Midnight Redeemer

by Nancy Gideon

  "We spoke to your pathologist friend and the investigators on that murder case."

  Stacy fought not to betray a reaction. “And? Anything new?"

  "Nothing,” she spat out in obvious irritation.

  Hiding her smile as she shut her computer down, Stacy murmured, “Something will turn up. It always does."

  "And when it does,” Starke purred viciously, “I will be there to take the appropriate action."

  "Is she always such a bitch?"

  Stacy slanted Cobb a look as they walked to his car. “Why Frank, what a disrespectful way to speak of your employers."

  "She doesn't sign my checks. What's the story? Perennial PMS, or is it just you?"

  "I wish I could claim all the credit but she was a bitch long before I came on the scene."

  Cobb grinned. “But you push her buttons, right?"

  He shook out a cigarette, and when she reached for it, he held it out of her grasp, making her jump for it figuratively. Teased by the curative taste of nicotine, Stacy spilled it all.

  "She was bopping Forrester to get her promotion. From what I hear, that was the only way she could compensate for bad team evaluations. And now she's annoyed with me because she thinks I've taken her place in the sheets."

  "Doctor Kimball telling tales out of school? Shame on you."

  She snatched the cigarette and let him light it for her before he did his own. “It's not gossip when she was the one who so delighted in letting everyone know about it."

  "And have you?"

  She glanced at him to clarify the purpose of his nonchalantly asked question. “Have I what?"

  "Given her a reason to be annoyed?"

  "That's none of your business."

  No apologies. “Well, you can understand my jumping to conclusions, can't you?"

  She whirled, placing herself directly in his face, hers heating with outrage. “Oh, yeah, I understand. Starke is a professional prude and, therefore, decent. I have big boobs and like short shirts and—what a jump of logic—that makes me a slut.” She shoved him, causing him to stumble back. “You've just sunk to a new low in my opinion, Cobb."

  "Can't blame a guy for wishing it was true."

  She made a snorting sound and stalked away. “You are such a guy."

  "That's an insult, right?"

  They'd reached his car, a low-slung ‘68 Vette in black. Very discrete, she thought wryly as she dropped down into the passenger seat, feeling as though her fanny was dragging the ground. As the engine purred to life, Cobb gave her a solemn look.

  "Don't underestimate her, Doc. She's already making noise with Forrester about being willing and able to take over your project."

  Alarm knifed through her belly. “And just how do you know that?"

  He smiled. “That's none of your business. Just be glad I'd much rather be chauffeuring you around than her.” He shifted into reverse and ended the conversation.

  But Stacy couldn't afford to forget it.

  * * * *

  The shrilling of her cell phone woke Stacy from a fitful nap in her recliner. Fumbling for the phone, she mumbled a fairly coherent greeting, then was wide awake.

  "Stacy, it's Ken Fitzhugh. Can you meet me down at the Pike Place Market at about 11:30? I've got some information on your reporter friend who was killed yesterday."

  "What—"

  "Meet me, okay? I don't want to go into it over the phone. Can you come alone?"

  Rubbing the sleep and the sting of Alex's loss from her eyes, she muttered, “Sure.” Then the click on the other end kept her from asking for more particulars.

  With all that had happened, she hadn't had the chance to get back to the young officer to address his claim that Louis's fingerprints were on the first ‘gift’ she'd received. Had the eager policeman jumped the gun with the results, or was he purposefully misleading her?

  Or was Louis somehow involved?

  The vehement denial she felt over that last option left her unsettled. Louis Redman was a vampire. Didn't that already make him a killer? Why did she want so much to believe he was a benevolent one?

  He could be lying to her. He wanted the research she was doing. Why should he be any more honest about obtaining the desired findings than Harper had been? Would he be above saying anything to get what he needed from her? Didn't the threat of the unseen and unknown spectre of Quinton Alexander light a fire under her, hurrying her to get to the hoped-for conclusion?

  Did Alexander exist, or was he a tool Louis wielded to scare her into compliance?

  Suddenly, she wanted very much to hear what Fitzhugh had to say.

  Now, to escape the apartment without Louis or Cobb knowing about it.

  She dressed quickly, shunning her usual flashy attire in favor of shabby chic. Baggy jeans, a loose flannel shirt, her hair tucked up under a SeaHawks ball cap felt like an invisible disguise. Leaving a note for Louis on the dining table asking him to wait, she slipped out of her apartment and went downstairs to the one Glenna had occupied.

  Buddy Jacobs looked like hell. If Stacy had any doubts about his feelings for her neighbor, his bloodshot eyes and stubbled cheeks told her everything. She embraced him briefly and muttered the appropriate sympathies while he seemed lost with what to say or do with himself. Taking advantage of his misery seemed like a loathsome endeavor. Until she remembered Glenna's frequent bruises. He should have treated her better when she was alive.

  "You look like you need to get out for a while,” she prescribed. “Come on, Buddy. It'll do you good. How about coffee down at the Market? My treat."

  She suspected it was that last part that got his attention. Glenna had been the breadwinner, and her boyfriend was probably experiencing the pinch to his pocket. Unworthy thoughts, she knew, but brutally true.

  "Get your coat,” she insisted, giving him a nudge. “We'll take your bike."

  With the lanky musician as escort and his helmet and darkening face shield on her head, Stacy made a clean get away. Her sense of victory was short-lived. The danger she faced was real, and she was alone.

  But the lure of discovering even a piece of the puzzle was enough to warrant the risk.

  * * * *

  The stalls at Pike Place were empty, the catch of the day on ice and the boardwalk washed clean. The scent of fish and salt lingered sharply on the air, along with milder aromas of produce and pungent herbs. Novelty shops were long past closing time, and the only passersby were the Seattle night people—the panhandlers looking for a spot to sleep; the Goth youths with their ghostly white faces, black garb and multiple piercings; and night owls like herself.

  It had been disgustingly easy to ditch Buddy.

  Their coffee hadn't even cooled in the cup when he was approached by a leggy woman he described as a blues singer. After she had hugged him tight and pressed a consoling kiss on his lips, complete with tongue, they were obviously singing the same tune.

  Stacy vowed she could find a way home, and Buddy was indecently quick about taking her at her word. He and the singer were gone in an instant.

  Glenna deserved better.

  It was approaching 11:30.

  She walked the length of the Market, but there was no sign of Fitzhugh. Figuring he might have been delayed by a call, she refused to worry. The night was pleasantly warm, and the physical activity felt wonderful. Her stroll led her to the end of the empty fruit carts and fish lockers to several restaurants still serving drinks to diehard revelers. Music filtered out onto the breeze. Mellow oldies, hip hopping rap mingling with baleful teenage angst. The potpourri relaxed her mood as she circled a broad wooden deck to overlook the Sound.

  Chill water temperature combining with warmer air stirred up a slow rising blanket of fog, but even that felt restful. A gray, enveloping buffer to reality blowing soft upon her exposed skin. She leaned her forearms on the rail and lifted her face to the mists crouching low over dark waters.

  "Stacy."

  The soft call jolted her with remembered terror, but wh
en she turned, it melted in relief as Officer Fitzhugh jogged toward her.

  "Sorry you had to wait. I don't like the idea of you being out here alone, but I couldn't risk what we had to say being overheard."

  "Who's listening, Ken?"

  He leaned against the rail beside her, looking so young and very distressed. “We are. I came across a request for taps on your phone."

  Alarm jumped inside her. “A request from who?"

  "I can't find out. It must go all the way to the top. Redman's involved and so is the government. The files on those attack victims, they've been purged from the computer system. The print match on Redman is gone, too. It's as if someone's extremely anxious to clear a path, but I don't know where it's leading."

  "But who and why?"

  "What kind of research are you doing, Stacy? That's got to be the link. Redman must have some tremendous importance to the government, or they wouldn't be covering his trail so well. They even had that gossip reporter killed."

  Anguish burned behind her fierce stare. “But is Louis a victim or an accomplice?"

  "Louis?” A slight edge of hurt that she would speak of him with such intimate familiarity colored Fitzhugh's tone. “Stacy, are you sure you want to hear all this? Are you and Redman involved somehow?"

  "No, of course not,” she protested quickly, perhaps too quickly. “We live in totally different universes. He funded my work, but if he's a killer, I'll be the first one to blow the whistle on him."

  "It might be dangerous for you to get close, Stacy."

  "There are other things that scare me a lot more, Ken. Like the thought that maybe someone is setting Louis up to take the fall."

  "Why would anyone go to all that trouble? Facts don't lie. I smell conspiracy all over this one. Either Redman's manipulating Harper, or the government's playing one against the other. I don't know, but maybe it's time you got out of there. I don't want to see you getting hurt."

  She smiled at his puppy dog look. “I'm where I need to be for right now. I can't explain, Ken. You'll just have to trust me."

  "I want to, but—"

  The rest was cut off by a beep from his police radio. He held up a finger to put her on hold while he walked a few feet away to answer his call. He tucked the radio back in his belt and turned to her apologetically. “I've got to go. There's some trouble over at Hing Hay Park."

  His carefully veiled expression alerted her. She gripped his arm.

  "What kind of trouble, Ken? Another attack?"

  He covered her hand with his own gloved one, pressing lightly. “I don't know that for sure. I asked to be notified of any call of that nature coming in. I've got to go. Can I drop you someplace?"

  But she could see his eagerness to hurry off and, because of the situation, didn't want to delay him.

  "You go on. I can catch a cab."

  "I'll call if it's anything ... you know."

  Yes, she knew. She forced a tight smile and waved him on his way.

  Another murder.

  She sagged against the rail, sickness roiling inside her.

  Please don't let it be anyone I know.

  "Stacy."

  Just a whisper.

  She turned, thinking Fitzhugh might have forgotten something but, seeing no one, assumed her mind played a trick upon her. It was just the music or the distant partiers. She looked back out over the water, but her pose was no longer leisurely. The peaceful ambiance was broken.

  "Stacy, I have a gift for you."

  She whirled, flattening her back against the rail while her gaze raked the mist-cloaked deck. Only empty tables, their umbrellas folded in tight. Only pindots of light leading back toward civilization.

  How isolated she was. What an easy mark.

  Quickly, she headed toward the lights and faint laughter. She'd broken into a brisk jog when something brushed against her face like the thick tangle of a cobweb. She reached up frantically to pull it away, clutching the gossamer fabric in one hand as she ran now, strides long and powerful, carrying her away from the waterfront and toward safety.

  From the market, Seattle's streets soared upward for more than five blocks before tapering off. Stacy ran, effortlessly at first, driven by panic, but then as her breathing labored, it was a struggle to go onward and upward. The storefronts were dark and uninviting. No traffic passed by. No cabs to carry her away from the nightmare.

  She heard faint strains of laughter mocking right behind her.

  With a cry, she lengthened her stride. She'd been on the women's track team in college, a way to outrun her problems, in some Freudian sense, she supposed. But now it was the means to out distance a demon, and she pushed as hard as she could, chest burning, thighs screaming as they pistoned up the dramatic slope toward the glow of an OPEN sign.

  She ducked into the espresso bar, collapsing into the nearest seat under the startled looks of late night yuppie customers. Gasping, side cramping from the abrupt sprint, she didn't care what they thought. Gratefully she gulped at the water a perplexed waitress set down before her. She ordered a cappuccino and sank back into the leather booth while tension quivered through her.

  He'd been there, with her in the darkness.

  He could have snatched her life away with sinister ease and no one would have been the wiser. For no one knew where she was except Fitzhugh, and he wouldn't be checking on her any time soon.

  Had he been lured away by a false report so she would be vulnerable?

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Remembering at last, she lifted her hand to see what it held so desperately. A scarf. She stared at it blankly, as if she'd never seen the pastel Monet colors before. As if she didn't know it had come out of a colorful box in her top dresser drawer. It had been a birthday present from her father, the last he'd ever sent her.

  He'd been in her bedroom. He'd gone through her things.

  He'd left the scarf as a warning ... warning that she was going to be next.

  The game was about to end.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The cab dropped her off at her front door. She could imagine Cobb's look of surprise if he was, indeed, camped out in the tight bucket seats of his sporty car. It was after one, and exhaustion of body and spirit numbed her to all but the thought of sleep. Confrontation was the last thing on her mind, but the minute she turned on her lights it was there, unavoidable and in her face.

  "Where have you been?"

  She skirted Louis Redman on her way to the kitchen and a stiff glass of Scotch. “I took a friend out for coffee. That's still allowed, isn't it, or do I have to apply for permission from one or all of my jailers?"

  Louis watched her kick back the large swallow of alcohol. It did little to still the trembling in her hands or the strain shadowing her eyes. She walked a thin, tensely strung tightrope, and he needed to know the cause.

  As she moved past him to take a seat in her ratty recliner, something fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick up the brightly patterned scarf.

  "What's this?” Hers, he could tell by the faint scent lingering upon it, but there was a greater significance. The fragile fabric was damp from her sweaty palms.

  She stared at the twist of silk as if it were some colorful viper coiled about his hand. And the walls began to crumble.

  "He spoke to me."

  Her hoarse whisper said more than her words, but he insisted she clarify. “Who?"

  "Alexander. He was right beside me down at the waterfront. He gave me this. It's mine. He must have gotten it from out of my linen drawer. From out of my bedroom. He was here, in my rooms."

  The tremors spread in rivulets along her limbs until she had to grip the arms of the chair to control them. Her lips quivered then firmed with a fierce determination to deny the fear.

  "He's coming for me next, Louis."

  Her gaze rose, all liquid emotion. He couldn't give the false encouragement she sought. Not when she was right about the danger. He could say nothing.

  "I've been looking it in t
he face for so long, you'd think I'd be used to it,” she continued, “but I don't want to die, Louis. Not now. Not when I'm so close to the answers."

  He came down to her, offering comfort because he couldn't offer assurances. Her arms slipped instinctively about his neck as her cheek sought the sheltering lee of his shoulder. She didn't weep. He wished she would to release the pressure terror exerted on heart and mind. But her strength came from a stubborn pride, refusing her the luxury of tears. So he simply remained on his knees, holding her in silent support, damning himself for bringing this horror into her life. Damning himself for wanting what she offered so badly, he hadn't the character to remove himself from the equation to assure her safety.

  He told himself as he breathed deeply of the fragrance in her hair, that his departure would solve nothing at this late date. Her research was under scrutiny. Quinton Alexander was stalking her and already tiring of the game. His own presence became both problem and protection. The danger wouldn't lessen in his absence, but perhaps he could keep her from further harm by remaining close.

  But he hadn't protected her tonight. Alexander had managed to slip past guards both human and preternatural to strike fear into her heart. That would not happen again.

  "You will never have to face your fears alone,” he murmured against the soft pulse at her temple. “I will be there."

  Her head turned slightly. He felt the warmth of her breath stroke along the line of his throat in a whispery caress as she considered his vow.

  "Stay with me, at least for tonight,” came her hushed request which revealed more of her vulnerability than she would normally allow. That trust in him was humbling, and he would not betray it.

  "Nothing will harm you on this night or any other."

  She leaned back, the intensity of her gaze probing his, weighing his sincerity. And when he didn't buckle beneath that unswerving stare, her hands relented in their desperate clutching, easing to cup the back of his head, her thumbs notching beneath the curve of his jaw as she came forward to kiss him. The gesture of needy thanks gradually gave way to an evolving demand for comfort, one that surpassed simply being held to plead for more intimate assurances. And if she were to believe him, to believe in him, he couldn't pull away.