Dark Salvation.

by Dunne, Jennifer.

Chapter 1.

d.a.m.n LACROIX for not telling her about the underground garage! But it would take more than an underhanded trick to make her give up now.

Rebecca Morgan pressed her back against the smooth steel wall of the elevator, letting the metal's cold touch seep through her suit jacket and the rayon blouse clinging to her skin. Gradually, she stopped shaking.

The elevator chimed, and the doors began sliding closed. She lunged for the control panel. Slamming her finger against the door open b.u.t.ton, she pressed it again and again until the doors slid open, revealing the gla.s.s-walled vestibule separating the elevator from the deserted parking area. She was safe. She wasn't trapped. And when she was ready, the elevator would whisk her up above ground.

She braced her palms against the rea.s.suringly solid elevator walls and took a deep breath of the cool air, so different from the scorching heat of the Arizona desert above, and focused on the job she'd come here to do. If she played her cards right, this interview could be her ticket to freelance work for a major paper. She'd be a success, by her own efforts and on her own terms. Bringing down a con-artist like Lacroix in the process was just the icing on her congratulatory cake.

But first, she had to control her emotions. Much as she hated being underground, she'd stay in the elevator until she restored her composure. Overcoming her childhood fear would be easier than overcoming a bad first impression.

Closing her eyes, she listened to the soft whir of air forced through vents hidden in the vestibule ceiling, and lifted her face to the bright fluorescent light streaming in the open doors. Her pulse steadied and she took deep, calming breaths of the slightly metallic air. She was ready to tour the mysterious Prescott Inst.i.tute and meet its reclusive director who, according to her research, didn't seem to exist.

Her pulse and breathing sped up again, but not from fear or anger this time. Desmond Lacroix existed.

After countless calls and letters to the Inst.i.tute, she'd finally spoken to him on the phone. Sparred with him on the phone was more like it. She'd tried to pin him down about Doctor Avram having worked at the Inst.i.tute, Avram's alleged drug problem that he'd "narrowly escaped" having destroy his life, and his revolutionary new surgical methods that he'd said came to him in a "dream." Lacroix had sidestepped and dodged her every question, in a thick caramel voice that distracted her so much, she wasn't even certain what she'd said to prompt his invitation for a private tour of the Inst.i.tute. But his invitation was burned in her memory.

"I suppose I've no choice but to give you a guided tour," he'd said. His soft chuckle had made her so weak she'd dropped her pen. "Or you'll sneak over my walls in the middle of the night. No telling what trouble you might get yourself in."

Even though she'd taken him up on his offer, she suspected she might be getting into trouble anyway.

She recalled the way Avram's face had paled when she'd asked who he'd worked with in Arizona. After insisting once more that he'd done all the testing for his new procedure when he returned from Arizona, he'd ended the interview so quickly he'd practically thrown her out the door. At the time, she'd been too busy trying to follow up on his clues to wonder what had scared him. Now, when it was too late, she realized the narrow escape he'd referred to might not have been from drug addiction.

She glanced out through the gla.s.s-walled vestibule at her rental car, the only occupant of the underground visitors' parking lot. A sign indicated that employee parking was another level down, but she hadn't investigated further to see if any of the 730 people Lacroix claimed to employ were parked there.

She'd preferred to go immediately to the oasis of safety promised by the open elevator. Had she made a mistake by coming here alone? How desperate was Lacroix to keep his secrets?

Bending down, she picked up her notepad and pen from the gleaming floor of the elevator. She felt half-dressed without her microca.s.sette recorder and camera, something else for which she blamed Lacroix.

"You must come alone," he'd insisted. "And you may not use film or tape while on Inst.i.tute property.

Neither condition is negotiable." She'd agreed because she needed the interview. Unless Lacroix himself gave her a clue, all she had was an intriguing mystery, not a feature story. She just hoped her knack for getting subjects to reveal more than they planned held out a little longer.

She turned her attention to the elevator panel. Aside from the usual "door open," "door close," "alarm,"

and "stop" symbols, only two b.u.t.tons indicated floors. The bottom b.u.t.ton read "P," as did the digital display at the top of the panel, so she pressed the b.u.t.ton marked "M." The steel doors whispered shut, and a slight vibration carried through the soles of her dress pumps. In her notebook, she jotted the quick question, "Where's the employees' elevator?"

The doors slid open to reveal a marble foyer. Cl.u.s.ters of ferns and potted palms alternated with marble benches around a tinkling fountain, while even more plants lined the walls, blurring the edges of the room with green shadows. Her baked and heated skin absorbed the cool moisture of the fountain's spray as she inhaled the rea.s.suringly familiar aroma of living plants.

The Prescott Inst.i.tute continued to surprise her. She'd never expected to find such lush opulence concealed within the all but deserted farmhouse and windowless cinder block building she'd seen from outside. Of course, she also hadn't expected the dilapidated barn to conceal the entrance to an underground garage. She gripped her pen, anxious to discover what else the Inst.i.tute concealed.

As her eyes adjusted to the room's diffused lighting, she made out the shape of a man in the shadows.

Disregarding the benches, he lounged against the wall with one foot crossed in front of the other, like a GQ ad come to life. Shadows cloaked him, allowing her to see only his light linen suit that hinted at a powerful body beneath.

He stepped forward in silence, pushing away from the wall with fluid grace. Prepared to give him a single dismissive glance, her cheeks heated as she stared. The man's thick black hair fell in waves to his shoulders, and instead of the dress shirt she'd expected, he wore a dark green turtleneck that hugged his chest and made the linen jacket cling like a second skin.

Dragging her gaze up from his chest, she discovered him making a similar appraisal of her. A strange tingle of pleasure rippled through her at his half-smile of approval and the emerald sparks kindling in the depths of his eyes. Or maybe the chill air was making her shiver. Then he spoke.

"Ms. Morgan?"

Desmond Lacroix. She'd recognize that caramel cadence and timbre anywhere, even if she heard him reading the entries in a phone book. His resonant voice was even more devastating in person. It filled her mind with images of murmured endearments and pa.s.sionate readings of Shakespearean sonnets.

Excitement coiled through her, quickening her pulse. She told herself it was because his measured p.r.o.nunciation hinted at the remnants of a drawl. He'd probably taken voice lessons at some time in the past, hoping to disguise his origins. Another secret for her to discover. Another deception to expose. She looked forward to peeling away the layers of his disguise, and revealing the truth of the man.

She offered a professional smile and extended her hand.

"Mr. Lacroix. Thank you for taking the time to see me."

"My pleasure, I a.s.sure you." His words wrapped around her in a verbal caress, and he clasped her hand a moment longer than necessary. "Did you have any trouble finding the Inst.i.tute?"

She thought back to the rutted dirt path she'd followed from the Interstate. She'd feared for her car's suspension with every b.u.mp, until the path snaked between two battered and faded farmhouses, and pa.s.sed a bare cinder block building bigger than both houses combined. The path ended at the drooping red barn he'd told her to park in, and which concealed the entrance to the underground garage. "Your directions were quite clear."

Another half-smile touched his lips, acknowledging that she hadn't answered his question. Before he could exchange more pointed pleasantries, she flipped open her notebook, reminding him that she was here for business. His charm couldn't camouflage the fact that no records existed of a Mr. Desmond Lacroix, or that the Inst.i.tute's paper trails ended with a holding company no one had ever heard of.

He gestured her toward the gla.s.s door on her left.

"The Prescott Inst.i.tute is divided into three general areas of research," he began, sliding a plastic keycard through the reader beside the door. It hummed and released the lock with a loud click. He heldthe door open for her, letting her enter the sterile white corridor before him.

The corridor stretched for at least thirty feet before turning a corner, with doors on both sides. They must be in the cinder block building, then. But was the entire Inst.i.tute contained in the one building, or were the three areas divided between the three buildings? They'd all looked equally lifeless from the road.

The air on the other side of the door stung her nose and throat with its antiseptic bite, and a heavy metallic taste clung to the inside of her mouth. Swallowing didn't help. A sudden whiff of spice pierced the hospital smell, and she turned to find Lacroix behind her. She'd overlooked the subtle, spicy-sweet fragrance of his cologne in the lush foyer. But it contrasted well with the sterile atmosphere of the hall, just as the warmth radiating from him contrasted with the overly-conditioned air.

"We research the blood and vascular system, blood-born contagions, and vascular applications, such as new methods to perform transplants and transfusions in greater safety," he elaborated, pausing to let her write everything down. "Because of the strict rules regarding sterile working conditions, I can't take you in to see any of the applications research. But your tour will cover the other two areas of the facility.

Feel free to stop me if you have any questions."

He set off down the hall at a brisk pace, forcing her to scramble to catch up to him. So there were places she couldn't see. Were they manufacturing illegal drugs? That would match Doctor Avram's shady background. But illegal drug manufacturers were usually in it for the money, and wouldn't waste their profits on such an elaborate environment.

Maybe they were conducting illegal medical research, performing unsanctioned operations, or using unwilling test subjects. Kidnapped homeless people, perhaps. Or nosy reporters.

She shivered. No, it had to be drugs. She'd find a way to see those hidden areas later, after she'd taken the officially sanctioned tour. Forcing the issue now might jeopardize the concessions she'd already won.

He hurried her past featureless metal doors, each with a keycard scanner mounted in the wall beside it.

"What's in these rooms?"

"They're not part of the tour."

She couldn't pa.s.s up the chance to see one of the hidden rooms. Dropping a little ways behind him, she stopped and tested the door. The cold steel k.n.o.b turned, but the door refused to budge. She pushed harder, and the scanner beside the door began squealing with a high-pitched repet.i.tive tone more annoying than any car alarm she'd ever heard.

Lacroix stepped up and slashed his card through the scanner, instantly silencing the machine. "Leave the doors alone."

He turned to lead her back down the hall as the door unlocked with a loud click. It was the opportunity she'd been waiting for. She pushed open the door and stepped into the dimly lit lab.

A rough wooden table with brightly painted drawers filled the center of the tiny room. Narrow counters and desk s.p.a.ces ran around the walls, with shrouded laboratory equipment stored neatly for their next use.

The door closed behind her with a bang, plunging the room into darkness. She started to tremble. She couldn't breathe.

Light. She had to have light.

Whirling around, she groped for the wall, half afraid of what her hands might come across in the dark.

When her fingers brushed the cold, hard surface of the door, she slid her hands to the sides, but couldn't find a light switch. Desperate to get out, she grabbed the door k.n.o.b with both hands, twisting and pulling.

The mechanism refused to yield. The darkness closed in upon her, and she pounded on the door, slamming her fists against the rigid surface.

The welcome buzz and click of the scanner freed the door, and she wrenched it open. Rushing out, into the light, into the air, she practically tripped over Lacroix. He reached out a hand to steady her, but she batted it away. She needed s.p.a.ce.

"The locks have a built-in delay feature. You have to wait a few seconds before they'll open again.

What did you think you'd find in there, anyway?"

She could barely hear his voice over the pounding of her pulse. Pressing her back against the cool tilewall, she forced herself to take a deep breath. The antiseptic air burned her throat, but she swallowed it in welcome gulps. When she could trust herself, she looked at him.

His eyes narrowed. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm okay now." She grinned, trying to make light of her panic attack. "I don't do too well in small, dark places."

"I understand. I used to have a similar fear, of being buried alive."

His face blurred, and she imagined him being thrown into a shallow grave. She shuddered, the picture in her mind so realistic, she almost seemed to be there with him. Shovel after shovel of dirt fell on her helpless body, weighing her down, blocking out the light, cutting off her air....

"Ms. Morgan!"

The shout roused her, and she realized Lacroix was shaking her. He stopped, but his hands remained clamped on her shoulders, two points of concentrated fire. They were close enough that she could smell the musky aroma of the man beneath his cologne.

She looked up at him. The pallor of his face made his eyes seem twice as green. She must have given him quite a scare.

She shrugged her shoulders, but he didn't remove his hands. Their heat spread over her collar bones and up her neck, melting the last of her tension.

"We can end the tour, if you wish."

"I'm fine." She moved her shoulders again, and this time he lifted his hands away. The cold tile wall behind her absorbed the residual heat from his hands, leaving her at the mercy of the hallway's chill. She dismissed the feeling with another shrug and concentrated on her work. She'd only seen one room, and no researchers. "What do you do in that lab?"

"It's not currently in use. That's why it wasn't part of your tour. We have much to see, and a limited amount of time."

"Then let's get moving." She pushed herself away from the wall.

Lacroix nodded. "Stay close to me this time."

"No problem." Her flippant tone couldn't quite hide her shaking voice, but he didn't embarra.s.s her by mentioning it. He also didn't seem upset at her attempt to breach his security system, making her wonder if the empty labs had been a setup that she was meant to find.

Leading her down the strangely empty corridor, he opened doors every so often to let her look at ongoing research. Each time, he gave her too vague a description of what they were working on for her to tell by looking if that's what they were really doing or not. She tried to get him to clarify his remarks, but his elaborations were masterpieces of noninformation. Work stopped whenever the researchers spotted them and Lacroix never entered any of the labs, so she had no opportunity to examine the labs in detail or question the researchers. They might be doing the research he claimed, or they might be synthesizing some poison more addictive than cocaine. The money had to come from somewhere, and drugs were still the best bet.

Her heart gave its traitorous vote for legitimate research, and Rebecca gritted her teeth in frustration.

She knew the Inst.i.tute was a setup. No one went to that much trouble to disguise a normal business. It had taken her the better part of four months to unravel the complex chain of interconnecting businesses that funneled money from dummy companies and inst.i.tutional investment accounts into this mystery in the desert. But until she knew who was behind it, or what was being disguised, she knew nothing. Maybe the Inst.i.tute did exactly what Lacroix claimed, but used its income and expenses to launder money from another source. She had to get more information from Lacroix.

After they peered into another room, she asked casually, "How many of the labs are in use?"

"Lab s.p.a.ce is a.s.signed based on the needs of the research projects. The different experiments require a variety of square footages and hardware."

Another non-answer. But this time, she wouldn't let go. "So how much of your s.p.a.ce is being used?"

"We're currently operating at over 90% of utilization."

At last, something she could use! She noted the percentage in her pad, and scratched a quick reminder to look up utilization rates of other facilities. He stopped and opened a door to another lab, then gestured her inside. After checking to make sure the lab was occupied and well lit, she hurried in, determined to find out if the lab was in use for its stated purpose. He followed her inside.

A young man in a wrinkled white lab coat sat at the counter, hunched over a microscope that was far more complex than the simple magnifiers she remembered from high school biology. A scattering of Twinkie wrappers surrounded him, perfuming the room with the odor of preserved sugar. It was sickeningly sweet, but a welcome change from the antiseptic air of the hallways. He must have heard the buzzing of the scanner, because he lifted one hand and made vague shushing motions at the door.

Lacroix frowned. "Dr. Chen."

The researcher bolted upright, almost falling off his stool in his haste. He swiveled to face them, speaking with a lilt more appropriate for a California beach b.u.m than a brilliant scientist.

"I didn't know it was you, okay?" His face wrinkled as he tried to place Rebecca. "You're new."

"This is Rebecca Morgan. She's a reporter, taking a tour of the Inst.i.tute. I thought she might be interested in your work. Ms. Morgan, this is Doctor Andrew Chen."

Dr. Chen beamed, and waved them over to the microscope.

"Dr. Chen is one of our sharpest researchers," Lacroix murmured to Rebecca as they crossed the lab.

"His doctorate is in molecular biology. He's a brilliant scientist, but his interpersonal skills are a little...underdeveloped."

She nodded. Dr. Chen was a nerd.

Oblivious to their exchange, Dr. Chen began showing off his research. She didn't follow all of his technical jargon, even with the background research she'd done, but she grasped enough to understand he was researching DNA structures, trying to understand what the various sections of genetic code were responsible for. At least, that's what he said he was doing. She made notes of things to follow up on, all the while looking for a way to prove he did what he claimed to do.

"So, how would that work?" she asked.

"I'd start with a cell sample. Then I'd trap it on a slide, and inject proteins to flag the antigens I'm looking for. If they show up, I break apart the DNA to get more details. Get it?"

"No, I still don't see how you'd do it."

"I'd take a cell sample." He p.r.o.nounced each word slowly and carefully, as if talking to an idiot. She saw her chance.

"A blood sample?"