Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  Did she just imagine the almost visible sharpening of his interest? His stare felt as if he were directing the concentrated beam from a magnifying glass on a rare sunny Seattle day into her brain. She stammered on with her rationalization.

  "These zealots show up every time our clinic is mentioned by the media. They target us as a whole, not by the individual researcher. I doubt that they know me by name, as you seem to."

  "Yet their attack was very personal. You became the brunt of their fear and rage. For that, I apologize."

  "You have nothing to apologize for."

  She could feel his smile at her sincerity.

  "If my name had not been linked to this affair, it would not have piqued the press's curiosity."

  "But the attention brought a huge influx of much-needed funding to our projects. The rather unexceptional dinner went for $200 a plate. So I guess my own small sacrifice was well worth the outcome."

  "I admire your thinking, Ms. Kimball, and your graciousness. Please, send me the bill for the cleaning of your gown or for its replacement."

  Startled by the offer, she blurted, “That's hardly necessary."

  "But it would give me great pleasure. Few things do these days."

  The faint tug of poignancy played bittersweet upon her soul. Loneliness from one who had every advantage seemed all the more ripe for her usual cynicism instead of her sympathy. Why should she feel sorry for this man of privilege who chose by his own eccentricity to be alone?

  Perhaps because her life was equally empty.

  Aware that the car had stopped, she gave a slight jump when the door was opened. The decorative flood lights at the front of her building muscled into the interior blackness of the limo like a bullying intruder, too stark and all revealing for the mood of quiet camaraderie that had settled over them. In the wash of clarity, Stacy once again saw the redness staining her hands. As she examined them in renewed dismay, she glanced up at her companion to find his attention there as well. Not just an idle glance but riveted with fierce and unrelenting fascination.

  She would liked to have flattered herself into thinking he was searching to see if she wore the claim of another man's ring. But it was the blood that drew him. She knew it with a cold, clear shiver of certainty.

  Vampire.

  Killer.

  Was he one or the other? Or both? Suddenly, she couldn't wait to escape the all too intimate interior.

  Scrambling out onto the front walk in a graceless hurry, she was calmed by the firm yet gentle claim of the driver's hand upon her elbow. He didn't speak, but his dark gaze bid her to be careful.

  Careful. Yes, she must be careful. She must remember the dangerous circumstances and forget the odd electricity generated by the man in the car.

  "Would you like me to escort you up?"

  Redman's request appeared motivated by concern for her safety. So why did Stacy's denial spring so vehemently to her lips? It was more than her almost phobic reluctance to open her home to strangers.

  "No, I'm fine."

  Hearing the near hysteria in her own reply, Stacy tempered it with a grateful smile and a soft, “Thank you for your kindness. Mr. Redman."

  "Again, my pleasure."

  She was about to turn away when he called to her again.

  "Ms. Kimball, your bag."

  She glanced down at her empty hands then at the evening purse Redman possessed. His hands rested upon the beaded satin as if he could feel the imprint of her forbidden camera within. She hadn't imagined his stare earlier. Would he take it from her now, to her shame and embarrassment? He had every right considering her blatant invasion of his privacy.

  She hesitated then bent with hand outstretched. He placed the bag within it without pause.

  "Can't have a lady going without her necessities,” he murmured, betraying no hint of suspicion or accusation.

  Stacy smiled, guilt frozen upon her face as she straightened.

  He knew, yet he chose not to act upon the knowledge.

  A strange man.

  A dangerously compelling man.

  She turned away from him, hearing the car door close quietly upon their unsettling encounter. As she made her way down the walk, she never heard the vehicle pull away from the curb, but when she reached the outer door and glanced back, it was gone. Something about that silent vanishing disturbed the rash of creeping skin once more.

  Shivering, she clutched the coat tighter about her shoulders, remembering for the first time that his expensive garment was still draped about her.

  Either she could return it, cleaned, by courier ... or she could hand deliver it herself.

  She now had her excuse for seeing him again.

  * * * *

  A lovely and intelligent lady.

  Louis Redman responded to his driver's sentiments even though they weren't spoken aloud.

  "Yes, she is, Takeo."

  An intriguing and potentially dangerous combination. Be careful that you don't confuse your celibate condition with your cause.

  Louis chuckled softly. “Are you chastising me, old friend? If so, you needn't worry. I've no interest in Ms. Kimball other than the services she can provide."

  From the front seat, the Asian made a grunting sound of disbelief.

  Louis sat back and smiled to himself. Another time, he might have enjoyed arguing the fine points of his determined avoidance of humankind, especially the female of the species, but tonight, he wasn't in the mood for dialogue. He was busy replaying over in his mind the discourse he'd had with the charming Stacy Kimball.

  Takeo was right. She was delightfully witty and sharp as a sword edge. And beautiful in a bold, voluptuous fashion. Her gold lamé gown had been designed to attack the fragile male libido with its daring curves and alluring plunges. But Louis found none of those obvious enticements half as endearing as the brief vulnerability he'd seen as she stared down at her hands, or half as appealing as the flash of spirit he'd witnessed a moment later.

  He inhaled, sampling her scent. Spicy, bold, not the floral foolishness so many women wore to disguise their female sexuality. Her perfume was unapologetic, unafraid. Direct, like the lady. He liked it. It told him more about her than their all too brief words had conveyed.

  Her heat, her very humanity added to the allure of subtle fragrances. But there was more, something not of her, that lingered in the rear of the plush vehicle. An aroma that wasn't subtle, but strong, vital, overwhelming all but his most basic instincts. Instincts that responded not to a seduction of the senses but to a deeper, darker appetite for survival.

  Blood.

  The air was thick with it. Animal, not human, but still potent and difficult to ignore.

  Had he been a less noble creature, he would have caved in to the temptation presented to him so deliciously. But he'd learned control, and he'd learned patience. And he'd learned to deny needs both mortal and unnatural. That was all that kept the pretty doctor safe in his company. At least for the moment.

  He was honorable, but he wasn't a saint. And Stacy Kimball was fashioned for sinning. Everything about her appealed to a different facet of desire. Intentional or not, she stirred him in ways he could not risk, agitating restraint and resolve, but so far, not resilience.

  He would resist.

  Geneticist Stacy Kimball was a challenge he could not afford to meet except on the professional level. He'd sworn off all other entanglements with women as too brief, too unsatisfying. He would have to be careful that, while she teased his intellect, she wasn't also provoking his purposefully dormant emotions.

  His hands fisted where they rested upon his knees. In the darkness, his eyes gleamed like quicksilver, a reflection of what he was and what else she'd almost awakened.

  He would not lower his guard again. He would not be vulnerable to his longing for human contact.

  And he would not love again.

  Chapter Four

  "What do you mean, he doesn't exist?"

  "Just that. His background is as
shallow as a Presidential promise. He set himself up in Seattle about seven years ago and before that, nothing. No record of a Louis Redman having lived anywhere in the U.S."

  She didn't need this now. She was already running late to work, her last pair of pantyhose had a racing stripe streaking up her left leg, and she was out of coffee. Not a good time to throw another obstacle in her path. Fumbling on her dressing table for the mate to the jade stud already fixed in her other ear, Stacy vented at the closest source.

  "Come on, Alex. Guys like Redman just don't show up out of nowhere with enough money to balance the national debt. If you don't want to do this favor for me—"

  "Now, now. No need to get your estrogen in an uproar. I didn't say I was finished looking, did I? A guy with this many secrets gets my journalistic juices flowing."

  Unable to find the second earring, Stacy pulled out the first. Someday I have to clean up this place. She stalked into the living room on a caffeine-free rampage.

  She couldn't go up against a man of Redman's social stature without some hefty ammunition. If the police hadn't found enough to hold him on Wanda Cummings’ murder, why was she so determined to find him innocent or guilty? She'd wanted Alex to tell her that either he was Snow White with a flawless IRS record or that he had some Hannibal Lector-like secret tucked away in an East Coast sanatorium. Not an unsatisfying mystery.

  Because Redman had gotten to her.

  It was more than the prickles of her rarely heeded intuition whispering that there was something wrong with Redman. It went beyond her desperation for the solution he might represent.

  Redman intrigued her. Personally and professionally. And that made him dangerous.

  She couldn't afford a distraction in her life, not now that she had it running on an effortless autopilot.

  "Where are you going to start looking, Alex?"

  "He's supposed to have some link to a newspaper in New York, but unless he was married to a Hearst or a Pulitzer in a past life, I can't see any big bucks there. Maybe he has Mob connections. That would explain his underground tendencies."

  "Go ahead and check that out.” Though she gave the nod to Alex, she couldn't quite see the dapper Louis Redman hanging out with wise guys. If he was into something illegal, she'd bet it was something with a little more style. Or a lot more bizarre.

  Then she remembered his accented voice. “Have you got any international pull?"

  "I used to bang a diplomat's secretary before she was sent home because of his unsavory conduct with a thirteen-year-old. She had to leave the country with him."

  Stacy's laugh was as tacky as the wad of gum she found on the heel of her best black flats. One of those days, she grumbled to herself.

  "Did you talk to those women on the list I gave you?"

  "Oh, you mean the Stepford Wives? I have never seen a collection of ladies with fewer things to hide. Or blanker memories. None of them could tell me a thing, and all of them were particularly anxious for me to let the matter drop. You'd think they didn't care to find out who attacked them."

  "Or they already know and for some reason have repressed the information."

  "Brain washing? Doesn't have the right feel. These women weren't afraid to tell me. They just plain didn't want to. It was like they were protecting whoever jumped them. Maybe this Redman is some sort of hypnotist."

  Stacy didn't think that was the answer, either. Whatever Louis Redman was, it wasn't something so simply explained away.

  "I'm picking up a roll of film on my way to work. I should have some good shots of Redman for you to flash around. Maybe that will jog their recall."

  Alex whistled his admiration. “How did you manage that when Newsweek couldn't get him to pose for a cover issue?"

  "Feminine wiles, Alex. Feminine wiles. Now hit the streets and put that famous nose for news to the ground."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She hung up, giving up on the sticky pair of flats and opting for running shoes. The whole scene was getting curiouser and curiouser. What was Redman hiding that made secrecy so imperative? Some past indiscretion, either financial or personal? Though it rained everything else in Seattle, she couldn't recall tycoons falling from the slated skies. And what made victims band together to shield the identity of an attacker if it wasn't fear or a threat of some kind? She may not have been a reporter, but she had an investigative itch just out of reach and driving her crazy.

  Just as Redman was driving her crazy.

  She didn't like men who stayed on her mind. She liked them to be like Lance What's-His-Name: great sex, untaxing conversation, and totally forgettable once they were gone. Redman, on the other hand, lingered like the scent of a fine cigar—rich, aromatic, and out of place in her sterile lifestyle. She preferred to study her specimens under a microscope not from a too-close-for-comfort distance. Impersonal and purely objective, that was her jaded view on work and men. Well, maybe just on men.

  Keeping a close eye on her dash clock, that annually seemed to lose fifteen minutes into the accurate time Twilight Zone, Stacy broke some of the more annoying moving violation laws in her rush to get to work. She'd been chomping to get into the lab all weekend, to verify suspicions blossoming like a new species in the morgue's Petrie dish. Making an impatient drive-through at the Photo Mat, she tossed the developed pictures onto the seat beside her, not quite enough of an Indy 500 wheel to manage the traffic while thumbing through her prints. They, like the slide in her handbag, would have to wait for the office.

  She made better time once she left the city limits behind and sped out into corporate suburbia where Boeing, Microsoft and Nintendo held court, and 140 other bio and medical companies competed to pump $2 billion into the state's economy from the private sector.

  Harper Research nestled into a grassy hillside, its rock and natural wood facade designed to meld into the environment while the work that went on inside was designed to alter it. Everything about it, from the smooth green lawn to the meticulously groomed landscaping, was meant to put the eye and mind at ease. And the high surrounding fence was meant to keep the increasingly vocal protesters at bay.

  Slowing her vehicle so as not to graze any of the questionably employed sign carriers who shouted and pounded on the hood of her car, Stacy rolled down her window only as far as necessary to fit her ID badge into the scanning unit by the gate. A click, a hum, and the gate rolled back to admit her. She drove forward through the crowd, who despite their angry gestures, wouldn't pursue her inside. It was a daily routine. They wanted to make their presence known but had no desire to be carted off to jail where their opinions would cool while awaiting bail. A stalemate. A balance of wills. A game, Stacy thought to herself as she followed the winding road to a cleverly environment-friendly stone opening that led into the underground parking structure.

  Ducking out of sight like she had something to hide.

  That was the government for you—tell the people they had nothing to worry about, then start sneaking around as if they did.

  The unfortunate fact of life was that Harper couldn't survive without the government contract grants. She didn't like the covert, hush-hush aspect of the job and the doors that weren't open to her because of ‘National Security,’ but she lived with it because it provided her with a darned good living and the chance to do the work she had to do, not out of love but from necessity.

  Pulling into her assigned parking space, Stacy cut the engine and tucked the packet of photos into her briefcase. Even at the early hour, the level was almost filled with the sleek, expensive cars status demanded. Her own oil-burning tank stood out in wincing contrast. She could afford better. She could afford luxury. But there was something comforting about the all-metal macho of the Delta 88 that she couldn't bear to part with. She'd bought it used with her first big paycheck and kept it as a symbol of her independence. That was nothing she'd surrender easily.

  Even in broad daylight, the parking structure was dark as a tomb. She hated it. The low, claustrophobic ceilings ha
d sparse fluorescent lights dangling down on chains to threaten the roof of vehicles passing beneath them. And there was the echo, each footstep seeming to reproduce itself in ever weakening repetitions. She always walked a little faster. Her gaze always moved a little quicker in its scan of the shadows. Not that any undesirables could penetrate their working fortress. Still, she didn't release her breath until the elevator doors shushed efficiently behind her.

  The interior of Harper was a catacomb of cubicles and glass offices, at least on the floor where Stacy had clearance. Pinning her photo ID tag to her lapel, she ducked into the break room to put her coat and purse into her locker. No personal effects were allowed in the labs. After slipping into her bleach-stiffened smock, she made a stop at the coffee machine then went on to her lab where the three walls of windows made her feel as though she worked inside an aquarium. Flipping on her computer, she got right to work. First the required research, then she could slip in the slide she had smuggled in her lab coat pocket.

  "Hey, Kimball, how was life amongst the elite?"

  She glanced up at Herb Watson who occupied the next bell jar. Her confusion must have been stamped in big letters because Herb wasn't a real bright bulb when it came to interpersonal communications.

  "The party?” he prompted.

  "Oh. Fine. Loud, bad food and tight shoes."

  "Geez, you make me glad I stayed home with a rerun of The Boys from Brazil."

  An insider joke amongst geneticists. Stacy laughed to fulfill her obligation then went back to work. But Herb lingered at her doorway, forcing her, after a long moment of studious indifference, to look up again. Would the guy never go away and let her get on with her work? Anticipation was making her patience wear thin.

  "Was there something else?"

  His features puckered into an unattractive collage of curiosity and envy. Like Phyllis Starke, he'd been at Harper for most of his employment history. When Stacy came on board, some of his better projects had ended up under her care. Sleeker, faster, newer, with more under the brain pan. Though he never exactly made his jealousy of her known, it simmered beneath the surface, coming to a head like an unattractive boil on occasions such as these.