Scott sized-up the guard, recognizing his presence as an intended threat.
Security and muscle.
“Good afternoon, Mr…” Dr. Nixon put out his hand.
“Scott. Scott Penton.” He didn’t return a handshake.
“Dr. Howard Nixon. I’m pleased to meet you.” Nixon adjusted the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “This is one of my senior security staff, Max Reid.” Reid crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Brian tells me you’re looking for a female guard. That you’ve lost someone?” The concerned act was half-convincing.
“I’m looking for my wife, Miranda.” He decided on the non-confrontational route, hoping to get a better idea what had happened to her. She was here, he knew it.
“I’m afraid there’s been a mistake, Mr. Penton.” A smug grin appeared on Dr. Nixon’s face and then vanished. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Scott moved in on Nixon, a much smaller man than he was. “You’re damn right there’s a mistake.”
Reid stepped forward and Nixon raised his hand to hold him off. “We don’t hire female security staff. I’m sure you can understand the risks involved with that.”
Scott took a deep breath. “You
hired
Miranda two weeks ago.”
“I’m certain I know who I’ve hired at my own facility.” Nixon defended his position.
“Then are you calling Dr. Michael Waters a liar?” Even if Scott wasn’t trained in questioning and reading people, he would have seen the shift in Nixon’s expression. “Are you going to deny knowing him, too? He worked here for years and recommended Miranda for the job.” He looked around for proof that Miranda had been there, her purse or a photograph.
Anything.
And then he saw it. Next to a pile of dusty binders, a familiar blue object caught his eye.
Miranda’s favorite pen.
He never understood why a free pen meant so much to her, but she never went anywhere without it. He shoved Nixon aside and grabbed it. “You just happen to have a pen from a dentist’s office two hundred miles away?
Our
dentist.”
Nixon shook his head. “I have no idea where that came from. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’ve never heard of either of these people and I’m finished talking about it. Seems a husband would know where his wife is rather than be out looking for her. I can’t have you disrupting sick patients and causing a scene. Miranda Penton doesn’t work here. She has
never
worked here.”
“I’m not leaving without my wife.”
Somewhere in his frustration with Nixon he’d lost track of Reid.
A loud crack echoed inside his head and a near bone-crushing jolt drove his skull into his spine. A hot trickle of blood ran down the back of his neck and his vision went dark.
* * * * *
“Scott!” Miranda woke up in a cold sweat, screaming his name. Sleep was her only escape from solitary confinement and the sterile, windowless room.
From the dread of another pregnancy and of losing the baby.
She drew several deep breaths and tried to shake the fear the nightmare left with her.
All she could think of was the black amniotic fluid leaking from Annie. Nowhere in any of her pregnancy books was that ever mentioned.
What had Nixon done?
Her stomach cramped and her cell swung open, the creaky hinge drowning out her groan.
“Music to my ears.” Reid wheeled in a tray with a steaming bowl on top of it.
Miranda clenched her jaw when a second wave of pain hit.
Reid lingered at her bedside, moving his eyes over her body and staring at her breasts. All that separated her naked flesh from him was a thin, cotton gown. She squirmed at the idea of him touching her and could see what he was after. His thoughts were all but spelled out in drool on her sheets.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said, snarling.
“I bet you’re hungry.” He smiled and lowered the bed rail, drawing her restrained left wrist down with it. He sat on the side of her bed and his weight flattened the mattress, leaning her against him.
She shivered. “Get the fuck away from me.”
“Or you’ll do
what
?” he asked. “You’re a bad girl, aren’t you,
Miranda
?” His words dripped with sex. “I better not take any chances.” He leaned over her and pulled her right wrist restraint until the back of her hand was flush with the railing. His chest pressed down on her and his breath was hot on her ear.
She turned her face away from his, scooted over in the bed, and yanked against the solid, binding restraints.
Fighting him was useless
.
Reid took the lid off a bowl of dark brown mush that looked like oatmeal and smelled like pureed meat. Her already upset stomach turned and she wrinkled her nose.
“Oh, God. I’m not eating that.”
Reid filled a spoon halfway. “We can do this the easy way or my way, your choice.” He moved it in front of her like a mother with a toddler. “Open up the hangar.” He was clearly amused.
“I’m not eating whatever that shit is,” she said through clenched teeth.
Reid grabbed her face and pushed her cheeks toward each other until her lips were forced apart. “Eat the fucking mush, Miranda. Nixon’s orders.”
The hard plastic spoon pressed against her front teeth and slid into her gums, compelling her to open her mouth.
The metallic mush mixed with the taste of fresh blood. Her gums ached and she wanted to vomit. She spat the mouthful at Reid, peppering her gown and blankets with the soggy refuse.
Reid wiped his face and his cold expression held a new intent. He pulled her blanket off and a chill swept across her causing a gooseflesh eruption.
She shivered and her nipples grew hard, pressing against the thin gown.
Reid’s eyes narrowed and his grimace turned to a grin. “We’re going to need to clean you up.” His finger traced a line from her chin to the neckline of her gown, slowly drawing it into a “V.”
“Please stop.”
“Stop what?” he asked. “You’re the one who made the mess. You’re lucky I’m willing to clean you up.” His hand moved slowly over her right breast, pinching her erect nipple.
He was going to rape her, she knew it. “Please, don’t do this. I’m sorry.”
“Reid, knock it off.” Foster appeared in the doorway, a pile of clean linens and a gown folded over his right arm. “I’ll take care of her.
Nixon’s orders
.”
Oh, thank God.
Reid slammed the food on the cart hard enough that it aerosolized the mush, spattering two of the cell walls. “Fine, you get her to eat this shit. I’m out of here.”
Miranda let out the breath she’d been holding and sniffled, a tear of relief rolling down her cheek. “Thank you.” She swallowed and tried to steady her nerves.
He was the last person she expected to save her.
Foster waited until Reid was out of earshot, closed the door, set the change of bedding at Miranda’s feet. “I don’t have a lot of time. Listen, don’t talk. In that pile are clean scrubs and a tee shirt. Put on the gown for now and keep the other clothes hidden under your blankets. There’s some food, crackers, mostly, but it beats the shit Reid was trying to feed you.” He released the wrist restraints from over her head and allowed her a stretch before refastening them lower on the sidebars. “You should be able to get out of these with no problem.” He left the cuffs loose enough for her to pull her hands through. “Wait for me here. I’ll get you out of this, but do not leave this room. Do you hear me? No matter what, do
not
leave this room.”
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because there are worse things out there than Nixon.”
20
.
Scott woke up in the passenger’s seat of his pewter H2 with a headache that sparked fireworks in his vision. The sun, even through the tinted windows, forced its way into his squinted eyes and burned like a searing hot poker. He lifted his hand to the lump at the base of his skull and winced when he touched it. The blood mixed with his bristly hair to form a thick scab, the damp center of which had not dried yet.
Nixon’s chatter kept Scott distracted, and while he regretted not heading off Reid’s attack, it confirmed Miranda’s location.
He looked around to get his bearings.
Okay, where the hell did you drop me off, psycho?
Porters, the small convenience store he passed on his trip into town, was just up ahead. He couldn’t help smirking when he saw the sign:
Thank you for visiting Strandville. We hope you enjoyed your stay.
“Hardly.”
Reid had driven him to the town line as a not so subtle hint.
Scott adjusted the driver’s seat, hit Nixon Center in his recently found GPS locations, and had barely turned around when the truck sputtered and stalled.
“If you wanted me to leave,” he said, “you should have left me gas.”
He shifted into park and started the walk to Porter’s.
* * * * *
Zach turned the corner into Allison’s empty hospital room. Every floral arrangement and personal effect was gone. The smell of disinfectant and the clean, taut sheets on the bed said that Allison wasn’t coming back.
He double-checked the room number though he could have walked to it in his sleep. Panic gripped him and he ran his hands through his hair, trying not to cry.
What had he started?
Somehow he knew this was all to do with what Clarence told him about Mitch.
Nixon appeared in the doorway. “Please come with me.”
Zach was so deep in worry that he hadn’t heard Nixon’s approach. He let his hands down and forced himself to stay calm. He would never find his wife without him. “Where is Allison? Is she all right?”
“She is. Please come with me. It’s time we talk.”
Zach followed Nixon to the stairwell and down to the first floor elevator. Awkward silence compounded the tension. “Why are we going to the basement?”
Please don’t let Allison be there.
Nixon held up his hand for Zach to be quiet. Two women passed by carrying flowers and balloons that said
Get well soon.
The elevator door opened and Zach went in, holding his breath all the way down. His stomach knotted and he couldn’t think straight. He was terrified of what Nixon was taking him to see.
Nixon’s demeanor remained flat even as he approached the cell and gestured for Zach to look inside. “There’s been an accident.”
Clarence cowered in the corner. White film formed over his bulging eyes and contrasted his dark skin like the narrow ends of two eggs rising from his skull.
Zach held his hand to his mouth, regretting ever asking about Mitch.
This is entirely my fault.
“The change is painfully slow,” Nixon said, the fact seeming to please more than upset him.
Clarence rolled onto his knees and vomited a small pool of blood. His back arched like a cat’s and he howled in pain, sweat glistening on his skin.
He’s feeling every bit of this.
Zach turned away, unable to watch any more.
Nixon had proven his point.
“Come with me.” Nixon stopped at the Control Room scanner. “Travis is going to need help.” Nixon typed in his security code to program it. “Put your hand here, please.”
The only thing to do was to comply. He placed his palm on the scanner, a green light came on, and the door opened.
Access granted.
Travis sat in the corner facing away from the wall of monitors tuned into Clarence’s cell. His eyes were rimmed red and his posture slumped.
“You’ll let me know when he’s finished changing, won’t you?” Nixon asked.
Travis sniffled. “Yes, sir.”
Nixon went to Travis and turned his chair. “You’ll need to watch to know when that is.”
Travis tilted his head and watched the painful transition in his periphery.
The twisted, sick bastard.
How long had Nixon made him watch this?
This didn’t bode well for Allison.
Zach’s thoughts drifted to her vacated room. “What did you do with my wife?”
Travis looked up.
Nixon flipped a switch and the new location appeared on the monitors. “I relocated her for the time being, but I’m certain she isn’t aware.” Allison’s room had been replicated almost exactly except for that the blinds were closed, concealing anything that might clue him into where she was. She appeared comfortably asleep, but nothing at the center was as it appeared.
She could be sedated.
“
Why
did you move her?”
“Her reaction to the treatment makes it unsafe for her to be mixed with the other patients.”
“What
reaction
?” Zach’s contempt broke through in spite of his desperate attempt for it not to.
Nixon narrowed his eyes. “The kind that if not carefully controlled could be painful.” He flipped the switch back and tapped the monitor showing Clarence’s cell.
Blood ran from Clarence’s ears and nose. He pressed his head to the floor and pounded his fists against the white tile. Urine pooled around him.
“I want to see my wife.” Zach said tearfully.
Nixon opened the Control Room door. “I’m afraid that just isn’t possible.”
21
.
“Are you all right?” A heavy-set woman wearing a black and red plaid hunting shirt held a gauze pad to the back of Scott’s head with a fair amount of pressure. “You gave us a helluva scare.”
Scott leaned forward and looked at the pimple-faced teen across from him. The young man’s face was battered, bruised, and stitched. “Where am I?” He took in the cluttered back room of a log cabin-like store.
“Porter’s,” the kid said, his severe expression hard to read. “You passed out’n our parkin’ lot.”
Porters. To get gas.
Slowly, things came back.
Scott brushed a stray shard of gravel from his cheek. “I have to go.” He set his hands on the table and when he tried to stand up, his legs tried to crumble under his weight.