She shook her head. “Your guess is wrong. I need the higher clearance to do my job.”
“Brayden Sloane didn’t see it that way.”
Her lips tightened at the name. “It only makes sense for me to have the higher clearance. Bray might have been able to influence Dr. Kelso, but he wouldn’t even listen to me.”
Rand smiled. Now he might be getting somewhere. “Do you think Bray had a personal reason for refusing to help you get clearance?”
“A personal reason? I don’t know.”
“Is there anything about those files you might notice that others wouldn’t? Like exactly when the files were accessed? And by whom?”
“You think Bray might have accessed the Project Cypress files and wanted to cover his tracks?”
He could see the wheels turning behind those green eyes. “Is it possible?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know him very well. You’re thinking the accident might be some kind of corporate sabotage?”
He didn’t know. All he had were guesses. “Was Project Cypress worth sabotaging?”
She chewed on her bottom lip and stared at the computer monitor.
“Whatever you tell me won’t leave this room. You have my word,” he said.
She didn’t budge. Even when the computer’s power-save feature made the screen go dark.
“We had a deal, Claire. I trusted you with information I shouldn’t have shared. Now it’s time you trust me.” He held out his hands, palms up. “Don’t protect people like Sid Edmonston.”
She released her lip and let out a sigh. Looking past Rand, she peered out the office door as if to check that the coast was clear. “I don’t know what Project Cypress is. But I did see something about it.”
“What?”
“You’ve heard of performance bonuses?”
Rand nodded.
“The deal for Project Cypress works kind of like that. If the project is completed by a certain deadline, the researchers involved get a significant bonus.”
“How much?”
“Ten million dollars.”
Not chump change, that was for sure. “What is the date?”
“That’s the interesting part. About two months ago the date was moved up and the bonus was doubled. The project will bring in an extra twenty mil if it’s completed by next week.”
Next week. That was enough time pressure to cause an accident. An accident that needed to be covered up. Even if that meant some people had to die. “And if it isn’t completed by the date? What happens then?”
“They forfeit the money.”
He thought about Bray Sloane. If the explosion was caused by researchers rushing to meet the deadline, it would mean Sloane was simply a victim of the accident like Gage Darnell. It wouldn’t explain his disappearance, but at least Rand wouldn’t be responsible for breaking Echo’s heart. “Who stands to profit from this kind of arrangement?”
“The way it’s set up, most of the bonus goes to the researchers working on the project. And management, of course.”
“Like Sid Edmonston.”
She nodded. “Now I suppose his share will be split between Dr. Kelso and the director of research, Dr. Ulrich.”
“And you said the researchers? Would that include Hank Riddell?” Rand had suspected from the first that Riddell was in this neck deep.
“Of course. There was another researcher, too. But he left the company recently.”
“Do you have his name?”
“Ellroy. Mac Ellroy.”
Rand wrote it down. “How about Wes Vanderhoven? Do lab technicians share in the bonus?”
“Sure. Of course, Hank and Wes probably don’t know the exact dollar amount. Management keeps that information pretty close to the vest.”
“How do you know about it?”
“Um, I…stumbled upon it.”
“Stumbled, huh?”
“Another murder, huh?” she countered. “I’ll bet I can guess who’s on your suspect list.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone about your clumsiness.” He pulled out his card, not even bothering to suppress a chuckle. “If you happen to stumble again, give me a call.”
She took the card.
On the way out of the office, he plucked one of hers from a card holder on her secretary’s desk. He couldn’t wait to hear what Wesley Vanderhoven had to say about the time pressure he’d been under to complete Project Cypress.
Rand smiled and shook his head. Who could have guessed he would be so eager to march into the loony bin?
BRACING HIMSELF, Rand pushed through the gleaming glass doors of the Beech Grove Clinic mental hospital. His eagerness to step into this place had cooled a bit on the drive from Cranesbrook. He still wanted to talk to Vanderhoven. But after spending so much time here investigating the murder of the janitor, he was beginning to feel like Nurse Dumont was sizing him up for his own custom straitjacket.
He caught up with the nurse halfway down the main hall. “How’s Wes Vanderhoven today? I trust he’s not still under sedation?”
Nurse Dumont peered over her glasses, her short brown hair sticking tight to her head as if glued. Her lips puckered with distaste. “Your storm troopers were here. Though what you think our financial records are going to tell you about Sid Edmonston is beyond me.”
Ah, the search warrant finally came through. They’d combed the premises after the janitor’s death, discovering the janitorial closet where he’d been killed, but getting access to the clinic’s records had taken longer. “Along with Gage Darnell’s medical records, we should be able to learn something. Have you gotten the signed release form from Darnell?”
Her glower told him she had. “He picked the records up himself.”
“Darnell did?”
“If you want them, ask him.”
He would, after a chat with Vanderhoven. He started walking down the hall.
“He’s been moved.”
Rand turned around and met Nurse Dumont’s hard stare with one of his own. “Then I’ll follow you.”
She didn’t move.
“Unless you would rather I bring in some help and take a look through the whole place again?”
“There’s nothing left for you to search.” A deep voice emerged from the office, followed by Dr. Morton. Next to the strapping Nurse Dumont, Morton looked small, however he was anything but meek. “Truly, Detective, I don’t know what you hope to accomplish by harassing us. We have nothing to hide.”
Rand eyed the man that Gage Darnell had accused of keeping him prisoner in the clinic. Morton was dirty. Rand could feel it. He just hadn’t been able to prove it. Yet. “Then you won’t mind showing me to Wesley Vanderhoven’s new room.”
“He might be a little foggy. The medication he’s on has that effect.”
The strong scent of peppermint reached Rand, carried on Morton’s breath. Rand’s stomach gave a buck. “He’s not still sedated, is he?”
“Of course not. He’s recovering from his ordeal nicely. But that doesn’t mean he has returned to normal.”
Rand doubted anyone could return to normal inside these walls; although, he would be willing to bet that under Morton’s care, Vanderhoven had a bigger challenge than most. He only had to think of the things Gage Darnell had told him about his forced stay at Beech Grove to know that. He had to find a way to get Vanderhoven out.
But first he needed to have a talk with him. “Take me to his room.”
Morton nodded to the nurse, the fluorescent light glinting off scalp visible through his thinning blond hair. “Nurse Dumont will be happy to.”
One side of her pale lips lifted in a snarl. Launching into a march, she brushed past him and headed down the hall. Two turns later she stopped at a door and knocked. “Mr. Vanderhoven?” she said in a sugary voice Rand never could have imagined coming from her lips. “You have a visitor.”
She pushed the door open a few inches. Without sparing Rand a glance, she hurried back down the hall, the rapid squeak
of her shoes fading.
Rand pushed the door wide and stepped into the room.
The familiar theme song from Star Trek: The Next Generation soared from the television suspended from the ceiling. From the hospital bed, pale eyes watched him from an even paler face. “I know you, don’t I?” the man asked.
He doubted it. The times Rand had tried to talk to Vanderhoven, the lab tech had been so out of it, he hadn’t seemed able to recognize himself. “I’m Detective Rand McClellan with the Maryland State Police. I need to ask you some questions about the accident you were involved in at Cranesbrook.”
Vanderhoven let his head fall back into the pillow with a heavy sigh.
“My partner and I were here before. I’m glad to see you’re doing better.” Of course, better was a relative word. Although only twenty-six, the lab technician looked about fifteen years older. His cheeks were gaunt under sharp cheekbones, and circles dark as bruises cupped his eyes.
“Thanks. They said I was in bad shape when they brought me in.”
“They?”
“Dr. Morton and the nurses.”
Gage’s story of being restrained and drugged flashed in the back of Rand’s mind. “Has the staff here kept you confined in any way?”
“Confined? Like how?”
“Have they restrained you? Prevented you from leaving or reaching friends or family?”
“No. I mean, they’ve sedated me. I know that. But I was very upset and confused when I woke up. I guess they didn’t have a choice.”
Upset and confused. That was basically how Gage had described how he’d felt upon awaking. “So you’ve never had your hands and legs restrained?”
“Not that I remember.”
Rand nodded. The condition Vanderhoven had been in, maybe they hadn’t had to worry about him escaping. “Have you been in contact with anyone from outside the clinic?”
“I’ve talked to people at work. Hank Riddell came to see me.”
Rand made a note. The fact that Hank Riddell had been observing at the hospital the night the janitor had been killed had bothered Rand from the beginning. Sid Edmonston had confessed to killing the janitor, but the possibility that Hank Riddell had assisted him seemed more than probable.
And maybe he was the one who killed Maxie.
“Any friends come to see you? Family?”
“Most of my friends are guys I game with online. As far as friends I see in person, Hank is it.” He shrugged a bony shoulder. “Work is my family.”
Cranesbrook sure hadn’t felt very familylike to him. Or even particularly friendly. He hated to see a guy so all alone in the world stuck here in the hospital under Morton’s thumb. “Have you been watching the news lately?”
“You mean have I seen the stories about the murder that happened here? And the manhunt for the Cranesbrook security guy, Darnell?”
Apparently he had. “If you’re uncomfortable with what has been happening around here or your medical care, I can arrange for you to be transferred to another facility. All you have to do is say the word.” At least until Rand could manage to get a court order. Then he could have Vanderhoven moved regardless.
“Not necessary. I’m fine here. Cranesbrook’s insurance company is paying for the whole thing. Besides, I’m feeling stronger already.”
“Then you’ll be strong enough to answer my questions. I’d like you to start by telling me everything you remember happening leading up to the accident.”
“Leading up to it? I was in the lab, working. Same as every day.”
“What were you working on?”
“It’s classified.”
“Listen, I’m going to be straight with you here, Wes. The president of Cranesbrook tried very hard to cover up the accident you were involved in. He wanted to cover it up so badly, he killed people. I have to know what you were working on.”
Vanderhoven’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed in his skinny throat. “Can’t tell you. I’ll get in big trouble.”
Frustration knotted Rand’s gut. Except for his enlightening conversation with Claire Fanshaw, trying to break through the wall of silence surrounding Cranesbrook was like chipping at a brick wall with a toothpick. “Were you under recent pressure to meet deadlines in your research?”
“There are always deadlines.”
“Was there recent pressure? More pressure than usual?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I have reason to believe time pressure might have caused you or your colleagues to take shortcuts. Shortcuts that could lead to an accident.”
“I didn’t take shortcuts. Dr. Ulrich, the director of research, is the best in the country—no, the best in the world. He never would have pressed any of us to take shortcuts.” Vanderhoven’s face flushed pink. He gripped the sheets in his fists, then released them, gripped and released. “I didn’t bring this on myself.”
He hated upsetting someone in Vanderhoven’s condition, but he couldn’t back down now. He needed some answers. “I’ll leave you alone in a moment. First I want you to tell me what you remember about the explosion.”
“Nothing. I was knocked out. I woke up here.” He stared at Rand as if his patience was spent. “Like I said, I’m tired.”
Rand’s face heated. Annoyance surged through him, working from his gut into his tightened fists. If Vanderhoven didn’t start coming up with some answers, Rand was going to have to put his hands around that turkey neck and squeeze the answers out of him. He took a step toward the bed.
What the hell was he doing?
He shook his head and forced a breath into tight lungs. He didn’t get rattled. He didn’t get carried away with frustration or any other emotion. Yet for a second there, he’d actually contemplated choking a witness merely because the poor guy couldn’t remember what had happened while he was unconscious.
Of course, aggression could be a byproduct of severe stress.
He shook the thought away. The shrink he had to meet with tomorrow would love that thought. Too bad he wouldn’t be sharing it.
He focused on Vanderhoven. “Just a few more questions, and I’ll let you rest. Can you try to remember what you saw when you woke up? Anything? Even if it seemed like a dream?”
“Dreams? Yeah, I had some dreams. I don’t know if I can explain them very well, but I’ll do my best.” Again he stared at Rand, those light-blue eyes burning and chilling at the same time. “I had the kind of dreams you have in a place like this. A mental hospital. You know, the kind where I was screaming and screaming, and yet no one could hear me. No one would come.”
Emotion swept over Rand like an icy draft. Not the flame of anger this time, but the chill of fear. He sucked in a deep breath and tried to push it back, the way he had the anger.
What was happening to him?
Vanderhoven kept staring, kept talking in that tortured voice. “And then there were hands holding me down. Hands I couldn’t see. But as much as I struggled, I couldn’t get away.”
Rand could feel the hands, pinning him down. It was so real. Panic surged through him, hot and mindless. He had to get out of here. He had to get away. Yet what was he getting away from?
This was crazy. He wasn’t an emotional man. He was cold. Logical. He didn’t know what the hell was happening to him, but he had to get it under control.
“And I couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get enough oxygen. Have you ever had that feeling?”
Rand’s chest tightened and along with it came the grip of fear. Every reaction he had to Vander hoven’s story seemed to balloon out of control. Every emotion that flickered, however small, seemed to engulf him and sweep him away.
He gripped the notebook until the spiral wire binding bit into his hands, giving him something to focus on, something to cut through the emotion.
“Then harsh voices started whispering in my ears,” Vanderhoven continued. “It was horrible. They told me I was a worthless failure. That I should have died in the explosion. That I shou
ld just kill myself now.”
Again a wave of feeling swept over Rand. And this time it was accompanied by memories of his own. His father had talked about voices like that. He said those voices came to him in dreams. Dreams of worthlessness. Dreams of failure. Dreams fueled by his depression.
Grief clogged Rand’s throat. Guilt. He tried to push it away, but this time he couldn’t do it. He gripped the notebook, but the pain did no good. All he could think about was his dad in the weeks before his death. The way his face hollowed out under sharp cheekbones and sunken eyes. The sound of a grown man sobbing. The smell of gunpowder and blood and splattered brains on the night he’d swallowed his shotgun.
A sob worked up Rand’s throat. Guilt clamped around his neck like cold hands.
“Have you ever felt like you wanted to kill yourself, Detective?”
Kill himself. Maybe that’s what he should do. Just end it, like his dad had. Maybe that was the only way out of this raging emotional hell.
Maybe that was the only way.
Chapter Four
Rand lifted his head from the steering wheel of his vehicle and stared through the dirty windshield at the clinic. Thank God, he’d gotten out of there. His back was wet with sweat and his blood was still jittering in his veins, but at least the thoughts had subsided. He was slowly crawling out of the pit of depression.
What the hell had happened?
It didn’t make sense. None of it. He wasn’t an emotional man. An old girlfriend had once called him cold. Not a good thing in her book, but it had served him pretty well. He sure as hell was nothing like his old man. Nothing.
Then why had he contemplated killing himself?
Hell, he hadn’t just contemplated it. He’d decided to do it. He’d decided to commit suicide.
Was it nothing more than stress? God, he wished he could believe that. But even though he’d heard about the strange effects on the psyche that stress and lack of sleep could have, deciding to commit suicide seemed a bit beyond the typical nervous breakdown.
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