I had a feeling that was a very subtle, guilt-inducing dig. “Um, yeah.”
“Good morning, Kitty.” She swept past me, down the corridor and away.
Morning. Sleep. Yeah. What a night.
I was bleary-eyed when I met Ben in front of the Dirksen Senate Office Building at noon.
“What the hell happened to you?” he said by way of greeting.
I peered at him through slitted, sleep-encrusted eyelids and smiled self-indulgently.
“I went out last night.”
He shook his head and took a sip of coffee out of a paper cup. “I don’t want to know.”
I blinked, trying to focus and feeling like I was only now waking up. I knew this was Ben standing in front of me. The figure certainly looked like Ben, and sounded like Ben. But his suit was pressed. His shirt was buttoned. He wore a tie, and his hair lay neatly combed back from his face.
I should have known it would take the U.S. Senate to polish him up.
“What are you staring at?” he said. I could only grin sheepishly.
We went inside and managed to find the room the hearing was being held in with only a couple of wrong turns. We sat in the back of the room, which was nicer than I was expecting: blue carpet, wood-paneled walls, the desks and tables in the front made of an expensive-looking wood. The place had a formal, legal air. The chairs for the audience were padded, which was nice.
The space for observers wasn’t huge, but it was filled. A lot of the people looked like reporters. They held tape recorders or notepads. A couple of TV cameras stood off to the side.
No one noticed us. I considered it one of the perks of radio that I could be well known and completely unrecognizable at the same time. The reporters focused all their attention on the front of the room: the row of senators, eight of them, each with an identifying nameplate, and Dr. Paul Flemming, sitting at a long table facing them.
Ben leaned over. “You met him. What’s he like?”
“I don’t know. He’s kind of cagey. Nervous. Territorial.”
“He looks kind of mousy.”
“Yeah, that too.”
C-SPAN live wasn’t any more exciting than C-SPAN on TV. I paid attention anyway, waiting for McCarthy to burst out of some unassuming senator’s skin and ravage the hearings with Cold War paranoia. No such luck. The proceedings were downright sedate, very Robert’s Rules of Order.
Senator Duke opened the hearings after laying down the rules of how long each senator could speak and when. As Chair, he got to decide such matters.
“Because of the highly irregular nature of the subject which we have convened to discuss, and the secrecy under which the research on this subject has been conducted, the committee has opted to reserve the first two sessions for questioning the gentleman who supervised the research. Dr. Paul Flemming, welcome. You have a statement for us?”
Each witness could enter a prepared statement into the record. They tended to be dry and academic. I expected Flemming’s to be doubly so.
“Five years ago, I received a grant of funds from the National Institutes of Health to conduct research into a number of previously neglected diseases. These are diseases which have for centuries been shrouded in superstition and misunderstanding—”
And so on. He might as well have been talking about cancer or eczema.
The senators’ questions, when they finally started, were benign: what is the Center, where is it located, who authorized funding, from which department was funding derived, what are the goals of the Center. Flemming’s answers were equally benign, repetitions of his opening statement, phrases like the ones he’d given me: the Center strives to further the boundaries of knowledge in theoretical biological research. He never even used the words vampire or lycanthrope. I squirmed, wondering when someone was going to mention the elephant in the room.
Senator Duke granted my wish.
“Dr. Flemming, I want to hear about your vampires.”
Dead silence answered him. Not a pen scratched in the entire room. I leaned forward, waiting to hear what he’d say.
Finally, Flemming said, very straightforward, as if delivering a paper at a medical conference, “These are patients exhibiting certain physiological characteristics such as an amplified immune system, pronounced canines, a propensity for hemophagia, severe solar urticaria—”
“Doctor,” Duke interrupted. “What are those? Hemophagia? What?”
“Consuming blood, Senator. Solar urticaria is an allergy to sunlight.”
He made it sound so clinical, so mundane. But what kind of allergy caused someone to burn into a cinder?
“And what have you discovered about these so-called patients of yours, Doctor?”
Flemming hesitated a moment, then leaned closer to the microphone set before him. “I’m not sure I understand your question, Senator.”
“Vampires. In your opinion, what are they?”
Flemming cleared his throat, nervousness slipping into the calm, and said cautiously, “I believe I explained previously, that vampirism is characterized by a set of physical characteristics—”
“Cut the bull, Doctor. We’ve all seen Dracula, we know the ‘physical characteristics.’ I want to hear about the moral characteristics, and I want to hear about why they exist.”
I leaned forward, scooting to the edge of my seat, not because I would hear any better. The microphones worked great. I was waiting for the fight to break out.
“My studies don’t involve the scope of your question, Senator.”
“Why not?”
“Those points are irrelevant.”
“With all due respect I disagree with you. Strongly.”
“Senator, I’m not qualified to comment on the moral characteristics of my patients.”
“Your test subjects, your patients—how do you feed them, Doctor? Whose blood do they suck out? How many of them turn into vampires?”
“Despite all the stories to the contrary, the condition is not transmitted by direct fluid contact—”
“And the blood?”
“Blood bank, Senator. We use pints of the most common types that the existing blood supply can spare.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” He said it like he’d gained some kind of victory.
“Doctor, I have some questions over the budgeting of your research—” One of the other senators on the committee, a woman named Mary Dreschler, quickly steered the discussion back to more mundane matters. A Democrat from a Midwestern state, Dreschler had run for the seat held by her late husband, who’d died suddenly in the middle of a reelection campaign. She was on her third term.
After two hours of this, the day’s session was over. It was just as well it wasn’t an all-day thing. If people in Congress did this sort of thing a lot, I was going to have to respect them a little more. Here I was, thinking the job was all glamour and state dinners. When Duke called the session into recess for the day, a sense of relief passed through the room, and the group sigh of exhaustion changed the air pressure.
Ben, leaning back in his chair, smirked in amusement. “If this is the tone the whole hearings are going to take, we’re in for a roller coaster. I can’t wait to see what Duke does with you.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. It’s still going to be fun to watch.”
I could hear it now: Eaten any babies lately, Ms. Norville?
Eggs for breakfast. Does that count?
Looking purposeful, Ben gathered up his briefcase and jacket.
“Where are you off to?” I asked.
“I have some research I want to do. You don’t need me for anything, do you?”
“Nope.” I had some research of my own I wanted to take care of.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.” Outside the hearing room, he took off down the hallway, away from the front doors of the building.
As I turned to leave, a man with a mini digital camcorder tucked in his hand stepped into my path. I balked, startled
.
“You’re Kitty Norville,” he said. “Aren’t you?”
I wondered how he knew. I didn’t include my picture with any of the publicity for the show for exactly this reason. But he might have overheard Ben talking to me. He might have pulled my file off DMV records. It could have been anything.
He wasn’t tall for a guy, only a couple inches taller than my five feet six. His build was average and he dressed preppy, a brown leather coat over a sweater and khakis. But his eyes shone with a barely suppressed zeal that was unnerving, because it was focused on me.
“Who are you?”
“Roger Stockton, I’m a reporter for Uncharted World. Do you have a couple minutes to answer some questions?” Without waiting for an answer he hefted the camera and turned an eye to the little screen, which was no doubt showing me glaring at him.
I had to be calm. CNN was watching from down the hall. I didn’t want to do something that would get me a starring role on the six o’clock news.
“Wow. I didn’t think Uncharted World had reporters. Aren’t you guys more the urban legend and unverified amateur video footage kind of show?”
He didn’t react to that, but he was probably used to getting that kind of crap from people. “What was your reaction to being subpoenaed by the oversight committee?”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t have time for this.” I dodged him and continued down the hallway. The guy was persistent, though. He ran after me and planted himself in front of me again, cutting me off when I tried to go around him. The hall wasn’t wide enough to avoid him.
He spoke quickly. “What are your thoughts regarding the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology and Flemming’s work there?”
The shining little eye of the camera lens stayed trained on me. I had to get away from that thing. “No comment.”
“Come on, you’ve got more of a right to an opinion on this stuff than anyone else in that room, and you can’t take a minute to share your thoughts with the public? Are you going to leave it to other people to decide what tone this debate takes?”
I turned on him, my shoulders bunched, my jaw tight, my gaze burning. I only half raised my hands and took a step toward him, but his reaction was immediate and unambiguous. He stumbled back against the wall, pressing himself to it as if he could fall through it, and clutched the camera to his chest. His eyes went wide and the blood drained from his face.
He knew I was a werewolf. More importantly, he believed it, and everything it entailed. He thought I might actually maul him, right here and now. Idiot.
“I don’t want my picture on TV, especially not on Uncharted World. Get rid of the camera and I’ll think about talking to you. But right now I’m not inclined to be nice.”
I stalked away from him. And half a second later, I heard footsteps hurrying behind me.
He could not take a hint.
“Look, we’re both in the broadcast business. Why not do a colleague a favor? Just give me a couple of quotes and I’ll give your show a plug. We both win.”
It didn’t even help that his voice had a nervous waver to it now. I tried to ignore him, but he was right alongside me again, holding up that damned camera.
He was looking back and forth between me and the camera, so he didn’t see Bradley standing in front of us, blocking the corridor. But I did.
I stopped. Stockton didn’t, until Bradley grabbed his wrist and took the camera out of his hand.
“Hey!” Stockton struggled, until he looked at Bradley. First his chest, then up to his face. They couldn’t have played it better if they’d been making a movie. All I had to do was sit back and watch.
“This guy bothering you?” Bradley said.
Oh, how a girl loved to hear those words from someone with Bradley’s build. “I think he was just leaving. After he erases the last five minutes of footage off his camera.”
Bradley let go of him, then studied the camera’s controls. He started pushing buttons, and I had no doubt that in moments my face would be wiped clean from the camera’s memory.
Stockton pointed a finger at him. “This is harassment.”
“No, that’s harassment,” I said, nodding at the camera.
He frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re turning down free publicity.”
“I’d like to hold on to the last bit of anonymity I have,” I said. I was going to lose it soon enough when I showed up on C-SPAN.
Bradley handed back the camera. His expression was smug, so I was confident the purge had been a success.
Stockton backed away. “We’ll talk again. Tomorrow.”
The bodyguard and I made it out of the building without any other interruptions.
I gave a tired sigh. “I think I owe you one.”
“Not to worry,” he said. “It was my pleasure.”
Only after a couple minutes did I realize that he’d been on his way to meet me after the hearings finished, to escort me to the car, as if I couldn’t be trusted to make it to the curb without getting into trouble. Maybe I couldn’t. It still annoyed me.
“Shotgun,” I called as we neared the sedan in the parking garage.
He glared. He’d been heading for the rear door, preparing to be all chauffeur-y.
“I can see better out the front,” I explained. He sighed in what I thought was an overly dramatic manner, but he opened the front passenger door for me.
As he pulled out of the garage and into the bright sunshine of the daytime street, I asked, “Can we make a detour? Just a tiny little stop. You can even leave the motor running.”
I faced him, eyes wide and pleading. Even in broad daylight, he managed to look as foreboding as he had the night I first saw him, with his dark, nondescript suit and stony features. As we emerged into daylight, he put on a pair of sunglasses, completing the Man In Black image.
“You are an awful lot of trouble, you know that?”
“It’s not on purpose, honest.” The trouble I caused was almost always a direct result of speaking without thinking first. This, for example: a rational person would do whatever she could to avoid annoying Bradley. Not me. “Please? Just a tiny little errand, I promise.”
“Where?”
I cringed. “The Crescent?”
“No, absolutely not!”
“I just want to run in and leave a message for Luis, that’s all, I promise.”
“No. No way.”
“Please?” I wasn’t above begging. “We wouldn’t have to tell Alette.”
“Do you really think I wouldn’t tell her?”
He would, he absolutely would. For a moment, his sincerity almost made me back off. This genuine, seemingly uncoerced loyalty Alette inspired in her people was daunting. I set my elbow on the door and leaned my head on my hand.
Bradley pursed his lips, his gaze flickering at me. “She has your best interests in mind. She’s only looking out for your safety.”
“She thinks a wolf needs an alpha, does she? Doesn’t want me running around without a leash?”
He didn’t answer. As altruistic as he made Alette out to be, there was a core of truth to what I’d said. I stared out the window as we passed yet another neoclassical building. I wondered what that one was.
“All right,” he said. “A minute. That’s all. If you duck out on me, Alette may never let you out of the house again.”
I gave him a tight-lipped smile. “All right.”
He waited at the curb, with the motor running. Just so I knew the clock was ticking. I ran.
Maybe Luis would be there, maybe not. Maybe I just wanted to make sure the place was real, that I hadn’t dreamed last night.
It was real. In the light of day, the silver on the sign above the restaurant part of the building sparkled. A menu was taped inside the window. I went downstairs.
The door to the lower section was propped open, letting in the slight breeze. I peeked inside. Only a few people were there, before the after work and supper crowds. A man at one of the tables in back drank c
offee and read a paper, a couple was talking at the bar, and an old man sat alone at a table and chair, where the musicians had played last night. Hunkering inside a tired, stained overcoat, he stared into a tumbler that he gripped with both hands. He was a werewolf; I could tell without scenting him or sensing anything about him. He was grizzled enough, he looked the part. Wiry, steel-gray hair bristled from his liver-spotted head into thick sideburns, down his wrinkled neck, and under his ears, which were slightly pointed. I caught a glimpse of elongated canine teeth sitting just over his lower lip. His fingers were thick, ending in sharp, narrow nails. He probably terrified small children he passed on the street.
Here was someone who’d been a werewolf for a long, long time, and had spent much of that time in his wolf form. I’d heard of this, but I’d never seen it: his body was forgetting how to be human. If I hadn’t known anything about werewolves, I might have looked at him and thought he was arthritic and aging badly. As it was, I expected his eyes to be golden-amber if he happened to glance up.
I somehow found my way to the bar. Bumping into it, I realized I’d been staring. I shook my head to clear it of the image of the old man.
“You’re Kitty, right?” the bartender said. He was the same guy from last night, the young one. Now that I had a good look at him, I could tell that he wasn’t wolf, or jaguar like Luis. I couldn’t tell what the hell he was.
“Yeah, hi.”
“Jack.” He stuck out his hand. I gripped it. He squeezed back a little too hard, giving me a half grin as he did. Trying to prove something. He was strong—stronger than I would have expected from someone his size. But then, so was I. I let go and leaned on the counter like I hadn’t noticed.
“Can I get you something?”
“No, thanks, I just wanted to leave a note for Luis.” I nodded toward the old man at the table. “Who’s he?”
Jack put his elbows on the bar and raised a conspiratorial brow. He whispered, “People call him the Nazi.”
I blinked at him, startled.
“I don’t know if he really is or not,” Jack continued. “But Ahmed says he did fight in World War II, and that he is German. Who knows? He comes here every day at four, drinks his schnapps, and leaves without saying a word.”
Kitty Goes to Washington Page 8
