The child peered up at him through wet, sticky lashes, her sobs dialing back to a snuffle so she could speak. “Do they have cherry?”
“I’m pretty sure we do,” Nurse Pink said. “I’ll get you a red one. But you have to stop crying or you might choke on your sucker.”
The mother gave him a grateful smile. “You’re good with kids.” Her gaze went to his left hand. “Do you have any of your own?”
“No,” he said.
Not anymore. Not really.
Søren headed for the reception area, where he handed over his form. It didn’t take long to wrap things up, and soon he had charged the copay and escaped the cloying warmth of the office. After checking his watch, he determined there was no point in going back to Micor today, as he’d predicted to Glenna.
Outside, the wind cut up rough, presaging rain. He tugged the collar of his coat up and sprinted for his car, hoping to outrun the storm.
CHAPTER 17
Rowan looked at the data in disbelief. One of the lab techs must have contaminated the samples. Sometimes he swore he could make more competent help out of monkey parts.
Still, he was nothing if not cautious, so he ran the tests himself. The results rocked him; the blood was definitely a positive match, as his own work was flawless.
They had been relying on regular infusions of AB-negative from the local blood bank, but it appeared they had the donor on staff in the surface facility. That was a stroke of luck. Test subject I-53 would soon need another transfusion; she was running through the stock much quicker than they’d anticipated. If they could avoid using the blood bank again this early, it would be best.
He pondered. Though it was unprecedented, he could send a request for one of the techs in the dummy lab to approach the employee with a sob story about a dying relative. That should motivate the man to give blood. Rowan checked the name on the sample.
Strong. Thomas Strong. He worked in Human Resources. Despite himself, Rowan chuckled. That seemed particularly apropos.
Before he could dispatch the necessary instruction, his computer beeped. It could be only one person, and it must be important, so he opened his e-mail. Trouble. Forwarding you the pertinent logs.
There was only one person who had any contact with what went on down below: their chief of security. He was grim-faced ex-military; he would do anything to keep his comfortable income and understood the necessity of loyalty and silence. And even the security chief didn’t know the extent of the work. He had just been instructed to attach anything out of the ordinary. Generally, he did a good job of monitoring and not bothering Rowan more than necessary. But recently, he’d brought a disgruntled employee to their attention, and her behavior at work had become sufficiently alarming to prompt Rowan to bug her home as a precaution. People were never as clever or as careful as they thought.
This was the first time the chief had sent anything in a while, since the unpleasantness in the upstairs lab. They’d taken care of the girl quietly and left nothing to worry about. Her body would be nothing but ash by now. So why did he have a bad feeling about playing this message?
Frowning, he dismissed the foreboding. There was no logical reason for it. Rowan clicked on the file. His frown turned into a thundercloud scowl. Not another one. Only that wasn’t precisely accurate; this time, there were two, acting in concert. He studied the information the security chief had included.
He typed a terse reply: You did well. I’ll take it from here. Though he loathed the diversion from his work, he had to nip this in the bud. With a faint sigh, he tapped out another message. New external complication. Proceed as usual?
He’d never met the person on the other end; he only knew that the individual served as a liaison between the board of directors and him.
He wanted to get back to work, but this required resolution. So instead he sat at his computer awaiting a reply. That necessity chafed at him a bit. He knew perfectly what the liaison would say.
Within fifteen minutes, he was proved correct.
Yes.
Just one word. But he knew what to do next. Rowan sent another e-mail, bounced through four different servers. The message contained an encrypted work order. Kelly Clark and Mia Sauter would be dealt with soon.
Next, he sent a worm that would gobble up any traces of the security chief’s message. The other man would open it, knowing it would purge his system but not harm his files. They’d perfected the process over the years.
This mess tidied to his satisfaction, Rowan was able to return to his real work. There was only one person he could trust to carry out his instructions, so he e-mailed the security chief once more. If financial incentive is required to secure the donation, offer it, he concluded. His man would filter the matter through the lab director, providing layers of screen.
Satisfied he’d done everything possible to prevent the loss of I-53, he focused on his next concern. T-89 was spending too much time with Gillie. If Rowan didn’t need the subject, he’d dispose of him. Unfortunately, he was the first real success, and Rowan couldn’t afford to lose him. Yet.
Once he documented the case fully and had digital recordings of all applications of T-89’s power, then he could get rid of him. The subject was too volatile ever to release, and too expensive to keep long term. T-89 required too much medication and too much food to make him a viable permanent part of Rowan’s ultimate plan.
Unlike Gillie. She was a pleasure to work with. That jogged his memory, so he checked the time. Ah, she should be awake. He knew she looked forward to his morning visits, just before he went off shift. Rowan put aside his research, checked his reflection in the mirror above the lab sink, and went in search of Gillie.
She answered the door on the first knock, proving her eagerness. Rowan let himself soak in the sight of her. Each time, her beauty struck him anew, from her slight, delicate figure to her tousled red gold curls. Her skin was pale as cream, her eyes a sparkling blue, and her nose had an impish tilt. Classic Irish loveliness, Rowan thought.
He greeted her with a smile. “Is that breakfast I smell?” Bobbing her head, she stepped back so he could enter. The table was set with French toast and a dish of scrambled eggs, enough for two. “Are you sure you’re not a mind reader, too?”
Her brow crinkled. “God, I hope not. Why?”
Charming.
“You seem to have anticipated my arrival.”
“Ah. Yes.” She added another plate to the table.
He sat down and let her serve him. Gillie obviously enjoyed the chance to show her affection in small ways, though a deeper liaison was out of the question. For now. A small tub of butter joined the syrup; she added forks and then sat down across from him.
Her hands trembled a little as she reached for the dish of eggs. Rowan smiled; he found it quite flattering that he could affect her like this, make her all shy and fluttery. Warmth swelled within him.
For a while, there was only the clink of silver against plates. She was quite a good cook, though her French toast had too much cinnamon. He decided against commenting. After all, criticism from him would crush her.
At length he asked, gentle and sympathetic, “How are you getting on with T-89? He hasn’t inconvenienced you? I had no choice but to permit his visits. I’m sorry, Gillie.”
“It’s all right. I don’t mind.” She sounded subdued, as well she might, discussing that animal. But she was a saint, making such sacrifices for his work.
Rowan dared to be candid this once. “I promise, all of this will be worth it someday. I’m going to take you away from here when I’ve finished. Things will be different.”
“Really,” she said quietly.
He couldn’t blame her for doubting her good fortune. “Yes. Amid all my other research, I’m working on synthesizing a compound that will mimic what your blood does. Once that’s possible, we can cure any disease known to man. Imagine it, Gillie: a universal medicine, all because of you. You’ll be lauded all over the world.” He smiled at her. “And so will I. Together, we can do anything.”