The Judas Contact (Boomers Book 1) (8 page)

He stared at her hand for a long moment and then lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I’ll be offloading the van. If you don’t see me on the first floor, the lab is accessed off the kitchen, through the door to the basement. “

She smiled a little and loosened her fingers. He clearly didn’t like the contact, but refrained from saying anything. “Okay. I’ll be right down.”

He nodded and rubbed a gloved hand against the arm she’d held and then he was out the door. Staring after him, she pressed a hand over her heart. It thudded at a too fast pace. The man was a walking contradiction.

“Rory, what the hell have you gotten me into?” she asked to the empty room. Her gaze landed on the duffel. Unzipping it, she pulled out a stack of clothes, toiletries, three different pairs of shoes and a cell phone.

The phone didn’t belong to her.

Flipping it open she thumbed it on and waited. It booted with a message.

Thank you for trusting us, Ilsa. I know you didn’t believe my story, but I also know you will dig until you find the truth or the facts to disprove it. We need you. Hit star nine one anytime you have a question. Hit star four if you need us. We will be there. – Rory

The message lacked any real comfort. The phone was another security message, either designed to reinforce their story or to provide her with a safety net. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she forced herself to breathe slow and even. Her heart continued its mad dash against her ribs.

Rory packed the phone because she thinks I am going to need them.

And that worried her more than the rest combined.

Ilsa stared at the treadmill, frowning. “I thought when you said run, we were going to go outside.”

“Running outside isn’t secure. More eyes and more opportunities for you to be seen. We still haven’t identified what triggered that security alert.” He focused on patience. He preferred the woman’s rational intellect and fascination with technology to this more emotional disappointment.

“A run on the beach can’t be that dangerous.” She pursed her lips and gestured to the equipment. “I really don’t like gyms.”

“You want to run, it’s a treadmill. It allows you to run in a safe environment.”

She mumbled something about laboratories. He folded his arms and leaned forward. “What?”

“I don’t like gyms because people watch you when you are working out. It’s like being under a microscope.”
The scientist didn’t like to be observed.
Amusement ticked the muscle in his cheek.

“The only one to watch you here is me. Out there, I can’t account for potential observers.” He clasped his gloves together and pointed to the machine. “Run.”

She blew out a sigh, pushing blonde bangs up off her forehead, giving him a better view of her hazel eyes. The rest of her white blonde hair, pulled up into a ponytail on top of her head, looked as silky as dandelion fluff. She’d changed into blue shorts and a white cotton tank top that stretched over a sports bra, her tan skin a golden counterpoint against that colorless shirt.

He walked over to the weights and picked up two fifty pounders to work his biceps. Hard curls flexed the muscles in his arms. The metal cooled his palms under the gloves. He didn’t normally work out with them on, but Ilsa insisted on touching him regularly. Better to limit the possibilities of an accident.

Another huffing sigh bounced moodily in the air behind him. He focused on keeping his breathing even as he controlled the curls. A beep told him she’d turned the treadmill on and, a moment later, it was followed by the whishing noise of the rubber beginning to roll. Her shoes thumped against the rubber, slowly at first, and then gaining in rhythm.

He glanced over his shoulder. The shorts she wore tightened with every flex of her legs as she jogged. Though, it was more of an uneven wobbling kind of run
. If one could label it a run.
Her chin, tucked down, threw off her center of gravity and her arms were almost too tight to her sides.

“Look up,” he advised.

“What?” Her breath came in hard huffs. Harder than they should for the speed she traveled at, barely a three point four on the machine.

“Look up. You’re struggling because you’re looking down. Your body is too tight, too tense. You need to see where you’re going, not your feet. Lift your chin.” Why was he bothering? He could just work his arms, release some of the coiled tension in his spine. A headache brewed at the base of his skull, a tensing soreness that promised to unleash hell if he didn’t let go of it.

The treadmill stopped, and she whirled around. Sweat glistened on her face. Far too much for the less than five minutes she jogged. “And this is why I don’t like gyms.”

She stomped off the treadmill and marched to the door. Her arms and legs trembled. The pressurized door refused to slam. Her grunt of frustration might have been funny if he could have pinpointed what pissed her off.

Replacing the weights, he pulled a phone out of his pocket and hit the number from memory. “Simon, does the scientist have any health issues?”

“One moment.” Simon’s patient voice was accompanied by the tapping of keys. Garrett watched the closed door and checked his watch. The house’s security systems were fully engaged. She hadn’t left.

“Looks like she has high cholesterol, high blood pressure, and she’s taking medication for anxiety and depression. Nothing terrifically out of step with the average health reports for today. No signs of chronic illness or issues with respiration. She is a little over the norm in the weight categories.”

“Nothing wrong with her weight. She’s curvy and healthy looking.” And he’d definitely looked. Long, well-shaped legs, full breasts, fantastic hips and an ass that he wouldn’t forget anytime soon. He preferred her curves to those starving cases that this society used in all of its advertising.

“Is Doctor Blaine all right?” If the telepath had anything to say on Garrett’s comment, he kept it to himself.

“She was running and seemed to be having trouble with it. She seemed to be having the same trouble yesterday when Rory was getting her up the stairs.” More like she looked ready to pass out when he’d reached in to pull her through the door. Her face was red and flushed, her mouth open, and her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. He’d attributed it to fear, but less than five minutes on the treadmill and she showed similar symptoms.

“Could it be a result of the toxin you used?” The mild question sparked a flame of guilt, but Garrett crushed it.

“No. No, if the toxin were going to cause her issues, she wouldn’t have woken up or shaken it off as quickly as she did. She had some tremors for roughly an hour, but those were gone on the drive here. I saw no evidence of respiratory issues. Ask Rory.”

“Stand by.”

He was put on hold and a beep on his watch flashed green. She was down in the lab. He’d shown her the door earlier, but had not taken her down. Checking the equipment briefly, he left the workout room and headed for the kitchen. The basement door stood wide open.

They were going to have a discussion about security.

“Garrett?” Simon was back.

“I’m here.”

“Rory said she wasn’t a really physical person. She didn’t work out much in college and she didn’t spend a lot of time in athletics. The hard breathing is probably just her not being used to a workout.” Not an unreasonable assumption.

“Roger that.” He hung up and tucked the phone back into his pocket. He headed downstairs and closed the door behind him. Ilsa stood in the center of the white tiled room. The equipment was laid out in a clockwork pattern, a laboratory table with a desktop computer in the center.

“Everything you need here, Doctor Blaine?”

She hadn’t changed from her workout clothes. The air was cooler in the room than the rest of the house but, if the chill bothered her, he didn’t see any sign of it.

“It’s an impressive assortment of machines.” Her lack of confidence echoed under the words.

“But?”

“Why do you wear gloves all the time?” She turned to face him, her gaze hard and assessing.

“That shouldn’t impact your studies.” He didn’t really feel the urge to explain his abilities. They didn’t offer a lot of comfort to people.

“Maybe. But then neither did having an old friend drag me into a firefight. I’ve been drugged, I’ve been introduced to some shadow world of delusion with super soldiers from the future, I can’t go outside because I
might
be seen, and I’m standing inside a house that’s a fortress with enough lab equipment to do anything from studies of brain chemistry to building DNA based bombs. We live in a very dangerous world, Mr. Garrett. You want me to trust you and to follow your rules. You want me to help you. You begin this process by being honest with me. Why are you always wearing gloves?”

Her voice never quavered nor did it rise to a strident note. She maintained a firm, controlled tone. Her eyes hinted at glassy and the flush in her cheeks deepened to a rosier shade. She was upset, but under control. He could admire that.

Looking down at his gloves, he clenched his fists and released them. The specially insulated material barely squeaked. “I can poison people with a touch. My body produces toxins, all kinds of toxins. I can direct them, I can control them but, occasionally, if I am startled or not vigilant, I can kill without intent. So I wear gloves to protect the people around me.”

Ilsa’s brows drew together. “How do you survive with the toxins in your system?”

“I just do.” He shrugged.

She leaned back against the central lab table, her arms folding just under her breasts. He wished she’d chosen a different pose. The stance pushed her breasts upwards, straining against the cotton. “Is this another experiment that was done in the hypothetical future?”

Memory flashed across his mind.
Experiments. His mother strapped to a table. Needles driving into her veins, into her very bones, and the discussions of the medics as they extracted blood, saliva, tears, bone marrow—any fluid that might give them insight into how her body did what it did. Garrett watched it all, trapped on the other side of glass. Unable to touch her, to touch them, or to help her.

He shook his head. “No. I was born this way.”

“May I have a blood sample?”

Needles stabbed deep into his mother’s veins, she screamed and spit. The technician working on her went down screaming.

“If that will set your mind at ease…but you will need your hazmat gear and two layers of gloves.” He was inflexible on that point. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. Controlling the toxin release required vigilance and attention on his part. He understood exactly what his blood could do.

“Okay. I’ll gear up.”

“You should get something to eat and some rest. We can start tomorrow.” Her calm was almost too calm. He saw that look in other prisoners when they were focused on survival, on meeting the needs of their captors.

 “I need to do something. I don’t really understand any of this or whatever the hell is going on. So I need method. I need control. I need to figure out if you’re all insane or not.” The words locked in her throat and she coughed hard, planting her hands on the tabletop.

“All right. Gear up.” He rolled up his sleeve, bunching the cotton up around his bicep. “The hazmat gear is over there.” He pointed to a closet on the far wall. “We’ll do the extraction in the isolation room.”

“You have an isolation room?” Ilsa swung around even as she opened the closet door. Her gaze fixed on him and her pupils dilated.

* * * *

Ilsa’s breath clogged in her throat. Garrett’s arms looked huge in the thick black jacket, the heavier shirts and combat pants in unrelieved black he wore. The sight of the veins popping on his bicep and the corded muscle tightening along his forearm sent a tremor through her nervous system. Her mouth dried. Her heart seemed to hiccup and literally skip a beat. Heat flushed through her as though a fever had broken loose in her system.

“Doctor Blaine?”

“Yes. Yes. Hazmat suit.” She fumbled with the vinyl and jerked it off the hanger. She stuffed herself into the suit. Sweat slicked her legs as she dragged the rest of it on and pulled on the helmet. She could barely get a full breath and it was hard as hell to button the thing while he stared. His arms were crisscrossed with blazing white scars that stood out in thick welts against his ruddy skin. He wasn’t quite tanned, but he wasn’t pale either. It was like his skin had a caramel coating on it, a sweet color that enhanced the scars. Her fingers itched to trace the ridges.

“This can wait,” Garrett repeated his earlier offer.

“No. No, it can’t.” She stuffed her hands into the first layer of latex gloves and then into the second, heavier set. Her breath fogged on the shield before she remembered that she needed to plug into the respiration system. She glanced around the room. “Isolation room?”

He pointed and she lumbered towards the door. There was no other way to walk in these ridiculous suits. She always felt ungainly when she wore one. Thankfully, her line of work meant it was a rare occurrence. Inside the room she found the orange oxygen cords and plugged one in, dialing up the control until cool air flooded inside the suit. Breathing became a great deal easier and she forced herself to calm down.

She was a scientist, not some teenager in the first throes of a crush.
Besides, he’s nice enough, but you still have no idea if he’s truly delusional. You’re not impulsive like Rory. You need facts. Find the facts.

Somewhere between walking in the room and plugging in the oxygen, Garrett had followed her inside. He stood patiently, waiting next to a case of syringes and vials. He had to have gotten them out because she certainly didn’t remember to do it.

“The fact that you’re so willing to participate in this leads me to believe you’re telling me the truth.” The chatter spilled out of her. One of her professors complained that she couldn’t work without talking and he’d been right. It was why she preferred to work with animals. They didn’t get aggravated at her need to chatter. “That concerns me.”