4 Blood Pact

by Tanya Huff

  “But, Dr. Burke, what are we going to do with him?”

  “Study him, Catherine. Study him.”

  Head cocked to one side, Catherine examined the doctor. The last time she’d seen the older woman this excited had been the day number four had made the initial breakthrough with the neural net. Her eyes had held the same brilliant mix of greed and self-satisfaction then that they did now and, now that she thought about it, Catherine hadn’t liked the expression that day either. “Dr. Burke, vampires are outside my experimental parameters.”

  Eleven

  Vicki lifted her face into the wind blowing in off Lake Ontario and remembered how this slab of stone jutting into the water had once been both refuge and inspiration. All through her teens, whenever life got too complicated and she couldn’t see her way clear, she’d come to the park, clamber out on the rock, and the world would simplify down to the lake and the wind. The city at her back would disappear and life would be back in perspective. Winter or summer, good weather or bad—it hadn’t mattered.

  The lake still crashed rhythmically against the rock below her feet, and the wind still picked up the spray and threw it at her but, even together, they were no longer strong enough to uncomplicate the world. Tightening her arm on the bulk of her shoulder bag, she blocked out the pounding of the waves and listened for the crackle of paper; heard her mother’s words read from the letter in her mother’s voice.

  I don’t want to just disappear out of your life like your father did. I want us to have a chance to say good-bye.

  She swiped at the water on her cheeks before turning and climbing back up the bank to where Celluci waited, more or less patiently, by the car.

  The detour had given her nothing but damp sneakers and the certain knowledge that the only way out of the situation she found herself in was going to be the hard way.

  So we concentrate on finding my mother.

  We find her, we find Henry.

  And then we’ll . . .

  . . . we’ll . . .

  She shoved viciously at her glasses, jamming the plastic bridge up into her forehead, ignoring the drops of water that spotted the lenses—refusing to acknowledge drops that were salt water not fresh and were on the inside of the lenses. Let’s just concentrate on finding them. Then we’ll worry about what we do next.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Shaw. Is Dr. Burke in?”

  “No, dear, I’m sorry, but you just missed her.”

  Vicki, who had been watching and waiting until she saw Dr. Burke hurry from the office, manufactured a frown.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She shifted the expression to hopeful. “I need to talk to Donald Li about my mother and I’m finding it impossible to track him down around the campus. I was wondering if Dr. Burke could give me his home address.”

  Mrs. Shaw smiled up at her and pulled an overflowing rolodex forward. “You don’t need to bother Dr. Burke about that, I’ve got Donald’s address right here.”

  “Uh, Mrs. Shaw . . .” The young woman temporarily assigned to the office shot an uneasy glance from Vicki to her coworker. “Should you be giving that out? I mean that’s private information and . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it, Ms. Grenier,” Mrs. Shaw instructed firmly, flipping through the cards with practiced fingers, “this is Marjory Nelson’s daughter.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  Vicki leaned forward and caught the temporary’s eye. “I’m sure Donald won’t mind,” she said quietly.

  Ms. Grenier opened her mouth, closed it, and decided she wasn’t being paid enough to interfere with someone who’d just made it quietly clear that any opposition would be removed from the field on a stretcher if necessary.

  Mrs. Shaw copied the address onto the back of a message form and handed it to Vicki. “Here you go, dear. Has there been any news from the police about your mother’s body?”

  “No.” Vicki’s fingers crushed the small square of pink paper. “Not yet.”

  “You’ll let me know?”

  “Yes.” She didn’t bother attempting a smile. “Thank you for this.” It was probably fortunate that the outer office door had been designed in such a way that it couldn’t be slammed.

  “First to have her mother die and then to find that the body had been stolen.” Mrs. Shaw sighed deeply and shook her head. “The poor girl was devastated.”

  Ms. Grenier made a silent but eloquent moue and bent back over her keyboard. As far as she was concerned, devastated might describe anything that got in that woman’s way but it could hardly be applied to her emotional condition.

  Celluci made no comment as Vicki slid into the passenger seat and slammed the car door. Although she’d insisted before going up that she could handle any sympathy expressed by her mother’s ex-coworker, something had obviously gotten through. As nothing he could say would help, he merely started the engine and pulled carefully away from the curb.

  “Make the next left,” Vicki instructed tersely, yanking the seat belt into position then slamming it home. “We’re heading for Elliot Street.”

  Three blocks later, she sighed deeply and said, “Odds are good that was a lot less trouble than breaking into the records office.”

  “Not to mention less illegal,” Celluci pointed out dryly.

  He got his reward in the quick flicker of a smile, there and gone so fast he would’ve missed it had he not been watching.

  “Not to mention,” Vicki agreed.

  “Catherine.” Dr. Burke turned to face the wall, cupping the mouthpiece of the receiver with her free hand. It wouldn’t do to be overheard. “I thought I’d give you a quick call between meetings to see how those tests are going.”

  “Well, his leukocytes are really amazing. I’ve never seen white blood cells like these.”

  “Have you looked at any tissue samples?”

  “Not yet. I thought you wanted the blood work done first. I’ve drawn another two vials as well as a sample of lymphatic fluid and, Doctor, his plasma cells are just as unique as the rest.”

  Dr. Burke ignored a gesturing colleague. They couldn’t start the damned meeting without her anyway. “Unique in what way?”

  “Well, I’m not an immunologist, but given a little time I may be able to . . .”

  A sudden realization threw everything into sharp-edged relief. “Good lord, you might be able to develop a cure for AIDS.” That would mean more than just a Nobel prize; an AIDS vaccine would practically net her a sainthood.

  Catherine hesitated before replying. “Well, yes, I suppose that might be one result. I was thinking more along the lines of my bacteria and . . .”

  “Think big, Catherine. Look, I’ve got to go now. Concentrate on the plasma cells, I think they’re our best bet. Oh, for pity’s sake, Rob, I’m coming.” She hung up the phone and turned to the worried looking man hovering at her elbow. “What is your problem?”

  “Uh, the meeting . . .”

  “Oh, yes, the meeting. God forbid we shouldn’t waste half our life in meetings!” She practically danced her way back across the hall. I’ve got a vampire and he’s going to give me the world! An AIDS vaccine would be only the beginning.

  As he followed her, Dr. Rob Fortin, associate professor of microbiology, found himself wishing he had an excuse to cut and run. When Aline Burke looked that cheerful, someone’s ass was grass.

  In the lab, Catherine stared at the phone for a moment, then somberly shook her head. “It’s not like I don’t have other things to do,” she muttered.

  Turning slightly, she shot a reassuring smile at number nine and number ten. She’d been shuffling them in and out of the one remaining isolation box all day as their physical needs had dictated but hadn’t really been able to spend any quality time with them. “I’m not ignoring you,” she said earnestly. “I’ll just finish up this analysis for Dr. Burke and then we can get back to important things.”

  Donald, she could guiltlessly ignore for another twelve hours or so, but it wasn
’t fair to the others that all her time be taken up by Mr. Henry Fitzroy, vampire.

  After all, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  The key had hardly entered the lock when the door to the next apartment opened and Mr. Delgado came out into the hall.

  “Vicki, I thought it was you.” He took a step toward her, the lines around his eyes deepening into worried grooves. “The police haven’t found anything?”

  “The police aren’t exactly looking,” Vicki told him tersely.

  “Not looking? But . . .”

  “The murder at the university has tied up their manpower,” Celluci interjected. “They’re doing what they can.”

  Mr. Delgado snorted. “Of course you’d say that, Mister Detective-Sergeant.” He gestured at Vicki. “But she shouldn’t have to be doing this. She shouldn’t have to go out looking.”

  Vicki’s fingers whitened around the key. “It’s my responsibility, Mr. Delgado.”

  He spread his hands. “Why?”

  “Because she’s my mother.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “She was your mother. But your mother isn’t anymore. Your mother is dead. Finding her body won’t bring your mother back to you.”

  Celluci watched a muscle jump in Vicki’s jaw and waited for the explosion. To his surprise, it didn’t come.

  “You don’t understand,” she said through clenched teeth and moved swiftly into the apartment.

  Celluci remained in the hallway a moment longer.

  “I’m right. I watched her grow up.” Mr. Delgado sighed, the deep, weary exhalation of an old man who’d seen more death than he cared to remember. “She thinks it’s her fault her mother died and if she can just find the body it’ll make amends.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “Yes. Because it isn’t her fault Majory died,” Mr. Delgado pointed out, turned on his heel, and left Celluci standing alone in the hall.

  He found Vicki sitting on the couch, staring down at her notes, all the lights in the apartment on even though it was barely mid-afternoon and the living room was far from dark.

  “He doesn’t know about Henry,” she said without looking up.

  “I know,” Celluci agreed.

  “And just because I’ve reacted to my mother’s body being stolen by attempting to find it again, well, that doesn’t mean I’m repressing anything. People grieve in different ways. Damn it, if you were in my situation, you’d be out looking for your mother’s body.”

  “Granted.”

  “My mother’s dead, Mike. I know that.”

  So you keep saying. But he closed his teeth on the words.

  “And my mother isn’t the fucking point anymore. We’ve got to find Henry before they turn him into . . . Christ!” She ripped off her glasses and rubbed at her eyes. “You think Donald Li’s made a run for it?” she asked, somehow forcing the question to sound no different than it had on a hundred other occasions looking for a hundred other young men.

  “I think that if a university student spends the night away from home it usually means he’s gotten lucky.” Celluci watched her closely but matched his tone to hers.

  “On the other hand, if he was Tom Chen, he’s probably aware we’re looking for him and he’s gone to ground. Maybe we should stake out his apartment.”

  “The little old lady on the first floor promised she’d call the moment he came home. My guess is she doesn’t miss much.”

  “My guess is she doesn’t miss anything.” Her glasses back in place, Vicki scowled down at the pile of papers on the coffee table then jumped to her feet. “Mike, I can’t just sit here. I’m going back to the university. I’m going keep poking around. Maybe I’ll turn something up.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know!” She charged toward the door and he had no choice but to get out of her way or be run down.

  “Vicki? Before you go, can I ask you something?”

  She stopped but didn’t turn.

  “Do you think you’re responsible for your mother’s death?”

  He read the answer in the lines of her back, the sudden tension clearly visible even through shirt, sweater, and windbreaker.

  “Vicki, it wasn’t your fault when your father left and that didn’t make your mother’s life your responsibility.”

  He almost didn’t recognize her voice when she answered. “When you love someone, they become your responsibility.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Vicki! People aren’t like puppies or kittens. Love isn’t supposed to be that kind of a burden.” He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around. Then wished he hadn’t when he saw the look on her face. It was almost worse when that expression smoothed into one that told him nothing at all.

  “If you are completely finished, Dr. Freud, you can get your god-damned hands off of me.” A twist of her upper body, a step back, and she was free. “Now, are you going to help or are you going to sit around here all day with your psychoanalysis up your ass?”

  She whirled, flung open the door, and stomped out into the hall before he had time to answer.

  Well, Mr. Delgado. Celluci dragged both hands up through his hair and tried very hard not to grind the crowns off his teeth. When you’re right, you’re really right. Still, she asked for my help. Again. I suppose that’s progress of sorts. Closing and locking the apartment behind him, he hurried to catch up. Mind you, I’d feel better about that if it wasn’t so obvious that she now feels responsible for Mr. Henry fucking Fitzroy.

  Dr. Burke acknowledged Mrs. Shaw’s greeting but continued into her office without pausing. She couldn’t decide what she hated more, bureaucracy itself or the sycophants that fawned around it. Why, she wondered, does it have to be so difficult to end a term? Just send the students home and hose down the blackboards.

  The last thing that she needed, after not one but three meetings in which she valiantly attempted to impose logic onto rules and regulations, was to see Marjory Nelson’s daughter wandering the halls of the Life Sciences building, peering through windows into labs and lecture halls and generally making a nuisance of herself. Watching the younger woman’s progress from the anonymity of a shadowed recess, she’d very nearly called Security and had her escorted out. The presence of the Toronto police officer—whom she’d been introduced to briefly at the truncated funeral—changed her mind. Arbitrary actions were just the sort of thing that tended to make the police suspicious.

  Besides, the chances of Vicki Nelson stumbling onto the lab, and her mother’s body, were slim. First, she’d have to find the access passage into the old building. Then, she’d have to negotiate through the rabbit warren of halls that crossed and recrossed the hundred-year-old structure—halls that had occasionally, in the past, defeated freshmen armed with maps—to find the one room in use.

  No, Vicki Nelson had no chance of finding her mother’s body, but that didn’t mean Dr. Burke liked seeing her hanging around.

  Why the hell doesn’t she just go home? She dropped into her chair and fanned the pile of messages on her desk. Without her prodding, the police would’ve back-burnered this before they’d even begun.

  If only the coffin hadn’t been opened; no one would have been the wiser.

  If only Donald hadn’t allowed Marjory Nelson to walk out of the lab and home.

  If only the sight of the mother reanimated hadn’t convinced the daughter that the answer lay at the university.

  Vicki Nelson was an intelligent woman; even allowing for maternal prejudices, the facts spoke for themselves. Eventually, in her search for her mother, she’d stumble onto something that would jeopardize Dr. Burke’s position. Dr. Burke had no intention of allowing that to happen.

  Slowly, the Director of Life Sciences smiled. The incredible circumstance that had dropped a vampire into her hands had also given her an easy answer to the problem. “If Ms. Nelson wants to find her mother so badly,” she murmured, tapping out the number for the lab, “maybe she should.”

  Catherine answered the phone on the thi
rd ring with a terse, “What is it, Doctor? I’m busy.”

  “How are the tests going?”

  “Well, you want rather a lot done and . . .”

  “Isn’t Donald helping?”

  “No, he . . .”

  “Has he even been in today?”

  “Well, no, he . . .”

  “I don’t want to hear his excuses, Catherine, I’ll deal with him myself later.” This wasn’t the first time Donald had taken an unscheduled holiday, but it was time she put her foot down about it. “Have you run into anything this afternoon that might prevent us developing an AIDS vaccine?”

  “Well, actually, I’ve observed that certain nonphagocytic leukocytes have a number of specialized functions on a cellular level that might possibly be developed into just that.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “We’d have to practically drain Mr. Fitzroy to acquire a serum, though, and his pressure’s already awfully low. I keep having to take new samples because even a minute amount of ultraviolet light destroys the cell structure.”

  “For pity’s sake, Catherine, don’t let any ultraviolet light fall on him. We can always replenish his blood . . .” The thought brought an interesting evisceral response that could possibly be explored later when they had more time. “. . . but if he loses cellular integrity, even your bacteria won’t be able to rebuild him.”

  “I am aware of that, Doctor. I’m being very careful.”

  “Good. Now, then, since Mr. Fitzroy so fortuitously fell into our hands, I’ve altered our plans somewhat. Here’s what we’re going to do: run one final analysis on numbers nine and ten—no point in wasting data that might be useful later—then terminate them, strip them of all hardware, do the usual biopsies, and process both of them out through the medical morgue. We’ll work up the standard paperwork on number nine, but someone’s sure to recognize Marjory Nelson. I’ll see to it that she can’t be traced back to us, everyone will claim ignorance, there’ll be a six days’ wonder, and then we’ll be safely able to continue with no threat of discovery.”