Deadly Seduction (13 page)

She disagreed. Questions were pathways to the truth. How long would Max have remained captive if no one had pursued the question of his disappearance?

Travis Franks’s photographs of that chamber came back to mind. Did Max recall any of that? Did he know what had been done to him?

While she had no clinical experience, the case histories she’d studied in grad school indicated that most
alleged
brainwashing patients had no conscious memory of the actual process, though many later recalled it with hypnosis.

Medical hypnosis was her area of expertise and the reason she was hired for the position in the first place. Was the real reason Travis Franks had wanted her involved not so much to help Max, but rather to determine what information had been compromised?

She looked at her reflection one last time. She needed a plan. Once Dr. Winchette found Max gone, he’d sound an alarm. People would be searching for them. The problem was she wasn’t sure she wanted anyone to find them just yet.

Not until she knew more about where Max had been held and what had been done to him.
Admit it, Erin—you really want to know about that machine.
What had it been used for? Where had it come from? And had her father been involved in any of it? She could never believe that her father would willingly be involved in anything evil.

Max promised they would talk, and while getting him back to the hospital was her primary concern, she had to face another reality. She could very well lose her job over this, so if she had any questions for Max, she needed to ask them now.

Losing her job would also put an end to searching for her father’s records at the hospital. Maybe it was time she was honest with Dr. Winchette and asked him point blank about her father’s death.

Outside the restroom, the fog was still heavy. She sat on a bench, listening, but all was quiet. Too quiet.

She approached the men’s room door and listened, but no sound came through. “Max?”

No one answered. Her stomach sank at the realization that he was gone. He’d given her the key…to a stolen truck. How stupid was that?

Furious over having been tricked, she whirled around and plowed right into him.

Max reached out, steadied her.

The disproportionate relief she felt at seeing him morphed into stunned awe as her eyes swept over him. His hair was still damp and a little longer on top than she’d realized. His head laceration was barely noticeable now that his hair wasn’t stuck to the suture line. He was healing amazingly fast.

He wore clean clothes, black jeans and another black tee that hugged his muscles. Big honking muscles that would leave Alice drooling.

If Erin had thought him handsome before, he was even more so now. He’d shaved, his cheeks smooth, making her want to touch them again.

Again?

Right. She had dreamed about kissing him. And more.

He smiled, revealing a deep dimple. Then he dropped his hands, breaking the spell.

Erin quickly took a step backward, disappointed that the moment ended.

“Afraid I’d deserted you?” he teased.

“It crossed my mind.”

“Come on.” He led the way back to the truck. The smell of bacon frying drifted over from some neighboring site, reminding Erin she’d skipped dinner last evening.

Max opened the passenger door. “Look, there were several restaurants, back toward the interstate. How about we head there, get coffee and food. We can talk while we eat.”

“You should let me drive.”

“No. Just get in.”

Having little choice, she climbed onto the passenger seat.

Ten minutes later, he pulled into the drive-through lane of a fast-food restaurant. “Don’t worry. I’m going to pull over, but we can talk more privately if we eat in the car. What do you want?”

“Coffee, black. And an egg biscuit.”

Max ordered himself four steak and egg biscuits. “With extra cheese.”

After getting their food, he swung around to the rear of the parking lot and backed into a space. Digging through the paper sack, he handed her a wrapped biscuit. “I think this is yours.”

“Thanks.” She set it on the seat and reached for her coffee. The scalding brew tasted divine.

Max polished off one of his biscuits in two bites before she even got hers unwrapped, and then opened his coffee.

“I feel like I haven’t eaten in—months. But I’m guessing it’s only been a few days.”

“I’d still take it easy, try to slow down and chew it well.” She immediately regretted her words, fearing she sounded like a mother hen.

Max ignored her advice and wolfed down another biscuit. “You’re from Langley? I am—was CIA, right? You, too?”

Erin sipped her coffee, debating how much to tell him. If she wanted honesty from him, she needed to lead by example. “You are, yes. They’re eager to debrief you, by the way. I work for the NSA at a research hospital in Alexandria. I’ve got a doctorate in clinical psychology, but unlike a psychiatrist, I’m not a medical doctor.”

“National Security Agency. Big gun. Winchette, too?”

“Yes, but he is a psychiatrist. Head of my department.”

“Interesting that they’d call in a squadron of shrinks.” Max pointed to his head. “Obviously someone thinks I’ve suffered more than a scalp laceration. What’s the story with you and Winchette? One minute the guy seems to push all your wrong buttons. The next he’s like a revered older uncle.”

She nibbled on her biscuit. This was why she never played poker. There was no
bluff
in her DNA.

“My father and Dr. Winchette were research partners and friends once. We’re not related, but I’ve known him, well, forever. My parents had no siblings or extended family, so in many ways Dr. Winchette was the closest thing to an uncle I ever experienced. At least when I was little.”

As if sensing the topic was a sore one for her, Max changed his line of questions. “What do you know about how I got to Southeast Asia in the first place?”

“Very little, I’m afraid,” she said. “You and two other operatives, Dante Johnson and Harry something—”

“Gambrel,” Max supplied.

“The three of you disappeared on an assignment two years ago and were believed dead until Dante escaped six months ago.”

“I remember Dante and Rocco rescuing me. But Harry…was he with them?”

“No. He’s still missing. I’m confused about Taz. If he was not part of your original team, who is he?”

“Taz is a friend. We worked together, if not for the CIA, then elsewhere.” Max rubbed his head. “This not remembering is getting old. How long before this amnesia passes?”

“It varies. It’s not an exact science. You could wake up with full recall tomorrow. Then again, some or all may never return.”

“That totally sucks. Sounds more like a crap shoot.”

“There are therapies, utilizing things like regression and even biofeedback, that might help. The fact that I’m also a clinical hypnotherapist is one reason I was called in on this case.”

“Well, no offense, but the last thing I want is someone trying to put me under again.”

“It’s not like that. You don’t go unconscious, as with sedatives. Believe me, I understand your concerns. Dante Johnson resisted it as well.”

“Did Dante have amnesia?”

“You really need to speak with him about that. We’re treading close to the line on patient privacy.”

“Professional propriety isn’t high on my list these days.” Max set his food aside. Leaning forward, he pulled her cell phone out from beneath the car seat. “I want to know if they found Taz. Call Winchette and get an update, but use the speakerphone. Tell him you’re safe and will explain everything as soon as you’re back at the hospital.”

She noticed that he’d loosened her phone battery, but snapped it back in place before handing it to her. When she dialed Winchette’s phone, it went straight to voice mail.

Max reached over and hit the
END
button. “No messages.”

“Let me try calling Dante Johnson, then. He’ll know if your friend was located.” She looked around for her purse. “He gave me a card last night.”

“Keep it on speaker and keep it short,” Max said. “And don’t tell him where you are.”

Dante answered on the second ring.

“It’s Erin Houston,” she began. “I was trying to reach Dr. Winchette, but he doesn’t answer.”

“Dr. Houston!” Dante said. “Are you okay? Is Max with you?”

She looked at Max. “Yes, and we’re both fine. Max wants to know if you found his friend, Taz. The John Doe patient.”

Dante hesitated. “Max, I know you’re listening. And no, we haven’t found him yet. But there’s more. Dr. Winchette is dead.”

“Dead?” Erin felt like someone had struck her. “How? What happened?”

“I hoped you could tell me,” Dante said. “He was found in Max’s room shortly after you disappeared. Look, tell me where you are and I’ll—”

Max grabbed the phone, ending the call before separating the battery again.

“Give me that!” she said. “I need to find out what’s going on.”

He started the truck, but didn’t put it in gear. “You can call Dante back in a minute. He’ll arrange for someone to pick you up.”

“You can’t leave, Max! Dr. Winchette is dead. They probably think that you came to like your friend did and went ballistic.”

“That’s exactly what they think. Which is why I need you to call and tell them that Winchette was nowhere around when we left.”

She noticed that Max winced as he spoke, his words seemingly gritted out between clenched teeth. That he was in pain was obvious.

“I can’t let you go off alone,” she said.

“You can’t stop me. I’ve got to find Taz.”

“You need to go back to the hospital, Max.”

“And be a guinea pig? Never. Get out, Erin. Please.”

The “please” undid her. “Whether you want to admit it or not, you need help, Max. Let me stay with you. We’ll figure out something together. I want to help you.”

Instead of replying, his arm shot out across her chest, toward the door. She wanted to scream in frustration that he intended to physically eject her from the truck.

“I hope I won’t regret this.” He grabbed the seat belt and pulled it harshly across her chest before jamming it in the buckle.

Then he stomped the gas and sped away.

Boston, Massachusetts
September 22

The last thing Abe Caldwell felt like was having brunch at the nearly deserted club. But this meeting with Salvador Pena had been too important to postpone.

He smiled and nodded, encouraging Salvador to continue droning on about his recent vacation with his great-grandsons. Meeting here was better than meeting at Sal’s estate, where Abe would have had to suffer through a photo presentation as well. Fortunately, with Sal, a little fake enthusiasm went a long way. And right now Abe needed every advantage.

Salvador Pena was wealthy and powerful, but still old-school humble enough to insist he owed it all to Abe’s grandfather. Sixty years ago, Salvador had agreed to back Abe’s grandfather’s fledgling drug company. That initial investment in Caldwell Pharmaceuticals eventually made both men billionaires.

Salvador’s subsequent reinvestments helped fuel the company’s exponential growth and allowed him to expand into other markets like the electronics and software firm Sal’s grandson now ran. Abe’s grandfather and Salvador had been one of those rare, unbeatable teams of money and genius, their Midas touch and ruthless mindset making every business venture a success.

It all changed ten years ago, however, following the crash of a corporate jet in the Swiss Alps. The sole survivor, Abe’s grandfather miraculously walked away unharmed, but permanently altered all the same. Suddenly saddled with a conscience, his grandfather refused to do business “the old way.”

Profits at Caldwell Pharmaceuticals plummeted and the board threatened mutiny. Fate intervened in the form of a stroke. When his grandfather was declared incapacitated, Abe became his guardian. With Salvador’s backing, Abe convinced the board to let him take up the company reins.

Three years later, Caldwell Pharmaceuticals was back on top. Everyone lauded Abe’s brilliance. Some even suggested that perhaps he was smarter than his grandfather. Abe went to great lengths to preserve that image, making certain no one knew the truth—that while going through his grandfather’s most private papers, Abe discovered the Golden Goose.

Decades earlier, under a variety of airtight guises and dummy corporations, his grandfather managed to acquire mountains of research projects abandoned in the forties, fifties, and sixties.

By today’s standards, the projects ranged from sheer folly to downright unethical. They’d been sold off or jettisoned with the understanding that they’d never resurface and cause the originating parties embarrassment. Some had even been outright stolen.

Abe’s grandfather’s true genius was his uncanny ability to sort the wheat from the chaff, marrying old hypothesis to cutting-edge technology, which in many cases produced magical results.

His grandfather had also been masterful at obscuring the origins of a project, carefully utilizing only the work of deceased scientists—with one key exception: his collaborative work with Viktor Zadovsky.

After his grandfather’s stroke, Zadovsky had been as eager as Abe to continue their secret partnership. No big surprise given the shambled state of the Russian government at the time.

For a while their new partnership seemed to work. The initial successes Zadovsky demonstrated with mind control had been startling. Men who blindly followed commands. Human robots. Human slaves. Human killing machines. Unfortunately, the shelf life of the test subjects was horrendous.
“A minor but solvable problem,”
Zadovsky had insisted.

Abe had been especially interested in the enhanced physical capacities later test subjects displayed. That Zadovsky may have inadvertently created a fountain of youth formula didn’t seem to faze the Russian scientist. It had deeply intrigued Abe, however, who went on to indulge Zadovsky’s every whim and overlooked every excuse. The promise of success had been huge.

But that promise vanished with Zadovsky’s death—along with millions Abe had invested. Thankfully, not all appeared lost. Always one to hedge his bets, Abe had his Jakarta spies smuggle out whatever bits and pieces of Zadovsky’s work they could obtain. Those bits were far from complete, but Abe had faith in Stanley Winchette’s ability to reverse engineer whatever they lacked by studying the two test subjects who’d been recovered by the CIA.

One of those test subjects had disappeared, but that was a temporary glitch. Abe already had one of his own men en route to San Diego with a tracking device.

Another
hedge
was the fact that Abe had supplied Zadovsky with the tracking technology to begin with. An experimental nanotechnology that Salvadore’s electronics company worked on.

Now as soon as Abe’s contact in Southeast Asia found this Dr. Rufin, all the pieces would be in place.

“You’ve indulged me long enough,” Salvador said at last. “Let’s get down to business. I’ve looked over your latest proposal, and if it’s as promising as you’ve indicated, I’m in. In fact, I’d like exclusivity on the deal. Let me provide all funding in exchange for a higher percentage of the profits.”

Abe felt a genuine smile break across his face. Discarding his fork, he met Salvador’s gaze. “I started to say that’s very generous. But I realized it’s just you being masterful. Again.”

Grinning at the compliment, Salvador slathered butter on a croissant. “Your grandfather and I used to do business that way and look where it took us.”

“If he were here now, he’d approve.”

Frowning, Salvador grew serious. “Tell me straight. How is he doing? Last time I saw him, he didn’t seem to recognize me until right near the end. Even then I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes. Well, I’ve had the same experience, Sal. It’s…unsettling. That’s why I’m so eager to get started with this new project. The benefits projected for Alzheimer’s patients could help stroke victims as well.”

The cell phone clipped to Abe’s belt suddenly vibrated with the distinct long-short-short buzz that identified his assistant, Tommy Groene. Tommy wouldn’t interrupt this meeting unless it was urgent.

Abe shifted his gaze to their nearby waiter, who immediately approached the table and offered fresh coffee.

“Actually, I’d like a cappuccino,” Salvador began.

Abe took advantage of the break. “Make that two. If you’ll excuse me, Sal.” He stood and headed toward the men’s room.

After confirming he was alone, he called Tommy back.

“Sorry, sir,” Tommy began. “But I just received word that Dr. Winchette was found dead at the San Diego hospital.”

Tommy knew to get straight to the point, with little preamble, but still the bluntness of this news was shocking.

“What?” Abe said. “How?”

“My source at the San Diego Police Department said it appears his neck was broken in a scuffle. They were treating the case as a homicide until the Feds stepped in and took over, citing national security.”

“A homicide? Who do they think killed him?”

“The patient he was treating, Max Duncan. Apparently Duncan has disappeared now as well.”

“Damn!” Obviously, Duncan hadn’t been sedated enough no matter what Winchette had said.

“There’s more,” Tommy went on. “Winchette’s assistant, Dr. Houston, is missing. Presumed kidnapped.”

“Oh, that’s just fucking great.” A damsel in distress would whip the CIA into overdrive. And this particular damsel could have the Agency asking questions about Winchette that Abe didn’t want asked. If any of this got traced back to Caldwell Pharmaceuticals—

“Sir?”

“I’m here,” Abe snapped. “Have my driver waiting out front. I’ll meet you at the office in thirty minutes.”

Disconnecting, Abe hurried back to his table. Jesus, he needed a cigarette.

Salvador took one look at him and scowled. “Everything okay? It’s not bad news about your grandfather, is it?”

Abe shook his head. “I just got a call. My wife’s niece has been in an auto accident down in Hartford. It’s serious.”

“I’m so sorry.” Salvador pushed unsteadily to his feet. “Look, you need to go. This other will wait.”

“I’ll call as soon as we return.”

Salvador crossed himself. “I’ve got two nieces who are like daughters. Keep me posted.”

As soon as Abe got in his car, he lit up and drew deeply on a cigarette. The hit of nicotine was calming and helped him to think. This wasn’t the first time he’d been in a tight spot. Hell, compared to some others, this was minor.

His first concern was damage control. He needed to distance himself from Winchette. His second, and equally important, concern was recovering all the data Winchette had.

A grim-faced Tommy waited at Abe’s office.

“What do you have?” Abe asked.

“Not much. The CIA is working hard to keep this one contained. They figure they’ll have a better shot at a temporary insanity plea if they find Max Duncan before Dr. Houston is harmed.”

“Do they have any leads?”

“No. Which is making them dig a little deeper for clues. Inquiries are being made about Dr. Houston’s late father and his connection to Stanley Winchette.”

“I was afraid of that.” Abe steepled his fingers.

Damn it, he’d warned Winchette against keeping Erin Houston too close, but Winchette had insisted he could control the situation. So, how well had Winchette covered his tracks? “It’s time to cut our losses. Is Allen in San Diego yet?”

Allen handled Abe’s personal security and had been sent to help Stanley Winchette locate John Doe.

“Yes. He’s waiting for instructions.”

Standing, Abe paced to the small bar in the corner of his office. “Max Duncan should have a tracking beacon as well. Tell Allen to start nosing around, see if he gets any hits on the missing men.”

“Should I fly out? With Winchette dead, Allen will need assistance capturing them.”

“I don’t want them captured. I want them eliminated. And it needs to look like an accident. Allen’s good at that stuff. I want you to concentrate on purging Winchette’s records. Start at his home. He wouldn’t have kept anything at the hospital.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send everything you find to our Zurich office. It might prove useful when we locate Dr. Rufin.”

“Any news on Rufin’s whereabouts?” Tommy asked.

“Not yet. But I’ll rattle my contact’s cage right now.”