Kitty Goes to Washington

  The pair of cops locked down the town house. Leo’s two soldiers had been guided to a sofa in the parlor, where they now sprawled, sleeping it off. I sure didn’t want to be around when they woke up. Flemming had disappeared utterly, and I couldn’t blame him. He had no friends at that place.

  Ben and I took my car to the hotel, while Cormac drove theirs. Ben carried my bags. I was still wearing my torn T-shirt and jeans. I needed a shower, badly. I needed to not remember the TV broadcast. I’d been able to forget, for the last few hours. When we got to the hotel, Ben handed me a homemade DVD and portable DVD player. Shit.

  I showered first. I’d watch the video after. But the shower lasted a very long time. I had a lot of bad scents to wash off. Smells of antiseptic science, of calculated cruelty, of hate and violence. Of being beaten up, trapped in a jail cell, tied up with silver. My wrists had rashes from silver and puncture wounds from a vampire.

  Eventually, I watched, mesmerized, my room-service breakfast abandoned.

  Toward the end, Ben knocked at my door. I let him in.

  “The committee’s wrapping up this afternoon. You should go.”

  The Senate committee seemed incredibly far away at the moment.

  “What’s the press response to this?” I pointed at the screen, where my Wolf had retreated to a corner to curl up in as tight a ball as possible. “What’s the media saying?” I hadn’t looked at a newspaper yet. In a sudden nervous fit, I turned on the TV and flipped channels until I found something resembling news.

  “. . . experts verify that the video is not a fake, that what you’re about to see is a real werewolf. We must warn you that the following images may be disturbing to some viewers . . .” The news show aired a choice clip: me, my back arching, shirt ripping, fur shimmering where skin ought to be.

  I turned the channel. I found a morning show where the familiar, perfectly saccharine hosts interviewed a man in a suit.

  The woman said, “By now everyone’s seen the film. We have to ask, what does it mean? What’s going to come out of this?”

  “Well, we have to look at it in context of the hearings that have been going on for the last week. This brings all that information out of the realm of theory. For the first time we see the issue in stark reality, and what it means is the Senate committee is not going to be able to ignore it, or brush it off. I expect to see legislation—”

  The next channel, a rather hyperbolic cable news show, had Roger Stockton as a guest. Just the sight of him made my hackles rise. He and the regular host were chatting.

  “Is there a way to tell?” the host was saying. “If you didn’t already know she was a werewolf, would you have been able to tell?”

  Stockton had become an infinitely assured expert. “Well, Don, I have to say, I think with experience you might be able to spot a werewolf. They’ve got this aura about them, you know?”

  “So that whole thing with the monobrow is bunk—”

  Oh, give me a break.

  And a fourth channel. “Who is Kitty Norville? She gained some fame as the host of a cult radio talk show, and that put her in the spotlight. A spotlight that got a little too bright last night. She has been unavailable for comment, and investigators are looking into the possibility that she may still be held captive—”

  “I’ve been getting calls nonstop. I’ve been blowing them off, no comments at this time sort of thing. Maybe you should hold a press conference.”

  At least that would be organized. I might be able to claim a bit of territory for myself.

  “And your mom called again. You should probably call her back soon.”

  I went back to the first news channel. They showed a new clip, the Dirksen Senate Office Building where the hearings were being held. A crowd had gathered: protesters, curiosity seekers. The reporter wasn’t saying, just that the committee was convening for a final time. Some people were waving signs that I couldn’t read because the camera refused to focus on them.

  Did they hate me? What was happening?

  “I can’t do it,” I said softly, shaking my head in slow denial. “I can’t face them. Face that.”

  “Why not?” He sounded tired. He’d been awake for all of the time that I had, over the course of the night. He’d earned his retainer in spades.

  Why not, indeed. I wanted that hole, that safe den shut away from the world, and I wanted it badly. I knew this feeling; I hadn’t felt it so strongly in years. “It’s all out. Everyone saw me. Saw everything. I have nothing left, that’s what it is. I—I feel like I’ve been raped.”

  He gave a frustrated huff. “Now how would you know about that?”

  I almost swung at him. I had to take a deep breath, to pull that anger back inside. We were both tired and speaking too bluntly. “You do not want me to answer that, Ben.”

  His expression fell. “Look, Kitty. We’re going to sue. We’re going to litigate the shit out of Duke, Flemming, Stockton, everyone we can over what happened. The whole goddamn Senate if we have to. And that’s after the criminal charges are filed. But for all that to happen, you can’t hide. Those crowds aren’t going away anytime soon, and you’re going to have to face them.”

  I’d started crying, tears quietly making tracks down my cheeks. Everything that had happened over the last twenty-four hours seemed to hit me at once, and the stress was suffocating. Like being in the cell again, silver walls pressing down on me. But he was right. I knew he was right. I’d survived too much to cave now. So I wiped the tears away and drank down the glass of orange juice.

  This couldn’t possibly be worse than wrestling with a vampire.

  Chapter 14

  I didn’t want to bother with traffic and parking, so Ben and I took a taxi to the Senate office building. The crowd had grown until it clogged the street. Police directed traffic. They’d closed the street and weren’t going to let us through until Ben rolled down the window and spoke a few words to one of the cops. The guy nodded, then called to one of his colleagues. The two of them cleared a path through the mass of people.

  I hunched down, huddled inside my jacket, hiding. People outside were shouting. Most of it was incoherent, but I heard someone preaching, quoting the Bible in a clear, loud voice: thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.

  A sign flashed, a placard someone waved above the crowd: a vertical acronym with the words spelled out horizontally. V.L.A.D.: Vampire League Against Discrimination.

  That was a new one.

  I closed my eyes. This was crazy. I should have just gone home. Mom wanted me to come home. I’d called her. I was right—she hadn’t turned off the TV like I asked. But she seemed to have disassociated the images entirely. Like she’d decided that wasn’t really me. All she knew, I was in trouble and she wanted me to come home, where I’d be safe. Where she assumed I’d be safe.

  “Look,” Ben said, pointing out the car window to the front door of the building. “The cops are watching the crowd. You’ll be fine.”

  Fine. Right. Just dandy.

  The taxi stopped, and my stomach coiled.

  Ben paid the driver and said to me, “Stay there, I’ll go around and get the door.”

  I waited. The driver stayed turned, looking at me over the back of the seat. Staring at me.

  A lot of people were going to be staring at me in a minute. Better get used to it.

  Then he said, “Hey—can I have your autograph?”

  I gaped like a fish. “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure. How else are the guys going to believe this?”

  I bit my lip. Autopilot took over. “You got paper and pen?”

  He pulled them off one of those notepads that stuck to the inside of the windshield. I wrote against the back of the seat. I had to think for a minute how to spell my own name.

  “That show last night? That was something else. Hey, thanks a ton,” he said as I handed back the paper. “And good luck out there.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured.

  Ben opened my door.

 
I looked up, and the crowd made a sound. Like an avalanche, it poured over me, cheering and cursing. I caught sight of two signs, quickly scribbled posterboard jobs their bearers shook wildly. One said, BURN THE HEATHENS!

  The other said, WE * KITTY!

  God, this was going to be weird.

  A barricaded path led from the curb to the front door. That didn’t stop people from trying to lean over, hands stretched out, reaching for me. I forced myself not to cringe. Walk tall, chin up, eyes ahead. Ben had his arm across my back, keeping me moving, using his body as a shield. This was like something out of a movie, or a cop show, or Court TV.

  “I love your show, Kitty!” someone screamed off to my right. I couldn’t see who, but I flashed a smile in that direction. Cameras clicked—by the door, the press corps waited. TV cameras, photo cameras, a dozen microphones and handheld recorders reached out for me.

  “Kitty! Kitty Norville! What action are you going to take against Senator Duke and Dr. Flemming? Have you spoken to the senator since last night? What are your plans? What do you think the Senate committee’s response to this will be? Kitty!”

  “My client has no comments at this time,” Ben said. A couple of police officers stepped forward and cleared a path to the door.

  If I thought it’d be calmer inside, I was wrong. People in suits packed the hallway. They looked official, carrying papers and briefcases, rushing around with purposeful expressions. Everyone who passed me stopped and did a double take.

  “Where’d all the people come from?” I said.

  “I think half of Congress is turning up for this. It’s funny, the committee doesn’t have any real power. They can just make recommendations, but it’s like everyone’s waiting for the word of God.”

  I thought people were just waiting for a clue, for an idea of which way to jump: if the authority figures decided I was dangerous, a threat to society, then people could react to that. They’d know to be afraid. But if they decided I wasn’t dangerous—maybe people could let it go.

  “Thanks for being here, Ben.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  The audience inside the hearing chamber was invitation only. They’d never have been able to fit everyone in, otherwise. Mostly, reporters and TV cameras crammed the place. We were late. The senators were already in place behind their authoritative tables. Senator Duke was absent, but I recognized his aide, the one from last night, standing in a corner. He refused to look in my direction.

  I couldn’t find Dr. Flemming among the audience, either. So, Duke, Flemming, and Stockton had all ditched. Did that make me the last one standing? Did that mean I won?

  What, exactly, did I win?

  Jeffrey Miles had made it into the audience. He smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. I wanted to hug him, but he was on the other side of the room.

  Henderson leaned close to his microphone and cleared his throat. The general shuffling and murmuring in the room quieted as he drew attention to himself.

  “I’d like to thank my esteemed colleagues in the Senate for taking an interest in this final day of oversight hearings regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. I hope we can hold your interest. In the absence of Senator Duke, and with the consent of my fellow committee members, I’ll be serving as the committee’s acting Chair. This is mostly a formality, since the only activity on the day’s schedule is our closing statement and recommendations. Without further ado, I’ll now read those into the record.

  “Due to recent events, and recent actions by a colleague, this committee decided to issue a statement regarding this hearing’s subject matter as soon as possible, to reduce any confusion and to head off any speculation about what stance we will take. First off, I would like to thank all the panelists who testified for their time and their opinions. Without the testimony, formulating any response to the existence of the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology and its research activities would have been impossible.

  “This committee has already taken action in making recommendations to the full Senate about how that body should proceed. We have recommended that the Senate Committee on Ethics begin an investigation into the activities of our colleague Senator Joseph Duke, for suspicion of abusing his authority and conspiring to commit the crime of kidnapping. The full Senate may consider a censure against Senator Duke. We have recommended to the director of the National Institutes of Health that the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology be dissolved, due to its questionable methodologies and possible unethical practices. Its research projects should continue, but under different supervision as part of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, according to all the regulations and guidelines set forth by the NIH. This committee sees no reason why, if the conditions under discussion really are the result of diseases, they should not be studied under the aegis of an existing disease research organization. It remains to be seen what, if any, criminal charges will result from the way in which the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology conducted itself, especially in consequence of events leading to last night’s television broadcast with which we are all no doubt familiar. I have received word that civil charges, at least, will soon be filed on behalf of Katherine Norville against the parties directly involved. At this point decisions and recommendations fall outside this committee’s jurisdiction. We gladly leave such considerations to the judicial system.

  “In closing, it is the committee’s opinion that the victims of the diseases studied by Dr. Paul Flemming and his laboratory have lived in American society for years, unnoticed and without posing a threat. We see no reason why they should not continue to do so, and we urge all good people of reason not to fall into a state of hysteria. Thank you.”

  That was it. The whole thing was filed away, folded into the bureaucracy to be forgotten as quickly as possible. Which was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it? It felt anticlimactic.

  The exodus began, senators and their aides shuffling papers and closing briefcases, reporters sorting out their recorders, people massing toward the doors.

  This was the first day Flemming had missed. I couldn’t really blame him; he had a lot to answer for. And really, if I’d been able to corner him and talk to him, what would I have said? “Sucks to be you”? Maybe I just wanted to growl at him a little.

  Maybe I should thank him for saving my life.

  I hid away in a corner of the room and called his number. I expected it to ring a half-dozen times, then roll over to voice mail. But after the first ring, an electronic voice cut in. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service . . .”

  I scanned the crowd and found the committee staffer who’d been herding witnesses all week. I maneuvered toward her as quickly as I could against the flow of the crowd, and managed to stop her before she left the room. She was in her thirties, businesslike, and her eyes bugged when she spotted me stalking toward her. I thought she was going to turn and run, like a rabbit. We all had the flight instinct, in the end.

  “Hi, do you have a minute? I just have a question.” I tried to sound reassuring and harmless.

  She nodded and seemed to relax a little, though she still held her attaché case in front of her like a shield.

  “Dr. Flemming wasn’t here today,” I said. “Do you know if he was supposed to be? Or where he might be if not here?” In jail, maybe? Was that too much to hope for?

  Her gaze dropped to the floor, and the tension returned to her stance. She actually glanced over her shoulder, as if searching for eavesdroppers.

  “He was supposed to be here,” she said. “But right before the session started, I was informed that he’d be absent. That he had another commitment.”

  “Informed? By whom? What other commitment?”

  “I know better than to ask questions about certain things, Ms. Norville. Flemming’s out of your reach now.” She hunched her shoulders and hurried away.

  Conspiracy theory, anyone?

  “Wait! Am I supposed to think that he’s been
sucked into some dark, clandestine project and no one’s ever going to see him again? Is there a phone number for him? I’ve got court papers to serve, you know!”

  She didn’t even look back at me.

  The senators arranged a press conference inside the hearing chamber. Henderson and Dreschler answered questions, many of them regarding Duke and what his future in the Senate, if any, might be. Listening between the lines, I felt like they were saying nothing much would happen to Duke. He’d be censured, and that was about it. A slap on the wrist. They expected the other people involved to take the fall for him. Stockton and Flemming. I didn’t have enough energy left for righteous indignation.

  Then came my turn. After the senators left, I agreed to spend a few minutes at the podium, mainly because Ben convinced me that facing all the reporters at once was easier than running the gauntlet. If I gave some comments now, it would be easier to ignore them later on.

  Ben was right. I had to face up to the reputation I’d built for myself. I had to face the consequences of that reputation.

  I tried to think of it as being on the radio. The microphone reached out in front of me, and that looked familiar. If I could ignore the lights, the cameras, the rows of faces in front of me, I could pretend I was talking to my audience. As a voice on the radio, I could say anything I wanted.

  I let Ben pick who would ask the questions. He was on hand to jump in and save me if I stuck my foot in my mouth.

  The first question came from a middle-aged man in a turtleneck. “Ed Freeman, New York Times. It’s been suggested that you were complicit in arranging last night’s broadcast. That it was a publicity stunt to garner sympathy and publicize your show. Any comment?”

  My jaw dropped. “Who suggested that? The National Enquirer?” Ben made an erp-sounding noise. Right, had to be serious. “Mr. Freeman, it’s well known that despite the success of my radio show, I’ve never publicized my appearance. I never wanted to be recognized on the street and that hasn’t changed. I was forced into that broadcast.”