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  Michaels ignored his hand. Instead, his narrowed gaze pierced Ben. "Before we sign the contract, I need to know if there is any task that you are unwilling to fulfill."

  The shiver became a full-blown shudder and Ben dropped his arm to his side. Plastering on a cocky grin, he drawled, "Like I said, with the right incentive, there ain’t nothing I won’t do."

  Chapter Two

  Ben navigated the sterile white hallway and nodded a greeting to the sturdy-looking nurse behind the counter. His first two days on the job as a security guard for the Bexley Institute had been relatively uneventful, allowing him to scope out the grounds under the guise of familiarizing himself with the lay-out.

  The entry to the impressive three-story structure commenced at an ornate security gate and continued along a tree-lined brick driveway, circling around a soaring fountain that rivaled the Trevi, to a set of slate steps leading to the entrance. A lush carpet of green grass covered the gently sloping grounds, flowers bloomed in a rainbow of colors around the perimeter and birds chirped from the stately trees peppered around the complex.

  The lobby of the Institute looked more like a fine art gallery than a psychiatric hospital. Gold encased glass doors slid open to reveal gray and white marble tile floors, fountains, tropical foliage, art-covered walls, plush leather sofas and a stunning blonde named Brenda perched behind a massive desk. A bank of elevators with shiny gold doors lined the hallway, waiting to whisk wealthy clients to their top level, high-security luxury accommodations, complete with five-star room service.

  The opulent side of the Institute was the one presented to the media. VIP’s who toured Bexley were escorted from the lobby to the posh top floor and out through the extensive botanical gardens in the back.

  Solid gray double doors closed off a hallway leading to a back entrance and elevator to the second story, the floor used to treat the neither rich nor famous patients. They were simply the mentally ill men and women who desperately required the care of skilled doctors. The VIP’s didn’t glimpse the underbelly of the facility where real people with very real mental illness roamed the halls in various stages of dishabille.

  Shaped like an ‘X’, four wings extended out from a center common area and ended at an emergency exit stairwell, one of which included a freight elevator servicing each floor plus the basement. Three of the wings housed twenty rooms each, most if not all occupied by two patients, plus bathroom facilities with toilets and showers. The other wing contained a cafeteria serving buffet-style meals, a pharmacy, rooms for examinations, music, art and a padded room for when patients became unruly, four isolation rooms, a janitor’s closet and offices for both Oscar and Frederick Bexley, co-founders of the Institute.

  A large open space in the middle of the four wings provided an area where patients could watch television, play games or just sit and enjoy the view of the sprawling gardens through a wall of windows. Sofas, tables and chairs were scattered around and several bookcases held paperbacks, board games, puzzles and magazines. A nurse’s station took up another wall of the common area, as did the security offices and an infirmary.

  Ben paused as the elevator doors swished open and a male attendant emerged with a new patient in tow.

  "Hey, Smith, can you watch this one while I get the paperwork together?"

  Ben nodded at Carl, a hulk of a man who reminded him of a slightly more handsome Bull from the television show Night Court, shaved head and all. Carl slid a keycard into the door marked "Restricted Access" and disappeared inside. Ben needed to check out that room but all new hires were placed on a three-month probation period. He didn’t have clearance to four rooms: admissions, the pharmacy, Oscar or Frederick Bexley’s offices.

  Having met with the doctors on his first day, he had been surprised to find them both courteous and friendly. As the oldest, Oscar clearly fancied himself the man in charge. A psychiatrist, he was pompous and arrogant, but he radiated genuine pride when he spoke of the facility. Frederick, a physician, was more laid back but equally proud of their achievements.

  The unexpected character of each man caught Ben off guard. Research told him they had both been honored numerous times with various awards for their distinguished service to the mentally ill. He assumed the brothers would be too busy to concern themselves with the day-to-day operations of the facility or with the people hired to run it smoothly. He fully expected to be treated like what he was—a security guard. Instead, each man welcomed him as an important part of their staff.

  His gaze shifted from the door to the woman slouched in a wheelchair. She had wild eyes, even wilder hair, and what clothes he could make out under the beat-up suitcase clutched in her arms were dirty and frayed. She rocked slowly back and forth and muttered under her breath.

  She looked like every stereotypical mental patient he’d ever seen on TV or in the movies.

  When the woman finally noticed his presence, dark brows lifted and she gasped. A mixture of reactions swirled through the dark depths of her muddy brown eyes: surprise, interest, wariness, confusion. Most astonishing of all was an unmistakable spark of intelligence. Intrigued, Ben stood a little straighter, unable to tear his gaze away. Their connection felt like a palpable touch.

  He studied her closer. Something about her piqued his interest. Certainly she wasn’t beautiful with frizzy tendrils of coal black hair springing out at every angle from her pale, heart-shaped face. But her features were striking: high cheekbones, flawless skin buried beneath a thin layer of dirt, a fine Grecian nose and full, sensual lips. He found himself staring at her mouth.

  The door to the admissions office slammed with a thud, jarring him from his fascinated trance. The woman flinched.

  Ben cursed under his breath, chastising himself for letting this woman distract him. He needed to get a good look in that room but instead of focusing on his mission, he couldn’t wrench his eyes away from the rosy pink lips of a mental patient.

  Terrific.

  "Thanks, Smith," Carl said as he snapped a white band around the woman’s wrist and wheeled her away. Over his shoulder, he called out, "Hey, could you give me a hand getting this one into bed? She’s a handful. I had a hell of a time getting her into this," he said, indicating the wheelchair.

  "No problem," Ben drawled as he adjusted the heavy belt around his waist and sauntered down the hallway. His job description called for every means of restraint except a gun. That he had strapped to his calf.

  He easily guessed their destination before Carl even approached Room 220. Somehow, he just knew the woman would be filling the empty bed that just a week ago held Kimmie Bickle, current whereabouts unknown, and before that, Molly Miller and Donelle Bendershott, both MIA as well.

  People were checking into Bexley Institute but they weren’t checking out.

  Ben angled around and assisted Carl in herding the woman into bed. She was tall, but not as heavy as she looked in the bulky clothes. Her waist and hips were slender, and the flashes he caught of her breasts when they pressed against the rough fabric of her flannel shirt were nicely rounded.

  "Let go, lady."

  Carl tugged on the woman’s suitcase, struggling to pry it out of her unrelenting grip.

  "Nooo," she wailed, her head whipping from side to side. Her wild eyes darted around the room.

  "Relax. I’m just going to dump it on that table over there," Carl informed her impatiently. The woman’s nervous gaze landed on the white pine dresser and her grip loosened. Carl jerked the bag out of her hands and slammed it down, muttering something about "psychos" under his breath.

  "Okay, lady, time to get you out of these clothes."

  The woman’s brows arched skyward, her eyes rounding in horror as Carl’s beefy fingers began unbuttoning her shirt. She slapped frantically at his hands to no avail.

  "Don’t touch me, don’t touch me," she shrieked.

  The attendant grabbed her forearms, pinning her to the bed. "Smith, hold her down while I strip her."

  Ben winced uncomfort
ably but moved to grasp the woman’s fine boned wrists. She kept up her litany of protests and when Carl peeled her shirt open and whistled, Ben's only warning was a feral growl.

  The woman sank her straight, white teeth into his forearm.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  Ben jerked her hands above her head, effectively shifting his body parts out of range of her deadly jaws. Unfortunately, the move exposed her serviceable white bra. He had been right about her figure. The woman was a knockout. And, apparently, that was what she was trying to do to Ben as she wrenched her legs up and flailed at his head.

  Carl grabbed one of her thrashing limbs and slapped a manacle around her ankle and then quickly secured the other leg. Just as swiftly, he cuffed her arms until she was stretched out spread eagle on the bed.

  "Wanted to play hardball, did ya, sugar," he growled. "Fine. We’ll just cut the rest of these clothes off of you."

  Before Ben realized his intentions, the man slid scissors beneath her bra and snipped. Two ample, rose-tipped breasts popped free as the woman let out a startled cry.

  Carl’s thick fingers flexed and inched forward.

  Ben’s vision blurred as he fought a murderous rage.

  #

  Rachel let out a real, terrified scream when the huge attendant reached for her breasts. What in God’s name had she gotten herself into?

  Before he groped her, he stuffed a rag into her mouth, effectively cutting off her protests. Panic welled up and she couldn’t breathe. Oh God. She was strapped to the bed half-naked in front of two strangers. She was about to be raped. Her pulse spiked, her stomach heaved. If she threw up now, she would surely choke to death.

  Unable to fend off his advance, she closed her eyes and prayed. She stiffened waiting for the first touch of his meaty fingers.

  It never came.

  Her eyes popped open. The handsome security guard, the one whose forearm now displayed a perfect impression of her expensively-orthadontured teeth, grasped the attendant’s uniform in both fists.

  "I believe touching a patient in a sexually explicit way is against Section 2.3, subsection 4 of the hospital code," he growled in a deep rumble. "It also says female patients are to be dressed and undressed by female attendants only and are to have proper undergarments under their gowns at all times except for doctor examinations and bathing."

  The giant shrugged uncaringly and snarled, "That’s for the rich patients. You’re new here." He shoved the guard’s hands away. "You’ll learn soon enough," he finished cryptically. When he turned towards Rachel, she struggled against the restraints binding her limbs.

  "That’s it, bitch," the man growled. He dug into his pocket. Her eyes widened in horror as he flicked the cap off a syringe and jammed it into her arm, dispensing cool liquid into her veins.

  "What the hell was that?" she heard the guard ask through a stunned haze.

  "Just a little something to calm her down," the attendant explained.

  Soft keening drifted across the room. Rachel glimpsed another person when she was wheeled inside but she couldn’t see anyone from her current vantage point.

  "Shut up, April or you’ll get the same thing," the man warned.

  The keening stopped.

  Rachel’s eyelids drooped but she fought to stay awake. The shot had been unexpected. All the hours of research she conducted on the clinic suggested that no medication was administered unless prescribed by a doctor after a complete physical and mental examination.

  The room spun violently. If she fell unconscious, the attendant might succeed in molesting her. Oh Lord, she was in way over her head.

  Her weary gaze drifted to the security guard, who was skewering the attendant with a narrowed glare. As if sensing her watching, his eyes swung around to meet hers. Not knowing what else to do, she tried to plead for help.

  The harsh lines of his face relaxed and he nodded. He understood her silent plea. Or maybe she imagined it. She wasn’t sure anymore. The drug made her fuzzy. It felt like lead weights were attached to her lids, slowly pulling them shut.

  Rachel tried, but she just couldn’t fight any longer.

  #

  April Collins waited until Carl left before she jumped off the bed and hurried over to her new roommate. The woman was sound asleep, having been injected with sedatives from that jerk, Carl.

  April hadn’t been shocked when Carl wheeled a new patient to her room. Kimmie had been gone for over a week now. Just like Deena before her and Molly and Donelle. April didn’t know why she bothered learning their names any longer. They all disappeared just as soon as she became attached to them.

  To be fair, not every girl who shared her room vanished. Some, like Heather, moved to different areas in the facility after their examinations. For the past year, the bed across from her had become the processing center for new patients. A few made it through to roam the halls, but the majority disappeared overnight, never to be heard from again.

  The new guard, the one who stopped Carl from hurting her roommate, removed the gag and unfastened the binds on the girl’s arms and legs. April didn’t know who the man was, but she trusted him.

  Snatching the blue gown off the floor, she quickly fastened it around the girl’s naked torso. She looked up at the tall guard and offered a heartfelt smile. He returned the gesture and eased out of the room.

  She had come so close to launching off the bed and gouging Carl’s eyes out when he started to molest the girl. It had been all she could do to stop herself, but then the monster threatened to sedate her too and she knew he would do it. He had before. She would not take drugs ever again. She refused to be helpless anymore. She was getting stronger every day, mentally and physically.

  But Carl’s groping fingers nearly forced her to risk being drugged to stop his attack. Then the other man gave her a reassuring look, one that instantly calmed her down.

  I will take care of her.

  He didn’t say the words out loud but she heard them in her head just the same. He would take care of the girl…and he had. Carl hadn't succeeded in assaulting her.

  April lifted the girl’s arm from under the covers and twisted the white band on her wrist. The bracelet looked like any a hospital would dispense, but these bracelets were equipped with high-tech security devices that would sound an alarm if the patient wandered away. April read the name typed in bold ink. Kellie Mead. She would add it to her book tonight.

  #

  April feigned sleep when the night nurse arrived to dispense the evening medication. Tia was her favorite. She never woke her up to take the sedatives like the other nurses. Tia checked on her before moving to Kellie. Satisfied they were both sound asleep, she snapped off the light, kicked the stopper from the door and departed.

  April waited a few minutes and then tossed back the covers. She slid out of bed and felt her way to the closet, a route she knew by heart in the dark. Her fingers skimmed along the wood strips until she encountered a small nick. Using her fingernail, she pried the board up, reached her hand inside and withdrew her flashlight. Sliding backwards, she pushed out of the closet and hurried across the room. Dragging the chair silently from the desk, she carried it to the doorway, shoved it under the knob and kicked the legs to lock it in place. Satisfied with her work, she swung the light over Kellie. Still asleep.

  Training the beam on the floor, she padded back to the closet and dropped to the ground. She propped the light so she could see inside the hole. Reaching into her hiding place again, she pulled out a pink notebook with a pen attached to the cover. Flipping through pages, she stopped at the first empty one and started writing. She recorded Kellie Mead’s name, date of arrival and briefly explained what almost happened with Carl. She drew a star next to her description of the new man, intending to add his name when she learned it.

  She had just finished her journaling when a light rap sounded and the door knob rattled. She gasped, shoving the book back inside the compartment and settling the board in place. Then she snapped off the light
and waited.

  #

  Ben propped his feet on the desk in his room and balanced the chair on two legs. Arranging a notepad on his lap, he jotted down everything he had learned in his investigation so far. It didn’t take long.

  He’d explored the entire facility, including the floor he resided on—the high-security third level reserved for the rich and famous. Lined with wood walls and Italian marble tiles, the suites were spacious and elegant, sparing no luxury. The king-sized bed sported one thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets with eider down pillows and comforters. A flat-screen plasma television attached to a high-tech sound system adorned a wall above a gas fireplace in a sitting area furnished with a leather sofa and chair. The bathrooms came equipped with gold fixtures, garden tubs, steam showers and bidets.

  Arthur Michaels included room and board as part of the hiring process. Only one other person lived on site, but the janitor made his home in the basement. Michaels explained that lodging would be provided so that the Institute would have an extra hand available at all hours if necessary. Ben figured other factors played into the decision. The nicer-than-his-apartment accommodations were all part of the package concocted to court him into the nefarious activities.

  Shoving a hand through his thick hair, he studied the brief list. He already met all four security guards who rotated shifts to protect the celebrity patients. He shared duty with three guards for the bottom two floors. An additional four guards took turns manning the front gate. Ben snapped pictures of the employee roster with his cell phone and forwarded them to Jake so he could perform background checks.

  So far, everything about the Bexley Institute impressed him, including the state-of-the-art security booth. Cameras monitored every hallway on the first and second floors and most of the basement. Video ran on a forty-eight hour continuous loop. Sound was an option if necessary, but the volume had been muted.

  As part of the confidentiality pledge for stars residing on the top level, the hallways were recorded but not monitored. Film would be available for forty-eight hours if an emergency arose, otherwise it would be destroyed, thereby eliminating any evidence of the identity of the patrons, a selling point to the famous who wanted to remain incognito without any images of their time spent in Bexley falling into the eager hands of the merciless paparazzi.