The Avenger (12 page)

She eyed him thoughtfully. She didn't think Howard Randolph would appreciate Ted's use of the disrespectful nickname.
Randy, indeed.
Somehow Ted managed to infuse the name with a tone more snide than affectionate, toying with a double entendre that might be deliberate.

Ted watched her slid into her car. "I'll wait until you leave," he offered with a smirk. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

His tone made her feel uneasy. Ted had a reputation as a player. Every week a different pretty girl trailed after him. Olivia wondered if he'd ever crossed any lines in the teacher-student relationship. Close to a doctoral degree in Ancient Studies, Burrows was taking longer than most graduate students to finish, evidently liking his play-as-you-go plan.

Even though he was handsome in a bad boy sort of way, she wondered how he attracted so many different girls. She almost laughed. That was a no-brainer. They were freshmen and sophomores, after all, and the sense of danger probably titillated them.

"Oh, wait." Ted pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "Someone called while you were out."

"You were in my office?"

"It's Randy's too, isn't it?" He thrust a pink message paper in her hand and hurried off.

Frowning, Olivia locked the doors, and pulled out of the parking lot onto Newcastle Road, then headed west on Highway 50 toward her house in Willow Park, an upscale Sacramento neighborhood near the zoo. Clearly she needed to set some boundaries for the young, flippant grad student. Although he might be annoying, she was sure he was completely harmless.

As she pressed down on the gas pedal, her car surged ahead on the nearly empty highway. At the first opportunity she read the message by the glow of the dashboard light.

Pick you up at 8:00 a.m. Jack.

Her heart fluttered in the region of her stomach and she forgot about reprimanding Ted Burrows. If he hadn't snooped around her office, she wouldn't have gotten the message. Feeling like a schoolgirl, she turned up the car radio and tapped her fingers to the music.

#

A discreet knock drew the Judge’s attention from the files spread on his desk.

"Yeah?"Myron Higgins’ voice sounded through the door. "Dr. Davis is here, sir."

The Judge glanced at the wall clock. Where had the time gone? He'd been ruminating like an old fart who didn’t have better things to do than think about past triumphs and failures. He wasn’t sure which category Jackson Holt fell into. He drummed his fingers on the desktop, wondering why the hell life couldn’t be simpler. He’d brought the boy in, trained him, and discovered how unique he was. Now it looked like something was messing Jack up, and things were getting out of hand.

The knock at the door sounded firmer.

"All right, all right," he grumbled. "Give me five minutes and send him in."

He gathered the files and stacked them neatly in one pile, thought better of it and scooped them into the bottom desk drawer. The office door swung open as he rose to greet Dr. Spencer Davis, research scientist and practitioner for the Invictus’ drug program.

A lanky, boneless man in his early fifties, Davis towered over the Judge. He extended his hand and gave a cordial shake, then sat in the chair opposite Warren’s desk. Davis crossed his legs at the knee and jiggled his foot as his eyes jumped around the room, lingering here and there, but avoiding Warren’s gaze. The Judge realized this was the first time the doctor had been in his office. Usually, their meetings took place in laboratories or medical facilities, where the doctor displayed the confidence of a man at home in his own element.

"Good of you to come, Doctor."

"Sure, sure." Davis rubbed his chin and then pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I’m not sure why you wanted to see me. Has anything gone wrong in the field?"

"Why would you think that?"

"Just wondered." Clearing his throat, he hurried on, "You've never asked me here before."

The Judge leaned back in his chair. "You’re right. We have a problem with Jackson Holt."

"Agent Thirteen? Oh, sure, how’s the new medication working on him? We tweaked his meds several missions ago." He opened his PDA and worked the screen. "The benzoids – they're the white ones that bring him down during Recovery – are up to 50 mg, the lysergic – the reds – to 150 micrograms."

"A hundred fifty? Won’t that fry his brain?"

Davis frowned and looked up, as if the fact they’d been experimenting on a human being had never crossed his mind. "It’s a heavy dosage, but we sent him the Phenobarbital compound."

"You're sure the Phens will counteract the aggression side effects?"

Davis nodded and scrolled the hand display. "Actually, Holt has tolerated the increase surprisingly well. Previous subjects died on that dosage and subsequent specimens had deleterious effects with a lesser dosage."

"So his body can handle it?"

"If he follows the correct drug regimen and dosage." Davis tapped his forefinger on his lips. "Of course, Holt’s, uh, pre-existing condition skews the normal results, but he can take a far heavier dosage than the other agents."

"What if he increases or cuts back on any of the dosages?"

Davis raised his brows like he’d never considered the possibility. "Why would he go off protocol? He understands the risk, knows the drugs must be taken in tandem."

Warren leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced over his gut. "Pretend I don't know anything. Explain it all to me again."

"Lab rats given extra dosages of the lysergic underwent extraordinary adrenal changes. Without a proper dosage of the benzodiazepine and Phenobarbital compounds, they couldn't slow down their metabolism."

Warren waved an impatient hand. "Bottom line it, Spencer."

The doctor shifted in his chair and let his eyes wander toward the door as if he couldn't wait to get out of the room. "They became aggressive, violent, and unpredictable. Within seventy-two hours, they were dead."

"That's what I thought."

#

It was far too late for an unexpected visit, Jack told himself, glancing at the gym's wall clock. Olivia had said she was going to work at home on the Latin notes, but it was now past 11:00 pm. She'd probably gone to bed.

He spent several hours working out his frustrations. Normally satisfied only by hunting, the burgeoning need inside him quieted down after thirty minutes on the speed bag. Then he'd done a full hour on the punching bag. Even through the protective gloves, his knuckles ached. Punch it down, kick it out, he muttered with every blow.

Even with the Phens and the benzoids, the Change felt like liquid fire running through his veins. Unless he hunted soon, or satisfied its equivalent, his blood would ignite like an accelerant-driven explosion. He continued taking the reds, but he didn't think that was fueling the Change. It was Olivia, but how or why he didn't understand.

In the car, almost as if he had no conscious will of his own, Jack set the GPS instructions to Sacramento and Olivia's home. He hadn't a clue what he'd say to her, but urgency pulsed in his blood like wild jungle drums. He had to see her.

Had to be near her. Had to be with her.

#

After Olivia ate and showered, she rang Jack's cell number which went straight to voice mail. Disappointed, she messaged him, and an hour later set to work in the library, her favorite room in the century-old house. Furnished with the traditional desk and a deep leather chair in a buttery hue, the room's colors complemented the drapes hanging from the wall-to-ceiling bank of windows to the right. A large oval rug covered the hardwood floor, a small television provided white noise, and a chaise lounge in a cheery print sat in the corner.

She retrieved her research materials, placed the books on the floor by the chaise, and immersed herself in her study of the Latin notes. Arranging books and papers around her, she sat cross-legged and examined the texts. Her first priority was to determine if the writer had "borrowed" his messages from another source as opposed to constructing them.

She began with Caesar's
Gallic Wars,
but quickly realized the phrasing of the killer's notes wasn't in the Roman general's style. Caesar had written of battles and wars, conquests and liberations. The abyss phrase from the DLK case was too flowery for Caesar's rather boring, but concrete, writing style.

After an hour's search she found the first quote in an innocuous list of common Latin quotes and phrases attributed to no particular writer. That could mean the writer of the notes was simply copying lines from textbooks. Tired, and finally giving up on Jack returning her call, Olivia went to her bedroom and propped herself against the headboard to read for a while. She promptly fell asleep amid dozens of lavender and tan floral pillows.

The knock from downstairs was a soft swooshing that barely pierced her consciousness as she fluttered her eyes open. Groggy and half asleep, she padded down the thick carpeted stairs to the front door. Through the distorted image of the peephole, she saw Jack standing on the porch. A bird's wings fluttered in her chest and she breathed deeply to steady herself before opening the door.

Dressed in a black tee shirt and jeans, Jack looked as dazed as she felt. His gun was still holstered under his left arm, his hair was damp and awry, and dark circles smudged the skin beneath eyes as black as the night. "Sorry," he whispered, shifting awkwardly. "I didn't mean to wake you. Just wanted to be sure you'd gotten home all right."

Olivia watched his gaze travel over her bare legs, take in her man-shorts and tank top, her breasts loose beneath the thin ribbed material. She saw the hesitation in his face, the struggle and longing in his eyes, and knew he wanted her to invite him in. Knew he
wanted
her.

"I've been getting home all by myself for a long time."

She tried to hold on to her irritation, but a flash of clarity made her realize she'd seen the same look of indecision in Jack – years ago, in another time, another place. Had watched him struggle between his love for her and his need for her. She'd seen the desire win.

Until now, she'd never realized how hard she had made it for him.

It was too late to weep for the children they'd both been, to tell him that being with him was what she'd
wanted.
For the first time she understood what a sacrifice their act of lovemaking had been for him. All along she'd thought of her pain, her loss. Nothing of Jack's.

Still, she warned herself, he'd abandoned her, run off when she needed him most. That wasn't something she could ignore or easily forgive. She turned away, feeling his dark eyes follow her down the hall. "Coffee?"

"Maybe a little," he said behind her. "I know it's late, but I wanted to give you my change of address."

"Oh?" He could've called, she thought, a heated thrill she didn't want to acknowledge sliding down to settle at the base of her spine.

"Slater offered his guest house for the duration."

"He must want to keep an eye on you."

He laughed. "Probably." He hesitated. "I'm going to visit the police chief in Maidu tomorrow. I thought you might take the drive with me, make sure I don't get lost."

"I got your message." Olivia thought a moment. "Before we work together, we should discuss ... our issues." She reached for the coffee mugs and saucers, feeling her boy-shorts hike up in back, and turned in time to follow Jack's eyes.

He sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island and dragged his eyes back to her face, scraping at the rough looking bristles of his beard. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she hurried down the hall to grab a long sweater out of the hall closet.

When she returned, he asked, "Now that you know what happened to your student, are you still willing to help with the case?"

She felt her lip quiver. "Keisha, her name was Keisha. And unlike you, I keep my promises." She finished the coffee preparations and placed the brimming cups on the counter.

"Okay," Jack said slowly, "I deserve that, but I don't know how much I can tell you."

"Why?"

"Invictus, it's ... complicated."

"I bet." Her eyes never left him and he squirmed under her scrutiny.

"Jesus, Olivia!" He exploded at last, crossing the room to stare out the kitchen window. "What do you want from me?"

"The truth is always a good place to start."

Chapter Fourteen

Jack turned around and took in the whole of her – bare legs beneath skimpy panties under the open sweater, the curve of one breast barely visible from the deep green lapel that nearly matched her eyes, the creamy skin of the flesh on her belly.

"I'm sorry you waited," he said at last.

The flash of knowledge in her eyes showed she knew what he was talking about. Graduation night, years ago. He remembered looking down at her from the stage where he'd sat in his graduation cap and gown. Her arms and legs were tan and smooth from the summer sun. The white dress she wore had reminded him that he was the one who'd taken her virginity – like a horny youth with no consideration for his partner.

After the graduation ceremony ended, she would have waited for him at the agreed-on place. He thought of her sitting in the dugout, still warm from the day's heat, perching on the dusty bench in the pretty dress. He imagined her looking around the baseball field one last time, hopeful, patient, until the sun began its steady rise in the eastern sky. Even when she finally left, she would've been certain that he had a good reason for disappointing her.

Beyond that he didn't want to imagine. Had she gone to his foster parents' house? Had they told her he had packed his things and gone? Had she searched in his upstairs bedroom? Found the empty dresser drawers and closet? Looked again at the bed on which she'd given herself to him? Cried over his desertion?

He wanted to tell her the whole story, explain why he hadn't kept his promise, why he hadn't shown up at the dugout on graduation night. Tell her what'd happened to Roger, the wicked stepfather in their grim fairy tale. He shoved the what-ifs out of his mind. Irrational meandering was pointless and completely out of character for the hard, calculating Invictus soldier he was now. And if he ever came clean with her, she might hate him even more.