Kitty Goes to Washington

by Carrie Vaughn

  “Ray from Baltimore, thanks for calling.”

  “I can think of plenty of military jobs that are just perfect for vampires. Like submarine duty. I mean, you stick somebody on a sub for three months, cooped up in a tiny space with no sun. That’s, like, perfect for vampires, you know? Or those guys who are locked up in the missile silos, the ones who get to push the button and start World War III.”

  That “get to” was mildly worrying to say the least. “There’s still that food supply to contend with,” I said. “It’s always been a big limitation on anything vampires accomplish in the real world. I can’t picture any navy seaman being really anxious to volunteer for the duty of ‘blood supply.’ Though it may be a step up from latrine duty.”

  “Aw, freeze a few pints, they’ll be fine.”

  “All right, next call, please. Peter, you’re on the air.”

  “Hi. Uh, yeah. When I joined the army, I knew this guy who washed out of basic training. We were all surprised, ’cause he was doing really well. Aced all the physicals, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand, nothing held this guy down. The drill sergeant said ‘drop and give me a hundred,’ and he seemed happy to do it. Never broke a sweat. But he turned up missing on a surprise inspection of the barracks one night. Then it happened again. They kicked him out for going AWOL.”

  “Let me guess: these were nights of the full moon.”

  “I don’t really remember. I didn’t notice at the time. But they were about a month apart. So I’m thinking, yeah.”

  “Do you think he would have made a good soldier, if he’d been allowed to take a leave of absence for those nights? If the army had made concessions?”

  “Yeah—yeah, I think so.”

  “What about in the field? If his unit happens to be deployed in the middle of nowhere, during a full moon, what’s he going to do?”

  “Well, I don’t know.”

  “I think it would take some advanced planning. A ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ policy probably isn’t going to work. Thanks for calling, Peter. Moving on.”

  I checked the monitor. Then I double-checked it. Line four: Fritz from D.C. It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

  I punched it. “Hello, Fritz?”

  “Yes. Kitty? Am I speaking with Kitty?” He spoke with a German accent, tired and grizzled. It was him. My Fritz.

  “Yes you are, Fritz. It’s me.”

  “Good, good. I almost did not wait, when the boy put me on hold.” His conversational tone made me wonder if he realized that he was on the radio. How refreshing, though, to talk to someone like we were just two people on the phone, rather than being subjected to an attention-seeking crackpot.

  “I’m glad you did wait. What would you like to talk about?” I held my breath.

  His sigh carried over the line. “I have been thinking of what you said. All day I think to myself, ‘Finally, here is someone who wants to listen to you, and you run away from her like a frightened boy.’ Now, I think that was a mistake. So I call you. I will die soon. Think, to die of old age. Is rare for ones like us, eh? But someone should know. This story—someone should know of it.”

  “All right.” I didn’t dare say more. Let him talk, let him say what he wanted without leading him on.

  “You must understand, it was war. People did things they would not have thought possible before. Terrible things. But we were patriots, so we did them. On both sides, all of us patriots. I was very young then, and it was easy to take orders.

  “The S.S. found us, people like us. I also heard rumors, that they created more, throwing recruits into the cage so the wolves would bite them. This I do not know. I was already wolf when they took me. They made us intelligence gatherers. Spies. Assassins, sometimes. As beasts, we could go anywhere, cross enemy lines with no one the wiser. Then we change back to human, do what we were sent to do, and return again. They trained us, drilled us, so we would remember what to do when we were wolves. Like trained dogs. I carried a sack in my mouth, with papers, maps, photographic film. I still remember.”

  “Fritz, just so I’m clear, you’re talking about World War II. The S.S., the Nazi Secret Service—”

  “Bah. They call me the Nazi, though they think I do not know. I am no Nazi. We had no choice, don’t you see? It was a madness that took all of Germany. Now days, you do not blame the madman who commits a crime. No, you say he was insane. That was Germany.”

  If I stopped to think about it, my throat would go dry. I would fall speechless. I let the momentum of his story carry me forward. “Something I don’t understand: you say you had no choice. But werewolves are stronger than normal humans. Even in human form, they can overpower just about anyone they come up against. Why didn’t you? Why didn’t you and the others rebel? It sounds like they recruited you against your will, but why did you let them take you instead of fighting them?”

  “Besides the fact that it was war? You do not question your countrymen in uniform in time of war. It isn’t done. But more than that, they had silver bullets. The cages were made of silver.”

  My heart thudded. Flemming had a cage made of silver.

  “Fritz, is there any documentation of this? I’ve been doing some research. The Nazi resistance to Allied occupation after World War II were called the Werewolves. Were you involved in that? You’re not telling me the members of that group were literally werewolves, are you?”

  “I do not remember. It was a long time ago.”

  It didn’t matter. With the story in hand, I had to be able to find the evidence somewhere. There had to be someone else with stories like this. Flemming, for instance.

  “Have you told Dr. Flemming this story? Did he ask you to tell him what you did in the war?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  I closed my eyes and felt the air go out of me. “Did he tell you why?”

  Fritz gave a snort. “He works for government, yes? It seems obvious.”

  “You know, I’d give quite a bit to get Flemming back on the show right about now. Fritz—how do you feel?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. I feel old. Tired. Shape-shifting with arthritis in the hands, the shoulders, it’s very bad.”

  “I mean about what happened. What was it like? How old were you? You don’t like talking about it, but do you feel better? Does it feel better to talk about it?”

  “I think I should go now. I told the story you wanted. The only story anybody cares about.”

  “Fritz, no! What did you do after the war? Where did you go? When did you come to America? Fritz!”

  “Goodbye, Kitty.”

  “Fritz!”

  The line went dead.

  Damn. Now what did I do with that? Tiredly, I spoke at the mike. “Dr. Flemming, if you’re listening to this, I’d love it if you called in. I have a few questions for you.”

  Again, I checked the monitor, dreading what I’d find. I wasn’t sure I really wanted Flemming to call. This wasn’t likely to inspire him to a sudden bout of openness and sharing.

  But Flemming didn’t call in. None of the calls listed looked remotely interesting. Anything I said next would be the height of anticlimax.

  “Right. It looks like we need to move on to the next call. Lisa from Philly, hello.”

  “Hi, Kitty. Do you know anything about rumors that there’s a version of Gulf War Syndrome that causes vampirism? I’m asking because my brother, he’s a veteran, and—”

  Sometimes, I had absolutely no idea how I got myself into these discussions.

  You have a lot on your mind,” Luis said. He was driving me around Saturday morning in a cute, jet-black Miata convertible he’d rented for the occasion. He looked dashing, elbow propped on his door, driving one-handed, with his handsome Latin features and aviator sunglasses.

  God, did he know how to romance a girl. How could I possibly be distracted with him sitting not a foot away from me? A hot Brazilian lycanthrope at my beck and call, looking like something out of a car commercial, and I was frowning. I shook my head, b
ecause I had no idea how to answer him.

  He’d taken me to Arlington National Cemetery because I’d wanted to see it, but it had been depressing. It wasn’t just the acres and acres of headstones, of graves, most of them belonging to people who had died too young, or the Kennedy graves, which were like temples, silent and beautiful. JFK’s flickering eternal flame seemed a monument to crushed idealism. The graves were peaceful. But the ceremonies: the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; a full military honors burial, with the horse-drawn caisson and twenty-one-gun salute. All these rituals of death. They seemed so desperate. Did honoring the dead comfort us, really? Did it really do anything to fill the holes our loved ones left behind?

  T.J. didn’t have a grave to visit. If he did, would I feel better? Less forlorn? If he had a grave, it would be in Denver, where I couldn’t go, so it was all moot.

  I’m sorry, T.J.

  Stop it.

  After the cemetery, we drove out of town to the state park where Luis spent full moon nights. He wanted me to be comfortable there. It was nice, getting out of town, leaving the smog and asphalt for a little while, smelling trees and fresh air instead.

  We even had a picnic. Another car commercial moment: strawberries and white wine, types of cheeses I’d never heard of, French bread, undercooked roast beef, all spread on a checkerboard tablecloth laid on a grassy hillside.

  Luis was trying to distract me. He was doing all this to take my mind off everything I was worried about. The least I could do was pretend like it was working.

  “Thanks,” I said. “This is wonderful.”

  “Good. I had hoped you’d smile at least once today.”

  “I bet you’re sorry you found me at the museum.”

  “No, of course not. I’m glad to have met you. I might wish you were not quite so busy.”

  He wasn’t the only one.

  I moved to sit closer to him, inviting him to put his arm around me, which he did. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  He chuckled and shifted his arm lower, so his hand rested suggestively on my hip. “After this week, I should hope so.”

  I smiled, settling comfortably in his embrace. “How did you get it? The lycanthropy.”

  He hesitated. His gaze looked out over my head, over the hillside. “It’s complicated.”

  I waited, thinking he’d continue. His expression pursed, like he was trying to figure out what to say, and not succeeding. I didn’t know him well enough to know if he was the kind of person who’d wanted to become a lycanthrope, who’d wanted to be bitten and transformed, or if he’d been attacked. We’d had a week of lust and little else, which meant we might as well have just met.

  “Too complicated to explain?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “But it isn’t a story I tell often.”

  “It was bad?” I said. “Hard to talk about? Because if you don’t want to—”

  “No, it wasn’t, really. But as I said—it’s complicated.”

  Now I had to hear it. I squirmed until I could look at his eyes. “What happened?”

  “I forgot how much you like stories,” he said. “I caught it from my sister. I thought she was hurt, I was trying to help her. She shifted in my arms. I didn’t know about her, until then. Even when she bit me, I hardly knew what was happening. It was an accident, she didn’t mean it. But she panicked, and I was in the way.”

  “Wow. That’s rough. She must have felt terrible.”

  “Actually, when she shifted back to human and woke up, she yelled at me. Wanted to know why I couldn’t mind my own business and leave her alone. By then I was sick, so she yelled about making her take care of me.”

  “Let me guess, older sister?”

  “Yes,” he said with a laugh.

  “It sounds familiar.”

  “She was angry, but she was sorry, too, I think. She took care of me and helped me learn to live with this. Now we help each other keep our parents from finding out about it.”

  At least I didn’t have that problem anymore. I’d never have to come up with another excuse about why I was missing a family gathering on a full moon night. “Your sister’s in Brazil?”

  “Yes. You know what she does? She spies on companies doing illegal logging in the rain forest and reports to the environmental groups. Sometimes I think she’s a bit of a terrorist. Frightened loggers come out of the forest with stories about giant jaguars with glowing green eyes.”

  “She sounds like an interesting person.”

  “She is.”

  We’d been there maybe an hour when I glanced at my watch. I shouldn’t even have brought it. But I did.

  “Could we get back to town by four, do you think?” I said.

  He put his hand on my knee. “Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stay a little longer?”

  Oh, the agony. I put my hand on his and shook my head. “I’m sorry. Here you are, doing everything you can to sweep me off my feet, and I’m refusing to cooperate. I’m lucky you’re still trying.”

  He grinned. “I love a challenge.”

  He leaned over to me, putting his hands on either side of me, trapping me with his arms, and moving closer—slowly, giving me plenty of time to argue and escape before he kissed me.

  I didn’t argue. Or escape.

  I barreled into the Crescent at a quarter after four, convinced I was too late to find Fritz. Not that he’d ever speak to me again. I should have been happy with what he’d revealed last night on the show, but enough never was, was it?

  My vision adjusted to the dimness of indoors. I watched Fritz’s usual table, expecting his hulking form to be there, once I’d differentiated it from the shadow. I focused, squinting hard, but the table was empty.

  Jack stood, elbows propped on the bar, reading a magazine. I leaned on the bar in front of him, and he looked up and broke a wide smile. “Hey! I heard your show last night. That was cool.” “Thanks,” I said, distracted and not sounding terribly sincere. “I missed him, didn’t I? Fritz already left.”

  “He didn’t show today.”

  “But it’s past four. He’s never late. Does he not do weekends?”

  “He never misses a day.”

  A weight settled into my gut. “Do you think he’s okay? Do you have a phone number for him? Should I go check on him?”

  “I don’t have a clue where he lives.”

  This was my fault. Fritz was in trouble and it was my fault. He’d talked, he’d spilled the beans, and someone didn’t like it. “Are you even a little bit worried?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t do any good if I was.”

  Great, another disinterested isolationist. “Is Ahmed here?”

  “I don’t think so. I can call upstairs if you want, maybe he’s there.”

  “Sure.”

  He hit a line on the phone behind the bar, stood there with the handset to his ear for what must have been five minutes, then shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “Do you think he knows where Fritz lives?”

  “He might.”

  I asked for a pen and wrote my cell phone number on a napkin. “If he does, have him call me.”

  Jack tucked the napkin by the cash register. “You’re really worried about him.”

  I smiled wryly. “Remember, it’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.”

  I called Flemming. Please, no voice mail, no voice mail—

  “Yes?”

  “Dr. Flemming? It’s Kitty.”

  The pause was loaded with frustration. “I really don’t have time—”

  “Where’s Fritz?”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t give me that. He’s an old werewolf, German. He said you talked to him. Where is he?”

  “How should I know—”

  “He always comes to . . . to this one place to have a drink. Four o’clock, every day. He didn’t show up today, and I don’t think it’s a coincidence. He talked on my show, and someone isn’t happy—”

>   “Why should I be that someone?”

  “I don’t know. But you’re my only lead. You must have some idea where he might be.”

  “Look—yes, I know Fritz. I’ve spoken with him. If he called your show that’s his own business, and I don’t know why anyone would have had a problem with it. Not enough of a problem to take drastic action.”

  I wasn’t thinking straight. If I didn’t get anywhere with Flemming, I had nowhere else to go, no one else to ask. “I’m worried about him.”

  “He’s a tough old man, he can take care of himself.” His voice had changed; it had stopped being flat. I was getting to him.

  “He’s old. He’s falling apart. Werewolves don’t get sick, but they do get old. He doesn’t have anyone looking after him, does he?”

  He sighed. “I have his home address. If you’d like, I’ll check on him.”

  “Can I meet you there?”

  “Fine.” He gave me the address.

  I got the “Thanks” out about the same time I clicked off and ran out to the curb.

  Luis was still waiting in the Miata. “Now where are we going?”

  I told him the address.

  He raised his brows. “You want me to take this car into that neighborhood?”

  I smiled brightly. “You paid for damage coverage, didn’t you?”

  Long-suffering Luis rolled his eyes and put the car into gear.

  I bit my lip. I was really going to have to do something nice to thank him later on tonight.

  The address turned out to be a tenement building, about forty years old, in dire need of a coat of paint. Or maybe a wrecking ball. Flemming was waiting by the front door, arms crossed, looking around nervously.

  His frown turned surly when we pulled up.

  “I’m sure there’s no need for this,” he said as I hopped out of the car. Luis left the engine running.

  “You’re worried, too, or you wouldn’t be here,” I said.

  “He’s on the third floor.”

  The elevator didn’t work, of course. I ran, quickly getting a full flight of stairs ahead of Flemming.

  “What room?” I shouted behind me.