In the Blink of an Eye. Julie Miller
Читать онлайн книгу.
more than routine. His eagerness to please, though, had ingratiated him to his co-workers and earned a bit of indulgent patience from Mac.
So his rushed, toneless answer sounded perfectly normal. “I’m running a dye test.”
Mac eyed the twist of threads lying inside the bag, then surveyed the counter once more.
No microscope. How did he expect to ID the sample without one?
Mac leaned his hip against the table, banking his inquisitive nature in an effort to put Jeff at ease. “I don’t think the criminals will overrun the city if we knock off and get a few hours of sleep now and then.”
Jeff finally turned, but his dark-eyed gaze never quite met Mac’s. “What are you doing here?”
Fair question. “I’m testifying at Ned Prosky’s hearing later this morning. I wanted to double-check my facts.”
“He’s the alleged hit man?”
“Yeah. If I can put him at the scene of the crime, we can at least nail him for accessory. Dwight Powers is going after him as the trigger man, though.”
Jeff’s chin sank to his chest at the mention of the assistant district attorney’s name. He returned to his work. “Powers is pretty ruthless. Think you’ll win the case?”
Mac shrugged. He loved the immutable laws of science, the simplicity of seeing facts in black and white. But he accepted that most of the world evaluated things in shades of gray. “I just interpret the data. The rest is up to Dwight and the jury.”
“Yeah, well, good luck.”
“Thanks.” Mac shifted his weight onto both feet and fished in the pocket of his jeans for his keys. “Look. Whatever I gave you to do can wait until morning. Knock off and go home.”
“I will. As soon as I get this cleaned up. Good night.”
The anxious farewell pricked Mac’s curiosity even more than the incomplete experiment setup. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.” Jeff opened the cabinet above his workstation and lifted the box where samples were stored. Maybe he’d screwed up a test earlier, and was here to rerun it without the teasing of his fellow technicians. Mac’s prying wouldn’t help get the guy home to his wife any faster.
Mac squeezed the envelope in his hand. His company tonight would be printouts of DNA strands and microfibers. Jeff had a flesh-and-blood woman waiting for him. He couldn’t blame the guy for being impatient.
“Be careful, then.” He headed out the door, his curiosity unappeased, but his confidence in his staff intact.
That’s when the smell hit him. The sharp sting of mismatched chemicals stung his nose and made his eyes water. “Jeff, what are you…?”
Startled by Mac’s reappearance, Jeff lurched. A beaker flew from his hand and shattered on the countertop. “Leave me alone!”
When he spun around to confront Mac, his elbow hit the Bunsen burner and toppled it.
“Kill the flame!” Mac ordered. His report flew into the air as he snatched the fire extinguisher by the door and dashed across the room.
“Just let me do my job.” Jeff’s hand curled into a fist. He cocked his arm back to take a swing at Mac. Mac ducked, but avoiding the flying fist wasn’t necessary. Jeff froze, halfway through the roundhouse punch, and stared at the wisps of flame consuming the sleeve of his white lab coat. “Oh my God—”
“Move!” Mac pulled the trigger and doused Jeff’s arm with the suffocating foam. “Get out of here!” He nodded over his shoulder and turned the extinguisher on the counter. “What the hell…?”
Mac shoved his fingers beneath his glasses to wipe the burning film clouding his eyes, and looked at the counter a second time to be sure his vision wasn’t playing tricks on him. An assortment of plastic evidence bags floated in a pool of clear amber liquid inside the metal tray. “It’s all contaminated.”
Destroying evidence.
Incompetence? Or sabotage?
Acting on instincts ingrained more deeply than self-preservation, Mac reached for the bags. Hair, filaments, cloth, fingernails and more—he rescued them from the toxic pool and tossed them aside.
He saved two, five, six bags before the sharp thwack at the base of his skull knocked him, belly first, onto the counter. An explosion of fireworks shot through his brain. He staggered to his feet and turned to see the missing microscope—raised high in Jeff’s fist, ready to strike again.
Mac reached behind him for the first available weapon to defend himself against the unexpected attack. His fingers touched the metal tray. He gripped it in his fist and slung it straight at Jeff’s face.
The flying steel knocked him back a step. But the corrosive liquid that splattered across his face proved even more effective. The microscope crashed to the floor as Jeff doubled over, clutching at his face and screaming in pain.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Slightly breathless from the combination of poisonous fumes and the blow to the head, Mac staggered over to Jeff and turned him toward the door and fresh air. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You can’t know.” Jeff wheezed through the stinging pain. “He’ll hurt Melanie.”
“Who?” Mac recognized the name of Jeff’s wife, but the plea made no sense.
“I have to do my job.” Jeff shoved Mac into the wall and swayed back to the counter.
Mac followed a step behind.
A step too late.
Jeff hit a switch, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and click…
The gas from the Bunsen exploded into a fireball.
The toxic air ignited, consumed Jeff in its fiery claws. The names on the plastic bags shrivelled and died as they melted into a puddle. Like relentless, grasping hands, the flames reached out for their next victim.
Mac backpedaled his feet and tried to retreat.
But the shockwave tossed him across the room and slammed him into the wall. The impact of shattered glass and scorching metal pierced his skin like gunfire.
Those immutable laws of science followed their true nature, and plunged Mac into oblivion.
Chapter One
Six Weeks Later
“What have you gotten me into this time?”
Julia Dalton paused at the threshold of the sturdy rock house and held her breath. Literally.
Nestled among two-story relics from the 1920s, the high ceilings and oak floors spoke of the leftover charm of this once-wealthy neighborhood near the Kansas City Museum. But this sweet little cottage just northeast of the Market area where she grew up had lost something over the years. What time and urban fatigue hadn’t done to the house, an interior tornado bent on destruction had.
Her mother, Barbara, followed a step behind. “Oh, my. What’s that smell?” Her scrunched-up nose brought an unexpected grin to Julia’s freckled face.
The faint pungency of formaldehyde hung in the air. “The sewer’s not backed up, is it?” asked Julia.
She lifted her foot over the crumpled doormat and led the way into the living room. Her mother’s best friend, Martha Taylor, closed the door and joined them. “No. Everything in the house works fine.” She shrugged her shoulders, clearly embarrassed by the mess, but ready with an explanation. “My oldest son, Brett, bought this place to fix up and resell. He’s just getting started on the remodeling, but the plumbing is fine. It’s the current tenant—”
“Martha.” The clear snap of her mother’s voice captured Julia’s attention as well. She caught the unsubtle