Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  Was she nuts?

  She was on her way, alone, to pay a near midnight call upon a suspected killer.

  Or worse.

  What could be worse, she wondered, watching the old-fashioned arrow tick off the floor numbers.

  She should have turned everything over to Fitzhugh when she had the chance—her empty photographs, the slides, and her suspicions—as well as the single sneaker. She had no business risking her life following the bizarre turns of this acquaintance with a possible madman.

  He cast no reflection, for God's sake! What kind of logic could explain that away? Iron poor blood? A poor self-image?

  Or was he an honest to goodness, bite ‘em and suck ‘em dry vampire?

  Her well-trained capacity for reason denied that suggestion. There must be some rational...

  Right. Isn't that what they all said as they stepped into the fiend's parlor on the late show?

  She fingered the small silver cross she hadn't worn since she'd laid her mother to rest. Religion had died in her that day, along with the notion that there was any sense of fairness in the world. Necessity had her unearthing the relic of childhood catechisms. Just in case. She kept it inside her snug sweater, slightly embarrassed by the sign of what she considered ritual weakness and by the ecclesiastical direction of her superstitious folly. Her colleagues would laugh themselves silly if they saw her going to battle against age-old evil waving a cross as her only defense.

  But her colleagues weren't riding with her in the elevator, were they?

  Better safe than sorry, wasn't that what her mother always told her father when she reminded him to wear his bulletproof vest even on the most mundane calls? And he was still alive, thanks to her advice. If only there had been some charm Stacy could have given her mother to keep her safe as well. Science hadn't saved her. Faith hadn't rescued her.

  But perhaps, with Louis Redman's help, Stacy could save others.

  If she could save herself.

  If Redman could be trusted not to turn on her.

  What game was he orchestrating? If he was the guilty party, why send her the victim's shoe? Was there a reason, or just the skewed machinations of a mind gone mad? Was she playing right into his hands by coming here alone?

  Questions begot more questions, and by the time the doors opened on six, her mind was circling with them like a SeaTac approach on a holiday weekend. She stepped out onto the plush black-and-gold-diamond patterned carpet. The door shushed closed behind her, sealing off her options. All that remained were the double doors at the end of the corridor leading to Louis Redman's lair.

  Lair.

  She laughed at herself, the sound bolstering her quavering courage. For the love of Mike, she was a scientist not a sci-fi groupie. She was going to meet a benefactor not a monstrous serial murderer from the Late Night Creature Feature.

  But there were worse things than make believe.

  There were real monsters in the world. And no tiny silver cross would save her from one of their legion.

  Pushing her wild misgivings into a closely relegated corner of her consciousness, Stacy strode down the hall, aware of the camera that tracked her movements. A perk of living at the Easton, or a product of Redman's paranoia? One thing for sure, her Louis certainly didn't want anyone getting the drop on him.

  Her Louis?

  Before she had the uncomfortable opportunity to puzzle over that Freudian faux pas, she reached out to tap on the door only to have it swing soundlessly open. Her heart leapt until she saw the Asian manservant bowing her way inside.

  Get a grip, Stace.

  "Good evening. I'm here to see Mr. Redman."

  Silently, the servant took her coat and directed her with a gesture into the living room where the word ‘posh’ took on a tangible presence.

  All in dark green, gilt and old wood, the setting was a page out of Architectural Digest. The only evidence of the Twentieth Century were the electric lights and the Levelor blinds closing out the cityscape beyond. The furnishings were an antique dealer's dream, displayed with showroom precision to the soft accompaniment of an Italian aria. Any moment, she expected some ad company to arrive for a photo shoot to peddle exotic vacations or Orson Wellsian aged liquor.

  And on the center of one of the low tables lay a folder which accidentally spilled out several documents, or perhaps artfully revealed them. She caught a glimpse of her own black and white photo and was about to see what other goodies the cautious Mr. Redman had collected, when his exquisitely accented voice interrupted.

  "Ms. Kimball ... Stacy. How good of you to come on such short notice."

  He was just there, standing practically at her elbow. She hadn't heard him or seen him enter the room, nor had she noticed exactly when the ancient manservant disappeared. She hid her startlement behind a tart reply.

  "Most people use more conventional hours for their business meetings."

  "I am not most people.” His bland smile underlined that tremendous understatement. “And your portfolio stated you are—how do you say?—a night owl."

  He didn't even try to deny that he'd had her investigated. Her resume didn't contain her sleep patterns, or for that matter, her sleep partners. She wondered if his portfolio did. Her chin came up a notch.

  "I wanted to beg your forgiveness for the other night,” he continued as if he hadn't announced a personal invasion into her private history. “I felt unwell and was forced to exit the restaurant rather hurriedly. I trust you found your way home without any difficulty. Takeo waited as per my instruction, but he did not see you leave."

  But had Louis? Had he been watching? Had he seen her take the monorail and noted her youthful co-travelers? Had he chosen the pretty coed just to let her know how vulnerable she'd been outside the realm of his protection? Just to let her know he wasn't a man to be toyed with?

  Well, he'd find that she didn't scare easily or respond well to threats, veiled or otherwise.

  "I can always find my own way home, Mr. Redman. My mother taught me to always carry money for a cab when going out with a strange gentleman."

  And gentlemen didn't get much stranger.

  "Ah, a resourceful woman, your mother, and quite sound advice."

  He moved into the room, his graceful step taking him to the bank of windows where he stood, staring at the shades as if he could see right through them to the night beyond. Had he planned for her gaze to follow him there in her helpless fascination with his dark looks and elegant manner?

  Wryly, she thought, yes. How well he could read her weaknesses. But that didn't mean he could use them to manipulate her.

  "Here I am. What was it you wanted? Just to make an apology? You could have done that on the phone."

  He didn't turn in reaction to her crisp tone. Instead, his hands laced behind his back in a pose of extreme ease. Her own posture was threaded with taut rods of tension.

  "I prefer to do my business face to face. Deceptive tool, the telephone. It's hard to read intention in a far distant voice."

  "You think I have something to hide from you?” Did he know it was true?

  "No, of course not. Do you?” He turned then and confronted her with a cool emerald stare and a mild, chiding smile.

  "I am an open book. Or should I say,” she amended, gesturing to the coffee table, “an open file."

  He chuckled at her claim. “Please sit down, Stacy. We have much to discuss."

  Noting her choice of solitary armchair over the more intimate spaciousness of one of the sofas, Louis perched on the edge of the large table. He nudged her offensive dossier with his fingertip and began his smooth interrogation.

  "You began your career in a rather odd circumstance. Perhaps to serve your night owl propensities."

  "Not so odd. My father was a policeman, my mother was a nurse. Their occupations brought them together, and I became a blend of their interests."

  "The morgue?"

  "Forensic medicine seemed a likely avenue for my leanings. I enjoyed the work. Th
e night shift let me continue my education in medicine while I interned. A perfect match for a night owl. I dislike a lot of supervision. And there were no complaints from the customers."

  He smiled faintly at her autopsy humor.

  "Why did you go into genetics and blood diseases? Is that also because of your family history?"

  His right-between-the-eyes assault upon the most private of her emotions brought an unexpected prick of tears to glimmer along her lashes. She blinked them away in irritation. She'd cried a river and where had it gotten her? The plain, bold truth was what would gain her what she needed.

  "Yes. Purely selfish, granted, but highly motivating."

  His voice softened like a caress. “There is nothing selfish about wishing to protect those you love."

  "But I couldn't, could I? With all my knowledge, with all my skill, with all my education and influence, I couldn't protect them."

  Then came his silken trap woven of seemingly innocuous words.

  "And if you could have, what would you have been willing to do?"

  "Anything. Everything. I would have made a deal with the Devil himself if it would have meant giving them even a few more years of life together."

  "You are a romantic, Doctor Kimball.” It was a statement of neither admiration nor accusation, just fact. “I wonder how many others realize that about you?"

  Not many, she could have told him. After dashing a trembling hand across her traitorous eyes, she glared at the perversely calm Louis Redman. “Is that what you wanted to know?"

  "It is what I knew the first moment I saw you. We understand each other, Stacy Kimball. We both know the pain of having power within our reach thwarted by the frustration of being helpless to bend it to our will."

  And she felt that connection, suddenly, inexplicably, and soul-deep as his mesmerizing gaze consumed her pain with an empathy born of experience. She remembered then that he had buried two wives. How woeful that their kinship should arise from such unhappy circumstance. Yes, in that, they understood each other perfectly.

  For a moment, Louis allowed himself to become lost in her sorrow. Waves of it radiated from her like heat from the sun he never saw. Tragedy was a powerful force, he knew, shaping strong character or unhealthy bitterness. Which prompted the lovely Ms. Kimball, determination or anger? The first he could utilize, but the second was dangerous and destructive.

  "Now,” she said, “it's your turn to tell me what prompted your interest in those same areas. Why put so much money into Harper and into this project? How do you benefit from it?"

  "Must one benefit from having compassion for his fellow man?"

  Her delicately arched brow called him on his evasion, but he couldn't tell her the truth. Not yet. So he continued with banal generalities.

  "I fund many projects, Doctor, not just those at Harper. I donate to the environment, to the poor, to political campaigns if they sway my interest. I've helped build libraries as well as hospital wings. I am blessed with more fortune than I can spend. I have the luxury of holding many interests."

  He could sense her dissatisfaction with his reply. She'd wanted him to reveal something more personal though her motives remained clouded. Like the rites of courtship, their conversation danced around the real issue.

  What did they want from one anther?

  For a human female, Stacy was difficult to read. She seemed to have mastered the usually easy-to-read mask of emotions that mortals wore so sloppily. She was stingy with her feelings, keeping them zealously close and out of his reach. A good thing, for he found himself all too vulnerable to her rare displays of heartache.

  Though she didn't weep over this mother she had lost, the tears hovered near the surface, glimmering as her gaze shifted uncomfortably away, hanging heavy in the rough clearing of her throat that would deny sentiment's grip upon her. Such strength of purpose and compassion—an intriguing combination. He found he liked Stacy Kimball, the quixotic scientist with the brilliant mind made for discovery and a lush body fashioned for pleasure. A pleasure he could not afford to enjoy.

  He got up suddenly. She jumped back, alarm stamped upon her expression like a passport destination.

  "I beg your pardon. I didn't mean to startle you."

  But he had.

  Why did she fear him? Had she guessed the truth? Would her analytical mind let her investigate possibilities beyond the realm of reason? He didn't know whether to hope or worry. It had been so long, so very long since he'd shared his secret with someone of the regular world. The weight of it had grown so burdensome of late. What a relief it would be to release some of its crushing consequence. He sensed the strength to bear such a terrible knowledge in the graceful slope of Stacy's shoulders. But strength was not enough. Trust was tantamount.

  Could he trust her with the truth? Could she help him without knowing the entire sordid tale?

  Would her love of facts versus fiction keep her from fleeing him in terror? Would her rational intelligence allow her to accept without judgement? Could she be tempted with what he offered without being frightened away by what he was?

  Would she work with him toward a common goal if she got a glimpse of what he was?

  He wished he knew. But such certainty could not be rushed no matter how desperate he was to confide all and go from there. Patience. Let her come to terms with the truth at her own pace. He knew she had suspicions and yet, still, she was here. She was no coward. And he found himself anxious to discover what else she was.

  But not tonight.

  Not tonight, when he was looking at her as something other than a practical scientist.

  "It is late,” he announced abruptly. “You should go now."

  It was already too late to contain the attraction. He should have known better than to arrange this intimate face-to-face. Across the phone lines, the temptation would not be so great. Through the receiver he could not sense her heat or scent her very humanity. With such impersonal distance between them, he wouldn't be thinking of how alone he'd been these last decades, of how fine it would feel to hold a woman in his arms again for a purpose other than that of sating his nightly hunger. He had other appetites, other cravings that suddenly stirred and demanded satisfaction. A yearning for the taste of a sweet kiss, the sound of a soulful sigh, the quickening of passion within a lover's embrace. He'd denied these things as dangerous but never deceived himself into believing them unimportant. He'd been human once, and a trace of that frailty yet lingered to eternally torment him. Though he chose a solitary life, it wasn't his preference. It was for his protection—protection of his way of life, of his sanity, of his heart. Of the three, his treacherous, once-human heart offered the most challenge and put up the greatest resistance to his plans.

  He wouldn't care for Stacy Kimball. He could work with her, he could like her, but he could never, ever let himself get close to her. That would spell disaster for both of them.

  She rose from the overstuffed chair, leaning forward as she did to unconsciously present him with a glimpse of delightful bounty as the low, rounded neck of her sweater gapped away from her breasts. Warmth teased through him, through his belly, through his loins, exciting twin hungers both best ignored. Stacy was not here to fulfill fantasy or necessity. She was here to grant him a rare glimpse of hope, for that was all that kept him going in this newest, most optimistic millennia.

  The hope of finding happiness and his lost humanity once again.

  "Before I forget, this is yours."

  He stared curiously at the wrapped parcel she'd carried in with her.

  "Your coat,” she explained. “I had it cleaned."

  He smiled, surprised by the gesture. “That was hardly necessary."

  "A small repayment for your gallantry."

  Their gazes met and held for a long beat.

  "Good night, Mr. Redman—Louis."

  She extended her hand professionally, but he captured it with a courtly purpose that brought a flush of embarrassed pleasure to her face.

>   He touched his lips to the taut skin of her knuckles—sweet, soft and salty.

  Delicious.

  Some of that appreciation must have shown in his gaze because her expression hardened, and her hand was quickly pulled away. Ms. Stacy Kimball was not interested in attachments any more than he himself was. Or so they both believed in order to make the idea of working together more palatable.

  "I'll have an outline of my project study for your approval in the next day or so.” Her crisp tone was all business. Her body language was all beckoning femininity. The confusion of messages held him at bay.

  "I shall look forward to seeing it. You can fax it to me at your convenience."

  There it was, the flash of disappointment that both gratified and warned him. She didn't want a machine to be their go-between.

  "If that's your preference."

  How stiff, how displeased she sounded. How frustrated by her failure to conceal her true feelings.

  "No,” he told her quietly, holding her gaze, her attention, her very breath hostage with that simple, single word. “But perhaps it would be for the best. My hours are so ... irregular."

  "I'm a night owl, remember?"

  He couldn't find it within himself to extinguish the tender bud of expectation unfurling with her soft smile.

  "Leave a message for me then, and we will arrange a meeting."

  She hesitated for a moment. He could see her mentally weighing the consequence of what she'd just done. He saw a woman who hated to act out of foolishness, out of impulse. But he also recognized a loneliness akin to his own, a desire to quench the thirst for companionship, if only along the line of business. And that, he could not resist, either.

  "I shall look forward to hearing from you."

  Too much so.

  * * * *

  The spell Louis Redman cast over her sensibilities finally waned as she rode down in the elevator.

  Stacy sagged back against the polished paneled wall and sighed in exasperation. She'd let opportunity slip away. She'd let him coax memories and motivations from her without revealing any of his own. She knew nothing more about him than she had while taking the ride up a scant hour ago. He'd never really answered any of her questions. How had she so completely lost control of her situation? Was it Redman and the lure of his masculine magnetism? Or was it her own sad state of affairs, or rather the lack thereof? If she couldn't rein in her raging hormones when around the man, how could she ever expect to learn anything?