Night and Day (40 page)

“You’re saying they might attack us?”

Faraj shrugged. “Perhaps. The patients are kept in their beds during daylight hours,
restrained, receiving their ration of human blood through intravenous tubes. If you move
quickly, from the door to the orderly station, you should be fine.”

“Sounds comforting.” I paused. “Anything else?”

“Just this,” Faraj said. “As I’m sure the military gentlemen outside told you, if you get
into trouble, you shouldn’t expect help, from them or from us. Our purpose here is to provide
medical services, when needed, to the troops. The patients at this facility are not our
responsibility and we never go into the black rooms. Never.”

“I understand,” I said.

“See you when you return,” Faraj said with a toothy, humorless smile. “Or not.”

I walked to the blackout door that led to the east wing of the building and stopped.
Jimmy was right behind me.

“Ready?”

He laughed quietly. “Not really.”

I smiled, pulled the handle of the blackout door, and stepped into darkness.

Chapter Thirty-five

Real vampires, unlike many of their fictional colleagues, don’t necessarily sleep during
the daytime. Most do, of course, considering that even diffused daylight is enough to kill
them pretty quick. But if they’re protected from any trace of natural sunlight, they can sleep
when they like, and there are some who live and work a regular nine-to-five life.

Blackout doors are light-proof revolving doors, developed to allow free movement into
darkened photo labs. You step inside, close the door behind you, and push the wall until you
line up your little cubbyhole with the door on the other side. They’re a bit claustrophobic, but
they work.

Jimmy pulled the door open and we stood, looking into the dimly-lit hospital ward.

What light there was in the long room came from wall-mounted light fixtures. They
didn’t provide much more illumination than your average nightlight, but it was enough to
make out the beds that stuck out from the walls on either side of the room. Most had
intravenous feeding stands next to them, the tubes running down into the greater darkness that
was the patients.

At the end of the room was a door, with a large, mirrored surface on either side. Mirrored
glass, or clear plastic, if Dr, Faraj had been right. I took a deep breath, fixed my eyes on the
door and started walking, Jimmy beside me.

We were maybe twenty feet into the room when it started. Low guttural moans and
grunts, coming from either side of us. First just a few. Then more. Out of the corner of my
eye, I could see some of the patients beginning to struggle against the straps that kept them in
their beds.

“Pick it up,” Jimmy muttered. We walked faster.

The sounds got louder. Mixed in with the groans and grunts were the thumps of beds
banging against the wooden floor. Some of the patients were thrashing in their beds, fighting
the restraints so violently that the beds rocked from side to side.

Ahead, to the right, I heard a loud pop, and one of the patients sat up. He swung his legs
over the side of the bed.

“Run!” I shouted.

We reached the orderly station door and I grabbed the knob. It didn’t move. Locked.

As I pounded my fist against the door, Jimmy pulled out his pistol and turned to
face the room. “Seven in the clip,” he said through his teeth.

The door opened and a young guy with short blond hair stuck his head out. He looked at
us, then at the rest of the darkened room and said, “Oh, fuck me.”

I jerked the door out of his hands and went into the orderly room, Jimmy at my heels.
The young guy slammed the door behind us, locked it, and yelled, “Chilly, get Pastori and
Stoffel down here on the double. We got a fucking riot in Ward Two.”

“On it, Mal,” an older guy sitting at a corner desk said, picking up a black phone.

Something thumped behind me. I turned to see one of the patients, face pressed to the
window, his lips curled back over his teeth, vacant eyes staring in my direction. The left side
of his skull was gone, covered by a clear plastic bubble. Through the bubble I could make out
a portion of his brain. There seemed to be quite a bit missing.

“Hurry it up,” the young guy said, staring at the patient. “We got at least one mushbrain
loose and he ain’t gonna be the only one.”

“They’re on their way,” Chilly said. Beside him, an elevator door opened and two guys
piled out.

The young guy turned to them. “It’s a fucking mess out there. Mushbrains loose on the
floor, all of them severely agitated thanks to these two bloodsacs who took a stroll through the
ward.” He looked at us.

Chilly turned to the two new arrivals. “Okay, separate, isolate, and restrain,” he said.
“Watch their teeth.”

The two orderlies nodded and moved to the door. Jimmy and I got out of the way.

“Here we go,” Chilly said. “One, two, three, now!”

He flung open the door and the three of them pushed forward, shoulder to shoulder. I
could see at least two patients, straining against them, reaching in our direction. Then the
young guy slammed the door.

He turned to face us. “You want to tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing?”

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

“Of course I’m a fucking doctor,” he said.

“Then sit the fuck down and shut up, doc,” I said.

He stared at me.

“Welles, Area Governor’s Office,” I said.

He hesitated for a split second, then went around the big desk in the middle of the room
and sat. I glanced at the nameplate on top of the desk. Stephen Malcolm.

“You’re Malcolm?”

He nodded. “I heard somebody from the Area Governor’s Office was coming, but I
wasn’t expecting you until tonight.”

“Nice setup you have here,” I said. “Bet you go through a lot of blood keeping your
patients happy.”

I heard a loud thump behind me. I turned to see one of the orderlies against the window,
grappling with a patient with half a face. Another orderly grabbed the patient from behind,
and the three of them stumbled away.

When I turned back to Malcolm, he was watching me, his face without expression.
“The patients are on a constant blood drip,” he said. “It keeps them calm and aids in the
healing process.”

“Where’s all that blood come from?” I asked.

“Weekly shipments from Area Government,” he said. “We’re under their authority, and
they’re responsible for supplying us with what we need.”

“You ever get extra shipments?”

He shrugged. “Third floor gets additional shipments from other sources.”

“What’s on the third floor?”

“Research. Brain labs, experimental treatment rooms.”

I nodded. “There’s a guy who works here, maybe a doctor. Big guy, fat, full white beard.
He’s been described as looking like Santa Claus.”

“Dr. Grinaldi,” he said. “Head of research.”

“When does Dr. Grinaldi come on duty?”

“He’s here now, on the third floor,” he said. “He normally works noon to ten.”

“Excellent. Let’s go up and see him.”

Malcolm shook his head. “Third floor is off limits unless Dr. Grinaldi or one of the
other research doctors calls you up.”

“It’s not off limits to me, doc. Let’s go.”

“What about the orderlies,” he said. “What if they get in trouble and need to get back in
here?”

“I’m sure they’ll think of something,” I said. I jerked my chin at the elevator door.
“After you.”

The third floor was silent. It was also cold. Very cold. Couldn’t have been more than
fifty degrees in the hallway. The cold air hit me like a slap in the face as the elevator door
opened.

“Dr. Grinaldi’s lab is the third door on the right,” Malcolm said, his voice soft.

We walked down the hall, me in the lead, then the doctor, then Jimmy. When we reached
the door, I hesitated, then opened it slowly.

The lab was big, broken up by counters that jutted from the walls, a full operating theater
on one side of the room, and medical equipment everywhere. I didn’t recognize any of the
equipment.

Dr. Grinaldi sat on a stool at one of the counters at the front of the room, head down, writing on a clipboard.
Jedron Marsch had been right. He did look like Santa Claus, right down to the red suit. Only
in this case, the color wasn’t from dye, and the suit was a lab-coat stained red with blood.

I cleared my throat and he spun around on the stool and came to his feet. “What is this?”
he demanded. “Doctor Malcolm, you know this floor is off limits.”

I pulled out my ID holder and opened it, holding it up. “Charlie Welles, Area Governor’s
Office,” I said, stepping forward. “We’re investigating a series of homicides, doctor.”

Grinaldi stared at me for a moment, then sat back on the stool and lowered his head.
“Yes, I knew this was going to happen. I’ve been expecting you.”

Jimmy was giving the place the once-over. I heard him gasp and say, “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

He was standing at the end of one of the counters, looking at something I couldn’t see. I
walked to him and looked down.

It was Joshua. Or more accurately, Joshua’s head, attached to some kind of machine. I
could see blood pumping through the tubes that went into his neck. His eyes were open.

“Joshua,” I whispered.

He blinked.

“I’ve been able to reestablish basic automatic functions,” Grinaldi said from behind me.
“He can blink, and his muscles occasionally twitch. But there are no higher brain functions in
the subject. I’m afraid the brain damage was too extensive and severe by the time I received
the specimen.”

I turned, pulling my pistol out of my belt. “On your knees,” I said, raising the pistol and
centering it on his chest.

Malcolm stepped forward and Jimmy took out his pistol. “Right there, doc,” he said.
“On the floor, face down, intertwine your fingers behind your head.”

“I told you to get on your fucking knees,” I said, walking toward Grinaldi, pistol
extended.

Grinaldi slid off the stool and slowly lowered himself to the floor.

“Hands under your knees,” I said. “Kneel on them. Now.”

Grinaldi did as instructed, staring up at me.

“I’m going to ask you a series of questions,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and only
half-succeeding. “You’re going to answer them. If I don’t believe you, I’m going to kill you.
Am I clear?”

Grinaldi was shaking his head. “Dammit, I told Carpenter this would happen. As soon as
I heard that Thomas was the Deputy Area Governor’s bloodson, I knew they’d never let it
rest.”

“Shut up,” I said. “I ask. You answer. Got it?”

He nodded.

“Joshua Thomas,” I said. “Who killed him and why?”

“It was Lou Carpenter,” he said. “Kaiser found out that Mickey Ponittzo was an
undercover cop, grabbed him and Jerry Cross on Monday night. Tortured them until Mickey
broke. Mickey told him that Thomas was working for the police.”

He leaned forward. “I didn’t have anything to do with it, Mr. Welles. I’m a research
scientist...”

“I don’t care what you are,” I said. “Continue with the story.”

“Kaiser was crazy angry, but Carpenter was scared to death. He was afraid the police
were going to find out Kaiser had a connection to this facility, and then eventually Carpenter
would be involved too. Kaiser tried to talk him out of it, but Carpenter wouldn’t listen. He
thought if he killed Thomas, it would end there.”

“How was Kaiser connected to this place?”

“He found out about the research and treatment we were doing here and he wanted to
take advantage of it. In his business, severe head trauma was an occupational hazard, and he
wanted us to cure his injured thugs. He also found out that our work here is very blood intensive, and it’s
sometimes difficult to get all the fresh human blood we need. It was his way in. Kaiser
offered me a virtually limitless supply of human blood, any time I needed it, and like a fool, I
agreed.”

I glanced back over my shoulder for a moment, then back to Grinaldi. “Why did
Carpenter take Joshua’s head?”

Grinaldi shrugged. “He wanted me to revive it, so Thomas could be questioned, find out
what he knew. I tried to tell him that it was unlikely I’d be successful, but he insisted.”

“Is it even possible?”

“We’ve had some success with the procedure in the past, but too much time elapsed from
the time Thomas was killed until the head was delivered here. I was able to restore some
automatic functions, as I said, but it can’t think or respond. The brain damage was far too
extreme.”

“Okay,” I said. “What do you know about what happened to Dick Nedelmann?”

“I don’t know the name,” he said.

He must have seen something change in my face, or maybe my finger tightened on the
trigger, because he quickly said, “I swear to you, Mr. Welles. I’ve never heard that name.”