by C. T. Adams
I’d left the vertical blinds fully open this morning, so I had an unobstructed view. The sky was a deep, vivid blue flecked with tiny pinpricks of pure white starlight. As I watched, the lights lining the street below flickered on. The glare of the light pollution made all but the brightest stars disappear. Ah well.
I took a deep breath, the scent of green plants and loamy soil filling my nostrils. The windows I stood at take up one entire wall of my apartment, and I had taken advantage of the natural sunlight to plant my own personal jungle. The plants thrive, thanks in no small part to timed misters that I had put in so that I’d never forget to water them. I travel a lot, delivering other people’s valuables, and I got tired of coming home to dead plants.
I’d designed the entire apartment to be my own personal refuge, a place I could go to escape … everything.
It takes up what were once the entire third and fourth floors of the old warehouse. The east wall has the front door, the freight elevator, and the back wall of the kitchen. The west wall is a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows. I left the north wall bare red brick, the only decoration a six foot framed coat of arms with the Reilly family history.
There is only one interior wall on the lower floor, where a set of wide steps curve up to the bedroom loft. The wall is painted pale peach. One section is adorned with all my important photographs, another third is taken up by the entertainment center. The downstairs bathroom and walk-in closet are cleverly concealed behind the wall.
Looking around I saw little reminders of Tom almost everywhere, bits and pieces of things that have migrated from his apartment downstairs up to mine. I’ve never been one for reading the news, but the newspaper sat folded on the coffee table next to an empty coffee cup. Every morning, he goes on his run, gets a paper and reads it over coffee. We used to run together, until the dislocated knee. It’s healed, but I have to be very careful of it. I can run, but not too far, and I have to make sure it’s well wrapped.
Tom’s laptop sat open on top of my desk next to a huge stack of mail. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the center of the kitchen island, a canister of sugar on the counter. We weren’t living together, but even before Dusty and Rob moved into the apartment next to his, he’d spent as much time up here as in his place downstairs.
I didn’t want to lose that, and it pissed me off that the pack might force the issue. I had thought I understood and accepted what being a part of a pack meant to the wolves. Apparently I’d been wrong. The thought of them telling Tom, and by extension me, how I was going to live my life got my back up. But losing my temper would only make things worse.
Think about something else. Of course that was like telling myself not to think of pink elephants. Still, determined not to brood, I took my mother’s advice from my childhood. When in doubt, eat. She would never have understood the whole eating disorder thing. People actually deliberately starving themselves? You’ve got to be kidding! For her, food was how you showed comfort. Period. I was my mother’s daughter. Since I was in dire need of comfort and hadn’t eaten since an early breakfast, food seemed like a good idea.
I went to the freezer and looked over what was left of my last big cooking session. There wasn’t much. I’d been home a lot more than I was used to lately, recovering from the injuries inflicted in my last run-in with the vampires. There were only four of my homemade pasties left. Pasties are one of my favorite things in the world, meat pies with vegetables and gravy. I always use my mother’s recipe except for one small change. No turnips. I hate turnips.
In the next day or so I’d need to take time to cook up a freezer full of single-portion meals to get me through. Otherwise, I was liable to get too busy and not bother to eat. I cringed. I wasn’t completely broke, but damned near. I’d been living off of my short-term disability payments. The insurance pays out at half of what I usually make. Unfortunately, I don’t eat half as much, and the mortgage company hasn’t cut my payment in half either—while I bought the place for cash, I’d had to refinance to make a lot of the repairs. Money was tight enough that I’d had to use the check from the insurance company paying for my stolen truck to pay the power bill. The big check I’d gotten for doing a process service had kept the roof over my head and groceries on the table. But it, too, was almost gone. I’d been as conservative as I knew how to be. Even Christmas this year had been “intimate” (read: grim) with “small tokens of my affection.” But despite my best efforts, I was losing ground, and fast.
I took two of the pasties out of the freezer and unwrapped them. I set them in a dish and slid it in the microwave to heat. While they defrosted, I poured myself a nice glass of wine, fed the cat, and headed over to the counter to check the answering machine and retrieve my messages.
My answering machine is a black plastic monstrosity that takes up the better part of one end of the counter. I realize it’s hopelessly old-fashioned. I don’t care. My brother Joe keeps nagging me to get voice-mail, but I like the machine. It works fine for me. I’m used to it. And, though I’d never admit it to him, I’m contrary enough that, the more he pushes me, the more I dig in my heels.
At the moment the light was blinking, and the screen showed three new messages. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure none of them were from clients needing deliveries. While I was anxious to get back to work, the doctor had been dragging his feet. He’d only just cleared me—right before the blasted trial started. Now I can’t leave town until the trial is over, judge’s orders. Then there were the hearings on the criminal charges, which might lose me my bonded and concealed carry permits. I knew there were things I could do to drum up business. But they had to wait for now. I’d just have to budget carefully and tighten the old belt a little bit more.
At least the Thrall are going to pay. The thought soured me even further. It was small consolation. Still, while they will twist the truth into corkscrews they do not flat out lie to the Not Prey and they’d promised to pay. Of course they hadn’t named a price. For all I knew, I could be doing this for the price of a cup of coffee.
I hit the button to rewind and play the answering machine tape as I sipped the wine from my glass.
The machine beeped, and I heard my own greeting play back. “You have reached Kate Reilly, bonded air courier. I’m not available to take your call at the moment. Please leave your message after the tone.” Another beep, followed by my older brother’s voice. “Kate, it’s Joe. Give me a call on my cell to let me know how it went, okay?”
Beep.
“Kate, it’s Mike. I just got a call from the police checking to make sure you were here last night at ten. Is something wrong? Give me a call.”
Father Mike sounded concerned, and for good reason. Yes, something was wrong. No, I wasn’t going to call him: at least not until after I had a good meal in me and took a look at whatever was in the padded envelope Doug had given me.
Beep.
“Ms. Reilly, this is Dr. Edgar Simms. I took over from Matt Quinn as chairman of the hospital board at St. Elizabeth’s. I would appreciate it if you would call my office tomorrow to set up an appointment over lunch. It has to do with a research study involving Eden victims. We are continuing on with the study, despite the … circumstances. We would still like to have your participation.”
Yeah, right. That’s what you said last time, and look where it got me. Thanks, but no thanks!
He continued after a brief pause. “I can understand why you would have some reservations, but if you would be willing to at least discuss the matter, I am sure we can resolve the previous misunderstandings.”
Misunderstandings—like the threat of losing my home and business, and those pesky little criminal charges the hospital asked the district attorney to investigate?
“My number is 555-1748. I’ll look forward to your call. Perhaps a timely call from our office to the district attorney could help with your decision?”
The machine shut off, leaving me debating whether or not I was going to call him back. I’m not a big fan of lega
l fees, and if there was even a slim chance they could talk the DA out of prosecuting—
I took another sip of wine and decided to think about it over dinner.
A glance at the microwave showed me that I still had a few more minutes to wait for the pasties. With a sigh, I called the hotel to talk to Joe. He didn’t answer his line. Considering the time, he’d probably gone out to dinner. I left him a quick voice-mail saying everything was fine and hung up the phone. Filial duty accomplished, I retrieved the envelope I’d gotten from Doug the vampire and tore it open.
Inside there was a DVD, several neatly typed sheets of paper, and a check. I tilted the envelope and they fell onto the couch beside me. The check was made out to me from the Law Offices of Richards, Harlan, Morris, and Dow, P.C. The amount was exactly what I had always charged Morris Goldstein for runs to Tel Aviv.
I set my wine glass onto a coaster on the coffee table. Before I did anything else I was going to hang up this suit. Otherwise, no matter how careful I tried to be I was almost guaranteed to get something on it. I climbed upstairs and changed, making sure to hang it carefully so that it wouldn’t wrinkle, and put the shoes, purse, and jewelry where they belonged. That done, I pulled on an oversize tee-shirt and sweats. I padded barefoot down the stairs, picked up the disk, and slid it into the DVD player. I was as ready as I’d ever be to see what they’d sent. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the remote. After checking all the various surfaces, then crawling around to reach under the couch and chairs, I finally found it jammed down between the couch cushions.
I climbed onto the couch and settled in with a sigh. As soon as I was comfortable, Blank wandered over and jumped in my lap. He purred a greeting, rubbing his entire body against me, decorating my clothing with long, white cat hairs. I scratched him under the chin, and the volume of his purr intensified until he sounded like a miniature motorboat.
Despite all of my problems, I found myself smiling. I had missed this cat. No matter how bad I felt, he could always make me smile. Dylan had taken him from me years ago when he left me and I’d gotten him back after Dylan died—finally a hero, despite everything. I’d named him Blank when he was a kitten, a small bundle of white fur with huge paws and pale eyes. He’d looked unfinished, like a blank canvas. He’d grown into the paws, and developed an attitude. Both of which were just fine with me.
I hit the play button. The image on the screen was a digital copy of a surveillance video. At the bottom of the screen there was an indicator giving the date and time. The black and white image was grainy, and showed one of the unmarked back entrances of a building. I realized after a few seconds it was the hospital’s back entrance. I’d walked out that very door on occasion when going out to dinner with Joe.
A hunched figure in a dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans lurched up a pair of steps. There was something wrong with the way the figure moved, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. As I watched a gloved hand reached out and punched the series of numbers onto the keypad that unlocked the door. He/she entered the building at 10:02 P.M. At precisely 10:36 the figure emerged carrying a large leather doctor’s bag.
The screen went black and I sat back into the cushions, thinking about what I was supposed to be seeing. I pressed the button to turn off the DVD player and wound up staring at the pretty night anchor from Channel 4 News. She was standing in front of the courthouse summarizing what had happened in the trial. The wrongful death case was big news.
In the background I could dimly see demonstrators carrying signs. They were from a new group called “Share the Planet.” They’d formed somewhere on the Western Slope shortly after my confrontation with Monica left the entire nest dead. The group’s purpose was a push for vampire rights. Their position was that the vampires were a fully sentient species and should receive the same rights and treatment as human beings. It was a lovely sentiment, but given the fact that the only way the species could live was as a parasite, I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to play in Peoria. Still, I’d gotten more than my fair share of boos as I passed by them on the way to court. Every one of them had recognized me and several of them had started a chant of “murderer.”
I cringed at the memory and used the remote to turn off the television. Despite what people may think, I do not like being the center of attention, and certainly not that kind of attention. Whatever the news stations had to say about today, I didn’t want to hear it. Instead, I shifted the cat from my lap and began reading the pages that had been given me.
There were a three-page double-spaced list of the names of hospital employees who were known to have the access code to that door; a much shorter list of people who had access to the code to the laboratory; and the names of the nurses on duty on that floor the night of the theft. All of it very useful information, assuming I knew what I was doing.
What I really wanted to do was to talk to Brooks. He’d at least have suggestions about how to proceed. If I was really lucky, he’d jump at the chance to help clear his own name; effectively giving me access to the considerable resources of the Denver Police Department. Of course, that assumed he would talk to me. It was entirely possible his lawyer had advised him to keep his distance. I was fairly sure the politicos in the police department had. My name was poison in political circles right now. And while I was pretty sure Brooks wouldn’t care, I didn’t want to get him in trouble.
Decisions, decisions.
My internal debate raged back and forth for several minutes. In the end I decided it wouldn’t hurt to call. After all, he could always say no. It wasn’t until after I’d reached the decision that I realized I didn’t know his telephone number. We were friends of a sort, but I’d never had occasion to call him. Our relationship had been forged in a crisis. We really hadn’t ever had the chance to learn the everyday details of each other’s lives. Not knowing what else to do, I called the police station with a street address closest to the Shamrock Motel and asked for him by name. I was told he was off duty, but they offered to transfer me to his voicemail
“Sure.” I waited, trying to think of what to say as the officer in charge of receptionist duties transferred my call. His smooth near-bass voice came over the wire. “You have reached Detective John Brooks. If this is an emergency, please hang up and dial 911. Otherwise, please leave a message after the tone.”
“Hey Brooks, it’s Kate Reilly. I’ve run into a situation and I could really use some help if you’re available. Either way, give me a call when you can. The number is 555-2155.”
I set the phone back in its cradle and went into the kitchen. The pasties were ready to eat. I sat on a stool at the kitchen counter, munching absently on meat-filled goodness and tried to figure out what my first move should be. When I caught myself dozing off mid-bite I decided to hell with it. It had been a rough day. Plans and decisions would have to wait until I’d gotten a little rest. So I went upstairs, pulled on a nightgown, set the alarm, and went to bed.
I dreamed. I knew it was a dream, because I was floating above a foreign landscape. The parking lot could have been anywhere, but the plants that lined it seemed … odd. In the distance I heard laughter and the distinctive sound of billiard balls being struck. There were loud music and voices raised to be heard over the din.
I heard a door open, and saw a man exit the building, keys in hand. He was small and wiry, with curling red hair and a no-nonsense attitude that showed in his body language. He walked briskly across the lot to a battered and ancient pickup truck that might have been blue in a previous lifetime. Now plastic had been taped over the driver’s side window, and dust and caked mud coated the paint job until it was impossible to be sure of the color.
A hooded figure moved stealthily between two nearby parked cars. The man turned, his expression wary. “Who’s there?”
The voice was familiar. In the dream I struggled to shout a warning, struggled to come in closer for a clearer look. It was hopeless.
The man stared into the darkness, slowly turning to scan the parki
ng lot. Every muscle was tense, alert. For long, silent moments he stood poised and still, keys in his left hand, his right hand resting on the hilt of the knife on his belt.
Nothing.
Eventually, he turned back to the vehicle, sliding the key into the lock.
The attacker pounced, but the man was ready. He fought hard and dirty, using his knife with the skill that comes from regular practice. But his opponent was ruinously quick—too quick for a mere human. Now did it have merely human strength.
It darted in close. Grabbing his knife arm in both hands, the attacker jerked the arm sharpty down at the same time that it raised its knee.
Bones snapped audibly, and the man screamed in pain and rage. He head-butted his attacker, pounding with his uninjured first. It was no use. The creature grabbed the knife where it had fallen. In a smooth motion, almost too fast to see, it gutted the man with his own weapon.
Blood and worse poured from the wound as the attacker relentlessly sought for his victim’s heart. The man threw his head back to scream and the attacker’s fangs struck home.
I woke screaming, my heart racing. The alarm was blaring. In those first startled seconds, I fumbled around for it in the dark and wound up knocking it to the floor. It broke. Swearing, I threw back the covers and climbed out of bed, carefully avoiding the broken plastic. I went and got the broom and dustpan from the linen closet and swept up the mess. It occurred to me that this was the first time I’ve ever broken a clock accidentally. Amazing.
I dumped the bits of plastic in the trash but saved the battery to use in the replacement clock I pulled from the shelf.
I was awake, but I wanted coffee. It was, after all, only 5:30 A.M.
I wandered downstairs and started the coffeemaker. I automatically pulled out the creamer and sugar, before I realized Tom wasn’t here.
I stood frozen, the refrigerator door wide open, the cat twining around my legs. He hadn’t come back last night. Shit. A million what-ifs chased through my mind before I saw the note he’d taped to the freezer.
