“It looks like a country café,” Charley commented. Tables for four were scattered around. Blues and creamy browns continued the theme of a beachscape mural that covered one wall.
She’d noticed the scattering of paintings throughout the building: beachscapes and forests, farmland, delicate wildflower watercolors, bold abstracts. “Are you the art freak?”
He smiled and his glasses slid down his nose. “Guilty. The paintings are mine, not the center’s. I hang them here for everyone to enjoy.”
“You’re a nice person, Jack.”
“A nice guy.” His smile turned wry.
They looked in the physiotherapy/gym room. “Between sessions at the moment.” Jack pushed a punching bag. “Ingrid, our physiotherapist, works five days a week, with Wednesdays and Sundays off. On those days we lock the gym. I have to be strict about it. Some of the clients, particularly those who come here for athletic enhancements, are inclined to overdo the exercise.”
“How many of you clients are here for,” she stumbled over the phrase, “athletic enhancements?”
“Five, although calling them enhancements is a bit of a misnomer. Some of our athletes are regrowing bones or ligaments damaged in sport—a more satisfactory outcome than surgical pins or recurring pain. Of the other clients, seven are here for aesthetic reasons, and the remainder are accident victims.”
“Mainly road accidents?”
“Mainly.” His gaze paused briefly on her arm stump. “QNA lab next. Standard warning. Don’t touch anything.”
She nodded. “I promise.”
The QNA lab was aseptic but not a stereotypical, sterile laboratory. Sage green walls suggested the force of life, a Baroque symphony played softly from hidden speakers, and natural light poured into the room from skylights.
Jack touched a glass dish, one of a hundred, on a long counter. “Welcome to the QNA farm.” Each glass dish sat in a snug fitting plastic container, the same sage green as the walls. He detached a plug from one container and carefully lifted it from the counter. “The QNA need to stay at a stable blood temperature. These green containers contain a heating element which ensures that the solution the QNA grows in stays warm. Even unplugged, they’ll retain their heat for twenty minutes, which is sufficient time for us to check progress on QNA growth under the microscope. Do you want to have a look?”
“No.”
He stopped, eyebrows rising in surprise. His question had been rhetorical. Evidently everyone who visited the lab wanted to view the QNA.
“I’ve seen pictures,” Charley said, trying to soften her curt refusal and control a growing discomfort that felt distressingly like panic “You can leave the QNA to grow in peace.”
He replaced the container, replugging it into the power source. “We have an emergency generator in case of power failure.” He straightened and looked at her. “Have you seen enough?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Outside the lab, she drew a deep breath.
He watched her curiously. “What happened in there?”
“I don’t know.” She hesitated on the lie. Her shoulders sagged. “I suddenly realized we were surrounded by microscopic creatures who’ll change the world, who already change our bodies.” She grimaced. It had felt as if they were crawling all over her and nibbling at the stump of her arm. She rubbed it unthinkingly.
Jack’s hand, with its cat claws, fisted. “It bothers you,” he said flatly.
“It just seemed weird. I mean, QNA make bacteria look complicated, yet they’re…revolutionary. You’re changing people with them.”
“People remain people.”
“Yes, but—forget it. I was probably just claustrophobic.” She took a deep breath. “What culture medium do you use for the QNA?”
“Coconut water. Charley—”
“I was being fanciful. Forget it. Please.” She thought he’d insist on pursuing the subject, and since she was too rattled to debate, she started walking towards the front of the building and other people. “Can I publish that you use coconut water as the growth medium?”
“Yes.” He frowned, but allowed the change of subject. “Most of my colleagues already know. Some don’t agree, others have success with it. Coconut water’s been used as a blood plasma substitute for decades. It’s sterile and for us, the fact that it’s high in lauric acid is a plus. Lauric acid discourages the growth of bacterial or fungal competitors.”
A young woman wearing shorts and a snug-fitting sweater that showed off her athletic body interrupted his lecture. “Hi, Dr. John.” The sunshine blonde handled her crutches easily, as if no longer aware of them.
Charley, her attention riveted on the new leg growing from the woman’s right knee, fought the need to throw up.
The young woman juggled her crutches and held out her hand to Charley. “I’m Staci Weiss.”
“Charlotte Rowdon.”
“It’s pretty gross, isn’t it?” Staci indicated her regenerating limb. The pink-fleshed limb looked obscene; a two year old’s plump calf and foot on a grown woman. “But you get used to it. I bet Dr. John doesn’t even realize how weird it is anymore. And in the end, I’m going to have my leg back, good as new. It’s worth it for that freedom.”
Looking into Staci’s sympathetic eyes, Charley realized the woman was reassuring her as a potential regeneration client.
“Hey, Dr. John, can I see your hand? We watched you on the news. Way cool.” Staci whistled appreciatively as Jack obligingly extended his claws. “So that’s why you wear gloves all the time. You’re good at keeping secrets.” Staci didn’t wait for an answer. She pivoted on her crutches. “I’ve got to be going. I’ve a lunch date.” She winked. “We’re going to have a picnic further along the coast. See you around, Charlotte. Bye, Dr. John.”
Charley and Jack followed more slowly. Through the front window of the reception area they watched Staci maneuver into the passenger seat of a battered pickup. A man Staci’s age, with the muscled shoulders of a surfer, hovered anxiously, fastened Staci’s seatbelt, kissed her passionately, then climbed into the car himself and drove off. The pickup had to move from the middle of the driveway to the edge as a black Porsche roared in.
“Michael.” Jack’s glasses slid down his nose in surprise. He caught them absently with a claw and shoved them back.
The Porsche pulled up and a man emerged. A dull red sweater flattered his dark skin and hair. Jeans made the best of long, muscled legs. He walked with the casual air of owning the world.
“Michael?” Charley queried, interest piqued by Jack’s sudden tension.
“Michael Janz. He backed New Hope when I was starting out.” Jack stared at the approaching figure.
Charley studied his expression. He looked wary. And where, she asked herself, have I heard the name Michael Janz?
And since when has Jack had a partner?
Chapter Four
Up close, Michael Janz was all sharp angles, with starkly defined cheekbones, nose and jawline. His was a distinctive face, memorable, but Charley was sure they hadn’t met. So, why was his name so familiar? He didn’t look like a doctor, though heaven knew they could be arrogant enough.
“Charlotte Rowdon.” Michael stretched out her name. He had traces of a soft American drawl. “I hear you’re writing up New Hope and our clever Dr. Bradshaw.”
Lillian Do hitched her chair closer to the computer screen in the reception area, and Charley understood from whom he’d heard the news.
Apparently, Jack did, too. He shifted impatiently. “Why don’t we step through to my office?”
“After you.” Michael placed a casually courteous hand on Charley’s back to guide her through the door.
The touch was light, but unexpected. She quickened her pace, stepping away from him, and glanced up to see Jack watching. He hadn’t touched her in their tour of the center, and she had gotten out of the habit of being touched. Now, even Michael’s impersonal politeness felt inappropriately intimate—or else it was her own response s
he distrusted. She was too aware of the two men.
She walked quickly to a maroon leather chair, and once safely seated, looked across at Michael. “Jack said you’re a partner in New Hope?”
“Not any longer.” Michael removed his sunglasses, and his eyes were dark and insolent. “John bought me out.”
Charley glanced at Jack. “All this is yours?”
“Every last inch,” Michael answered.
Jack had retreated, his eyes unreadable behind his glasses and his chair pushed back behind his desk. Where Michael flaunted the toughness of his masculinity, Jack’s strength was control. He waited and watched.
“I’d have been happy to remain a silent partner,” Michael continued. “But John’s independent.”
Charley looked from Jack to Michael, sensing a tension she didn’t understand. She mentally back stepped, checking her assumptions. “Are you a doctor?”
“Me?” Michael grinned. “Nothing so respectable. Has John given you a tour of New Hope?”
Jack answered. “Your arrival interrupted us. Do you need to speak with me?”
Michael shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I dropped by on impulse.” His eyes glittered, knowing neither would believe that. He met Charley’s skeptical gaze and laughed. “You’re right. The priceless Lillian called me with news of your arrival, and I couldn’t resist taking a look at the blonde woman journalist. I’m disappointed, though. Lillian said you looked haggard.” A gratuitous and unexpected cruelty. Charley stiffened in shock. “Still, we mustn’t blame Lillian, not when she sees every woman as competition for John, and runs them down accordingly.”
Michael built on his shotgun approach, shifting topic, not allowing them to find stable ground. “John, have you told Charlotte the details of bio-enhancement? I’m sure she’d be interested.” The bright, insolent gaze returned to her. “Why not invite her to Jabberwocky?” He stood and stepped close to her chair, forcing her to tilt her chin to maintain eye contact. “I’d be delighted to have your company, and believe me, Jabberwocky isn’t something you want to miss.” He sauntered from the room.
Jack muttered something under his breath and caught his glasses just before they fell off his nose. He shoved them back. “Ignore him, Charley.”
She breathed carefully, unsettled by the words and emotions Michael left behind him, and by the scent of his expensive cologne. He was a frightening challenge. “What was he talking about? Is Jabberwocky a place? Jabberwocky? Isn’t that Lewis Carroll? A monster?”
“It is.” Jack didn’t sound happy about it. “Michael’s sense of humor is weird. Jabberwocky is also a place, and you’re better off not knowing any more about it.” He walked around the desk, coming closer without impinging on her personal space. “Michael Janz. Is the name familiar? It should be. He’s chairman of the family company, Janz Weaponry.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“That’s the one,” Jack said. “They’ve made billions supplying wars across the globe. Take your tour of New Hope, Charley, ask me any questions you like, then go back safely to Sydney or visit your family in Perth. Don’t get mixed up with Michael.”
“What could be so dangerous?” She paused, thinking through the question. “He’s involved in your bio-enhancement research, isn’t he?”
His lack of response was answer enough. He leaned back against his desk, face expressionless.
She swore softly. Superhumans and a man who made money from war.
Jack’s hands tightened on the desk. There was the faintest scritch of claws on wood. “It was the price of my buyout of New Hope. I never thought the bio-enhancement technology would work.”
“But it does.”
“But it does,” he echoed. “I wouldn’t have invited you here, Charley, but I thought Michael was in Washington.”
“Dictating US government policy and getting defense contracts,” she suggested.
“Something like that.”
She looked uncertainly at him. This was a big story, but…I haven’t the courage, she admitted to herself. I want nothing more to do with the QNA. Just the thought of re-entering the lab scares me. And I don’t want to live with constant reminders of my lost hand. She shuddered, thinking of Staci Weiss and her baby pink leg. Still, curiosity stirred. “Will Michael give this opportunity to visit Jabberwocky to another journalist?”
“No.”
“So, why me? Because he knew you wouldn’t like it?” What other reason could there be? This wasn’t about her. It was about a game she’d only touched the fringes of.
“Who knows?” Jack moved abruptly. He stared out the window, fists thrust into his pockets. Silhouetted by the bright Australian sunlight, it emphasized the body shape beneath his professional attire. A swimmer’s body, muscled shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and hips.
Outside, the Porsche was gone.
“What’s happening at Jabberwocky?” Charley asked quietly.
Jack’s shoulders twitched. A cat’s twitched the same way when a fly landed and interrupted a hunting prowl. He turned and came back from the window to stand in front of her. Not so tall as Michael, he looked strong, fit and unhappy. “Research.”
“Why don’t you want me to see it? What’s wrong with Jabberwocky?”
“Jabberwocky is Michael’s property, about forty hectares of forest and heath land, as well as a strip of coast. No one is meant to know about it. I don’t know what game Michael’s playing, but you’re too vulnerable to be part of it.”
Vulnerable. Charley flushed. She hated the description. Vulnerable. Haggard. Before Eric’s death, she had never been pitied—and the only thing worse was self-pity. Her anger flared that Michael’s cruelty threatened the return of that self-indulgent weakness. “I’m a journalist and Michael’s offered me an exclusive to die for.”
“To kill for,” Jack muttered. The angry release of his breath was as emphatic as a curse. “You have the exclusive on bio-enhancement. Be happy with that.”
“I appreciate your story,” she began. He shrugged off her thanks, and she continued more strongly. “But the decision to follow a story is mine.”
“I know that.” He moderated his voice. “I know that, Charley, but take some advice. Michael Janz is dangerous. You’ve built a safe life. Be careful what you risk it for.”
Lunch was an uncomfortable experience. They ate in New Hope’s dining room. The disagreement with Jack and the puzzle of Jabberwocky were pushed aside by the disconcerting-to-Charley sight of limbs and facial features regrowing on New Hope’s clients.
The clients, themselves, seemed to accept each other’s oddities with the ease of custom. However, Charley flinched when she saw the clumsy action of a three year old’s hand on a grown man. She glanced down at the stump of her left arm. She had learned to function with her loss.
One-handed, she carried a bowl of Greek salad to a corner table and positioned herself so that she faced Jack and the beach mural rather than the other diners.
Jack stabbed at a plate of Thai chicken salad.
She checked a sigh and picked at her salad.
“May I join you?” An attractive woman in her forties paused by their table and took their silence for agreement. She pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Loretta Ambler, Charlotte Rowdon.” Jack roused himself and made the introductions. “Charley’s a journalist.”
Charley raised an eyebrow at him. A warning? Or was he protecting her from being misidentified as a client?
“Come to interview our lion of the moment?” Loretta didn’t care about Charley, anyway. Her attention was all for Jack. She stroked his left hand. “Now I understand why you always wore gloves. So devastatingly clever.”
Loretta was regrowing her nose and it had the amorphous snub shape of childhood, but she didn’t let it interrupt her determined flirtation with Jack. Although flirtation was possibly not the word, not when he appeared totally oblivious.
He pushed back his chair. “If you’ll excuse us, Loretta, I hav
e some papers for you, Charley. Academic work I submitted in the early stages of setting up New Hope. After you’ve read them and the client introductory pack, we can decide on an interview time.”
Loretta pouted, caught Charley’s eye and smiled. It was a warm, genuine smile, and her half-shrug invited Charley to deplore Jack’s refusal to involve himself in a light game of flirtation.
Undoubtedly, New Hope’s healthy regimen and seclusion did grow tedious.
Charley smiled back before hurrying to catch up with Jack.
He seemed abstracted, unaware that she walked a few steps behind him rather than beside him.
She slowed her pace and reflected on her first impressions of New Hope. It resembled a luxury resort more than a hospice, with friendly, professional, and unobtrusive staff.
In his office, Jack scooped a folder from the top of his in-tray and handed it to her. “I asked Lillian to print these out for you.”
“Thank you.”
He hesitated, holding onto the folder despite Charley’s grip on it. “Charley…”
“John.” Lillian spoke from the open door behind them. “Dr. Peverill phoned earlier. She’s on a deadline. She wants to speak with you before she flies out of Australia, which means sometime in the next hour. Her phone number is on your desk.”
He nodded without looking at Lillian. “Charley, I need to speak with you.” He released his hold on the folder.
“I’ll be in my room, with my homework.” She looked ruefully at the full folder and her equally full shoulder bag. She held the folder against her chest and wondered what Dr. Peverill wanted to discuss with Jack that she hadn’t been able to during the conference.
Of course, Jack had been overwhelmingly busy at the conference. Although he found time to contact me. She shook off the thought. Maybe Dr. Peverill’s phone call was part of an ongoing conversation. Jack was likely working through the ethical issues involved in bio-enhancements with Dr. Peverill.
Beyond Regeneration Page 4