

Thursday, May 17, 1:00 p.m.
Dr. Gill was no straw man. In fact, he was a big coup for Hollis University. Kate skimmed his bio again. The university Web site listed the numerous research grants he'd been awarded, and noted he was short-listed for the newly endowed one-million-dollar chair in neuromuscular research. A separate press attachment mentioned the possibility of a Nobel Prize.
This guy was a highly respected medical researcher. What was his involvement with BioMediSol---if any? Was he being used?
In a few hours she would find out. Right now, she needed to work on her files and keep a low profile. She'd shown up to work this morning, trying to maintain the appearance of normality and lull John Lyons into thinking that she was as clueless as he thought she was.
She tucked Dr. Gill's address under the case reports on her desk.
Randall Barrett strode past the associates' offices, heading for one office in particular.
He hadn't seen Kate for days. Not since he'd shared an elevator with her. The memory of her eyes raking his face still made his chest tighten. She'd known about the notes. She'd realized he'd taken them. She just didn't know why.
That had eaten away at him ever since.
He stopped in her doorway. She had her back to him and was bent over. He couldn't help himself: his eyes drank in the heart-shaped curve of her bottom.
He forced his gaze away. It looked as if she was packing her briefcase. He glanced at his watch: 3:05 p.m. A little early for her to be leaving. But her caseload had lightened since the MacAdam and TransTissue cases were over.
"Are you busy?"
She tensed at the sound of his voice, then straightened and turned. "No, I'm not busy." She didn't bother to hide the fact she'd been intending to leave. She placed her car keys on her desk. Her gaze was challenging. "Come in."
He surprised himself by closing the door and lowering himself into a chair. She reluctantly sank into hers. "I heard about the TransTissue file, Kate."
She stiffened, a slight flush warming her translucent skin. Then she shrugged. "John advised them to settle."
Randall studied her. She was watching him as closely as he watched her. "He said you did a good job on it."
That didn't have the response he expected. Her lips twisted. "Glad to hear it." Her eyes probed his face. There was something there, under the surface. A totally different dialogue. It was as if he could see the lips moving but couldn't hear what was being said.
He was sure she must be frustrated to lose the chance to work on a case like TransTissue. He leaned forward. "You know, there will be other cases, Kate. Ones that will go through to the trial phase."
"Yes. I know." She seemed to be waiting for something.
"I'll make sure you get assigned to one in the next few weeks."
Her lips twisted again. "Thanks."
Her desire for him to leave was palpable. Her disdain for him was just as thick.
He couldn't leave things the way they were. She needed to understand that she could trust him, despite everything. That he'd tried to protect her. He leaned back in his chair. "You are correct in your assumption."
He'd expected to see anger, disgust even, at his revelation. But not shock. Her gaze flickered over a scrap of paper peeking out from under her case reports, then snapped back to him. There was no mistaking that there was something on her desk she did not want him to see. What was it?
"Which assumption are you talking about?" she shot back. He suppressed both a wince at her implication that she harbored many assumptions---which, from her tone of voice, were unflattering---and a surge of admiration at her riposte. Especially given that she was so tense her cheekbones jutted from her face.
He had to fight the impulse to smooth the curve of her cheek with his fingers. He cleared his throat. "I took your notes."
She drew back. "I know." Those two words repeated what her eyes had flashed at him. Contempt, anger. Underneath it vibrated hurt.
He leaned forward. "I'm sorry, Kate." Her carefully masked surprise at his apology stabbed him. "It was something I was loath to do."
She crossed her arms. "Did Judge Carson put you up to it?"
"I'm sorry. I can't answer that." He wouldn't blame Hope.
Her gaze challenged him. "Will you return them?"
"No," he said softly. "I destroyed them."
"Of course."
He knew what she was thinking. He'd left her dangling in the wind. "The contents were never revealed to anyone. Solicitor-client privilege was not violated. You don't need to worry."
"I see." She glanced down for a moment. His tension ebbed. She understood.
Then she looked up and his pulse staggered. Fury radiated from her eyes. "So you think that makes it all right? You steal my notes, won't tell me why, and then assure me that no one's seen them?" She stood and planted her palms on her desk. Her breasts heaved under her silk blouse. "Why should I believe you?"
He tore his gaze from her chest.
She saw where his eyes had been fixed. Her lips curled in contempt.
His neck burned. Jesus, he was like a teenager in her presence. This associate who was at least a decade his junior. He rose to his feet and crossed his arms. "Why shouldn't you?"
"Because you stole from me, Randall! You came into my office and went through my files and took my notes and left me holding the bag---" She stopped abruptly.
The whole picture suddenly shifted into focus. She'd wanted those notes for something. That's why she was so upset.
"True." He let his eyes probe hers. "But it's not like you needed those notes for anything, right, Kate? They were protected by solicitor-client privilege."
A slash of color burned on each elegant cheekbone. She stared at him, mute with fury. And guilt.
Bingo.
"That's right," she managed. "And you took them."
"But I destroyed them. I wasn't planning on giving them to anyone else..." There was only one person in her acquaintance who'd be able to persuade her to give up those notes. Only one person with a connection to both the MacAdam case and to Kate. Only one person who would be willing to resort to unethical investigative means in order to further his own assumptions.
Ethan Drake.
A vein throbbed in his temple. "Did your former fiancé ask to have a peek?"
She crossed her arms and tightened her jaw. But the fiery pink of her cheeks spoke volumes.
"How disappointed you must have been when you discovered I'd beat you to it." He was taking a perverse pleasure in angering her now. She'd planned to breach her fiduciary duty to help Ethan Drake. A man who was willing to sacrifice a person's future in order to serve his twisted ideal of justice. "I saved your ass, Ms. Lange," he said, his tone clipped. "Do you think your ex would have protected you if he'd had to make the provenance of his information known?"
Her face tightened.
"I saved your ass, Kate," he repeated. He wanted her to recognize it for what it was. "And I saved it with Child Protection, too."
"So what do you want me to do?" She was so angry she was trembling. "Kiss yours?"
An image of her on her knees in front of him, her hair tumbling over her naked shoulders, slammed through him. Anger and desire were igniting on the same narrow fuse. Dangerous. Way too dangerous. "No." He shook his head to clear his mind of that image. That delicious, tantalizing image. It almost toppled him with need. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders. He wanted to attack her mouth with his and plunge its depths. He wanted to lower her onto her desk and cup that heart-shaped bottom in his hands...
He clenched his hands to his sides. He had not felt desire assault him like this in a long, long time. If ever. That sudden realization fueled his resolve. "I'm not saving you anymore."
He yanked open the door. "You are hereby on notice. You cannot afford any more screwups, Kate. This is it. No more chances."
He closed the door behind him.
She grabbed her briefcase and fumbled with the doorknob to her office. Her fingers shook. She flung open the door and stormed down the corridor.
That bastard.
That bloody, bloody bastard.
She punched the button to the elevator. When the door opened, she held her breath. She half-hoped and half-dreaded seeing Randall Barrett in there. If he was...
She wanted to launch herself against him, pound his chest and make him suffer for those words. All those hurtful words.
The bastard.
How did he know how to hurt her so precisely? To twist the knife like that?
The elevator was empty. She stabbed the button to the parkade, leaned her head back against the mirrored wall and closed her eyes.
She'd been stunned when he appeared in her office doorway---just as she was about to visit Dr. Gill. Had he somehow found out what she was up to?
Had he been on a scouting mission to see what she knew about TransTissue?
She couldn't believe his ballsiness. He'd ostensibly apologized for stealing her notes, and then accused her of wrongdoing.
The worst thing was that he'd been right.
She'd walked right into Ethan's trap, had agreed to give him the notes, but had never thought about what would happen if he was forced to reveal the source of his information. Would he deliberately ignore the evidence trail of the Body Butcher in order to protect her?
Of course not.
Randall Barrett had saved her.
And that rankled more than anything else.
She didn't want to be saved. Correction, she didn't want to make mistakes that required someone---and in particular, Randall Barrett---to save her.
She did not want to be in his debt.
She could not afford it. The price was too high. Not just the cost to her career. There was a more personal price. There had been a moment---another blasted moment---when his eyes had demanded that she acknowledge his desire. And not only acknowledge it, but meet it. And her body had complied. With a longing so heated she knew it would burn her up. No one, not even Ethan, had ever done that to her.
She hated the fact that Randall Barrett could. To have him be able to immolate her good judgment with a glance and ignite her nerves scared the life out of her.
It was humiliating.
She climbed into her car and sped out of the parkade. She needed to get away from the firm, from Randall Barrett.
The worst thing was, he understood her better than anyone she knew.
That was a fucking scary thought.
He was her boss. He was also one of the best lawyers in the city. That was an even scarier thought. If he was involved in the deceptions of the TransTissue file---after all, hadn't he persuaded John Lyons to put her on it?---would he guess that she was tracking down its suppliers? Would he be waiting for her to come back and reveal her findings?
She couldn't let him know what she was doing.
"Craig." His employer stood in front of him, blocking his path from the fridge to the workstation.
Craig looked up from the tray he was carrying.
Dr. Gill held his gaze. "This has got to stop. Now."
"It's t-t-too late." Craig gave him a little smile.
"It's never too late, Craig." Dr. Gill softened his voice. "You could just stop. Right now. The police have no evidence. No one would ever know."
"Y-You can't tell me wh-wh-what to do," Craig said, pushing around him. "Dr. K," he added for good measure. Dr. K. His employer hated that nickname. Every time he used it, Dr. Gill turned ashen. It was amazing what guilt and shame could do to a man.
This time, his employer stiffened, his head jerking back in that irritating birdlike movement. Just as Craig knew it would. He could predict everything.
Every. Fucking. Thing.
"No." The Esteemed Doctor turned and faced him. His hands were actually trembling. Trembling. "Please." Dr. Gill's voice was hoarse. "I'm begging you. Don't do it anymore."
Power surged through him, breaking in a frenzied wave through his body. The Esteemed Doctor was actually shaking in his fucking sandals.
He smiled. "You n-n-never complained before." He leaned against the counter. "You l-l-liked it when I killed them quietly and you got the limbs on the s-s-side."
"No," Dr. Gill whispered. "No, that's not true."
"You just didn't like it when I st-st-started leaving the bodies out. R-Right, Dr. Kill?" The flash of guilt in Dr. Gill's eyes confirmed it.
At first, dissecting Anna Keane's dead bodies had filled the emptiness inside him. But then the emptiness got bigger. He needed the bodies to be alive first.
Then it hadn't been enough to dispose of their remains in the crematorium. He wanted people to know.
Craig Peters was having the last laugh.
"Why did you?" Dr. Gill looked almost afraid to know the answer.
"I f-f-felt like it." Craig would never justify his actions to this man. This puny man. He had no idea of the power Craig had over his victims. The begging. The pleading. The absolute fucking terror.
White spots appeared around the edges of his left eye. Flecks of spume. Jumping randomly back and forth.
He shook his head. They careered wildly. It was happening almost all the time now. Keeping pace with the steady pulse of the urge.
"You've got to stop." Dr. Gill's voice was low, pleading. "They are just young girls."
Craig's body tensed. He was a rubber band. Tight, tight, stretching to burst. He couldn't breathe. His eyes rolled wildly upward.
The elastic snapped.
His limbs jerked.
He swallowed. "It's t-t-too late."
He dumped the tray on the counter and pushed by Dr. Gill.
He'd go home, get his briefcase and wait until darkness fell. That's when the whores sold their bodies. They just didn't realize it was a final sale.
Kate parked her car on a side street by Hollis U. Slightly calmer, she forced herself to walk slowly into the 1960s brick science building which housed Dr. Gill's lab. It reminded Kate of her old high school, down to the musty smell that the forty-year-old linoleum expunged whenever she stepped on it. Funny how a certain smell could resuscitate memories she had long thought buried. The familiar feeling of isolation rushed through her. Of trying to pretend the awkward silences and covert glances of her classmates didn't bother her. She almost expected to see clusters of kids hanging around battered metal lockers.
She walked down the hall, straightening her body out of the hunched posture she had somehow fallen into, and scanned the small plastic plaques. A blond man brushed by her. His face was pale, shiny with sweat.
She'd seen that guy before.
Lisa MacAdam's funeral.
The man in the gray suit.
"Oh, excuse me," she said, although he'd been the one to bump her.
He looked at her. He didn't appear to recognize her.
He walked by her without a word. Then stopped. Turned slowly toward her. She felt his eyes on her back.
Kate's stomach tightened. She hurried down the hall. A door opened. An older man dressed in a lab coat carrying a tray of beakers headed down the hall.
The blond man from the funeral began walking again, toward the elevator. She heard it open for him. And let out a deep breath.
He'd had a weird vibe.
She began reading the plaques again. At the end of the corridor she found a sign announcing Dr. Gill's lab. She peered through the oblong window in the door and knocked. A very tall man in the back of the room jerked at the sound. He whirled around, his expression panicked. He collected himself and walked toward her. He opened the door. But blocked the entry.
Kate tilted her head back to meet his eyes, pale blue behind rimless glasses.
"Dr. Gill?"
"Yes." His gaze darted over her face.
She held out her hand. "My name is Kate Lange."
"How can I help you?" His cheeks were flushed. A fine sheen of sweat gleamed on his high forehead.
"I'm here on behalf of my aunt. She is interested in donating her body to your research. But she's too sick to come herself."
"Oh?" He looked down his beaky nose at her. He reminded her of a heron.
"She's really interested in your research. She would like to know more about it." She was hoping he'd relax at her flattering tone and invite her in.
She seemed to have lost her touch. He remained fixed in the doorway. "In a nutshell, Ms. Lange, I am trying to regenerate nerves and their nerve paths," he said, his voice clipped.
"So if you damaged a nerve, it would grow again?" She furrowed her brow, hoping he would respond to her interest.
"Yes. Say, for instance, a nerve in your arm was crushed from a car accident. It would grow back, but at a rate of one millimeter per month, and most likely not following the same nerve path." He recited this quickly, obviously unable to resist speaking about his research, but his hand remained ready to close the door on her. "By regenerating that nerve quickly, and in the same old nerve path, you would regain the function of your hand within weeks."
From the intensity and passion in his voice, Kate had the sudden conviction he would be successful in his research.
But at what cost? She remembered Enid tucking Muriel's coat around her. Tell Dr. Gill that he cannot save mankind at the expense of people like us.
"So you use cadavers to conduct your research?" She almost said experiments, but she stopped herself just in time. It sounded a bit too Dr. Jekyll-ish.
"Yes."
"But you wouldn't need to use the whole body, would you?"
"Why do you need to know this?" Suspicion narrowed his eyes.
"My aunt would like to know what exactly her body would be used for."
"We use limbs," he said curtly.
"What happens to the rest of the body?"
He straightened his glasses. "It is cremated."
"By whom?"
His eyes searched hers. His struggle was plain on his face; he wanted to share the glory of his research, wanted to recruit more donations to his cause, but didn't like the direction the questions were heading.
Kate gave a little smile and shrugged. "My aunt has certain...foibles. A lot of her friends have died recently and she is picky about which funeral home she'd like to handle her remains."
He paused. "We use Keane's."
She smiled. "Perfect. They are exactly who she hoped for."
Dr. Gill put his hand on the doorknob. "If you'll excuse me, Ms. Lange, I need to return to my work..."
"Of course." She tried to see past the researcher, to get one final look at the lab, but Dr. Gill wasn't budging.
"Goodbye." His eyes revealed what he really meant: go away.
"Goodbye." She darted one final peek past Dr. Gill's shoulder. She thought the blond guy had come from his lab. But she could see nothing.
Once she was outside, she took deep breaths of the cool, damp air. Clouds had filled the sky until it was gray and thick.
Dr. Gill's nervousness had infected her. Her own nerves were churning her stomach into a pit of apprehension.
The pit sank deeper when she thought about the implications of what he had told her. She believed him when he said that he sent donor bodies to Keane's Funeral Home for cremation. What she didn't know was whether Anna Keane was cremating them right away.
Was Anna Keane merely an astute businesswoman who was leveraging her funeral home to solicit bodies for medical research and for much-needed tissue transplants?
Or was she a body snatcher?
Her gut was screaming body snatcher. The sum of the whole was not greater than the parts in the body brokering business.
How much did Dr. Gill know of this?
Her legal mind stacked the evidence. So far, it was nonexistent. She had no evidence of Anna stealing the parts from any bodies; she had no evidence of Anna stealing bodies period. She didn't even have any evidence of Anna illegally soliciting bodies. The donor form Enid took was blank.
She needed cold, hard evidence.
A shiver crept up her back. There was only one form cold, hard evidence could take in a funeral home.
She steered her car into the traffic.


