In the parking lot, she pulled at her car door. Her fingers slid into thin air.
It was locked!
Keys. Where the hell were her keys? She dug through her pockets. Nothing. Damn! She should keep a spare. . .
She did. Under the wheel well. With shaking fingers, she reached for the magnetic box.
And promptly dropped it.
Shit!
With these trembling hands, she couldn't hold on to any-thing.
Another deep breath and Andrea picked up the box, took out the key, and opened the door. Head down, she tried the engine.
Go slow. Don't flood the damned thing
.
It grunted. Over and over again.
Why the hell hadn't she replaced the battery last month? Last month? Hell, that was another life. No time, of course. Like she had any now! She smacked the steering wheel and swore.
Now, she'd have to walk. That would take fifteen minutes and Hardwyn might not have fifteen minutes.
The Bug choked slower. . . slower. Suddenly, the engine caught with a fury, the whine deafening. She revved the engine, slid into first gear, and flattened the pedal.
She checked her watch. Six twenty-five. It had only taken her ten minutes to dress and sneak out of the hospital. In retrospect, it had seemed like an eternity.
A brief downpour had cooled everything, yet sweat trickled down her temple, spine, and between her breasts. Her breath rasped through her lungs.
No way. Not this time. The damn asthma couldn't interfere, again. Sheer willpower would keep it away.
She had to save Hardwyn, keep someone else from dying, another body from piling up at Dorlynd.
Her tires squealed their protest at her sudden turn into the parking lot. Andrea threw open the door and dashed up to the medical school entrance shoving her security card-key into the lock to gain access.
Nearing the lab, a sense of dread overtook her. A sensation similar to before. Five days ago. Last Monday. Had it been only five days since she'd entered her office and found Milton Grafton impaled by his caduceus? Dear God, it seemed like months.
No light shone from under the door. No sound escaped from inside.
Unable to go any farther, she stopped. An odd sensation, something moved through her, like electricity.
Her hand on the doorknob, the charge traveled up her arm, standing her hair on end. She pushed the door open and stepped cautiously inside. The room was alive. She sucked at the air as though it was liquid. Inhaling, she tasted the terror permeating the room. The heavy, spring-loaded door slammed behind her, enveloping her in darkness. She jumped, then laughed. "Get a hold of yourself."
Groping for the light, she slipped on something. Automatically, she bent down and scooped up a pen.
The sweating sensation returned. Her breath came in spurts. Her fingers brailled along the floor and cupped around a soft, cold hand. Instinctively she recoiled, and losing her balance, landed against the concrete blocks. The impact knocked out her breath, and gasping, she slid down on the cold tile floor.
A hand. A goddamn hand. Too late. She'd been too late. Hardwyn was already there.
Minutes before.
Maybe he was still alive.
She edged back up the wall, fingers searching along rough concrete blocks, until she found the light switch and flicked it.
Light flooded the laboratory.
Temporarily blinded, she shut her eyes and blinked them back open, adjusting to the light. There, almost beneath her feet lay Hardwyn. He seemed to be sleeping. No blood. Nothing to slip in.
She crouched down and rolled him over. A large red hole covered the side of his head. Exit wound.
He'd been shot.
His heart had stopped beating instantly. Not much chance to bleed. A sob tore her throat and she covered her mouth to stifle it. Still, she felt out of place. Her gaze roamed the wall until it settled on the files, and slid lower.
"Not again! Oh, God. No-o-o-o. Not again. . ." Propped against the files, eyes staring upward as though he'd been begging, sat Peter. Blood trickled down the side of Peter's head, pooling on his right. For the third time, she'd come upon the aftermath of a violent death.
Her breath jerked in spurts.
Her heart labored in her chest.
Not again. Not again. Not again
. She couldn't take it, didn't need it. Not after this afternoon's close call. Peter? Hardwyn? Suzanne? Milton? Who did this? Her breath caught. She took several deep breaths and prayed she'd be able to stay conscious.
Calm down. Breathe slower. You're all right. You're alive.
But for how long? No, that was wrong. She had to calm down.
Spurts of laughter.
Was she surprised to see bodies?
Hell no. Where was the patron saint of practical jokes? This was an enormous joke played by the God of black comedy. Every time she opened a door she found a fresh body--sometimes, two.
Somewhere in the distance Ed McMahon must be shouting,
isolated in the theater of the absurd, "H-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-rr's Andrea!"
She leaned back against the wall. It was too much. All too much. She was losing it--physically and emotionally. Somewhere in the background, the laboratory door opened. Unaware, lost in comedic disbelief, Andrea laughed uncontrollably. Hysterically.
Strong arms wrapped around her. They felt so good. "Andrea, what are you doing here? What's happened?"
She looked into his face and smiled. "Where've you been? You're too late," she said with a chuckle. "You missed the fun. We have another murder of the weak. I thought you were one, too. Don't you get it? Week--Weak. It's a pun. . . "
Nothing was right anymore. The whole event had taken on a surrealistic quality. Now, this. She must still be unconscious from her asthma attack. . . hallucinating. . . dreaming. . ..
"Andrea? Are you all right?" He held her tighter. "Here, let me help you."
A wall of cold fear surrounded her. Peter. Hardwyn. She clawed at her protector and held him tightly.
"I came to warn Dwight--about Peter." Laughter turned to dry sobs. She pointed toward the bodies. "I thought he was next. Hell, maybe someone should've warned me." She dissolved into laughter again.
"Andrea. Get hold of yourself. What happened here?"
She pointed. "Just like the others. Like--like. . . that." He pulled free from her grip and examined both closely.
He turned toward Andrea with a puzzled look. "Warn about what?" he said.
"Dean Hardwyn. He stole from Milton's grant. I found it when I looked over the expense column and remembered Peter told him to meet him at the lab." She wiped her fist across her eyes. "I was too late."
The tall blond man stood and walked back to Andrea. "I talked to Peter a few minutes ago. Maybe the killer is still around." He stopped and gazed down at her, smiling. "And how did you know Hardwyn was stealing money from the grant?"
"I--ah, found it in his office file."
"What?" His shoulders shook with laughter. An odd reaction for him. Andrea's spine tingled with icy fear. "I--I went this afternoon after I talked to Paris--he wasn't there--"
"Wait. You were in his office?"
"I called Paris and found out something wonderful about Milton's research." She stopped, pushed him away, and turned. "But where've you been these last two weeks? Everyone's been looking for you."
"What?"
"You must've known about Milton. . ." She gazed around the room. "And. . . this?"
He gripped her arms tightly. "Vaccine? Tell me about Mil-ton's vaccine."
She squirmed. "His vaccine. For AIDS, cancer, lupus, you name it. Paris had a sample of serum made from his own blood. They analyzed it and it tested negative for AIDS."
"So?"
"So, Milton had AIDS. He sent two vials of blood. One before the serum, the other after. The blood without the serum contained the active AIDS virus; the sample with serum showed regenerated DNA which caused the formation of new T-cells; and gave him back his natural immunity. Professor DuBoismier confirmed it. I can't believe it."
He let go of her arms and she rubbed the spot. "That sonofabitch." He turned to her, fire danced in his gaze. "He did it. He really did it?" He wrapped his arms around her, again. "It wasn't his blood."
His laughter filled the room and his words assaulted her with meaning.
"Does anyone else know?"
"What do you mean wasn't his blood?"
He let go and stepped back. Anger flashed across his gaze. "I asked you a question. Answer me."
She hesitated. Her hot, prickly skin shivered like a fresh sunburn. Danger. She'd better watch her words. "Not exactly. . . Sergeant Gary Krastowitcz knows about my call to Paris, but I haven't been able to get. . .."
She stopped. His face hardened into a grimace.
"DuBoismier?"
"From the Pasteur Institute. He said Milton must've written the formula down somewhere. A journal. Hardwyn told me to go to Paris, but I decided a phone call would be cheaper."
"Cheaper, but not safer." His voice held a cruel, sarcastic tone.
Stunned, Andrea hesitated. If she stalled, maybe Gary would remember to look here. "Don't you see? Milton has written about his discovery somewhere. He always wrote everything down."
"And took pictures."
She stopped and gazed at the blond young man pacing in front of her. Pictures? Her eyes widened. Pictures. Shapes and colors. Bloody, carved, and mutilated forms danced in her memory of Grafton's apartment. Sharp pain brought her to reality. She glanced down.
Unconsciously, she still held the pen she'd picked up in her hand, its clasp dug into her palm.
A gold Cross pen bore an engraving RICHARD CANFIELD on the barrel.
"How'd I get your pen?" she asked.
"I must've left it here the other day during my lab. I'll take it, please."
That wasn't the case. No one knew this man's whereabouts. He hadn't had any labs, he'd been missing. Missing? A piece was missing from this picture. Richard was a medical student, not too bright, average in every way. He fit into the crowd, never calling attention to himself. He said something about the blood not being Milton's. What did that mean? And the pictures? He'd known about the pictures. If he knew about the pictures, then he knew all about the research. Peter had told her he had no idea where the grant was. But Richard knew everything.
He must be lying about his pen. He'd dropped his pen for some other reason and now he wanted it back. Evidence.
Instantly, Suzanne's body flashed in front of her eyes. The entrails. The neat packages. The horror--
No!
Andrea fought against the memory.
Neat little piles.
Next to her.
So familiar.
Just like a surgeon's.
Like a surgeon's!
And Hardwyn was a surgeon. He hadn't done surgery while at Dorlynd, but he was famous for one trait, enough to recognize his calling card.
Neatness. Ridiculous, compulsive, neatness. When he operated, he placed the organs to the side in neat little piles.
Neat little piles.
Rage welled up inside of Andrea. That sonofabitch. Bastard. Richard Canfield, average medical student, had mimicked Hardwyn's surgical style. Flawlessly. She'd been stupid not to remember. If only she had, they would've investigated Hardwyn and found him innocent. She balled her fist around the pen, so hard her arm trembled with the effort. Not fear.
From anger. Deep, burning hatred.
The next instant, an insidious calm overtook her. She breathed deep and even. The shaking stopped. Her head cleared.
Her gaze traveled over the files. The locked cabinet was open. The key had been found after all. She was sure, now.
She had to think. Stall for time. She gazed deeply into Richard Canfield's eyes. She knew, and he knew she knew. "Why'd you do it?"
He smiled and breathed deeply, letting out an audible sigh.
"It's all right, now. We don't need to rush. It's obvious Hardwyn committed the murders; couldn't take the guilt anymore," he said, sweeping his hand around the room.
"Andrea, did you ever stop to think that your amateur sleuthing might become fatal? Maybe you'd like to check this clue out, first."
Richard picked up the gun from Hardwyn's limp hand. She knew she wouldn't be leaving without a fight. It didn't matter, now.
"So you want to know why, do you? Why, my darling Andrea, it's money. Isn't it always money?" He laughed and leaned in close, so close his hot breath beat against her face.
She stood perfectly still concentrating on her breathing. "Milton was so maniacal about his research, he crossed the line. With my help of course."
He waived the gun wildly and pulled out a bench. "Come here. Sit. Make yourself comfortable while I tell you a bedtime story."
Andrea did as she was told. Now was not the time. She needed to know.
"I lured them to Milton."
"Who?" Her voice rasped from the earlier attack. So far so good. She could still breathe.
"Transients, homeless, throwaways. Lured them with food, shelter, drugs, booze, whatever it took. Milton used their blood. Infected them with AIDS, and tested his vaccines. If it didn't work, they were eliminated. . . disposed."
"How could he. . . you?" She rubbed her eyes. How had this been done without her knowledge? She'd been so busy worrying about her faculty appointment, she'd never paid any attention to Milton's actual research. She hadn't even known he was gay. And Richard. She'd thought him nothing more than an interested student. . . not a murderer. "But mutilation? Why?"
He picked up a beaker and examined the contents. "You saw them didn't you?" She nodded. "Very good idea, wasn't it? Actually, they never felt a thing. It was most humane. Kept the police busy, also. Until Milton found out the Dean stole his grant funds, then he lost it. . . needed the grant to be scandal free. Can you believe it? A mass murderer wanting something to be scandal free?" He laughed and threw the beaker against the wall, its blue contents spreading and mingling with the red horror on the floor.
"But why you?"
"Yes, why would an intelligent young man with everything to gain, get involved? That is for Milton to answer. Remember those fateful pictures?"
She nodded.
"He took some with me next to the bodies and then hid them, threatening to expose me if I didn't help him. To make matters worse, he'd been infected with the virus." He hung his head. "Chances are pretty good that I'd been infected, too."
"HIV?" She hugged herself, still grasping the pen.