Triggered Response

by Patricia Rosemoor

  “Okay, okay.”

  Did the janitor have to be so slow? he wondered, thinking it was taking the man forever to get down the hallway with his cleaning tools. Or was it the effects of the chemicals making him feel like Artur was moving in slow motion?

  It seemed to him the only effect of the experiment was to make him sick.

  The janitor stopped in front of him and waited.

  “Not here. In there!” Was the man stupid? “The floor. Clean the damn floor!”

  Artur dragged his bucket inside the lab and made a face. “What you have to eat last night?”

  “That’s none of your business. If you don’t want to lose your job, get to work!”

  “I work. Okay.”

  With each exchange, his temper rose. And when the janitor began to mumble to himself while mopping up the mess, he felt his anger rise once more.

  “Shut up!”

  He had to stop Artur from talking. Not just now. But later. Surely the janitor would tell someone he’d been sick all over the floor. What would stop him? A bribe? But Artur didn’t speak English all that well and might miss some of the nuances. Besides, Artur would still know.

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The angrier he became, the more his brain felt as if it was burning inside his skull.

  He began to pace and glanced outside to the water feature in its natural setting just in time to see a bird of prey swoop down and grab a baby rabbit.

  Too bad Artur couldn’t get swooped up like that. Maybe get pecked to death and eaten by a vulture. That would shut him up. A couple of buzzards would get rid of the evidence, he thought grimly.

  He could almost see it happening.

  A distressed sound from the janitor snapped him to. Artur was jabbering, backing up, tripping over his own bucket as a bird of prey swooped down on him.

  Startled, heart pounding, he backed into the wall as the bird’s beak ripped into the man in front of his eyes. His own emotions shifted from anger to fear for himself, and suddenly the buzzard dissipated like a hologram switched off.

  “Artur?”

  The man didn’t move.

  As his vitals steadied and he pushed himself away from the wall, he realized his problem might just have been solved.

  Stooping next to the janitor, he felt for a pulse and was elated when he found none. Old Artur’s heart had just stopped beating. Just like that. He’d been scared to death by a mentally projected image.

  So his experiment had worked, after all, he thought, if not in the way he’d been expecting.

  Then he wondered what Claire Fanshaw most feared.

  Chapter Six

  The idea that the state police had been shut out of Cranesbrook bothered Claire the entire drive to work. The Feds had taken over. Supposedly. Only as far as she knew, one investigation wasn’t replacing the other. No one had been around to speak to her, at any rate. And she hadn’t heard any rumors, either. It was as though the Feds knew what had happened. Or they didn’t…and didn’t care.

  Could it be that Project Cypress was too important to let anyone stop it from going to completion?

  How was she ever going to figure it out? Claire wondered as she drove through the security station and parked. She had Bray, who had no memory. But if he had been involved, that information was imbedded somewhere in his brain.

  Could that have been the source of his nightmare?

  She was getting out of her car when she heard a siren. Her heart lurched as she spotted an ambulance racing from around back toward the security station.

  Another accident?

  Grabbing her briefcase, she hurried inside the building to find out.

  “You’re here early, Miss Fanshaw,” the security guard on duty noted.

  “I have some catch-up work to do.”

  “With the hours you work, you surely deserve some time off. And a raise.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured, then switched to her biggest fear. “About that ambulance I just saw—was there another accident? What’s going on?”

  “No, no accident. One of the janitors had a heart attack about a half hour ago.”

  “Which one?”

  “Artur. You know, the old guy.”

  “Oh, right.” Her pulse steadied. “I’m so sorry. Is he expected to make it?”

  The guard shook his head. “They couldn’t revive him. He was back in Lab 12 away from everyone.” And then, as if expecting she didn’t know about Lab 12, he added, “Lab 12 is one of the labs to be updated, so no one goes back there.”

  Then why had Artur been cleaning it? Claire wondered. “Amazing someone found him so soon.”

  “Good thing Hank Riddell went back to the storeroom to get something.”

  The guard’s voice changed slightly. Claire figured he didn’t like the research fellow, who spoke to the security guards as if they were beneath him.

  “Oh. Well, I’d better get to my office, then,” she said, giving the guard a smile as she stepped off.

  Surely, Artur’s death had nothing to do with Project Cypress, though. Old men had heart attacks.

  She hurried along the corridor, wishing she could find the SD chip to get her into the Project Cypress files so she could get out of this place.

  Her trying to get clearance to get into the files had been the source of her tension with Bray, who’d refused outright.

  Had he known what was in those computer files?

  Had he been somehow responsible for whatever had gone wrong in Lab 7?

  Even though part of her didn’t believe it, the thought plagued her with doubt about herself, her own judgment, her willingness to bed a man she really didn’t know. Dark thoughts swirled in her mind as she entered her office and stopped dead at the sight in front of her.

  A white lab-coated back was toward her, bent over her desk. Her stack of folders on top was awry and he was going through her desk drawers.

  Stomach knotting, she asked, “Can I help you?” far more coolly than she was feeling.

  The short man jumped and twisted around, shoving his sandy hair away from his long face. Hank Riddell, Project Cypress research fellow and the man who’d found Artur dead.

  “Miss Fanshaw.”

  “Hank. What exactly are you looking for?”

  “A—a folder for Dr. Ulrich.”

  “That’s why you’re searching my drawers?”

  Hank’s spine stiffened and he rocked upward on his toes as if trying to make himself appear more important and said, “He wanted that information that he asked you for on Bio-Chem Tracker!”

  Claire swept by him and picked up the folder that sat on top of the pile. “It’s right here, Hank. I don’t see how you could have missed it.”

  He grabbed it from her and quickly backed up. “I’ll take it to him.” His hands were trembling slightly and his skin had a greenish cast.

  “I would have done that first thing this morning as I promised Dr. Ulrich I would, but fine. You certainly can take the information to him.” As the research fellow started to leave, she said, “Hank, wait a minute. I want you to realize your actions here were inappropriate.”

  “I was acting on Dr. Ulrich’s orders!” he said, as if that were more important than anything.

  To him, perhaps it was. He was a toady with a new Ph.D. A suck-up who would do anything for advancement. Various employees, not only the security guards, had made complaints about the baby scientist. Apparently he thought there should be a pecking order and he was on top of the heap.

  “I’m the supervisor of computer services and this is my department, my office. I don’t take kindly to your coming into my office and searching my desk, and I don’t expect it to happen again. You ask me if you need something and I’ll get it for you. Are we clear on that?”

  “You weren’t here!”

  Claire would be surprised that he was arguing with her about this if she hadn’t seen him do the same with the security team more than once. Hank Riddell was a self-important little ma
n who thought he was above the rules.

  “It’s before hours, Hank.” Her words were curt but she didn’t care. “I’m early. Or maybe you were counting on my not being here for another half hour.”

  His mouth opened and he gaped at her like a big fish trying to get air. She knew he wanted to argue with her and, for a moment, she thought he might. Then he must have thought better of it, because without saying anything, he spun on his heel and raced out of her office.

  Claire stood staring after him, thinking it had been convenient that he’d found the janitor dead in a non-working lab. And wondering what exactly he’d thought to find in her desk.

  STAY PUT. RIGHT. Bray threw down the note Claire had left him. Did she really think he was going to wait around, sit on his hands all day till she got home?

  And then what?

  It wasn’t like she’d divulged a plan of action.

  Bray microwaved a cup of the lukewarm coffee she’d made not so long ago and raided the tiny refrigerator under the counter for food. The stock was pitiful, but he did come away with a couple of eggs he could scramble. And a look in the cupboards revealed some bread for toast.

  Cooking for himself felt natural, like he was used to it. Maybe he was. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t conjure Claire in a domestic scene. Not even in bed. Well, not before last night.

  The blonde, though, was a different story. That dream had popped something in his brain. He remembered them clinking shot glasses together, dancing to some honky-tonk kind of music and then ripping off each other’s clothes. Things were still fuzzy after that.

  It would come to him, though. Things were starting to come to him unbidden.

  As he worked around the kitchen, he got impressions of Claire. Her eating out of take-out cartons and drinking straight from the plastic milk bottle.

  He felt her everywhere, especially inside him. It had been that kind of night. Unforgettable. With heat so sizzling between them, how had he forgotten everything personal that had come before?

  In his mind’s eye, he could see her at Cranesbrook, parked behind her desk, the furrow of her brow a sure indication she was annoyed with him. None of the soft memories he would expect a husband to have of his wife.

  A fact that niggled at him all through breakfast and a quick shower and half-assed shave accomplished with a razor that Claire had dulled on her legs. That he could see, almost as if he’d been there watching. Only he hadn’t. He’d never been on this boat before.

  Touching her things fed him memories of her. Moods. Tears. For him? Had she cried herself to sleep every night that he’d been missing?

  And then it hit him. He was picking up a lot of her on this boat. She had clothing and all kinds of personal items here, too. She said she’d been keeping an eye on the boat for a friend. She hadn’t said she’d been living here. Could there have been some reason she’d had to leave their home? Or was he right not to give her his trust?

  He was going to find out.

  Had he always had this ability to pick up memories by touching objects? Or was this somehow connected to the “accident” in the lab? Gut instinct rather than memory made him doubt the official story he’d read in the newspaper.

  Cleaned up, he felt like a new man. Now if only he could get himself some clean clothes, as well. And a vehicle. Not to mention some cash.

  He pulled out the key ring that had miraculously stayed in his pants’ pocket. House keys, car keys, other keys that gave him the impression of an office door, one he couldn’t quite place. If he could find home, would he find the vehicle, too? With a little luck, he could get inside both.

  Now to change his looks a bit so no one would recognize him right off. Hoping it would fit him, he pulled a man’s navy windbreaker from the closet. Not his style. He knew that right off. A little snug in the shoulders, it zipped up okay. He put on a billed cap—also not his style—and a pair of wraparound sunglasses he’d found on the kitchen counter. Then he checked himself out in the mirror. The “disguise” would do. He set out for the marina building.

  The few customers in the café didn’t even give him a second look when he entered.

  He approached the counter and a friendly looking middle-aged waitress. “Excuse me, but do you have a pay phone?” When the woman’s eyebrows raised in surprise, he explained, “Forgot to charge the cell last night.”

  “Oh, sure, honey. Over there.” She pointed to the opposite side of the café.

  “Thanks.”

  He was in luck. There was even a phonebook. And in it, a listing for Brayden Sloane at Turtle Creek. He copied down his address, then approached the counter again.

  “Can you tell me how to get to this address?” he asked, holding out the paper.

  “Take the road north about a mile to the second intersection. Then head east and you’ll see a road that ends in a T. That’s Pine Grove Road. I don’t know how far up you have to take it, though.”

  “Thanks again,” he said, slipping her a tip he really couldn’t afford.

  “Thank you, honey.”

  Bray left the café, hoping not only to find home and car, but some answers, as well.

  EMBROILED IN A STAFF meeting for the better part of the morning, Claire felt like she couldn’t wait a moment longer when it finally ended. Before Dr. Ulrich could slip away, she quickly took the opportunity to approach him about his research fellow. Ulrich was on the slender side but tall enough that Claire had to look up at him.

  “I hope that information on the program is what you needed,” she said.

  “What?”

  Behind wire-framed glasses, Ulrich’s pale blue eyes seemed unfocused. Then again, he’d seemed distracted throughout the meeting, as if he’d had some place he’d rather be. In his lab, no doubt.

  “Bio-Chem Tracker, the research program you’re interested in buying. Hank Riddell did give you the folder this morning, right?”

  “Research program…” He seemed to snap to. “Yes, of course, the computer program. I haven’t had time to look at the information yet. I’ll let you know if I want to buy sometime next week.”

  “I thought you needed it immediately since you sent Riddell to get it from my office before work hours.”

  “I gave no such orders…” He started and blinked down at her. “I have myriad more important things to take care of! I’ll get to it when I get to it.”

  So why did he sound so defensive? Claire wondered, murmuring, “Of course.”

  And why would he lie about telling Hank…or was it Hank who’d lied?

  Still seeming distracted, the director of research hurried off before she could talk to him about the way the folder had been obtained. Claire had reason to wonder anew what the research fellow actually had been looking for in her desk.

  The room had cleared and so she stayed behind to share her concerns over Riddell with her boss, Dr. Martin Kelso, acting president of Cranesbrook. Unlike Ulrich, Kelso seemed to be a bundle of focused energy, and his neatly parted dark hair and perfectly creased trousers and pressed shirt reflected his attention to detail.

  “Dr. Kelso, do you have a minute?”

  “Certainly, Ms. Fanshaw.” Kelso’s amiable smile made the corners of his dark eyes crinkle. “If it’s about your leaving early today, I have no objections. You’ve been putting in more than your fair share around here.”

  “No, that’s not it.” She kept her voice light so her guilt wouldn’t show through. “I mean, thank you, but there’s something else.”

  “What is it?”

  “Hank Riddell.”

  “Hank? Is there a problem?”

  Uh-oh. He’d used the research fellow’s first name. Kelso only did that with employees he really liked.

  “Um, I hope there’s no problem. But this morning, I found him going through my desk.”

  “What?”

  “If I hadn’t come in early, I wouldn’t have caught him. When I asked if I could help him, he got all defensive and said he was looking for infor
mation on a research program that I had gathered for Dr. Ulrich.”

  “Perhaps he simply realized the inappropriateness of his actions.”

  “Maybe. But he made it sound like Dr. Ulrich wanted that folder immediately. I just spoke to Dr. Ulrich and he said he didn’t tell Riddell to get the folder.”

  “You’re saying Hank lied?”

  Claire shrugged her shoulders and gave Kelso an embarrassed smile. “You know, it’s just that so much has been going on here, what with the lab accident and then Mr. Edmonston and a couple of police being murdered….”

  Kelso’s expression went grim and his forehead pulled tight. “Surely you don’t think Hank had anything to do with any of that mess?”

  Obviously, Kelso didn’t, so Claire backed up mentally as best she could. “I don’t think Hank’s a murderer or anything. It’s just that it all started with that accident in Lab 7. Hank’s lab. And now he’s acting weird. That’s all. I just thought I would bring it to your attention.”

  Kelso was frowning, rubbing his forehead as though she’d given him a headache.

  “Well, thank you, Ms. Fanshaw,” Kelso said, his voice cooler than usual. “If that’s all…?”

  “That’s it,” she said, inching toward the door. “I’ll get back to work now. I’ll be here until midafternoon if you need me for anything.”

  Claire would like to be a fly on the wall when either Kelso or Ulrich had a conversation with Riddell. It seemed the research fellow was acting on his own. She’d thought he’d simply been officious and rude earlier, but now she was beginning to wonder about him.

  What had he been looking for in her desk? And after stumbling across poor Artur’s body…

  Assuming it had been a stumble.

  What else? Lab 12 was vacant, waiting to be updated. Right?

  Claire knew she needed to find out for herself.

  In her office, she returned a few phone calls and wished the boat had a phone so she could call Bray to make sure everything was okay.

  What was she going to do about him?

  Or with him?

  She couldn’t just make him hang around while she waited for his memory to return. Not that she knew how to force it. And when he did start remembering, he would know she’d lied, so why would he share anything else with her? If she were lucky, perhaps his memory would be selective.