by Diana Kirk
Strong arms wrapped around her. They felt so good. "Andrea, what are you doing here? What's happened?"
She looked into his face and smiled. "Where've you been? You're too late," she said with a chuckle. "You missed the fun. We have another murder of the weak. I thought you were one, too. Don't you get it? Week--Weak. It's a pun. . . "
Nothing was right anymore. The whole event had taken on a surrealistic quality. Now, this. She must still be unconscious from her asthma attack. . . hallucinating. . . dreaming. . ..
"Andrea? Are you all right?" He held her tighter. "Here, let me help you."
A wall of cold fear surrounded her. Peter. Hardwyn. She clawed at her protector and held him tightly.
"I came to warn Dwight--about Peter." Laughter turned to dry sobs. She pointed toward the bodies. "I thought he was next. Hell, maybe someone should've warned me." She dissolved into laughter again.
"Andrea. Get hold of yourself. What happened here?"
She pointed. "Just like the others. Like--like. . . that." He pulled free from her grip and examined both closely.
He turned toward Andrea with a puzzled look. "Warn about what?" he said.
"Dean Hardwyn. He stole from Milton's grant. I found it when I looked over the expense column and remembered Peter told him to meet him at the lab." She wiped her fist across her eyes. "I was too late."
The tall blond man stood and walked back to Andrea. "I talked to Peter a few minutes ago. Maybe the killer is still around." He stopped and gazed down at her, smiling. "And how did you know Hardwyn was stealing money from the grant?"
"I--ah, found it in his office file."
"What?" His shoulders shook with laughter. An odd reaction for him. Andrea's spine tingled with icy fear. "I--I went this afternoon after I talked to Paris--he wasn't there--"
"Wait. You were in his office?"
"I called Paris and found out something wonderful about Milton's research." She stopped, pushed him away, and turned. "But where've you been these last two weeks? Everyone's been looking for you."
"What?"
"You must've known about Milton. . ." She gazed around the room. "And. . . this?"
He gripped her arms tightly. "Vaccine? Tell me about Mil-ton's vaccine."
She squirmed. "His vaccine. For AIDS, cancer, lupus, you name it. Paris had a sample of serum made from his own blood. They analyzed it and it tested negative for AIDS."
"So?"
"So, Milton had AIDS. He sent two vials of blood. One before the serum, the other after. The blood without the serum contained the active AIDS virus; the sample with serum showed regenerated DNA which caused the formation of new T-cells; and gave him back his natural immunity. Professor DuBoismier confirmed it. I can't believe it."
He let go of her arms and she rubbed the spot. "That sonofabitch." He turned to her, fire danced in his gaze. "He did it. He really did it?" He wrapped his arms around her, again. "It wasn't his blood."
His laughter filled the room and his words assaulted her with meaning.
"Does anyone else know?"
"What do you mean wasn't his blood?"
He let go and stepped back. Anger flashed across his gaze. "I asked you a question. Answer me."
She hesitated. Her hot, prickly skin shivered like a fresh sunburn. Danger. She'd better watch her words. "Not exactly. . . Sergeant Gary Krastowitcz knows about my call to Paris, but I haven't been able to get. . .."
She stopped. His face hardened into a grimace.
"DuBoismier?"
"From the Pasteur Institute. He said Milton must've written the formula down somewhere. A journal. Hardwyn told me to go to Paris, but I decided a phone call would be cheaper."
"Cheaper, but not safer." His voice held a cruel, sarcastic tone.
Stunned, Andrea hesitated. If she stalled, maybe Gary would remember to look here. "Don't you see? Milton has written about his discovery somewhere. He always wrote everything down."
"And took pictures."
She stopped and gazed at the blond young man pacing in front of her. Pictures? Her eyes widened. Pictures. Shapes and colors. Bloody, carved, and mutilated forms danced in her memory of Grafton's apartment. Sharp pain brought her to reality. She glanced down.
Unconsciously, she still held the pen she'd picked up in her hand, its clasp dug into her palm.
A gold Cross pen bore an engraving RICHARD CANFIELD on the barrel.
"How'd I get your pen?" she asked.
"I must've left it here the other day during my lab. I'll take it, please."
That wasn't the case. No one knew this man's whereabouts. He hadn't had any labs, he'd been missing. Missing? A piece was missing from this picture. Richard was a medical student, not too bright, average in every way. He fit into the crowd, never calling attention to himself. He said something about the blood not being Milton's. What did that mean? And the pictures? He'd known about the pictures. If he knew about the pictures, then he knew all about the research. Peter had told her he had no idea where the grant was. But Richard knew everything.
He must be lying about his pen. He'd dropped his pen for some other reason and now he wanted it back. Evidence.
Instantly, Suzanne's body flashed in front of her eyes. The entrails. The neat packages. The horror--
No! Andrea fought against the memory.
Neat little piles.
Next to her.
So familiar.
Just like a surgeon's. Like a surgeon's!
And Hardwyn was a surgeon. He hadn't done surgery while at Dorlynd, but he was famous for one trait, enough to recognize his calling card.
Neatness. Ridiculous, compulsive, neatness. When he operated, he placed the organs to the side in neat little piles.
Neat little piles.
Rage welled up inside of Andrea. That sonofabitch. Bastard. Richard Canfield, average medical student, had mimicked Hardwyn's surgical style. Flawlessly. She'd been stupid not to remember. If only she had, they would've investigated Hardwyn and found him innocent. She balled her fist around the pen, so hard her arm trembled with the effort. Not fear.
From anger. Deep, burning hatred.
The next instant, an insidious calm overtook her. She breathed deep and even. The shaking stopped. Her head cleared.
Her gaze traveled over the files. The locked cabinet was open. The key had been found after all. She was sure, now.
She had to think. Stall for time. She gazed deeply into Richard Canfield's eyes. She knew, and he knew she knew. "Why'd you do it?"
He smiled and breathed deeply, letting out an audible sigh.
"It's all right, now. We don't need to rush. It's obvious Hardwyn committed the murders; couldn't take the guilt anymore," he said, sweeping his hand around the room.
"Andrea, did you ever stop to think that your amateur sleuthing might become fatal? Maybe you'd like to check this clue out, first."
Richard picked up the gun from Hardwyn's limp hand. She knew she wouldn't be leaving without a fight. It didn't matter, now.
"So you want to know why, do you? Why, my darling Andrea, it's money. Isn't it always money?" He laughed and leaned in close, so close his hot breath beat against her face.
She stood perfectly still concentrating on her breathing. "Milton was so maniacal about his research, he crossed the line. With my help of course."
He waived the gun wildly and pulled out a bench. "Come here. Sit. Make yourself comfortable while I tell you a bedtime story."
Andrea did as she was told. Now was not the time. She needed to know.
"I lured them to Milton."
"Who?" Her voice rasped from the earlier attack. So far so good. She could still breathe.
"Transients, homeless, throwaways. Lured them with food, shelter, drugs, booze, whatever it took. Milton used their blood. Infected them with AIDS, and tested his vaccines. If it didn't work, they were eliminated. . . disposed."
"How could he. . . you?" She rubbed her eyes. How had this been done without her knowledge? She'd b
een so busy worrying about her faculty appointment, she'd never paid any attention to Milton's actual research. She hadn't even known he was gay. And Richard. She'd thought him nothing more than an interested student. . . not a murderer. "But mutilation? Why?"
He picked up a beaker and examined the contents. "You saw them didn't you?" She nodded. "Very good idea, wasn't it? Actually, they never felt a thing. It was most humane. Kept the police busy, also. Until Milton found out the Dean stole his grant funds, then he lost it. . . needed the grant to be scandal free. Can you believe it? A mass murderer wanting something to be scandal free?" He laughed and threw the beaker against the wall, its blue contents spreading and mingling with the red horror on the floor.
"But why you?"
"Yes, why would an intelligent young man with everything to gain, get involved? That is for Milton to answer. Remember those fateful pictures?"
She nodded.
"He took some with me next to the bodies and then hid them, threatening to expose me if I didn't help him. To make matters worse, he'd been infected with the virus." He hung his head. "Chances are pretty good that I'd been infected, too."
"HIV?" She hugged herself, still grasping the pen.
"Well, it ain't the measles--so, you see. I had no choice, but to help. With the cure, we'd not only stay alive, but go down in history."
"You still haven't told me why you killed him."
"He was too volatile, too unstable. He'd never let me live in peace. If his conscience got too heavy, he'd expose me. . ." He picked up a folder and scanned the contents. "I didn't spend half my life in school to end up in prison. You know the rest. But, I need the journal and the formula. I'll be able to start over some-where else. France, maybe. They seem to be interested in cures." His laughter beat against her senses.
"But the virus, Milton was infected with HIV?" Andrea glanced at the door willing it to open, wishing Gary was behind it.
"The last sample you spoke about was Grafton's blood. If what you said is true, I'm saved. He'd injected me with his experimental serum. You've made my job very simple from here on out."
"What's next?" The words slipped from her lips; but, Andrea already knew the answer.
He rubbed the gun against her temple. "One clean shot in the head." He frowned. "Andrea, you seem worried. Please, don't worry about me, I won't be blamed. I couldn't have done anything, I'm already dead."
Andrea held her breath and gripped the pen tighter in her hand, so tight her nails cut into her flesh. He knelt down in front of Peter and turned his back to her. "No, my sweet, foolish Andrea. Hardwyn did it. He did everything. He couldn't face being exposed by Milton. The shame of embezzlement. Peter was a convenient red herring, don't you agree?"
He whirled around and his gaze locked onto hers, then turned back. She slipped off the stool and stood with her back against the counter. Oblivious to her movement, he continued rambling. "It's already obvious Hardwyn killed your friend. She was unfortunate. So beautiful. It's too bad, really."
He strode to where Hardwyn lay, and toed him with his shoe. "He killed you in a rage. But with discovery eminent, realizing his crime, he couldn't stand the guilt and turned the gun to his own head. His release was final. . .."
Richard Canfield drifted off into laughter. Diabolical, maniacal chortles. His words hung in the air. She would be next. He'd planned well. No one had any idea he was still alive. If he killed her, Krastowitcz would find the bodies, check the files, find Hardwyn's theft and close the books. Somewhere, this monster would be sipping pina coladas and spending a disease-free rest of his life in luxury. No. She couldn't let that happen. . . somehow.
Well, she wouldn't let go without one helluva a fight.
"Richard, whatever you've done, think about it. We've got the cure for AIDS in our hands. Think about what you're doing."
"Cure? The only thing that will be cured is my lack of funds. When I sell my blood to the highest bidder. What glory. When I do release the cure, no one will remember what happened in insignificant little Omaha."
Andrea slowly inched toward the door. She jammed her hand in her lab coat. Her fingers closed around a small leather object. She'd forgotten. Milton's journal? The one she'd found at his apartment. Even if it wasn't, maybe he'd think it was, and it might buy her some time.
"Milton did find the cure. His notes must be somewhere in this room. I'll help you."
Canfield cocked his head to the side and studied her.
"Why? You're not going to survive this. You know that don't you? You're stalling."
"Richard. Please. Let's look for it."
She searched the room, hoping for escape. Her gaze fell on the incinerator. Files had been stuffed and ignited, but hadn't burned completely. "You bastard! What have you done?"
Momentarily forgetting the gun, she ran to the incinerator, opened the door, and pulled out smoldering pieces of half-burned paper.
"You monster." She swore loud and fluently. "This isn't the grant. It's Milton's research notes. The ones we need to complete the journal. You won't be able to decipher it without his daily lab notes."
Richard stormed over and grabbed the files. "You seem to know an awful lot about his journal. Almost as if you'd seen it."
She took a deep breath and held up the notebook. If only...Gary... No. She'd never see Gary again.
"Hand it over."
Canfield reached for the book, but she stuffed it into her pocket. "No. Not yet."
"You bitch." He cocked the hammer. "There was only one journal. I searched everywhere and you had it all the time. You could've saved your friend if I'd found it."
Pangs of guilt swept over her. He was right. If only she'd remembered before. . . Suzanne might still be here, ready to start a wonderful life with Trent.
Mindlessly, she watched Canfield's ranting with vague interest. His pacing and ranting and gun-waving seemed silly, out of character for a medical student. For God's sake. He was an insignificant medical student caught up in death and greed.
Certain he would kill her, she noticed no fear, only deep, boiling, raging anger. If she went down, so did he. Her hand still gripped the pen.
Once before, a long time ago, she'd stood by, helpless. Nine years earlier. . . when Sarah had fallen from the retaining wall.
Not again. Not this time.
She wouldn't stand by and let Canfield put a bullet through her brain.
Dropping the journal, Andrea lunged at him, her right hand poised for attack. Canfield pulled the trigger. In a continuous movement her left hand deflected the gun and went to her bleeding throat. Her right buried the pen deep in his carotid artery.
His surprised look registered in her brain and she went down knowing she'd reached her target. Still holding the gun, he clawed at the deeply imbedded pen and his fingers squeezed off another round.
The shot rang out. Krastowitcz and Trent burst through the metal door. Andrea fell to the floor clutching her throat, gurgling for air. An asthma attack? Blood oozed between her fingers. Jesus. She'd been hit. Canfield turned toward the door.
Krastowitcz recognized the blond face staring at him. Still alive. The crushed head, another body. The man known as Richard Canfield turned toward the door, gun in hand. Blood pulsed from a glistening something. . . a pen? It caught the light, gave him a target.
Krastowitcz aimed. He and Trent each shot twice.
Krastowitcz's bullet entered Canfield's mouth and exited the back of his skull. His head exploded, spraying brain matter and blood. Trent's second shot tore into his chest, leaving a gaping crevasse on exit. Before the other two bullets entered his crumpling body, Canfield was dead.
"Got the bastard," Trent said, a note of triumph in his voice. "Good old hollow-points." His smile drifted away and the weight of his weapon seemed suddenly to great to bear.
Krastowitcz glanced at Trent, ran toward Andrea, and bent down seeking a pulse. Lying on her side next to Peter, Andrea's hand covered her throat. Was she dead? A coldness filled his chest.
Fear. They'd had so little time together. Was it love? If it wasn't then he'd never find it. It hurt too much to be anything else. His fingers palpated the thready beat and he scooped her into his massive arms, pulling her hand from the wound. He noted the crimson river streaming down her neck had clotted into a trickle.
Somehow, the bullet had missed both her jugular and her larynx. It had gone cleanly through, right under the chin. He pressed a clean handkerchief over the wound. She was in shock, but she was tough. She'd be okay. She clutched a black leather book in her hand, and charred papers fell from her arms. Her eyes, though glazed, brightened with recognition. She spat out a few unintelligible words. The veins in her forehead stood out from the effort to speak.
"Andrea. . . honey, don't say a word until we get you to the ER. Can you breathe okay?"
She nodded affirmatively.
"You'll be all right once we get that bleeding stopped. Then you can tell me all about it. Understand?"
With a slow nod, she sank into his embrace and released the papers.
ONLY A FEW MINUTES had passed, but the room filled with people. Krastowitcz's Captain and backups converged on the scene. Trent had ordered an ambulance on his portable radio.
Two paramedics entered the lab and scoped the situation out. "You don't want us; you need the coroner."
"Over here," Krastowitcz barked.
He picked her up and placed her on the stretcher. Andrea lifted her head and pointed toward the notebook amid the papers.
"Okay, relax. You can have it. I'll bring everything." Krastowitcz lifted her hand to his lips, leaned down, and kissed her lightly on her lips. "You'll be all right," he whispered. "I'll be over in a few minutes." He gazed down at her and his heavy heart throbbed against his chest. They'd have time together, now. He'd make sure of it.
Andrea nodded and closed her eyes, smiling.
The paramedics lifted the gurney into position and locked the wheels. Still gripping her hand, he squeezed. "Get her to the ER fast, guys, okay?"
KRASTOWITCZ BENT TO pick up the files and gazed around the room. His eyes finally rested on Canfield. Undetected, he'd wreaked havoc. Six people dead, others he didn't even know about. Poor, unknown slobs caught up in some sadistic ritual. Only one left, one seriously injured, the one Krastowitcz loved. . . for what?
