were—”
Erin leaned forward. She and Max were… lovers? Married?
“Extremely close,” Dante finished. “I know I once thought there was more.” He looked at Max, then back at Erin. “But I didn’t have all the facts then. What I thought I knew was far from fact.”
It was clear that Dante had strong feelings for both Catalina and Max. It was also apparent that there was much more to their story.
“And I almost forgot this.” Dante moved to the minuscule closet and opened the door. Lying inside was a black duffel bag.
Erin stared at it, disappointed with the change of subject. “That’s for Max?”
“Yes. It’s full of stuff Rocco and I picked up earlier. Will you make sure it gets to his room in Virginia?”
“Part of me is tempted to decline. I remember you getting dressed and wanting to discharge yourself prematurely.”
“Exactly. And if Max wants to do the same, he’ll need something other than that damn gown. I remember how it felt to have nothing,” Dante said. “There are clothes, shoes, dop kit. Some cash. Not enough, but—”
“It’s enough,” she assured him. It was obvious that he felt guilty for not finding Max sooner, for Max being injured— for stealing Max’s girl? “I’ll make certain it stays with him.”
“Hold on.” Dante shifted as his phone vibrated. She waited expectantly as he checked the display.
“Text message. No news. But Travis needs me downstairs.”
He handed Erin a business card. “Here’s my cell phone number. I could get called out again without much notice. And maybe I shouldn’t ask this, but I’d like to know firsthand how Max does, okay? Getting info through official channels can be trying. Seriously, I’ll owe you one. Call me anytime, day or night.”
Erin looked at the card. Being owed a favor from a well-connected CIA operative could come in handy someday. She fished one of her own cards out of her blazer pocket. “Here is mine. Would you keep me posted on the search for…Taz?” That sounded better than John Doe .
“We’ll find him, Erin.” Dante paused at the door. “Just take care of Max.”
Two hours later, Erin was back in the third-floor conference room, waiting for Dr. Winchette to get off his cell phone before someone else interrupted once again.
She stifled a yawn. It was after 10 p.m., which to her East Coast body clock meant one o’clock.
In contrast, Winchette showed no signs of fatigue and was livid that John Doe had not been located.
“Keep me posted,” he snapped before disconnecting and turning to Erin. “If we had been in Virginia, this wouldn’t have happened.” He scribbled a signature across the orders he’d just drawn up. “I want Max Duncan out of here before another incident occurs.”
“Those photographs Travis Franks had.” She went straight to the point. “Have you ever seen a machine like that used for mind manipulation?”
He hesitated, and in that moment she knew he wasn’t formulating a denial. But rather, an excuse. A diversion to throw her off.
“There was a time when everyone experimented with sensory deprivation.” Winchette frowned. “Timothy Leary did something similar with LSD. The annals of science are filled with such cases. All were abysmal failures. No one, save Hollywood, pursued it beyond the sixties.”
Had her father? “Obviously someone missed that memo,” she said. “How can we figure out what was done to these men—in order to reverse it?”
“Actually, we don’t know that anything was done to them. Neither man has regained consciousness long enough to debrief. Personally, I think the photos were a ploy to throw us off.”
“Off what?”
Winchette shrugged. “Maybe Travis Franks is trying to cover his men’s ineptitude. He knows more than he’s letting on. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Duncan was injured by friendly fire.”
Erin couldn’t hide her shock. “Are you saying his own people shot him?”
Now Winchette
Erin leaned forward. She and Max were… lovers? Married?
“Extremely close,” Dante finished. “I know I once thought there was more.” He looked at Max, then back at Erin. “But I didn’t have all the facts then. What I thought I knew was far from fact.”
It was clear that Dante had strong feelings for both Catalina and Max. It was also apparent that there was much more to their story.
“And I almost forgot this.” Dante moved to the minuscule closet and opened the door. Lying inside was a black duffel bag.
Erin stared at it, disappointed with the change of subject. “That’s for Max?”
“Yes. It’s full of stuff Rocco and I picked up earlier. Will you make sure it gets to his room in Virginia?”
“Part of me is tempted to decline. I remember you getting dressed and wanting to discharge yourself prematurely.”
“Exactly. And if Max wants to do the same, he’ll need something other than that damn gown. I remember how it felt to have nothing,” Dante said. “There are clothes, shoes, dop kit. Some cash. Not enough, but—”
“It’s enough,” she assured him. It was obvious that he felt guilty for not finding Max sooner, for Max being injured— for stealing Max’s girl? “I’ll make certain it stays with him.”
“Hold on.” Dante shifted as his phone vibrated. She waited expectantly as he checked the display.
“Text message. No news. But Travis needs me downstairs.”
He handed Erin a business card. “Here’s my cell phone number. I could get called out again without much notice. And maybe I shouldn’t ask this, but I’d like to know firsthand how Max does, okay? Getting info through official channels can be trying. Seriously, I’ll owe you one. Call me anytime, day or night.”
Erin looked at the card. Being owed a favor from a well-connected CIA operative could come in handy someday. She fished one of her own cards out of her blazer pocket. “Here is mine. Would you keep me posted on the search for…Taz?” That sounded better than John Doe .
“We’ll find him, Erin.” Dante paused at the door. “Just take care of Max.”
Two hours later, Erin was back in the third-floor conference room, waiting for Dr. Winchette to get off his cell phone before someone else interrupted once again.
She stifled a yawn. It was after 10 p.m., which to her East Coast body clock meant one o’clock.
In contrast, Winchette showed no signs of fatigue and was livid that John Doe had not been located.
“Keep me posted,” he snapped before disconnecting and turning to Erin. “If we had been in Virginia, this wouldn’t have happened.” He scribbled a signature across the orders he’d just drawn up. “I want Max Duncan out of here before another incident occurs.”
“Those photographs Travis Franks had.” She went straight to the point. “Have you ever seen a machine like that used for mind manipulation?”
He hesitated, and in that moment she knew he wasn’t formulating a denial. But rather, an excuse. A diversion to throw her off.
“There was a time when everyone experimented with sensory deprivation.” Winchette frowned. “Timothy Leary did something similar with LSD. The annals of science are filled with such cases. All were abysmal failures. No one, save Hollywood, pursued it beyond the sixties.”
Had her father? “Obviously someone missed that memo,” she said. “How can we figure out what was done to these men—in order to reverse it?”
“Actually, we don’t know that anything was done to them. Neither man has regained consciousness long enough to debrief. Personally, I think the photos were a ploy to throw us off.”
“Off what?”
Winchette shrugged. “Maybe Travis Franks is trying to cover his men’s ineptitude. He knows more than he’s letting on. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Duncan was injured by friendly fire.”
Erin couldn’t hide her shock. “Are you saying his own people shot him?”
Now Winchette
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