“Is the coffin sealed?”
“Not yet. The family in Cleveland wants a last look.”
The trooper pocketed the documents she’d handed to him. “I want you to open the coffin.”
“I’ll get Mr. Vendetta,” she said.
“No, he stays put. Just open it enough so I can get a peek.”
Bunny shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Every time I open my mouth, there’s trouble. Follow me.” She walked around to the back of the hearse and took out the key. Opening toward the driver’s side, the door blocked some of what could be seen from the road.
Inside the hearse, the two teens looked like deer caught in the headlights.
“Lift up the lid,” Bunny ordered.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Kathy.
The trooper moved in closer. “Why not?”
“Yeah,” Lionel chimed in. “Let my friend rest in peace.”
“She’s beyond your help.” Bunny turned to the trooper. “They’re upset by the way she looks.”
“Open it up,” said the trooper.
“Do as the officer says,” Vendetta commanded from the front seat.
Kathy didn’t budge, but Lionel tossed a couple of backpacks out of the way and moved to the coffin on his knees. Casting an apologetic look to Kathy, he raised the hinged lid.
Soo lay motionless on the white satin liner. Her eyes were closed, her face as delicate and peaceful as an ivory cameo.
“She’s young.” The trooper moved up to the rear bumper for a closer look. Bunny stepped behind him.
Soo’s eyelids fluttered.
“Jesus, she’s alive!”
“No she ain’t,” said Lionel.
“Watch out!” Kathy yelled.
Bunny smashed the back of the trooper’s neck, driving him forward against the coffin, his hat tumbling into the hearse. “Go see for yourself.” She clamped her hands on his hips and heaved him over the edge as Soo sat up and hauled him in on top of her, her thin arms encircling him with vampire strength. Bunny scrambled onto the deck, going for the trooper’s gun. Behind her, Vendetta closed the back door. The trooper struggled and lifted his head. Soo’s head rose up; her fangs punctured his neck. He managed one scream before Bunny smacked the butt of the gun against his head.
“Soo—oo.” The wail came from Kathy.
Seeing the other teens’ anguished faces as Soo sucked the trooper dry, Bunny heaved a sigh. “Don’t blame your friend. She’s a vampire now, addicted to blood. Needs it to survive. The only way you can help her is by helping me find the path to a cure.”
“You didn’t have to kill him,” said Kathy.
“We couldn’t let him report in. The only other choice was to turn him into a vampire. I did that with a guy yesterday. If I do the same thing here, I’m showing a pattern of movement that the FBI or DHS will notice. Too many people have already seen us together here. I’ve got to drive.” She reached for the door handle. “Help get him off Soo when she’s finished. And take back my license and registration.”
Bunny opened the back door and stepped out of the hearse. Vendetta was already in the police car. She nodded and walked back to the front of the hearse, sure that Vendetta would destroy the dash cam and take the lead. Who’d stop a speeding hearse led by a cruiser with its lights flashing? They’d find a deserted place to burn the police car, then head for the Chicago Bon Voyage.
Bunny got into the driver’s seat and buckled in, thinking ahead to their next destination. The Bon Voyage crematorium in Chicago had been the original model for the international franchise. The formation of an FBI Identification Division in the 1920s had made Chicago vampires and gangsters recognize a need for corpses to disappear forever. That solution was Bon Voyage Crematoriums, a business partnership backed by vampire brains and Mafia money. As the life expectancy of gangsters was short, vampires soon gained total control.
Bunny turned on the engine, released the parking brake and looked in the rearview mirror. The cruiser’s lights went on. She shook her head. This snafu would probably cost them six to eight hours.
Soo crawled out of the coffin. “I feel deep shame.” Her tone was pitiful.
“You had to do it,” said Lionel. “If you didn’t, Bunny would’ve.”
“That does not help what I feel.”
“So?” Bunny floored the gas pedal to follow the cruiser back onto the highway. “Doesn’t it make sense to kill a few people to achieve something that will save countless others?”
“No!” Kathy was vehement. “That’s totally immoral. What you just did is despicable.”
“Not totally,” said Lionel. “You kill people in war so a lot of civilians can be saved.”
“You do what you have to do,” Bunny agreed.
“You all miss the point,” said Soo. “My shame is not for killing, it’s for enjoying it.”
2
The Girls
21
Rose Blood
“I think her painting lacks gravity,” said Audrey.
“This one or all of them?” asked Tanya.
Standing at an easel in the back of the classroom, Rose Mary Blood glanced sideways at the two seniors who were leaning in toward her canvas. Audrey Depreen, a bug-eyed blonde from Texas, never missed an opportunity to boost herself up by putting other people down. Tanya Lyskovitch, the tall dark and haughty daughter of a Russian oligarch, was typical of the super-rich foreign students Leet and Lucre Academy recruited.
“I don’t remember asking for an opinion,” said Rose. “But I think the word you’re looking for, Audrey, is ‘gravitas.’” She poked her glasses a bit higher to focus on the acrylic abstract on her easel.
“I don’t have to look for words,” Audrey snapped. “I’m a senior. I know all I need to. I meant there’s nothing anchoring your design to the bottom edge of the canvas. Right now it looks like some beast on fire, but it’s not touching anything.”
“You’re right.” Rose tried to keep sarcasm from her tone. “I’ll have to paint in a fireman’s ladder.”
“Really?” asked Audrey.
Tanya expelled a puff of air through her lips. “She’s joking, Fat girls grow a sense of humor along with everything else.”
Rose flushed. “I’m not fat, just short for my weight.”
“What?” Audrey looked puzzled.
“She tells herself that to feel better,” said Tanya.
Rose grit her teeth. They’re jealous I won the art medal. No, not true. They didn’t care about anything she did. To them, she was a “poni,” a person of no importance, a five-foot two target. They’d never accept her. Not that she wanted friends like that.
She looked over to the bowed heads of her four other classmates. Seated at tables, they were focused on their own work. The young teacher, Miss Wurzinger, was on her cell phone in front of the collage display. No help there, either. Putting her fist in front of her mouth, Rose stared at her painting and tried to concentrate on what else it needed.
“Look,” said Tanya. “The genius at work.”
Leave me alone, bitch, thought Rose. She snatched up a brush, dabbed it into black paint and glanced at Tanya’s forehead. Exhaling sharply, she poked a black spot into the heart of the imaginary beast.
“Rose!” Ms. Wurzinger called. “That was Dean Switley. She wants to see you in her office right away.”
Everyone stopped working and turned to stare. Rose’s cheeks grew hot. They always want to know everything; they’re little drones with phones. Don’t need them, either. She glanced at the wall clock. Still twenty minutes left. What was so important that Switley couldn’t wait until the class ended? She looked down at her messy palette, her tubes of acrylic and dirty brushes. “ I have to clean up,” she said.
“In trouble with the Dean again?” asked Audrey.
Wurzinger strode toward them, her willowy figure protected by a brown smock worn over her skirt and blouse. She had a triangular face and the dab of blue paint on her
wide forehead seemed to give her a third eye beneath her headscarf. “The Dean said you’re to come immediately. Don’t even go back to the dorm to change into your uniform.”
Rose slipped out of her paint-spattered smock. She looked down to make sure she hadn’t gotten paint on her “THERE IS NO EARTH WITHOUT ART” tee shirt and blue jeans. “But my paints – ”
Wurzinger nodded. “How fortunate that Audrey and Tanya are right here. They’ll clean up for you. It’s clear they have nothing else to do.”
Tanya puffed up “But I have my own things to clean and collect. It’s my last class.”
“So your last act in this class will be one of kindness. It won’t take long to put Rose’s things away neatly.” She offered Rose a tight smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll supervise.”
With my luck, Switley’s going to give me bad news, thought Rose as she left the brick and glass academic building. Despite the bright sunlight, her skin tingled and she shivered. Had her mother been found dead in a Philippines ditch? Or was she coming back to the States a widow because Captain Blood had died? More likely that the bad guys her father had warned her about had caught up with him in Boston.
Shaking her head to rid it of thoughts of disaster, she hurried across the grassy quadrangle toward the original 19th century building, three-stories of granite and brick topped by an octagonal clock tower.
“Rose! Shouldn’t you be in class?”
She turned to see Ms. Pelliger striding across the grass to intercept her. The riding instructor was wearing her usual brown uniform of boots, breeches, long-sleeved blouse and mock-collared vest.
What does she want now? Rose stopped. Her face took on the docile expression with which she’d withstood her adoptive father’s lectures.
“Dean Switley called for me,” Rose said.
Pelliger halted just inches away and gazed down her patrician nose. “You’re going to Dean Switley like that?”
Looking up over the cleft bump of the woman’s chin, Rose had too close a view of flaring nostrils and dark nose hair. She quickly stepped back.
“Yes, ma’am. I was on my way.”
“You’re not in your uniform. That tee shirt is against regulations.”
“I was in art class. Ms. Wurzinger lets me wear it there. I was told to come right away.” Rose glanced at her destination to emphasize the point.
“Have you done something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.” Not since the clock tower. And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.
“You don’t fool me, Rose. You act so innocent, but your glasses can’t hide that look in those green eyes any more than the black paint on your nose. I don’t trust any girl who says she doesn’t like horses.”
Rose rubbed her nose. I quit riding because of you, not the horses. “I’m sorry you feel that way, ma’am.”
“I’d suggest you wash your face and comb your hair before seeing the Dean. I wouldn’t allow one of my horses to look like that.”
Rose’s hand flew to the mother-of-pearl barrette that pinned back her hair. She exhaled her relief that her father’s gift was still there. The tangle of escaped strands her mother had called “brown angel hair” was nothing unusual, but Rose repositioned the barrette to capture more of the silky mess. Then she readjusted her glasses.
“Don’t dawdle,” said Pelliger. “You’re keeping the Dean waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Turning her back on the teacher, Rose stalked off toward the old building.
Why can’t she accept I don’t want to ride? No, it didn’t fit into Peilliger’s picture of how things should be. Every adult seemed to cling to a pet picture inside, and they didn’t like anyone changing it. She didn’t fit into anyone’s picture. Mom wouldn’t accept her as overweight, or believe that Captain Blood didn’t like her and regarded her as the price he had to pay to marry. He skyped her like she was a sailor on his destroyer rather than his adoptive daughter. And Mom defended him, saying it was because he cared much more about her than her real father. Yeah, right.At least CQ didn’t get on my case when he did show up.
Rose pushed open one of the large oaken doors to the entry hall and hurried up the wide staircase before old lady Thrace at the reception desk had a chance to say anything. She slipped into a student bathroom to wash her face. “Oh, crap,” she said to the mirror. The smudge of black acrylic made it seem a moustache had flipped up and across the tip of her nose. She wet a paper towel, doused it with liquid soap and began scrubbing. Tanya and Audrey probably thought it funny to let me go to the Dean like that. But why didn’t Wurzinger say something? She tried not to breathe in the orange scent of the soap or to abrade her skin with the coarse paper. Still, when she’d done all she could, her pink nose sported a black shadow. She grimaced at the mirror.
Now I look even more like Miss Piggy. One of CQ’s genetic experiments that went wrong. Maybe that’s why he gave me up for adoption — genetic failure. Mom said he cared more about his lab rats than us. Was that true? Is he trying to buddy up now because he’s in trouble? I’ll probably disappoint him. I disappoint everybody. Is there a gene for that?
She left the bathroom and descended the stairs.
“Why aren’t you in your uniform,” asked Miss Thrace in her creaky voice.
“Dean Switley said to come right away, not to change.” Rose paused in front of the reception desk. “Do you know if anyone’s with her?”
“That’s not my concern,” said Miss Thrace. “Your nose has a dark smudge on it.”
“Thank you. Very helpful. I’ll repaint it later.” Rose headed down the corridor to the Dean’s office.
Has CQ come to take whatever’s in the barrette? No, he wouldn’t go to the Dean. Maybe Captain Blood has died of a tropical disease. Or was shot by one of his sailors. Don’t wish that! Rose rapped her knuckles against her head. If Mom came back as a widow, she’d be even more impossible to live with.
Dean Switley’s secretary wasn’t at her desk, but the door to the Dean’s private office was open. Rose coughed.
“Come in, Rose. We’ve been waiting.” Dean Switley’s thin soprano voice was laced with impatience.
“Sorry, ma’am. Ms. Pelliger stopped me on the way over.” Entering the private office, Rose came to an abrupt halt. The tall man sitting in one of Switley’s antique cherry-wood chairs had the strong features, buzz cut, and broad shoulders of the military men who’d come to her parents’ cocktail parties. Only his lantern jaw kept her from thinking him handsome. His navy blue suit and matching tie looked like a uniform. Something awful’s happened in the Philippines. Rose swallowed hard.
“Sit down, child. This is Mr. Harry Winkish from the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Hi.” She kept her tone cool, her nod perfunctory. DHS? Not navy? Oh God, is there a terrorist threat from the Philippines?
“Hello, Rose.” The man’s off-center smile flickered like a facial tic. “Is there something wrong with your nose?”
Leprosy. “No,” she said. Oh, his upper lip is scarred. Can’t smile right. Stupid me.
She sat down on the other chair and looked to Dean Switley. Better to hear the bad news from her. She took a deep breath and tried to read the Dean’s face. The woman’s smile didn’t appear to herald bad news. Except for the pearly white caps on her teeth, her smile seemed the most authentic feature of her uplifted, dewrinkled and repositioned face. Together with her auburn hair swept back into a chignon and a gold pin on the lapel of her blazer, Dean Switley seemed too well-put-together for displays of emotion.
“Mr. Winkish would like to ask you a few questions,” said the Dean. “I examined his credentials and they are proper. I assured him that you are one of our brightest and most cooperative students, usually.”
Rose’s heart beat faster. “Please, what’s this about?”
“A routine inquiry. I just want to ask you about your father.”
“Which one?”
“Your biological father, Dr. Carson Quintz.”
No,
not the Philippines. She exhaled her relief only to inhale cold crystals of fear. CQ said snoopers might come. She sniffed. “Oh, him. He gave me up when I was five. Why don’t you ask him what you need to know?”
“We did. He said we could confirm what he told me with you. He gave me a letter for the school saying it was okay, and he gave me this note for you.” Winkish pulled a small white envelope from his breast pocket and handed it to her.
She took her time extracting the note card. How could Homeland Security possibly be the bad guys? There’s no way CQ’s work on DNA can threaten national security.
She first looked to see how he’d signed the note. The word “Dad” was scrawled more legibly than most of his cursive writing, but it meant that the letter was phony. When she’d returned from Japan to the States, she’d refused to call him Dad or Father. “You gave up your claim to that long ago,” she’d shouted. He’d gently suggested she call him CQ, like his friends did. That had been her first indication that he wasn’t totally insensitive. Now she scanned the rest of the note. It instructed her to “be a good girl and cooperate with the authorities.”
The Captain would say something like that. CQ knows better than to patronize me. “Where are you holding him?” she asked. “I hope it’s far away.”
Winkish straightened. “Who says we’re holding him?”
“Otherwise he wouldn’t have written. He’d have come with you or called.”
“He’s very busy. He’s working for the government now.” Winkish rubbed his long jaw as he studied her. “Have you seen or talked with him lately?”
Busy?So busy he wouldn’t use his cell phone? She pretended to think for a few seconds. “Not since he came up to take me out to dinner on Easter. My real parents are in the Philippines and only get back for Christmas, so since I’ve been in school here, my mother asked him to fill in for the other holidays and stuff like Parents’ Day.”
“Has he ever talked to you about his work?”
“No. He knows I tune out when he talks about science.” She replaced the note, folded the envelope and stuffed it into her pocket.
The Cure Page 12