Riddle wrapped in an enigma . . . I wasn’t sure I wanted to know how Flemming and Leo were tied together. I was about ready to buy into any conspiracy theory that came my way.
“This is it,” I murmured. “This is what I need.” I took it off the clipboard and started to fold it, to take it with me.
Cormac snatched the pages out of my hand. He stalked back to the next room and the tabletop photocopier parked near the shredder. The machine was so loud, and the scanning lights so bright, I thought surely security goons would find us. Quickly, in a perfectly businesslike manner, Cormac had the three pages copied. He handed the copies to me, clipped the originals back on the board, and returned it to its nail on the wall. He closed the door to the lab and made sure it was locked.
He shut down the computers and surveyed the room. Satisfied, he nodded. “Looks good. Let’s get out of here.”
After making sure the door to the hallway was locked, he stripped off his gloves and shoved them in a pocket. I followed his lead, then nervously curled the papers we’d liberated.
We took one detour before leaving the building. Cormac stopped at a closet in a side corridor on the main floor. True to his word, he slipped the key card into the front tray of the janitor’s cart parked there. It only took a second.
We didn’t speak until we were outside, walking down the sidewalk with a dozen other anonymous pedestrians. Daylight still shone, which seemed incongruous with the darkness of Flemming’s offices and our clandestine activities there.
“And that is how you break into a government office,” Cormac announced at last.
“Those Watergate boys could have learned something from you, eh?”
He made a disgusted huff. “What a bunch of posers.”
Supper that evening was room service at Ben’s hotel. Cormac sat on the bed, plate balanced on his lap, one eye on the news channel playing on the TV, volume turned way down. He and Ben drank beers, like a couple of college buddies. Maybe that was where they’d met.
We’d debriefed Ben on our field trip. The chart from the lab lay spread across the middle of the table.
Ben nodded at it. “Is this a copy or did you just take it out of his office?”
“It’s a copy.”
He pursed his lips and gave a quick nod, like he was happy with that answer. “Was it worth it?”
They both looked at me. I rubbed my forehead. My brain was full. “Yeah, I think so.”
Ben said, “This doesn’t prove anything, you know.”
“I know people on that list. At least, I think I do. If I can track them down, they’ll give me someone else to talk to.” I hoped.
“Will they talk to you?” Cormac said.
“I don’t know.”
Ben leaned back in his chair. “Kitty, I know this Flemming character is suspicious as hell. But maybe he’s exactly what he appears to be: an NIH doctor, ex-army researcher, nervous because he doesn’t want his funding cut. What is it you think you’re going to find?”
Fritz the Nazi. I wondered what kind of questions Flemming asked him, assuming he actually talked to his subjects. I wondered if Fritz told him the stories he wouldn’t tell me. What would an ex-army medical researcher want to learn from a Nazi werewolf war veteran—
“Military application,” I whispered. I swallowed, trying to clear my throat, because both men had set aside their forks and beers and were staring hard at me. “He told this story about a patient in a car accident, horrible injuries, but he walked out of the hospital a week later. Flemming seemed totally . . . entranced by it. By the possibilities. He talked about it in the hearing, remember? Curing diseases, using a lycanthrope’s healing abilities. Imagine having an army of soldiers who are that hard to kill.”
“If he had military backing he wouldn’t need to be explaining himself to Congress,” Ben said.
Cormac said, “Even if he’s developing military applications, is there anything wrong with that?”
“There is if he’s using people,” I said. “He has jail cells in his lab.”
“Look, I thought you liked what this guy was doing,” Ben said. “That you wanted all this out in the open. You want him shut down now?”
“Yeah, I think I do.”
“Why?”
I shrugged, because it was true. I’d loved seeing this stuff in the Washington Post. I was enjoying the respect. But I could still smell the garlic paint in the lab. “Because he’s unethical.”
I hadn’t finished dinner, but I couldn’t eat any more. It was dark now; time to see Alette. “I won’t be able to track one of these guys down until tomorrow, but I think I can find the other one tonight. I’m going to go do that.”
“Need company?” Cormac said. Read: need help?
“No thanks, I’ll be fine. I think.” I collected the pages from Flemming’s lab.
“You might want to think about making a copy of those,” Ben said. “Maybe put them in a safety deposit box. Just in case.”
“Or mail ’em to someone,” Cormac said. “With a note to open it if anything happens to you. If you get in trouble you can use it as a threat and not be lying.”
“Or you could not do it, say you did, and use it as a threat anyway.” Ben said this pointedly at Cormac, weighing the statement with significance.
Cormac gave his best shit-eating grin. “Would I do something like that?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “I’m taking the Fifth on that one.”
I stared. “Uh, you two go way back, don’t you?”
They exchanged a look, one of those familiar, it’d take too long to explain the inside joke looks.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“You’re better off not knowing,” Ben said.
Now I wanted to run to the nearest Internet connection and dig up what nefarious plot these two had cooked up in the distant past. At least, I assumed it was the distant past.
Maybe I should get a different lawyer. Except it would take too long to explain everything to a new one.
I wanted to show the list to Alette, both to find out if she knew any of the Homo sapiens sanguinis represented, and to rat out Leo. Yeah, I was tattling, and it hadn’t felt this good since I was eight and ratted out my twelve-year-old sister’s stash of R-rated videos. If she’d only let me watch with her, she could have kept the TV in her room.
I rushed into the foyer, pausing a moment to debate whether to look in the parlor or the dining room, or find Emma or Bradley and ask them where’d she be. Think, if I were the head vampire, where would I be?
A touch brushed my shoulder. I gasped and turned, shock frying my nerves. Leo stood behind me, calmly, as if he’d been there all evening, watching the scenery. I could have sworn he hadn’t been in the foyer when I entered the house. But I hadn’t sensed him approach, I hadn’t seen him, smelled him, or heard him.
“Hello, there,” he said lightly. “Can I help you with something?”
I wanted to punch him. “What the hell is your problem?”
“You’re so easy to rile up, can you blame a man for trying?”
“Yes, yes, I can.”
“Ah. Well, then.” He strolled, circling around me, blocking the exits.
He was teasing me. That was all. Provoking me, like he said. I took a deep breath, determined to calm down.
“I have a question for you,” I said, trying to sound bright and unperturbed. “What do you know about Dr. Flemming?”
He shrugged. “Government researcher. What would you like me to know?”
“I’ve spoken with him. Your name came up.” Both were true, in themselves.
“Really? What did he say about me?”
“Nothing. He’s closemouthed. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“And I’m openmouthed, am I?” He smiled to show teeth and fang. Then his expression softened. “I might have spoken with him a time or two.”
“About what?”
“This and that. About being a vampire. I was—how would you c
all it?—a native informant.” He started pacing, hands in his trouser pockets, gaze downturned. “I’ll give him this much, he knows his subject. At least, he knows enough to know where to find us, if he wants to. Then, would you believe he simply asks nicely? He proves how much he knows, and you don’t feel bad about answering his questions. You become just another data point. There’s nothing more to it.”
I had a hard time picturing Flemming traveling the streets, finding his way to a place like the Crescent, notepad and tape recorder in hand, and asking nicely.
“What did you tell him? What’s it like being a vampire?”
He looked away for a moment, his gaze distant and thoughtful. It seemed he did have another personality buried in there somewhere.
“Time almost stands still,” he said. “The world seems to freeze for a moment. You’re able to study every little piece of it. All the microscopic points become clear. And you move through this world like a lion on the veldt. You realize everything is yours for the taking. All you have to do is reach out and grab hold of anything you like. Anyone you like.”
In the next beat of time he stood beside me. Brushing my hair aside, he breathed against my neck, a faint, warm sigh. No teeth, no threat, only a caress. I shivered, but didn’t move away from him. For some reason, I didn’t move away.
“Is that what you expected to hear?” he said.
I turned and glared. But he hadn’t done anything. They were only words.
I knew better than anyone what a person could do with mere words.
“Is that what being a vampire is all about?” I said. “Is that why you’re such an arrogant prick?”
He laughed. “An arrogant prick? Really? I suppose that’s how it must appear to the rest of you. But to us, you’re little more than a bit of hair floating on the breeze. We don’t care what you think.”
“Not all vampires are like that. I’ve met some who are reasonable human beings.” One or two. Maybe. “That’s all Flemming’s doing? Collecting stories? Gathering true-life accounts?”
“I’m sure that’s not all he’s doing. He’s a medical doctor, isn’t he? He’s probably doing some blood tests on the side. I know I would.” He licked his lips.
“What if I told you Flemming has a lab with holding cells? One of them has garlic in the paint, like it was meant to subdue a vampire. What if it looked like he was holding test subjects against their wills?”
His gaze had been wandering, studying the room as if he were a fan of interior design, unconcerned. Now, he focused on me, suddenly interested. I almost took a step back. Though if I’d taken one step, I might have gone ahead and run all the way out of the room. Leo’s interest was not something I wanted.
“That would be extremely dangerous and foolish of him if he had done so,” he said. “Even if he could trap a vampire, he could never again release it—and survive.” His lips parted and he showed his teeth, the sharp points of his fangs.
“Unless he’s really good with a stake,” I said.
“In-deed.” That British accent could make one word take on a world of meaning.
“Ah, Kitty, you’ve returned.” Alette, queen of her domain, strode into the foyer, smartly dressed and elegant as always, looking like she was on her way from one task to another. She acknowledged Leo with a nod and stopped before me to regard me with that prim nod that made me feel like I’d somehow fallen short of her standards, and that I would always fall short. “I expected you back some time ago. I hope your tardiness means you’ve had a productive afternoon?”
This was where I ponied up that information I promised her. The only question was, how much did I tell her? “I’ve learned that Flemming has holding cells for vampires and werewolves in his lab. I think he’s been keeping test subjects against their wills.”
“By test subjects you mean vampires and lycanthropes? Do you know how he could possibly hold such beings against their wills?” Her disbelief was plain in her tone.
“I don’t know, but he’s done it,” I said, frustrated. “Here, look at this. He’s been talking to people.” I showed her the list, being sure to point out Leo’s name on the first page.
Alette looked at him. “You’ve been speaking with Flemming?”
I wanted Leo to squirm like a kid who’d been caught lying. I wanted him to blush, look abashed, duck his gaze, something. He stood quietly and completely unruffled.
“Yes,” he said. “I have. The good doctor’s been going around collecting folktales. I talked to him on the assumption that such conversations work both ways. I’ve been a bit of a double agent, if you like.” He flashed his devil-may-care smile.
“You didn’t see fit to tell me of this?” Alette said.
“Because I didn’t learn anything. Which leads me to think he isn’t hiding anything.” He said this pointedly to me. “He really is just an earnest scientist in danger of losing his funding.”
Why didn’t I buy that?
Alette did. She gave a satisfied nod and handed the pages back to me. “Have those cells been recently occupied?”
“I couldn’t tell,” I said. I hadn’t smelled anything. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ll continue to watch Flemming. Your vigilance should be commended, Kitty. But don’t let it become paranoia.”
Leo said to Alette, “My dear, you seem to be in the middle of some chore. Might I be of service to you?”
“Always, Leo.” He offered her his arm, and she took the crook of his elbow. She gave me one last glance over her shoulder as they left the foyer.
I had no way of knowing who to believe. I wanted to think well of Alette, and if she trusted Leo I shouldn’t question it. She’d known him longer than I had. Maybe Flemming really was harmless, and all the cloak-and-dagger shenanigans with Cormac had been a waste of time. I felt like I was working my way through a maze. I hated mazes.
This town was getting to me.
Chapter 7
Thursday was exploitative celebrity day at the hearings.
There was me, of course. I’d been told I might testify today, if the committee had time. Ben told me not to hold my breath. I was thinking of starting a pool among the press corps to guess when I’d actually be called up.
The good senators had called in others who’d made themselves famous based on the stuff of magic and the supernatural, and the others arrived today.
Waiting in the hallway outside the hearing room, a swarm of people collected around a lone figure, a slick-looking man in his thirties who smiled amiably. At first I thought the people surrounding him were reporters, but then the man took one of the notepads, signed his name on it, and handed it back. I recognized him, then: that easygoing smile, the fashionably trimmed sandy hair, the clean features that made him instantly likable and trustworthy. Jeffrey Miles, professional psychic and channeler.
He was best known on the daytime talk show circuit, where he impressed the hosts and awed the audiences with his intimate knowledge of their friends and relatives who had “passed on.” He claimed to be able to communicate with the “other side,” to deliver messages and reassurances from the dead, and to reveal information that only the deceased or the audience member could have known. Classic cold readings. He appealed to the angels and Precious Moments crowd.
I leaned on the wall and smirked at the proceedings. Someone in my position—werewolf, witness to the supernatural—might have been inclined to believe in his awesome powers. Except I didn’t. It was manipulative bunk, and it was people like him who made it difficult for the rest of the world to believe in people like me.
The session was set to begin, and it took security guards to clear out Miles’s admirers. His geniality didn’t disappear with the fans; it wasn’t some mask he put on for them. He shook his head, amused, straightening his blazer as he headed toward the door.
He walked right by me without a second glance, and was through the doorway before he stopped, backed up, and turned to look at me.
“You must be Kitty Norvil
le,” he said.
“And you’re Jeffrey Miles.” I crossed my arms.
“You know—” He scratched his head and seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “I have a confession. I hate to admit it, but I was one of those people who thought it was all a gimmick. Your show, the werewolf thing. But you really are a werewolf, and I have this urge to apologize for doubting.”
I stared, dumbfounded and speechless for maybe the third time in my entire life. The polite, socialized part of my brain scrambled to graciously accept his apology. The sarcastic part clamped down on that right away.
He was human, straight up as far as I could see, with nothing in the way of heightened senses that a lycanthrope had. I really had to know, “How can you tell?”
“Your aura is very wild. Very animal. I only see that with lycanthropes.”
The sarcastic part of my brain started beating itself against a figurative brick wall to stifle the laughter.
“Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t return it.”
“Too many documented frauds?”
“Something like that.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and visibly relaxed, his shoulders sagging a bit, his face going slack, like he had fallen asleep right there on his feet. I watched, intrigued. Looked like I was going to get a free show.
Then he said, “Theodore Joseph holds a strong place in your thoughts.”
I grit my teeth to make sure my mouth stayed closed. He might as well have punched me in the gut. I looked away before my eyes had a chance to tear up, the way they always did when I was reminded of T.J. at an unexpected moment.
My mind raced. He could have done research. He’d have known in advance that I was going to be here, he could have looked at the police record, the one where I named T.J., there were records that Miles could have easily found—
He continued. “He says—there’s nothing to forgive. Stop asking for forgiveness.”
That wasn’t recorded anywhere. The police didn’t know T.J. was dead. I hadn’t told them that part.
I hadn’t ever asked T.J. for forgiveness. Not out loud—I mean, how could I? He was dead. And it was my fault he was dead. I was so, so sorry, and maybe all these weeks I’d just wanted to say that. I wished I’d had a chance to tell him that. I wished that he were here for me to tell him.