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  He stopped and opened a door to another lab, then gestured her inside. After checking to make sure the lab was occupied and well lit, she hurried in, determined to find out if the lab was in use for its stated purpose. He followed her inside.

  A young man in a wrinkled white lab coat sat at the counter, hunched over a microscope that was far more complex than the simple magnifiers she remembered from high school biology. A scattering of Twinkie wrappers surrounded him, perfuming the room with the odor of preserved sugar. It was sickeningly sweet, but a welcome change from the antiseptic air of the hallways. He must have heard the buzzing of the scanner, because he lifted one hand and made vague shushing motions at the door.

  Lacroix frowned. "Dr. Chen."

  The researcher bolted upright, almost falling off his stool in his haste. He swiveled to face them, speaking with a lilt more appropriate for a California beach bum than a brilliant scientist.

  "I didn't know it was you, okay?" His face wrinkled as he tried to place Rebecca. "You're new."

  "This is Rebecca Morgan. She's a reporter, taking a tour of the Institute. I thought she might be interested in your work. Ms. Morgan, this is Doctor Andrew Chen."

  Dr. Chen beamed, and waved them over to the microscope.

  "Dr. Chen is one of our sharpest researchers," Lacroix murmured to Rebecca as they crossed the lab. "His doctorate is in molecular biology. He's a brilliant scientist, but his interpersonal skills are a little...underdeveloped."

  She nodded. Dr. Chen was a nerd.

  Oblivious to their exchange, Dr. Chen began showing off his research. She didn't follow all of his technical jargon, even with the background research she'd done, but she grasped enough to understand he was researching DNA structures, trying to understand what the various sections of genetic code were responsible for. At least, that's what he said he was doing. She made notes of things to follow up on, all the while looking for a way to prove he did what he claimed to do.

  "So, how would that work?" she asked.

  "I'd start with a cell sample. Then I'd trap it on a slide, and inject proteins to flag the antigens I'm looking for. If they show up, I break apart the DNA to get more details. Get it?"

  "No, I still don't see how you'd do it."

  "I'd take a cell sample." He pronounced each word slowly and carefully, as if talking to an idiot. She saw her chance.

  "A blood sample?"

  "Maybe."

  She stretched out her left hand. "Show me."

  The researcher glanced at Lacroix, who shrugged. "If she wants you to poke her with needles, go right ahead."

  "Well, okay. But it might hurt." Dr. Chen watched her carefully, as if he expected her to swoon at this revelation.

  Her pulse quickened. Had she trapped him into exposing a lie? She kept her left hand steady, waiting for Dr. Chen to make his next move.

  He shook his head, and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Then he took two sealed paper packets from one of the primary-colored drawers. More packets filled the drawer.

  He ripped the first packet open, and took out an alcohol wipe. He unfolded it and rubbed it briskly over the tip of her ring finger, then tossed it onto the gray Formica counter. The wetness evaporated immediately, chilling her skin. He opened the second packet and tipped a small metal lancet into his hand.

  Glancing away, she found Lacroix studiously examining the far wall. She grinned. He'd certainly chosen an odd job for a man who was squeamish about the sight of blood.

  The sharp prick of the lancet pulled her attention back to her hand, in Dr. Chen's tight grip. A bead of bright red blood welled up from the puncture. He wiped her finger again, cleaning the wound. A fresh spot of blood gleamed on the tip of her finger, and he touched it to a slim glass slide. He dropped an even thinner piece of glass on top of the slide, and the droplet of blood spread out between the layers.

  She put her finger in her mouth, grimacing at the bitter alcohol residue. Lacroix's sharp intake of breath caught her attention, and she glanced over to see him staring at her, his emerald gaze fixed on her mouth. He swallowed, and she imagined that his sensuous lips imprisoned her finger. Her cheeks heated. Turning away, she focused all of her attention on Dr. Chen.

  He fed the slide to the microscope. After taking a moment to adjust the focus, he beckoned her over. She put her eye to the foam rubber eyepiece and saw things that looked like giant soccer balls and tumbleweeds drift past. She backed away, suddenly sharing a little of Lacroix's queasiness.

  Dr. Chen added drops of liquid to the edge of the slide.

  "These compounds react with the antigens I'm looking for...." His voice faded, and he looked back and forth quickly between the microscope and a multicolored chart tacked above his desk.

  "What is it?" Lacroix leaned over the researcher.

  "This is very okay." Dr. Chen bounced on his stool. "I need to do another test."

  He was already reaching for her hand. She nodded, not quite sure what was happening but sensing its importance to her story. If they really were doing research here, maybe it was the research itself that was such a big secret.

  Dr. Chen wiped off her finger again, then forced a slim glass tube, not much wider than a piece of spaghetti, against the wound. It slowly filled with blood. He jabbed the tube into a block of Styrofoam to cork the ends. Pressing a second tube to the puncture, he squeezed her finger. Not enough blood flowed to fill another tube, even such a small one, and he reached into the drawer for a new lancet.

  She snatched her hand away and stuffed it in her pocket, backing away in case he still had any ideas about using her as a guinea pig. "That's enough."

  Lacroix spared her a brief look, then consulted with his researcher in low tones. They stopped and both glanced back at her, then continued their discussion. Curiosity overrode her self-preservation and she edged closer.

  "How long will it take for you to get a result?" Lacroix asked.

  "I don't know. A couple hours for preliminaries. Could be days for a final."

  "Send word as soon as you confirm the preliminary results. I want to hear immediately."

  "Okay." Dr. Chen turned to his work, ignoring them both. Lacroix glided to her side and pointed at the door.

  As soon as they were in the corridor, she turned to him and demanded, "What was that all about?"

  The gleam in his eyes reminded her of a starving man viewing a five-course banquet. Desperate hunger, tinged with disbelief.

  "Dr. Chen is working on a cure for a degenerative blood disorder. Your blood contained one of the structures associated with the disorder. He's checking to see if you have a healthy version of one of the other structures that he can use."

  "So I might be part of a cure for something?" Should she believe him? Or was this part of a complex ploy to mislead her, like letting tourists to the big city win the first game of Three Card Monte?

  "It's too soon to guess. And I wouldn't want to raise anyone's hopes." He kept his voice level and calm, but she sensed the excitement in him, crackling just beneath the surface. His reaction seemed out of proportion to a simple lab experiment. What was his involvement with the Institute's research? Was his position as Director more than just a job to him? Her stomach churned. Was he looking for a cure for himself? More importantly, why did the thought of him being ill upset her so much?

  He held open another door, gesturing for her to precede him. He used his left hand this time, and she caught a glint of light reflected from his wedding ring.

  DESMOND HELD open the door, waiting for Ms. Morgan to recover from whatever it was that had stalled her in her tracks. Long years of controlling his emotions let him keep a calm, unruffled appearance, even though he felt like shouting and swinging the good reporter around the halls in a joyous dance. If Dr. Chen was right, Ms. Morgan's blood could hold the key to Gillian's cure.

  His little girl might live. He had a chance to defeat the curse that had shadowed him for so many years.

  He darted a quick glance at the woman by h
is side. She wore her chestnut brown hair in a sleek bob. No doubt she intended it to be professional. But her delicately boned face and wide gray eyes undercut that impression. She looked more like the traditional pictures of an elf or wood sprite. And she seemed so young, not much more than a child herself. Compared to him, she was a child. But the way she'd aroused his interest by sucking the blood from her finger had been all woman.

  He forced his thoughts away from the memory. If Chen was right, he had more important uses for her blood.

  "How are the research topics chosen and assigned?" Ms. Morgan asked as they continued down the hallway.

  What prompted that question? He tried to scan her surface thoughts for a clue, and ran into a smooth mental wall. Intrigued, he turned to get a direct look at her.

  When he'd first met her, she'd been surrounded by the same constant cloud of surface thoughts buzzing and darting around her conscious mind as most people. Although her frank appraisal of him had been flattering, propriety compelled him to strengthen his mental barriers. He'd dropped them when she suffered her panic attack, but he'd lowered them too far. She'd picked up on his mental imagery of being buried alive.

  He'd kept the shields firmly in place since then, and hadn't noticed the change in her thoughts. When had they acquired such focus and strength?

  "Mr. Lacroix, you didn't answer my question."

  Her mental control wavered just enough to allow images of folded arms and tapping feet to swirl past. He smiled. That was it. She'd focused her mind on her story. He'd seen the same thing happen with researchers working on a particularly demanding problem, but he'd never encountered such a complete focus before.

  "My apologies. My thoughts were...elsewhere." He felt her mental wall buckle slightly, lulled by his voice. "The researchers choose their own topics. Division chairs present the latest results at monthly meetings, and researchers often change topics to work in areas experiencing greater success."

  The warm rush of pride filled him, as he admired his alternative to imposing suspicious research directives. By letting the researchers choose their own topics, but directing more funding toward those that addressed his and Gillian's problems, the researchers accomplished his goals with no knowledge of how the topics related. The person closest to an all-encompassing view was Dr. Chen, but as long as he remained the Institute's golden boy, with virtually unlimited funding, Chen wouldn't question anything.

  All the money he'd poured into the Institute would be worth it, if Dr. Chen's tests proved positive. In two hours, they'd know if Ms. Morgan's DNA could provide the key to the healthy blood cell production that Gillian lacked.

  Even viewed against the backdrop of his considerable life span, Desmond knew the next two hours would seem an eternity. For Gillian's sake, he must act quickly.

  If the test was successful, Dr. Chen would need Ms. Morgan's continued help in developing a cure. Desmond could convince her to stay if he knew what she really wanted. But to do that, he'd have to get through her mental shield that muffled his ability to read her thoughts. He had to distract her, dissolve her focus. And the best way to do that was to tire her out.

  He started a circuitous route through the facility. If he arranged it correctly, they could spend the next two hours walking without once retracing their steps. Meanwhile, he would dredge up every inane fact and useless piece of trivia he could remember about the Institute. By the time they finished, she'd be exhausted.

  And Dr. Chen would have the preliminary results ready.

  REBECCA STRUGGLED to take notes as they walked, stopping, writing, then dashing to catch up. Each time, it took longer to regain the ground she'd lost during her stop. She wished she'd eaten more than just coffee and doughnuts for breakfast. The effects of the caffeine and sugar must be wearing off.

  They passed through a mixture of labs and administrative areas, with Lacroix pointing out every conference room and lecture hall. As they passed by the closed door of yet another lab, they were stopped by a gorilla of a man incongruously stuffed into a dark gray business suit.

  "Mr. Lacroix, do you have a moment?"

  "Of course, Evan." Lacroix glanced at Rebecca, then keyed open the lab door. "Why don't you ask the researchers about their work on T-cells? I'm sure you'll find it fascinating."

  He opened the door, and she was immediately assaulted by a jazz saxophone blaring from a portable CD boom box on the counter by the door. She'd never overhear any of his conversation. No doubt that was his intent.

  She stepped into organized chaos, her back against the locked door that sealed her inside. Six men and women in white lab coats hustled around the room, wheeling carts full of test tubes into and out of refrigeration units, marking results on clipboards, shouting instructions across the room at a voice-activated laptop computer, and twirling a series of dials set into a console mounted in the wall. Gradually the activity slowed, then stopped, as one by one they noticed her presence. Finally, one of the men flipped off the CD player, plunging the room into echoing silence.

  "Hi. My name's Rebecca Morgan. I'm a reporter. Mr. Lacroix is giving me a tour of your institute, and suggested I ask you about your T-cell research."

  Two of the researchers traded looks of disbelief, and one woman muttered, "He suggested you ask?"

  Rebecca nodded and smiled, holding her pen poised and ready. The researchers hesitated a moment longer, then stampeded her in a herd, all clamoring to tell her the details of their work.

  She scribbled barely legible notes, frantically trying to keep pace with six simultaneous explanations. Gradually, she realized they were relating the details of three years of work. She tried to interrupt the stream of information and steer their conversations into an area she could use, but they ignored any question of hers not directly related to their research.

  She burned to know what they thought of the extreme security measures, the hidden facility, and what seemed to be a standing order not to discuss their work with outsiders. Other than increasing the number of nervous glances directed at the door behind her, her words had no effect.

  Lacroix had granted her wish. He'd given her time alone with a roomful of his researchers. And yet, they told her nothing she wanted to know, other than confirming by their silence that Lacroix had prevented them from publishing articles or otherwise telling their peers about their work.

  The loud buzz of the lock stilled all six conversations. Lacroix opened the door in complete silence.

  Holding it open but not stepping inside, he smiled. "Thank you all for taking the time to speak to Ms. Morgan. I'm sure she still has plenty of questions, but we must continue our tour."

  She thanked the grinning researchers, then joined Lacroix in the hall. The saxophone resumed its wailing lament, then the door sealed the corridor in silence.

  Lacroix slanted her a knowing glance. "Did you learn anything you can use in your article?"

  "Yes. I did." She'd learned that he was definitely hiding something. And that whatever he was hiding, that muscle-bound ape, Evan, was up to his shaggy eyebrows in it. She just needed to discover what it was.

  Chapter 2

  BY THE END of her tour, Rebecca had stopped writing. That had probably been Lacroix's intent, to bore her with the monotony and impress her with the Institute's unrelieved ordinariness. And unfortunately, she couldn't prove otherwise. Whatever secret he was hiding, it wasn't illegal drug manufacture, germ warfare experiments, or any other increasingly farfetched scenario she could propose.

  She didn't even have anything newsworthy to report about the Institute itself. True, it was disguised from the outside. But inside, it was perfectly normal, although bigger than she'd expected. They'd gone up and down more stairs than she could count, and at some point must have passed through connecting passages between the basements of the various buildings. At least the confusing layout had prevented her from succumbing to another embarrassing panic attack, since she hadn't known when she was underground.

  Finally, they returned to
the marble entry foyer. Her tour was almost over, and she still didn't have a story. She'd had an unheard of opportunity, and she hadn't been a good enough journalist to find out the truth of the matter. Mentally adding up the cost of tickets from Syracuse to Phoenix, the rental car, and her hotel bills, she winced at the staggering price of her failure. The other articles she'd promised to write while she was out here might cover some of the costs, but the airline tickets were coming straight out of her pocket. She had to be able to find something she could use for a story.

  When Lacroix led her to a small lounge opposite the elevator, she barely looked at her surroundings. She sat down on the couch, its blue and beige tweed rasping against her stockings. Her feet burned from so much walking, and the couch pillows looked soft and inviting. It would feel so good to lie down and sleep. Sighing, she lifted her heels ever so slightly out of her shoes.

  He filled two water glasses from a pitcher on the counter. Keeping one for himself, he carried the other over to where she sat and offered it to her. She recalled a fairy tale admonition not to eat or drink anything offered by her host, but dismissed the thought as a fancy born of exhaustion. Tipping back the glass, Rebecca gulped the clear water greedily. It tasted fresh and pure, and washed away the antiseptic sting in her throat.

  He poised on the edge of the chair across from her.

  "Did I answer all of your questions?"

  "All but one." She kept fishing, even though she no longer expected to discover anything. "Why is the security so tight?"

  "The scanners aren't just for security. The keycards are used to locate the researchers within the facility, as many of them have no fixed desk or work site. Also, by restricting access to labs, we can protect against accidental contagion." He smiled. "Not, of course, that such a thing would ever happen."

  "What if there was a fire? Would the scientists be trapped in their labs?" She echoed his smile back at him. "Not, of course, that such a thing would ever happen."

  "No. If power is disrupted to the system, all of the locks fall to the open position."