Die Again Tomorrow (23 page)

CHAPTER 42

T
hree more days. That's all Greg had until Yardley went to the feds. And Isabel—the miraculous survivor—had survived again. She'd escaped the projects unharmed. He could hardly believe his bad luck. Some might call it karma, but he didn't buy into that mystical crap. This was called getting screwed at the worst possible time. He'd never been more enraged—or afraid—in his life.

He worked on slowing his breath as he buttered Joan's toast in the kitchen. She was sick in bed today and he was staying home to take care of her until his ER shift in the evening. No doubt her immune system was weakened from all the stress he'd already put her through. God, if she knew what was really happening . . .

After an agonizing night of waiting, he'd finally gotten through to his guys in Harlem. Impossibly, unbelievably, they had gotten the shit kicked out of them by some martial arts–trained asshole who'd shown up in Isabel's place. Now one of them was in the hospital with a punctured lung, while the other was hurting from a broken nose, two knocked-out teeth, and a scratched cornea. In the meantime, Isabel had disappeared. Even her family down in Key West was gone. They'd left in the middle of the night, despite the threat of the boy's deportation. The hired thug who'd been watching their house reported that they were hauled away in the back of some slick Dodge Viper that gunned them out of there “faster than a shot out of hell.” The thug had no chance in his hulking Ford SUV. He'd lost track of them somewhere along the highway.

If only Greg could get rid of Yardley that easily.

As he sliced up a fresh papaya the way Joan liked it, in square chunks, he imagined each cut of the knife sinking into Yardley's squishy flesh. But that bastard was untouchable. He'd warned that if he or any of his relatives were harmed leading up to the deadline to deliver the money, his lawyer would be prompted to send a sealed letter to the authorities detailing Greg's fraud.

Sweat was forming on his brow. His mouth was dry and his heart felt like it was beating too hard. He set down the knife and counted a slow inhale.
One two three four.
Then out.
One two three four.
He groped for the pillbox he kept hidden at the back of the utensil drawer and popped three Vicodin. Their soothing warmth kicked in after a few minutes.

But his high was an illusion and he knew it.

Now that Isabel was gone, how was he going to find the drug? Without it, he had no chance in hell of raising $3.5 million by Sunday. Slaughtering a bunch of people whose deaths he owned would be far too complicated and messy, not to mention a perversion of his real identity as a healer. Isabel was one thing. She was the golden goose of all his “lives,”
and
she'd wronged him by cutting off her breasts. Mrs. Ruth Bernstein's death could also be excused. Old and decrepit, with no one to mourn her, she'd practically been a walking corpse. But killing multiple innocents was taking it too far.

He loaded up a tray with Joan's toast, tea, and fruit, and carried it in to her, but the bed was empty. She'd gone to the bathroom. He put the tray on her nightstand and waited. A faucet was running. Maybe she was drawing a bath.

Above all else, he wanted to preserve her ignorance so she would never leave him. He wished he could spirit them away to some remote island across the world from the coming explosion. But he
was
the bomb. No matter where he was, Yardley was going to detonate it and she would discover the truth.

His throat caught when he realized that today might be one of their last days together—ever. A sudden urge possessed him to want to sweep her into his arms. He hurried to the bathroom door and knocked.

“Hang on,” she called. The faucet was still running on high.

He gripped the doorknob. It was locked. That was odd.

“You okay?”

There was a pause. “Not really . . .”

“Do you need anything?”

“Just some privacy.”

“Okay.” He stepped back, disappointed. “Anything I can do?”

“No.” Her voice sounded strangely sad. “No, I don't think there is.”

CHAPTER 43

C
hris's voice burst through her cabin intercom without warning. “Isabel.”

It was the last voice she wanted to hear.

She was lying in her bed next to Richard, with Captain snuggled at their feet. After her encounter with Joan Hughes and her near-death encounter in the Harlem projects the night before, her primary concern today was to rest. She was safe, her mom and Andy were safe, and, thanks to her initiative in finding Joan, Galileo was now away meeting her to assess how she might help them unmask Robbie Merriman.

Isabel was thrilled for the mission's continued momentum, but she desperately wanted a break. Especially since she'd endured a visit to Chris last night to supply him with more blood. Why couldn't he leave her alone for just one day?

She groaned, then extricated herself from Richard's embrace and dragged herself three steps to the intercom. “What's up?”

Chris's tone sounded urgent. “I need you.”

She rolled her eyes at Richard. He propped himself onto his elbows and shook his head in annoyance. A lock of hair fell over his broad forehead. He was shirtless, and even with the still-healing gash across his chest from his heart surgery, he was looking stronger every day. His defined biceps and pecs revealed a power that belied his lanky frame, thanks to his hours of physical therapy. The improvements didn't end there. Since there were no cigarettes on board, his breath was better and his habitual cough was on the wane. His sarcasm had softened to a dry wit, and despite his lingering fondness for bad puns, Isabel found herself more and more attracted to him. Men who were sexy and funny, loyal and trustworthy, were as rare as fine gems. She was only sorry it had taken her so long to appreciate him.

“Isabel?” Chris's voice asked. “You coming?”

Screw him
, Richard mouthed. He beckoned her with one finger and a coy smile.

She turned to the intercom with an edge in her voice.

“I'm in the middle of something. Can it wait?”

Despite sleeping side by side last night, she and Richard hadn't gotten totally naked. They'd been content to kiss and cuddle, distracting each other from the heavier concerns that occupied the rest of their time. Together, in her bed, they discovered a place to get away from it all. He let her set the pace, so she became comfortable enough to remove her shirt and show her reconstructed breasts to a man for the first time since her own surgery. Richard gazed at them—at the fake curve of her implants, at her uneven nipples, at the raised pink scar that ran underneath her breasts. Then, very lightly, he kissed the scar and he kissed her lips. The simple gesture felt more intimate than sex. Now she wanted nothing more than to climb back into bed with him and continue their exploration of each other's bodies.

But Chris was insistent. “I really need to see you.”

“Why?”

“Just come to the lab.”

The strange excitement in his voice compelled her to agree.

She sighed at Richard. “I'll be right back.”

“You want me to come?”

“Nah, it's fine. Captain will go with me, right?”

When the dog heard his name, his silky ears perked up.

“Yes, you,” she cooed.

He lifted his head from Richard's foot and wagged his fluffy tail at her. Richard pulled the comforter up to his chin. “Hurry back.”

“Oh, I will.”

With the dog trailing behind her, she made her way down the stairs to the laboratory deck. The ship swayed ever so slightly on the Hudson, where it remained docked. After days on the roiling Atlantic, the river's gentle current felt almost like land.

In the hallway of the labs, she ran into Dr. Cornell, a taciturn physician-researcher in his seventies who specialized in organ repair. Now that Quinn was gone, he was the oldest and most experienced doctor on the ship. Somehow his presence comforted her, though they'd barely ever spoken. He gave her a friendly nod as she walked past him to the familiar door near the end of the hall.

Its gold plaque still read
QUINN
. It was startling to see his name there, as if nothing had changed. As if she might walk in and catch him hunched over a microscope, his bushy white eyebrows knotted in concentration.

She traced the plaque's engraved letters. There was nowhere to go to mourn him. No grave, no memorial. This lab was as close as she could get to the resting place of his soul. The finality of real death—irreversible death—was incomprehensible. How could someone you loved disappear suddenly off the face of the earth? It was like trying to picture a rope with one end, or the edge of the universe. But whether she could accept it or not, the man who had saved her life was gone. Just like her father was gone. Now all that remained of their kind eyes and reassuring voices was an ever-fading fragment in her memory.

She closed her eyes for a moment in honor of them both. Then, steeling herself to face the person responsible for Quinn's tragedy, she knocked.

Chris opened the door right away. He was grinning. Patchy stubble covered his chin and lower cheeks, as though he'd forgotten to shave. His facial hair, burly build, and thick neck reminded her of a caveman, a repulsive Neanderthal who happened to be dressed up in a scientist's white coat. But the confidence that had once attracted her was still apparent in his straight back and squared shoulders. He ushered her inside and closed the door. A weird squeaking noise was coming from somewhere in the room.

She crossed her arms. Captain sat at her feet.

“What's up? You can't need more blood already.”

He shook his head. “Check this out.”

She tried not to flinch when he put one hand on the small of her back and ushered her to the counter along the far wall. There, in separate cages on separate metal wheels, were three white rats. Their tiny pink feet trudged from one rung to the next, as if spinning the wheels took monumental effort. Isabel had seen rats in other researchers' labs on the ship, so their presence didn't surprise her.

“They look tired,” she said. “Are they sick?”

“Actually they're quite well.”

“Why's that?”

“They're alive.”

She spun around to face him. “You did it?”

He beamed, his top row of teeth gleaming under the fluorescent lights. “All thanks to the trace elements in your blood.”

She stared from him back to the spinning rats. “They were dead?”

“Yup.” Chris pointed at them one by one. “Drowned, suffocated, and poisoned. I resuscitated them with test doses this morning. Their brains are perfect, but they're sluggish at first, like you were. I expect them all to make a full recovery.”

Genuine joy flooded her. “This is amazing! Everyone will be so happy!”

“And get this.” He went over to the refrigerator and took out a chilled clear vial that was about three inches tall. He cradled it in his hands as he walked back to her. “I made enough for one human dose.”

“You're sure it's the right formula?”

“The rats are alive, aren't they?”

She couldn't stop staring at their plump little bodies. “I can't believe you did it.”

“I also developed my own check in the process for quality control, to make things easier from now on.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Quinn had this inefficient way of requiring a previous perfect dose to calibrate a new batch, but I one-upped him.”

Chris smiled shamelessly and her delight vanished in an instant. His audacity was galling—a sign that he had no idea what she knew.

She swallowed. “What is it?”

He went to the supply closet and produced a glass flask that contained a colorless fluid. Then he heated the flask over a burner. “This is a solution of hydrogen peroxide and sulfuric acid. Watch what happens when it reacts with certain elements in the X101.”

Using a pipette, he sucked up one drop of the X101 from the vial. The drop was so small that the level of clear fluid inside the vial barely changed.

“This negligible amount won't affect the efficacy of the dose,” he said, as he squirted it into the flask. The reaction was immediate. The drop transformed the entire solution to inky black.

“Cool, right?” He looked at her, awaiting her admiration.

She nodded weakly. “But what if the concentration is off?”

“That's why this works. Only this precise formula reacts to produce black, because of the X101's specific atomic transfer of potassium iodide and sodium thiosulfate. The compounds I made before I got it right didn't cause this reaction.”

“I see.” Chemistry was gibberish to her, but she wasn't about to ask him to explain. All she wanted was to get out of there.

“Isn't this so much better? Now we don't need any previous doses for quality control!”

“Yeah,” she managed. And then, to get past the awkward pause: “Good job.”

Her own praise made her want to vomit. She glanced away from his self-satisfied grin and braced herself against a rising tide of nausea. The number of seconds she could bear his presence was dwindling rapidly. She crouched down to pet the dog, who was lying at her feet.

“Does Galileo know?” she asked, without looking up.

“Not yet. He's away for the afternoon. But I wanted you to be the first to know.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. She felt herself tense. He didn't appear to notice. Instead he slid his fingers up the nape of her neck and into her hair. She jumped to her feet and whirled around, her heart thudding against her ribs.

She kept her tone casual so as not to reveal her alarm. “What are you doing?”

The lust in his eyes told her the answer. “Celebrating.”

Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her body close against his, wrapping his other arm around her waist. His mouth smothered hers with disorienting force. Before she could process what was happening, his hand was somehow already creeping up her shirt, under her bra, to her breasts.

“Get off me!” she yelled, shoving him hard. He smacked against the counter with a grunt as Captain growled and nipped at his ankles.

“Are you out of your mind?” she cried. “What the hell?”

He scrunched up his face. “I thought you were into me.”

“Well, you thought wrong.”

She bent down and scooped up the dog.

“I don't understand. What about the night we had together?”

“You mean the night Quinn was killed?”

His eyes narrowed to slits. She knew she had said too much.

“Quinn had an accident,” he snapped.

She regarded him stonily.

“An accident,” he said louder, like she was deaf.

His cheeks had deepened to a frightening shade of pink. It was the color of fury.

She shifted her attention to the door a few yards away, but he clamped his hand around her wrist. “Did you hear what I said?”

His thumb and forefinger pressed so hard into her skin that she could feel her pulse throbbing beneath his fingertips.

“I heard.” She suddenly twisted her wrist upside down in a maneuver that flung his hand off. He stumbled back in surprise.

In her arms, Captain bared his pointy teeth as she flew to the door without a second glance. But her uneasiness only sharpened when she stepped out of the lab, and with a chill, she realized why.

Chris now understood that she knew his secret—and the return of the X101 meant he no longer needed her blood.

He no longer needed her alive.