The Enclave (56 page)

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” He ate a spoonful of mousse.

“I’ve never really thought about it.”

“You really don’t know what you believe, do you?”

“I believe the Bible.”

“Ah. Good. You believe that rebellious teenagers should be executed, then. And that your God takes delight in smashing babies upon rocks.”

“What?”

“Psalm 137:9.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Yes. No doubt I’m taking it out of context.” He shook his head.

“You’ve never heard of that verse before, have you? You claim to believe the Bible, yet you don’t seem to know much about what it says.”

“I believe Jesus died for me on the cross. That’s enough.”

He smiled thinly. “If that was enough, why did God waste His time writing a two-thousand-page book? He could’ve just used a business card with John 3:16 on it.”

He was mocking her. Playing with her. Showing her what a fool she was . . . Punishment for trying to run out on him, perhaps?

“You sure aren’t doing much of a job explaining to me what you believe. You are not at all a match for Dr. Reinhardt, in this regard. He’ d be very disappointed in your performance here. In fact, he will never be truly interested in you if you’re not as fanatical about all this Bible stuff as he is. You do know that, don’t you?” He paused to languidly scoop up more of the mousse and slide it into his mouth, savoring before he swallowed.

She had no idea how to respond. He was deliberately doing everything he could to distress her. Why? Did he want her to fight back? Or was he just trying to show her who had the upper hand?

They sat in silence for a moment, concentrating on eating their dessert. Swain finished first, licking the spoon clean with a pleasure that was almost erotic. Then he set the implement on his empty plate and looked at her, his blue eyes gleaming in the semidarkness.

He waited until the servant had carried off their plates and spoons, then said, “I know you spoke privately with Dr. Reinhardt tonight, despite my having expressly forbidden him to have contact with you.”

She nearly choked on her own spittle.
Oh, Lord! He
did
see us.
Suddenly her heart pounded a mile a minute. “It was I who sought him out,” she protested.

“Yet he did not walk away.” He smoothed a slight wrinkle in the tablecloth. “And why would you seek him, when I’d already warned you about him?”

She stared at him wordlessly.
He might not have seen everything.
It was dark. We were in the shadows. . . .

Swain slid his hand across the table to cover hers, drawing her attention back to him. “Please, Lacey. I’m only trying to help. Cameron Reinhardt is a very unstable man. I believe you have read his profile.

Correct?”

She gaped at him, aghast that he had caught her in that transgression.

“His post-traumatic stress disorder. His episodes of violence. Fugue states. His paranoid delusions.”

“I . . . I don’t remember any of that. The PTSD, yes, but not the others. . . .”

“Well, it gives me some comfort to know that Gen did not give you everything. He’s being treated for the problem, but he keeps going off his medications. When he does, he fancies himself some kind of government spy. Hails back to what he did for the military, I guess, being in Special Forces and all.” He paused. “And, of course, you saw him flashback yourself in that unity meeting.”

He kept his hand on hers, watching her carefully. She didn’t believe a word of what he said, though it made a horrible kind of sense. “Are you saying he’s psychotic?”

“Disturbed. Unstable. That’s all.” He smiled sadly. “You do seem to be drawn to unstable, delusional men.”

Indignation flared, burning away the seeds of uncertainty he had sown. So Cameron was unstable and she a poor judge of character? She pulled her hand free of his. “Director Swain, I appreciate your concern, but really, I can live my life without your assistance. I also think there are many things you don’t know about Dr. Reinhardt.”

“Oh, my poor dear girl. I know everything there is to know about Cameron Reinhardt. Things you can’t even begin to guess. Every little dirty secret. I have to, or I wouldn’t survive.” He paused. “Why do you think he was on the verge of being fired at Stanford?”

His words fell upon her soul like drops of mud, extinguishing her indignation as they sowed new doubts.

“You do know, no one has actually seen or spoken to Manuel Espinosa since he left. His parents have only gotten e-mails, which could’ve been sent by anyone.”

“I thought you went to Guadalajara to speak to him.”

“He stood me up.” He folded his hands on the edge of the table. “When no one was there, I came back and had my IT people examine Reinhardt’s computers. Manny’s resignation letter was drafted on Reinhardt’s machine.”

“If that were so,” Lacey said evenly, “why haven’t you gone to the police?”

“How do you know I haven’t?”

“Because they’re not here.”

He smiled. “How do you know they’re not here?”

She frowned at him, frustrated by his looping obfuscations.

“He’s a trained killer,” Swain remarked before she could continue. “So it’s not that big a jump for him to murder. There was an incident at Cold Spring Harbor . . . a dispute over a young woman. The other man ended up in the harbor with his neck broken. Reinhardt’s guilt was never established, but he was questioned at length. . . .”

“I’ve read his file, as you pointed out earlier, Director Swain. I know none of that is in there.”

“You’ve read his cleaned-up file, my dear. The one we present to our investors and collaborators.” He picked up a small DVD player, which the servant had left behind when he came to take away the plates. Flipping up the screen, Swain tapped the touchpad several times, then turned the device so she could see. It was playing the video Cam had told her about, of him supposedly unloading Manny’s body at the Vault. Though his face was obscured by shadow, the clothes were right and so was the body shape.

“You’re lucky to have survived your night with him in the desert,” Swain said quietly. “Now perhaps you understand why I ordered him to stay away from you.”

She could find no words to counter his onslaught of accusation, and though she’ d drunk none of the wine, her head swam and she struggled to get enough air into her lungs.
I don’t believe it. I won’t
believe it. It was Frogeater who killed Manny.

Swain watched her like a snake after a mouse, his blue eyes cold and hard. “What did he tell you tonight? That I have a secret lab hidden under the desert where I conduct illicit research projects?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it before she could say more, horrified that Swain had apparently heard everything in their little tête-à-tête. How? They’d taken off the jewelry. Did he have microphones in all the bushes?

“He did, didn’t he?” Swain collapsed back in his own chair and rubbed a hand over his face, looking genuinely distraught. “I’m sorry, Ms. McHenry. I . . .” He drew a breath to steady himself and pressed his palms together as if ordering his thoughts. “I confess, for all my fears, I hoped they were untrue. Now I suppose I shall have to move in directions I’d truly hoped to avoid.” He frowned at her. “You look very pale, my dear. Are you all right?”

She didn’t know what she was. She didn’t know what to believe. She only knew that she was with Swain right now, and that being with him almost made her a different person than when she was not. But the fact was, the same could be said of her time with Cam. With no way to independently confirm—or disprove—what either man said, how could she know who spoke the truth?

Yes, Cam had shown her the picture of the clones, but he could simply have uploaded an old snapshot into his phone. Given the sort of man Swain had painted him to be, that wasn’t out of the question. Worse . . .
He isn’t here.
It hit her suddenly that there’d been more than enough time for him to rescue her, and he hadn’t come. . . .

Swain’s eyes had dropped to the diamond necklace glittering on her chest, held there a moment, then came up to meet her own. “You know, that thing is quite expensive and it is on loan. I would think with so many stones in it, it might grow a bit weighty.” He stood and came around the table to stand behind her. “You won’t mind if I take it back now, will you?”

It seemed to her that all Swain did was confuse, coming at her from all different angles, with all sorts of weird topics and suggestions. She was growing weary of keeping up with him, and if he wanted to take back his necklace, why should she care? Indeed, she’ d be happy to have him take it.

Thus she shrugged and said nothing as he began to unfasten the clasp—and immediately regretted it when the light touches of his fingers called up the powerful memory of her moments with Cam in the garden, profaning them in the process. Swain’s feather-light touches sent such chills of revulsion over her, she was on the verge of standing and walking away when he lifted the unclasped necklace off her chest and deposited it in the velvet box that had somehow come to be set on the table. She removed the earrings herself before he could return and dropped them into his hand, eager to have done with it.

Then, almost in tears, grieving the wreckage he’ d made of her newly conceived affections for Cam, she stood and strode to the window, hugging herself as she stared at the view, praying again for deliverance.

He drew behind her, his breath washing across her neck, so near she felt the warmth of his body. If she walked away, he’ d only follow.
Oh, God, I’ve tried to trust you. Not done a good job, but . . . the pastor
this morning said you were faithful. So where are you?

She flinched as Swain’s hands settled lightly on her shoulders and rested there, hot and slightly damp. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and part of her screamed for action, urging her to break away, grab something and defend herself. But she felt like the moth she’ d just watched writhe in the spider web in one of Swain’s terrariums—so wound up she couldn’t think straight, so entangled she didn’t know which way to turn.

His hands slid over the curves of her shoulders, taking the straps of her cocktail dress with them. She trembled in horror as his fingers walked across her back to the dress’s zipper, conjuring up ancient memories of another night and another man she’d let undress her. A choice that had set her life on a ruinous course.

For a moment the comparison was so strong and sharp, she wondered if she might be having a nightmare, or was imagining something that wasn’t happening at all. Perhaps he was just picking away lint, or adjusting the dress’s lining.

But when his fingers tugged downward on the zipper tab, she jerked aside with a gasp and turned to him. “Please,” she said.

“Don’t.”

Swain had a perversely dazed expression on his face. “I can hardly help myself,” he told her. “Everything about you is intoxicating. And your innocent sincerity only makes it worse. You stir my heart in a way no one ever has before.”

“Please, Director Swain. Don’t say such things. You know they’re not true.”

“You are the one I’ve been waiting for all my life.” Sudden eagerness replaced his dazed expression. “My genetic match. I will make you a queen. You’ll have riches beyond your wildest imagination, your every desire fulfilled.” He looked at her pointedly. “Your
every
desire. For all of time.”

A shudder rolled over her, and she eased back another step. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

He smiled and closed the gap she’ d widened, reaching for her hand. “Stay with me tonight.”

“Please, sir . . .” She stepped back again, trying to pull her hand free.

He let her go, his face relaxing into a blandness she now knew was deception. “It’s him you want, isn’t it?” he said flatly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Reinhardt. After all I’ve done for you, it’s Reinhardt you want.”

As understanding dawned, she felt the blood rush condemningly to her face. “You don’t understand, sir. It’s not that at—”

He cut her off with a roar: “Don’t lie to me, girl!”

She flinched backward, but he advanced upon her.

“You thought I was fine when you believed I could advance your career,” he railed. “So you strung me along, flirted, made me think you cared. Now that I’ve promoted you a little, now that I ask only for a bit of gratitude, a few hours of the pleasure of your company, you turn all cold on me. Cast me off for
him
, and shiver at my touch.”

She stared at him, aghast. In the blink of an eye he had transformed into another man. A man whose eyes burned with the madness he’ d so recently ascribed to Cam. But it wasn’t Cameron Reinhardt who was paranoid, delusional, and psychotic. It was Parker Swain.

She wanted to back away from him but feared provoking him further. “What exactly do you want from me, Director Swain?”

“What do I want from you?” He stepped toward her again. “I want these”—he touched just below her eyes—“to see only me. And this”— he ran his fingers through her hair—“for my hands alone. And this”—he drew his fingers down the side of her face and neck— She backed away from him, but he came after her until she was stopped by the adjoining window wall, the wooden railing pressed against her lower back.

He caught her wrist and held it to his lips. “I want this and this and this. . . .” His free hand wandered across her body, touching her where he had no right, while she stood paralyzed with fright. His palm came to rest finally on her belly. “Most of all I want this.”

She flinched back against the window, choking on her own bile.

He wanted her for his clone production. A whimper issued from her throat.

He stepped back, releasing her wrist at last. “You were nothing when you came to me, Lacey McHenry. A lost soul wandering about. I will give your life meaning and purpose.” He smiled. “I will make you the mother of gods.”

Horror exploded into desperation, and she shoved herself off the window, knocking him briefly off balance as she fled. He caught her by the shoulder. She spun and slapped his face, loosing his grip on her. Wrenching free of him, she raced for the stair. Only to have one of his black-garbed guards loom up in her path. She turned back, snatched up the Babylonian scepter from its resting place against the stone frieze, and keeping both men in sight, stood her ground, holding the scepter like a baseball bat. “Let me go, or I’ll bash someone’s head in,” she threatened.