“Of course. Care for a drink?” She deposited her briefcase and shoulder bag on the nearest chair and headed for the wet bar.
“Dry martini,” he said, not because he particularly cared for the flavor, but because that drink was strong enough to have some effect on him, however slight. In his present mood he wanted to dull his senses a little.
After handing him a martini and mixing herself a wine cooler, Britt transferred two steaks from the freezer to the micro-wave. “How do you like yours?” she asked from across the semi-circular counter marking the borders of the free-standing kitchen.
He sipped his drink and settled on the couch. The living room furniture, though too armless and angular for his taste, had a restful color scheme of pastel blues and greens. His headache began to fade. “Very rare—barely charred around the edges.”
“Oh, you want it to bleed.”
He took a larger swallow of the chilled drink. “Precisely. And no seasonings, please, except a little salt. Especially not garlic—violent allergy.”
Britt took a chair across from him. “And an unusual one. You've mentioned your food sensitivities before. It must be limiting sometimes.”
“Not necessarily. I'm comfortable as long as I avoid the things that trigger my problems.”
“Sunlight, too?”
Roger's startled reaction barely escaped tipping the martini onto his lap. “What?”
“Well, I can hardly miss noticing those sunglasses, even when it's pouring rain.” She got up in response to the microwave's beep. “What else shall we have? Baked potato and salad are quick.”
“Nothing but steak for me,” he said. “I can't handle fiber.”
Britt paused to replace one of the two potatoes she'd picked out of a basket next to the refrigerator. “Thatis an interesting complex of sensitivities. Your problem with sunlight—some variety of xeroderma pigmentosum?” After a moment's thought, she answered her own question. “No, it can't be XP, or you couldn't go out during the day at all, or even face full-strength indoor lighting.”
Blast—he should have realized Britt wouldn't leave a medical topic alone. She had a disconcerting ability to draw him out. “It might be a less severe variant of the syndrome, for all I know. But my parents weren't able to learn much about my condition, medically. They discovered the optimum treatments mostly by trial and error.” That summary was more or less true, anyway.
Her piercing green eyes followed him while he emptied his glass and mixed another drink, then leaned on the counter to watch her assembling lettuce and other vegetables for her salad. “I'd love to hear more about it, but obviously you don't want to talk.” Her tone suggested that she was tabling, not abandoning, the subject. “Can you drink orange juice?”
Not my first choice."Yes, that would be fine. I'm afraid I'm not an interesting dinner guest.” He glanced at his watch. “And I can't stay long tonight. I have a—prior commitment.”
Britt paused in her methodical slicing of tomatoes. She gave him a mildly surprised look across the counter, her eyes nearly level with his. “A date—you?”
“Not exactly.” Why didn't he want her to think he was involved with anyone? It wasn't as if he could risk becoming intimate with her.
“Oh, Roger,” she laughed, “don't you ever loosen up?”
“In my own way,” he said, as stiffly as before.
“Catholic or not, at heart you're a dyed in the wool Boston Puritan. I know that ‘Haavuhd’ persona impresses the patients, but you don't have tolive it. I think I've guessed the secret of your therapeutic success—you terrify the people into health.”
He could think of no adequate reply to this remark.If she only knew.
“Before I forget,” she said, “I don't think we've talked about Thanksgiving week.”
“What about it?”
“I always close the office for the entire week, because I spend the Saturday before Thanksgiving through the Sunday after at my sister's. She's in Long Beach right now. I've told you about her, right?—husband in the Navy.”
Roger nodded. “I'd just as soon keep my regular schedule through Wednesday of that week.”
She poured oil and vinegar on her salad and tossed it. “Up to you, of course.”
“Well, I'm not going anywhere, and I'd rather work than sit at home. Food-centered holidays don't have much appeal for me.”
“No family to visit?” she said.
“Only a few second and third cousins.”
Britt, obviously sensing his lack of enthusiasm for personal conversation, changed the subject. “About that boy I've started treating,” she said as she set the table, “not only is he unusual as the focus of poltergeist phenomena—the catalyst is more often a pubescent girl—the somnambulism doesn't fit, either. Also, his episodes seem to include flashes of demonstrable precognition.”
“Demonstrable as anything but reading back present knowledge into past ambiguous remarks? You actually believe in that sort of thing, don't you? As a youthful aberration, it's excusable, but I'd think that a professional in her mid-thirties would have outgrown it.” He saw no contradiction between exer-cising his own powers and disbelieving the phenomena popularly called “supernatural.” The very fact that he could control those powers demystified them for him.
He watched Britt placing the steaks under the broiler. For a few seconds he toyed with the fantasy of slaking his thirst here and now. The allure of a mind like hers— But it had to remain a fantasy.
Setting out her salad and Roger's juice, Britt motioned for him to join her at the table. “Just because I don't have time for research in private practice doesn't mean I've given up. If I could be the one to produce objective, repeatable verification of psi phenomena, wild talents—”
“By its very nature, doesn't that sort of thing tend to be non-repeatable?” He sipped the orange juice, particularly unappealing while blood-hunger nagged at him. “It's a faint hope, anyway, since all the most interesting ‘supernatural’ events in the literature have been exposed as fraud or, at best, honest confusion. Look at Bridey Murphy.”
“Not conclusive,” Britt retorted. “Besides, I don't specialize in reincarnation.”
“Surprising, what with your belief in collective memory. Your readiness to pay attention to this tripe obviously springs from your unfortunate theoretical orientation. Mystical Jungian mumbo-jumbo.”
“More humane than your Freudian mumbo-jumbo.” The exchange, repeated countless times, had already jelled into a ritual.
Britt broke off the duel to serve the steaks. With an exaggerated flourish of her wine glass, she said, “Laugh all you like. They laughed at Galileo—they laughed at Columbus—”
Roger eagerly attacked the nearly raw meat. “And they were right. His calculations were off by several thousand miles.”
Britt went on to explain in detail her presumptive evidence for authentic poltergeist and precognitive events. Roger was almost sorry when the meal—topped off by vanilla ice cream drizzled with creme de menthe—ended. Close contact with a superior mind was delightfully stimulating. Almost too stimu-lating.
After dinner Britt persuaded him, against his better judg-ment, to linger on the couch with a cup of strong coffee. “Then again, speaking of psychic powers,” she said, “what do you think of mosquitoes?”
“I seldom do. They seem to find me unappetizing.” Perhaps bloodsuckers didn't prey on their own kind.
“Lucky you—they love me. I must have delicious blood.”
I'm sure you do.He took a long swallow of the hot coffee, wishing it could scald away his thirst.
“My point is that some people positively attract mos-quitoes,” Britt said.
He gave her a puzzled look. “If there's a connection with Fortean ‘wild talents,’ I'm missing it.”
“Haven't you ever met people who seem to materialize the little beasties out of thin air, when nobody else notices them at all?”
He smiled indulgently. “So?”
“I theorize
that these individuals project a subliminal force that draws biting insects—perhaps causing them to teleport from distant locations. A kind of psychic pheromone.” Only the sparkle in her eyes revealed that she was joking. “Think of it as a negative talent. What I need to do is set up a statistical study of the number of mosquitoes per victim, corrected for age, sex, state of health—”
“And you'll discover that the attraction factor is a purely physical pheromone,” Roger said, going along with the joke.
“To rule that out, I'll have to seal the subject in a sterile room, so when a swarm of mosquitoes appears out of nowhere, like the cloud over that man in ‘Li'l Abner'—” She trailed off into giggles. In spite of his physical discomfort, Roger laughed with her.
Frowning at the coffee she'd sloshed into her saucer, Britt set the cup and saucer on the table. She leaned back to stretch an arm across the top of the couch, her fingers lightly grazing the nape of Roger's neck. “Too bad you have to rush off. How un-breakable is that date of yours?”
His spine tingled at her touch. “Set in concrete.” If only it didn't have to be that way.
Britt edged closer to him. Roger held perfectly still, to avoid making any move she might read as encouragement. “How's the headache?” Her fingertips massaged the taut muscles of his neck and shoulder blades.
He hadn't given it a thought for the past hour. “Better.”
Her mouth quirked in amusement at his curt reply. “Then stop looking as if you're about to be tortured on the rack.”
Had she no idea what she was doing to him? Of course she did—an experienced woman like Britt wouldn't flirt without full awareness of consequences.
How experienced? An unexpected flash of jealousy seared through Roger. Ridiculous—he knew Britt had no intimate male friends and, in fact, restricted her social activities mainly to career-related events. Anyway, he had no right to speculate about her private life.
Somehow she had inched so close that her breath tickled his cheek. He smelled mint, vanilla, coffee, and her unique scent, enhanced by only a whisper of Chanel. (He'd firmly impressed on both Britt and Marcia his allergic reaction to heavy perfumes.)I could have her right now. What he'd pigeonholed as impossible suddenly loomed before him as a live temptation. If she desired him, too—
No! She is not prey!He mentally rehearsed all the reasons why he could neither take her unaware nor—unthinkable!—tell her the truth.
Meanwhile, Britt's eyes searched his for cues. Interpreting his hesitation as consent, she closed the gap and brushed his lips with hers. Electricity zapped through him. He didn't dare re-spond. Losing himself in the kiss would overturn his self-control like a rowboat in a storm-lashed river. Yet he couldn't force himself to pull away, either. He put one arm lightly around her and passively accepted her exploratory nibbles.
When Britt's tongue probed the corners of his mouth, he knew he had to stop her. Suppose the razor edge of his teeth nicked her tongue, and he tasted her blood? He wrenched himself out of the loose embrace and checked his watch. “I must go now.” He hoped she couldn't hear the unsteadiness of his breathing.
Britt sat back, hands locked behind her head, coolly gazing at Roger. “I don't interest you?”
Interest!What a feeble word for how she affected him! “That's beside the point.” He stood up before she could renew her attack. “We work together.”
Britt, too, got to her feet, smiling ruefully at what she clearly considered a lame excuse. “Have you forgotten we run the office? Not to mention that we have only one employee? Why should we enforce fraternization rules against ourselves?”
“Any—intimacy—would make a professional relationship too difficult.” He started for the door.
“Has anyone ever told you how exasperating you are?” He felt indignation sizzling beneath her calm surface.
“Now and then, yes.” Safe on the threshold, he said, “Thank you for dinner. I'll see you Monday.”
“Fine.” Her green eyes glinted dangerously. He could almost hear her thoughts:We're not finished with this!
Twilight was well advanced when Roger's Citroen crept past the Naval Academy and turned toward the Severn. Traffic became lighter and faster-moving, only to grind to a halt at the old Severn River bridge. The blasted drawbridge stood open. Roger gritted his teeth in frustration. No sailor himself, he felt no sympathy for the boating hobbyists and considered it an outrage that their frivolous pastime was allowed to disrupt the serious business of the town.
Calm down,he told himself.There's still plenty of time until nine. Good grief, I might as well be begging for ulcers and hypertension!
After the bridge traffic unclogged, he made it to his condominium near St. Margaret's Road without further delay. The developer had let plenty of trees stand untouched around the semicircular townhouse complex, built well back from the narrow, winding side road. The quiet and shade began to quell Roger's irritation as soon as he pulled into the parking lot. While unlocking his door he felt a sudden prickle of uneasiness, like eyes focused on the back of his head. He turned to scan the parked cars and the surrounding woods. Nothing. With a shake of his head he stepped inside. No unfamiliar scent hung in the air.
Yet he couldn't cast off the impression that something was about to go wrong. He ordered himself to stop thinking nonsense. As he had told Britt, he didn't believe in premonitions. Simple tension, that must be his problem.
After a cold shower, he dressed in a royal blue lounging jacket and poured a glass of milk. The more bulk nourishment he consumed before the assignation, the more easily he could hold the his donor's blood loss to a minimum. He had to force himself to sit down and drink the milk slowly rather than prowling around the house in a fever of impatience. Next he drew out as long as possible the routine of preparing the bedroom—red satin throw cover on the bed, fresh candles on the dresser to shed a muted, eerie glow.
He'd adopted Sylvia's suggestion about “atmosphere.” Ex-perimentation had proved her right; the decor did enhance his satisfaction, allowing him to take a smaller fluid volume from a donor. Still, he felt like an idiot in this setting. Why not go all the way and wear a Bela Lugosi cape?
He knew he would forget his self-consciousness the moment his visitor walked into the room. He'd chosen Alice Kovak, a twenty-year-old community college student under treatment for depression. She lived at home with her parents and older brother, who viewed her lively imagination with stolidly blue-collar suspicion. At present she was between antidepressants, so her blood would taste pure. She would park about a mile away and walk to his condo. After a delicious half-hour, she would return to her car and drive home, remembering only vague restlessness assuaged by a long, solitary ride. He salivated at the thought.
He loaded a Wagner cassette into the stereo and paced around the living room, hardly aware of the music. What could be keeping the girl? Glancing at his watch, he found it was only two minutes after nine. Seemed later.This has got to be the last time with her, he admonished himself,so I'd better make it good.
He hadn't planned to prey on patients here at all, but he hadn't yet learned his new territory very well. Ordering a patient to his home under post-hypnotic suggestion seemed the safest course, until he developed fresh hunting strategies.That excuse has about worn out, hasn't it? Next time I'll feed on a stranger. He reminded himself that this would be only the second time he'd consumed human blood since leaving Boston. Maybe his tapering-off program would succeed.
He circled the room a few more times, then strode to the window to peer between the drapes. There she was, finally. A slim blonde, Alice wore a pale pink dress, swirling around her knees, and clutched a shawl around her neck.Funny, it seems too warm for that. Watching her cross the road, Roger was struck by something odd in her gait. She almost staggered. When she came closer, he noticed that her aura was faded and murky.
As soon as she reached the door, he opened it and clasped her free hand to draw her inside. The other hand kept the shawl tightly wrapped around her
shoulders and neck. Trance glazed her eyes—an unexpectedly deep trance. The perfume of fresh blood wafted from her.
“Alice?” He gently pried her fingers away from the shawl. At that touch she let it drop. Under it she wore a scarf—soaked bright red.
Roger abruptly released her. Fumbling at the scarf, she pulled it off and at the same instant crumpled to the floor.
Her lacerated throat bled copiously. Roger dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to the wound. Too alarmed to think of his own thirst, he gazed into her eyes. The hypnotic bond compelled her. She relaxed, and the direct pressure slowed the bleeding. Given a prompt transfusion, she might live. Whatever had slashed her throat had missed the jugular and carotid.
He slid the shawl beneath her and lifted her to the couch, propping her feet on a cushion. “Alice, who did this?” Her eyes stared unresponsively, her consciousness slipping away. “Answer me!”
He picked up an emotion, a blend of lust and terror, not directed at him. “Don't know his name,” she whispered. “Eyes—like yours.”
Astonished, Roger let her fall into unconsciousness.
He had no time to analyze the implications, for Alice needed hospitalization. Imagine this happening in his living room! Yet in this case he owned no guilt. He had to hang onto that fact. What would he do if he were equally innocent in thought?
Examine her, then call for an ambulance. He drew a deep breath to steel himself for the ordeal. Why should the police suspect him, after all? Wasn't it natural for Alice, when attacked, to turn to her doctor for help? And if she lived, she would testify that Roger wasn't her assailant.
He picked up the phone and punched 911. After completing the call, he turned off the music and put the candles back in a bedroom drawer. He didn't want to leave any evidence that he'd been expecting a visitor.
* * * *
WITHIN LESS than an hour the ambulance and police had come and gone. The IV had revived Alice enough to enable her to give a sketchy account of how she'd been driving around “to think things over,” had stopped for a stroll in the woods, and had been attacked by a man whose face she couldn't recall. She'd set out for Roger's house, since she knew he lived close by. She claimed to remember nothing else.
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