The Blood of Ivy

by Jessica King

First Confirmed Death: L.A. Fever

  While the nickname for the illness that seemed to pop up out of nowhere yesterday morning, L.A. Fever, might sound fun, the fast-acting virus causing flu-like symptoms as well as severe nausea and dizziness is quite dangerous. And now it has led to a death in the Los Angeles area. Eighty-nine-year-old, Beatrice Rosales passed away within seven hours of her first symptoms.

  The CDC has announced asked that anyone above the age of sixty-five in the L.A. areas to self-quarantine, as children and younger adults contracting the virus appear to be exhibiting improving symptoms, while the elderly might be predisposed to complications from the severity of the L.A. fever’s symptoms. In the official statement issued by the CDC, they’ve also asked anyone in the central and west L.A. areas to “self-quarantine” if they think they have L.A. fever and to remain at least ten feet away from others, as it appears to be either an air-borne or droplet-transferred virus. They plan to release an official statement with an “official explanation of the disease and how to protect against it” by the end of the day today.

  Because of the quick spread, cases nationally, and possibly worldwide, are likely to crop up throughout the day, though they are expected to be sparse and will likely be concentrated among travelers in and out of LAX airport. Pending the CDC’s official statement, it appears that L.A. Fever causes flu-like symptoms as well as symptoms of low blood circulation. If you believe that you or a loved one are experiencing the symptoms of L.A. Fever, it is recommended that you call your primary physician or local hospital before going into an office so healthcare workers can prepare before being exposed.

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  Transcript: Wednesday, April 5, 2017, 3:14 a.m. | Central European Standard Time

  Receptionist: Rome Memorial

  Caller: Hello, I… I think I might be having some of the symptoms of that L.A. Fever.

  Receptionist: Where are you?

  Caller: In my home. I live in Rome, but I flew out of LAX yesterday. I started to feel so awful halfway through the flight, and I can hardly move right now, please.

  Receptionist: One moment, please. I’m going to transfer you to a doctor.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Received: Wednesday, April 5, 9:12 a.m.

  To whom it may concern,

  We thank you so much for your interest in the LabTech Advanced Training Program. Unfortunately, we are unable to extend grant money toward your research proposal and hope you will continue your scientific pursuits and consider applying again at this time next year.

  Best,

  LabTech

  The scientist fidgeted with the camera. He figured he would want video evidence of his experiments when he received the recognition he deserved for his work. He pulled the ski mask over his head and focused the lens. He stood in front of the camera. “LabTech has just turned down my request for grant money and lab space to continue my research into biological weaponry.” He pulled up the now taped-together aerosol canister he found at the West L.A. construction site. “Apparently, they do not appreciate the great personal risk I am placing myself in to create the weapons that will likely keep them safe during the upcoming world war, and I do believe it’s coming.”

  He moved the camera over a cage, the top of it set aside. “So, as you can see here, I have fifteen healthy mice. I will be releasing the agent that I have modified to cause full death. Every mouse that contracts the disease should be dead in twenty-four hours.” He pulled the camera over to the second cage. “Here are fifteen mice that will be exposed to the mouse-level equivalent of the original virus, which will act as our control group. Considering the effects we already see on the news that was likely caused by this toxin as well as my own studies of this compound; I would expect to see two of the fifteen dead in twenty-four hours.”

  He moved the camera once more to a third cage. “And this group will be receiving a mix I’ve created with the goal of leaving exactly half of the mice alive, so we’ll see if my predictions here are correct.” He closed each cage, moving them far from one another. “As you can guess, thanks to being turned down by a series of discovery programs, the most recent being LabTech, I don’t have the absolute perfect environment for testing these.” His breaths huffed out in bursts. “Sorry, those cages are kind of heavy,” he said.

  He pointed to each one in turn. “I’ll be releasing the packets of the viral material into the cage from the bottom of it. It’s a small amount since I’m going for only getting one mouse sick originally, and then seeing the spread from there, so I’m hoping the air between the cages won’t cross-contaminate.” He laughed. “I’ll then be returning in a hazmat suit to clean everything before I breathe this stuff in.”

  He held up a remote. “I’ve set up each packet to open with a small puff of air when I press this green button here,” he said. “And I’ve set up a live feed above each of these cages that you can follow along with me as we watch what happens here.” He could see himself in the lens now, the skin beneath his eyes wrinkled with a smile, visible despite the ski mask. “I think this will give us a unique way of combating rival areas. We can choose how we want to debilitate. Do we want the original—just take people out long enough to perhaps extract something or destroy an area? Or, if my formulas are correct, we could take out everyone in an area, like a military base, or take out half, should we choose to do that.” He pointed back to the mice, who were all still scuttling about their cages, their feet making small shuffling sounds against the sawdust on their grounds. “We’ll see how this works! So, uh, wish us luck in the name of science, and eventually keeping our country safe.”

  He cut the camera. He’d have to modulate his voice later. The live feed would be simple enough unless the internet found it and labeled it “animal cruelty” over “scientific education.” That would be out of his hands, though, and he’d show the footage of it later anyway in a sped-up video for those who missed the live feed.

  He sealed his house behind him. It’d be a mess to clean up later, but it’d be worth it. He’d be staying in a motel for the next two or three days, depending on how he felt about returning. He taped the bottom of his door shut, hoping none of the neighbors were watching. He walked around to his backyard, where he stripped the clothes he was wearing in a corner behind his house where it would be hard to see him and doused them in water.

  He showered himself, the water from the hose cold and leaving goose bumps along his body. He pulled on the new clothes he’d left outside before he’d created the packets. The doses were for rat-sized beings, but he didn’t want to take any risks. The human symptoms were pretty nasty; he’d read every account and watched every vlog he could about people who had it. Most of the time, they could hardly speak without running out of breath, without becoming too weak to speak without pause.

  His car was already packed for the motel with clothes, his newly ordered hazmat suit, and food. Anything he didn’t take in the car, he’d thrown out. “Can’t be too careful,” he muttered to himself, deciding to wait until he’d taken a boiling hot shower at the motel before he tried to eat anything. He’d disinfect the car later. With one last peek at his house, they pulled up the live feeds of the cages and set off the packets. Tiny puffs of whitish dust released into each cage.

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  Wednesday, April 5, 2017, 9:00 a.m. | Central European Standard Time

  “We’re not sure where else to go with it right now,” Ivy said. “We’re going to be interviewing everyone who was in the building between six and eight on the night of Tatiana’s murder.” After a long night of contemplating, she told Vince that she’d come up empty of any hunch. He’d flattened his lips. They’d come to the same conclusion. They had nothing. Everyone was now a suspect.

  “I see,” Father Simon said. “Perhaps you should allow Father Nicholas a pass on this today.” Father Simon looked out of place at his desk, behind a laptop.

  “Why is that?” Ivy asked.

  “He thinks the reckoning is coming,” he said, turning do
wn the music. “The L.A. fever is already here.”

  Ivy raised her eyebrows. “What?”

  “Six in Italy alone, and that number is rising every minute. Shops are shutting down immediately.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid it might simply be best for you to go home, Miss Hart.”

  Ivy’s eyebrows knit together.

  “I want to find her murderer,” he said. “But St. Peter’s will be closing its doors for the first time in hundreds of years to the public who want to pray. Father Nicholas is already in the church. He was distraught.”

  “I want to go speak to him for a second,” she said, nodding to Vince, who was already angling himself out the door. “We’ll be careful,” she added before following him into the corridor.

  Ivy and Vince found Father Nicholas kneeling at the altar in the far sanctuary. “Father Nicholas,” Ivy said, approaching him. His head popped up, his eyes darting. The rest of his body was shaking. He scurried back from them a few feet.

  “I apologize,” he said. “But I am quite anxious about this disease. I’m ashamed to say it, but I fear dying.”

  “I understand,” Ivy said. “Perhaps you should,” she took a breath, “talk to someone.” The man looked like he was about to pass out, and she wondered if it would be odd for them to exchange breathing techniques from across the room. Since when did she have an arsenal of breathing techniques? She nearly laughed at herself, even as she evened out her breaths—in through the nose, out through the mouth.

  “I have already,” Father Nicholas said, shaking his head. “I’ve been talking to a psychologist for years, actually.” He shook his hands at his sides. “I’m what he calls a severe hypochondriac.” The end of his lip quirked up. “Makes shaking so many hands challenging.”

  “Maybe he could come here, if he’s not sick, I mean,” Ivy said. “To help with it.”

  Father Nicholas held up his hands as if the idea itself was made of germs. “He’s an American doctor. A great one, but I doubt he’s willing to come here, and considering the fact that he’s in Los Angeles himself, I don’t know…”

  Ivy quirked a brow. “Excuse me,” she said carefully. “I have to…” She swallowed. “Sorry.” She searched her pockets for her phone. She turned and walked away.

  “You wanna act a little less insane right now?” Vince asked, nearly skipping to keep up with her pace.

  Ivy felt that her eyes were wide; she was already dialing. They’d had the list of Wilkins’ clients for a few weeks now, but Ivy never thought she might want to check in Italy.

  Chief Marks picked up. He sounded tired. Ivy noted the time; it was still graveyard shift hours in L.A. “Ivy?” he asked.

  “Hey, can you check Wilkins’ patient list for me?” she asked. She heard typing.

  “Who am I looking for?”

  “Someone named Nicholas,” she said.

  “Ah, Nicholas Vendici?” he asked. “Says ‘remote’ in parenthesis.”

  “That’s what I needed,” Ivy said. “Do you think Joyce could run over to his office when she’s on shift? I’ll email her a few things I want her to ask Wilkins.”

  There was a pause. “Joyce isn’t going to be in for a bit,” he said. “She’s sick with this L.A. Fever.”

  “Were there any other members of the parish who were getting psychiatric counsel from Wilkins outside of Father Nicholas?” Ivy asked.

  Father Simon scratched behind his neck. “Eh, I don’t think so?” he said, though his sentence ended in a question mark. “They were friends back when they were younger. Wilkins studied here while Nicholas was a student in university, something like that. They were close, that’s why he went to him.”

  Father Nicholas walked in then, looking ashen. “You all should be standing a bit farther apart; this illness seems to be some great darkness settling upon us.” His back was pressed against the wall in an attempt to keep as much distance between them all as possible.

  “Father Nicholas, would you give me consent to do a search of your office?” Ivy asked. Father Nicholas blanched.

  “I have sensitive materials in there,” he said. When Ivy didn’t accept the excuse, he tilted his head. “I don’t really see why something like that is necessary.”

  Ivy’s fingers tingled. Father Nicholas had the type of smile that only came from hesitation, his back still pressed stiff, his hands pressed to the drywall.

  “Father, I’m afraid I’ll have to have the police get a warrant.” And she wouldn’t take her eyes off him until they had one.

  Father Nicholas swallowed. “After you,” he said, pointing to his office. He pulled a key from somewhere within his robe and unlocked a door with his name on it. Father Nicholas Vendici.

  She used her gaze to point to the nameplate, and Vince nodded. A slight smile.

  They searched through the office. Ivy took the desk, and Vince took the bookshelf. On one of the shelves, a small stair-like display platform held three knives. “Lovely pieces,” Vince said. They were straight blades, with metal pommels that had red tassels tied to them. The blades were light with dark inscriptions of Chinese letters working their way down the knife.

  “They were gifted to me by a friend from China,” Father Nicholas said. “They have some of the Psalms written in Chinese across them.”

  Ivy turned. They hadn’t been there to see the body themselves before it had been cleared from the basilica, but she had been killed by a knife wound. “Are you trained to handle them or anything?” Ivy asked.

  “No, no,” Father Nicholas said. “Just enjoy movies and things like that.”

  Vince dropped his backpack to the ground, bending to unzip the pockets. “Think I have luminol in here,” he muttered next to her ear so the others couldn’t hear.

  She hadn’t noticed at first, but when a design on the top of the desk started to show after she’d moved a series of papers, she realized his desk was an exact copy of the desk that Wilkins had in his office. She’d never been around the back, but for the most part, everything looked standard, including all the files and bobbles she found in the desk’s drawers. Apparently, Father Nicholas was a well-traveled man.

  Knick knacks of all different colors and origins littered the space. Tiny wooden clogs from Amsterdam and a Russian nesting doll painted in dark colors and a shell with Pura Vida carved into it. Even a magnet from Disney Land in Florida. When she got to the last drawer, it seemed a bit shallow. She tried to push the files in the bottom out of the way, but they bunched, packed full. She pulled them out, the slick folders sliding against one another across the floor. She knocked on the bottom of the drawer. The wood felt thin and reverberated with hollowness. Pushed on the four corners of the bottom paneling, but nothing gave way.

  She tried to calm her breathing so she could better hear Father Nicholas’ breaths, which were careful and measured. She knocked around the edges of the bottom panel again, nothing budging. Vince sprayed the knives with luminol.

  “They’re very old,” Father Nicholas protested.

  “Detectives, I’m sure there’s another way to look at those, they were a gift,” Father Simon said from his side.

  Ivy turned, seeing the wrinkles of worry between his eyes.

  “Turn the lights down,” Vince said, pointing to the light switch and pulling out a specialized flashlight of his own.

  Father Simon reached for the switch. “Nicholas, I’m sure it’s…” The lights went low, and the end of the smallest knife glowed blue. The sound of Father Simon’s mouth dropping open in shock was an audible pop.

  “They were a warrior’s tools, I… I… ” Father Nicholas stared at the knives in horror.

  “If they were used, why wouldn’t all three of them show me blood?” Vince asked. “There’s nothing even in the crevices of the letters here, man,” he said. He had reverted to his traffic-stop voice, the voice that said, “just tell me the truth.” He pulled out a sealable plastic bag from his backpack, using gloves to move the knife into an evidence bag.

  “
If they really were used to kill Tatiana, someone took the knife from my office,” he said. “Surely, the lock on this door isn’t so difficult to pick; it’s very old.” Father Nicholas said as Vince placed the knife in his bag.

  “What about this compartment here?” Ivy said, knocking on the bottom of the drawer. “Feels like a false-bottom.”

  Father Nicholas shook his head, even while Father Simon stared at him, shock and hurt written across his face. “I didn’t know there was a false bottom,” Father Nicholas said, shaking his head. “It was just a gift from a friend.”

  “Hmm,” Ivy said, pulling a stray business card from her wallet. “Gift from Dr. Wilkins?” Father Nicholas didn’t answer. She wedged it between the false bottom and the side of the drawer, dragging it around until the card ran into a barrier. She shifted around so that she was nearly under the desk, finding the point of the barrier on the outside of the drawer.

  A tiny golden knob no larger than a button gleamed dully. Ivy twisted the knob. She felt something click, sliding into place. Now when she pressed on the edges of the false bottom, it popped up at the other end. She pulled the thin piece of wood away, finding a series of envelopes without return addresses, though they were covered with American stamps.

  She rifled through the envelopes, finding instructions, hand-written notes between friends, and an envelope filled with Kingsmen cards on thick cardstock. She placed them on the desk as Vince’s handcuffs clicked around Father Nicholas’ hands. He leaned forward, attempting to keep distance between Vince and himself, the fear of L.A. Fever still evident despite his arrest. Vince murmured the Miranda Rights, each question ending in a question mark. Neither of them was sure what they were supposed to say in Italy.

  Ivy pulled out a folder, which was also filled with letters from all over the world. “Didn’t want an electronic trail?” she asked.

  “Nicholas, I…” Father Simon said. “Why?”

  Father Nicholas wasn’t fighting the handcuffs, though his eyes were misty as he watched Ivy writing down the names mentioned in the letters. She finally found what appeared to be the first one, sent two years ago. The stationary said: “From the Office of Andrew J. Wilkins.”