Bloodshift

by Garfield Reeves-Stevens

  As she stretched out on the mattress they had dragged into the bathroom for her, she looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

  “I know it sounds odd, but you were very considerate with that couple in the parking lot,” she said.

  “None of this is their concern. They were in the wrong place, wrong time. Probably scared to death. The poor guy’s going to feel worthless enough about not trying to fight for his wife. I didn’t have to make it any worse for them.”

  “Not the sort of behaviour I’d expect from a contract killer.” She saw an incredibly sad expression flicker over Helman’s face. “I’m sorry, Granger. I only meant—”

  “It’s okay,” he shrugged. “You’re not what I expect of a vampire. See you tonight.” He shut the door. But despite what she had said, somehow he wanted to be in there with her.

  From one of Adrienne’s flight bags he took a large roll of black cloth tape and began to seal up the edges of the bathroom door. Adrienne had kept the other flight bag in with her. It contained what was left of the nutrient solution—the blood substitute—that she and Leung had developed. It wasn’t yet adequate, she had told him, but it would support her for a few more nights at least. She had not wanted to discuss it further, as if the very topic of feeding were repugnant to her. Helman did not press her. But he felt both uneasy and, in a way, excited about what might happen when the artificial nutrient was used up.

  After he had finished with the bathroom door, he taped the bedspread from the double bed in the room to the doorframe. He folded a blanket lengthwise and ran it across the top of the curtain track to keep light from reflecting up onto the ceiling. He followed the instructions she had given him precisely. It made him feel good to be her protector, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on the feeling. It made him think of his sister. And Weston and the Conclave and the Jesuits. And death.

  When the sun had finally risen and the time of the yber had passed, Helman went to the lobby pay phone and dialled the first contact number Weston had given him. It had been a long night but he and Adrienne had survived it. He was afraid to learn if there were others who hadn’t.

  Chapter Four

  WESTON’S CHEST WAS on fire with the pain of his coughing spasm. He was shocked by the ferocity of it. Time couldn’t be running out this quickly for him. It couldn’t. His mind flew back to the patterns of his childhood. It’s just not fair, he thought. Not fair. He struggled to control the spasm. Fairness has nothing to do with it, he argued back at himself. The cancer is eating my lungs. It is neither right nor wrong, fair nor unfair. It is what cancer does.

  “Now do what you’re supposed to do,” he said to himself, out loud. His voice was weak, but he didn’t begin to cough again. A small victory on the way to total defeat.

  Toronto, January 19

  A buzzer by his bed sounded. Weston reached out to touch the intercom bar. He and his men were staying in a safe house maintained by the American government in Toronto. It was made up of three apartments in an expensive condominium development on the shore of Lake Ontario to the west of the city. Most of the regular tenants of the complex spent half their time travelling so there were few familiar faces around to become concerned as a continual passage of intent-looking men arrived to debrief returning friendly agents or interrogate captured foreign ones, usually with extreme prejudice.

  At this time, the place was quiet and Weston and his men were able to enjoy a few hours of rest while waiting for Helman’s first call back. The voice on the intercom said that it had come.

  “Where’s he calling from?” Weston asked.

  “Seattle. Holiday Inn north of the city. St. Clair is with him. No sign’s of surveillance,” said the voice.

  “Good,” said Weston. “Get the details and tell him I’ll arrive this evening.”

  “He wants to talk to you. Wants to know about his sister.”

  Weston’s voice hardened. “Did you tell him?”

  “Negative.”

  The tension relaxed again. For a moment, Weston had feared that he had lost Helman.

  “Tell him everything is as we anticipated. I’ll join him this evening.”

  “He’s stubborn,” the voice said.

  “So am I.” Weston took his hand off the intercom bar. Silence returned. He fought with the pain in his chest for another few minutes before he was able to instruct his aide to arrange for a charter jet to Seattle-Tacoma International

  He thought again about the description of the condition of Miriam Helman’s body as it had been found by his agents in the early morning. He shuddered. Eventually he would have to tell Helman that they had been too late. There was still a chance he could lose it all. One way or another.

  The coughing started again and he had to be sedated for his flight.

  His agents didn’t know whether to be embarrassed for him, or terrified for themselves.

  For the most part, they were terrified.

  Chapter Five

  OUTSIDE THE SNOW-swollen clouds of the past few days had finally moved away and the sun shone brilliantly in the clear, winter blue sky. All the yber across the eastern seaboard were safely in their sanctuaries, except in the unassuming Scarsdale estate of the Eastern Meeting. Secure in the meeting room in the third basement where Helman had first been brought, and trained to resist the torpor of the day, Lord Diego beamed in satisfaction. His fangs were moist with the saliva of expectation as he contemplated the treat that at that moment awaited him from the hills of New Hampshire.

  New York, January 19

  “Excellent, excellent,” he said into the phone. “From Seattle to San Francisco. Transferring to a new flight arriving at San Luis Obispo at 11:27. I shall commend your industry to your mentor.”

  Across the continent, an eager young familiar trembled in the praise from a Lord of the Conclave. He worked for American Airlines and all he had done was monitor the reservation computers, as his mentor had instructed him, for the list of names and airports he had been given. Luckily, one combination had come up. And now Lord Diego himself was taking note of his work. The familiar did not think he could wait until sunset for his mentor to hear the praise being lavished upon him. He did not know that even as Diego talked to him, the Lord’s own familiars were on their way to him to inflict upon him his First Death without benefit of Communion. Thus the information of the woman and her human assassin would be kept safely in Diego’s hands. And in the hands of those he chose to share it with.

  When the final confrontation at Nacimiento took place, Diego wanted no doubt to be raised that he and his emissaries and familiars took part only after the Jesuits had made their initial attack. The blame for the outrage must rest with the Jesuits until the Final Plan was well underway. And by that time, it wouldn’t matter who knew the truth because the Conclave would rule the world of humans, and Diego would rule the Conclave.

  Diego broke the connection with the doomed familiar on the west coast. He pressed a button on a console on the ornately carved table he worked at. A familiar appeared at the door to the meeting room.

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Send the message to Father Clement. Prepare my familiars for the meeting. It shall be tonight.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  The familiar shut the door behind him. Diego took no notice. Already that familiar had joined the growing list of those who must be killed to keep their silence. Two hundred years ago, Diego would have thought of the murder of such well-trained familiars as regrettable. But the centuries had changed him. Now, he didn’t think of it at all.

  He thought only of his pleasure.

  And he summoned it.

  One of his own familiars appeared at the door to the meeting room. He was not alone.

  Eyes clouded with the effects of the drugs which had kept them quiet on their journey, the two children stood motionless in the doorway.

  Diego rose from behind the table and stood with his arms spread wide. His mouth spread wide.

  “Suffer the
little children to come unto me,” he said.

  With a gentle prod from the familiar, Campbell and Steven walked slowly towards the fangs and claws of Lord Diego.

  The drugs, and the mind-numbing image of what they had seen done to their mother, kept them mercifully unaware of what happened next.

  Diego felt a bit disappointed at having them drugged that way. It did spoil some of the pleasure.

  But not, he was grateful, all of it.

  Chapter Six

  HELMAN WAS FURIOUS. He had spent the day in the Seattle hotel room unable to rest. The strain of the last days had reached a level where it interfered with the relaxation techniques he used to induce sleep. He had been roused three times by the persistent housekeeping staff who knocked on the door despite his Do Not Disturb sign. Each time he had thought it was the phone ringing. He had to have news from Weston, and now he was in the lobby of the Holiday Inn being told that Weston was out of touch.

  Seattle, January 19

  “Why wouldn’t he talk to me when I called in this morning?” Helman’s voice was louder than was wise in the small lobby. The agent of the Nevada Project, quite unremarkable except for the heavy black leather gloves he wore, raised a cautionary hand to Helman.

  Helman saw the puckered lines of stitching along the fingers of the palm of the glove. It was a Malther Hand. Helman quieted his voice immediately. The agent would be wearing a vest containing flat battery packs wired up into a step-up transformer. The leads terminated in the glove the agent was wearing. The black leather was actually an insulated rubber compound that would protect the agent when he gripped a victim with the Malther Hand and closed the circuit. The shiny suppleness of the glove was really a coating of a conductor cream to improve the current flow. The devices were manufactured in Germany, supposedly for police protection in crowd control situations only. The transformer could be set to deliver anything from a mild to fatal shock. The Malther Hands were in wide use in South America as an interrogation tool. Helman had no wish to see at what level the agent’s transformer was set.

  “Shall we go into the bar?” the agent suggested, lowering his hand.

  Helman shook his head.

  “Sunset’s in less than half an hour. Shell be waking up soon. I can’t risk being away. What’s the news from Weston?”

  “I told you. No news. His plane was forced down in Chicago by the weather. That’s why he’s not here. He wants to know if you have any idea where the woman is headed. He can move ahead and meet with you tomorrow.” The agent’s eyes constantly swept the lobby, looking for the one observer whose eyes stayed just a bit too long on Helman and him talking in the corner. So far, they were safe.

  “What’s the word about my sister and her children?”

  “Everything is as we anticipated. That’s all I know. Now where is the woman going? You can talk to Weston tomorrow.”

  The street lights were on outside. Adrienne would be waking. Helman needed the Nevada Project’s protection. He had to co-operate.

  “Nacimiento,” he said, “A small town on the California coast. About halfway between San Francisco—”

  “And Los Angeles,” the agent said.

  “You know about it?” Helman asked.

  “A bit. When we first learned about the Jesuits, but before we knew that they were Jesuits, we thought they might be associated with an odd Christian cult that operates out of Nacimiento. Couldn’t get closer to it. When we learned the truth about the Jesuits, we dropped the investigation. Is the woman involved with the cult?”

  Apparently the Nevada Project didn’t know everything.

  “No,” said Helman. “She’s involved with the Father.”

  “The Father of what?”

  “Tell Weston I’ve got some information for him whenever he decides to keep in touch.” Helman was in control. He turned to the elevators.

  “Tell me,” the agent said and grabbed Helman by the arm. Helman was safe from the Malther Hand as long as it didn’t make contact with his bare skin.

  Helman turned slowly and whispered.

  “Now look who’s making a scene. Turn that thing on if you want to,” he said, indicating the Hand, “but if I’m not up there when she wakes up, you’ve lost her. And from the way Weston’s been going on, that’s not a very good position to be in. Tell him I’ll talk to him whenever he wants to talk to me.”

  The agent let go of Helman’s arm. Helman went upstairs to unseal Adrienne. The agent went out to the car where Weston was waiting.

  “You were right,” the agent said as he got into the car and disconnected the wires leading to his glove. “She’s going to the Father.”

  Weston signalled the driver to leave.

  “That’s what I’d do,” he said. “How’s Helman?”

  “Looks strung out. Anxious about his sister. I told him a little about that cult we thought we had found in Nacimiento so he’d be a bit prepared for what he’s going to find there. But I let him think we didn’t know about the Father. I think it made him feel better to think that now you had a reason to get in touch with him. He accepted the Chicago story but he wasn’t happy about it.”

  The driver took the cut-off from 5 to 405. At this time of day it was a faster trip to the airport than trying to drive through Seattle.

  Weston stared out at the passing city for a long time before he spoke again.

  “Have them close up Washington and meet us in Nacimiento.”

  The agent was shocked. But at the same time oddly relieved. For the first time the battle lines were clearly drawn.

  “It’s finally come to this?” the agent asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Who else can we go to? Everyone will be necessary in Nacimiento. How long do you think our offices would stay secure if none of us come back? How long do you think our records would last? They’d be the hottest thing on the block in Washington since the unaltered autopsy report on William Casey. Too many explanations will be required and there’d be no one left to give them. By the time the first incubation period ends and the deaths begin, the government would already be paralysed. Everything in the office has to be destroyed. Everything.”

  “So it’s all been for nothing, after all?”

  “The Nevada Project, by itself, yes.” It hurt Weston to say it, but it was the truth. “But we have a few other options. Starting next week, unless some of us are around to countermand the orders, there will be packets of information released to some selected writers outside the country. There will be enough conspiracy books on the market for people to realise that something is up. The government won’t be able to suppress articles published outside the country.”

  “Why not release it direct to the AMA? The New York Times?”

  “They’ll check anything this big through government sources. That’s the last anyone will hear of it. It’s got to be done outside Washington’s influence. Remember, we weren’t supposed to suppress the truth, we were to gather it. Fit it all together to spare the world from the half-truths and the panic of ignorance. Things just didn’t work out. What a fitting epitaph that would make. Here lies the world. Things just didn’t work out.”

  The agent smiled without sharing Weston’s humour. But then, they all knew Weston was a dying man. He was allowed to say those things.

  “Shall I cancel the coffee report for the Lancet article?” the agent asked.

  Weston was instantly serious again.

  “No. Let that be publicised. There’s still a chance well get out of this one alive, you know. The Lancet article talks about airborne transmission because that’s the only way so many could contract it at once. Except that with everyone in the United States drinking coffee everyday, there’s enough room for an alternate explanation for the findings. The coffee report is a brilliant piece of forged research. I bet the Lancet won’t even publish the airborne transmission work after they see a copy of it.”

  “At least we do some things well,” the agent concluded.

  “There’s still N
acimiento,” Weston said. “It means ‘birthplace’.”

  “But of what?”

  The car drove toward the airport.

  Chapter Seven

  FATHER CLEMENT CLUTCHED at the crucifix beneath his coat, and prayed for strength. He was to meet one of them and his memories of Spain forty years ago made his stomach churn at the prospect. What if it happened again? The wind was cold and snowflakes made halos around the short lamp standards that burned along the pathway. Clement could feel them out there. Hiding like wraiths in the shadows of the trees and bushes. He wondered if more people than usual would meet their deaths in Central Park that night.

  New York, January 19

  The noise of the city was a muffled background roar in each direction. Through the light, falling snow the twinkling windows of the apartments ringing the park flickered like exploding gaseous stars: a glimpse of Heaven in the midst of Hell.

  Clement sat on a bench at the top of a small rise. A pathway ran down either side. A lamp standard shone behind him. Four scholastics, armed with hidden cross-bows, stood well away, invisible in the shadows, guarding against the treachery of the undead. A figure approached along the pathway leading from within the park. Not even the muggers went deep within the park at night anymore. Clement clutched even tighter at his crucifix. The figure came nearer.

  It was bent and appeared wrapped in a huge coat which dragged around its feet. As the figure drew closer to the shifting circle of light thrown by the wind-shaken lamp post, Clement saw that it was bent over and walking with a peculiar shuffle. The light caught something silvery hanging from the figure. It was another crucifix. The light captured more detail. The figure wore a monk’s habit. A heavy cowl threw dark shadows across his face.

  The monk stopped in front of Clement. Clement peered deep within the shadows of the cowl but could see nothing.