On it were the names of his technicians, Genie’s technicians, all the post docs and interns that worked on the floor. Nick hid the flinch. Logically, any one of the names could belong to the monster. Any one of the hardworking researchers he and Genie had hand picked over the years might be a killer.
And he didn’t believe it for a damn minute.
“I think you’re off track with that hypothesis, but if you’re certain…” Nick shrugged, scribbled a few more names on the card and passed it back. “I’d add the maintenance and cleanup crews, as well as the Radiation Nazis. I know George Dixon looks clean, but he was right behind the response team when they arrived for the freezers. Said he’d been in the neighborhood.”
Sturgeon nodded, added Dixon’s name to the list, then shot a glance at Genie. “Not to sound foolish, Dr. Watson, but are you all right? You’re awfully quiet.”
She snorted. “Yeah, fine, thanks.” But sitting in her office chair, kind of slumped down with her hair falling around her face and the top two buttons of her shirt undone, she looked tired. Defeated. Young.
Beautiful.
Nick fought the urge to kneel in front of her, to gather her in his arms and to promise her that he would make everything better. But how could he do that? He couldn’t undo what had been done to her in the darkroom, couldn’t bring Randy Baines back to life. And much as he might wish he had the power to do so, he could not go back and undo the destruction of her work. He could only watch as Genie sagged in the chair, her face a sickly pale color beneath the greening bruises and the spidery black stitches.
And remind himself that he didn’t need another failed relationship, and that Genie and Lucille had more than a few things in common.
Complaints. Shopping.
Well, at least two things. Nick scowled and returned his attention to the detective.
“I think that’s enough for tonight.” Sturgeon pocketed the index cards and stood, apparently sensing that Genie was at the end of her rope. “Go home and get some sleep. There will be officers watching both the lab and your condo, and I’d suggest you let the machine pick up any calls you get tonight.” He paused at the door and waited until Genie looked at him. “We’re working on it, Dr. Watson. We’ll get him. But I’m sure sorry we haven’t got him yet.”
She mustered a tired smile. “I know you’re doing your best, Detective Sturgeon. We all are.”
Sturgeon left after reminding them to assemble their various employees the next day for questioning. Nick watched him go and felt almost unbelievably tired at the thought of driving home.
“Good. He’s gone. Let’s get to work. Can you hand me that box over there?”
Surprised, Nick spun around and found Genie standing behind the desk, her face slightly flushed and her silver eyes glittering with purpose. “What?”
“That box over there. Pass it over.” She turned to the rank of gunmetal-gray filing cabinets that took up one wall of her office and began pulling out fat files and piling them on the desk. Her movements were quick, almost frenetic, and as the tall stack on the desk grew, it tilted alarmingly and threatened to slide to the floor.
Nick grabbed a pair of cardboard boxes that had once held cell culture flasks made by Petrie Pharmaceuticals, and started loading the files into them. “What are we doing?”
“I’m taking a stand, that’s what I’m doing. There’s no way I’m going to let this schmuck ruin my lab, and I’m not going to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt.” She dumped an armload of color-coded files into the second box. “He’s in here—in one of the personnel files, or in one of the Fenton’s families. He has to be in here somewhere, and I’m going to find him.”
“How?”
“I’m a genius,” she told him bitterly. “Haven’t you heard? I’m Genius Watson. My IQ is off the charts. By the time I was five years old they ran out of ways to measure my aptitudes and my parents were so terrified of me they sent me to school year-round and paid attention to my refreshingly average brother.” She yanked open another drawer and pulled out thirty or so blue files, which went into the second box.
“I was a freak. A child who could calculate undefined probabilities in her head while comparing the works of John Donne to Steinbeck out loud. Half of my teachers resented me for knowing more than they did, half of the kids were convinced I escaped from Area 51.” She shoved the box, which slid across the desk and would have fallen if Nick hadn’t caught it on the way down.
“You’re not a freak,” he said quietly. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
“I’m a freak,” she repeated mechanically as she dragged a soft suede jacket over her arms. “But so is whoever is doing this. He’s evil. He’s heartless. And he’s smart—smarter than hospital security. Smarter than Sturgeon and Peters. But…” Her breath hissed out and her silver eyes snapped at Nick. “He’s not smarter than me. And I’m going to get him.”
Nick didn’t bother to argue with her, because what was the point? She was absolutely right. Sturgeon and Peters were making only marginal headway, the bad guy was running circles around them, and given enough information Nick firmly believed that Genie could figure out who was behind all the incidents in their shared lab space. But she was wrong about one thing. She wasn’t going to be doing it alone.
He hefted the two boxes easily and gestured with his chin for her to precede him out of the office. “Sounds good, Watson, except for one thing.”
Braced for a fight, she merely arched a brow, then winced when the stitches pulled. “Which is?”
“You’re not going to get him. We are.”
Chapter Ten
You’re not going to get him. We are.
Genie snuggled down in the passenger seat of Nick’s Bronco as she replayed the words in her head. As much as she wanted to protect her new friends, she couldn’t help but feel better that Nick insisted on helping.
It was raining and the streetlights shone yellow-orange on the glistening black road, softened by the glowing green lights on the Bronco’s dash. Exhausted, Genie let her eyelids drift down and was lulled by the hiss of tires on wet pavement, the lub-dub heartbeat of the windshield wipers and the soft murmur of classic rock on the radio.
She let her lips trace the words of the song about finding someone to love.
She opened her eyes partway, hoping Nick would think her still asleep. He drove easily, gliding through the city like a native even though she knew from office gossip that he’d been born in California. For all his easy popularity, Genie noticed he rarely talked about himself and idly wondered why.
Against the streetlights, his profile should have been forbidding with its aggressive brow and prominent nose, but she found it comforting in its very fierceness.
Nick Wellington was a M-A-N man, as Marilynn used to say. She would usually follow that statement by patting Genie with a trembling hand and saying, You’ll understand that someday, Eugenie. When you’re older.
Well, it had taken more than ten years, but Genie finally understood what an M-A-N man was. He was sitting right beside her, just a touch away.
As if he had heard her thoughts, Nick glanced over. They were stopped at a red light and the engine hummed a steady counterpoint to the ping of the rain on the roof. Genie forced herself to breathe evenly, though her heart thumped when he continued to look at her, his cool blue eyes lingering on her with an expression of—what? What was he thinking as he sat waiting for the light to change?
What was he feeling when he lifted his hand to her cheek? Was he thinking about protecting her? About solving the mystery so they could both go back to their separate lives? Or was he thinking something else?
Was he remembering their kiss in the darkroom? Had it even registered on the Richter scale of his life?
Probably not.
Genie sighed and closed her eyes firmly as the Bronco accelerated onto the highway and the song switched to something slow and melancholy. She was not Cinderella to be rescued from loneliness by a handsome Primary
Investigator, or Snow White and seven very short lab techs. She was Genius Watson.
And nobody wrote fairy tales about geniuses.
But then again, nobody tried to kill them, either.
ALTHOUGH NICK WAS pretty sure she’d been faking sleep most of the way home, Genie was out cold by the time the security gates swished shut behind the Bronco and he parked close to the front entrance.
“Genie? Genie, wake up. We’re here.”
She murmured and shifted, her eyelashes fluttering up and down, dark smudges against the fine paleness of her cheek. “Where? What?”
He popped the back hatch and hauled out the boxes of files, throwing his coat over the top of them to keep out the soaking rain. “We’re home. Well, we’re at my home anyway.” He left the boxes on the top step and went back for her. “Come on in before the rain does any more damage to your jacket.”
Urging her up the stairs, he dug through his pockets for the archaic key ring that had come with the house. When the heavy double doors were unlocked, he kicked them open and dragged the damp cardboard boxes across the threshold. Genie didn’t follow.
“Something wrong?” He looked back through the door to see her standing in the rain with her hair plastered around her face and the shoulders of her suede coat turning dark. “Genie, what is it?”
“Where are we?”
“I told you, my house.” He ducked back out, grabbed her by the arm and half carried her inside. Obviously that head injury was having more of a lingering effect than he’d thought.
“This is your house? This isn’t a house, it’s a bloody mansion. Please tell me you rent a room or two in the back wing.” She stood stiffly in the marble entryway while he peeled the sopping jacket off her shoulders. The cut-glass chandelier sprayed droplets of light across her agitated features.
“Sorry. It’s mine. My grandfather’s lawyers said it was a good investment, and the gates and the alarm systems passed muster with my father’s advisors when he was running for president. He was getting death threats at the time—big surprise—and he ordered my sister and I to have bodyguards. I compromised with this place instead and I’ve been pretty happy with it. It’s big and I don’t use most of it, but there’s plenty of room for visiting fellowship students to stay, and…” Nick trailed off. He was babbling.
Genie continued to stand and stare, and for the first time in a long while, Nick felt awkward about his money. When he’d been a child it had set him apart from everyone else, just as Genie had been different from the other kids. At M.I.T., then Boston General, he’d been judged on his work, not his trust fund. The one glaring exception had been his marriage to Lucille, which he’d realized later was one of the few things he’d ever done that the Senator would’ve approved of.
That in itself should’ve told him just what a bad idea it had been. But in his own defense, he’d thought she loved him when all she’d really loved was his name and his wallet.
He was an heir in his own right—he controlled his grandfather’s estate and was grateful he’d never need the Senator’s money—and he’d assumed it was common knowledge at Boston General. There had certainly been the usual complement of eyelash-fluttering, giggling women asking him out when he first accepted the Primary Investigator position at BoGen and moved onto Genie’s floor. But apparently the gossip had missed her, or else she’d never really thought about Dr. Beef Wellington and where he might live.
He preferred the first option.
“Genie,” he began gently, reminding himself that she was having a helluva week and he shouldn’t add to it by being insulted that she didn’t like his house. “I know it’s big, but it’s safe. There’s a gate with a manned guardhouse at the entry to the complex, alarms on every window and door, patrols every hour or so, and a fence around the backside of those woods over there.” He gestured into the night that was visible through the sliding doors at the end of the hall.
Usually he hated the precautions, chafed at the gates and the alarm codes and the occasional German shepherd bark in the darkness, but tonight he was grateful for them. He hadn’t consciously turned the Bronco past her neighborhood and toward his, but once the thought had taken root it made immediate sense.
He wanted her safe, wanted them both in a place where they could relax for a few hours, catch up on some sleep and look at those boxes of records she seemed certain held the answer. He wasn’t so sure of that, but he was positive that he wanted to protect her. So he’d brought her home.
“Scrow mreorw row!” A thin tomcat with odd tufts of hair growing out of his ears appeared from the direction of the kitchen, aimed a filthy look in Nick’s direction, and sauntered into the living room with his scruffy tail held high.
And miracle of miracles, Genie relaxed. Nick figured that to her, a house couldn’t be that repulsive if it had an ugly cat in it.
She took a couple of steps in the direction the cat had taken, then turned to look at Nick. “Yours?” He nodded. “What’s his name?”
Nick grinned. “Q.”
She laughed. “Between your pets and mine, we can do most of a Bond movie. We just need a secret agent.” She sobered. “And a villain.”
Both of them looked over at the sagging cardboard boxes filled with colored file folders.
“Yeah.” Nick pushed an impatient hand through his hair and listened to his cat curse him from the kitchen. “I guess I’d better feed him. You want anything?”
“Crunchies or wet food?” She grinned tiredly, then sobered. “I’m kidding. I’d love a cup of coffee if you’ve got some, or anything with lots of caffeine. I’m exhausted and I’ve got a lot of files to go through. Where can I work?”
There were deep shadows below her eyes and her skin looked almost transparent where it stretched tautly across the bones of her face. Nick wanted to scoop her up, wrap her in something warm and fluffy, and sit next to her on the couch watching television until they both fell asleep. But that wouldn’t get them any closer to the truth. He understood the restless energy he saw working at the ends of her busy fingers, the need to do something, anything, that would help end the madness that swirled around their lab.
It was still hard for him to conceive that they were talking about Genie’s life, but the faceless baddie had killed twice already—Randall Baines and the hit man in the Harbor, O’Shea. Nick didn’t think he was done yet—not until he stopped Genie’s research for good.
And that was unacceptable.
Nick pointed up the wide, carpeted stairs. “You’re soaking wet. Why don’t you get warm and we’ll have a bite to eat before we look at the files. The master bedroom’s the third door on the left. There’s a bathroom where you can take a shower, and I’ll leave a towel and some clothes out for you.” There were three other bathrooms in the house—or four, he couldn’t quite remember—but Nick wanted her to use his bedroom. His shower.
His brain flicked to another night, another shower, and his body heated at the thought. Hardened.
Pulsed.
Some of Nick’s inner turmoil must have shown on his face because when he looked at Genie she was staring back at him, her eyes liquid pools of molten silver. Beneath the damp cotton of her white shirt, her nipples peaked and he bit back a groan.
That was not the kind of protection he intended to give her. But something about her called to him, challenged him. Filled up the lonely places with irritation and sharp, spiky needs.
He almost took a step toward her but forced himself to stop. He’d been careless once already that day, kissing her in the little developer room while a killer rampaged through their shared space. He had been distracted and her work had paid the price. Next time, it might be Genie herself.
It would not happen again. He had to be smarter, faster, better than the others. At least his father had been right about that.
So he kept his arms at his sides, made his face into that of a concerned friend and shooed her up the stairs like a mother hen.
He’d never felt less motherl
y in his life and was almost absurdly glad when the phone rang.
He grabbed the receiver. “Wellington.”
“I called Genie’s house and there was no answer,” Steph said without preamble. “I started to get worried that she was in trouble, but then I thought I’d see whether you had her before I panicked.”
“Were you worried or nosy?” But he grinned as he asked. He appreciated the way the women had reached out to Genie. Well, he’d appreciated it after he got over being mad that they went shopping—shopping of all things—when Genie’s life was in danger.
“I take it that means she’s with you?” came the dry reply and Nick grinned. He’d always liked Steph, though until recently she’d worn more invisible Keep Away signs than Dixon’s toxic dump of an office. He hoped this new guy deserved her.
“Yeah, she’s with me. Anything else, Mom?”
Steph’s laugh tinkled down the line. “No, that’s it for now. Just be kind, okay? She’s had a rough week, and I get the feeling she’s not quite up to Nick Wellington set on ‘stun.’”
Then, as he was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to know what she meant by that, Steph said a quick goodbye and hung up.
Trying to imagine setting himself on “stun” and not sure if the image was good or bad, Nick followed Q’s howls into the kitchen, planning to force-feed Genie if necessary before they set to work on the files. Ignoring the soggy boxes of folders for the moment, he lit the burner under a pan of canned soup, started a trio of grilled-cheese sandwiches, then remembered he had promised Genie clean towels and dry clothes.
He grinned at the threshold of his bedroom. Who would’ve thought that Genius Watson was a shower singer? And a particularly bad one at that. He winced as she missed a high note by more than a couple standard deviations. At least she was feeling well enough to attempt to sing—whatever it was.
But as he put the finishing touches on their simple dinner, Nick found himself humming the refrain she had so mangled. It was something about finding someone to love.
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