you doing?”
Cole’s fingers tightened around the phone as he focused on the man’s voice. He didn’t recognize it. “I’m settling in. I suppose you heard about my accident.”
“Yes, so sorry, son. You were on your way to Savannah when it happened.”
“So I’ve been told. My memory’s pretty foggy, though.”
“Ah, I see. Well, what can I do for you?”
Cole leaned back in the swivel desk chair and massaged his temple, fighting another headache. “I’m trying to talk to people and see if it jogs my memory. Can you tell me the circumstances surrounding my transfer from Oakland.”
A moment of hesitation followed. Finally Chadburn cleared his throat. “I’m not sure what you mean, except that you’d been in touch with the research center there for months. The facility is much larger, with more cutting edge techniques for treating psychotic disorders. It seemed a natural fit.”
Cole frowned. So it had been a smooth transition.
Then why did he have this nagging feeling that just before his accident he’d been arguing with one of the doctors? Trouble was, he didn’t know if it had been someone from Oakland or CIRP. And he had no idea what they might have argued about.
“I JUST RECEIVED A CALL from Frank Chadburn at Oakland. Cole Hunter called him.”
He yanked his cigarette pack from his pocket and tore open the cellophane. “Damn. What did he want?”
“Chadburn said he wanted to know the conditions of his transfer here. Chadburn stuck to the story we’d worked out.”
“Thank God. You think he suspects something?”
“I don’t know. Hunter claimed he was just trying to jog his memories by talking to people he knew.”
He lit the cigarette, inhaled, tried to calm himself.
“Just keep a handle on the situation. Spend some time with Hunter, make him focus on work. That’s the only reason he’s here, you know.”
“Right.”
“And Wells’s wife?”
“I’m watching her as well.” A job he didn’t mind at all.
But he didn’t like the fact that Hunter had spent the morning with her. Or that he was asking questions. And if he got anywhere near the truth, if he went searching for information about the real Cole Hunter, he’d have to do something to stop him.
MEGAN STOPPED BY CONNIE’S office to pick up the box of items she’d packed earlier.
“You heading home?” Connie asked.
“Yes. How about you? Don’t you need to pick up your son from day care?”
Connie flicked off her computer. “Yeah. After I check on Dr. Hunter, I’ll hit the road.”
“You want me to wait so we can walk out together?”
“No, go ahead. He might need something. You look worn-out, Megan.”
“I am. Give little Donny a hug for me.”
Taking a last look at the closed door where her husband used to sit, Megan clutched the box in her hands and left. But she couldn’t squelch the questions tumbling through her head as she walked down the hall to the lower parking deck. Why did Cole Hunter rattle her so?
The sun was beginning to fade, and the early evening shadows in the garage played havoc with her nerves. Last night she had thought someone had come into her house. Had she been dreaming? Had she somehow opened her window without remembering it or had someone really been there? And if so, who? And why?
Hurrying now, she fumbled with her keys, checking the parking lot for other workers. Odd that the place was nearly deserted when it was only a little past five. Of course, the evening shift had just come on the hospital at three, so she had missed the daily changeover. A footstep sounded behind her and she scanned the area behind her, but saw nothing. The whisper of cigarette smoke drifted toward her.
Her pulse racing, she finally unlocked her SUV and slipped inside. Still scanning the dark spaces of the garage, she locked the car door, then carefully placed the box onto the floor, and started the engine. Heart racing, she threw the car into gear and sped out of the lot. A pair of headlights nearly blinded her as she pulled onto the street. The car swerved and honked at her, then raced on. Megan exhaled a shaky breath and forced herself to lift her foot from the accelerator. She was fine. Safe.
For heaven’s sakes, if she didn’t stop this, she was going to need therapy herself.
Music usually relaxed her, so she switched on the radio and turned onto the highway toward Savannah. The bay bridge loomed ahead and she fell into traffic. A strange odor permeated the car, though. She sniffed, trying to put her finger on the scent, but she couldn’t figure out the source. She glanced around the vehicle for a damp towel or bag of trash that might be causing the foul smell, but saw nothing. The traffic slowly eased over the bridge, the pace picking up as some of the cars turned toward Whistlestop Island.
A small white puff of smoke drifted up in front of her. It took Megan several seconds to realize the smoke was coming from her vehicle. The engine was on fire.
She tried to remain calm as red-hot sparks spewed from the hood. It must have overheated. She’d pull over and let it cool. Call a mechanic.
She swung the Explorer to the side of the road, bouncing as it hit the rocks along the coastal line, then stopped just before going over the embankment. Her heart racing, she jumped out of the car. A second later, the entire vehicle burst into flames.
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