The Enclave

  A coffee bar stretched along the room’s east end, steeped in darkness save for the red lights of the automatic dispenser. The bar would open for business at 6:00 a.m.—and, yes, K-J employees had to pay—but for now it stood quiet and deserted, its curved glass cases empty except for a few bran muffins and crumbling pieces of leftover baklava.

  To the west a wide hallway passed meeting and storage rooms on its way to intersect the main floor’s central north-south corridor.

  Reinhardt came up beside her. “What are we doing here, Ms.McHenry?”

  “I don’t know. I just . . .” She scanned the room, then turned to look up at him. He wore a blue plaid flannel shirt over T-shirt and jeans, his security keycard dangling on a blue lanyard from his neck. A faint red-gold grizzle gleamed on his cheeks, and behind his glasses, shadows cupped his eyes. In the dim light, he looked tired and more boyish than she remembered. Instead of the vaunted Dr. Reinhardt, or the absentminded geek, he seemed just a normal man.

  “Did you see him at all?” she asked.

  His eyes, which had been sweeping the room as if he expected an attack at any moment, came back to her. He didn’t have to ask whom she meant. “No. But I heard someone running and the door slam. And when I came around the corner, you were still in the frog room with the door open. . . .”

  She held his gaze soberly. “I didn’t tip over that tank.”

  “I know.” He drew a deep breath and let it out. “Why don’t you tell me what did happen?”

  So she did, though there wasn’t much to tell he’ d not already seen. “You’d back me up, then?” she asked when she was finished. “If I went down and reported this?”

  “Of course. Though I don’t think it would do much good.”

  She recalled their conversation earlier in the day, when she’ d stopped by his office and he’d refused to acknowledge last night’s events, and abruptly knew why she had come up here. “We need to talk.”

  He grimaced. “In that case, I’ll need some coffee. Shall I get you some, too?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She followed him to the machine and watched as he filled the paper cup, then added sugar but no creamer. She liked his hands—strong, well-formed, capable. He picked up the cup and led her to the table nearest the wall that framed the great window and sat down with his back to it, facing the room.

  She settled beside him rather than across from him, and they sat in silence while he sipped his coffee and kept his eyes on the room.

  Presently she said, “You lied to me, Doctor. You sat there in your office today and flat-out lied to me! You, the supposedly honorable, virtuous Christian!”

  He grimaced but made no effort to defend himself. “I sin like everyone else, Ms. McHenry,” he said, eyes dropping to the cup on the table before him, cupped by both hands. “I just happen to have the liberty of being able to confess it afterward.” His eyes came back to hers. “And the situation is . . . more complicated than you know.”

  “Naturally,” she said bitterly. “It’s always complicated for everyone but the victim.”

  A crease formed between his pale brows. He looked more concerned than angry. “I’m not lying now, Ms. McHenry. I’m as much an unwitting—and unwilling—participant as you are. All they’ve really told me is that I’m not to talk to you about any of it.”

  She frowned, startled by his bluntness. “Why not?”

  “Because I said I wouldn’t lie to you. Because they hoped, with our cooperation it would all blow over. I’m sure they still do.” He paused. “You must know how paranoid Director Swain is about drawing unwanted media attention. Especially now with the Nature article and the open house and review board coming up. It would be better for both of us if you’d let me escort you back to your room.”

  “You’re going to hang me out to dry like everyone else? Just let them do this?”

  “No one’s hanging you out to dry. Director Swain assured me you have nothing to worry about. He has no intention of allowing this incident to derail the plans he has for you.”

  Dr. Viascola, she recalled, had also mentioned the existence of plans for her. She wasn’t sure she liked that. “What sort of plans?”

  “He didn’t specify. I’m sure it has to do with promoting you.” He paused. “You’re a very attractive woman, Ms. McHenry. And bright, as well. If you play your cards right, you could easily go right to the top of this organization.”

  She stared at him blankly, trying to find the logic in his statement. Then it hit her. “You mean have sex with him? That’s disgusting! I would never do that, and you insult me by even suggesting it. And Director Swain, as well.”

  He sipped his coffee as his eyes did another circuit of the room. “I don’t know you, Ms. McHenry, so I wasn’t trying to insult you, only to point out the reality of the situation. I do know Director Swain. I find it surprising you could have worked here three weeks already and not heard of his appetite for pretty young women, and his willingness to reward them for their . . .” He paused, searching for the right word. “Cooperation.”

  She stared at him, indignantly. “I can’t believe you would spread that vile rumor.”

  “I’d say at least half the women working in this facility would not consider my words vile at all, but would be thrilled the director had taken note of them.”

  “Well, I am not one of them.” She folded her arms and glared at him.

  “Which is why I advised you to leave K-J and go back to the U of A.” His lips twitched as if to smile, but he covered it by sipping from his cardboard cup.

  After a time she unfolded her arms and rested them on the table.

  “I can’t afford the U of A,” she said quietly. “I have too much debt. And how could I ever get another job if I quit K-J because I ‘couldn’t handle the stress’?”

  “Your grades and honors and the recommendations in your file are exemplary. I don’t think it would be that hard.”

  “I mean a good job. A position that would enhance my career, not stymie it.”

  “Maybe not right away, but . . . in time you’ll find something. You have too much to offer not to.” He paused. “And Swain’s checkered past is well-known. His enemies are many and his misdeeds legendary. There are any number of folks who would not begrudge you your decision to leave. . . .” He trailed off, lost in his own train of thought.

  Suddenly some of the things he’d said earlier registered in a new way—the fact Swain had assured him no ill would come to her implied they’d discussed the situation. And apparently Cameron Reinhardt had been the one defending her. He hadn’t lied to her outright, either, merely evaded her questions and turned her statements back upon themselves. And hadn’t he just claimed to be as unwilling a participant as she was? A sudden, grim suspicion struck her.

  “Did Director Swain threaten you, Doctor?”

  Reinhardt released a weary sigh. “Let’s just say he outlined the situation for me. He has assets to protect, after all.”

  “And you’re not one of them?”

  He shrugged. “Depends on whether or not I cooperate. Which”—he glanced around—“as it turns out, I haven’t. Not very well, anyway.”

  “You’re uncomfortable here.”

  “We’re alone in the middle of the night. And we’re being watched. Probably listened to, as well.”

  “But they already know what happened and what we know—”

  “Do they?”

  “I thought you said . . .” She frowned. “So they don’t, then?”

  “I don’t know.” He started to say more, then closed his mouth and glanced around again. Finally he pushed back from the table. “I really think you would be safer in your room. This big window . . . Your assailant is probably watching us out there in the darkness.”

  That spooked her. “I don’t think I can bear it in my room, though. With no real windows, there’s only one way out.”

  “No window means he can’t get in that way. And I suspect they have a camera on the cor
ridor outside your door at the very least. Probably in the stairwells, too. And the elevators and lobbies are standard. He may not yet know where your room is. So far he’s apparently only broken into the animal facility. Your end of it. Where the door to the patio is. To access the residence floors, he’d need a security key. On the other hand, if he knows he’s scared you, and he must, then he might think to head up a floor and see if you’re there.”

  Huffing out her breath, she agreed he was right and allowed him to escort her back down to B1, where he followed her out of the elevator, insisting on seeing her to her door.

  “You do have a roommate, don’t you?” he asked as the elevator doors rattled shut behind them. “And she’s there now?”

  “I expect so,” she replied uneasily. “She was asleep when I left.”

  She preceded him down the dim-lit, narrow corridor, the squeak of their shoes on the vinyl flooring echoing eerily around them. Suddenly the floor’s familiar musty smell and cramped warrenlike corridors reminded her just how far down in station she was from her escort. Yes, he already saw her as the frog girl, but having him escort her to her basement dormitory quarters seemed to bring it all home. She was glad when they finally reached her door.

  “Make sure you lock the dead bolt once you get in,” he said as they stopped before it. The solemnity in his tone sent a shiver up her spine.

  She stood looking up at him. “I’m sorry to keep you up so late, but thank you for staying with me.”

  “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “Except for my reputation.”

  He shrugged. “At least you can take comfort in the likelihood that, after what happened tonight, you’ll not be assigned to the AnFac anymore. Do you have your keycard?”

  She pulled it out from under her lab coat where it hung on its lanyard and swiped it through the reader. The light blinked, the locking mechanism clicked, and she depressed the latch in silence, then turned to look up at him again. “If I leave this untrue accusation unchallenged, I’ll have a black mark on my record for the rest of my life.”

  He grimaced. “Well, you certainly wouldn’t be the first to have that problem.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “No.” Some tiny sound drew his startled glance back down the hall; then he drew a deep breath and let it out, gray eyes coming back to meet her gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you, Ms. McHenry,” he said finally. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but it’s how things are. . . .” He leaned past her to push open the door, murmuring as he did so, “And all the walls here have ears. Don’t forget that.”

  With that, he straightened, gave her a brusque “Good night,” and walked back toward the elevators. She stared after him, chilled by his reminder. Her hand tugged the lab coat closer about her, and then she realized . . . “Doctor . . . I still have your coat.”

  He lifted a hand in dismissal and called back over his shoulder:

  “Leave it in the AnFac. I’ll find it. And don’t forget to lock your dead bolt.”

  She watched him until he stepped around the corner into the elevator’s lobby and out of sight, then turned with a sigh and entered her darkened room. As the door snicked shut behind her, she wrapped her arms around herself and sagged back against the wood, where she was overcome with a fit of violent shaking.

  Indignation tangled itself with dismay and frustration and a horrible sense of anxiety. The walls had ears? Surveillance cameras on the animal floors? And now in the corridor outside her room? What had she gotten involved in? How could what had seemed so golden an opportunity have turned so swiftly to such a convoluted disaster?

  Maybe she should resign and give it up as Dr. Reinhardt advised.

  But if she did . . . it would be the end. Her years of education lost. All that money spent, the loans she still had to pay back. Selling books would keep her in debt until she was an old, old woman.

  “Oh, Lord . . .” she moaned, burying her face in her hands. “What am I to do?”

  The only good she could see coming out of this would be if Reinhardt’s prediction came true—that she never had to go to the animal floor again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The rat-tat-tat of automatic-weapon fire echoed sharply down the narrow crawl tube as Cam reached the hole in the ceiling at its end and pulled himself upward and over the lip. Gathering his feet beneath him, he looked up and froze. Parker Swain stood before him, wearing a white toga and a green camouflage military helmet. Behind him loomed one of the sarcophagi, a giant shadowy mound on a tiny cart that blinked with multifarious lights.

  The sight startled him so badly it knocked him back into the hole— and out of the nightmare.

  He sat blinking at the bars of too-bright light that lay across the green blanket covering his legs and struggled to figure out where he was. He took a deep gasping breath, then saw that the light was flooding in around the closed mini blinds on a window to his left. He was in his own bedroom in his suite at K-J, and he’ d obviously overslept. Some three and half hours, a glance at the clock confirmed. It was just after 7:30. Which, seeing as he’d not gotten to bed until 3:30, was better than he’ d planned. Better than Thursday night, as well.

  As the terror birthed by his nightmare faded along with its images, grogginess flowed into its place and he collapsed back in the bed to stare at the ceiling. He didn’t want to get up, but if he stayed here he’ d miss breakfast.

  Do I care about breakfast? His torpor had increased by now to the point of having almost physical force, as if a lead-filled blanket lay upon him. Everything felt wrong, and he dreaded what lay ahead of him this day.

  It was all coming back to him now—Rudy, his claims about Swain and the sarcophagi, the anomalous blood report; Lacey McHenry’s second encounter with the mysterious frog-eating intruder; Cam’s own timely arrival in the animal facility to deliver her; the apparent obliviousness of Campus Security to the whole thing; his subsequent conversation with McHenry in the deserted Madrona Lounge, which he’ d entered into in direct and deliberate disobedience to Swain’s instructions. . . .

  Now rising anger simmered it all into a stew of toxic thoughts and feelings. He felt as if he’ d had the rug pulled out from under him— here, he’ d made all the right decisions, sought God’s counsel, believed he had been following God’s will, all those years of being faithful in learning the Word and applying it, and this was how he was rewarded? He’ d been manipulated and betrayed, prodded like a rodeo bull into a bucking chute so he could perform for someone else’s pleasure a task at which he’ d already failed miserably once.

  And it was all wasted effort on their part, because he could not do what Rudy asked of him. Aside from the fact he was unwilling to deceive and betray the very people he’ d come here hoping to give the gospel to, he was not physically, mentally, or emotionally capable of meeting the challenge this mission presented. His mind was already half unraveled as it was. Just the word sarcophagi turned his guts to water.

  But if he couldn’t do what Rudy asked of him, he also couldn’t stay at Kendall-Jakes. Not knowing Swain was dirty. Not given the active cover-up Cam had already become entangled in. “He’s playing with fire,” Rudy had said.

  After their meeting by the lake last night, Cam had gone to the gym and run through multiple sets of his weight-training regimen as he’ d planned his escape. His biweekly leave was coming up tomorrow—and he intended to make full use of it. He’ d drive to Tucson, as usual, collect as much cash as he could from various ATMs before ditching his credit cards and Jeep, then board the first available bus out of town. It didn’t matter where it went—Flagstaff, Vegas, Las Cruces, LA, even Mexico would work. In fact, the more random it was the better.

  He had only to make it through this one last day without arousing anyone’s suspicions of his intent, because he was fairly sure neither Swain nor Rudy would let him bolt.

  At 8:20 he finally had enough energy to get out of bed, past time to make it to breakfast. Unhurried, he sh
aved, showered, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and went down to the animal facility. He wasn’t surprised to find the frogs gone, the tank drained of water but returned to its upright position, and an orange pylon with a Wet Paint sign positioned in the doorway. All four walls boasted a fresh coat of peach paint, the frog eater’s message completely obscured.

  From the frog room, he went to his auxiliary lab at the hall’s end, where the twenty frogs to which he’ d administered a vaporized retrovirus yesterday still crouched undisturbed in their ten-gallon aquariums, all of them with legs intact. Looking at them gave him a pang of regret. He’ d developed a genuine love for his chosen field these past ten years, and he’ d miss it.

  After half an hour’s work, putting things to order and getting rid of things he preferred others not find, he headed up to Lab 500, reaching his glass-walled office just as Gen Viascola did.

  “We missed you at breakfast,” she said.

  “I was up late last night.”

  “So I hear.” Now her tone took a suggestive lilt. “Your little tryst with Lacey McHenry is the talk of the morning.”

  He frowned but said nothing. He’ d known last night that it wouldn’t matter what he and Ms. McHenry did; the fact they were there alone together would be sufficient to set the rumor mill in motion. All it would take was one security guard spotting them, and unless he was ordered to keep his mouth shut, the tales would fly.

  “I’m surprised you got any sleep at all,” Viascola said.

  His frown became a scowl. “Why are you here, Gen?”

  Now she pretended to pout. “I merely bring good news. We’ve transferred Manny. Here’s his replacement. As per your request.” She handed him Lacey McHenry’s folder and strutted away on her six-inch heels.

  Stunned to motionlessness, he stared after her until she disappeared around the corner. Then, as his lab techs began to trickle in, he turned and walked into his office. Kicking the door shut behind him, he opened the folder with genuine dismay.