by C. T. Adams
“Do you want to press charges for assault?”
I thought about it and decided that, while a part of me really did want to, I also didn’t have time to deal with it right now. I turned to the cop. “I’m scheduled to testify in Courtroom Four in a few minutes.”
“I’ll walk you through the line, but you’ll have to wait and go through security. If you decide to press charges, stop by the station.” He gave me an address over on Cherokee, only a couple blocks from the courthouse, escorted me past the line to the back door, through security, and to the bathroom door. He promised to go into the courtroom and let my attorney know what had happened, and that I would be there in just a few minutes.
I hated being late. It would probably piss off the judge. But I had to at least try and clean up.
I was scrubbing my face with a coarse paper towel and the cheap pink soap they keep in the dispensers when a woman opened the restroom door. Her nose twitched, she gagged, and retreated rapidly back into the hallway.
The jacket had been one of my favorites. But it was completely soaked and totally unsalvageable. I shoved it through the hinged lid into the trash can. The pants were ruined, too, but I couldn’t exactly take them off until I had something else to wear. The tee-shirt had only been splattered. I’d go ahead and wear it, but the odds were good that the stuff would stain, despite my efforts to blot at the spots.
There was a brisk knock on the outer bathroom door. “Ms. Reilly, they’re ready for you in the courtroom.” I recognized the voice of my attorney’s legal assistant.
“All right.” I turned off the sink, dried my hands, and retrieved my purse.
The assistant was waiting for me outside the door. He manfully managed not to gag, but he couldn’t keep from sneezing. He escorted me past the scaffolding, down the hall. When we reached the courtroom, he held open the heavy wood door for me. Steeling myself, I passed through.
Back rigid, I walked straight up the center aisle. There were gasps. More than a few people made choking noises. I couldn’t blame them. The stench was really, seriously disgusting, and this was the improved model. Short of utter desperation I didn’t believe anybody would set foot in the women’s restroom on this floor until the janitors had emptied the trash.
In a loud voice my attorney announced, “I call Mary Kathleen Reilly to the stand.”
The bailiff held open the little gate to the front of the courtroom and I walked over to the witness stand. I put my left hand on the bible, my right in the air and swore to tell the whole truth. And I did, so help me God.
I glanced at the judge and fought not to blush as he winced from the smell. “No need to explain, Ms. Reilly. The bailiff informed me of the altercation outside. Normally, I’d reschedule your testimony and allow you to go change, but this courtroom is needed in a few days, so we need to finish this trial up.”
I nodded and the questioning began. When my attorney was done with our planned questions, I was cross-examined by the attorney for the other side. I’d been warned he’d bait me—try to get me to yell or argue, and he did. He tried valiantly to make me lose my temper so that I would say something he could use against me. I could feel the heat of blood rushing to my face, but I held onto my temper. I was polite. I was civil. I wasn’t even sarcastic. If Tom had been here, he’d have been damned proud. Of course if Tom had been with me outside, there was a good chance we’d have had a pair of mauled teenagers. Was that a good or bad thing?
“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” I said the words sweetly. I didn’t really think that he’d asked a question. It had sounded more like a sarcastic comment. But I was being good.
He gave me a truly nasty look, but announced, “No more questions, Your Honor.”
“Attorney Jones, do you wish to reexamine the witness?”
“I do.”
My attorney stood up and walked calmly over to stand in front of me. He didn’t sneeze, but his nose wrinkled, and his eyes looked a little more moist than was normal. I watched him take a few steps back, until he was standing next to the air conditioner vent. It was a smart move. The vent was angled in a way that would blow the scent away from him.
The judge, meanwhile, had pulled an old-fashioned handkerchief from a pocket beneath his robes and was holding it over his nose and mouth. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but maybe it helped.
I felt sorry for the poor court reporter. She needed both her hands to run the transcription machine. She was just going to have to suffer until I was done with my testimony.
“Ms. Reilly, would you say that you are an expert with regard to the Heterotroph hippocratia, or Thrall as they’re more commonly called?” Jones asked.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You wouldn’t? But aren’t you Not Prey?”
“Yes. I am. But that doesn’t make me an expert. It just makes me a survivor.”
One or two people in the room chuckled. I hadn’t meant it as a joke. It was the simple truth. If there was such a thing as a Thrall expert, it was somebody like Miles MacDougal. Not me.
“So, again, being Not Prey doesn’t mean you’ve studied the Thrall, or have any special knowledge of them that you could be expected to pass on to others? It simply means that you have fought off a vampire attack and survived. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” I spoke clearly into the microphone, making sure everyone in the room could hear.
“I have no more questions, Your Honor,”
The judge discreetly slipped his handkerchief back beneath his robes. “Ms. Reilly, you may step down. And I want to thank you on behalf of this court for your appearance today in spite of the … adverse circumstances.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” I stood up and stepped down from the witness box. The bailiff held open the little gate for me to leave. I walked out of the courtroom with as much dignity as I could muster. Then I called a cab to one of the smaller side exits of the building and went home to clean up.
5
I had a starring spot on the local news on every station at both 5:00 and 6:00 P.M. There were pictures of me with my clothes plastered to my body, with red paint splatters decorating a face set in lines of fury. The voice-over rehashed the death of Monica and the Denver hive back in July, and discussed the manifesto of Share the Planet. If it had been my place, I would’ve turned off the television. Unfortunately, we were at the rectory, so it wasn’t my call.
The rectory at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope is a two-story, brick building that shares a basement with the church proper. The building is old, with steam heat and hardwood floors, fireplaces, built-in bookshelves, and lots and lots of real wood paneling. The ceilings are high, which makes it hard to keep the place heated in winter. Today, however, it was a dim, cool, haven. Mike—Father Michael O’Rourke to the parishioners—and I were sitting in the library. He was in his favorite battered recliner. I kept shifting in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the horsehair sofa, but no matter what I did, the coarse little hairs kept poking at me through my clothes, making me itch.
“They used red paint and fly attractant?” I could hear the suppressed laughter in Mike’s voice. If I’d been injured, he would’ve been furious. But I hadn’t been. As it was, he was trying very hard not to laugh.
I glared at him. He didn’t even flinch. Then again, it’s hard to be intimidating when you’ve grown up with someone. Mike has been a part of my life since we were kids. When my parents moved us away from Denver I’d been heartbroken. After their death, my brothers and I came back. By then Mike was a tall, devastatingly handsome blond rake whose passion for girls was only surpassed by his love of hockey. I’d fallen for him hard, had dreamed of us spending the rest of our lives together. God, and Mike, had other plans. I still love him, just not in the same way. And I really do believe that things worked out for the best. He’s a terrific priest. And we’re far too much alike to have made a life together. We’d have been ready to kill each other in no time.
“And you had to go
up on the stand and testify like that?” He chortled. There was no other word for it. He chortled.
“It isn’t funny, Mike! I had to throw out the clothes, even the tee-shirt. And I spent over an hour trying to scrub the paint and smell from my hair and skin. Even now I’m not sure I got it all.” I had on fresh blue jeans and a pale yellow sleeveless shell. My still-damp hair was pulled back into a braid. The brown purse had been ruined, so I’d tucked my wallet into my back pants pocket. I knew I looked okay, but I still felt as though I stunk.
“No, of course not.” He fought his amusement manfully, but his voice cracked just a little. “I’m sorry.” His face was pink from the effort it was taking to control himself, his blue eyes dark and sparkling.
I glared at him some more. Eventually he began to look a little repentant. He even started to apologize. “I’m sorry. Really. It’s just—”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, telling myself as I did that Mike is my parish priest and one of my best friends. He was not deliberately trying to piss me off, although if he had been, he’d be succeeding admirably. I normally have a pretty good sense of humor, but I wasn’t seeing anything funny about this morning.
I decided to change the subject so that I could speak without saying something bitchy. “So, you called me last night and wanted to talk?”
“Right.” The amusement left his face in a rush. The serious expression made him look older. “Kate, what in the hell is going on? The police—”
I interrupted him before he could get any further. “Somebody broke into a lab at St. Elizabeth’s and stole the vampire eggs they had in storage. The police were looking at me as a suspect.”
“Kate—” He spoke carefully, as though a part of him might not want to know the answer to the question he was about to ask.
“Michael O’Rourke! I am not a thief. And I’m insulted as hell that you’d think I might do something like that!”
He blushed, until even the scalp beneath his thinning blond hair was bright red. “I’m sorry, Katie.” He spoke softly, his expression contrite. “It’s just … I know how much you hate them. And with good reason.”
I wasn’t mollified. “Which makes it all the harder to have to work for them.”
“Excuse me?” He actually fell back into the chair from shock.
“You heard me.” I started explaining. I talked fast. First, I wanted to get this over with. Second, any minute now one of Mike’s assistants would be bringing Bryan and the other zombies back from dinner. I wanted to keep this conversation as private as possible. The other zombies were empty shells. They’d never know or care what anyone said. But my younger brother, Bryan, had gotten enough of his individual awareness back that he’d be likely to ask questions. Worse, he was likely to repeat the whole thing to Joe. He’d do it in all innocence, but I didn’t want to deal with my older brother’s reaction.
Mike started swearing. Since he became a priest he watches his language. He’s very careful not to say anything that would shock people. But back in high school, when we were dating and he was playing hockey, he’d been able to turn the air blue when circumstances warranted it. Apparently he considered this to be a suitable occasion to trot out his old vocabulary.
“It’s not like I have a good choice, Mike. I can’t fight Carlton. The man could palm my head and crush it. He’s bigger, stronger, has better reach.” I was ticking off the items on my fingers.
“I know, I know,” Mike agreed. He was drumming his fingers on the arms of the recliner in an uneven rhythm. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, neither do I.”
“It doesn’t.” Mike ran his hands through his hair, leaving it standing up in odd directions. It was a gesture of frustration he used often around me. “God, Katie, the messes you get into! What are you going to do? You’re not a detective. Do you even have any idea where to start looking?”
“I’m going to try to get Brooks to help me,” I assured him.
Mike gave an approving nod. He’d met Brooks, liked and respected him. “Good idea.”
“I hope he’ll help. But even if he doesn’t, I have a couple of ideas.” That was a lie, but only a little one. Mike had enough on his plate. I didn’t need him spending extra energy worrying about me.
He stood up and made his way across the room to the huge old desk that had come with the place. Opening the bottom left drawer he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a pair of short glasses of heavy, cut crystal. He poured a generous portion from the bottle into each glass and walked over to where I sat so that he could hand me one of them.
“I hate to make things worse for you. God knows you have enough on your plate right now.”
“What?” My voice was hard, suspicious. It drew his gaze to me, and he gave me a look that was both pained and embarrassed.
“What?” I repeated.
He took a long pull of alcohol. It made me nervous. Whatever he was going to tell me had to be bad. I don’t drink much, and neither does he. The fact that he thought that we both might need fortification for what he was about to say scared me more than I was willing to show him.
“We have a problem.” Mike had his back to me when he spoke, but he turned. Sitting on the edge of the desk, he took another long pull from his drink. I could see him gathering his thoughts, trying to come up with the right words.
“Just say it.”
“Fine.” He drained his glass, setting the empty tumbler onto the desk blotter. “Bryan has the curiosity and self-control of a four-year-old child.”
I nodded.
“But he has the physical needs and body of an adult male.”
I choked on my liquor, spewing alcohol onto the worn Oriental rug. My eyes were burning, and filled with tears. Partly from the alcohol, but partly from the logic jump that had followed his words.
Mike grabbed the tissue dispenser from off the desk and held it out to me. I grabbed a couple to wipe my face. He dropped to his knees and used a few more to clean the mess from the floor. He didn’t speak again until he stood up and took the used tissues over to the trash.
“Oh shit.”
“Twice, with two different nurses, I have caught him in … compromising situations. He wasn’t forcing anyone, but—” Mike was struggling, and I was simply too shocked to say anything useful.
“I’ve been trying to find a male nurse to help take care of him, or even a male volunteer, but I haven’t had any luck. I’m going to keep trying, but if no solution presents itself by the end of the week you’ll need to start looking for another placement for Bryan.”
“Michael!”
“I’m sorry, Kate. I’ve prayed long and hard about this. I don’t know what else to do! Bryan needs more and different care than I can give him as short handed as I am—and I’m not willing to shirk my duties to my other charges just to take care of him. I hate this! You and Joe are like family to me. But I have to do what’s right for everyone.”
“Right.” I choked the word out around the bitterness that tightened my throat. I stood, and Mike stood. Stepping forward he started to set a hand on my arm, to stop me, but I shook my head and stepped sharply away.
“I’d better go.” I set the unfinished drink onto the coffee table. I wouldn’t look at him. I was too angry, too hurt. If I looked at him I’d do something—say something I shouldn’t. The hardest part was that a part of me wanted to say it. He’d hurt me, and a part of me wanted to hurt him back.
“Kate—” He started to say something, but I spoke over the top of him.
“I’d better get started, making those other arrangements.” He flinched from the bitterness in those words.
I walked out the front door before he could respond. I very carefully didn’t slam the door behind me.
Normally when I’m this upset, I go into the church. But if I went there, Mike would follow. He’d want to explain, talk things out. I didn’t want to talk to him, and I sure as hell didn’t need
any more of an explanation than he’d already given me.
Having Bryan come even partially back had been such a miracle. Every other one of them was an empty shell. The bodies worked, but no one was “home.” They could follow the most basic commands, if they were supervised. Unsupervised, they didn’t have enough sense to eat, or stay out of traffic. Mike had made it his mission to care for them, because they were completely incapable of caring for themselves. I’d always admired his dedication. I’d appreciated everything he’d done for my baby brother. It had never occurred to me that there might come a time when he wouldn’t be able to continue.
I walked the two blocks to Colfax. It was after dark and not a good neighborhood, but nobody bothered me. I was almost sorry. A part of me really wanted to hit something. As it was, I sat down on the bench at the bus stop, fighting back tears. It wasn’t Mike’s fault. If he said he couldn’t handle Bryan, then he couldn’t. But dear God, what was I going to do?
My cell phone rang. I thought about not answering it. I really wasn’t in a mood to talk with anyone. All I wanted to do was ride the bus home, get some food, and have a good, long cry. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, intending to just turn it off. The number on the screen was Tom’s. I hit the button to take the call.
“Hello.” My voice was thick and rough with unshed tears.
Tom’s voice came on the line. “Katie? Honey, are you okay? You sound terrible! I saw the news—”
I felt some of the tension leave my shoulders at the sound of his voice. I didn’t want to say too much. Other people were starting to join me at the bus stop. But oh, it felt good to hear from him.
“I’ve had a rough day.”
“Come home.” He spoke gently, as though he were talking me down from some high ledge. Maybe he was. “Just come home. We’ll have dinner. We’ll talk. You can tell me all about it.”
I let out a slow, shaking breath that was almost a sob. “It’s going to be a while. I’m clear out by the church.”
“That’s all right. It’ll give me time to pick up some wine. Just come home.”
