by Rita Herron
Seeing them had affected him. At least enough to jolt him out of his own depression and finish the reps Melissa had assigned him. She’d warned him not to overdo.
Hell, he’d barely been able to manage the exercises she’d asked of him.
He hated the weakness. Hated immobility. Hated that a beautiful woman like Melissa had to see his ugliness.
He’d told Cain he could do his job, but what if he couldn’t?
Fighting the uncertainty over his recovery, he thrust himself forward, pushing down the hall. Maybe he’d take a scenic tour of the hospital on the way out and study the layout. At least then he could say he’d started investigating. If anyone stopped him, he could always claim he’d gotten lost.
Play up the invalid bit.
Just as he rounded the corner near the bottom floor, he spotted Melissa. He wheeled to an abrupt stop, watching her from a distance. Breathing in her beauty and telling himself not to.
But a frown pulled at his mouth. She was checking over her shoulder as if she thought someone might be following her. He edged into the corner of the doorway behind the open doors so she wouldn’t see him. She bit down on her lip as her gaze scanned the hall. Apparently deciding it was clear, she ducked into the doors and disappeared.
He inched the chair from behind the doorway and wheeled closer. The sign on the door said Restricted.
From the nervous look on her face, she wasn’t supposed to be entering the area. So what exactly was she up to?
Chapter Two
Melissa eased down the long corridor, listening for voices or footsteps, peering at the frosted glass of the doors labeled to identify the areas. Several labs caught her attention, along with a hallway that led to another restricted area and a dark cavern of testing areas connected by steel slab doors that required special clearance and were designed with passkey codes. The entire wing felt alien and cold, the air stale. The absence of antiseptic odors or other chemical scents seemed odd in itself. Gray linoleum, light gray walls, reinforced-steel beams supported the forbidden structure. She felt as if she’d stepped into a tomb.
What exactly was going on behind those closed doors?
The sound of distant footsteps echoed from the neighboring wing, and she hesitated, planting herself in the corner as they passed. She held her breath while they crossed the opening, perspiration dotting her palms. Finally, when the footsteps faded into the distance, she veered to the right, bypassed a room marked X-rays, then spotted the file room. Wiping her damp hands on her slacks, she reached for the doorknob.
“Excuse me, what are you doing here?”
Melissa froze, possible excuses racing through her head. Taking a calming breath, she turned and forced a smile. “I’m new to the center and need to review some patient files.”
“Your name?”
A security guard faced her, clad in a gray uniform, a name tag attached to the stiff pocket of his shirt. His posture indicated he meant business, his tone implied she was in trouble.
“Melissa Fagan. I’m a physical therapist working with the rehabilitation program.”
He copied down her name, then checked it against a master list from his clipboard. His finger thumped onto the line where she must have been listed, because his gaze rose to meet hers. Still skeptical. “Do you have clearance to be in this area?”
Melissa played dumb. “Clearance?”
His puffy lips twitched in irritation. “Yes, this is a restricted area.”
Melissa glanced around, pretending innocence. “Actually, it’s only my first day here. I must have missed the sign and didn’t realize.”
“Any files you need for patients are housed in the computer system in the rehab area. Older ones are also kept in the basement of that area.”
“Oh, I see.” She offered him a watery smile. “I guess I got confused. But thanks for straightening that out. I’ve always been directionally impaired.”
His eyes narrowed as if he thought she was lying or virtually incompetent. “I’ll have to report you were in the area.”
She turned to escape, but his gruff voice added, “CIRP is very careful of its restricted areas, so don’t let it happen again, Miss Fagan. Snooping into confidential files and restricted areas could be dangerous.”
A chill skittered up her spine. Had he meant the comment as a warning or a threat?
ERIC HAD WHEELED HIS CHAIR to a corner and was studying the doors where Melissa had disappeared, wondering how difficult it would be to break CIRP’s security codes. He wished like hell he could walk so he could delve into the case rather than speculate.
The doors suddenly opened and Melissa reappeared. Her green eyes flickered with panic as she stepped into the light, and her hands were trembling. Although earlier he’d sensed steely determination in the woman when she’d pushed him through his therapy, vulnerability shadowed her pale face now.
What was she up to?
Determined not to be caught watching her, he spun the chair around and wheeled to the nearest exit. Barreling down the handicap ramp, he cursed again when the chair caught in a piece of loose gravel and jolted forward. It took him a second to dislodge the stone before he could continue. He followed the concrete path to the bungalows, grateful CIRP had designed the facility to give patients as much mobility as possible. Being robbed of his independence hacked at his self-esteem, but it would be intolerable if he had to rely on his brother to drive him back and forth to a rehab facility, or if he was confined to a hospital room like the other facilities Cain had mentioned.
Another reason CIRP had appealed to him.
That and finding Hughes and getting revenge for the death of the witness his people had killed. This afternoon he’d review the list of employees, including every scientist at CIRP and the CEO who’d replaced Hughes and start trying to pinpoint which man might be Hughes in disguise.
Fishing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door to the cabin, tossed his duffel bag inside, then rolled across the slick wood floor, his mind ticking back to Melissa Fagan. Why had she been snooping around in the restricted area? What was she looking for?
Could she possibly be an undercover detective posing as a physical therapist? If not, what other explanation could there be?
But if she was an undercover cop or agent, why hadn’t he been informed?
A testament to his lack of faith and truth—one minute he’d been attracted to her, the next he suspected her of subterfuge.
Only one way to find out. The shower beckoned, but first he grabbed his cell phone and called his contact at the FBI, Luke Devlin a forty-something workaholic with a badass attitude. Eric normally despised the slick-suited agents, but he had connected with Devlin immediately. Something dark and edgy tainted the man’s gray eyes, a haunted look Eric knew was mirrored in his own.
“Devlin here. What’s up?”
“It’s Eric. Is there another agent working at CIRP undercover?”
Devlin hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
Eric frowned. Devlin had a habit of answering a question with a question. “Would you tell me if someone else was working with you? If you guys are undermining me or working another angle, I need to know.”
“Don’t get so defensive. I simply wanted to know if you’d seen something suspicious. I assume you did or you wouldn’t be asking.”
Eric bottled his temper, and explained about Melissa Fagan’s odd behavior.
“No, she’s not one of ours. That doesn’t mean she’s not working for someone else though.”
“The locals maybe?”
“Actually, we’re coordinating with them, so no,” Devlin said, “but I’ll check her out and call you back.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on her. If she’s not a cop or agent, maybe she’s connected to Hughes’s return,” Eric suggested. “Or who knows, she might be here to steal research of some kind.”
“Right, keep an eye on her.” Devlin sighed. “Anything else to report?”
“Nothing yet. I…just had my first session tod
ay.”
“It’s going to take time to heal,” Devlin said. “Be patient.”
Eric ignored the comment. “I’ll review the data you sent and see if I can narrow down the list of suspects fitting Hughes’s profile.” Eric agreed to report in a few days, then hung up, looked down at his battered body and tried to lift his leg. It weighed a ton and refused to move as he wanted. Damn it.
Be patient.
Easy for a mobile man to say, not so easy when you couldn’t take a baby step. Instead of the shower, he dragged himself up on the bed and collapsed, unable to fight the lingering fatigue from his accident.
But even in his sleep, he couldn’t rest.
He dreamed about the explosion. The witness he’d been protecting clawed at the inside of the car, screaming for help. His eyes were glassy with pain and horror. Blood gushed down his face.
Eric lay helpless on the ground, blazing metal trapping him. His body was on fire, burning, burning, burning.
MELISSA WAS STILL A WRECK when she returned to the rehab center for her next patient session. How would she ever bypass security and locate those files when CIRP had the entire place under lock and key?
She definitely hadn’t started out well by getting caught and receiving a warning on her first day of the job.
Shaking off the anxiety that she might never find the answers she wanted, she pasted on a smile and focused on her patients. The first, a teenager who’d been in an alcohol-related accident and barely survived. Thankfully, he had been humbled by the experience. The second, a war veteran who’d lost a leg from diabetes. He’d been fitted with a prosthesis but had not handled the adjustment very well. The last was a salt-and-pepper-haired doctor in his early fifties who’d been injured in the terrorist attacks on 9/11.
When she finished charting the patient records for the day, she slipped into the employee lounge. Helen Anderson, one of the nurses she’d met when she arrived, waved her over. In her late fifties, she had a mop of curly brown hair dusted in gray. Padded with a few extra pounds, but not heavy, she mothered the other staff members.
“Sit down and put your feet up, honey. You’ve had a busy morning.”
Melissa nodded, dumped a packet of sweetener in her coffee and plopped onto the love seat across from the woman. “How long have you worked here, Helen?”
Helen popped a powdered doughnut hole into her mouth, then dabbed at the corners. “Seems like forever,” she said with a laugh. “But it’s only been thirty years.”
Since before Melissa was born. Maybe this woman did know something….
“I imagine the center’s changed a lot.”
“Changed and grown. When the hospital was first built, it was very small, everything was housed in one building. Now it’s all spread out, and the research facilities have expanded. Whew, I can’t keep up.”
“I know, I’ve read about some of the cutting-edge techniques.” Melissa had studied the layout. The psychiatric ward was actually in another building, which was attached by crosswalks, as were the rehab facility and the main hospital. Other buildings housed experimental-research centers and laboratories scattered across Catcall Island, with additional ones on the more remote Whistlestop and Nighthawk Islands.
Helen shook her head. “Hopefully, all the trouble’s passed.”
“But you’re worried?”
“You hear things, you know, about questionable projects out on Nighthawk Island. Did you know they named the island after some mysterious nighthawk who preys on people, not just other animals?”
“No, but that’s interesting.” Melissa sipped her coffee. “They conduct government experiments on the island?”
“Yes, but everything’s so danged secretive. One of the founders, Arnold Hughes, actually killed a scientist a long time ago because Hughes wanted to sell the man’s research to a higher bidder. And when this cop named Clayton Fox started nosing around last year, they replaced his memory with another man’s.” She shuddered. “And then there was that poor baby…”
Melissa chewed her lip. So the things she’d read on-line had been true.
Helen twisted her hands. “Maybe I’m getting paranoid in my old age, but I worry they’re doing chemical and biological warfare research,” she admitted, her agitation growing. “With all this talk of terrorist attacks and war, it could be awful. And what if they release chemicals or germs on the people through the water?”
“It is scary. Since 9/11, I’ve had a few nightmares myself.”
Helen rubbed her fingers together while Melissa struggled for a way to ask more questions without arousing suspicion. “Have you always worked with rehab patients, or did you ever work in other departments?”
“I moved around when I first came here, trying to find my place.” Helen folded her arms across her plump belly. “Worked in labor and delivery awhile, the cardiac unit, the E.R., then I got my PT license.”
“Delivering babies must have been exciting.”
Helen shrugged, then stiffened and stood, dumping her coffee into the trash. An odd expression streaked her face. Panic? “I… Break’s over. I have to get back to work now.”
Without another word, she hurried from the room, looking agitated and eager to escape more questions.
Melissa frowned. What had triggered her reaction?
TWO HOURS LATER, Eric finally dragged himself from bed to the shower. Even with the handicap rails, pulling his body from the chair into the tub and onto the customized seat took enormous effort and taxed his upper-body strength. The grueling morning session had taken its toll. Although he was tempted to add a few reps to the series of stretching exercises Melissa Fagan had assigned him, he worried he’d barely complete the basic ones.
At any rate, he wasn’t supposed to tackle them until after dinner. Maybe he’d take a nice long stroll outside—in his chair—for some fresh air, scope out the facility.
Maybe he’d even run into his therapist. Not that he wanted to see her again…
And even if you did, he thought, what would she want with some scarred, crippled man?
Disgusted with himself, he toweled off, dressed in baggy sweats and a T-shirt, then wheeled outside to get some air. He couldn’t let himself become obsessed with things he couldn’t have. Like a woman.
But there she was.
Standing off the path, looking out at the ocean. A stiff wind flung her hair around her face. Her cheeks looked softer in the fading sunlight, but her eyes looked troubled. What exactly was her story? And why did he care if she was lonely? He wasn’t anyone’s hero, not anymore…
Unable to resist the forces drawing him to her, though, he wheeled over to her. The creak of his chair alerted her to his presence and she glanced his way. A small smile lifted the corner of her mouth.
“Hi, Eric.”
God, he loved the way she murmured his name. He must be desperate. “Hi.”
“How are you feeling tonight?”
He shrugged. “I hate to admit it, but you wore me out earlier.”
A twinkle replaced the sadness in her eyes, and he grinned.
“It’s always hard at first,” she said softly. “It’ll get easier.”
But never quite back to normal. He knew it. But he didn’t want to believe it.
“You like the ocean?” he asked.
She nodded and angled her face into the wind again, once again melancholy. “I haven’t spent much time at the beach, though. The sea is so vast, it looks like it could go on forever.”
There was that sadness in her voice again. “I know what you mean.” Damn. He was bad at chit chat. Didn’t know how to talk to a woman anymore. “Back home I have a cabin on the lake. At night, I like to sit outside, look at the stars and the moon. It’s peaceful.”
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and glanced down at him. Moonlight played off her hair, making him itch to touch it. Her lips parted, eliciting fantasies of long slow kisses that went on forever, just like the ocean.
But he couldn’t even reach
her, much less kiss her. Not sitting down.
A reminder of his condition.
Reality crashed over him, just like the waves breaking on the shore. “I guess I’d better go. Can I walk you to your cottage?” The minute the words came out, he realized how ridiculous they sounded.
But she didn’t react. Probably out of pity.
“Sure.” He wheeled beside her, the tension crackling as they crossed the path. When they reached her cottage, she turned to him. “Thanks, Eric. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
“Get some rest.”
Any illusion he might have harbored about her seeing him as a man was shattered. She saw him as a patient.
And he’d damn well better remember it.
Furious with himself, he wheeled back to his cabin. He’d do his job, learn to walk again and get the hell out of Savannah. Determined, he spread out the computer printout listing all the CIRP employees. He studied ages and basic body sizes, narrowing the field down to five potential men who might be Hughes. The new CEO of CIRP was a definite possibility. But claiming Hughes’s original position would almost be too obvious. Another possibility was Dennis Hopkins, a scientist who’d recently transferred to CIRP from the Oakland facility in Tennessee, and a chemist, Wallace Thacker. Of course, the list might not be complete. With the classified projects on Nighthawk Island, CIRP might also have employees who weren’t listed in the database the FBI had tapped into. Previously, the police had uncovered research on experiments to create a superhuman child and memory transplants.
What kind of projects were under way now?
“ALL RIGHT, DO WE HAVE the team put together?”
“Yes.” Dennis Hopkins shuffled through the latest data from his research study. “I’m ready to move ahead. Preliminary results of the drugs we’re testing combined with hypnosis look good.”
“Great. I have clearance to see the results.”
“I’m grateful the government is being so cooperative.” In fact, Hopkins had been amazed when the special agent had contacted him with a request for the type of research work he had already begun. Brainwashing techniques had always been used by secret government agencies, but most relied on torture. A smile lifted his lips.