuscule closet and opened the door. Lying inside was a black duffel bag.

Erin stared at it, disappointed with the change of subject. “That’s for Max?”

“Yes. It’s full of stuff Rocco and I picked up earlier. Will you make sure it gets to his room in Virginia?”

“Part of me is tempted to decline. I remember you getting dressed and wanting to discharge yourself prematurely.”

“Exactly. And if Max wants to do the same, he’ll need something other than that damn gown. I remember how it felt to have nothing,” Dante said. “There are clothes, shoes, dop kit. Some cash. Not enough, but—”

“It’s enough,” she assured him. It was obvious that he felt guilty for not finding Max sooner, for Max being injured—
for stealing Max’s girl?
“I’ll make certain it stays with him.”

“Hold on.” Dante shifted as his phone vibrated. She waited expectantly as he checked the display.

“Text message. No news. But Travis needs me downstairs.”

He handed Erin a business card. “Here’s my cell phone number. I could get called out again without much notice. And maybe I shouldn’t ask this, but I’d like to know firsthand how Max does, okay? Getting info through official channels can be trying. Seriously, I’ll owe you one. Call me anytime, day or night.”

Erin looked at the card. Being owed a favor from a well-connected CIA operative could come in handy someday. She fished one of her own cards out of her blazer pocket. “Here is mine. Would you keep me posted on the search for…Taz?” That sounded better than
John Doe
.

“We’ll find him, Erin.” Dante paused at the door. “Just take care of Max.”

Two hours later, Erin was back in the third-floor conference room, waiting for Dr. Winchette to get off his cell phone before someone else interrupted once again.

She stifled a yawn. It was after 10 p.m., which to her East Coast body clock meant one o’clock.

In contrast, Winchette showed no signs of fatigue and was livid that John Doe had not been located.

“Keep me posted,” he snapped before disconnecting and turning to Erin. “If we had been in Virginia, this wouldn’t have happened.” He scribbled a signature across the orders he’d just drawn up. “I want Max Duncan out of here before another incident occurs.”

“Those photographs Travis Franks had.” She went straight to the point. “Have you ever seen a machine like that used for mind manipulation?”

He hesitated, and in that moment she knew he wasn’t formulating a denial. But rather, an excuse. A diversion to throw her off.

“There was a time when everyone experimented with sensory deprivation.” Winchette frowned. “Timothy Leary did something similar with LSD. The annals of science are filled with such cases. All were abysmal failures. No one, save Hollywood, pursued it beyond the sixties.”

Had her father? “Obviously someone missed that memo,” she said. “How can we figure out what was done to these men—in order to reverse it?”

“Actually, we don’t know that anything was done to them. Neither man has regained consciousness long enough to debrief. Personally, I think the photos were a ploy to throw us off.”

“Off what?”

Winchette shrugged. “Maybe Travis Franks is trying to cover his men’s ineptitude. He knows more than he’s letting on. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Duncan was injured by friendly fire.”

Erin couldn’t hide her shock. “Are you saying his own people shot him?”

Now Winchette let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m saying we don’t have all the facts. And certain things I’ve been told don’t add up. Which as you know—”

His phone rang just then. He tugged it free and glanced at the display. “Excuse me, Erin. I need to take this call. Perhaps you could go find coffee? Black.”

As she turned to stalk out of the room, Winchette spoke to her again.

“Your father gave me advice once, Erin, about dealing with security matters. He said, ‘Some things are better left unquestioned.’ I’ve never forgotten that. Your father was a very smart man.”

He turned away, dismissing her as he answered his phone.

Just outside the door, Erin stopped and leaned back against the wall. Did Dr. Winchette think she’d blindly accept her father’s idiom and march away to do his bidding?
Coffee. Black.
His request infuriated her. She had no problem acceding to his desire for privacy. But to be sent off for coffee? Please! Talk about a ploy. She’d return and Winchette would change the subject or rush off.

Not this time.
She’d wait him out.

Through the closed door, she heard Winchette’s voice rise. What now, she wondered, shifting closer.

“I need that device immediately!” Winchette demanded. “If there is a way to track that man…”

She knew he had to be discussing John Doe, though the words made little sense.

“I’m getting him out first thing in the morning,” Winchette’s voice dropped and grew muffled. “Can’t keep…the level I need here.”

Now he was discussing Max Duncan. But with whom?

“Travis Franks agrees. And when the patient goes brain-dead…”

Brain-dead? What in the world—

“Excuse me, are you Dr. Houston?”

She jerked, cheeks flaming guilt-red as the hospital’s security chief addressed her. “Yes, I’m Erin Houston.”

“I’m looking for Dr. Winchette, ma’am. He’s not answering his cell phone.”

“He’s on another call.”

“This is urgent. We’ve got a lead on that missing patient.”

At that, Erin rapped on the door before thrusting it open. Winchette looked stunned at her interruption.

“The chief of security needs to see you,” she said. “He has information regarding John Doe.”

“I’ll call you back.” Winchette practically leaped to his feet and hurried to the door. “Well, what is it? Have they located him?”

“We have a report of a jumper on a bridge south of here, threatening suicide,” the security chief said. “He matches the patient’s description.”

“Good God! How far is this? Get the police on the phone and tell them to back off until I get there.” Winchette scrambled to grab his briefcase, stopping just long enough to scoop up the papers he’d completed. “Erin, I need you to get a copy of these transfer orders to Dr. Giles. I’ve got a private medical helicopter coming in at sunrise. I suggest you get some sleep. If I get tied up, you may need to accompany Mr. Duncan back to Virginia.”

Before she could reply, Winchette’s phone rang again. He rushed away, motioning the security chief to follow.

Erin stared at the papers without seeing them.
When the patient goes brain-dead.
Granted, the words were garbled and she’d heard them out of context. But what had Winchette meant by that?

Her thoughts were drawn back to her first encounter with Max. His eyes. He had squeezed her fingers. Just before receiving a sedative…of course! It was only natural that Max was more likely to respond as the medication waned.

If she could get to him before his next injection, could she wake him?

Back in Max’s room she checked his charts. He was due for another dose in about an hour. She could hang around until then. She also noted that the new medication Winchette had prescribed was indeed enough to keep a man comatose. Was that being done on purpose? With the CIA’s blessing?
Travis Franks agrees…

She started to set the chart aside, then noticed that new pages had been added. She flipped through the sheets, reading as she went. Max’s blood panels were all normal; same with urine tests. That was good.

The MRI report, however, listed several aberrations.
Evidence of numerous, older, fractures. All healed
, the report stated. From torture and abuse, no doubt, she thought.

She kept reading.
Hematomas and skull fracture noted in the September 17th MRI report were not visible. The types of injury noted previously wouldn’t heal in less than forty-eight hours.

The radiologist’s comments went on to suggest that the previous scans were older than indicated or wrong.

Erin set the file aside. What the hell was going on here?