Was there hope in that empty voice? He couldn't tell. "He's dead now," Eliason said.
"Those people made a big mess, but I guess he won't get mad, now, will he?"
"No, he won't," Eliason said.
She ran her tongue along her lips. They were chapped. "He's gone. He's never coming back."
"That's right," Eliason said. "How do you feel about that?"
She touched the side of her face, then brought her hand down. Her gaze never left Eliason's. "He bought me a doll once. It was soft and had red hair and buttons for eyes."
"Raggedy Ann?"
She smiled, just a little. "Yeah." Then she rubbed her face again. "She's dead too. Daddy killed her. He said she was just stuffing. Not real at all. But I heard her scream."
Her voice wavered. Eliason waited a moment, to see if she was going to say anything else. When she remained silent, he said, "He hurt her pretty bad."
Mary Jo nodded. "Sometimes she couldn't even get out of bed to go to school."
"What did her teachers say?"
"They thought she was sick a lot."
"But really her daddy hurt her?"
"She wasn't doing anything. She never did anything. He would come home all mad and he would pick her up and throw her—" her voice broke, but she still didn't cry.
Eliason didn't move. "Would you like a hug?" he asked.
She nodded. He approached her slowly, knowing any sudden move would ruin the tentative trust. He gathered her in his arms and held her against his chest, careful of her bruises. She grabbed him with strong fists and shook. Finally,[C&F75] she pulled away. Her eyes were still dry.
"Raggedy Ann never went to school," she said.
"I know." He smoothed a strand of hair from her forehead. "It's okay to be angry at him. No one has the right to hurt you. I'll make sure no one hurts you again."
Her eyes were wide and she didn't move. She didn't believe him. They never believed him this early on. But she would later, after she had the care of the Center, after they found her a proper home.
"I want to check out your bruises," he said. "I want to make sure they won't get worse, and then I'll put some lotion on them to make them feel better. It might sting a little at first. Is that okay?"
If a child said no, he would save the examination for later. Trust was the most important thing for a child like Mary Jo. She nodded. He started with the visible bruises on her face, holding her where the skin was unmarked. No punctures, no deep bleeding. The eye would be okay. Then he checked her arms and her legs. Her right arm was a mass of welts that ran into her dress.
"What happened?" he asked, reluctant to touch.
"Fell off my bike," she said.
Bikes didn't make welts that looked like the business end of a belt. He opened a drawer and pulled out a paper dress. "I want to check your shoulder and back," he said. "I'm going to leave the room for a minute. When I come back, will you wear this instead of your dress? That way I can look without bumping any sore places."
"Okay." Her hands were shaking. He didn't want to know if her daddy made her take off that dress especially for him. "Be right back."
Eliason let himself out of the room. He leaned on the door, and let out a sigh. Damn them. Damn them all. The Center could only do so much. He wanted them all to disappear right now, so that he would never see another child whose body had more colors than a painter’s palette. He would have to stop at the gym tonight and see if he could use the punching bag. He had to get rid of some of this anger.
He went back into his office and buzzed Sandi. While he waited, he typed the details of his conversation with Mary Jo into her computer file. He would back it up with x-rays and photographic evidence, in case someone decided to go after the Center for wrongly killing her father. Nothing wrong with this eradication. If anything, the child's teachers had waited too long to report this one.
"Yes?" Sandi stood at the door. She was thin and trim, but young. Sometimes, after a patient left, she locked herself in the ladies' room and cried. Eliason hoped she would never lose that compassion. He needed it, especially when the anger at all those creeps seized him.
"Phone the Center," he said. "She needs a private room with nothing from the house unless she asks for it. And—" he frowned, considering "—a Raggedy Ann doll waiting for her on the bed. Okay? And set her up for x-rays tomorrow. I think we might find some evidence of improperly healed bones."
"Is she all right otherwise?" Sandi asked.
"As all right as we can expect at the moment," Eliason said. He reached over to his desk, picked up his glasses and put them in the case. "What have we got the rest of the afternoon?"
"A sore throat, a physical, and a baby with a runny nose." Sandi adjusted her blouse. "And you have a pile of messages."
"Anything important?"
"Another callback from University Hospital. They need the Ledyr file."
"Did we get consent from the wife yet?"
Sandi shook her head. "And Cammie Timms has called three times this afternoon."
Eliason frowned. "She say what it's about?"
"No," Sandi said. "She just says you should call back when you can."
"Thanks." Eliason turned the reading lamp on over his desk. He had to get back to Mary Jo, but he would take a moment to call Cammie. She never called him at work, and she had never left more than one message on his home machine. He didn't know what the appeal was with her. He usually tried to keep his relationships with Center employees impersonal. He didn't need the extra baggage—the emotional entanglements that usually came with survivors.
But Cammie. Cammie had been special to him from the moment he saw her. She had been slight and fragile, like little Mary Jo, only with a strength underneath it that showed in every movement. Cammie held herself away from others, avoiding any involvement at all, dealing with everything herself. It had taken all his persuasive skills to get her to see the counselor Anita had assigned. Even then, he wasn't sure it was doing much good.
He dialed the number from memory. After three rings, a sleepy voice answered.
"Cammie? It's Brett." He was hunched over his desk, protected against bad news. They hadn't been lovers, only friends, but still the idea of something happening to her made him ache.
"Hey, Brett, thanks for calling back." She was speaking slower than usual. Not sleepy. Tired. "I was wondering if you wanted to do dinner tonight."
He froze. He had never had dinner with Cammie—at least, not an official dinner. Not planned. Even though he had wanted to. But she had been so reserved, as if she had a part he would never reach. "I'd love to," he said.
"It's business, so I'll buy. I'll meet you at the Imperial Palace at seven."
His favorite Chinese place. He knew she meant the one in Shorewood. She rarely traveled to the East Side.
"Let me pick you up," he said.
"The way you drive?" Her voice was gaining more life. "Nope. I'll see you there, boy-o. If you're more than a half hour late, I'm going to order sweet and sour pork—deep fat fried."
The thought turned his stomach. He hated Americanized Chinese food. "They won't make it that way."
"We'll see," she said and hung up.
He stared at the phone for a moment. Cammie. Asking him out. On business. He sighed. They only had one kind of business in common. Vampires.
He stood up. A little girl was waiting for him. Eliason had to see how much damage her father had inflicted upon her before he died.
ii
In the days before it became a Chinese restaurant, the Imperial Palace had been an ice cream and sandwich shop. Eliason had discovered it with one of his favorite young patients, an eight-year-old boy named Ryan who covered his grief with the pretense of boundless joy. They had just come back from a Madison Muskies game, in the early days of the baseball team, and stopped for an ice cream soda. Ryan had a double fudge tin roof, with a chocolate malt on the side. He had gotten sick in the bathroom, and Eliason had learned that children who smiled all t
he time weren't always happy. Sometimes they covered their pain with food and a happy-go-lucky grin.
Maybe that was why he liked the Imperial Palace. Not just because of the food, but because within this building, he had learned something new. Something important.
He pulled the Ferrari to the side of the building and got out. The restaurant was part of a marginal shopping center that some developer had built backwards. The easiest entrance was in the back, away from the street. Most of the stores had sidewalk entrances, however. Those that hadn't died within the first six months of operation.
Inside, the scent of ginger, onions and incense hit him even before the door closed. The owner, a small woman who spoke broken English, waved at him from her perch behind the cash register. She slipped out and gestured that he follow her. Before they stepped into the restaurant proper, she put a hand on his chest. He leaned over. Many years of dining here had taught him that when she spoke, she expected his full attention.
"Next time when you ask young lady, you bring her in that car. She will be impressed!"
He laughed. "I'll remember that."
The Ferrari was his one indulgence, although he could afford more. He had found it at a used car lot specializing in expensive cars—poorly tuned, poorly maintained, with a cracked interior and over priced. He had talked them to low blue book way too easily, leading him to think that they still made a considerable profit on him. Then he dumped an equivalent amount of money into fixing the car up. Every sixty days, he paid his mechanic to keep the thing in top running condition. What money he had that didn't go to the kids went to the car.
The owner led him past the dark booths in the front, filled with suits at the end of a long day, up the stairs, and to the back. Cammie sat at a table for two, the candle illuminating her small, cat-like face. She wore black trousers with a matching silk blouse. Silver crosses, earrings he had given her last Christmas, graced her ears. She had pulled her long hair into a bun that emphasized her long neck. He had never seen her dressed up. The outfit took his breath away. It made her look frail and feminine at the same time.
"Cammie?" he said as he sat down. He had worn jeans, expecting to have a dinner battle like they usually did. Maybe she hadn't meant business. Or maybe she had said that just so that she could pay. He smiled to himself. Cammie would never have that kind of change of heart.
She looked up. Her eyes were wide on her narrow face. "Thanks for coming, Brett."
He didn't see her as often since she had moved from Eradication to Records. Often, when his Ferrari pulled up in the parking lot at the Center, DeeDee told him that Cammie would suddenly find a reason to lock herself in the data rooms.
"You know I can't resist you," he said. "You look great."
She smiled, but the look didn't reach her eyes. She had never liked it when he gave her compliments. At first he had thought the problem was his skin color—perhaps she had never dated a man who was black—but later, DeeDee told him that Cammie didn't date, period. She had never spent private time alone with a man, and any man who was too forward never saw her again.
Eliason always made a point of letting Cammie know his interest and of letting her know that he would be her friend even if she never dated him. Sometimes he was relieved that they would never become intimate. Underneath that reserved exterior was a frightened little girl who carried as many bruises as young Mary Jo.
"What's up?" he asked.
"I ordered wontons. I hope that's okay," Cammie said. "And a Diet Coke for you. We've got tea coming, too."
"Sounds good," he said. "Mind if we order something other than an appetizer?"
"I was thinking maybe the pepper steak and kung pao chicken."
He set the menu aside. Cammie was rarely this forward. "Okay."
The owner waited on them herself. Cammie ordered and the owner disappeared quickly. She had never seen Eliason in here with a woman. He often came alone or with some of the kids—especially those who had poor appetites. They usually hadn't encountered Chinese food before and the food had no association for them. They found that they could eat an entire meal without feeling ill.
Cammie's fingers toyed with the linen napkin. Finally she placed it on her lap, poured herself some tea, and sat back. The wontons arrived and Eliason took one, dipping it in the sauce before taking a bite.
He would wait her out.
The wontons were warm and crispy, just the way he liked them. He was hungrier than he realized.
Cammie took a wonton, poured sauce on it, and swirled it around on her plate. "I asked you here, Brett, because you're the only friend I have."
He probably shouldn't argue with her—arguing only silenced the children—but Cammie was an adult. She had to know that she wasn't as alone as she thought. "You've got DeeDee and Whitney too. And Sarge, if you let her."
Cammie shook her head. "DeeDee and Whitney can't keep secrets."
Secrets. He tensed. So important to a vampire's child. Keeping secrets meant surviving. DeeDee and Whitney kept secrets, but now was the time to stop arguing and start listening. Cammie had asked him here for some kind of help, not to correct the way she thought.
"So this conversation is confidential?" he asked.
"Please," she said. "I don't want anyone else to know about it."
"All right." He took another wonton. Cammie still hadn't touched hers.
She took a deep breath. "I found him. My brother. I know what they did with him."
The shock went all the way to his toes. No one was supposed to trace the records. Children who were sent away from the Westrina Center were given new identities and new lives. They were able to start over. "Those records are purged," he said.
"Off the computer," Cammie said. "Anita keeps the disks in her office under lock and key."
"You raided Anita's office?"
"Give me a break." Cammie finally took a bite of the wonton. "Not only is the lock tough, but she has an elaborate security system inside. Even if I got past the alarms, I couldn't disable the camera. No one except Anita knows its location."
Eliason finished the wonton and put the plate aside. He nodded, indicating that she could go on. His heart was pounding hard. He wasn't sure he liked this.
"Ben and I were there before the Center was computerized. There are boxes and boxes of unentered files in the basement. When they computerized, they put me in the computer because of what I did—"
It took him a moment to realize that she meant because she had staked her father. He wasn't used to euphemisms from Cammie.
"—and because I never had a permanent home. They were always tracking me. But Ben got adopted out. He was three—young enough that some family in Oregon wanted him. His file was in a large box with all the other unentered files from that year. They sent him to Eugene. A family named Sadler."
Eliason gripped his Diet Coke glass. The sides were cool and damp. "He probably has no memory of this, Cammie." Or worse. A child's personality was formed by the time he was four. Little Ben might have had a memory—and acted on it.
"Maybe," she said. She finished the wonton and took the next, breaking it into little pieces as she spoke. "But I do, now. Every night I dream about him crying in the next room. I try to keep him quiet, but my father hears him and gets up—"
That flat tone he had heard Mary Jo use had crept into Cammie's voice. He had never paid much attention to the adult children that Anita brought in. He knew that they were all tough and sarcastic, with odd fears that crept into their movements, but he had never thought—until Cammie—about how those childhood experiences still affected their adult lives.
Cammie snapped the wonton into a pile of little pieces. "I killed him before he killed Ben. You know that, don't you?"
No, he hadn't realized that, but it had been in her file. She spent the first three months in the Center, trying to escape and find her brother.
She had been eight years old.
"Cammie, that was twenty years ago. Ben is an adult now."
/> "I know." She ate the little pieces of wonton, one at a time. Then she sipped her tea. Her movements were sharp and automatic. "Counting my father, I have killed thirty men and thirteen women, all of whom were vampires. Forty two were certified by the Center as dangerous and in need of eradication. My father had thrown Ben down a flight of stairs the day before I staked him. It was lucky Ben didn't die from that fall. So I waited until the middle of day, took a sharpened dowel—"
"Cammie." Eliason held up his hand. He knew the story. He had read the file when he found out Cammie was in Eradication.
"—and staked him in front of Ben. Because of that, they took Ben away from me. I saved his life and they took him away from me." The flat tone was gone, replaced by a rise in level. The owner had stopped near the door of the kitchen, steaming food on top of a round tray. Thank G[C&F76] od the woman was discreet. "I need to know if he made it. I need to know if it was worth it."
Eliason nodded to the owner to bring the food now. She did so, setting a huge platter of pepper steak and steamed rice in front of him. She put the kung pao chicken [C&F77] in front of Cammie, and left as quietly as she had arrived. Eliason put steamed rice all over his plate and spooned the entrees on top of it.
He wasn't sure how to handle this. Cammie wasn't thinking clearly. She knew that Ben had a more than 50 percent chance of becoming a vampire himself. "Cammie, you have saved countless lives, not just your brother's. You know the early history of the Center. Vampires can't be rehabilitated. But we can stop them from killing more people. And we can protect the children."
Cammie took the rice from him. She wasn't meeting his gaze. "Each time I staked a vampire, I did it because I believed he was evil. Each time, I reenacted the day I tried to save my brother."
She had been talking to the counselors. They were trying to ease her past the recovery of memory and into a way of dealing with emotions behind it.
"That's why Anita puts former children in Eradication, so that they can work until something sparks the memories."
"I know the theory!" Cammie snapped. She served herself some beef and then some chicken before continuing. "I don't care how many lives I've saved. All I care about is Ben. That was all I ever cared about. If I know he's okay, if I know he made it, then I can let all of this go."
Sins of the Blood: A Vampire Novel Page 13
