by Will Hill
He groaned. “Nothing half as much fun,” he said. “Everyone is still chasing down the Broadmoor escapees, and we’re only on to the second of ours. We missed him yesterday.”
“You missed him?” asked Kate. “That’s not what I heard.”
“No,” admitted Jamie. “Not me. One of my rookies. Morton.”
“Is she the woman?” asked Matt.
“No, he’s the man,” said Jamie. “John Morton. He missed a shot his first time out, a hard shot in pitch darkness, but it made him start questioning stuff. Then yesterday a civilian died, and he’s blaming himself for her. The worst thing is, he isn’t totally wrong. If he hadn’t choked, she’d still be alive.”
“Should he be active?” asked Kate, a deep frown on her face.
Jamie shook his head. “No,” he replied. “I’m benching him until this Broadmoor thing is all sorted. I’m not giving up on him, not by any means, but I can’t have him on my squad right now. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kate. “That’s hard.”
Jamie shrugged.
“What about the other one?” asked Matt. “What’s her name?”
“Ellison,” said Jamie, breaking into a wide smile. “Lizzy Ellison. She’s awesome. I couldn’t have asked for anyone better. So that’s something, at least.”
“You be careful,” said Kate. “Your mom isn’t the only one who worries about you when you’re out there. You know that, right?”
“I know,” said Jamie. “But there’s no need. I’m always careful.”
“How is your mom?” asked Matt. “Is she okay?”
“She’s all right,” he replied. “At least I think she is. I don’t go and see her as often as I should. I know I don’t. She doesn’t say anything, but I know she thinks the same. But she’s safe down there, and that’s the main thing.”
“Do you think she knows who’s in the cell on the other side of the corridor?” asked Matt. “Does she have any idea?”
“Not in the slightest,” said Jamie, shaking his head. “She doesn’t know any vampire history, and even if she did, she wouldn’t care. She’s not their biggest fan, let’s put it that way.”
The implication of Jamie’s words was not missed by any of them, and suddenly the chair beside him seemed particularly empty. Kate, who knew full well that Marie Carpenter had become quite familiar with the ancient vampire who lived opposite her, and exactly what she thought of their absent friend, held her tongue.
“Anyway,” he said, forcing a thin smile, “enough of that cheery subject. Let’s talk about something light and fluffy. Kate, what’s going on with ISAT?”
His friends burst out laughing, and he joined in, relishing the sound.
“It’s fine,” said Kate, once the laughter had subsided. “We’re making progress, everybody hates us for what we’re doing, and hopefully we won’t find anything. But, given the bomb, that seems less and less likely.”
“Because it was in your room?” asked Matt.
“And because there was an identical one in Major Turner’s,” said Jamie. “Right?”
“Right,” said Kate. “We’re about a quarter of the way through the interviews, so if there’s something there, if someone we haven’t talked to yet is hiding something, we’ll know soon enough. The obvious suspect was Valentin, but we interviewed him yesterday, and he passed.”
“What was that like?” asked Jamie.
“What was what like?”
“Interviewing Valentin.”
“It was . . . enlightening,” said Kate, and gave him a strange look, one he wasn’t sure he liked. He considered pressing her on the subject, but something made him hold back. Instead, he pushed his plate to one side and sat back in his seat.
“Look,” he said. “We all know we should do this more often, but we all know how difficult it is to make it happen. So all I’m going to suggest is that we try a bit harder. How does that sound?”
“It sounds good,” said Kate. “I miss the two of you.”
“Me, too,” said Matt. “I know I’m not around much at the moment, what with Lazarus and everything, but I’ll try harder. I promise.”
“It’s okay,” said Jamie. “Everyone knows how important what you’re doing is, and no one takes it personally. It would just be good to see you more often.”
Matt nodded. “It would,” he said, softly. “It really would.”
Jamie looked at his two friends for a long moment, and made a decision.
“I have something to tell you,” he said. “It’s nothing major, but it’s something I’ve been keeping to myself, and we promised each other we wouldn’t do that. So here it is. I’ve been visiting Valentin in his cell, even though I promised Frankenstein I wouldn’t.”
Kate smiled, and in that moment Jamie realized she had already known. Clearly, that had been the enlightening part of her conversation with the vampire.
She didn’t say anything, he thought. Didn’t tell me off or try to trick me into confessing.
“Should you be doing that?” asked Matt, his face clouding with concern. “Is it safe?”
Jamie shrugged. “Valentin’s pretty much unstoppable,” he said. “If he wanted to hurt me, he would. So being in his cell is no more dangerous than being anywhere else.”
“What do you talk to him about?” asked Kate, the same smile on her face.
You know this, too, don’t you? I’ll play along, though.
“My family,” he replied. “Valentin knew my grandfather, knew him better than I think anyone in the Department realizes. He tells me about him.”
“That sounds good,” said Kate. “As long as you’re being careful?”
“Like I said,” smiled Jamie, “I always am.”
Matt started telling Kate something that Professor Karlsson had said the previous day. Jamie was half listening when Lizzy Ellison walked into the dining hall, a look of intense concentration on her face.
He sat up in his chair and waved to her. She didn’t respond, but headed toward him in a straight line that was the opposite of Matt’s clumsy, circuitous route. Whatever the director of the Lazarus Project had said had clearly been extremely funny, as his friends had both fallen about laughing, but Jamie had stopped listening entirely. His attention was focused on his approaching squad mate.
Ellison arrived at their table, and Jamie saw that her face was noticeably pale. Kate and Matt had finally stopped laughing and were now looking at the new arrival with obvious interest.
“Ellison,” said Jamie. “Do you know Matt Browning and—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” interrupted Ellison, glancing at Jamie’s friends. “I need to talk to you. In private.”
“Whatever it is,” said Jamie, “you can tell me here. I don’t keep secrets from Kate and Matt.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ellison.
“Do you want to sit down?” he asked. “You look like you’re about to burst.”
“I’m fine, sir,” she replied, then looked at him with an expression of such awful distress that he felt a chill crawl up his spine.
“No, you’re not,” he said. “What is it? Tell me.”
Ellison glanced over at Kate and Matt again. “It’s John, sir.”
“Morton?” asked Jamie. “What about him?”
“He’s gone, sir.”
The chill spread across Jamie’s shoulders and up the back of his neck. “What do you mean, gone?” he asked. “Gone where?”
Ellison pulled her console from her belt, thumbed it open, and held it out. Jamie took it from her and read the short message that glowed on its screen, his eyes widening as he did so.
From: Morton, John/NS304, 07-B
To: Ellison, Elizabeth/NS304, 07-C
Gone after Dempsey. Don’t follow me. Need to do this myself.
Oh Christ, though
t Jamie. Oh Jesus Christ, what have I done?
45
FINAL EDITION
As the train pulled into Darlington Station, Pete Randall suddenly found himself on the verge of a panic attack.
He had driven across the Lindisfarne causeway in beautiful pale sunshine and made his way up to Berwick without incident. The roads were clear, and it was one of those fresh, clean mornings, when the world felt as though it was brand-new. It felt like the beginning of some great adventure, a journey into the unknown, the destination uncertain.
Pete parked his car at Berwick Station, wondering idly whether he would ever see it again, and bought his ticket. The train creaked and squealed up to the platform, miraculously on time, and he climbed into coach D on legs that were unsteady with excitement. Tucked under his arm was a copy of the Globe, its brightly colored front page screaming with outrage about a footballer who had been photographed leaving a nightclub with a woman who was most certainly not his heavily pregnant wife. He found a seat, bought a cup of tea from the trolley, and carefully colored in the Globe’s white logo with a black felt-tip pen. Then he sat back, stared out of the window at the North Sea as it rushed past, and waited.
A small number of people crowded coach D’s aisle as the train pulled into Darlington, pulling bags and cases down from the overhead shelves, putting on coats and scarves, and making their way toward the doors. Pete watched them leave, cursing silently that he had unwittingly sat on the wrong side of the train and therefore been unable to get a look at the people waiting on the platform. He had never met the man he knew only as South, never seen a photo of him, but had a curious sense that he would recognize him. He would certainly recognize the uniforms of the police he was still partly convinced were actually going to be waiting for him.
As the aisle cleared, people began to board the train. Pete sat back in his seat and raised his copy of the Globe with trembling hands, pretending to read it as he scanned the new arrivals.
A woman walked through the carriage with a screaming baby in her arms and a look of profound exhaustion on her face. Two teenage boys followed her, huge headphones resting around their necks, as an elderly woman struggled into the carriage behind them, dragging a suitcase so enormous that a kindly man sitting near the door got to his feet and helped her wrangle it onto the luggage rack.
No one else appeared.
Pete’s heart thumped in his chest. He was suddenly overcome with the desire to run to the end of the carriage and pull the driver alarm, stopping the train before it left the platform. He could get off and run, and keep running until he worked out what to do next. But he didn’t—panic paralyzed him, freezing him in his seat.
He looked at the other people in coach D, eyeing them all with new suspicion. Were any of them police? Were all of them police? Or if not police, then something worse? Men and women who would not think twice before making him disappear?
“North?” said a low voice, and Pete Randall clamped his teeth together so he didn’t scream. He whirled around in his seat and saw a middle-aged man standing beside him with a deeply nervous expression on his face.
“South?” he asked, his voice high and unsteady.
“That’s right,” nodded the man, a tentative smile spreading across his face. “It’s good to finally meet you, mate. Really good.”
“You, too,” Pete replied, his heart still pounding in his chest. He extended a hand. “I guess we’re done with this North and South thing, right? I’m Pete Randall.”
South took his hand and shook it fiercely. “Greg Browning,” he said.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 11:05:42
Subject: Re: Urgent submission
Kevin,
If this is a joke, it’s a pretty good one. If it isn’t, you need psychiatric help.
Colin
“I told you he wouldn’t go for it,” said Kevin McKenna. He watched as Albert Harker read the e-mail, and waited for the explosion he was sure this setback was going to provoke.
“I know what you told me, Kevin,” replied Harker, softly. “My memory is perfectly functional. This reaction was only to be expected, as you yourself suggested. Reply to him, telling him that you are quite serious. Tell him you want pages one and two of tomorrow’s edition and that your story is to run uncut.”
McKenna grinned with relief. “Anything else?” he asked. “Shall I ask him to send us a suitcase full of money and a case of champagne to toast our success with?”
Harker turned to him and smiled. “I think that might be pushing our luck, Kevin. Don’t you?”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 11:09:16
Subject: Re: Re: Urgent submission
Dear Colin,
No joke. This is the biggest story of both of our careers, the one that you’ll thank me for when they give you your knighthood. I want it to run on pages one and two tomorrow, and I want it to run uncut. Send me the layouts once they’re ready.
Cheers,
Kevin
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Sent: 11:12:13
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Urgent submission
Kevin,
I can take a joke, and I’ve put up with a lot of your shit over the years. This takes the piss, though. It really does.
I want you to take two weeks off and think about your future. Unpaid, before you ask. I don’t want to see you in the office during that time.
Take a good look at yourself, then let me know whether you still want to be a journalist. I’m saying this as your friend. Because this is not how serious people behave.
Colin
“What now?” asked Kevin. His editor’s reply had come quickly, and was even worse than he had expected. He was trying to keep his tone of voice light, in the hope of keeping Albert Harker calm.
“As I told you,” replied the vampire, “I prepared for this eventuality. This makes our path slightly harder, Kevin, nothing more.”
“Feel like sharing this grand plan of yours?”
Harker shook his head. “In time. Although, as a hypothetical, imagine we paid a visit to your editor in his home and I pulled his fingernails out one at a time until he agreed to run the story. Do you foresee any major flaws in such a plan?”
“I wish I didn’t,” said McKenna. “Because I’d pay money to see that. I really would.”
“But you do see a flaw?”
McKenna nodded. “Colin has a video conference with New York every evening, where they sign off on the next edition. Getting him at home wouldn’t work. We’d have to hold him prisoner in his office while he spoke to his boss.”
“How many people would be in the office at that time?” asked Harker.
McKenna shrugged. “Forty? Fifty? Maybe more?”
“I suspected as much,” said the vampire. “No matter. We will continue with the plan as I devised it.”
“All right,” said McKenna. “I’ve got faith, you know. I’m not worried.”
“Nor should you be,” said Harker, smiling. “Everything is going to be absolutely fine.”
Then someone knocked on the door.
* * *
Greg Browning stood in the dim corridor with Pete Randall beside him. His stomach was churning; this was the address that Kevin McKenna had sent them the night before, and it was the last point at which the rug could be pulled out from under their feet.
The train journey had passed quickly and uneventfully. His legs had barely been able to carry him as he climbed aboard coach F of the stationary train. When he had made his way to coach D and found the nervous-looking man holding a copy of the Globe that he clearly
wasn’t reading, Greg had been so relieved that he almost burst into tears.
He had been equally relieved to discover that he liked Pete Randall immediately. The friendship that he had felt begin to kindle as they spoke anonymously online had blossomed quickly in the flesh. They had spent the journey chatting as if they had known each other for years, talking mainly about their families and their children, even though it hurt both men to do so.
Greg heard voices on the other side of the hotel room door and felt his muscles tense.
Here it is, he thought. Here’s where we find out whether this is real.
The door opened, revealing a man he didn’t recognize, but who smiled at them with immense warmth.
“Gentlemen,” said the stranger. “My name is Albert Harker. Please come in. We have been so looking forward to your arrival.”
Harker stood aside, beckoning them into the room. Greg cast the briefest of glances at Pete, who gave the tiniest of shrugs.
We didn’t come all this way to turn back now.
He took a deep breath that he hoped wasn’t obvious, and walked slowly into the hotel room. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pete Randall follow.
The room was exactly what he expected: a small box with cream walls and a headache-inducing green-and-yellow carpet. A table in the center of the room was covered with a mass of papers and notebooks, and a man was standing beside the room’s single small window.
He recognized Kevin McKenna from the photos he had searched for on the Internet after the blog post that had started all of this had gone live. He looked much as he had on his son’s computer screen; he was a little thinner, perhaps, but the smile on his face was wide and welcoming.
He must be under so much stress, thought Greg, admiringly. It takes true bravery to do what he’s doing.
