Thirst No. 4 (12 page)

Her hair is a bright blond, cut short, and her brown eyes are clear and sharp. She has amazing skin. She’s naturally white but she’s somehow managed to bake herself brown in the sun without picking up any wrinkles. Close to thirty, she’s on the short side but has a lush figure. She moves the way I used to, in my old body, with a smooth confidence that makes all eyes go to her. She appears to be a natural leader, and yet her dress could not be more casual, jeans and a T-shirt. She wears no bra or underwear, and I know that Seymour notices, and approves.

“Can I get you a drink?” she asks me.

“I’m fine, thank you,” I say.

Mary loads her plate and sits on the floor beside me. There’s only a small couch and a single chair in the living room, and the others have taken over them. I note the absence of a TV, but am intrigued by the number of paintings on the walls. Mostly abstract art that borders on the psychedelic. Mary explains that they belong to Freddy, and given what Professor Sharp told us about the man, I’m not surprised.

“Freddy must have a vivid imagination,” I say.

“He’s always been intuitive,” Mary says. “I’m sure Professor Sharp told you that.”

“He didn’t mention it,” Seymour says. “Was your boyfriend an actual participant in Sharp’s studies?”

Mary nods after biting into a slice of garlic bread. “That’s how the two got together. The professor was randomly testing students at Berkeley when he stumbled onto Freddy. Sharp said he had the highest degree of ESP he’d ever recorded.”

Seymour smiles. “Don’t tell me. He scored better than thirty percent with Dr. Rhine’s standardized ESP deck of cards.”

Mary chuckles. “I can see the professor is still trying to keep Freddy a secret. No, Freddy scored a lot higher than that.”

“How high?” Shanti asks.

“He would guess correctly over eighty percent of the time.”

Seymour frowns. “But we just listened to an hour lecture on how weak and impractical the ESP signal is when it comes to the individual.”

“I suppose that’s true. Except when it comes to Freddy.”

“I’m surprised Sharp didn’t tell us about his abilities,” Seymour says.

“Are you?” I ask. “The whole basis of his research was his discovery of the array. If he went around talking about Freddy, people would have just wanted to go to him and get a personal reading.”

“Are the four of you students of parapsychology?” Mary asks.

“In a manner of speaking,” I say. “Right now we’re researching the firm that a few of Professor Sharp’s graduate students founded after they left Berkeley. Infinite Investment Corporation, IIC. Have you heard of them?”

Mary’s expression darkens. “Freddy knows all about the firm. He might even still be connected to them legally. But he’ll have nothing to do with IIC, and my advice to you is to stay away from them. They’re not nice people.”

“Because they’re rich and successful?” Seymour asks.

“Because they’re ruthless. Freddy used to date their leader, a woman named Cindy Brutran. I met her once. It was like meeting the serpent that killed Cleopatra.”

I find Mary’s choice of simile interesting.

“So Freddy never talks to any of them?” I ask.

Mary shrugs. “He talks to Cindy on the phone now and then. But that’s for personal reasons. He has nothing to do with the company.” She turns to Seymour. “Professor Sharp said you want to write a book about them.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t. They won’t let you publish it.”

“I’ve published a number of books. I doubt they could stop me.”

“I’m giving you a friendly warning. I hope you heed it. I’m not a gloom-and-doom sort of person. But I feel obligated to tell you that you’ll regret it if you don’t listen.”

“You must have a reason for your concern,” Seymour says.

“Talk to Freddy when he gets back. He’ll tell you the whole story.”

The man of the hour arrives minutes later, hot and sweaty from his run. Before showering, he greets each of us individually. Freddy appears as polite as his girlfriend, and in his own way he’s just as striking. He has lost the hippie look Sharp mentioned, but he’s kept his long maroon hair, which drapes over the hood of his sweatshirt. And it doesn’t take a vampire’s eyes to see that he looks no older than thirty, the same age as Mary. He reminds me a bit of Matt, with his handsome features and large dark eyes. But he is on the thin side, jerky in his movements. It’s like he’s seen things in his life he wishes he could forget. The man is friendly, yet he looks like he needs a friend.

He has Mary, though, wonderful Mary. She should be enough.

Freddy showers and returns dressed in black pajamas. After fetching a plate of lasagna and garlic bread, and a cold beer, he sits beside Mary and me on the floor. Mary isn’t into sports, but Freddy is a track fan and he’s excited to talk to me about the Olympics. He says he’s got a video of my gold medal race on his iPod.

“I even recorded your trial races in London,” he says.

I smile. “It’s nice to meet a true fan.”

“Hell, I followed your career all the way from the U.S. trials in Oregon. But to be honest, despite your great times, I was
sure the Africans were going to eat you up. They practically own all the middle- and long-distance races.”

“They train all day,” I say. “They don’t do anything else.”

“Do you think that’s their secret? I can’t say I agree.”

“You think it’s the altitude advantage.”

“Altitude can only help you so much. And don’t forget that plenty of American and European runners are living at altitude year-round and they’re still getting their butts kicked by the Kenyans and the Ethiopians, especially in the marathon. No, I think the answer is genetic. They’re better runners because their ancestors were great runners. They had to be to survive. There are more wild animals in Africa than any continent on earth.”

“That’s an interesting way of looking at it,” I say.

“You can’t deny the evidence. You were the only white person to win an endurance race in track.”

“I got lucky,” I say.

Freddy’s interest in track makes for an excellent ice breaker. Too bad it’s all he wants to talk about. It grows late, and Seymour and Shanti start to yawn. I try steering the conversation toward IIC with no success. Near two o’clock in the morning, Mary bluntly informs her boyfriend that we have stopped by to discuss the IIC. Freddy doesn’t flinch. He offers to talk about his college days tomorrow.

“We would appreciate anything you can tell us,” I say.

Freddy nods as he stands, although I notice his jerkiness
increases the instant Mary mentions the IIC. “That will be great,” he says. “To tell you the truth, I’m flattered to have a famous person in my house.”

“I’m far from famous,” I say.

“Get off it. I’d rather meet you than Madonna or the Dalai Lama. Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you guys stay here tonight? We have an extra room at the end of the hall, and we’re almost finished remodeling our guesthouse. It’s out back beside a well that supplies us with incredible drinking water. You’ve got to taste it.”

“Which means you’ve got to stay,” Mary says.

“We’d hate to put you guys out,” I say.

“You’re not,” Mary says. “Besides, you might have no choice but to stay here. It’s the weekend, and Santa Cruz is a resort town, at least to those who are from out of town. Unless you have reservations, you’re not going to find a room this late.” Mary pauses. “I’d be honored if you’d be our guests.”

I turn to the others, who nod their heads. I especially seek Paula’s approval. Like myself, she mustn’t sense any danger. Still, there’s an odd feeling in the air, a sense of the unknown that I can’t place, and that has me on guard. It’s not a sense of malice, it’s more like a mystery.

“Thank you. We’ll stay,” I say.

A
n hour later Seymour and I sit on our respective beds in the guesthouse. Both Paula and Shanti were exhausted from all the travel and wanted to go straight to sleep. For that reason they took the room in the house. Besides, Seymour and I, we belong together. He sits nearby, smoking a cigarette and scratching the blisters on the back of his hands.

“How bad are they?” I ask.

“Bad enough. I could use another shot.”

“I have a small vial of T-11 and syringes in the car. I can get them for you.”

“It can wait until morning.”

“There’s no reason you should be uncomfortable.”

“If Charlie and Matt don’t get their lab up and running, a lot more of us are going to be feeling uncomfortable real soon.”

“You don’t put much stock in them.”

“Hell, Matt’s like Superman. And I’m sure Charlie’s a genius in his field. But we’re asking too much of the guys in too short a time. The Telar have been around forever. They didn’t design a virus and vaccine that can be reconfigured in a few days. They designed it to destroy humanity. When you’re that pissed off at seven billion people, you’re going to come up with a pretty complex formula.”

“I hear ya.”

“Then how come you didn’t fight Matt to abandon his plan?”

“I would have fought him. Teri couldn’t.”

Seymour takes a drag on his cigarette. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I can’t complain. I’m still here, ain’t I? Besides, with Matt and Charlie off doing their thing, I can do what I have to.”

“Can you? You don’t have your invincible body anymore. How are you going to face Brutran as a newbie vampire? Even when you were Sita, she practically wiped the floor with you.”

“Your faith in me is overwhelming.”

“Sorry. I just never had the end of the world staring me in the face before.”

“It did in a few of your books. That must have helped you get used to it a little.”

“Let me tell you a secret that only writers know. All the
stuff we write about, we’re glad it happens to other people. Because if it happened to us, we couldn’t handle it.”

“And that’s why you write about it.”

“Yep.” Seymour coughs and grinds out his cigarette in a plastic cup. He scratches his hands before feeling the hardness of his mattress. “What do you think of our hosts?” he asks.

“They look great together. But something doesn’t add up.”

“His age sure as hell doesn’t. Going by what you said, he looks even younger than Brutran.”

“That’s one point.”

“Are you worried that he’s a true psychic?”

“A little. He gave me a few funny looks. I wonder if he could read my mind.”

“Could you read his?” Seymour asks.

“No. I doubt the old Sita could, either. But that’s not what’s bothering me.”

“What is it then?”

“It’s the two of them together. It’s the way they took us into their home. To a certain extent, I felt the same around Professor Sharp, but I could understand his desire to talk. He’s old, he lives alone. He wants people to know about his discoveries before he dies.”

“He’s afraid of the IIC. I don’t think he wants too much publicity.”

“Sure. But you know what I’m saying. Sharp doesn’t want to go to his death bed without being acknowledged. I can
understand his desire for company. Freddy and Mary are not the same kind of animal.”

“Why link them? They’re together now, sure, but she doesn’t have his history.”

“I just have this feeling . . . I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

I sigh. “I’ve had it before.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“Everything with you was a long time ago. When?”

“When Krishna was on earth,” I reply, and I don’t realize the words are true until I speak them aloud.

“You might be feeling that way because you spoke to John.”

“It didn’t come over me until . . . tonight.”

“You’re not making much sense.” Seymour keeps scratching. “You can get that medicine if you’re dying to take a late-night stroll.”

I jump up. “You poor dear. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Try not to get mugged.”

I reach for the door. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m more worried about the mugger.”

I point a finger at him. “You. I should let you suffer.”

“I’d stop suffering if you made me a vampire.”

“You don’t want Teri’s blood. You don’t want to go through this awful thirst every night.” I open the door. “I’ll be back.”

The medicine is in the trunk. I have no trouble locating
the vial of vaccine but I have to search for the package of syringes. The bright moon helps, the white beams peering over my shoulder. In the end, I find the needles under a book. A big fat book with a thick leather cover. I can hardly believe it. My hands tremble as I lift it clear.

It seems impossible but it’s Yaksha’s book. The original.

I hurry back to the guesthouse and show Seymour what I’ve found. He’s interested but he’s even more interested in the vaccine. I give him a high dose. I have suspected for some time that Charlie was being stingy with his injections. I shoot the blue liquid directly into the vein on Seymour’s left arm and he feels immediate relief. The black blisters on his hands begin to recede.

“Better?” I say.

“Yeah. I think Shanti and I both need the higher dose.”

“I wonder if I should wake her and give her a shot.”

“Not if she’s already asleep. I don’t think she’s suffering as much as I am.”

“I noticed that. I think the girl’s tougher than you.”

He ignores the dig and gestures to the book. “What did you find in the book that was so exciting?”

I stare at him. “You’ve seen this book before?”

“When I picked Shanti up at JFK. Isn’t this Yaksha’s book?”

“Yes,” I say feeling a slight overlapping of Teri’s memories with my own. The phenomena is happening less and less but it has not gone away. “I haven’t found anything new in it. I
was just about to start looking. But I got this interesting idea today. It was when we were in the car. No, it might have been tonight. It doesn’t matter. I got the idea that there’s more to this book than meets the eye.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“There are parts where Yaksha goes into great detail. Like when he traveled to the New World and found Jamune and the Aztecs, and fought the bulk of the remaining vampires to the death. He narrates those battles blow by blow. But when he comes to other important matters, he skips over them quickly. Like the section where Krishna tells him the story of the Hydra and how to kill the Telar. It’s like important parts are missing. And he never writes about meeting his wife, Umara.”