Читать книгу Memories of Megan - Rita Herron - Страница 12

Megan’s heart pounded as she switched on the light and grabbed the cordless phone. She had to search the apartment.

Sliding from the bed, she reached for the umbrella on the desk, planning to use it as a weapon if necessary. Praying she wouldn’t need it, she inched through the room, pausing every few feet to listen for an intruder, but silence hung in the air, deathly calm and frightening.

Her fingers tightened around the umbrella base as she rushed to close the window. On guarded feet, she tiptoed to the doorway and peered into the hallway. Nothing but shadowy blank walls. She took a tentative step, then crept down the hall and checked the small den. Darkness bathed the area, cloaking it in heavy shadows, the leaves of the ficus plant in the corner spearing the wall like thready fingers ready to grab her.

The floor lamp looked ominous, the sofa, the closet, every small crevice a possible hiding place. Taking a deep breath, she flicked on the light, and braced herself. Thankfully her apartment was laid out as one open room, so she could see both the kitchen and den at once. Her gaze searched the parameters. Nothing. She sucked in a deep breath and tiptoed around the corner, then checked underneath the breakfast counter. Again nothing.

Thank God. Adrenaline surged through her as she ran to the door and checked the locks, the windows, the closet. But everything remained intact. No spooky demons or monsters hiding inside or beneath anything.

Her breathing still unsteady, she crept back to the bedroom and stared at the room. The deep maroon walls looked almost bloodlike, the shadows of the tree limbs ominous. She had once thought the room a cozy sanctuary for her and Tom.

Now it seemed frightening. She glanced outside for the dark sedan, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The car was gone. Still, someone had been inside her house.

Should she call the police? And tell them what? That she thought someone had been in the house because her window was open?

Or had she just imagined that someone had been there? Had she been dreaming of Tom? But what about the faint scent of a man’s cologne lingering in the room? Was she imagining that, too?

Stumbling back to bed, she reminded herself how safe she had felt when she and Tom had moved in.

Now she felt anything but safe.

MONDAY MORNING, COLE stepped inside the research center on Catcall Island, feeling lost. His leg throbbed and he leaned on the cane in disgust. He needed a good run, some vigorous exercise to release his tension, but running was definitely out of the question. And the exercises he did to strengthen his leg were painful, slow and frustrating as hell.

“Good morning, Dr. Hunter. I’m Connie, your secretary.”

He offered a strained smile. Had he met her?

“I worked for Dr. Wells.”

“I…I’m sorry about your boss.”

She gestured toward Wells’s office, which adjoined hers, although each had separate entrances to the hall as well. “I’m afraid Dr. Wells didn’t get a chance to tell me much about you, but welcome to the center.”

“Thanks.” Unfortunately he couldn’t tell her much, either.

“If you need anything, just let me know.” She backed toward her desk where he noticed the computer. “Dr. Parnell mentioned that you won’t be seeing patients for a while.”

“That’s right. I need time to get acquainted with things.” He pushed open the door to Wells’s office. His new office. “But thanks for the offer.”

“The delivery man brought in your boxes already.”

Great. Only he had no idea what was in them.

He stepped inside, scanning the space. The office seemed familiar, yet foreign at the same time. Propping the cane beside the desk, he stretched out his leg and began to rifle though the desk. The next few hours, he searched his memory for anything to jog his mind as he unpacked the stacks of research books and material he had been told belonged to him. Books and notes on schizophrenia, bipolar disorders, hypnosis, manic depression and every mental disorder known to man filled the boxes. He thumbed through each one, frowning at some of the technical jargon. Was he supposedly a specialist on one particular disorder? And if so, why didn’t any of the material ring a bell in his foggy brain?

Hopefully they would, he told himself, he just had to be patient. Be patient and move through the days, settling in and familiarizing himself with the routine, the research center, with the work Tom Wells had been doing. Wells’s own books and research manuals cluttered the bookcases on one wall, the materials piled haphazardly as if in no particular order. A small oval plastic cup overflowed with paper clips, shredded paper filled the trash can, and a coffee stain darkened the sleek black top of the desk. The man obviously hadn’t been obsessive compulsive about neatness.

Except that all his notes were typed, not handwritten.

Probably couldn’t read his own writing.

He halted, wondering how he had made that deduction. Was it the first sign that he was a psychiatrist? It was a small tidbit but he clung to it. Now what should he do?

A silver-framed five-by-seven photo of Megan Wells and her husband occupied the corner of the desk. His gut clenched at the ghostly feeling that encompassed him.

She wore a pale blue sundress that accentuated her eyes, he wore a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. Tom’s arm was thrown around his wife’s shoulders, wind whipped through their hair, sails flapped in the breeze, and the bright sun gleamed off their smiles. They had looked amazingly happy.

He didn’t think he was normally an emotional man, but it seemed like a betrayal to Wells’s memory for him to move into his space so soon after his death. To take over his office and discard his personal things. To put Wells’s wife’s photo aside and add one of his own. Not that he had any personal photos to add.

But Jones had insisted that Tom would have wanted his work to continue, that Tom lived for his research and prided himself on his commitment to his profession and his patients.

What about his wife? Had Wells been a doting husband or had he been so obsessed with his work that she had taken second place?

He shook away the troubling thought, wondering why he had even given it a moment’s interest. Megan Wells had looked happy in the photo. And she had been grief-stricken at her husband’s funeral. Besides, she was not his problem.

God knew he had enough of his own.

Still, so far the memories of her had been more tangible than any others.

Maybe she held some secret key that might unlock his past.

MEGAN ENTERED THE RESEARCH center hospital area through the security checkpoint, stopping only to accept brief offers of sympathy from various employees.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Doris, one of the young research assistants said.

“It’s better to keep busy.” Megan moved on for fear of breaking down. Several of the other staff members echoed the same sentiment as she veered down the corridor toward Tom’s office.

Two of Tom’s colleagues, Davis Jones and Warner Parnell, seemed engrossed in a serious discussion as they approached her from the opposite direction. Something about the case study on autism treatments, she heard one of them say. But as soon as they spotted her, the conversation instantly died.

“We didn’t expect you to come back to work so soon.” Dr. Jones, a handsome man in his early forties with thick tawny hair and a tanned complexion, met her in the hall in front of Tom’s secretary’s office. Through the crack in the doorway, Megan saw Connie stooped over the computer.

“I’m not officially on duty,” Megan explained. “So I thought I’d come and clean out Tom’s office.” She hadn’t been able to touch his personal things at home yet.

Dr. Parnell, an older gray-haired gentlemen with thick dark glasses nodded. “Probably a good idea.”

“Let me know if I can help, Megan,” Dr. Jones said.

Megan nodded, anxious to escape the doctors. Davis Jones had always made her uncomfortable. Both his cocky smile and his reputation with the ladies raised her defenses fast. She’d observed Dr. Parnell at work with some of the schizophrenic patients. He could be kind and sympathetic, yet ruthless when dealing with a disgruntled patient who refused medication. She’d also heard that he was working on some new treatment for autism that straddled the ethical line endorsed by the American Medical Association. Was that what they had been discussing in hushed voices?

She slipped past them into Connie’s office, pasting on a brave smile for the twenty-five-year-old brunette. Tom had treated her for depression. Newly divorced with a three-year-old, Connie had been desperate for a job when Tom hired her.

Connie’s green eyes reflected remorse. She’d made great strides since starting therapy and taking the job. Hopefully Tom’s death wouldn’t cause her to have a setback.

“Hi, Mrs. Wells.” Connie’s voice quivered with emotions.

“Hi, how are you doing?” Megan’s nursing instincts kicked in.

Connie’s thin shoulders lifted slightly. “Hanging in there. But I sure do miss Dr. T.”

Megan smiled, surprised to hear Connie refer to him that way.

“I know he’s actually been gone for weeks, but all that time—” Her voice broke, and she grabbed a tissue from the box on her desk, dabbed at her eyes and swallowed, “…all that time I prayed they’d find him alive.”

“I know, honey. So did I.” She squeezed Connie’s shoulder. “But we’ll get through this. Just keep telling yourself you have a job now. You have to stay tough for your family.”

Connie nodded. “You’re about the bravest lady I know, Mrs. Wells.”

“I’ve told you a dozen times to call me Megan. And you don’t give yourself enough credit—you were brave to leave your husband, and you’re raising your son on your own. That takes courage.”

Connie nodded again, seeming to draw strength from Megan’s words. Megan brushed at her khakis. “I came to clean out Tom’s office, and to take his personal things home.” Megan closed her hand around the doorknob to Tom’s office, but Connie stood, waving a hand.

“You won’t believe this, but they’ve already brought in a replacement for Tom.”

Megan had already pushed the door open though.

She paused, stunned, when she saw Cole Hunter sitting behind her husband’s long polished desk.

COLE FELT AS IF DÉJÀ VU had struck him the minute he spotted Megan standing in the doorway. Impossible.

Jones had told him he had never been in Tom’s office or met Megan before. So, how could he have déjà vu?

“I…I didn’t realize you were going to be here,” Megan said.

Cole’s stomach clenched. “I didn’t, either.” He stood, ready to apologize. “Jones said they’d planned to put me in a cubicle, but since…” He let the sentence trail off when he saw the horrible meaning register in Megan’s eyes. No sense wasting good office space, Jones had said. But he didn’t tell her that part. That he had thought Jones seemed cold, impersonal. Then again, sometimes scientists were cold and impersonal. They had to be.

Another little tidbit, he realized, wondering if these small flashes of insight were memories prying through the empty spaces in his mind.

She squared her shoulders. “I came to get his personal things.”

Cole’s gaze strayed to the photo of her and her husband.

“You looked very happy,” he said, his voice tight.

Emotions skated across her face. A happy memory obviously surfacing. Then sadness. And something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“That was in the Keys, right? Your honeymoon?”

Her gaze flew to his. “How…how did you know that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe someone told me.” The image of Megan in an ankle-length white cotton dress floated through his mind. She’d looked like an angel. Other memories crowded through the haze. A kiss. A long walk on the beach. A sailboat. “The boat tipped and you fell in the water.”

His throat grew thick. She was staring at him, a frightened look in her big blue eyes. “Who told you about our honeymoon?”

He had no idea. Worse, just as quickly as the images had come to him, they disappeared. And once again, his mind was an empty hole.

MEGAN GRIPPED THE EDGES of the photograph, searching Cole Hunter’s face for some explanation about his comment, but he offered none. Instead he seemed confused, almost as troubled as she was about his knowledge.

She had told only a few of the nurses about their short trip to the Keys. As far as she knew, Tom had told no one. Of course, anyone who had come in his office might have asked about the photo, so Tom might have explained the picture. He certainly wouldn’t have shared any details, though.

Tom was not that kind of man.

He kept his personal life and feelings to himself, his business life almost a different entity. If she hadn’t worked at the center herself, she might never have met his colleagues.

“I’ll step outside while you go through things,” Cole offered.

Megan nodded, needing some space. Not only did she dread the task ahead, but being in close proximity to Cole Hunter unnerved her. His presence seemed to take up all the space in the office, filling it with a different sense, a huge, breathtaking masculine one.

A frightening one.

Or maybe it wasn’t him at all, but just the fact that he’d been sitting in her late husband’s chair.

He reached for the cane and leaned on it, then moved to the door, hesitating. “I’m sorry if my being here makes it more difficult for you.”

Megan clamped down on her lip with her teeth. “It’s not your fault.”

He gripped the door, confusion in his eyes again. “I didn’t ask for Tom’s office, Megan. Dr. Jones insisted. In fact…”

“Yes?”

“I feel uncomfortable being here, too.”

Megan’s anxiety lifted slightly. She understood how difficult it was to be the new man on the block. As a nurse and employee of CIRP, she should be welcoming him, easing his transition.

“I do need to review his files at some point,” Cole said.

“All right.” Megan placed the photograph in the box. “Will you be taking over his patients also? And his research?”

He glanced down at his hand as if her question disturbed him. “Not right away. I recently had an accident myself.”

“I’m sorry. Was it serious?” Megan remembered the scars.

“Yes. I haven’t fully recovered.” She waited for further explanation but he didn’t elaborate. In fact, she sensed the accident was difficult for him to discuss. She understood about not sharing one’s problems, too; her entire life had been a hard road, one that had kept throwing her curves when she least expected it.

Just as it was doing now.

Cole stepped into Connie’s office, wondering where the brunette had disappeared to. He felt a small headache pulsing behind his eyes. He poured himself a cup of coffee from the corner table and massaged the side of his temple. What had happened back in Wells’s office? How had he known where the photo of Megan and her husband had been taken? Had one of the other doctors told him? According to Jones, he had only met Tom Wells for a brief minute or two when he’d interviewed for the job. Would he have shared something personal with a stranger? Most men didn’t.

“Dr. Hunter, are you all right?”

He pivoted, sloshing hot coffee on his hand.

“Oh, my goodness.” Connie grabbed a napkin and wiped at his shirt. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Not your fault.” Cole had said the same thing to Megan. “I have a headache, that’s all.”

“Can I get you some aspirin?”

He had no idea why the young woman was so jittery. Was she nervous around all men? “I guess it’s just the stress of a new place.”

“I know what you mean. I was a wreck when I first came here.”

A smile twitched at his lips.

“That must seem weird since I’m acting so nervous now, but I really was a mess. Dr. Wells and his wife have helped me immensely.”

He narrowed his eyes, not quite comprehending.

“I figured Dr. Jones told you. He doesn’t like me very much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I was a patient. Dr. Wells helped me with my depression. And his wife, Megan, she’s a real doll, so kind and understanding. Anyway, Dr. Jones wasn’t thrilled when I took the job here. I guess he thought the center shouldn’t hire former patients. He probably thinks I’m not very stable.” She blushed as if she realized she’d been rambling.

He nodded sympathetically.

“If you want someone to show you around, ask Megan. She knows everyone in the psych ward. All the doctors, I mean.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, the hair at the back of his neck prickled. Before he even glanced sideways, he knew Megan Wells stood in the doorway. He smelled her body spray, a very soft hint of jasmine, the kind of fragrance she always wore to work. Subtle but fresh. She hated heavy perfumes; too many of the patients had allergies and reactions.

His heart stopped beating. How in the world had he known that?

“WHAT’S GOING ON?” Megan stiffened. Connie and Cole Hunter were staring at her as if she’d interrupted some private conversation.

“Nothing,” Connie said with a smile. “I was just bragging to Dr. Hunter that if he needed someone to show him around and introduce him to the staff, that you were the one to do it.”

Megan shook her head at Connie’s exuberance. Sometimes she acted seventeen instead of twenty-five. Cole’s potent masculinity probably intimidated her. Her husband had been a big man.

Now, why would I think that, she thought irritably?

She and Cole were going to be working together. In spite of the circumstances, she had to behave like a professional.

“I’d be glad to introduce you and show you the facilities,” Megan offered. “Whenever’s convenient for you.”

“Thanks. I had a short tour when I was here, and I’ve met a few people since I arrived, but I’m still not familiar with the layout of the center.” He gestured to the door. “Shall we go now?”

“Certainly.” She left the small box of items in Connie’s office. “Follow me.”

She wound through the maze of offices, pointing out the various names of the doctors and scientists and noting each one’s specialty. Just being here brought back so many memories of Tom. Maybe she should transfer.

Most of the doors remained closed, and she didn’t want to disturb the doctors’ work by going inside. Cole would have to meet them one by one as the situation called for or at one of the weekly staff meetings.

“Where are the labs?” Cole asked.

“On the second floor.” Megan paced herself to suit his pained gait as she led him through the hospital. The next hour she showed him the various floors and departments, pausing to introduce him to different nurses and counselors.

“Two doctors on this floor are researching a new drug to treat manic depression,” she pointed out. “And Dr. Hornsby’s pet project is dissociative identity disorder.”

“Tell me about the psychiatric ward,” Cole said as they entered the wing for the mental patients.

“We see a variety of patients here, some are outpatient and some are here for long-term treatments and must be confined.”

“Are all of the patients using research oriented treatments versus traditional therapy?”

Megan shook her head. “Not all. The ones who are have come on a volunteer basis, or they’re severe cases where traditional techniques or medications haven’t been effective.”

They’d reached the main floor of the mental ward where patients were received and assessed. “We have counselors and therapists who assess and interview patients when they first come in. Of course we take referrals from other physicians as well.”

“It’ll take you a while to get to know everyone,” Megan said, sensing he was becoming overwhelmed.

“Ms. Wells,” Janie, one of the volunteers called. “Can you come in here a second? Mr. Boyd is asking for you.”

“He’s been diagnosed with schizophrenia,” Megan explained softly to Cole. “But he’s been doing so much better with the new medication.”

Cole followed her inside the small room. Megan winced when she saw Daryl Boyd hunched into a ball on the floor, his hospital gown gaping. “Mr. Boyd, what’s going on?” she said softly, kneeling beside him.

A tuft of thin gray hair spiked haphazardly over his freckled head, his eyebrows were bushy, and his eyes wild. He glanced at Cole and pointed a shaky finger. “Who’s that?”

“This is Dr. Hunter,” Megan said. “He’s—”

“Get him out of here,” he screeched, “he’s one of them.”

Megan reached out to comfort him, afraid he’d lapsed into one of his exhaustive states. “One of who?”

“The bad doctors,” the old man said in a high-pitched voice. He rocked himself back and forth, hugging his arms around bony legs. “You don’t know what they do in here. I do.” Panic rose in his shrill voice. “Get him out of here. Make him go.”

Megan frowned. She needed to calm Boyd. “Mr. Boyd, Dr. Hunter is new on the staff—”

“No, I’ve seen him before. He does bad, bad things. Make him leave!”

Megan stroked his back while April ran in with an injection. Cole arched an eyebrow as if to ask if he should help, but Megan gestured for him to leave. As soon as he stepped from the room, Daryl Boyd broke down and began to cry.

“What happened?” April asked.

“He was asking for me,” Megan explained. “When I came in, he was agitated.”

“They hurt people, they—” the old man began to hum “—they hook you up to these wires and put this helmet on you and fry you. My head, it sizzled, it—” he grabbed his head, covered his ears and rocked faster “—I thought it was going to explode.”

“Listen, Daryl—”

“You got to be careful, Ms. Megan.” Boyd dropped his head forward like a child, emitting a low screech. “Don’t tell ’em I told you, don’t tell ’em,” he whispered. “Or they’ll kill both of us.”