Beast in the Tower

by Julie Miller

  “Your arguments are wasted on me, sir.” Of course. Easting Davitz had been with the company since Damon’s father had first negotiated the start-up money. Almost like family himself, he’d been a part of every major corporate and financial decision, including the purchase and planning development of the Sinclair Tower. Damon trusted they were on the same page with this one. “And don’t worry about the homeless fellow. I alerted Kronemeyer to the squatters on the unfinished floors and he assured me he’d get them comfortably settled elsewhere.”

  Kronemeyer’s word was getting to be a questionable reassurance these days. But Easting was clearing his throat again. “What else?”

  “Miss Snow suggested that you could be a better neighbor.”

  The weights clanked together as Damon dropped his legs and sat up. “What?”

  “Perhaps she’s looking for you to become a patron of the diner. The decor was a little quaint and kitschy for my tastes, but the smells from the kitchen were certainly enticing.”

  “She wants me to eat her food?” Damon grabbed a towel to mop his chest and back and headed for the shower.

  Easting’s laughter did little to ease Damon’s irritation with the stubborn lady downstairs. “Perhaps we’ve underestimated her and she’s thinking in more corporate terms. An endorsement from the Sinclair family would certainly gain notice in the society page. A word from you or me could guarantee visits from restaurant critics and reviews in the Kansas City papers.”

  Other than quarterly reports in the business section, the Kansas City papers seemed to have finally forgotten about the Tortured Husband, Grieving Corporate Magnate, Mad Scientist who had once ruled the headlines. Wouldn’t that be a shock to the movers and shakers and socialites he’d once rubbed elbows with if the brilliant wunderkind of medical miracles showed up at a charity event and told everyone to eat at Snow’s Barbecue?

  About as big a shock as the face staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. Damon peeled off his eyepatch and stared at the scarred socket and skin he kept hidden beneath it.

  The early stages of his tissue regeneration work had been intended for emergency use—a way to close a wound in the middle of a battlefield or temporarily attach a digit that had been severed in an accident or at a work site. Damon’s face and hands had healed relatively quickly—miraculously, by typical medical standards. But because of their synthetic molecular base, cosmetic surgery couldn’t do much to make it pretty. It was a drawback that he’d refined over the past year. Newer patients to use the treatment generated more natural musculature and smoother skin.

  Damon’s prototype treatments were functional enough. But if he couldn’t get used to the shock of seeing himself in the mirror, how could anyone else? Maybe Miranda had been right—outward appearance, whether movie-star gorgeous or Joe Schmoe average—truly affected how the world saw a person. It affected how a person saw herself.

  Himself.

  With a face and hands like his, how could he ever be…normal?

  “Damon? You still there?” Easting’s voice in his ear roused him from the painful memories of Miranda’s last days. And the pain of his own lonely self-incarceration.

  “I’m here. We are not using the Sinclair name to promote Kit…Miss Snow’s restaurant. I don’t want that kind of publicity.” He stripped his sweats and shorts and ran the hot water for his shower. “I’ll come up with another way to repay her.”

  “I’m sure you’ll devise something completely appropriate. In the meantime…”

  While Easting went through an accounting of business affairs that had been handled throughout the day, and briefed him on upcoming concerns, Damon opened the shower stall to let the steam start permeating both the real and artificial pores in his skin.

  The moist heat seeped into his blood and triggered an unbidden memory of those tense minutes in the access corridor with Kit. On a winter’s day, in an unheated passageway, he’d felt his temperature rise from the inside out. She’d touched his hand—in protest, in anger—not in passion. But his body had reacted with a lurching, needy response just the same. Things that had been dead for a long time inside him had decided to live again for a few moments that morning. He’d felt that touch. He’d felt that contact with another human being in a way he hadn’t been able to feel anything for months.

  He’d felt her.

  His good eye had adapted to the shadows so well that he could see the filmy cobweb caught on a tendril of caramel-colored hair. In a rare moment of acting without thinking, he’d very nearly reached out to smooth the lock from her lightly freckled cheek.

  But he wasn’t a man who surrendered control for long and, wisely, he’d retreated.

  Now, though, with Easting droning in his ear and the steam warming every muscle in his body, Damon was thinking again. He was imagining what Kit Snow would look like, washing the cobwebs and dust from her wavy, golden-brown hair. Removing her jeans and sweater and whatever she wore beneath them, and stepping into the shower to wash away the dust and grit.

  Damon’s memories of a naked woman—of Miranda—were of willowy height and cool, fair skin.

  But tonight, as the heat of steam and workout and imagination consumed him, Damon’s mind could only picture a curvier, more compact figure. Darker hair, duskier skin. Lots of talk. Plenty of sass. Naked in the shower. Naked in his shower. Naked in his shower with him.

  Mmm. Yeah. For a scientist, he had a pretty fair imagination. But it would be so much more satisfying to explore the facts.

  “Damn.” He was squeezing the edge of the sink with enough force to snap the porcelain in two.

  “Excuse me?”

  Mental note: Kit Snow must remain clothed in every single thought.

  Damon adjusted the shower to a cooler temperature and made a conscious effort to regain control of his hormones. “I’m sorry, Easting. I got sidetracked on an idea. What were you saying?”

  “Something profitable, I hope.”

  Not likely. “You mentioned Kenichi Labs?”

  “Yes. Ken Kenichi is in the country this week. Apparently, they’re having some issues getting set up in the new Osaka lab. I’ve arranged a meeting to go over how SinPharm can supply the extra chemicals they’re having trouble importing, but it sounds as though there’s a processing issue that requires your scientific input.” Easting coughed, and Damon waited for the bad news. “Normally, I’d fax the schematics to the penthouse, but I have some contracts that need your signature, anyway. Plus, I’m having dinner with a friend tonight, so I was hoping…”

  Damon nodded at the unasked question. “I’ll stop by the office tonight. Leave the paperwork on my desk. I’ll look at the schematics and make some notes for Ken.”

  “At the usual time?”

  After all but the skeletal cleaning staff had gone. A handful of people who didn’t know to look for him in the first place were easy to get around without being seen.

  “Sure. Enjoy your dinner.”

  Damon disconnected the call and left the phone on his towel. Then he stepped under the bracing fall of water and took the coldest shower he could stand.

  After a solitary trip to SinPharm headquarters, he’d swing by the hospital. And, to pay out on some of that give-your-time-not-your-money retribution Kit Snow insisted upon, he’d sit for a while with Helen.

  Maybe if he had Helen back in his life, he wouldn’t feel this driving need to reach out to his persistent, troublesome, temptingly touchable neighbor downstairs.

  “MY FAVORITE IS The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, but I thought it made more sense to start at the beginning of the series. The traditional beginning with the Pevensies, even though The Magician’s Nephew tells how Narnia began.”

  Kit fingered the worn paperback with a loving caress. A small circle of lamplight illuminated the book in her lap and the wan, peaceful face of the white-haired woman on the pillow. But Kit had traveled miles away from Truman Medical Center’s ICU room. She’d traveled back in time to the sound of her mother’s voice,
reading through the seven Chronicles of Narnia during those terrible two weeks in the fifth grade when she’d been home from school fighting pneumonia.

  She still felt the comfort of that loving connection which transcended years and growing up and even death. It seemed appropriate now to try to reach out to Helen in the same way, to give her a friendly voice and comforting touch for her mind to cling to while her body healed.

  Closing the book with a tender reverence, Kit continued her quiet, one-sided conversation. “This set of books is one of the few things I still have of my mother’s. When I went off to college, I didn’t have room to haul a bunch of sentimental stuff. But I took these because they always reminded me of Mom and home. And love. Everything I left at home we lost in the fire. But I have these.”

  An unexpected tear gathered in the corner of her eye, but Kit wiped it away. Helen didn’t want to hear sad stories.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow and read the next two or three chapters to you if you like.” When Kit paused for an imagined answer, Helen’s soft, even breathing was the only sound in the room. “My brother, Matt, never did get into the Chronicles too much. He’s more of a Sci-fi nut. Anything that involves starships and aliens and phaser battles. Well, you know boys.”

  Didn’t she? Though detailed facts were hard to come by in her personal investigation of Damon Sinclair, intuition and common sense were beginning to make a plausible version of the truth fall into place. “I’ll bet you were around Damon when he was a boy. Before he became Doctor Sinclair. He must have liked books, to wind up being as smart as he is. What was he into? Fantasy? Sci-fi? Mysteries? Please don’t tell me that the only things he read were textbooks.” Kit leaned forward, sharing a conspiratorial whisper. “He wasn’t a really nerdy kid, was he? I mean, he went outside and played kickball, shot hoops, tossed water balloons and stuff like that, right?”

  Of course there was no answer. Then Kit got the idea to ask something totally off the wall. “Does he have any unusual birthmarks? Tattoos? Piercings? I know that doesn’t fit the upper-crust image, but sometimes, with those intellectual types, you never know how they’re going to express themselves.”

  Kit waited a moment, as though Helen might laugh and whisper an answer. “I know. He’s too serious for anything like that, isn’t he.” Feeling an inexplicable disappointment that Damon Sinclair probably was too dour and moody to have any kind of fun streak, Kit slumped back in her chair.

  “Well, Helen, I’ve enjoyed our time together.” She set the book on a shelf next to the vase where someone had put Damon’s rose in water. Then she stood and stretched the kinks from her muscles. Her shoulder was stiff, though not quite as achy as it had been earlier in the day. “Speaking of the men in our lives, I’d better get home. I was proud of Matt today. He was at work on time and stayed until closing. He was even in a pleasant mood. But I’m a little worried that he chucked his homework and snuck out the door about as soon as I left to see you. I need to make sure he’s okay.” Feeling an inexplicable connection to the woman, Kit was reluctant to leave. “You raised a teenager. Is this just a phase Matt’s going through? I mean, once he learns to deal with Mom and Dad’s deaths, I’ll get the brother I love back, right?”

  Man, she wished Helen really could answer that one.

  “Well, good night.”

  Kit’s quilted coat was still damp from the snow that had been falling outside since dinnertime, but her gloves and scarf had dried. She zipped on the coat and stuffed the accessories into her pockets. She had on enough layers to stay warm and dry while she ran outside to her car and scraped the snow off the windshield.

  Before donning her gloves, she squeezed Helen’s hand one last time. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  When the nurse’s silhouette filled the doorway behind her, Kit had her excuse ready. “I know, I know. Visiting hours are over.” She held her wrist beneath the light and checked the time. “Oh. I didn’t realize they’d ended almost an hour ago. Thanks for letting me stay.”

  “No problem. Good night.”

  “’Night.” Kit was smiling as the door closed softly behind her. That was a different nurse from the plump battle-ax who’d chased her out last night. This one had enough compassion to bend the rules, and Kit was grateful.

  She bundled up as she waited for the elevator to arrive. But once she’d pulled her hat over her head and tied her scarf around her neck, Kit realized her hands were empty.

  “Oh, fudge.” She’d left her book back in Helen’s room.

  The elevator dinged behind her as Kit spun around and hurried back to the ICU area. The nurse had already turned out Helen’s lamp and left, but Kit figured she could duck in and out without incurring any more of the staff’s protective wrath.

  “Sorry to bother you again.” She picked up her book. “Not that I don’t trust you. But I didn’t want anyone to throw this away by mistake.” She pulled off her glove and reached for Helen’s hand one more time. “You know how important this—”

  A sick feeling shut Kit’s mouth and traveled down her throat deep into her gut. “Helen?”

  The bony fingers were colder than before.

  Kit glanced at the monitors. Everything was still beeping, still registering vital data. She pressed her knuckles to Helen’s forehead. It wasn’t a freak of circulation. The clammy skin there was just as cold.

  “Helen?” She snatched up the call button from on top of the blanket and squeezed it. Again and again. “Come on. This is an emergency.” Kit stretched toward the door and tried to summon the nurse the old-fashioned way. “In here! We need help!”

  As she pulled another inch, the call-button cord rolled off the blanket and plopped to the floor. “Oh, damn.” She quickly snatched it up and cursed. It wasn’t plugged in to anything! She flipped on the lamp and saw the empty socket behind the bed. “How long has this been disconnected?”

  The monitor cords weren’t attached to Helen, either. Instead, they were running off a small black box under Helen’s pillow. A box reminiscent of the timing device she’d suspected Damon of using when he’d caused the blackout. “What is going on?”

  But the lemonade color of the liquid dripping through Helen’s IV tube was the thing that spurred Kit to action. “That was clear a minute ago.” Trusting her gut as much as the logical observation that something in Helen’s room had gone very wrong, very quickly, Kit took Helen’s hand and plucked the tube off the IV needle. The slick, viscous liquid spilled onto Kit’s fingers, burning almost the instant it made contact. Cursing at the unexpected sting, Kit wiped it on her jeans and turned for the door. “Hang on. I’m getting the nurse.”

  Kit had barely taken a step when a blur of blue charged out of the shadows and shoved her across the room. She hit the chair with her knees and toppled, crashing into equipment, knocking over the lamp. But Kit twisted as she fell, landing on her back with her legs free to kick the chair into her attacker.

  The escaping shadow tripped, swore, rose from the corner quicker than Kit could scramble to her own feet.

  There wasn’t even time to shout for help before the tall figure lunged and crashed down on top of Kit. They rolled into the metal bed, knocking it out of place.

  She kicked and punched, but her aching shoulder robbed her of strength. A blow to her stomach took away her breath. She tried to catch a glimpse of the man’s face. His hair color. Anything. But the figure that struck from the shadows had no face.

  Something shiny and sharp glinted in the light from the fallen lamp. Kit caught the descending wrist between her fists and strained, pushed, prayed to keep the weapon from plunging down into her. But her attacker possessed a wild fury Kit couldn’t match.

  A hand moved to her throat, pressing down on her windpipe with a power that grew as Kit’s own resistance waned.

  The instant she relented, the fist came down and Kit felt a sharp prick in her arm. “Ow.”

  Her assailant rolled off her and Kit struggled to sit up and lean against the side of the bed
. She was more aware of Helen’s limp hand hanging down beside her than of the tall figure retreating into the shadows.

  “I’m sorry, Helen. So sor—” Her lungs wheezed with a painful constriction and her shallow, labored breathing became a cough that wrenched through her battered body.

  Kit’s thick coat had cushioned the crashes and bumps of the fight, but whatever had been injected into her crept through her muscles like clawing, scratching hands, searching for something vital to attack.

  Within seconds the room was spinning around her in a rainbow of dizzying, psychedelic colors. Her muscles softened like gelatin and she sank to the floor.

  Her attacker righted the equipment, tucked Helen neatly back beneath the blankets and dragged Kit’s boneless body around the foot of the bed, hiding her on the far side of the room.

  Kit’s head lolled to the side. She couldn’t feel her fingers anymore. Couldn’t feel the air in her chest. The only thing she could feel was the burning fire seeping through her blood. Through the latticework of gears and lifts beneath the bed, she saw the door open. A pair of feet paused there. “Nurse? Nurse?”

  Maybe she only imagined she spoke.

  The tall, shapeless shadow closed the door, and Kit’s eyelids, heavy as leaden shutters, closed and she knew no more.

  Chapter Six

  “This is a pretty extreme way to get the neighborhood together for a block party, isn’t it?”

  Kit blinked her eyes open at the rusty voice in the darkness. Just as slowly they drifted shut again.

  Man, that was a heavy sleep. It was hard to feel her body or get her brain kicked into gear. Maybe she was in one of those funky dreams where she only imagined she was waking up.

  “Kit?”