by S. E. Chase
Allison approached before he took off his coat. “Kait’s in the kitchen. Just returned. I asked how it went. Said she had to talk to you. She’s tired and upset so I didn’t pry.”
“Guess her day was as bad as mine.”
“Try working for county planning,” Allison said. “Everyone is unnerved. Too much talk about vigilante justice. Lots of discussion about stocking up on guns and ammunition.” She leaned against the doorframe and shook her head. “Bad days all around.”
He kissed her. “Thanks. I owe you for all of this . . . ”
“You do,” she said. “I won’t forget. But we’ll discuss it later.”
He kissed her again. She held his hand then released it. She motioned with her head to the kitchen.
Kait sat at the table, hand folded, eyes downcast. He grabbed the chair next to her. Loki followed and stretched out by his side. She didn’t move. He waited for her to speak. She remained silent and didn’t look at him.
“How’d it go?”
“He can’t be alive.”
“I’m sorry. It sucks. His condition’s troubling.” She’d been crying.
“No.” She looked at him. “He’s dead.”
“Kait—”
“I spoke with the doctor. Saw where they found him. He would not have survived. Hunter called nine-one-one, reported a corpse. They took a body to the morgue. It reanimated. Came back to life. From nothing. When he woke from the coma, he wasn’t sentient.”
“Shit, I—”
“Michael cannot be alive.”
He sank back, took a breath and ran a hand through his hair. He’d wanted to focus his thoughts before this conversation. They were beyond rational explanation. Loki looked up and rested his nose on his lap.
He slung an arm around Kait’s shoulder. “The whole thing is rotten. We don’t know what happened. You’re right, he shouldn’t be alive.”
“He’s not.”
“But he’s here.”
She looked bewildered.
“Don’t have an explanation. And . . . there’s more.” He told her about the drug, Marta’s revelations and the latest crime scene.
Her face went pale. “Christ, you should have told me earlier. It means—”
“Fuck. He might not be human . . . ” He shook his head. “And something's out there. Nothing makes sense. It’s bad.”
“What . . . did they do?”
“I don't know and I’m afraid it will get worse. Marta can’t withhold information if we're facing an epidemic.”
Kait hung her head. “Not a ghost. Not imagination. He’s not alive and isn’t dead.”
Einar hesitated. He had no answers. All of the stories he read and told and spun over the years about demons and monsters, all the fables of soul-sucking beings . . .
“What is he?”
“Don’t know. And we can’t hide the truth forever.”
CHAPTER 17
2011 Early December
They bristled with anticipation, one spouting directions while the other gripped the wheel. He maneuvered through winter wilderness, windshield wipers beating against flying snow. Struggled to keep the Bronco on the secondary road. It skidded, fishtailing across lanes. He slowed to a crawl much to his passenger’s chagrin.
The driver turned left, following an abandoned logging path—they’d be less noticeable away from the maintained road. The sun was only beginning to rise. They passed the river divide, the bend in the west branch and Algonquin Alpine Resort. The tall man had been out earlier that week, gathering porphyry from the river before snow fell, charting locations to find its hiding place. He sighed. The short one turned. “Dr. Thompson, are we getting close?”
“Yes, Donnie,” Thompson said. “Almost there.”
“Good.” Donnie sighed. “Can I see Kaitlyn again?”
“Soon.”
*
Thompson struggled for years to further his research. Climbed the museum management ladder and took positions throughout superstitious corners of Eastern Europe—Bulgaria, Albania, and Macedonia. His work went with him, including mistakes and missteps. The need to stay ahead of law enforcement after each murder, some of which he’d disguised as suicides or accidents, hindered career advancement. His parents went to their graves thinking their son had turned into a disappointment. He was okay with that.
His goal was larger.
Each new revenant fed for forty days and then surrendered its bloody bounty—but despite his steady supply of raw material, Thompson was stalled. He spent hours in his private lab but couldn’t uncover the key. Blood alone wasn’t the answer. What else did he need to create a substance granting eternity? He was brilliant and determined but failed to get the chemistry to work.
Then it dawned on him. He needed another step—like a zoonotic disease, he needed a vector through which to filter the accumulated revenant blood. Raw material demanded processing. The thought made him smile. Finally, the missing puzzle piece. He needed a secondary host to complete the blood to serum change. Adult revenants killed whomever they bit. The immature revenant’s bite—unless it was hunting children, its intended prey—was less powerful. In adult humans, the bite mutated the victim, transformed them, sparking DNA changes to promote continual cell regeneration, causing biotransformation in blood that would bring the substance to be refined into a drug into existence.
Thompson cheered his breakthrough but still had a problem. Immature revenants craved children’s blood. Cajoling them to bite adults proved difficult. And he still needed to chemically finish the process. After debacles in Northern Europe and the Nordic world he’d had to lay low, but time hadn’t been wasted.
Through late night chat rooms and doomsday science blogs, he’d met Donnie, who despite social inadequacies possessed superior chemistry skills and a fabulous private laboratory. Luck had provided an open position at the Willard Museum, where the search committee, desperate for a quick hire and paying below scale, had not bothered with the inconvenience of background checks.
Now his latest creature had bitten the detective. After years of frustration he’d gotten lucky. Ironic—the man was connected to his Anthropology Curator, thus providing multiple means of access. He would acquire the cop through her. Everything was coming together.
*
The forty-day cycle had ended.
“Time for harvest,” Thompson said.
Donnie smiled. “Can’t wait to get started. Maybe I can persuade Kait to help.”
Thompson looked at Donnie as a child, a bright but awkward child needing guidance and a firm hand. The puppy-in-love act would have to be monitored. He patted his shoulder.
“I think we can do it,” Donnie said.
Thompson sighed, frustrated the trail markers hadn’t been more frequent. “I broke that statue into myriad pieces. It could have been more generous marking its path. Oh well—another management issue.” He took a breath. “Neither people nor monsters do as they’re told.”
Donnie glanced at him, not understanding.
Tracking it wasn’t supposed to be difficult. That’d been the point of the shattered Shezmu figurine. The God of Processing. How appropriate. Thompson found a handful of red shards. But the task had taken more time that he’d wished, especially beyond the lodge where the cop had interrupted the kill. Damn cop. But he’d gotten his. The creature had bitten him twice.
The Bronco lurched to a bend in the river. Barely visible on the high wooded ridge was a series of deep narrow caves. Thompson smiled again. Perfect for hiding. They pulled down the logging path and parked near the river, hidden by fallen pine trees and large boulders. Thompson felt a tinge of regret—they were within reach of his goal. If only Lijdia were here to share it. He missed her.
Donnie looked at him.
Thompson nodded.
They parked. Donnie grabbed a flashlight, chain and leather straps and hiked them over his shoulder. Thompson barked orders and held a small black case in his hand. They headed to
the caves, neither agile in the slippery going. They entered one, then the next. In the third, they found it, groggy in the winter chill.
It heard a noise and roused. Yellow eyes scanned the dark. It saw them and hissed, realizing who they were. It glared, angry at being disturbed and worried they’d decided not to let it live. It shook its head, berating itself—it had complicated matters by biting the cop. But what was it supposed to do? Roll over and scramble away with its tail between its legs? It’d been hungry and he’d been in the way.
At Thompson’s urging, Donnie edged closer. Cold lethargy had drained its energy. He secured it with the leather straps and chain, avoiding claws and teeth. Thompson plunged a syringe of ketamine into its thigh. It lashed at them before the drug took effect. Thompson then assembled a large antique hypodermic needle and injected it with a deep reddish serum. Its eyes sprang wide, claws constricted and then it shuddered. It curled into a pile on the cave floor.
The men hauled it to the Bronco.
Thompson grunted. “You should have loaded lifting equipment.”
Donnie glared. “I’m doing most of the work, sir.” He shook his head. “It’s downhill. We’re almost there.”
They returned to where they’d parked, hoisted the creature and dumped it in a large steel cage. Donnie slammed the gate and secured three combination locks. Wouldn’t escape that enclosure. Both hopped in and Donnie put the vehicle in reverse until he could angle it, doing a slippery U-turn and heading back the way they’d come.
Thompson watched. Getting stuck in the snow was not acceptable.
“Don't worry, sir.” Donnie gripped the wheel. “Snow's not deep . . . ”
“Keep moving.”
Now to lure the cop. Thompson smiled at the young detective’s naive sense of heroism. Idiot. In throwing himself into the creature’s path to save a mere child, he’d given them what they needed. His poisoned mutating bloodstream would complete their concoction.
*
Kait rubbed her face and flipped her ID around her neck, wishing the workday over. It was only 11:00 in the morning. She headed to unlock the doors into collections storage. She’d just run her badge through the electronic swipe pad when she heard her name called from the end of the hall.
“Miss Jenret.”
Shit. What did he want? He rarely came below. He was as much a phony as most of the administrative staff. They didn’t research exhibits, create programs or care for the collection, but they believed their offices at the top of the stairs connoted exalted status in the museum pecking order. It was bullshit, but she’d gotten used to it and interacted with them as little as possible. She often told them to leave her alone to do her work, and they didn’t argue—she made them look good. She turned around.
Shit, shoot me.
Thompson had a smile on his face.
Her day was going to suck.
He caught up and touched her arm. “Dear Kaitlyn. Thought I’d come to your office today. Down to where the workers toil.” He patted her shoulder with unnerving familiarity.
You creep me out.
“Can I help you? Do you want something? We don’t often see you in the basement.”
European Art Curator Bryan Monda poked his head out of his office, three doors from Kait’s. Seeing they were in the hall, he stepped out and closed his door behind him. A dour expression clouded his pasty face. He lumbered to meet them, gait like that of a man fifty years his senior.
Thompson held out a manicured hand. “Bryan, good afternoon.”
Bryan grunted. He stared at Kait.
“Kaitlyn, Bryan let’s sit.” Thompson grasped their elbows and led them to her office. He gestured at her wide glass-topped table. “Kait, I’ve asked Bryan to join us. Want to speak with my two best curators about an exhibition. A blockbuster.” He sat and adjusted his sleeves, green ruby glinting at his cuff.
Thompson motioned for Bryan to sit. He ambled over. She couldn’t tell if he was annoyed, ill or his normal uncommunicative self.
“Get your creative juices flowing!” Thompson banged on the table. “Both of you will focus on our major project for 2013. An exhibit on alchemy and arcana. Think about it. Mysteries of early prescientific exploration, philosophy and dark magic. Fascinating. I already have a title. Alchemy ALIVE!”
She looked at him.
Oh shit, he’s at it again. Clown car exhibit planning 101. Why does he want to do everything but his job? Isn’t he supposed to make connections in the community?
Thompson, despite fundraising pressures and constant need to be the museum’s public face, retreated to his office for days at a time. He would emerge with grand visions of esoteric exhibits, subjects of niche interest but not accessible to the broader public, nor reflective of the museum’s mission. She ticked off a list in her head—corset iconography, wine bottles of Rome, high heels through the ages, Ancient Chinese Materia Medica—and he’d only been here a few months. But alchemy? She peered at Bryan. His demeanor signaled the enthusiasm of a wet dishrag.
“Dr. Thompson,” she said, “I appreciate your passion, but the committee has to approve it. It’s offbeat. Doesn’t fit our mission.”
“Piffle. We’ll expand the mission!”
“But sir. We have the process to avoid issues like those with the Mysteries of the Museum exhibit. Board members told you about that mess.” Mysteries had brought criticism after a curator, since fired, placed a human skeleton in a bathtub in the formal gallery, toilet ring around its neck, with no interpretation. He’d been mimicking a children’s book but board members did not approve and closed the exhibit.
Thompson smiled. “Shoddy presentation. It would not happen under my watch. We do things with excellence or not at all.” Blood-shot eyes darted from Kait to Bryan. “I’m in charge of the committee. I make an exception.” He stared with intensity. “We are doing this project. Alchemy ALIVE!”
Crap.
Bryan narrowed rheumy eyes. “Why?”
“It’s fascinating.” Thompson pounded a hand on the table. “Hasn’t been done. Multidisciplinary. Uses all our collections!”
She sighed. “Subject doesn’t work.”
Thompson beamed. “Donnie Litsos’s donation is perfect for this project.”
Non-photogenic glass bottles? Was he was on something? He had those blood-shot eyes again and he vibrated with weird energy.
“Kaitlyn will lead the team.”
Bryan snickered.
She shot him a baleful glance.
Thompson patted her hand. “Donnie's coming this afternoon. We’ll tour the collection, discuss exhibit narrative, consider objects and items to borrow. Bryan, review the art collection for works connected to alchemy. Coordinate with Marty Wagman to review documents.”
Bryan shrugged.
Great. Why doesn't Thompson give this project to him?
“Dr. Thompson,” she said, “Alchemy isn’t connected to anthropology or archaeology. It’s not my specialty. We need a guest curator.”
“No,” he said. “You will do it.” He handed her a battered paperback. “Here’s a starting point. Read. We’ll discuss in detail.” She turned it over. The Alchemists’ Handbook by Frater Albertus. She looked at him, lips pursed. “I’ve got quite a work load and several pressing deadlines.”
Michael will mock me when I’m struggling through this book at midnight.
“Make time,” Thompson said. “You can do it, my dear.”
“We done?” Bryan mumbled and stood.
Thompson nodded. Kait watched in frustration. She didn’t want to work with him or Thompson. Didn’t want Donnie near her.
*
Michael’s cell rang.
“Tell me something sane.”
“Hey K.” Michael and Einar were heading through traffic en route to meeting Marta. She had more test results from the last murder—additional cultures of the dog’s saliva—and wanted to review them in person. Michael had begged for temporary release from paperw
ork prison. Giving in, Einar allowed him to come along despite limited duty. It was only a car ride and Einar had been clear. Do nothing other than listen to Marta. No duck-tape.
Michael wasn’t stupid. It was to stop him from obsessive research. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
“Wanted to hear a rational voice,” she said. “My day’s gone to hell.” She told him about Thompson and Donnie. “Won’t be able to herd them out by five. I’ll be trapped here, home late.”
He laughed. “I sympathize. Captivity at work is a bitch.”
Einar rolled his eyes.
“Relax and get through it. I’ll provide relief when you get home.” A flash of concern entered his mind—he hadn’t mentioned he was investigating Thompson. “K, watch out for your crazy boss.”
She laughed. “That ass.” She vented. He listened, feigning light-heartedness. But he was worried. Thompson’s background pointed in troubling directions. Michael admonished himself to be patient—he didn’t want to alarm her. Maybe he was paranoid. “I’ll check in later. You can update me.”
Einar shouted from the driver’s seat, “he’ll have beer chilled, you’ll need it.”
Michael laughed. She hung up.
*
Kait leaned back, picked up the paperback and started reading. Her mind drifted and she struggled through the first chapter. Reread one paragraph five times. Then heard a knock on the wall next to her door. She looked up.
Thompson and Donnie stood in the hall, chemist behind the director, smile on his face.
“Kaitlyn. You’ve started reading. Excellent.” Thompson extended a hand. “Knew you’d be an apt pupil. You’ll find it fascinating.”
“Hi, Kaitlyn.” Donnie brimmed with nervous energy. “So happy to see you. How are you? Are you well? My parents send regards.”
She sighed. Her weirdo radar was pulling them into her orbit. She set the book down and came from behind her desk without looking at them. “Let’s get started. I have to be out of here by 6:00 PM.”
Liar. But if I don't define boundaries they’ll stay for hours.
She slid her ID through the swipe pad, allowing access through the outer door and used her key to open the inner eight-inch thick metal fire door. The lock clicked when she turned it.
Kait switched on florescent lights and ushered them into collections storage. Shelving bays towered in the large windowless space.
