by Nancy Gideon
A time might come when she'd have to tell all, but that time was not today.
She picked up the new ID badge and pinned it to the front of her coat. “If there's nothing more, I'd like to get back to work."
"I wouldn't dream of keeping you from it a minute longer than necessary.” Greg Forrester grinned and she wondered how she had ever thought of him as harmless.
She followed Phyllis to the elevator and was startled when the other woman stayed her hand before she could push the button for the research floor.
"You don't need to go there."
"But I have to gather up my notes, my belongings."
Starke waved off her protest. “Everything's already been moved."
They didn't waste any time.
When the doors opened to the lowest level, it was like stepping out into a military compound instead of a science lab. Cement floors, bare lights and uniforms. Nothing that welcomed, nothing that inspired, nothing but intimidation and the threat of an unseen power. The Gestapo came instantly and disquietingly to mind.
Stacy, who had never considered herself easily frightened, fought down a tremor of real fear in order to force herself from the elevator.
The first challenge to their right to be there came within ten feet. A guard stepped forward to check their badges and punch their names into his computer. He waved them along. At the first bend in the corridor, they confronted a sealed security door. Badges were run through the identi-plate and their thumbprints scanned. The door clicked open, inviting them onward. As they went down the hall, she heard a low frequency hum and caught a glimpse of a vacillating light. They were being x-rayed.
Forrester was right in his warning. So much for smuggling any data out on disk.
"This will be your lab,” Phyllis told her, gesturing to a solid door with a small, prison-sized window in it. To enter, the ID key had to be used.
Stacy tried to keep her expression impassive. Yes, the lab setup was superior, all sterile white and polished steel with all the highest tech equipment, ample space ... and her own private guard. Frank Cobb stood in the center of the room, his features as impersonal as the setting.
"Is all to your satisfaction?” Starke asked with just the right bite of jealous irritation.
Oh boy, could she have gone off on an angry bender. Satisfaction? Being herded like a criminal to the bowels of the Center, x-rayed, fingerprinted—she was lucky they didn't insist on a cavity search. Her freedom, her creative choice, her options ... gone. This was not her place of work. It was her own personal microscope slide where she would be watched, monitored, and stripped of independence. If only she had the privilege of telling grim-faced ghoul Phyllis Starke to take her job and shove it.
But, a confirmed and desperate realist, Stacy said nothing. Her nod was the best she could do in response.
"I'll leave you to your work then. I'll be down at 4:30 sharp to go over your progress."
"I'll be looking forward to it."
One thing about Starke, sarcasm was never wasted on her. With a glower of contempt, she stepped out of the room. When Stacy heard the vacuum seal on the door, her spirit was sucked out as well.
She glared at Cobb. “From assistant to jailer. I hope it was a nice promotion for you."
He absorbed her venom without a blink. “I've tried to set up all your work areas the way you had them upstairs, so you wouldn't be disrupted."
"Disrupted.” Her laugh slashed bitterly. “No, I am a hearty species. I can take root again and flourish no matter how rudely I've been jerked from my native soil. Even in this artificial dirt."
Cobb was too much of a professional to express regret or opinion. He wisely got out of her way.
Once she'd arranged everything to suit her meticulous work habits, Stacy put her upset behind her and immersed herself in the task at hand. Since Harper and their government Big Brothers obviously knew the potential of her work, she didn't waste time concealing her purpose from them. But if they wanted more, they were in for a struggle. She had no choice but to use their facilities to a quick and hopefully successful end. But she didn't have to reveal her sources. And she didn't have to pretend to like it.
And at 4:30 sharp, as her harsh-faced supervisor went over her daily accomplishments, Stacy sat stoically while Starke assessed her findings.
"Where did you get the samples you're using?” Starke glanced up over the data sheets to pin Stacy with her glare.
"What difference does it make?"
Starke laughed. “I'm not stupid, so don't assume I don't understand the connotations here. Your project is all hush hush, but I'm capable of reading between the lines and am not without my own sources of information. Where did you get these blood samples?"
"Originally, from the morgue, under the fingernails of a murder victim.” She saw no reason to lie.
"But who was the sample taken from?"
"If the police don't know, how should I?"
Starke looked over the figures again, anticipation and agitation animating her sallow features. “How did you come by them?"
"A friend of mine is a pathologist. We used to work together. I do freelance consulting for him sometimes. He thought I'd be interested in the unusual properties he discovered."
"He knows about this, then?"
Alarm froze through Stacy's gut. She thought of Alex Andrews knocked out of his shoes on a public sidewalk. Hit and run, my ass. There was nothing random about his death and she'd be damned if she'd allow anything similar to befall Charlie. He didn't deserve it. No one did.
"He doesn't know anything. This is way out of his league. I told him it was a genetic anomaly."
"And he believed you?"
"He's too busy not to. The living aren't exactly his field of interest."
Stacy waited, tension making her muscles ache and her head pound. Finally, Starke set the papers aside. “I guess he's of no importance then."
Stacy released her suspended breath in a carefully regimented stream.
"Mr. Cobb will see you home."
At that final insult to her freedom, Stacy rebelled. “That is not necessary. I have my own car here."
"He'll follow you then. And in the future, he'll pick you up and see you home."
"I am perfectly capable of driving myself—"
Starke cut off her protest with the efficiency of a scalpel in the hand of a surgeon—Doctor Frankenstein, most likely. “We've been informed of the unfortunate trouble at your apartment complex."
Stacy slid an accusing glare toward Cobb who received it impassively.
"In light of that,” Starke continued, “we feel it's in your best interest to cooperate on this point. You will cooperate, won't you, Doctor?"
"I'm not one to make waves, Doctor,” she drawled icily in return.
"Good.” Stake nodded to Cobb then gathered up all of Stacy's notes.
"I need those,” she was quick to claim.
Phyllis's smile was pure artificial sweetener. “I'll have them copied and returned before morning. We can't be too careful with information like this. It's better we have it safeguarded in more than one location."
And for whose best interest was that?
Certainly not Stacy's.
Stacy stood aside while Cobb opened the door to her apartment for her. She waited in the hall as he made a cursory sweep of her rooms, her mood growing more volatile with impotent fury the longer it steeped. When Cobb paused before the flashing light on her answering machine, she was ready to tangle.
"I don't think that's for you, Frank."
He stared at the beckoning strobe of green then up into the fire of her gaze, clearly at odds. If he chose to push the recall button, there was little she could do. It wasn't as if she could overpower him. And he had a gun.
"Thank you for the escort, Cobb,” she dismissed softly. “I'll see you at 6:30."
Then she waited, wondering a bit frantically what she would do if he decided not to be obliging.
Finally, he started
toward the door, leaving her with at least one scrap of privacy. Unless, of course, her phone really was bugged, and her superiors already knew who'd left the message on her machine.
Her jaw tightened as he passed her in the doorway.
"Lock this,” he told her. “And don't lose my number. I've got a faster response time than 911."
"Why? Are you sleeping in your car at the curb?"
His opaque stare gave no answer and got her wondering if maybe he was camping out nearby.
She latched and deadbolted the door behind him, and, for the first time since that morning allowed the rivulets of her distress to shiver freely through her.
What the hell was she going to do?
What could she do in the prison camp Harper had become?
Tossing her purse at the overstuffed sofa, she stalked to the side table to retrieve her message. Her heart took a painful lunge when Alex Andrews’ breathless voice wavered from the machine.
"Stacy, just a quick warning. Someone else knows that we know. I think I'm being followed. You be careful. I think tonight we need to talk about going to the police."
Tonight they wouldn't talk about anything, not ever again.
She dropped heavily onto the couch, burying her face in her hands. Tears of frustration and loss wet her fingertips, but instead of bursting forth in cleansing sobs, her anguish bunched up tight in the back of her throat, burning there like Cobb's betrayal.
A light touch to her shoulder sent her scrambling back in terror.
"I'm sorry about your friend."
She stared helplessly up at Louis Redman through the glaze of her grief. It didn't matter how he knew for the moment, only that he was there.
"Now,” he continued, “how are we going to keep you safe from the threat we can see and the threat we can't?"
Chapter Fourteen
As Stacy sipped the tea Louis had made for her, she contemplated the ridiculousness of a vampire brewing camomile in her kitchen. And as she did so, an almost hysterical laughter swelled inside her until she ached from holding it back. How far her life had detoured from the norm.
Louis appeared at ease in her cluttered rooms. He'd forgone the tailored Armani suits and Italian loafers to blend casually with her surroundings. He was sleek yet still elegant in snug black jeans and pullover sweater. The running shoes gave her pause. With his preternatural powers, did he ever need to rely upon fleetness of foot? More a fashion statement than a necessity, she decided, finishing the last of the herbal drink. By then, its soothing warmth had spread through to heat chilled extremities and calm an anxious mind. She regarded her visitor with a directness that gave him pause.
"We need to find this Quinton Alexander."
He blinked at her bluntness. “For what purpose?"
"To keep you safe and uninvolved and to assure that my work will continue."
"We have discussed this."
"Well, we need to discuss it again. The last time we brought the topic up, I wasn't a prisoner in my own lab, and the government wasn't breathing down my neck."
Louis didn't answer right away, and when he did, it was with a question. “How long will it take you to finish your work?"
"With trials and the paperwork necessary to authorize human test subjects—” She did laugh then, the sound harsh and brittle. “I forgot. With the government in charge, the red tape won't be a problem. A day. A week. A month. Maybe more. It depends on how long it takes me to break down the various components and isolate the affected gene. It's hit or miss for the moment. Things will go quickly once I know what I'm looking for."
"How long before they know exactly what it is you are doing?"
Again, the strained laugh. “If they had a clue, I'd be shackled to my work station twenty-four hours a day. For now, they think everything's theoretical, and they're giving me the rope to either hang myself or square knot a new rung on their ladder to immortality. The closer I get to the findings we need, the harder it's going to be to hide things from them. Then things could get unpleasant. There's the danger that they pull me off the project or—"
He gave her a sharp look, alerted by the fraying words at the end of her sentence. “Or?"
She regarded him with a wry candor. “I'll simply disappear some day. They hate loose ends, you know, and no one is irreplaceable. Eventually, I'll become a liability, just the way Alex did."
"Alex?"
"My reporter friend. The one who dug up all the background information."
There. Now he knew. Stacy leaned against the yielding back of the sofa, letting it absorb some of the tension that began massing in the room. She couldn't read his distress upon the impassive angles of his face. It was more a feeling of seismic energy gathering, increasing pressure until eventually a weak link would give and release the uncontained magnitude of his emotions. She prepared for the dark surge.
"Did Harper get that information from him?” His question was silky, deceivingly smooth, like several fingers of Jack Daniels straight up. The kick would follow when least expected.
"I don't know. Alex was an old pro. He wouldn't have left his notes or his sources exposed. But we have to assume that they'll discover the truth eventually. Unless we distract them in another direction."
"With Alexander."
"It's the only way."
"A dangerous way. He will not be voluntarily ... cooperative."
"Then we'll have to convince him. For now, we have to concentrate on keeping as many of our secrets as possible. My phone is tapped. My computer has been breached, too. We'll have to be very careful not to give them a reason to clamp down on security measures. Our enemies need to be isolated and identified, so we can deal with them as efficiently as possible. Just like a dangerously mutated gene. Why are you smiling? Do you think I'm overreacting."
Louis fought to restrain the mobile curve of his mouth, but it was difficult. She reminded him so much of both the women he had loved. And lost. That cold dash of reality wiped the fond amusement from his face and heart. His reply was terse.
"No. You are being cautious, and caution is warranted.” He moved toward the windows in the dining area, careful to remain in the shadows lest prying eyes were watching even now. And they probably were. “So you believe your employer will take no steps to protect you?"
"They've already sold me out. As long as they keep a current record of my research findings, I'm expendable."
"Then we must make sure that at least one piece of the puzzle remains out of their grasp, so they have no excuse to terminate you."
He saw her wince at the word ‘terminate.’ Smart woman. She understood the danger she was in and would be careful.
"We must also assume,” he continued, “that Quinton will escalate his attacks on you. He is a clever fiend who is difficult to predict. Insanity always resists the path of logic."
She paled, considering her plight. She was alone, unable to call in her bodyguard or the police to rescue her. But instead of turning to him to beg for his assistance, she squared her shoulders and braced to support her own defense.
"How can I keep him from making a midnight snack of me should he get bored playing his game?"
"Be wary of both friend and foe until you know how to recognize him. Knowing him as I do, it is unlikely that he will make a move against you this soon. He will toy with me through you. He's only guessing at our relationship now, but if he suspects you can be a tool to hurt me, he will use you mercilessly. So, for the time being, it is best you stick to your regular routine. If you feel threatened, you will move in with me."
She bristled up at that. Whether from his presumptive claim or from a confusion of the heart, she didn't like his suggestion in the least.
"I have to relent to being a prisoner during the day because Harper has the facilities I need, but I will not become your prisoner by night."
He smiled slightly, wondering what she was so afraid of. Him or herself? “I am really an excellent host. It wouldn't be a terrible captivity."
But she wasn't mollified. “Whatever time I have left will be my own."
"Will it? You are very brave or very foolish to think yourself safe here. If Quinton comes, do your really think your human friend can overpower him? Do you think you could find the strength to fight his will should he choose to exert it over you?"
Pridefully, independently, her chin shot up, and her lush lips opened to proclaim what he knew to be a dangerous untruth. What he must now show her to be a deadly misconception.
He moved. Using the supernatural speed of his kind, he crossed the room like a puff of wind, standing one moment at the window, and the next toe to toe with the arrogant doctor. She never saw his progress. He simply was there in front of her, a startling apparition she could neither anticipate nor escape. Fear widened her intelligent gaze until all was submerged save alarm and a desperate panic. Her attempt to scramble backward was thwarted by the sudden bracketing of his arms on either side of her shoulders as he leaned close to intimidate and purposefully terrify. His lips curled back so that she would see the terrible fangs.
"And if I were Quinton Alexander, you would be mine,” he hissed.
Her hand moved to her throat, a gesture to suppress her scream perhaps. Or so he thought until a small silver cross appeared between her slender fingers to drive him back with the force of a compelling shove. Averting his head as pain and sickness held him helpless, he marveled at the tenacity threaded through her quavering voice.
"Perhaps not strength of body, but certainly strength of mind."
"If you'll lower that crucifix, I will applaud you properly."
Slowly, he turned back toward her. The fright eased from her expression, replaced by something he found much more unsettling. Her eyes gleamed with a smug confidence, a sense of well being that he hated to deny her, but in order to keep her safe, he had no choice but to destroy it. She still didn't understand the nature of evil she was dealing with. This was no clinical strain of contagion to be looked at through the safe distance of a microscope. It was an infection running wild, to which no one, least of all her, was immune. She had to realize her vulnerability, or she would fall victim to her own false pride.
