Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

Where the hell was he? I felt like an idiot, sweeping around in the dark, hoping to knock up against him. “But I didn’t know it would come to this—you have to believe me. I was only trying to help, and now I know why they came after us. I know how they kept finding us.”

  “It was my fault. I could’ve packed up and returned home at any time, but I did not. The fault lies with me.”

  Yes and no, but this wasn’t the time to emphasize the “yes.” “Ian, the Canadian doctor you’ve been feeding information to—his name’s David, isn’t it? David Keene?”

  Time ground to a halt. The barometric pressure changed, and the fog pulsed with something like rage, something like horror.

  “David, yes.” His words were choked now.

  “Ian, he was one of the original contacts for Project Bloodshot. He was either an investor or a researcher—we didn’t have time to read everything on the spot.”

  “That … it can’t be!”

  “Did you ever meet him in person?” I asked.

  “No. We corresponded by phone and email.”

  “You’ve been talking to him, since I’ve been on your case?”

  A pause. A swallow. Then a protest. “Only a bit. Only to keep him abreast of progress, since he would be leaving the country soon.”

  “You told him I was in Atlanta. Did you tell him I was looking for someone who’d stolen the files you wanted?”

  More silence. Finally he said, “Not … not in so many words. But yes. I think. I certainly didn’t tell him our address, though—or give him any names!”

  “He didn’t need addresses, and he already had enough information on hand to put the names together.” If he knew I’d gone to Atlanta, and he knew one of the program’s subjects came from Atlanta, the math was fairly easy. All Keene had to do was have somebody watch the deJesus household and wait for me to appear. “Ian.” I wanted to change the subject. He couldn’t have known. I couldn’t hold it against him. “I think he was trying to lure you back for more. The program started again as a civilian enterprise; it’s run out of Bruner’s office, in a building owned by a guy named Sykes. I don’t know the whole picture yet, Ian. But I’ve learned a lot, and I’ll tell you everything. All of it. You can help me put the pieces together. And … and … Bruner is still out there. We’ll hunt him down and ask him the rest. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I do know this—it’s not your fault Cal’s dead. It’s Bruner, and that lying bastard Keene. Please.” I was reduced to begging. “Please, stop this. Let’s get out of here. I’ll help you … or …” It might’ve only been my imagination, but I felt like the fog was thinning. I saw two more bodies, for a total tally of six, I thought. “Or I’ll just keep you company. And you and me and Adrian, we’ll put an end to this. We’ll dig it up the rest of the way, and tear it out by the root. Whatever it takes.”

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “I’m offering—on the house! You’ve lost your ghoul, Ian. Listen, I’m not much of a guide-vampire, but I’ll do my best. I promise you, among the three of us, we’ll put a total, complete, and apocalyptic end to this.” And then I said something I’m pretty sure I’d never said to anyone else before, ever.

  I said, “I won’t leave you.”

  Whatever was holding the sky in that amazing pattern of swirls and stars … it shattered … and the motion came to an abrupt sloshing halt. As if a carousel had stopped spinning, everything drawled back into focus, and into stillness.

  The darkness quivered, and in a blink it was gone.

  Ian Stott was right in front of me, seated on an overturned box or crate of some sort. Blood had splashed and dripped down his chin, over his hands. Red meat hung in globs under his fingernails. His beautiful, impeccable clothes were dirty and torn. He was missing a shoe. He leaned forward so that he rested his elbows atop his thighs, and folded his hands loosely between them.

  Without looking up he said, “Don’t promise me anything.”

  “We’re in this together now, me and you. And I won’t leave you to the mercy of … of …” I eyed the broken, torn bodies that lay around him in a circle as if he’d been a bomb that exploded. “Yourself.”

  “It’s my fault,” he said, one more time.

  One more time I said, “It isn’t.”

  He put his head in his hands, but I wouldn’t have it. I lifted his chin and I looked right into those empty gray eyes of his—their glasses long gone—and I kissed him because I didn’t quite know what else to do.

  It took him a minute to kiss back, but he did, and the taste of other people’s blood mingled in our mouths. He put one hand on the back of my neck and drew me closer; I leaned into it, into him. His hand slipped down to the small of my back, then his other hand joined it—clasping me there, holding me in place in case I hadn’t meant it.

  We stayed that way until the crackling static of radios buzzed up to our ears, and we knew the moment was passing, as all moments must.

  I reached down for his arm and lifted him up, like I’d carry his ass all the way down to the ground if he made me. “Ian, pull yourself together. I think I see your other shoe.”

  “I don’t know where it went.”

  “I’ve got it. Come on. Sweetheart, come on. Adrian’s waiting for us.”

  16

  I waited perhaps two hours for David Keene to come home. During that time I made myself comfortable; he didn’t have any security system to speak of—just a cheesy keypad unit that five seconds with a scrambler took down. Inside everything was unguarded and even unhidden. It was the home of a man who believed he had nothing to fear.

  Of course, he was wrong.

  I’d found him. And soon, he would fear me.

  I’d see to it.

  But first I saw to his records—to his laptop, his desktop machine, and the drawerful of tiny thumb drives and CDs labeled with a Sharpie. I took them all, everything I could find.

  Because the universe likes to tell stories in circles, I was willing to bet I’d accidentally scored myself some porn in this catch-all sweep of the premises. That’s how this began, after all—with me complaining about having too much other-people’s-pornography in my life. Yet here I was, emptying drawers and confiscating everything in sight.

  Based on what I’d gathered about the man who lived in the sprawling mid-century ranch, I went out on a limb and guessed I was going to find some Japanaporn. Probably something with schoolgirls and tentacles.

  When I was finished gathering everything and my trap was sufficiently laid, I set my go-bag down on the couch and dropped myself beside it. I thought about turning on the television, but that seemed like an unnecessary risk, so I didn’t. I just sat there in the dark and I didn’t move a muscle until I heard a car pull up into the driveway, and then footsteps on the paved walk outside, then a fumbling of keys and a turning of the tumblers in the lock.

  I faced the door, leaning against the couch’s arm, with my go-bag serving as lumbar support. I’d like to imagine that my eyes were glittering cruelly, or that I glowed and leered like some otherworldly beast. But I knew that when the man flipped on the living room light, all he saw was a petite brunette in black, with a face that meant business.

  It was still enough to startle him.

  I could’ve smiled at the wide-eyed confusion, or laughed outright at the way he froze—a prey animal caught in the gaze of something hungry.

  I didn’t. I only said, “Hello, Dr. Keene. Please, come inside. And shut the door.”

  If the doc had possessed a lick of sense, he would’ve run back outside and made for his car. Not that it would’ve saved him, mind you—I’m just saying that’s what a sane man would’ve done. Or maybe that kind of action is only for men who aren’t accustomed to taking orders.

  Dr. Keene did as he was told.

  He stood there with his back to the door, keys in hand, un-moving. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Raylene. And I’m just your kind of girl,” I purred, striving for sinister and going fo
r the gold.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Ah, that was a misstep on his part. He should’ve saved that grand denial until I’d asked him some questions. This guy was a total failure at ass-covering, in every way possible. An innocent man would’ve demanded to know what I was doing in his living room. Guilty men open with excuses.

  “Sure you do. You’ve spent a decade and change rounding up people like me, throwing us in basements and leaving us there, or cutting us up for curiosity’s sake, or for the sake of a government contract or two. This is a nice house,” I said. “Can’t imagine how you’ve paid for it.”

  All the blood drained from his face. He’d been white before, when he’d first spotted me on the couch. But now he looked like death itself, chalky and slack-jawed, with a shock of reddish brown hair sticking up in surprise. Under his lab coat he was wearing the dullest kind of business-casual, brown shoes and belt, blue polo shirt.

  To his credit, he nodded—a tense, terrified bobbing of his chin. “I know what you are.”

  “Good. But it may or may not interest you to hear that I’m not visiting on my own behalf.” I chose this moment to stand, and to glide across the low-shag beige the poor bastard had picked for flooring. “You don’t know me, but you’ve nearly had me killed—or worse—several times over in the last few weeks. I’ve been trying to help one of your victims.”

  He sputtered, “Help? You … your kind. They don’t help anybody.”

  “Really? You know that for a fact, do you? Then answer me this: What am I doing, hanging out in your living room, having ransacked your home, if I don’t want to help Ian Stott by giving him a little closure—or a little proxy vengeance?”

  “Ian?”

  “Don’t act like you don’t know the name.”

  It wouldn’t have done him any good. His face was a mask of guilt, but also confusion. “You’re the one he hired?”

  “Not sure what you were expecting,” I said, even though I knew good and well he’d assumed I was a man. My greatest secret—an accidental secret, born of masculine assumptions and simply never corrected.

  “I expected someone …” He hesitated. “Taller.”

  I said, “I get that a lot.”

  “But why …? Why are you here?” he asked, so plaintively I could’ve almost felt sorry for him if I hadn’t known what he was, and what he did in his spare time. It was plain from the question that he’d already figured what I was doing. He was only stalling, or wondering if he could change my mind. In other words, he was wasting everyone’s time.

  This didn’t stop me from doing a little rambling.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve put Ian through? Never mind the personal hassle you’ve caused me. I can take it. I’ve been on the receiving end of worse, sent by better than the likes of you. But Ian? All he wanted was to get his sight back. And all you had to do was help him, and he would’ve been eternally in your debt—a debt you can bet he would’ve honored. Since you’ve chosen to wad up all that trust and throw it in his face, I’m going to go ahead and assume that you have no idea exactly how valuable a vampire’s debt can be.” It could’ve meant anything—up to and including eternal life—but I let him do that math on his own.

  “You figured he was weak, and that you had nothing to fear from him. You strung him along with promises of help; you gave him hope, and then you betrayed him. So make no mistake—I’m not here on my own behalf. I’m here for him. I’m here because you aren’t allowed to hurt him anymore, and you’re not allowed to inconvenience me anymore, either.”

  “You’re here to kill me?”

  “Bingo, Sunshine.”

  “But, but …” And here came the bargaining. “But if you think you can avenge your client just by killing me, you’re wrong. I was only a pawn in this whole thing! I was just doing my job.”

  “The last excuse of cowards,” I said. I drew up much, much closer. So close I could feel his breath on my face, and the warmth of his feverish terror radiating from his body.

  “But it wasn’t me!”

  “Are you about to blame Bruner? Because buddy, that ship has sailed.”

  “No—” He was frantic now, flailing. Throwing out anything he thought would slow me down, as if anything could. “Not Bruner. Not just Bruner, anyway—it’s that other guy. He’s the one who’s been dumping money into it. He paid for the offices, for the CIA thugs, for everything. He’s the one who wanted the old experiment documentation, bad enough to kill for it. Then when he found out a vampire was going after it, I … I don’t know. I guess he wanted the vampire, too.”

  “Are we talking about Sykes?” It’d been the only loose name I’d ever turned up, connected with the offices. I was glad I’d filed it away because look—here it was again.

  “He made his money in Department of Defense contracts,” Keene babbled. “Doing high-definition satellite surveillance programming and camera systems. Real long-range stuff.”

  I actually stopped. I held him out at arm’s length and narrowed my eyes. “Keep talking. I’m listening.”

  “That’s … that’s all I know. He’s the one who turned the program back on; he’s the one who’s paying for it. The guy’s loaded. Uncle Sam’s made him a billionaire.”

  Okay. Something had slipped between the cracks here. Jeffery Sykes. I’d figured the name was a front, or just a figurehead on a corporation. Apparently I needed to look closer. He sounded like an actual man. He sounded like an actual problem … maybe even the root of an actual problem.

  I asked, “What does he want with people like me? What does he want with Ian?”

  His desperation hit a fever pitch. “I don’t know! Why don’t you go and ask him, and leave me alone?”

  “Oh, I’m going to ask him all right.” Viciously, once I caught up to him. “But leave you alone?” I gave a little laugh, and let the hunger I was feeling in my gut go all the way to my eyes. “That was never going to happen.”

  David Keene was cooling on the couch, and I was feeling good.

  In the grand scheme of things, I didn’t know how much his death would affect a program like Bloodshot, or Bandersnatch, or whatever they were calling it these days. Maybe a little. Maybe not at all. But I felt good for having killed him all the same.

  I fully planned to burn the place down behind me on general principle. I was getting the hang of arson. It really sends a message, you know? Not only will I kill your dudes and steal your shit, but I will burn your place down behind me. Yes, I will.

  But before that, I had something I wanted to do.

  Okay, I didn’t want to do it. But I feel like I needed to do it.

  So I sat there inside the dead doctor’s house and I reached for his phone. It was a cordless jobbie with more buttons than any phone ever needs, but it’d work all right. All I needed was something that no one could trace back to me—not under any circumstances. Making a call from a line in a house that was about to burn down … yeah. That’d just about cover it.

  I called information and asked for a number in DeKalb County, Georgia. Family name Barrington. I had some questions about Isabelle deJesus, and maybe no one at the Atlanta House would talk, but even denials could tell me plenty if I asked the right way.

  It was a shot in the dark, that was for damn sure. But I was pretty sure Adrian would agree that it was a shot worth taking.

  17

  Ed Bruner was online.

  So was I. I’d given him a Yahoo Chat handle and told him to ping me at a certain time, on a certain date. It had been a week since his office had gone up in flames, so he and I were doing this whole song-and-dance thing.

  It was a game, probably to both of us.

  We had this back-and-forth going on.

  I knew about him. He knew about me. But we both kept pretending … just in case we were wrong.

  In a way, we had plenty in common. We were both too paranoid to give up and play it straight. Too set in our ways to take the chance. Both of us
convinced we were coming from a place of power, and both of us terrified we were wrong.

  He typed: “We’ve had some setbacks over here, in the last week or two.”

  I replied: “That sucks. I’m sorry to hear it. I really want to come on board with you guys. This whole thing sounds like a blast.”

  EBrun1956: You could put it that way.

  AbbieGFTW: So when are we going to make this happen, Ed?

  AbbieGFTW: I’m chomping at the bit over here.

  AbbieGFTW: Want to learn cool new stuff. Find more interesting abandoned buildings and raid them in case of cool shit.

  AbbieGFTW: Ed? You there?

  EBrun1956: I’m here.

  Something was bothering him. Good. The silence of his blinking cursor was louder than any all-caps debate between two teenagers. I decided to prompt him.

  AbbieGFTW: Hey, did you ever find out what happened to Trevor?

  EBrun1956: Yeah. It turns out, he died.

  AbbieGFTW: Seriously? How?

  AbbieGFTW: What happened?

  EBrun1956: Somebody killed him. Buried him in a basement.

  AbbieGFTW: Wow. Crazy!

  AbbieGFTW: No wonder we hadn’t heard from him.

  EBrun1956: Yeah, no wonder.

  AbbieGFTW: Anyone expecting to hear from you?

  AbbieGFTW: Anytime soon?

  · · ·

  AbbieGFTW: Ed?

  AbbieGFTW: Ed? You there?

  EBrun1956: What kind of question is that?

  EBrun1956: Is anyone expecting to hear from me? Lots of people are. More people than you know. Why the fuck would you ask me that?

  I quit typing. I crept up behind him and shut the silenced smartphone from which I’d been IMing him. The tiny click of its closing made his whole body go tense, and rightly so.

  But to answer his question, I said, “Just curious.”

  And to give the old fart credit where credit was due, he swiveled around with some pretty impressive reflexes. He reached for the .38 he kept strapped under the desk, but he didn’t find it. Adrian and I had liberated it hours ago.