Midnight Caller

by Rebecca York

  If he was having similar thoughts, he hid them pretty well, she mused as she watched him begin eating with deep concentration.

  She tried the same tactic and even choked down a few spoonfuls of soup before giving up the pretense.

  “I have to go back to the lab,” he said when he’d managed to down about half his meal.

  “Can’t you give yourself a rest?”

  “I was in the middle of a…crucial experiment. It was probably ruined when the electricity went off. I want to find out what happened.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept you away so long,” she said stiffly.

  “It was my decision. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I am. Physically.” She gave a little shrug. “Emotionally, I’m on a roller coaster.”

  “I know the feeling,” he muttered as he took a step away from the table and walked down a short hall. “I have to make a couple of calls. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She nodded.

  When he returned, he was strapping on a holster and pistol.

  “I haven’t seen you wear a gun,” she said.

  “I’ve made it a point not to. Now—” he shrugged “—it seems prudent.”

  “Yes.”

  He carried another holster and gun, which he held out toward her. “Can you handle this?”

  She stared at him, understanding the significance of the offer. To cover her reaction, she looked down at the weapon, checked it. It didn’t feel as good in her hand as the rifle, but she was pretty sure she could fire it.

  “Did you clear this with Claymore?” she asked.

  “No. It’s my decision. The man who came to your room was out to kill you. I won’t leave you defenseless.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered. “But giving me a gun creates other problems. What if I suddenly get my memory back and realize I was sent here to kill you?” She winced as she said it, hoping it wasn’t true.

  “I’m willing to take the chance,” he answered, his voice calm and steady. They stared at each other, and she knew he had made the decision to trust her with his life. That had to count for a lot. The trouble was, he wasn’t willing to risk his heart.

  “I arranged to have guards posted outside,” he told her. “But the door will be unlocked. I’d appreciate it if you stay in here. The men are pretty jumpy.”

  “I understand,” she replied, remembering the way they had looked at her. Some of them thought she had brought trouble to Castle Phoenix. They might be right.

  There was a knock at the door. A voice on the other side said, “Sir!”

  “Thank you,” Glenn called, then said to Meg, “That’s your guard. I’d better leave.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to hold him there—for just a little while longer. Instead she stayed where she was at the table, watching him walk out the door, leaving her alone again.

  BLAKE CLAYMORE OPENED the top drawer of his locked file cabinet and removed the seven folders that he’d put there a week ago—before Meg Wexler had arrived. They were the personnel records of Chuck Fogerty, Steward MacArthur, Bill Gady, Edmond Sparks, Duncan Catlan, James Oakland and Bruce Erdman. He knew all of them had been mouthing off about the discipline. And all of them were complaining about the extra patrol hours everybody was working because of Ms. Wexler. Maybe one of them had been unhappy enough to try and solve the problem by taking her out.

  In Blake’s opinion, it was too bad the guy hadn’t succeeded in eliminating her, if that was what he’d been trying to do. She was dangerous. He wasn’t sure yet what she was up to, or how she was causing the problems that had started with her arrival. But he was willing to bet the incidents—from the attack to the druggings—were related and all tied to her. Even if they weren’t, Glenn was entirely too wound up with the woman for his own good. He’d bought her story about a mysterious attacker. For all they knew, she could have put the bullets in the door.

  Maybe Blake couldn’t make his friend see reason. But he could maintain discipline at Castle Phoenix. Shuffling the folders, he opened each one and studied the contents. Catlan was the most recent addition to the security staff. He’d passed his psychological profile and come with a recommendation from Randolph Security, a good outfit. But maybe he wouldn’t have been hired if there’d been some better candidates.

  Oakland and Erdman had been around since the beginning, and they’d re-upped. Perhaps he shouldn’t have pressured them to stay, since there were a lot of built-in stress factors associated with working here. But he’d given them a bonus for signing on again because finding the right kind of guy wasn’t all that easy. They had to be dedicated. They had to be loyal. And they had to cut themselves off from friends and family for long stretches of time. That was a lot to ask.

  Blake opened more folders, continuing with his ruthless assessment. Fogerty and Sparks had probably been bad choices from the beginning. They were too violent and too impulsive—even though they’d both gotten high marks from one of his old army buddies.

  That left MacArthur and Gady. There was nothing Blake could put his finger on. Yet they’d been part of the group that congregated to complain when they weren’t busy.

  Stacking the folders, he pulled out the duty sheets and studied the entries. The dog could have been drugged anytime yesterday afternoon. But this evening the lights had gone off at exactly 7:45 p.m. MacArthur, Oakland and Catlan had all been on duty when that had occurred and when someone had subsequently attacked Ms. Wexler. None had been missing from their posts. So that let them off the hook.

  His eyes narrowed as he shuffled the remaining folders. Gady, Sparks, Erdman and Fogerty. He’d made sure they were all working tonight. In a few minutes they’d be getting off and heading for the mess hall.

  If there was a traitor in the lot, it was his damn fault. He’d signed off on all these men. Now he was going to flush the bastard out.

  Pushing his chair back with a savage swipe of his hands, he rose, picked up the folders and locked them back in the drawer. Time to put a very dangerous plan into action.

  GLENN STOPPED TO GIVE the guards instructions, then walked stiffly down the hall. Everything he had said to Meg was the truth, but it wasn’t exactly the whole truth. He had said it wasn’t fair to make love to her when she might belong to someone else. And that possibility was gnawing at him. He wanted to claim her as his own, but that meant more than finding out the facts of her past.

  To keep things honest, he would have to tell her about himself, as well—about what he’d done before resigning his commission. And he didn’t want to face the look in her eyes when she found out he wasn’t Mr. Nice Guy.

  Then there was the gun he’d just given her. Blake would have a cow if he knew. So would Hal, for that matter. But Glenn didn’t give a damn what they thought about that. It was enough that he was carrying a weapon of his own. He’d vowed not to live his life with a holster strapped to his waist Blake would notice that he’d been pushed into violating his principles again.

  As he took the stairs to the office wing, he silently amended the opinion. He did care what Blake and Hal thought about his decision to give Meg a weapon—but not enough to change his mind.

  He stopped short when he saw Dylan and one of the specially trained technicians inspecting the isolation suit he’d worn.

  “I was going to take care of that,” he said, as he stepped into the dressing area.

  “I know,” his friend answered. “But I thought I could handle it for you. I checked out the lab. Some of the virus samples are still alive.”

  “But now we have no way of knowing what killed them,” Glenn finished for him. “The antidote or the drop in temperature when the heat lamps went off.”

  Dylan nodded. “Sorry.”

  “I can set it up again,” he said wearily.

  “I already have.”

  “Fast work.” Glenn swallowed. “Thanks.”

  “I know what this means to yo
u—and to the men from Operation Clean Sweep.”

  “Yeah.” He paused, then plowed ahead with what had been on his mind since the power failure. “And you’ve got my notes. If something happened to me, you could finish the project.”

  Dylan’s head jerked up. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “We both know it almost did—when the lights went off, and I was trapped in the lab like a rat.”

  “Yeah.”

  “The way things are shaping up—something else could go wrong.”

  “Blake’s working on it.”

  “Blake doesn’t have a clue,” Glenn growled. “So from now on, we’re instituting new procedures. You and I will not go into the lab at the same time. And we will always have a backup working with us or stationed outside.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll take the first shift,” Glenn said. “You make a tour of the other labs and see that all our moneymaking schemes are still on track.”

  Dylan gave him a considering look. “Don’t push too hard.”

  “I—”

  “Cut the crap,” his friend snapped. “I can tell from your face what you have planned. You’re going to stay down here until you’re ready to drop—which is hazardous to your health. You make a mistake in there, and you can die a very nasty death. In fact, you make a mistake, and you can spread the K-007 plague to every man and woman at Castle Phoenix. So I’m pulling rank and giving you a direct order. No more than two hours in this environment Tops.”

  “Three,” Glenn countered.

  Dylan gave him a hard look, then turned and left the lab.

  MEG WALKED RESTLESSLY around the apartment, touching furniture, picking up books, trying to get closer to Glenn through his environment. After half an hour, she decided it was a lost cause, since she might as well have been prowling around a motel room. There were no knickknacks, no pictures, no awards, no favorite novels. Apparently he read medical textbooks and journals for relaxation. The only personal information she gleaned was that he liked classical music. At least she found a pretty extensive library of CDs representing the great composers.

  When she got to his bed, she paused, staring down at the neatly smoothed burgundy comforter. He hadn’t told her where she was going to sleep. Maybe he’d planned on giving her the bedroom.

  Easing onto the mattress, she rested her head against the pillow, then closed her eyes, trying to relax. But the bed carried his scent—the clean masculine smell of his body mixed with the soap and aftershave she’d come to associate with him. It stirred her senses, brought back the recent scene in the guest quarters. Her nerve endings tingled—especially certain intimate ones. And she knew she would never be able to relax if she stayed here. So she grabbed one of the extra pillows and lay down on the couch—with the gun beside her on the end table.

  The weapon gave her a strange mixture of anxiety and comfort as she looked around the shadowy room. She couldn’t turn off all the lights, though. Two were still burning—in the hall and the bathroom—when she fell asleep.

  BY PUSHING, GLENN GOT what he needed to get done in two hours and grudgingly admitted that the experiment was back on track. After going through the decontamination procedures, he thought about falling into bed.

  But Meg was in his apartment. So he got dressed again and headed for his office. Unlocking the door, he checked the answering machine hooked to his special line, a number that gave the men from Operation Clean Sweep direct access to him, whenever they felt the need to call.

  Sometimes they called to find out how he was doing with the K-007 project. Sometimes they told him about their symptoms and what their doctors were doing for them. Against his better judgment, Glenn had let himself get involved in suggesting treatment strategies, although he knew that any medication presently available was only a stopgap measure.

  Often the messages only jacked up his frustration level and jabbed at his guilt. Tonight the red light wasn’t quite so daunting—until he pressed the play button and found that the call was from Tommy Faulkner. Tommy had been the Operation Clean Sweep team leader and a good friend. Now he was one of the most urgent cases.

  Sinking into the desk chair, Glenn listened to the message, which included a long, rambling report of Tommy’s symptoms and a vague reference to his sister. Apparently he was worried about her since she’d gone out of town and he didn’t know how to get in touch with her. That was typical of the guys. They called with problems that had nothing to do with the operation and expected Glenn’s help—which he gave when he could.

  He glanced at his watch. If he called Tommy tonight, he’d probably wake him up. Tomorrow he’d get in touch with him and see if the sister had turned up. If she hadn’t, he’d find out where she worked and see what they knew.

  Chapter Ten

  Blake stood in the mess-hall doorway watching the small group of men who had just gotten off the evening shift. Fogerty glanced up, saw him looking in their direction, and said something quick and low. The conversation died immediately.

  When had he gotten to be the enemy? Blake wondered. Was he riding the men too hard? Or were they all just going through a difficult period? Maybe he was the one who should give the job a rest for a while. Indulge in some heavy R and R. The only problem was, he couldn’t leave Glenn in the lurch, not when he was so close to a breakthrough on the K-007 problem.

  Blake got himself a cup of coffee from the dispenser, then added cream and sugar, knowing the guys were waiting for him to leave so they could relax again.

  Instead he brought his cup to the end of the table. Gady and Sparks stiffened. Erdman stayed elaborately casual. Fogerty pulled out a metal file and began using the end to clean his nails.

  “How’s it going?” Blake asked.

  “Fine,” everyone answered.

  “Nothing unusual?”

  There was a chorus of denials.

  “Good,” he replied, taking a sip of his coffee, knowing some of them were counting the seconds until he cleared out again.

  “Did anyone get a chance to check the light box up on Little Falls Summit—the one that was giving us trouble?” he asked.

  “That wasn’t part of the assignment,” Erdman said firmly.

  Blake snapped his fingers. “Right. Yeah. I forgot to put it on the list.”

  “Then maybe you should check it yourself.”

  To hide his elation, Blake scowled, waited a beat, pretending to consider. “Okay, I need to stretch my legs. I guess I’ll take care of it myself as soon as there’s enough natural light outside to see what I’m doing.”

  He finished the coffee, then stood and wished them a good-night as he headed back to his quarters, wondering which one of them was going to take the bait.

  THE SOUND OF THE LOCK turning brought Meg to instant alertness.

  Her eyes blinked open and she lay staring toward the door, calculating the seconds it would take her to reach the gun.

  A large shadow entered the apartment, but she recognized Glenn in the semidarkness, and the rigidity left her body. He looked totally exhausted, she thought, as she took in the slump of his shoulders. What time was it? How long had he been up?

  He stayed where he was, his eyes scanning the room until he found her on the couch, then quietly crossed the rug. Keeping her breath even and her eyes shaded by her lashes, she watched him watching her.

  “Meg,” he said, his voice so low that she wasn’t positive if she’d really heard him or imagined it.

  She ached to ask what he had intended to say. Instead she silently closed her fingers over the edge of a sofa cushion as he turned and walked down the hall. When he came back, he’d taken off his holster and revolver.

  Crossing to the kitchen area, he opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of milk and got down a glass from the cupboard. Instead of pouring the milk, he simply stood there staring at it.

  Leaning against the counter, he supported the weight of his upper body on his elbows while he cradled his head in his hands. He looke
d so totally worn-out and so totally daunted that she felt her heart turn over.

  “Glenn,” she called softly so as not to startle him as she climbed off the couch.

  Instantly he straightened. Before he could move out of reach, she came up behind him, slipping her arms around his waist as she pressed her face against his back.

  “Bad?” she asked softly, moving her cheek against the knit fabric of his shirt, breathing deeply.

  “Bad enough.”

  She ran her fingers over his rigid muscles, feeling the tension and the strength. His shoulders were broad, but not broad enough for the weight of his burden—which she sensed was more than any human being should have to endure.

  “Tell me about it,” she urged, gripping him with gentle pressure, trying to make him understand with her voice, with her posture, with her touch, that it was safe to entrust her with his secrets.

  “It’s not your problem.” His answer was automatic, and she knew he wasn’t accustomed to reaching out for help.

  “I know,” she murmured. “But I think you’ll feel better if you let me listen. Maybe it’s not as bad as you think.”

  His reply was a brittle laugh.

  “Don’t.”

  For an endless moment, he didn’t speak. Then she felt him shift, heard him sigh deeply. “I guess I might as well get it over with.”

  “It’s not supposed to be a punishment.”

  “Yeah.” He pushed away from the counter, opened another cabinet and took out a bottle of Scotch. Unscrewing the cap, he sloshed some of the amber liquid into the glass he had intended for the milk and took a quick swallow, then grimaced.

  “Does that help?” she asked.

  “Not really. I’m just stalling.”

  Taking her hand, he led her to the couch. She might have turned on some lights, but she knew he’d prefer the dark.

  He set the glass on the coffee table and stretched out his long legs, resting them on its flat surface. She scooted closer to him, turning so that her knees were tucked under her and her head was against his shoulder. His hand moved to her hair, sifting through the strands, and she wondered if he had changed his mind about telling her anything.