Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  "Forrester wants to see you. Something going on?"

  At first, she frowned, thinking he meant some sexual innuendo, but no, Herb Watson was as asexual as the samples in her freezer.

  "If there is, no one told me."

  "If it's a promotion, don't forget to mention that I'm the one who taught you everything you know."

  "And if it's a pink slip, I'll be sure to add that bit of information, too."

  Herb scowled, his tiny sense of humor sorely strained in its deciphering of her meaning. Finally, he managed a wan smile and disappeared back into his own sterile space.

  What would Greg Forrester be calling her upstairs for? She checked her hair in the green glow of her computer monitor then squared up her shoulders. Promotion or pink slip, six of one, half a dozen of the other odds. A number of familiar faces had vanished over the course of the past months, since the government's influence had taken hold of the budget like an encroaching infection. Was she to become the latest of the missing in action?

  If she was, the timing couldn't be worse.

  If her job was on the line, would she be forced to reveal her unofficial project in order to save it? She hoped it wouldn't come down to that unpleasant choice. This was something she didn't want Harper's government-washing hands in.

  Stacy stepped out of the elevator. The labs were below ground, with the security floor burrowed in one deeper. She blinked like a mole at the brightness of the day, a rarity in Seattle in the early months of the new year. The CEO offices and meeting rooms were blessed with windows to the outside world where natural light flooded in to warm decorator shades of coral, taupe and cream into an almost welcoming atmosphere. Unless one took into account the interior designer's fondness for calla lilies. The sleek, funnel-shaped flowers were a part of every floral arrangement, reminding Stacy, not of elegance and Art Deco style, but of death. A harbinger of bad news to come? Again, she hoped not.

  Forrester's office commandeered a corner space. Situated in the center of a green plant jungle was his horseshoe-shaped desk. Stacy swallowed down a bad feeling when she saw that Phyllis Starke already occupied one of the chairs around it. The woman's look held the gleam of a suspended guillotine blade. Forrester's smile of greeting did little to dissuade her sense of foreboding as she took a seat on the other side of the bend, placing a sizable distance between herself and her immediate supervisor.

  What was Starke's beef now?

  "Congratulations, Ms. Kimball. I don't know how you managed to pull it off, but we are in your debt."

  Stacy blinked owlishly at the CEO, not sure how to respond to what she didn't understand. Her gaze followed the piece of paper he slid across the marble surface toward her.

  "What's this?"

  "It's a name-your-own-study grant, and might I say, a damned generous one."

  She glanced up at him nervously. “But Mr. Forrester, you know I prefer not to do government work."

  "I know. That's why I know you'll be thrilled with this offer from Louis Redman to head up your own team in the field of your choice."

  It was a joke. It had to be. But one glimpse of Starke's foul countenance decided it. If she was that annoyed, it was for real.

  "I don't know what to say."

  "Say yes to cocktails this evening at the Needle with Mr. Redman. He wants to go over the details with you in person at seven. His car will pick you up."

  Stacy found it hard to draw a breath. A research carte blanche just dropped in her lap. The chance to study, to develop, to cure. Without interference, without red tape, without having to clear each nitpicking step with Starke.

  "But why me? Herb has more hours—"

  Forrester put it bluntly. “Redman asked for you. Specifically. And we won't disappoint him, will we?"

  Stacy shook her head, the daze of disbelief yet clinging to her thought processes. He'd asked for her. He'd entrusted her with a grant of incredible heft on the basis of one ride in his car. The man had either done his homework on her, or he was foolishly fickle.

  Either way, she had a program to put together.

  "All the department heads will assemble their wish list of projects for you to evaluate,” Starke was saying as if something bitter clung to each word.

  "But it's my choice?” Stacy needed that clarified, right up front, right in front of the head honcho.

  "Yes, Ms. Kimball,” she annunciated with surgical precision. “It is your choice."

  * * * *

  Stacy had no memory of her journey back to her lab. Her mind was spinning like a child's top, bouncing off countless ideas before careening each time in a new direction.

  She had nothing suitable to wear for a meeting with a millionaire.

  Once she stood in the center of her work space, the solid familiarity of sight and antiseptic smell coaxed her from Cinderella panic back to the real world.

  She had a million things to do. Facts to gather. Figures to find. Then, as she brushed damp palms over the sides of her lab coat, she felt the outline of the slide in her pocket. The sample and the photos. She'd totally forgotten her intentions in the rush of excitement.

  Was that Redman's intention?

  To lull her curiosity with a fat research grant that would allow no time for poking around in his private business?

  She reached for her briefcase and pulled out the pack of pictures. Slowly, she dealt through them. The lighting and composition was good though sometimes the angle was a bit askew. All and all, she had good shots of the dais with the Forresters and the Foundation rep.

  And none of Louis Redman.

  She shuffled through the pictures once again, her breath quickening with agitation.

  How had she managed to miss getting him in any of the shots?

  She hadn't. She knew she hadn't. But the space beside the hosts and other guests was strangely and inexplicably vacant. Where Redman had been standing, refusing to appear on her pictures as if he'd developed a personal stealth technology. Was that why he'd handed over her purse, camera inside, without a twitch of hesitation? Because he knew she had nothing?

  With shaking hands and backbone as supportive as one of Seattle's infamous six inch slugs, she drew out the negatives. In each numbered square, one figure was conspicuously missing.

  Louis Redman didn't like to have his picture taken, not because he wasn't photogenic. It was because he didn't show up on film.

  "Sensitivity to light, my hind leg,” she muttered, studying the oddly empty photos. Her stomach tightened with alarm and more strongly, with excitement.

  Piece by piece, she was gathering evidence that Louis Redman was ... What? A creature of the night? The undead? Her scientific mind rebelled against those superstitious labels as the toothsome image of Nosferatu played against more basic reason. But he was something, all right. Something not quite natural. Something that presented both threat and promise tied up in a mysterious and attractive package.

  She would start unwrapping those layers tonight.

  Until then, she would learn all she could about the sample from the dead girl. The results were startling. And exciting. And unbelievable.

  The moment the cells from the killer's blood encountered cells from another sample, they became aggressive and dominant, completely surrounding and ultimately altering the cell structure of the second sample to match its own.

  She ran the test again, using another specimen. The same metamorphosis occurred.

  Finally, her hands unsteady, she took a dot of her own blood and applied it to the slide. Almost afraid to hope, she adjusted the focus and waited for what might be a miracle.

  Slowly, the weakness in her own chemistry was absorbed by the stronger, healthy cells of the other sample until no sign remained of them at all.

  She whispered a soft oath, not daring to speak her amazement aloud.

  For on the slide, from a yet unnamed donor, was the secret of cell repair. The answer to needless death and disease.

  The answer to her prayers. Now, all she had
to do was beat the authorities to the man whose system produced the miracle she needed.

  Chapter Five

  The Space Needle's revolving restaurant was an elegant, expensive setting Stacy usually reserved for special business lunches. But exiting the elevator on Louis Redman's arm gave the experience a fairy-tale quality she wasn't sure how to handle within an impersonal realm.

  The lights of the Sound and the Emerald City of Seattle dazzled beyond the 360 degree vista of glass. It was like being amongst the stars. Beautifully dressed tables gleamed in welcome, all but a few occupied by equally well-dressed diners. Beside her Louis Redman, in his exquisitely tailored suit, with his exquisitely European flare, dazzled far brighter than the lights or the constellations. The perfect prince for her Cinderella. His effect upon her was as unsettling as it was scintillating.

  "This way to your table, Mr. Redman,” the sleek host murmured.

  As they followed between the tables, Stacy glanced toward the windows. Against the dark view of the Sound, their reflection became more prominent. She looked like a glamorous film star in her shift of ivory silk and beads with her hair dramatically swept up atop her head. At least a B-movie, she thought upon a more wry examination of her statuesque build and spiky heels that brought her eye to eye with Redman.

  But where was her elegant escort?

  Not in the reflection beside her.

  Startled, she studied the mirroring surface, seeing herself, the maître d’ but not her dark companion. As she stared, perplexed, they took a turn, and the lights of the city obscured their reflection.

  "How is this, sir?"

  Distracted from her alarmed musings, Stacy glanced at the inside table then toward an empty setting by the windows.

  "Might we have that one?” she asked even as her escort frowned slightly. It wasn't an impulsive request. Nor was she interested in the scenery. She wanted to see if Redman's image would appear once the tower made its return revolution toward the dark waters of the bay again. Once mistaken, perhaps, but not twice.

  The tone of their meeting had definitely taken an eerie turn.

  When she was seated next to the glass, Stacy concealed her nervousness by mulling over the wine list, finally agreeing to a full-bodied red that her companion suggested. Then they were alone and she had no excuse not to give him her complete attention.

  He mesmerized. She'd never seen eyes so green, set jewellike in a surround of thick black lashes. Looking into them, she felt a mild disorientation, as if she'd already consumed more than her allotted single glass of wine. Blinking, she shook off the strange lightheadedness, deciding there was only one way to combat Redman's charm—business.

  "Why me?"

  "Excuse me?"

  But he didn't look surprised by her blunt question.

  "Why did you choose me for your grant? There are many at Harper who are far more qualified to—"

  "You don't want to head the project for me?"

  Taken aback, she could only sputter the truth. “No. I mean, yes, of course I do. It's an incredible opportunity for both me and the Center. I was just wondering about your selection—"

  "Do you feel unable to handle the challenge?"

  This time, she let a slight flare of ego strengthen her reply. “No. I'm looking forward to it."

  "And as to why you, of course I studied your credentials. Impressive and impeccable, but as you said, not outstanding amongst your peers."

  Her cheeks warmed at his candid assessment. Why did it feel so necessary to shine in Louis Redman's eyes? She'd never cared for accolades, either professional or personal, before.

  "But you were not chosen,” he continued smoothly, “because of your academic abilities."

  Warning bells jangled. Stacy straightened in her seat, narrowing her gaze into defensive slits. Here it comes. The not so subtle suggestion that their business and pleasure combine in a mutually satisfying arrangement. Damn, she'd hoped ... What? That Louis Redman would be above such sleazy manipulations? She knew her choice of attire was rather—suggestive. She had a great figure and enjoyed clothing that made the most of it. She enjoyed causing a stir, but in her professional field, she adhered strictly to a look-but-don't-touch policy. Sure, those like Phyllis and even Herb assumed that she'd peddled her looks to get ahead. She'd never cared enough about their opinion to correct that misconception. But she wasn't a user. She wasn't a tease. And she wouldn't be blackmailed into trading favors, no matter what this project meant to her.

  She'd wanted to think better of a man of Redman's obvious breeding.

  But the bottom denominator was, he was a man. And men tended to see what they wanted to see.

  Her fingers tightened on the fragile stem of her wine glass, imagining the satisfying stain the dark red would make upon his stark white shirt front. Already, regret weighed upon her as she thought of the stellar opportunity plunging to Earth, a satellite knocked from its comfortable orbit.

  "And just what was your criteria for making your choice, Mr. Redman?” Her tone shivered like a crack spreading across safety glass. Let him make his nasty proposal. She was ready for him. Even though it hurt and disappointed her.

  He leaned back in his chair, daring to smile, to appear amused by the situation even though her voice was sharp enough to slash his sophisticated air to humbled pieces.

  "From what I've observed, both at the gala and so far this evening, you have attributes that far surpass mere intelligence. Intelligence does not always imply common sense or courage, and those are the qualities I need if one is to work for me."

  Stacy blinked.

  When he'd said attributes, the hair bristled on the back of her neck. All her indignant rhetoric rose up in a tidal wave of insult and superiority, ready to sweep him and his smug confidence into the cold water of the Sound. But his next words sapped the power from her affront. All she could do was scramble to recover her balance as her cheeks brightened with the horror of misunderstanding, and her mouth drooped slightly in her loss for appropriate comment.

  "You have, if I may be so bold, guts, Ms. Kimball. I admire that. You were not intimidated by my reputation or by your company's rules. You proved yourself quick to rebound from distress after those militants assaulted you. Resilience is another requisite. And I like you. That's a bonus."

  He smiled, this time the gesture heating his jeweled stare until it glittered—hot, green fire. That flame consumed her awkwardness, her embarrassment, her shame. And she smiled back, sharing the amusement at her own expense.

  "Ahhh,” he added appreciatively. “And there is the other thing."

  "What's that?"

  "You don't take everything too seriously. The scientific community has a decided lack of humor that makes me ... weary. You and I shall get along splendidly, I think."

  "I hope so, Mr. Redman."

  "Louis. If we are to be friends, it must be Louis."

  "And are we to be friends?"

  "That would also be a bonus. A man in my position has few acquaintances with whom he can relax."

  She should have said she had enough friends, thank you. She should have curtly advised that their relationship was to be strictly professional. But again, she caught that vulnerable note in what he wasn't saying, and it played havoc upon her usually reliable logic.

  And what better way to discover his secrets than to establish a non-threatening guise of camaraderie? She regrouped and formed a new, more direct attack upon the mystery of her benefactor.

  "In order for strangers to become friends, they should get to know one another better, don't you think?"

  A subtle hint of wariness slipped into his easy smile. “And what do you wish to know?"

  "What's your interest in genetics? What kind of work is it that you want me to do?"

  He wagged a finger at her. “Ah-ah. That is not personal. Let's agree to leave business behind for the next hour or so. Let us be ourselves instead of our public relations department."

  If he wanted personal, she could g
et personal.

  "Are you married?” She refused to blush as he regarded her with some surprise.

  "No. I have been."

  "Divorced?"

  "No. I have ... outlived both my wives."

  "Is that where you got your money?"

  He put up his hands and chuckled. “You are too good at this game. No, I did not do away with my wives to inherit their fortunes. They were both worth more than any wealth could measure. And you? Why aren't you wed?"

  She couldn't help feeling it was more an evasive maneuver than a need to know that had him deftly flipping the topic to put her on the hot seat. The intimate glimpse he had given her into his love life made her uncomfortably aware of the barrenness of her own. At least, he had loved and lost. That was a risk she could never afford to take.

  "I've never met a man who could match my exacting specifications."

  He saw right through her forced gaiety to the ache she attempted to hide. Pity wasn't something she wanted from him. But, before she could bristle up on the defensive, he gentled the subject with a soft chiding. “You have a check list, then? And how have I fared so far?"

  She released her breath and laughed. “You scored high on the financial end. The rest, I've yet to tabulate."

  "You will let me know how I score?"

  "If you do, I'm sure you'll be the first to know."

  Was that a flush upon his lean face? Did modern bachelors—even widowed ones—blush when confronted with sexual innuendo? Not to Stacy's experience. She found his modesty oddly appealing in an old-fashioned sort of way. In fact, she found way too much appealing about her dinner date.

  Not a date, she reminded herself sternly. No matter how relaxed and even flirtatious, it was business between her and Redman. She couldn't let it become more.

  "Do you have family, Ms. Kimball?” he asked as a means to recover himself. When she hesitated, he simply met her gaze, and the reluctance went away. Just like that.

  "Family? No, not any more. My mother died. She was a nurse. She contracted AIDs through a needle stick at the hospital where she worked. A poor reward for all her service to mankind. I've lost contact with my father over the years. Her death hit him hard.” How easily he pulled the painful facts from her usually well-guarded personal resumé. To distract him from more questions, she used his own methods against him. “And you? A family?"