by Anne Rice
Of course Gregory went to great lengths to "pass." He spent his comatose daylight hours in a glass rooftop chamber. Everybody knew this. At the Chateau he slept exposed atop the south tower. Here in Paris, he slept in a high-walled courtyard. This kept his skin always darkly tanned. And every evening on rising, he cut and trimmed his dark hair perfectly, so that few of his new immortal companions even guessed that it had been shoulder length when he'd been made.
This question of the hair afforded him great flexibility. With his long hair grown out and tied back, he could and did now and then wander through the corridors of his own company in Geneva as a "mail-room boy." And when hunting he could use the long hair to advantage, decking himself out in torn dungarees and neon shirts to roam alleyways and drug dens unnoticed until he chose to strike.
When Gregory met with human employees and reporters, he was skillfully painted with modern cosmetic compounds that disguised his preternatural skin even further, and he never lingered in the company of any human very long. Almost all of his business he conducted by phone or email, some by Skype when it was absolutely necessary, and much by long and often witty "Letters from the Desk of Gregory," which he circulated amongst his employees from the top to the bottom of the giant company of which he was the de facto owner and chairman of the board. The glossy publicity photos of him which the company distributed to news services were all taken by his beloved Blood Spouse, Chrysanthe.
Fareed understood that this company was a repository for and a generator of immense wealth, and he also knew that Gregory would soon retire from it altogether, Gregory had once explained this, sinking his fortune into some other enterprise that assured him similar security and opportunity. What that was, Fareed could not guess. "The times will tell me," Gregory had said. Gregory had at least ten more years to play out this mortal role, and he meant to make the best of them. It was all so easy for him that he couldn't quite grasp why it surprised or interested anyone else.
What interested Fareed about Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals was that it was a medical enterprise, a conglomerate of research laboratories, and a pioneer in perfecting antiviral drugs. And thanks to Gregory, Fareed had computer access to virtually everything about the company; and Fareed also had access now, through Gregory, to every bit of equipment or drug that Fareed himself might want for his own secret and special work. Gregory had given Fareed total cooperation in setting up his Paris laboratory, and Gregory understood that Fareed was a vampire doctor, wholeheartedly, who lived and breathed now to care for the blood drinkers of this world, and to them and them alone Fareed had transferred the devotion he had once felt for his mortal patients.
Fareed wanted to learn from Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. He wanted to profit from this unfettered access to its research projects and its experimental drugs. He hoped to expand his own special research under the cloak of Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. He wanted to exploit to the maximum the complete latitude given him by Gregory for such plans. Gregory had enlarged the Paris Collingsworth compound, specifically for Fareed, and he would shift any project to Paris from its original location on the say-so of Fareed.
But Gregory claimed again and again to know little or nothing of the many projects that now fascinated Fareed.
Fareed got it. Gregory himself had never been a scientist. Gregory was an immortal with a vague fascination for "money, investment, the complex realm of wealth and economic power in the modern world." Yet there was no doubt that his genius had shaped the success of this enterprise. Specialists in myriad research fields appealed to him for policy decisions that were unfailingly efficient, and creative and smart.
Again, this wasn't what interested Fareed, except tangentially. He wanted to survive amongst the Undead. So of course he took note that the great wise survivors of the millennia--Sevraine, Gregory, Marius, Teskhamen--never struggled as to questions of wealth. To them the vagabond pickpocket maverick vampires of the world were rabble too stupid to arouse pity. And though they took pains now, the elders, to teach the young ones coming to Court how to negotiate the human world with some efficiency, their patience was short.
The present world afforded rich prey for blood and wealth in the international drug dealers and the sex slavers that congregated in just about every major city east or west; and even the youngest fledgling could feed on this mortal underclass with some success. Even the youngest fledgling could befuddle, outsmart, and easily dispatch the more organized of mortal criminals, and pocket the stacks of cash lying around in gangster hideaways and drug depots, and if he or she could not, well, best to keep that secret from the elders of the tribe as well as from one's own companions, as far as immortals like Gregory were concerned.
"It's not the cloning that interests me here," said Fareed, "though it's an immensely interesting subject."
"Irresistible to many," Gregory answered. "I'm sure."
"It's this doctor. Something's wrong here, or perhaps I should say something's strange."
"I'm listening." Gregory sat back looking at the four long streams of cards. "Why are they just red or black?" he asked under his breath.
"First off, she's not who she claims to be at all."
"How can that be?" Gregory asked. He gathered up the cards and shuffled them, as expertly as a dealer in a gambling casino.
Fareed explained.
"She's created an identity and a record for herself using, as far as I can tell, the records of four deceased researchers in genetics. I've pretty much tracked all of this to its roots. She came to work for you ten years ago. And I understand, she never met you and you never laid eyes on her. And she's been publishing brilliant papers and reports ever since. All to do with genetics and genetic engineering, medicines genetically perfected for the individual user, that sort of thing. The cloning has gone on under the radar. I've cracked into her secret records. But she's too clever for matters to be transparent. She writes in German and English mostly, and I'm sensing the use of a highly sophisticated personal code."
"And all this strikes you as dangerous, as a justification for us to intervene? Or do you want to bring her over? Make her one of your own staff?"
"Well, that's how it started," said Fareed. "I thought just maybe she'd be a brilliant addition. But now I'm quite obsessed with something else."
"And that is?"
"Why did she create this fake identity? She's obviously brilliant. So why would she do that? I can't find a single shred of evidence as to who she was or might have been before she created this persona for Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. It's as if she came into existence ten years ago."
Gregory was listening now intently. "Well, how could you find any evidence, I mean, if she doesn't want you to?"
"I've run facial recognition software, I've run records of missing persons, of doctors worldwide of the same physical description, living or dead. I find nothing. Yet she's a superbly talented researcher and research writer. I want to meet her."
Fareed enlarged the most recent available photograph of the woman until it filled the screen.
"Well, nothing's stopping you," said Gregory. "I suppose I could arrange it if you like. You're blessed, my friend. You look human. You're an entirely credible Anglo-Indian doctor. You're striking but not threatening. I'm sure you could sit down with her over coffee in Geneva and talk to her. What would be the risk in that?"
Fareed didn't answer. A strange frisson had come over him. He was staring into her face, looking into her eyes.
Gregory rose from the table and approached the desk. He stood behind Fareed and looked at the monitor.
"Lovely woman," he said. "Perhaps she'd like to spend eternity with us."
"That's all you see?" Fareed asked. He glanced up at Gregory. "You see nothing else?"
"What is there to see?"
Fareed stared at the image. Creamy brown skin, oval face, deep brown eyes, and dark brown hair parted in the middle, drawn back severely from the face yet in a flattering style. Prominent gold streak in the hair runnin
g back from the widow's peak and an expression of almost forbidding intelligence.
"Dr. Karen Rhinehart," Gregory read from beneath the photograph.
"The name's fake," said Fareed. What was it he was feeling? A vague but deep alarm. "It's somebody else's name, a doctor who died in a car accident in Germany. The name means nothing."
"I honestly don't know how she could have put this over on my company. Are you sure?"
"Completely sure."
"Meet her if you wish. Should I shoot her an email? Easy enough to do. She could be in Paris tomorrow to meet you."
"No. I don't think that is a good idea," said Fareed.
"Why?"
How could Fareed explain it? He opened his mind deliberately to Gregory, asking him silently to read the subtle feelings that he himself could not identify.
Something not quite right about her. Something formidable. Something to suggest that she might be in her own way equal to us...
Gregory nodded. He rested his hand on Fareed's shoulder with a familiarity that was unusual.
"Whatever you wish," he said. "She couldn't have fooled my personnel office. You don't understand the caliber of the checking they do on our scientists."
"Well, she has fooled them," said Fareed. "And I don't want to be close to her just yet, not until I have a few more answers."
Gregory shrugged. "I have to go back to Geneva," he said. "Perhaps I'll meet with her myself."
"No!" said Fareed. "Gregory, don't do that." He turned and looked up at Gregory. Gregory didn't understand this wariness. Gregory was fearless, and had been for so long he possessed no root understanding of Fareed's apprehension at all. "Don't let her get close to you," Fareed said. "Not until I know more about her. Will you agree?"
Gregory was staring at him in silence.
"Gregory, I don't want her to see any one of us up close."
Again, Gregory shrugged. "Very well," he said.
"And there's another aspect to it," said Fareed.
"I'm listening."
"She petitions to see you constantly. She's been turned down at least four or five times every year since she came to work for you. Yet she keeps petitioning, arguing she has a grant proposal for your eyes only."
"Well, that's not surprising. They all want to meet the captain of the ship. They all want to be invited for supper in the captain's cabin."
"No, it's more than that."
Fareed brought up a series of group photographs with a few clicks of the keys. "The woman's been stalking you for years. If you look here, she's in every single one of these pictures."
"But those were press conferences," said Gregory. "Lots of the different staff attended, made remarks, reported on recent developments."
"No, you don't understand. She's in every picture, and not with the staff but with the press. She's trying to get close to you, to see you. I think she may well be trying to get some sample of your DNA."
"Fareed, I think your suspicions are running away with you. It would be quite impossible for her to do that."
"Not so sure."
Fareed enlarged the latest group shot of reporters gathered for a precious few minutes with the head of Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals. And there she was, in the front row of those holding microphones, recording equipment, steno pads, a tall woman in a dark jacket and long skirt, her wavy brown hair loose but carefully groomed as it hung behind her shoulders, the long gold streak in her hair quite prominent, her secretive and probing eyes fixed on Gregory, nothing visible in her hand but an iPhone.
"She's photographing you, of course."
"They all are," said Gregory. "Fareed, my company investigates every single person working anywhere, Paris, Zurich, Geneva, New York."
"But look at her eyes."
"I don't feel it," Gregory confessed. "She's beautiful, intriguing, and how nice for her, and for those who know her, and for me if she's doing good work."
Fareed went silent. But as he stared at the dark focused expression on the woman's face, he shuddered.
"I don't think..."
"Don't think what?"
"I don't think she's human."
"What do you mean? She's one of us?"
"No, definitely not. She lives and works by day and night, obviously. I have footage of her coming and going during the day. She's certainly not one of us. No."
"A ghost then, is that what you're saying? Another one of these genius spirits--like Gremt or Magnus, or the others lodging with them?"
"No. She's flesh and blood all right. But I don't think it's human flesh and blood."
"Well, that's easy enough to verify. Her DNA should be on file. Nobody works in research for me who doesn't have his or her DNA on file. The woman took a physical when she was hired, gave blood, submitted to X rays...."
"I know. I checked. But I don't believe the results. I think the whole package was fabricated. I'm running the DNA through every data bank in the world."
Gregory turned and walked back slowly to the table. He sat down rather heavily in the damask armchair and once again laid his right hand on the deck of cards.
"Fareed," he said in a more serious tone. "Never mind that a breach of security like that is almost impossible. It does concern me and I will check on it. But what you're saying is preposterous."
"Why?"
Gregory sighed. He sat back in the chair, eyes moving wearily over the room.
"Because I've roamed this earth for so long I can't count the years or think of them in succession," Gregory said, "or grasp how they've shaped me....I have no sense of the continuity of my life except from the times of the Emperor Julian. But it has been thousands of years, years of hunting, years of roaming, years of loving, years of learning, and I tell you, in all this time I have never encountered any flesh-and-blood creature of intelligence on this planet that appeared human but was not human."
Fareed was unmoved.
"Are you listening to me?" asked Gregory. "Will you try to grasp what I'm saying?"
Fareed thought to himself that he'd been alive for less than fifty years, but he had seen so much in those fifty years, so much of vampires, spirits, ghosts, and other mysteries that it did not surprise him at all to encounter a human-looking thing that was not human, but he did not say this aloud.
He'd enlarged the picture of the woman in the dark suit jacket and long skirt, standing among the reporters. Perfectly almond-shaped eyes. And the skin, the lovely bronze skin. Not human.
"Fareed, are you listening to me? Spirits and ghosts, I've known. We all have, all the old ones. But not biological humanoids who are not really human."
"Well, I'll know better if I can get close to her, won't I?" said Fareed gazing steadily at the woman's face. It was not a cruel face. It was not a mean face. But it wasn't generous and it wasn't curious and it lacked some spark, some definable spark--.
"What, you believe in the human soul?" asked Gregory.
"No," said Fareed, "but I do believe in the human spirit. How else would there be ghosts knocking on our doors now? I don't say it's a divine spark, I am thinking only that some human spark is not there."
"Is there a spark of something else?"
"Good question. I don't know."
"Do you have time for this?" asked Gregory. "You haven't completed your research on Mekare's remains or Maharet's remains. I thought this was of great importance to you and the remains were deteriorating. I thought you were inviting Gremt here so you could test the body he'd made for himself. I thought you wanted to expand the Paris laboratory--."
"No, the remains are not deteriorating exactly anymore," Fareed murmured. He couldn't take his eyes off the woman. "And I am busy, that's true, impossibly busy, and I need more help, but this can't wait." He brought up yet another photograph. Press conference to announce a new insulin pump for the treatment of diabetes, 2013. The usual dim lighting. Gregory in deep shadow, and the bank of reporters a little more fully illuminated. And there she was again, this time in softer more feminin
e attire. A silk blouse, a string of lustrous pearls, a loose cardigan jacket, and the iPhone with its visible photographic eye held close to her chest. Long tapering fingers, oval nails.
"Fareed, you aren't seriously suggesting that she herself is some sort of clone, planted in my company to clone others--."
"No, I have not used the word 'clone,' " said Fareed.
"I think you're mistaken if for no other reason than that she is singular."
"I don't follow."
"Have you ever seen another one like her?"
"No," Fareed conceded, "but that has no bearing. We might be observing the first to ever come to our attention. This does not mean she is the only one. In fact, I'd be willing to wager she's not the only one."
He brought up a third picture from another file. In this one Karen Rhinehart appeared in the laboratory with her colleagues. She wore a starched white coat like the white coat that Fareed wore now. Her hair was brushed back so severely in this photo that it might have been brutally unflattering, but it was not. She had a strong chin and a calm determined look, and for some reason, some indefinable reason, she stood out from the others glaringly to Fareed's eye as if she'd been cut from another picture entirely and pasted into place. Well, she had not. But she was not human. And that is what he saw and what he sensed.
"I do have too much to do now," Fareed said dully, eyes still studying her. "That's true. But I want to go to Geneva and have a look at her without her looking at me. I want to get into her living quarters...."
"Fareed, my employees trust me not to violate their privacy or their dignity."
"Gregory, be serious! If I wanted to bring her over, you wouldn't have the slightest objection."
"Look, Fareed, the woman must work late hours. They all do. They're all there in the evening hours. You can watch her by video feed. Every laboratory and office is video monitored."
"Ah, I didn't think of that!"
"I'll give you access."
"You don't have to," Fareed confessed. "Why didn't I think of it? Of course."
His fingers were flying over the keyboard, the keyboard specially engineered to accommodate his preternatural speed.
"I'm in," he whispered, quickly entering the data to home in on the correct laboratory, and all files on record of that laboratory and none other.
