by Nancy Gideon
"A daughter, her husband and a grandchild I love dearly. They do not live nearby and I miss them dreadfully. I find family anchors one in reality. There are few things that matter in comparison."
"Yes,” she murmured into her nearly empty wine glass. “On that, we agree."
"More wine?"
Uncomfortable with the direction of their conversation, she nodded, eager to mute the sense of emptiness and loss any way possible. To date, she'd found nothing that worked.
Restlessly, she glanced out the window. During their conversation, the restaurant had made an entire revolution. The brightness of the Seattle cityscape became the opaqueness of the bay, and against that flat black mat, the restaurant's interior shown clearly upon the glass.
All, that is, except for Louis Redman.
His chair was empty even though he occupied it. The glass of wine lifted as if by its own accord, though she could glance at him and see he clearly held it in his hand.
The shock startled all else from her mind.
This was no casual date, and she wasn't certain Redman was even a man.
There was a sudden flicker of light as Louis lit the candle centerpiece on their table. Even the small flame obscured the reflective quality of the windows. But Stacy could not forget what she'd seen ... or what she had not seen.
He didn't photograph, and he had no reflection.
What the hell was he?
She had to know.
As their elegant waiter began to pour her a second glass of wine, she made an abrupt movement, knocking the glass off the table before the liquid had a chance to reach it. When the delicate crystal bowl shattered, she made a sound of dismay and bent as if to retrieve the pieces. At the same time, Louis reached down, and with one quick gesture, she nicked the side of his thumb with a shard she held firmly in her hand. She heard his hiss of breath and exclaimed, “Oh, dear, have you cut yourself?” as she straightened.
"It's nothing,” he assured her as the waiter efficiently retrieved the broken glass in a heavy linen napkin. But as Louis sat back and looked at his hand, the bright line of blood trickling down toward his sleeve contradicted his claim. He stared at it for a long moment, seeming not to breathe.
"Louis, are you all right?"
His gaze flickered up, and for a brief, alarming second, it was ablaze with strange, almost phosphorescent fire. A reflection of candlelight. It must have been. For what else could make his eyes glitter so unnaturally.
Her reaction must have shown, for he blinked and was himself again. He pressed his table linen to the tiny cut as if the sight of it a moment before hadn't shaken him from his composure. “I'm fine. Forgive me.” Then to the waiter, he said, “Another glass for the lady, please."
But everything wasn't fine, and Stacy's eyes hadn't deceived her. And though he might pretend otherwise, Louis wasn't fine, either. His voice was suddenly thready, as if labored by some supreme strain. His breathing had deepened into a slow, rumbling cadence. Almost a growl. His elegant manner and poise suffered a sudden loss of control. A struggle raged within him. And seeing it frightened her.
She remembered then his strangeness, and the threat she'd felt when they'd been in the car together after the benefit, when he'd seemed oddly preoccupied by the sight of blood on her hands. It wasn't an aversion. It was a fierce, fixed attraction. One word fit what shone briefly in his expression.
Hunger.
"Could you excuse me for a moment?"
Mumbling that hurried apology, Stacy grabbed her purse and headed for the restroom. There, in the safe, clean glow of the makeup lights, she carefully made a smear on the empty slide she carried and sealed it and the stained sliver in a case for later study. There. She had her sample to compare to the DNA found under the would-be jumper's fingernails. Now all she had to do was return to the table as if nothing had happened and act normal.
Normal.
Nothing about the man or the evening fit that definition. Nor did her own agenda. For God's sake, she had cut the man to get a sample of his blood to see if he was a murderer.
No, not for that reason. She had taken it to see if he was her potential savior.
Her hands shook as she washed them under a stream of steaming water. Glancing up into the oval mirror, her own pallor shocked her. She looked as if she'd seen a ghost. Her lips thinned and curved wryly.
Not a ghost. What else Redman might be, she wasn't quite sure.
What Redman was, she discovered upon returning to their table, was gone.
"Miss Kimball,” their waiter murmured sympathetically. “Mr. Redman was taken suddenly ill. He begs you to forgive his departure and encourages you to enjoy your meal."
Staring at the abandoned table and the reflection beyond, she reached for her coat. “I find I have no appetite. Thank you."
As she was helped on with her long coat, the waiter advised that Louis's driver waited below to see her home, but the minute she emerged at the Needle's base, she knew she wasn't ready to face the stoic Oriental or the reality of what this night revealed. For the moment, an irrational panic reigned.
Pretending not to see Redman's sleek limousine, she took an abrupt turn and began walking briskly down the wide concrete walk that had been made to accommodate the 1962 World's Fair crowds. Now the tourists used it to flock to where Paul Allen, Bill Gates’ other billionaire half, recently opened his EMP museum at the Seattle Center. She was quickly enveloped in the leisurely mill of tourists and left to the confusion of her thoughts. Ahead, the Seattle Center monorail offered a ready solution. She quickly bought a pass and found herself an isolated seat, trying to appear inconspicuous in her glittery evening wear. Only after the cars jerked into motion did she exhale in shaky relief.
Had she expected Redman's man to pursue her? Had she thought he'd had some sinister alternative in mind other than a polite ride home at the end of an awkward evening? She scrubbed her palms over her face, wondering how to find any sense of sanity in what she'd just gone through.
Then, she went completely still.
Someone was watching her.
A creepy sensation brushed over the delicate hairs on her arms. A tingling feeling of impending danger woke an instinctive response. Her attention sharpened. Her focus turned to those around her. The car was sparsely occupied. Several cuddling couples, an exhausted shopper with two young children, a panhandler, all on their way downtown. No threat to her surfaced from any of them. Yet the feeling persisted, growing stronger, not placated by the lack of likely suspects.
Stacy clutched her coat about her as a chill shook her to the bone. Her teeth began to chatter, and her breath plumed as if she'd just stepped into a freezer.
What was it? What enveloped her with an icy touch like death?
Then, just as abruptly, the cold was gone and with it the queer sense of being followed.
She looked about to see if any of the others had noticed anything unusual. Apparently, the arctic blast phenomenon was localized to her alone.
Nerves. That was it.
But coming to that conclusion gave no comfort as they continued along the line, away from her strange meeting with Redman and the oddities she didn't want to recognize as truths.
Later as she sat huddled in the darkness of her apartment listening to the low croon of her favorite R&B collection, she considered all that had happened.
What was Louis Redman? More than a man, surely. Or was he a man at all? Scientific reason failed when applied to him, and that left her adrift in a realm of unknown possibility. What was it about him that mesmerized her into lowering her guard when they were together? Into forgetting her purpose, her resolve. She'd talked about her family. She never did that, not even with those who worked beside her every day. Yet something in Redman's hypnotic green eyes had made her feel safe enough to reveal a sliver of her past.
She liked him, and that seemed more dangerous than the fact that he might be a killer.
Tomorrow she would check the slide against the sample Charli
e had given her. The comparison would prove or disprove the elegant recluse's involvement in the young woman's death.
Irrationally, she knew she didn't want it to be Louis. It was more than her desire for the grant money and the research opportunities it would bring. It was more than the status she would achieve in her field if her work knew fruition.
She liked Louis Redman. She liked his humor, his cleverness, his modesty, his looks. She liked the fact that he treated her as a person instead of an object. And she didn't want to cast him in the role of killer.
And if he was convicted, she wouldn't have the chance to investigate the strange properties she'd found in his blood, if indeed, it was his.
The shrill intrusion of her telephone interrupted Sam Cooke's soulful serenade. Could it be Louis calling to apologize for his abrupt disappearance? Anticipation leapt, unbidden, within her as she picked up the phone.
"Stace?"
Charlie Sisson.
"I just got another one."
"Another what?” Her thoughts were slow to assemble after her initial disappointment. Why had it become so important to hear Redman's voice?
"Another body with those same strange bite marks on the throat."
From the shadows, he watched her leave her apartment.
Good. Everything was going better than he could have planned himself. Her curiosity, her tenacity would all play right into his hands.
He was satisfied to stay out of sight now that the unfortunate young woman's vitality warmed through him. He'd almost let his hunger get the best of him earlier, and that would not do.
He was a schemer, and to know success he would have to practice patience, the reward of which would be well worth the wait.
In his hand, he weighed the token taken from the dead girl, smiling as he imagined the surprises to come.
Let the game begin.
Chapter Six
"Liver, normal color, no outward signs of trauma or disease.” A wet splut and a creak of the scale. “Weight ... oh, there you are, Stace. Hope I didn't pull you away from something too important."
"You know me, Charlie. Always on call. I have no life.” Stacy snapped on the Latex gloves and moved up beside her former partner.
"Unfortunately, neither does this young lady. Hey, that's confidential."
Stacy evaded his retrieval grab for the chart. “If you didn't want me to know everything, you wouldn't have called. Massive blood loss. Significant crushing trauma to the neck.” She frowned. “Who the hell is this guy?"
"Or what is he?"
She scowled at Charlie's Bella Lugosi impersonation. “Any leads, witnesses?"
"Zip. Some schmo delivering the catch of the day found her near Pike Place."
Stacy lifted the corpse's hand.
"Way ahead of you,” Charlie interrupted. “No trace evidence this time. Our boy was careful."
"Who was she?” Stacy asked, trying not to see beyond the bluish skin of the girl's face to the vibrant blush of a future cut short. One of the tricks of the trade: never imagine them alive.
"College student. She'd been partying with some friends. The last time they saw her was when they got off the monorail around eight-twenty."
"What?” Stacy's head snapped up.
"They rode into the downtown area on the tram. Lisa, that's her name, said she wanted to pick up some fresh lox, and that was the last they saw of her."
Stacy stared at the still features, breaking a cardinal rule to mentally infuse warmth back into the marble-white cheeks. A pretty girl, young, blonde ... and with a handsome college boy and another couple, laughing over some joke on the same rail car she'd rode in on.
She'd seen this girl alive only hours ago.
The sudden chill of coincidence reminded her of the odd breath of cold she'd felt during that ride downtown. A chill of death hovering over an unsuspecting victim?
Stacy shook her head. This was too weird, her thoughts too Twilight Zone.
"Where are her effects?"
Charlie gestured toward another steel tabletop where a large plastic bag stored all that was left of the vivacious young woman Stacy had so briefly encountered. Stacy pulled it open and poked through the separately bagged items, knowing better than to risk contamination by handling the belongings.
"There's only one shoe here, Charlie. Was the other at the scene?"
"You know, I thought that was strange, too. Not as strange as her taste in footwear, though.” He returned his attention to the liver, noting the dimension before dropping it back into a basin. “I asked. No second shoe."
"The killer took it? Why?"
"Took it or tossed it. Maybe he has some kind of fetish. Who knows."
Stacy studied the single shoe, a platformed canvas tennie covered with red glitter and blue and white sequined stars, size seven, narrow. A touch of frivolity doomed to plastic imprisonment, never to dance the night away again in careless abandon. Sadness winced through her.
"What story are they giving the media, Charlie?"
"Heads will roll if one whiff of the word serial killer gets out. With all the strange-o's in this city, think of the copycat activity."
"Then what story are they telling each other?"
Charlie gave her a long, solemn look. “This one's got them nervous, Stace. No one's saying much of anything. If anyone's got an opinion, other than the obvious Anne Rice correlation, they're keeping it to themselves. They're spooked. And if the news grabs a hold of it, the whole city's going to be spooked. They better catch this guy and fast. He's leaving corpses now. Could be he likes the fantasy a little too much."
"I need a sample of her blood."
"Way ahead of you. I looked. The same weird distortion of her blood type. What's going on, Stace? Some kind of drug cult, you think?"
Stacy said nothing as she carefully resealed the personal effects bag.
Fantasy or fact?
Was she getting too close to the truth to tell the difference?
* * * *
The image blurred then sharpened into focus with a twist of a knob. Stacy studied the slide she'd made from Redman's blood, frowning as she found the same abnormality as the earlier sample. Only a complete DNA test would show a match, but if she were to hazard a guess, she knew she was looking at the same animal.
And what kind of animal did that make Louis Redman?
An animal who killed.
Rubbing her eyes, she leaned back from the microscope. What she had should go to the police. By concealing potential evidence, she could be shielding a murderer. But, could their understaffed and overworked labs get the information back any faster than hers? A weak argument but a placating one. She'd already begun testing the original sample and now would send off the new one for a comparison, and therefore would have the results back sooner. Once she knew for sure, she would give them what she had. Until then, she could study the strains of unusual blood chemistry without interference.
She didn't consider her motives, whether they be humanitarian ambition, selfish need or just morbid curiosity. The thrill of investigation groomed by her years in forensics created a determination to solve a puzzle once presented. All these strange pieces seemed to fit around Louis Redman, making a picture too bizarre to be believed. Until she had a clearer whole, she would keep the bits and pieces to herself.
But first, she had to protect the next victim from Redman's dangerous proclivities.
Perhaps it was the paranoia that came with working in a partially funded government installation, but Stacy never completely trusted the lab phone lines. On her break time, she sought the small concrete patio that in the summer would house cheery café tables to give employees relief from the sterile environment within. With the threat of more wintery weather still hovering, it was now an empty slab swept by blustery wind, but it was private, and that's what Stacy counted on.
Officer Fitzhugh couldn't be reached until his evening shift started. Controlling her impatience, she left a message for him to call her cell p
hone number. She would start with the eager young policeman and build a net around Redman so that he couldn't leave his posh hotel building without his every movement being monitored. Yes, it was police work, but for now, she preferred it be undercover work. Strictly off the record. A man's reputation was at stake, a very wealthy man who was contributing a heap of funding money to her and the Center. If it was discovered that she had launched her own witch hunt against an innocent philanthropist, her job credibility and longevity would both be zero.
When she reentered the building with a swipe of her security card, the chill of the morning still clinging to her hair along with her rapidly puffed cigarette's smoke, the greeting was immediate from one of the quickly passing staff members.
"There you are, Kimball. Forrester wants to see you."
Making a quick trip to drop off her coat, she stepped into the private elevator to go ‘topside.’ Why the meeting? Had Redman expressed some dissatisfaction with her? Was that why their benefactor had disappeared so unexpectedly? A sinking sensation splashed down in her belly, churning stomach acid on its unrestrained plummet to the bottom. Her opportunity could well be ended before its official start.
But Forrester welcomed her with a smile, no Starke on hand to sour the moment. Just Stacy and the boss. He came out from behind his desk to clasp her hand in his smooth ones.
"Ms. Kimball, delightful to see you again. I hope I'm not interrupting your project selection process, but I wanted to take a moment to see if you have everything you need and to tell you how happy we are with you here at Harper."
Overwhelmed, Stacy collapsed into the chair she was offered. “Thank you, Mr. Forrester. I enjoy my work."
"Good, good.” He went back to assume his own seat, the mien of a benign yet powerful despot settling upon his expression. Those trusty warning bells jangled along Stacy's nerve endings again. He was up to something. And that something, she wasn't going to like.