Bloodborne (Night Shift Book 2)

by Margo Bond Collins

  Iverson was frowning down at the phone in his hand, as if he had forgotten he was holding it.

  “How’s Felicity?” I asked belatedly. “Any change?”

  “No.” The cop sounded subdued. “My sister’s with her right now. I promised to leave for a while, bring them something back to eat.”

  “Then let’s go. I’ll go back up to the hospital with you when we’re done.” The medical file wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t already know.

  But maybe talking to some of the people involved would.

  # # #

  Iverson’s sister looked like a smaller, prettier version of the big detective: blue eyes, lots of blonde curls, smile lines in a face that right now looked as if it might never smile again.

  Felicity had obviously gotten her curls from her mother, her eyes from her father.

  “Hello, Ms. Mays,” I said as I handed her the plastic bag holding Styrofoam containers of Mexican enchiladas.

  “Please, call me Alicia,” she replied, her voice subdued.

  “Alicia,” I repeated, modulating my tone to match hers—a habit I used when talking to either victims or suspects to ease any distrust.

  “Where’s George?” Iverson asked, glancing around the waiting room for his brother-in-law. “Back with Felicity?”

  Alicia nodded, opening the container of food and picking at it idly with a plastic fork. “That doctor, the Asian one, said she would come back out with him to talk to us all in a bit.” She picked up a forkful of cheese, swirled it around the bottom of the takeout box, and then dropped the food back into the pile of enchiladas. When she looked back up, her eyes brimmed with tears. “I don’t think I can handle it, Henry. I can’t watch my baby die.”

  Iverson dropped to the seat beside his sister and wrapped one arm around her shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Alicia.”

  Feeling like an intruder, I wandered to the hall outside the waiting room, first staring blankly at the contents of a soda machine, then moving to the window overlooking the city street below. Behind me, I could hear the indistinct murmur of Iverson comforting his sister.

  Flipping back the edges of my suit coat, I placed my hands on my hips and gazed out at the view. In the distance, lights twinkled, and I wondered how many children out there were likely to come down with this disease before it ran its course.

  The quiet swish of footsteps behind me let me know someone approached, but it was her scent—a mix of antiseptic soap underscored by a hint of vanilla—that told me it was Lili Banta. As she stepped close enough to speak, I watched her reflection in the window.

  “How is she?” Her image in the glass was too indistinct to give any real information, so I turned to face her.

  Lili started to speak then shrugged, an oddly uncertain gesture from someone I expected was used to having the answers.

  “I don’t know. We don’t have a lot of information about this…disease…yet.”

  The pause in her sentence caught my attention.

  “You don’t think it’s a disease?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  I watched her eyes for any hint of certainty. It wasn’t there. “But that’s what you think.”

  Again, the shrug. “I can’t really say.”

  Chapter 7

  Lili

  I wasn’t sure I liked the perceptive way this FBI agent watched me. His brown eyes didn’t give much away—they were so dark that the pupil all but disappeared into the iris, making it almost impossible to watch for the subtle expanding and contracting of pupils that could give insight into any emotional responses he might have.

  Not that I care if he has emotional responses.

  I had checked his left hand for a ring, though. There wasn’t one. No mark from a recently removed band, either.

  Quit it, Lili. You’re working. He’s a colleague. Not a potential date.

  Anyway, I didn’t know if he would be interested even if he were a potential date. He had a practiced interrogator’s face. I watched enough television to know that it was better if he didn’t show emotion to criminals.

  Not that I’m equating myself with criminals, either.

  Blowing a breath out, I shook my head. I wasn’t thinking straight.

  “When was the last time you got any real sleep?” the agent asked, once again displaying a perception that I found both comforting and a little nerve-wracking.

  I blinked, trying to think back. “Yesterday, I think?”

  He nodded. “Had anything to eat since then?”

  “Not really. Will—Dr. Manning—brought me a sandwich at some point.” Though come to think of it, that might have been yesterday, too.

  “You have anything pressing to deal with right now?” When I shook my head, Agent Chandler pushed his coat jacket back to slip a hand into his trouser pocket. “Cafeteria any good?”

  “Not bad, for hospital food. They’ve got a good grill.”

  “Let me buy you a burger, then?” If I had been paying attention—which I wasn’t—I might have read the question as more than a little nervous.

  “Sounds good.” He gestured for me to lead the way, and as I moved toward the elevator, I felt a grin quirk my lip up. “By the way, they have oatmeal there, too.”

  He huffed out a laugh. “You expecting an apocalypse now?”

  My incipient smile died and I spoke so quietly that the agent might not have even heard me. “I sure as hell hope not.”

  # # #

  I was a little surprised by how charming Agent Chandler was, despite my earlier thoughts about his probable skills as an interrogator.

  Scott, I reminded myself—though part of me wanted to keep the formality, the distance that using last names could afford.

  He was good at distracting me from my current worries. Usually when I worked in a hospital setting rather than a lab, I spent any lunch breaks I took going over case notes and figuring out what to do next.

  With Scott Chandler in charge of the conversation, I barely thought about the kids in the isolation ward at all.

  By the time I finished the burger and fries he bought me at the cafeteria grill, I had told him pretty much my entire life’s story—all the way back to my immigrant parents and before—and I knew hardly anything more about him than I did at the beginning of the meal. He watched me wipe my mouth on a paper napkin, crumple it up, and drop it on top of the crumbs littering the red-and-white checkered paper boat the burger and fries had come in. By the time he told me he’d already eaten, the smell of the food had made me too hungry to care if eating in front of him was impolite.

  Inang would have liked him, I think, though she would have pursed her lips disapprovingly and said, right in front of him, “Don’t you trust pretty-Joe Americans, Halili. They use you up, run around.” Then she would have invited him to dinner.

  If she hadn’t liked him, she would have simply sniffed and turned her back on him without speaking.

  To my dismay, I found myself wanting to trust him.

  “So what’s next on your end of this?” he asked.

  “Are you certain that you’ve got the other end of whatever this is?” I countered. “Are these illnesses and”—I looked around to make sure no one was close enough to hear me, but lowered my voice anyway— “and the murders you’re investigating are part of the same thing?”

  “Not at all.” His eyes narrowed as he examined my face for any reaction I might have to the admission. I did my best not to respond at all. After a long moment, he grinned a little and leaned back in his chair. “You’re good at that.”

  “Good at what?”

  “Not giving anything away. Is it a doctor thing?” The wave of his hand suggested the entirety of the hospital, but ended with an open palm face-up toward me. “Or is it a Lili Banta thing?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe a little of both.”

  “What’s your take on it? Do we have two ends of the same snake?” Although he still watched me carefully, he now seemed more interested in what I
might have to say as opposed to what I might give away.

  “Possibly the same elephant,” I said dryly.

  His eyebrows drew down in a quizzical expression.

  “You know,” I said. “A group of blind men touch different parts of an elephant—the one who touches the leg says the animal is like a tree, the one who touches the tail says it’s like a rope, and so on.”

  “Ah. Got it. You think we’re exploring the same elephant, then, Dr. Banta?” The way he said my name was almost teasing.

  I tried to match his tone, but I was afraid the anxiety his question provoked drowned out any teasing. “If we are, Agent Chandler, we’re touching two completely different parts of it. And I don’t know how to meet up in the middle.”

  “Me either,” he said, his voice dropping low. After a long, quiet moment, he pulled two business cards and a pen from his pocket, scribbled a number on the back of a card, and handed it to me. “That’s my personal cell number on the back. If anything strikes you, will you call me? Anything at all.”

  I nodded. “I’ve got cards in my locker. I’ll give you one before you go.”

  “What’s your number?” He held the pen poised over the back of the second card. I recited it, and when he was done writing, he carefully slipped the card into his wallet.

  “You coming back into the ward?” I asked as I stood and gathered my tray with its trash.

  “No. I’m heading back to my hotel to go over the files you gave me.” He followed me toward the exit.

  “Call me if you have any questions.” I dumped everything into the trash can and dropped the tray on top. “Leave a message if I’m in the ward and can’t answer. I’ll call back as soon as I can.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I could feel his eyes on me all the way to the elevators, and I had to wonder if the exchange of phone numbers had been some sort of ruse, a way to get my contact number.

  Get over yourself, Lili, my internal critic admonished.

  Like a chorus from deep inside me, I heard the sound of whispers. No time.

  An involuntary shudder ran through me, and I ducked into the elevator as it opened, punching the button to close the door as if I were shutting out something horrible chasing me.

  For all I knew, I was.

  Chapter 8

  Scott

  I scrubbed my palm across my eyes and ran my fingers up into my hairline, letting my shoulders slump for a moment.

  I had no idea where to start searching for answers about the source of a paranormal plague attacking children.

  Felicity Mays’s face flashed through my mind.

  This case, official or not, made me feel more helpless than I had in a long time.

  That feeling was far too reminiscent of the way I felt as I stood on that raised platform of a stage in the Adolphus Hotel a few weeks earlier, chained to a group of other people, destined to become dinner for a bunch of vampires.

  Terrified.

  Hopeless.

  Impotent.

  I dropped my hand to my side, clutching the bedspread.

  Never again.

  This case was slippery, no doubt about it. But I wasn’t chained or helpless. I might not know exactly what I needed to find out or how to get to that information, but I did know how to start an investigation.

  It was time to stop acting like a victim and start acting like an FBI agent, suspension or no.

  With that resolution, I felt my back straighten, as if my spine were literally stiffened by the decision.

  I might not have my badge or my FBI-issued gun, but I still held a concealed-carry license. I could use my training to conduct my investigation as a private citizen.

  A glance at the clock told me it was 11:30—a little late to start making appointments for interviews. Unless they worked the night shift, people rarely wanted to talk to investigators at midnight.

  Midnight…

  The barest hint of a thought, not even yet a fully formed idea, prompted me to go back to Lili Banta’s notes in the case file.

  I flipped through the pages, scanning the admissions records for times.

  Every single patient who had come down with this illness had been admitted in the early morning.

  Lili hadn’t made any conjectures about an incubation time for this stuff—not in her case files, anyway.

  Maybe she had some thoughts on the issue, however.

  I considered calling the number she had given me, but the memory of her drawn face and the tension lines around her eyes stopped me.

  Instead, I sent a text, outlining my question and asking her to give me a call. Ultimately, it might not be any less intrusive than a phone call, but at least it would give her time to compose her answer.

  I knew I should probably try to get some sleep myself, but my latest ideas had left me too energized to relax. That wasn’t unusual—the beginning of new cases often left me jittery with unspent energy. Generally, when I was faced with the prospect of questions that couldn’t be answered immediately, I spent my time trying to put together a bigger, better picture of the players involved: victims and suspects, as well as their family members, friends, enemies, co-workers.

  I didn’t have any suspects—not yet—but I had victims.

  It was time to start working this as if it were a usual case.

  Time to take control of the situation. I might not be able to save these children by building up a picture of their lives before the disease hit.

  Then again, I might.

  # # #

  Once in my car, a nondescript dark SUV that could have passed for a government vehicle even though it was my personal auto, I checked my texts again as I plugged the phone into its charger.

  Nothing from Lili.

  I hoped she was getting some much-needed sleep.

  Double-checking the address in the file, I pulled out of the hotel parking garage and followed the directions my GPS gave to Kenny Lansing’s house, sliding to a stop against the curb opposite the address and turning off the engine when I arrived.

  In the silent, black night, I rolled down the window and stared out at the house across from me.

  The air outside was cool, but not exactly cold, though the humidity made it feel chilly, anyway—a typical mid-December night in Houston. I watched my breath misting out in front of me and wondered what kind of paranormal creature we were dealing with. Vampires didn’t seem to mind the cold much.

  The thought of there being more paranormal monsters roaming the night shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did. Humanity had barely had time to come to terms with the idea of vampires. Less than a decade since they had become so common that we had to acknowledge their existence. And now we were faced with something else.

  Some other horror come out of the dark to hunt us.

  No. Not even us.

  Our children.

  I shook off the thought, trying to focus on my objective at the moment, instead of worrying about the things that might be hiding out of sight.

  I couldn’t tell much about the house in the dark. It sat back from the street on the corner in an older neighborhood, taking advantage of the large lot to create a bigger lawn than most of the neighbors enjoyed. A few live oak and pecan trees shaded the house, their leaves obscuring the windows, but no lights shone from inside. I didn’t know if Kenny had any siblings, but it was a fair guess that the entire family was gone, either at the hospital with the sick child, or in the case of any young children, gone to stay with friends or relatives. Still, I didn’t get out of the SUV. This wasn’t even a fact-finding mission; I was simply getting a sense of the victim’s homes.

  After watching the place for about ten minutes, I took a few photos with my phone then rolled up my window and pulled a small notebook out of my glove compartment.

  Many of my colleagues used electronics for note-taking. There was something about writing down my thoughts by hand that made me more likely to remember them.

  Once I had my impressions down on paper
, I entered Felicity Mays’s address into the GPS function.

  There was something about that map.

  With a swipe, I changed the size of the section I was viewing.

  Then I changed the route from Kenny’s house to Felicity’s.

  It took me directly past the hospital.

  That was odd enough in itself—that one fairly direct route took me past the hospital where both children lay. It wasn’t the strangest thing, however. When I entered each child’s address and requested a route directly to the hospital, the two addresses lay almost exactly equidistant from it.

  As if the infection were spreading outward from the hospital in a circle.

  Two points of data make a line. Two similar events are coincidence.

  It took three points of data to triangulate, three similar events to become a pattern. I knew this. I also knew, deep in my gut, that I was on to something significant here.

  The idea of waiting for a third child—or worse, even more children than that—to be infected grated.

  I couldn’t do anything about that, though, so I noted the observation in my notebook then drove toward Felicity’s home, taking the route that led by the hospital.

  If the hospital really was the center of some weird, paranormal infection, I would need all the evidence I could gather.

  # # #

  Felicity’s home was in a better neighborhood than Kenny’s, the house bigger, the lawn more manicured, the cars in the driveway newer and shinier.

  But the other elements were similar. They were both set back on larger-than-average lawns, nestled among trees, dark in the middle of the night.

  I wrote down these similarities in my notebook, snapped a few photos, and stared at the house for a long moment.

  Which window was Felicity’s? Were the floor plans of these houses similar? Were the children’s rooms next to their parents’ rooms, or were they off in their own part of the house?

  I didn’t get out of the truck here, either. Better to talk to the families before I began snooping around their properties.