The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy

by Richard Parry

  “You’re not sure?”

  “Smithson is in intensive care, ma’am. He’s not expected to make it.”

  “Please, no names.” Elsie winced. The death benefit payments in the contract would be significant. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you make it out, Captain?”

  “I lost consciousness. I believe I was thrown out the first floor window.”

  Elsie thought about the discomfort the man was showing, then nodded — a drop out a window would leave you uncomfortable. “Very well. I suggest you get together a new team.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Captain Spencer, you’ve shown an acceptance of the situation I find refreshing. Your familiarity with the — with both possibilities — will be an asset in the further acquisition of one of these … contacts.”

  Spencer looked at her, nurturing his own silence, then nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I’m knocked about, but nothing that some drugs won’t fix. They say it may be concussion.”

  Good — the man knew his limits. Elsie waved with her glasses. “Whether you’re on the ground isn’t really a problem. And we have medication that can help get you through. I trust you’ll be sufficiently … motivated to get back on top form.”

  “Ma’am. Yes ma’am. I’m very interested in returning to the field.”

  “Captain.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Captain Spencer, get together a team. We’ll talk more on this soon. We need that man. If the virus is spreading … well, we need to understand how.” She nodded at Barnes, who escorted Spencer out of her office.

  The tick-tock of the grandfather clock kept pace with her thoughts as she waited for Barnes to return. Captain Spencer was right — this was a rare opportunity. If her information was correct — and it was hard to be sure, the trail of evidence so faint that it needed to be taken on faith — it was exceptionally rare. The first extraction team had been sent to get a virus. The sample returned was unusable, but the team’s report had confirmed a single test subject remained alive. A second team was sent to extract the survivor — Volk. How did one gulag prisoner survive to carry a virus that made him into a god, yet killed all the other test subjects? She wouldn’t have thought the Soviets had developed such effective gene therapy.

  Maybe they hadn’t. So many test subjects, so many dead. There was but one survivor, who seemed to have given the virus to another. Was there a cofactor they were missing? She tapped her fingernails against her desk, considering the options.

  A once in a lifetime opportunity. Well, the odds had doubled. Which was good — she had little time for faith in her life. She preferred numbers. Or people. She could manage either.

  • • •

  Barnes returned a few hours later, carrying a thin manila folder. Elsie was still lost in thought and almost didn’t notice him as he let himself into her office. She liked that about Barnes — he was quiet and efficient in equal measure. He came to stand at the front of her desk and cleared his throat. “Ms. Morgan. We might have an opportunity.”

  Elsie looked at him. “How so?”

  Barnes looked down at the folder. “Ms. Morgan, the captain — Spencer — was in pretty bad shape. This made me wonder where other people in similar condition might go.”

  She looked at the folder. “You have something?”

  “I’ve looked into Mr. Everard’s personal details. Nothing much here that we can use. His wife’s dead. No girlfriend.”

  “Dead wife?”

  “Dead wife. She passed almost at term — the file’s unclear on whether there was a complication during the pregnancy or not. As I said, no girlfriend. He’s a known alcoholic, which we can infer started about the time his wife and unborn child died. He was just suspended — with full pay — by his company.”

  Alcoholic. Full pay. “Mr. Everard is good at his job?”

  “Apparently. Something in computers.” Barnes waved the folder. “However, his company is close to the Elephant Blues.”

  The pieces clicked. “Of course. He’s been exposed.”

  “It’s slim, but the chance is there.”

  “There weren’t any survivors of the Blues incident.”

  “Not that we know of. Which means, that the police know of. The surveillance tapes were all destroyed. We don’t really know for sure what happened in there.”

  Elsie went back to tapping her glasses on the desk. “We know that a lot of people died.”

  Barnes nodded. “Yes, Ms. Morgan. They were killed.” Was that disapproval she heard in his voice? “Back to Mr. Everard — if he’s been exposed, he might be seeking help.”

  Elsie looked down at the photos, still on her desk. “He doesn’t look like a man who needs help. The captain’s right.”

  “Ms. Morgan?”

  “Spencer. He seemed pretty sure that there was a link here. That we had a second host. He’s a man of action. Probably lives by his ‘gut feeling.’ You’ve got some more evidence that suggests that’s likely.”

  Barnes smiled slightly. “Let’s not call it ‘evidence’ just yet. We’re playing long odds on a hunch.”

  “Sam, we’ve done this dance long enough that I trust your hunches. Still, there’s one thing that doesn’t work yet. If he’s been exposed, our information suggests he shouldn’t need a hospital. That’s the point.”

  “He’s not answering his phone at home, I can’t get him on his cell, and the police don’t have him in custody. There’s a chance he’s at the hospital. Standard protocol for a disaster situation. You take everyone in for a medical.”

  “Did the police note anyone matching his description?”

  “No ma’am. The police report is … disturbing.” Barnes flipped through a few pages in the folder. “Ah, here. There’s a record of a number of firearms-related fatalities at the station. There’s also a report that many of the bodies were torn apart. Not all of them — I’ve run some rough numbers and it’s probably just the Ebonlake team. They found a … a parts pile. Like at Elephant Blues.”

  “God damn it!” Elsie slammed her hand down on the desk, making her phone jump. “He was there, Sam. Volk! He was there!” She grabbed the black and white photo off her desk. “This shows he was on there. But that—” and she waved the photo at the folder in Barnes’ hand “—shows that he was invested.”

  Barnes closed the folder. “It seems likely. No reports of a disturbance at the station when other disaster relief teams arrived. If Volk was still there, he was taken to another location as well — and didn’t resist.” He paused. “Bearing in mind what we know of the man, it seems more likely he left the scene before the relief teams arrived.”

  Elsie considered the color photo, still on her desk. “We need to get a team to the hospital.”

  “Of course. Shall I release further funds to Ebonlake Associates?”

  “Please. And Sam? Tell them we need more men.”

  “It’ll be expensive.”

  “Whatever it takes. Oh, and one more thing.”

  “Ms. Morgan?”

  “Get someone to fix the clock. It’s running slow again.”

  Elsie sat in silence after Barnes left, staring at the photos on her desk. Finding just one had been hard, almost impossible. It cost a lot, and she was almost out of time. Still, her luck had held. It was like stumbling across a cure — a real cure — for cancer.

  She sighed, leaning back in her leather chair. Cancer, she thought. If only it hadn’t been pancreatic.

  She could have fixed almost anything else.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Danny looked around the ward. It was a big old Nightingale-style number, the beds laid around with curtains for whatever passed as privacy in a hospital. She hugged her arms to herself, feeling cold despite the blanket over her shoulders. The doctor had left a little while ago with a friendly smile, saying she’d be all right — that it was just shock. No signs of concussion yet, but she’d need to stay in overnight for observation.

  He’d also said she wasn’t
allowed to go to sleep. That had to be the most annoying thing, because she was tired as hell. She was damned if she was going to lie alone in her bed, so she’d started walking the halls, stepping between the wards. Her feet had led her here, the view through the big windows more interesting than being alone. There was only one other person in the ward, a man who’d followed her with his eyes when she’d walked in. It didn’t bother her; he looked beat up, like an old Buick her father had owned. That was the last thing she’d seen of her father, that Buick driving off in a spin of tires and dust.

  She put her phone back in her pocket. At least her mother had been able to stay over to help out with Adalia. Having your mother live close by was great for babysitting. Mom understood how tough it was being a single mother from experience. They didn’t need to talk about it, it was a quiet understanding shared between them. She’d rung off with a thanks, her mother promising to bring Adalia with her tomorrow when she came to pick her up.

  That guy in the other bed was weird though — he kept staring at her. She couldn’t tell if he was familiar or not — she saw too many different faces each night at the bar, and besides, his face was bruised and swollen. He’d had a rough night too.

  She pulled her phone back out of her pocket to check her messages for the hundredth time. She’d tried to text Valentine, to see what had happened to him. He hadn’t texted back.

  She hated it when they didn’t text back. It was always the ones she actually liked — he’d been so sweet, and funny with it. She knew he hadn’t wanted to get involved in the fight back on the street, but her temper had taken over.

  Danny just wanted to know if he was okay.

  “Hey.” The man’s voice was creaky, horse. She jumped at the noise. “You look familiar.” It was the guy who’d been staring at her.

  “C’mon.” Danny was still looking at her phone.

  “What?”

  “You can do better than that. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ That’s how it usually goes.”

  The man tried to smile, then winced as the expression pulled at the bruising on his face. “It’s not like that.”

  “Sure it’s not.” She nodded at his bed. “You’re probably going to tell me I should see the other guy next.”

  His chuckle was weak but easy. “To be honest, I’ve got no idea what the other guy looks like. The police were in here, but they weren’t really clear.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “Maybe. I’m just saying, you’re sitting up with a blanket, and I’m lying in a stretcher with broken bones.”

  Danny laughed. “No, not that. I mean, I know what you mean when you can’t remember what the other guy looks like.”

  “Jesus.” The man tried to lever himself up on one elbow, but gave up. “Look, could you help me find the — the thing.” He was rummaging through the tubes and cords surround him. “I think I’m making the Gordian Knot out of this crap.”

  Danny walked over. “This thing?” She held up a panel attached by a wire to the bed.

  “Yeah, thanks.” He took it from her, and fiddled with the buttons. The bed went backwards. “Shit.”

  “Give it here.” Danny took it back from him. “It’s this one.” She pressed a button with an up arrow on it, and the head end of the bed rose up, elevating the man to a seated position.

  “Thanks.” He gave her a smile. He’d have had a nice smile if it wasn’t for the bruising. “I’m John.”

  “Danny.”

  “Good to meet you Danny. Presence.”

  “What?”

  “That’s where I know you from. Presence Unlisted. The bar. Now I’m not lying down, I remember now. From a couple nights back.”

  Danny looked at John a bit closer. “Oh my God. You’re his friend.”

  John’s smile faltered slightly. “Maybe. Whose friend? Does he owe you money?” He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be impolite, but you’re not…” He gestured at her stomach.

  She snorted. “Hell no.” She patted her pocket with her phone in it. “He owes me a text though. Valentine.”

  John’s face fell. “You don’t know?”

  “Know what?”

  “After we saw you at the bar — well, Val and I.” His voice cracked. “I haven’t heard from him. That’s where I got all this.” He gestured at the bed. “I got … I was knocked out. I think. The police couldn’t tell me what had happened to him.”

  “Wait. You haven’t seen him since you saw me at the bar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I had a, uh, a date with him this evening.” Danny hugged the blanket closer to her shoulders. “He looked fine to me. Well.”

  “What?”

  “Well.” Danny shuffled her feet a little, then sat on the edge of John’s bed. “You don’t mind?”

  “Help yourself.”

  “I was knocked out too.”

  “By Val?”

  “Valentine?” Danny smiled to herself. “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “You’ve only known him a couple days.” John smiled again, relaxing back into the bed. “But you’re right. Val couldn’t hurt a fly. I’ve known him since school. Thank God he’s okay.”

  “He’s more than okay.” She smiled again. “The doctors wouldn’t tell me much, but I know he’s not injured or he’d be here. With me. Us.”

  A janitor walked into the ward, a large man with a stained set of overalls, his hair falling in a greasy cascade to his shoulders. The name Jimmy was embroidered on to the overalls. He looked up at them, and then in heavily accented English said, “Sorry. I clean floor. Momute. A moment.” They sat in silence watching as he set up a floor polisher, and began to move the machine back and forth on the ground. The hum of it was soothing, and left them to their thoughts for a while. The janitor finished with the polisher after a few minutes, and — giving them both a smile of perfect, white teeth — shuffled back out of the ward. A few moments later, the hum on the floor polisher picked up again in the corridor outside.

  They sat in silence for a bit. John broke it first. “I’ve known him for years, you know.”

  “The janitor?”

  John snorted. “No. Val.”

  “Why do you call him that?”

  “Val?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because I’ve known him for years.”

  “So?”

  “He hates his name.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s kind of a funny story. Like I said, we’ve known each other for years, right? Well — since school, actually. I don’t know, we were young. I was maybe ten. Val’s always been smart. Not just a little smart, but a lot. He’d been bumped up a couple years at school, so there’s this shrimp of a kid, he would have been eight or so.” John scratched the side of his head.

  “Right.” Danny smiled. “So he was picked on.”

  “Sure. But imagine. You’re the smaller kid in the class. You’re the smarter kid in the class. And your name? It’s Valentine.” John looked down at his hands. “It’s just not very manly, you know?”

  “He doesn’t mind me calling him Valentine.”

  John gave a crooked smile, looking at her for a few seconds, then said, “He must really like you.”

  It was Danny's turn to look down at her hands. She tugged the blanket close again. “So — how’d you get to know him?”

  “I hate bullies.” John looked towards the window. “From day one, he was picked on. Maybe one kid here, another kid there. You know what school’s like, Lord of the Flies shit. He stood up for himself at first, but he’s just this little kid, right?”

  Danny nodded.

  “Anyway, morning recess is on, and I come around this corner. There’s one kid holding Val’s bag, pulling stuff out of it. Books, his lunch, whatever’s in there. There’s this other kid holding Val down, just sitting on him. Poor guy couldn’t do anything. Smart or not, sometimes there’s just a bigger kid.” John paused for a moment, then grabbed a glass of water resting on the t
able beside him. He took a couple of sips. “So anyway, I was a bigger kid too. And I saw this, and I just lost it. I waded in there before I knew what I was doing, decked the kid holding his bag.”

  “Very brave of you. Beating up a kid.”

  “Hey. I was a kid too. But it wasn’t like that. It was just wrong. Two on one? That’s just not fair.”

  “I get it now.”

  “What?”

  “It’s this. This is the pickup line, isn’t it?”

  John smiled at her. “I haven’t got to the best bit of the story yet. So Val tells me his name — again, like I didn’t know it already — and I tell him mine. And we part ways, he goes off somewhere. Probably to try and sort out his bag or something. But he sees me in class after recess. The teacher is telling us that we’re going to have a quiz. A pop quiz. I’m freaking out, because I hate tests. But I really hate tests I haven’t studied for. We get the tests, and — thank God — it’s multiple choice. But I’m looking down the page, and it’s hieroglyphs.”

  “You studied ancient Egyptian at school?”

  “It could well have been for all I understood it. Val keeps looking over at me, I dunno, I’m just staring at my test paper. I haven’t even written my name on the top of it. After about ten minutes have passed, Val just stands up, holding his nose, his head back. He’s like, ‘Excuse me miss! I have a bleeding nose!’ Big panic, and Val pushes past my desk to go outside.”

  “What did the teacher do?”

  “Hell if I can remember. But after he’s left the room, I look down at my desk. There’s his test paper there.”

  “His test paper?”

  “Right. Except he’d written something at the top.”

  “What?”

  “Where it said, ‘Name.’ He’d written John Miles. My name. And he’d filled out the whole sheet. Every answer. In just ten minutes.” John sat in silence for a moment. “That was the first A+ I ever got. It wasn’t real, of course. I hadn’t worked for it. And Val? He got an F. For not finishing.”