by Chris Hepler
As she walks off, I watch Owen's face. He's without a comeback, and I'd guess he was hurt. "How deep is the shit I've just gotten you in?" I ask.
"No deeper than it's been for the last two days," he says, but that is far from reassuring. It's going to be another night in the car.
"What's really going on with this guy? You have some kind of business with him?"
He's on to me. Owen isn't the type to go to the cops, but that doesn't mean I'm ready for my true situation to be part of his and Didi's pillow talk.
"I've got no job," I say. "I don't have the overhead to start up a jiujutsu school. If I can sell to a magazine, that's food for the week. If not, I'm ess oh ell. If Lorenz dies of this vampire thing, or someone whacks him or throws him in witness-pro, my best idea is gone. I want to talk to him before any of that goes down."
"Are you sure you want to get involved in this? I mean, it's dangerous."
"I promise nothing'll happen that can be traced back to you."
Owen looks confused, then laughs. "I meant dangerous to you. Jeez, Fini, you sound like you're about to beat the guy up." I don't laugh, and his smile fades.
"I should check on Didi," I say.
"Why?"
"Because women can read minds," I say, and I stand up. Just to cement the point, I take a dessert menu from the waitstaff and plunk it down in front of him. His face becomes even less mobile—disappointment freeze.
I walk to the bathroom, where Didi's booted feet are visible beneath one stall. I knock softly. "It's Infinity," I say. "We were getting worried. Are you okay in there?"
There's a sniff that I try not to feel bad about, then a flush. "I'll be out in a sec," comes Didi's muffled voice.
As I wait, I look in the mirror. Black waves of hair hang across my shoulders, roots a dark enough brown to blend. I've got smoldering purple for eyeshadow—what I remembered Owen liking—but that's a strike against me now. I don't want to look pretty—right now, the word I'm looking for is harmless.
I bare my teeth. Nothing and no one stuck in them.
"It's fine," I mouth silently to my reflection. "There's nothing between us." Convincing.
"I need to borrow some money. I'll pay it back once I get a job." Mostly.
"I can last three more days without drinking blood." Not.
The stall door swings open, and Didi is there, eyes unswollen, mouth still lipstick-pink. "So, whaddaya think?" She says it like an accusation.
"About..."
"The new Owen. You haven't seen him for four years. Hasn't he lost weight?"
"I didn't notice." I had.
"He still thinks about you, you know. At first, I thought he was bringing me here to show me off to you. Now, I think he's angling for a threesome."
I shoot for the sympathetic smile. "That's not going to happen."
"He says you once broke into a church and had sex in the bell tower because you considered the altar too cliché."
"Uh…" I say, "in his defense, that was my idea."
Wrong answer.
"I'm just saying you lost your boyfriend, now you show up on his doorstep... you drove across the continent." I realize she's getting something off her chest rather than listening. "And he jumped to help you out, and I mean jumped, like you were his boss or something."
"I don't know how clear I need to be," I say. "He's probably got fantasies, but he hasn't changed. He doesn't stand a chance." Just the act of drawing the line eases my mind a little. If I'm going to be homeless, let it be because I wouldn't give up being cool.
Didi considers. She washes her hands and talks into the mirror. "Can I ask why?"
"He's afraid of me," It's close enough to the truth. "I'm a hassle to keep. I've got more issues than Marvel Comics."
"Well, that's a reprieve. So, am I duty-bound to help you? He sleeps on the couch, and we share the master bed? Platonically."
Didi turns and is almost in my face now. She still smells good, and I let my mind wander into the temptation of drinking my fill, right here over the sink or later when Owen is asleep. It's then I realize that it's not just Aaron I need to worry about. It's anyone with a pulse. But I was an F-prot before I became a criminal, and the two aren't the same thing. Not really, anyway.
The words escape my mouth. "I can find a hotel."
"Are you sure? We could try cushions on the floor."
"There's nothing you have that I want," I lie, and the Infinity in the mirror looks good.
9 - INFINITY
August 13th
Despite my exhaustion, I can't rest that night. I toss and squirm on the superfoam motel bed, which rejects me like a bad kidney. If vipes are supposed to heal so fast, shouldn't some of that mojo keep me from feeling like crap when I get no sleep?
I give up sometime around two in the morning and turn on the wallscreen. Soon, I'm watching the Lorenz video for the too-many-ith time. The hookup is nice and fast—I guess the telecom companies reached a peace agreement with each other—and it better be good because the room took the last of my cash. A long stare out the window makes me think of pawn shops I hit earlier. The jewelry's gone now. Impulse buys, gifts, now all turned into a mattress.
The e-mail Owen sent me beckons, but I keep my eyes on the vid. Every time I watch, I notice different details. Morgan is left-handed. His eyes don't do the left-to-right dance like he's reading a cue card or teleprompter, so he probably rehearsed what he had to say. On close examination, he looks a lot more presentable than I saw in the checkout line. On high-def, I can tell he fed before he made the video. It's not the healthy pink complexion or the short, neat hair. It's the relaxation, the presence focused on what he's talking about instead of being a scatterbrain with no idea where his next meal is coming from. Says she who would know.
I talk to the remote and open channels on the screen. I need news. Usually, my surfing only stops on some celebrity being charming or a fighter getting trashed in a combat sport. Consequently, it takes me longer than other people might, but a half hour later, I feel satisfied that Morgan hasn't blown up the world since last I checked.
It's naïve to think the F-prots will let him get away with his stunt. It's a matter of time before their own tech-savvy operatives tip off the door-kickers, and then Lorenz won't have a chance.
There's nothing I can—
Wait.
I open the mail attachment. I can control this. What I have in my head isn't so much a plan as it is a scheme—there will be a lot of improvisation and even more risk. There always is.
I go to my jacket in the closet and get my keys, bringing them over to the keyboard on the bed. On the key ring is a fob, displaying random numbers that change every minute. They're half of a security code, my personal identification number being the other half. A few key punches later, and the screen changes to BRHI's Web page.
Here's the first risk—entering my passcode and hoping I haven't been locked out. I've been gone for—what is it, past midnight?—nine days now. But the code works, and with it comes a little hope.
I root around the D.C. directory and find "Additional Numbers." Forced Protection is way down at the bottom of the list, with no corresponding link explaining its purpose or photos that can identify the employees. The program director is someone named Dr. Marcus Kern.
"Hi," I say to myself. "My name is Infinity, and as a matter of fact, I do know what time it is. Please hear me out."
Screw that. I dial Darcy's desk number. It'll be three hours earlier there, and knowing him, I might catch him at work. No dice. I don’t leave a message and try his home number.
"Yes?"
I nearly drop the phone. I keep it audio only, part of the scheme. "It's Infinity," I say. "I know I fell off the map for the past week, but I spent it doing something important."
"Infinity! Are you all right? We were worried."
"I'm surviving," I say, honestly enough. Now, I need a lie that he can't check out or at least won't want to. "I got a little scared when I broke that vipe's t
eeth and stayed at home the next day, but if I were infected, I'd know it by now, right?"
I've gotten him scattered and agreeable. "Yeah, your muscles would be changing. It'd hurt like hell."
Stay perky. "Well, nothing to report there. But I have news. Big news. You know how whatsisname, the cultie vipe—"
"Andrews."
"Right, how I was playing bait with his human friends? One friend tracked me down."
Darcy exhales audibly. I hang, waiting for his words, which are only, "Shit. How bad of a breach are we talking?"
"No breach, but it took me a few days of playing totally vanilla valley girl and staying away from work. He's got my number, but he thinks I work in a diner."
Darcy laughs. "You're good."
I almost take a moment to savor the irony, but things like this work best when I talk fast. "Anyway, I got a hold of his phone and sent his contact list to mine so I could figure it out, when suddenly this vipe comes on the TV—"
"Yes, we're aware—"
"—and it turns out the guy on TV, Lorenz? His phone number's on the list."
"It what?"
"I know where Morgan Lorenz lives," I say. "It's in Virginia, and right now, I'm at the baggage terminal, and I'll safely deliver this phone to our D.C. office."
"You're in an airport?"
"Is that bad? I realize I should have checked with you first, but this guy needs to be—" I stop myself. There are things you don't say over unsecured lines. "Well, I'm going to present it to the branch here to make sure no one else touches it. But I have a favor to ask."
"Tell me what you're thinking."
"I need you to call Dr. Marcus Kern, who runs the head office here, and tell him that I'm at least minimally competent, and I want to be in on whatever Lorenz project he creates."
"Well," Darcy says in his best truant officer tone, "I'll have to see some evidence of minimal competence before we can go forward with this."
"Ha. Love you, hon. So, you'll call him, sometime when it's a reasonable hour on the East Coast, right?"
"I just want to confirm," he says. "You can guarantee you will be able to deliver Morgan Lorenz's home address?"
"I can send it to you now, but I thought it'd look better if you made it sound like I'm your trusted courier, and I'm already en route. Like you anticipated his needs and had a plan and shit."
I can hear Darcy chuckle. "Send it to me just so we have a duplicate in case you get hit by a truck. I'll make the call in the morning."
I consider. It goes against the grain to give it over before getting what I want. He could cut me out of the loop, and he's being far too nice to an employee who bailed on him. But if I score face time with this Kern guy, I can probably finagle something even if Darcy turns snake on me, just by virtue of being in the loop on Lorenz's location.
I read Darcy the address from Owen's info, and immediately after doing so, I think of altering it by one number just in case everyone decides to move without me. But if they cut me out, and I disappear into the cracks, that's a double win. I'll have the L.A. F-prots off my tail without ever getting on the radar of the D.C. crew.
"Oh, and you'll need to get tested," Darcy says at last. I try not to freeze.
"Right," I say. "I'll bring that up with this Dr. Kern before I do anything else. Let me get it right. We want a standard blind for European Bat Lyssavirus-4, yes?" I jab with the yes or no to make him forget about my taking the responsibility.
"Yeah, a fluorescent microscopy. He'll know what it is."
"Cush. So nice to deal with professionals. Okay, see you some time in the far future."
"Yeah, this is pretty crazy. Keep checking in, and take care."
I hang up, and the sane part of me catches up with what I've just done. I've traded one pack of hunters for another. But to hell with cash. I've made currency.
I turn off everything electronic and sleep like a stone.
◆◆◆
The downside of being a double agent, of course, is that you have to keep stalling and lying even when, by all rights, you should be dead to the world. Marcus Kern is on my phone at five-thirty-eight a.m., which is most definitely not "the morning." That's still night or pre-dawn or something out of bounds. And he's talking fast.
"I'll break it down. The meeting spot is the Everything Asparagus in Crystal City. That's Jefferson Davis Highway and 20th Street. You'll be meeting one of our people, a Dr. Roland Cawdor. He's tall, his hair is long and silvery gray, and he'll be in a navy coat. You got all that?"
"A doctor?" I ask. Has Darcy said something? "Am I getting an exam?"
"No, no, he's just our biomancer."
"Am I getting spelled up?"
"No, you're delivering the information we discussed to him. He'll make the decision to move forward. Can you make it to Crystal City by seven?"
Warning bells beat themselves against my eyelids. I'm awake now. "I was on the red-eye," I say. "There's no way I can do anything before noon."
"Noon it is, then. But I want to move today. We've got at least three people who know about this. By the end of the day, it'll be twenty, and if I know anything about secrets, security will be compromised a day after that. That'll put our people in danger, which I absolutely do not want. You understand this all, right? You were F-prot in L.A.?"
"Yes."
"And I wrote down you want to be in on... uh... Roland will discuss with you the particulars if your intel is actionable." Well, at least he observes phone discipline. "Sorry to disrupt your morning, Ms. Stard. Get some rest. You're going to need it. Talk to you soon." By the time I have the opportunity to correct him on my name, he's hung up.
No time to waste. I boil myself in a scalding shower, and I doll up—I'm out to make two first impressions today. The hair, however, goes in a braid, which takes valuable minutes but is the least likely style to come loose and get in my face if I get into a tussle. I save time by avoiding breakfast and going straight to my car, packet in hand.
I enter the address into the car and set the pilot, hoping the automated instructions are right. The map of the D.C. suburbs looks more like a web spun by a spider on crack than the evenly spaced grid of a normal city.
I wind up in someplace called Vienna. It looks all right—there are still a few trees to give the illusion of nature. The house's wall encircles the property with about a meter of stone topped by another meter of steel-picketed fence. The building itself is up a slope, allowing for a full view of the street and no places for an intruder to do their work unseen on a door or window. I can see at least three bedrooms on the second level, curtains all drawn, even in a large, round globular room that is studded with windows.
I park a short distance away and approach the gate to the driveway. I press the intercom button. Nothing happens for half a minute. I press again.
"Yes?" comes a male voice.
"I'm here to see Morgan Lorenz. I need to tell him his house is no longer secure."
Big pause.
"Who the hell is this?" A different voice, also male. It sounds like Lorenz.
"My name is Infinity. I'm a vipe."
"A what?"
Of course. He doesn't know the term. "I'm infected like you."
"Use the P.O. box."
"You can't stay here, and if you let me in, I'll explain why."
There's no answer, but after a few seconds, the gate swings open. I head up to the front door. I don't even have to knock. An imposing man I would have pegged as an Irish beat cop in some TV drama stands in the way: crew-cut red hair, his chest all barrel, and his arms able to pass for thighs in a dark alley. With vipe strength, I might take him, but the look in his eyes says I'd pay for the attempt. If he's a vipe himself, even worse.
"You want to see him, you get searched," he barks.
I unzip my jacket and let his hands on me. I tense up, and I'm ready to smash him at any moment, but he doesn't try anything. This fits with my idea that he's law enforcement or at least former. He stands aside and follo
ws me into a spacious receiving room with sectional couches.
For a second, I think I have a clear path to Lorenz if I want to do something desperate, but no. There's another two men between him and me. The one on the left looks like he eats barbells with breakfast. The one on the right is regular size, but stripped down to a muscle shirt that shows off a revolver in a shoulder holster. From the size of it, he probably uses it for elk hunting. Virginia has elk, right?
The door slams and locks behind me.
"Sit down," says Lorenz. I take a seat. "Now, please explain how and why you are here."
There's no way to say I'm not intimidated by the bruisers surrounding him, but my eye falls on Lorenz before it casts down to the floor. He's in his socks. The two others near him are in bare feet. Only the one who answered the door has shoes on. Everyone else is either sticking to a house rule or has thrown on clothes since it's early in the morning.
I snort. It's like picturing them in their underwear, except for the guy with the gun, who, if clad only in his underwear, would probably look more threatening.
"I know everything you need about the people who are after you. It's not just a few guys. They've got a whole program, well-funded. Procedures in place, qi-actives, trained hunters."
"Are you one of them?"
Um. "Well, that depends on what you mean."
"Am I going to wake up murdered like a friend of mine did after she got infected?"
"Not if you listen to me." He looks doubtful. "The disease you have is called Virally Induced Hematophagic Predation Syndrome. We shorten it to VIHPS."
"Who's we?"
I hesitate. That kind of information is worth something. I make a hasty decision—I need a friend more than I need money. "The Benjamin Rush Health Initiative. They owned the lab that made it."
The gunman shares a look with Lorenz. "And Morgan gets another one right," he says. I remember Lorenz yelling about finding the culprits on the vid. Is F-prot really that easy to find?
Lorenz is still hard in the face. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
