Once Bitten (19 page)

I felt the tears go then, welling up and forcing their way through my closed eyelids. She gently brushed them away with the back of her hand.

“Who's April?” she asked. I tensed, flinched almost. She caressed my forehead again. “You called out her name. And Deborah, your wife's name. Who's April?”

“My daughter,” I said. The two words sounded strange. I don't think I'd ever used them before.

“I didn't you had a daughter,” she said.

“I don't,” I answered. “Not any more.”

“What happened?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“She died.”

“Oh Jamie, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” She lay next to me in silence for a while before she spoke again. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “Yes. I don't know.”

“How did she die?”

“In hospital. A few days after she was born.”

“She got sick?”

"She was born with spina bifida. She was all messed up, below the waist. God, it was so sad.

She looked so perfect everywhere else, her little hands, her lips, big blue eyes like her mother's, she was so cute. But everything else just came out all screwed up. There was nothing we could do,

nothing the doctors could do."

“When was this?” she asked.

“About a year ago. Last April. That's why we called her April.”

“Is that why you got divorced?”

The tears were flooding out now and I opened my eyes, letting them flow down my cheeks and wet the pillow. It wasn't the first time I'd cried for April, and I was sure it wouldn't be the last.

“Deborah divorced me about six months later.”

“She blamed you?”

“Not for April being the way she was, no.”

She said nothing, just put her head against my shoulder and held me. I closed my eyes again. I could picture April lying in the plastic bubble, her eyes open, looking right at me. Deborah was next to me, her hand on the plastic, trying to touch our child. She was crying, and so was I. There was a doctor there, too. He wasn't crying, but then it wasn't his baby.

“Tell me, Jamie,” said Terry.

“I can't.”

She lapsed into silence again. Eventually I began to speak, to tell her. About the conversation Deborah and I had later, back in her hospital room. About what should happen to April. About quality of life, about how it wasn't fair for her, about how she'd never, ever, have a normal life, that maybe she'd be better off....

“Dead?” said Terry, finishing the sentence for me. “You said that?”

I opened my eyes. "I said it but I don't think I meant it. I'm still not sure. I think I was playing Devil's Advocate, you know, testing her feelings. I remember telling her that the doctors could do it, they could just not try so hard to keep her alive and she'd just go, quietly, no pain. I wasn't saying they should, I just said they could. She went crazy, she accused me of all sorts of thing, she said I was in it with the doctors that we all wanted April dead and that I didn't love her because she wasn't perfect, that I hated anything that wasn't one hundred per cent right. She screamed and slapped me and then she just went quiet and hardly spoke to me again. April died the day after.

Deborah didn't say anything but I knew she blamed me, she thought I'd spoken to the doctors and got them to do it. I didn't, Terry, I honestly didn't. I didn't kill her, I'd never kill a child."

She held me tightly. “I know, Jamie. I know you wouldn't.”

“I tried to tell Deborah that, but she wouldn't listen. She never went home, she went to stay with a friend instead and a few months later she filed for divorce. Now she's using her lawyers to punish me.”

“She needs someone to blame, Jamie, that's all. If she can blame you then it takes the guilt off her own shoulders. The more she can punish you, the better she feels about herself.”

“God, you think I don't know that,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice even though it wasn't Terry that I was angry about. “I'm the psychologist, remember?”

“I remember,” she said. “But sometimes perhaps you can't see the wood for the trees, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. I'm sorry.”

“There's nothing to be sorry about, Jamie. And there's no need to feel guilty. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“I know,” I said, but inside I wasn't so sure. What really made me feel bad was that, deep down,

I wasn't sure whether or not I really had wanted April to die. My conscious mind, that was sure that I really had been playing Devil's Advocate with Deborah, preparing her for the time when April would die as the doctors had said she would, but below that, in the black depths of my mind, there lurked the thought that maybe, just maybe, I'd wanted her to be taken away because she wasn't perfect, she was a reminder that things went wrong that couldn't be fixed and that the time would come when my own body would be beyond repair. Deborah knew how I felt about growing old.

She threw that in my face towards the end. The car, she'd said, that's why I spent so much time working on the car, because that was something that I could stop from getting older just by spending time on money on it. But it wouldn't do any good, she said, the car would still be around long after I'd gone. I was the problem, not the car. I was the one that was getting older and I was the one that was going to die so why the hell didn't I just grow up and accept it. Not everything in life was perfect, and not everything stayed perfect. Part of me wanted to explain that to Terry, but I didn't, I just ran it through my mind, round and round like a child's merry-go-round, the golden horses with gaping mouths and staring eyes galloping faster and faster but getting nowhere.

“Easy, Jamie,” said Terry, smoothing my brow. “Take it easy. You're breathing like a train.”

She kept nuzzling my neck and kissing me softly, murmuring words in a language that I didn't recognise but which were soothing nonetheless, until waves of blackness enfolded me and I dropped back into sleep.

The Visitors When I woke up she was still holding me, and I felt a lot more stable. Telling her about April had helped and there had been no more nightmares and when I awoke I felt refreshed, almost new, as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders even though I was all too well aware that nothing had changed. If anything I had more to worry about after what Terry had revealed. I left the basement before it got light. I'd wanted to stay with Terry but she said she had things to do and it would be easier if I was out from under her feet. She explained that since Blumenthal had discovered the basement she'd decided that she would have to move on, to shed the identity of Terry Ferriman the way a snake loses its old skin. That took time, she said, money had to be moved, assets reallocated and documents prepared. Once that was out the way, she said, she'd be back in touch and we'd go onto the next stage. If I wanted to. After I'd thought about it. I told her that I already knew the answer and that I loved her as much as she said she loved me, maybe more so, and that I was quite prepared to do whatever was required. She kissed me and told me that I had to think about it because once it was done there was no turning back and the next thing I knew I was standing outside in the street.

There was a message on the answering machine from Chuck Harrison and one from Rick Muir.

Rick said he had good news and bad news for me. The bad news was that there was nothing untoward about the hair at all. The good news? Yeah, he'd pulled the waitress. Frankly, neither piece of news surprised me. I felt wrecked, the result of making love to Terry and the mental stress of coming to terms with what she'd told me.

I rang Chuck Harrison's office and got his answering machine. I left a message, telling him to hang fire on any settlement and that I'd be in later in the day. I'd had enough of lying down and allowing Deborah and her lawyer to walk all over me, tired of taking the blame for what had happened to April. I guess that talking to Terry about it, opening up for the first time, had helped me face up to the fact that it wasn't my fault, that nobody was to blame. I'd help Deborah start a new life, I'd give all the financial and moral support she needed, but I wasn't get to let her punish me any more. I didn't tell any of that to Chuck's answering machine, though.

I stripped off and fell into bed. I was drifting in and out of sleep when the doorbell rang. It was light outside, but only just, and at first I thought the phone had rung and I was groping for it when the doorbell rang again. I pulled on a white towelling robe and padded down the hall. I checked the door viewer and saw two uniformed cops looking bored. One was chewing gum,

another had his hand on the butt of his holstered gun and I had a feeling that it wasn't a social call.

I opened the door. I didn't recognise either of them. The one with his hand on his gun moved to the side so that he could draw it quickly if I made a threatening move. Behind them, parked by the kerb, was a police car.

“Hiya guys, can I help you?” I said, trying to sound more cheerful than I felt.

“Jamie Beaverbrook?” asked the gum-chewer.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

The gum-chewer shifted his shoulders in his jacket as if it was uncomfortable. “We'd like you to come with us, sir,” he said.

“Where?”

“The precinct, Sir.”

“Is it a case?”

“All we know is that you are to come with us, Sir.” The “Sir” always seemed to come as an after-thought.

“Hang on while I dress and get my computer.” I made to close the door but he stabbed his foot against it.

“If you don't mind we'd like to wait inside while you get dressed, Sir. And you won't need the computer. Our orders are to get you downtown as quickly as possible.”

Behind him the other officer's hand tightened on the butt of his gun. I didn't like this, I didn't like this one bit. For once I'd have been grateful if they'd cracked a vampire joke or made the sign of the cross, anything to break the tension. “And if I refuse?” I asked.

“Then we'll still come in, Sir,” he said.

Defeated, I turned my back on them and headed for the bedroom. The gum-chewer followed me and watched as I picked out a suit. I figured if it was trouble I might as well look the part. “Do I have time to shower and shave?” I asked him.

“You can do that down at the precinct, Sir,” he said. Oh yeah, I thought, happens all the time.

The nice kind police officers downtown always allow the poor misunderstood felons a wash and brush up before they got down to the third degree. I dressed and knotted on a red power tie and then went with them to the car. They said not one word to me all the way to the precinct, not one lousy word. Other than a couple of speeding tickets it was my first ever taste of the wrong side of the law, and I could appreciate why so many of the men and women I had to interview looked so nervous. It was the not knowing that was so worrying. The uncertainty. At least I knew what police procedure was and that I had an expensive lawyer to call on if I had to, but even so I was scared shitless. They took me in, walking either side of me as if escorting a mass murderer, and led me through the reception area. There were several officers there that I recognised but they all avoided looking at me. We went through Homicide and I kept looking for De'Ath but there was no sign of him. Captain Canonico was there, though, standing by the water cooler and filling a coneshaped paper cup. He saw me as he straightened up and grinned evilly.

“Looks like you're up to your neck in shit this time, Beaverbrook,” he said.

“What's going on, Captain?” I asked him.

“A couple of heavyweights from Washington want a word in your shell-like ear.” He emptied the water into his mouth, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and nodded at the gum-chewer.

“They want to see him in my office.” Then he turned his back on me and refilled his cup. The fact that whoever it was had swung enough weight to commandeer Canonico's office made me feel even more nervous and my stomach grumbled acidly as they took me to the room and knocked.

A man in a grey suit opened it, looked at the uniformed officer and then looked at me. He opened the door wider. I saw Rivron get up from a chair. He avoided my eyes as he walked by me. To my mind he looked guilty, but then I probably did, too.

The door clicked closed. There were two men, and both of them were wearing grey suits, shiny black shoes and crisp white shirts. There the resemblance ended. The one who'd opened the door was tall and thin and had a sallow, almost funereal complexion, pale lips and eyes that were a surprising shade of green, totally out of character with the rest of his colourless features. The other was just as tall, a shade over six feet, but he had thick sandy hair and a rash of freckles across a snub nose and plump cheeks. He was broad-shouldered and had obviously been a football player in his college days but still had a few years to go yet before he went to seed. Both were in their early thirties but had eyes that seemed much older, as if they'd spent most of their working lives being bored. Neither of them offered to shake my hand but they both introduced themselves. The thin one was called Hooper, the football player was Sugar. That was it. No first names, no rank. I asked to see their identification and they smiled the smile of predators scenting prey.

“No ID,” said Hooper.

“Not as such,” said Sugar.

“What do you mean, not as such?” I asked.

“Well,” said Sugar, “if you were to come up with a real fancy lawyer who could get the backing of a very important judge, then maybe, just maybe, we might come up with a Washington telephone number that he could call. And then the judge would speak to your lawyer and your lawyer would speak to you and then you'd be speaking to us again.”

“At the moment it's just you and the good Captain and a couple of members of the department here who know that we are involved,” said Hooper.

“And frankly,” said Sugar, “that's how we'd rather keep it, for the moment at least.”

“The fewer people who know, the better,” added Hooper.

“Know what?” I asked.

“That is, as they say, the $64,000 question,” said Sugar.

“Why don't you sit down,” said Hooper. He walked by me and rested his hand on the back of the chair in front of Canonico's desk.

“Then we can shoot the breeze,” said Sugar, leaning back in Canonico's chair.

“Chew the fat,” added Hooper.

“Have you two been working together long?” I asked.

They smiled. “A while,” said Hooper.

“Does it show?” asked Sugar.

I sat down and Hooper went around the desk and stood next to Sugar. He put his hands behind his back and looked for all the world like an undertaker paying his respects. He looked at me with his green eyes like a cat wondering whether to eat a mouse or toy with it for a while. “We, Mr Sugar and I, work for an agency in Washington which is connected, you could say, with national security. But we also liaise closely with our equivalents in other countries. Our task is to spot individuals who may at some point pose a threat to national security.”

“To nip them in the bud, as it were,” said Sugar.

“I still don't follow you,” I said, but I had a pretty good idea where they were heading.

“Terry Ferriman,” said Hooper.

“Terry Ferriman,” repeated Sugar.

“Ah,” I said.

The three of us said nothing for almost a full minute and it was Sugar who eventually broke the silence.

“What can you tell us about her?” he asked.

“In what way?” I replied.

"You've been making a number of enquiries about the lady. About her background, finances,

circumstances. We'd like to know what conclusion you've reached."

I nodded. “She was originally brought in as a suspect in a murder enquiry. She was bailed and as far as I know there isn't much of a case against her,” I lied. After last night's conversation with her I knew exactly how much of a case there was against her and her friend. Had she told me his name? I couldn't remember, she'd given me far too much information to digest at one sitting. I needed to talk to her again.

“We know that,” said Sugar patiently.

“You extended your own enquiry beyond a simple grading of her mental state?” asked Hooper.

“Yes, that's true.”

“Would you mind telling us why,” said Sugar, smiling.

“She intrigued me.”

“There was something unusual about her grading, something shown up by the Beaverbrook Program?” asked Hooper.

“No, it was personal.”

“Personal?” asked Sugar.

I had the impression that the two men in suits knew exactly what my feelings for Terry were,

and what I'd found out. They knew and they were testing me, probably to ascertain whether I was with them or against them. What I wanted to know was who the hell were these two men from Washington and how they knew that I'd been investigating Terry Ferriman. De'Ath maybe, or perhaps Rivron. Or maybe the data bases De'Ath had been accessing had triggered something in Washington. But why?

“You had a relationship with her?” said Hooper.

“You could say that, yes,” I said.

“A sexual relationship?” asked Sugar.

I hesitated, but then nodded. I had a hunch that lying, at least obvious untruths, would do me more harm than good at this stage.

“Did she tell you much about herself?” asked Hooper.

“Pillow talk, as it were,” added Sugar, grinning.

I ran my hand through my hair. “I'm very much in the dark here,” I said. “I think I've only got a small part of a very big picture, and it's causing me some confusion. Could you give me some sort of briefing first, so I get a rough idea of what's going on?”

Sugar linked his hands together behind his head. “You mean we show your ours and you show us yours?”

“A sort of quid pro quo?” said Hooper dryly.

“It would be a help,” I said lamely.

Hooper and Sugar looked at each other and then Sugar nodded. From the body language I guessed that he was the higher ranking of the two.

“There are more than four billion people on this planet,” said Hooper slowly. "Thousands are born every hour. The vast majority are like you and me. We are born, we marry, have children, and eventually we die. The species moves on. That applies to 99.999999 per cent of the population.

But every now and again, in something like one in a hundred million births, something happens. A mutation. An alteration at the DNA level, inside the chromosomes of the cells. The mutation can take several forms, but the end result is something which is not human. Something which can be less than human, or, in some cases, more than human."

“You're talking about monsters,” I said.

Hooper shook his head slowly. “Not monsters,” he said. “Mutants. Born of completely normal parents. In the old days they might have been called monsters, and many of them passed into folklore, tales told around the campfires.”

“Folklore?” I said. “What do you mean specifically?”

“Vampires,” said Sugar, and he wasn't smiling now. "Vampires and werewolves and shapeshifters.

That was what they were called, and the definitions still work as labels, though there are not especially accurate."

“If you're saying such things exist, why isn't it common knowledge? Why are they still regarded as fiction?”

“Statistics,” said Hooper. "Such mutations are a very rare occurrence. Even today with a population of four billion there are probably no more than one or two a year born around the world.

A hundred years ago it would have been one every ten years or so. And it's only recently that we've had the capability of keeping track of people. Before they could move around and conceal their identities. Now everything is on computers. There's nowhere to hide."

What he said made sense. It also went some way to explaining how they knew I was involved.

God knows how many computerised trip wires De'Ath had gone blundering through while he was chasing up Terry's background. “How many does your organisation know of?” I asked.

Hooper looked at Sugar for guidance and Sugar nodded.

“We know of seven what I suppose you'd call vampires. Four in the United States, two in the Soviet Union, one in Eastern Europe. We suspect there are some in China, but the authorities in Peking aren't especially forthcoming. There are no werewolves or shapeshifters in the States, but there are three in the Soviet Union, two in India and one in Albania. Again we are in the dark about China.”

“You don't really mean vampires and werewolves, do you?” I asked him.

Hooper shook his head. “Not as you'd see them in movies, no. The vampires we're trying to track down don't wear black cloaks and turn into bats. They can eat all the garlic they want, you can see them in mirrors and they have no problems crossing running water. They don't have sharp incisors like Christopher Lee, either. But they are virtually immortal. The gene which causes aging is missing and their cells continue to replicate ad infinitum. They usually have an allergy to bright sunlight. They are very strong, very intelligent, and they need blood. The gene mutation leaves them unable to synthesise certain essential amino acids which they must therefore obtain by other means. Blood is the easiest source of supply, though blood-rich organs such as heart or liver will also do.”

“And they live forever? Is that what you're saying?”

Sugar shrugged. “There seems to be no limit on the number of times their cells divide. We know of one who is more than two thousand years old. You'd never know it to look at him. He's little more than a boy. Even carbon-dating doesn't help date him. But under hypnosis, we've gone back with him to ancient Rome.”

The mention of carbon-dating made me wonder if they knew about my trip to UCLA, and if they'd been told about my enquiries. I had a nasty feeling that the men belonged to an organisation whose tentacles were spread throughout the world's scientific community. No, tentacles weren't a good analogy. A spider's web, maybe, thin filaments running back to their headquarters waiting for the slight tremble that would suggest that somebody, somewhere, was asking the sort of questions you'd ask if you were on the track of a vampire.

“And the werewolves and, what did you call them, shape-shifters?” I asked.

“They're more complex, and even rarer than the vampires,” said Sugar. I've never seen one,

though I've seen a video of one of the Russian examples undergoing transformation. Pretty heavy stuff, I can tell you."

“What's it like?”

“To be honest it's not as impressive as the sort of special effects you see in movies like The Howling, but it's a whole different ball game when you know it's the real thing.”

“What if the film you saw was faked?”

Sugar snorted. "The sort of guys we liaise with don't play games like that, Dr Beaverbrook.

They're not exactly selected for their senses of humour, you know."

I shook my head in disbelief. Vampires. Werewolves. Things that go bump in the night. Part of me expected Canonico and his colleagues to come bursting in through the door with wooden stakes and mallets screaming “April Fool” but the two men in grey suits were too serious for it to be a joke. This wasn't a set up. It was for real. It was for real and I was frightened for Terry.