by Tanya Huff
At her station by the monitors, Catherine frowned. “I’m not sure. It could be a loose connection. Dr. Burke, could you please check the jack.”
Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, Dr. Burke bent over and reached to roll the head a little to the left.
Gray-blue eyes snapped open.
“Holy shit!” Donald danced backward, crashed into number nine’s box, and clutched at it for support.
Dr. Burke froze, one hand almost cradling the line of jaw.
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. An eternity.
As suddenly as they opened, the eyes closed.
Her view of the body blocked by equipment, Catherine ignored Donald’s outburst—in her opinion they came too often to mean anything—and sighed. “Just a wiggle. Probably something in the wire.”
“In the wire!” The stethoscope around Donald’s neck swung in a manic arc. “We didn’t get a wiggle, partner, we got recognition.”
“What?” Catherine shot to her feet and stared from Donald to Dr. Burke. “What happened?”
“We opened the lid, she opened her eyes, and bam!” Donald punched at the air. “Just for an instant, she knew who was standing over her. I’m telling you, Cathy, she recognized Dr. Burke!”
“Nonsense.” Dr. Burke calmly checked the implant before straightening. “It was an involuntary reaction to the light. Nothing more.” The peeled gloves slammed into the garbage. “Switch off the oxygen supplement—we’ve only got three full tanks left and I’m not sure when we can get more from the departmental supplies—and run a complete check on the mechanicals. Draw the usual samples.”
“And the alpha waves?”
“Keep recording.” A little pale under the glare of the fluorescents, Dr. Burke paused at the door. “But at the first sign of any agitation, cut the power. I have things to catch up on, so I’ll see you both later.”
Catherine’s puzzled gaze traveled from the lab door to Donald.
“Sure as shit looked like recognition to me,” he repeated, wiping his palms on his pants. “I think the good doctor’s spooked and I don’t blame her. Spooked me, too, and I barely knew the woman.”
Catherine chewed her lip. “Well, it didn’t register electronically.”
He shrugged. “Then maybe we’ve got activity going on outside the net.”
On cue, number nine began banging on the inside of his box.
Donald jumped and swore, but Catherine looked suddenly stricken.
“Oh, no! I promised him he wouldn’t have to spend more time in there than absolutely necessary to maintain the integrity of the experiment.”
Watching her hurry across the lab, Donald fished a candy from his pocket and methodically unwrapped it. Now that’s a person who doesn’t get out enough.
Usually, Dr. Burke considered the sound of her footsteps, leather soles slapping against tile, nothing more than background noise, acknowledged then forgotten. Today, the sound chased her through the empty halls of the old Life Sciences building, across the connecting walkway, and up into the sanctuary of her office. Even tucked into the comforting depths of her old wooden chair, she thought she could still hear the echoing trail she’d left. After a moment, she realized she was listening to the rapid pounding of her heart.
You’re being ridiculous, she told herself firmly, palms flat on the desk. Take a deep breath and stop overreacting.
Marjory Nelson’s heart condition, not to mention her accessibility, had made her the perfect candidate for the next phase of the experiment. Brain waves had been recorded, tissue samples has been taken, bacteria had been specifically tailored to her DNA—all in preparation for her death. Or rather for the attempted reversal of it. Marjory, knowing nothing of what they’d been doing, submitted to the tests she’d been told might help, and died right on schedule.
Right on schedule. A second deep breath followed the first. It was fast and painless when it otherwise might not have been. Not to mention that her presence at the collapse had ensured they wouldn’t have to worry about the tissue destruction inherent in an autopsy.
Squaring her shoulders, Dr. Burke pulled the morning’s mail across the desk. They were reversing death. Catherine might have created the bacteria, but without her involvement this application would still be years, if not decades, in the future. She had made possible the logical progression of Catherine’s experiments and she would reap the rewards.
If recognition had flashed just for that instant in Marjory’s eyes, then they trembled on the brink of success long before empirical data suggested they should.
If recognition had occurred then . . .
Then what?
Marjory Nelson is dead and I’m truly sorry about that. She was an essential member of my staff and I’ll miss her. With a deft movement, Dr. Burke slid the letter opener the length of the envelope. The body in the lab is experimental unit number ten. Nothing more.
“I already spoke to the police about this, Ms. Nelson.” Nervously, Christy Aloman shuffled the papers on her desk. “I don’t know if I should be speaking to you.”
“Did the police tell you not to speak to anyone else?”
“No, but . . .”
“You have to admit, if anyone has a right to know, it’s me.” Vicki felt the pencil dig deep into the callus on her second finger and forced her hand to relax.
“Yes, but . . .”
“My mother’s body was stolen from these premises.”
“I know, but . . .”
“I should think you’d want to do what you could to help.”
“I do. Truly I do.” She made the mistake of looking at Vicki’s face and found she couldn’t look away. Gray-blue eyes were like chiseled bits of frozen stone and she felt as she had when, so many winters ago, she’d responded to childish dares and touched the metal gatepost with her tongue—foolish and trapped.
“Then tell me everything you can remember about Tom Chen. How he looked. What he wore. How he acted. What he said. What you overheard.”
“Everything?” It was complete surrender and they both knew it.
“Everything.”
“I don’t suppose you ever wore anything like this when you were alive.” Catherine pulled the Queen’s University sweatpants up over number nine’s hips. Grayish skin glistened with the most recent application of estrogen cream. “I mean all things considered, you were in pretty good shape, but you didn’t look like a jock. Sit.”
Number nine obediently sat.
“Raise your arms. Higher.”
A bit of agar oozed out between incision staples over the sternum as number nine’s arms lifted into the air.
Catherine ignored it and tugged a matching sweatshirt down over the arms and head. “There you go. A pair of shoes and you’re fit for polite company.”
“Cathy, I hate to say this, but you’re looney tunes.” Donald pushed away from the microscope and rubbed his eyes. “You’re talking to an animatronic corpse. It doesn’t understand you.”
“I think he does.” She slid one bony foot into a running shoe, pressing the velcro closed. “And if maybe he doesn’t understand all of it now, he’ll never learn to understand if we don’t talk to him.”
“I know. I know. Necessary stimulus. But we’re not getting anything back—brain wave wise—that we haven’t put in. Granted,” he held up a hand to cut off her protest, “we’re getting some evidence of interfacing with gross motor skills. You don’t need to give every muscle fiber a separate instruction and that’s fucking amazing, but face it,” he tapped his head, “there’s nothing upstairs. The tenant is gone.”
Catherine snorted and patted number nine reassuringly on the shoulder. “Great bedside manner. I can see why you got kicked out of med school.”
“I didn’t get kicked out.” Donald set another slide under the microscope lens. “I made a lateral move into graduate studies in organic chemistry.”
“Not an entirely voluntary move from what I heard. I heard Dr. Burke had to save your ass.”
<
br /> “Catherine!” Miming shock and horror, Donald spread both hands wide. “I didn’t know you knew such words.” He shook his head and grinned. “You’ve spent too much time with single-celled orgasms . . .”
“Organisms!”
“. . . you need to get a life.”
Catherine moved to number eight’s box and adjusted the power. “Somebody has to stay here and take care of them.”
Donald sighed. “Better you than me.”
Touch.
Her touch.
As electronic impulses continued to move out from the net, more and more words were returning. Hold. Want. Have. Number nine didn’t know what to do with those words, not yet.
Wait.
“Is she asleep?”
“Yes.” Henry sank down onto the sofa and rested his arms across his knees, the scattering of red-gold hair below his rolled-up sleeves glittering in the lamp-light.
“Did you have to . . . convince her?”
“Very nearly, but no. I merely helped her to calm and exhaustion did the rest.”
Celluci snorted. “Helped her to calm?” he growled. “Is that a euphemism for something I don’t want to know about?”
Henry ignored the question. “It’s late. What are you doing up?”
Lifting his feet up onto the coffee table and stretching long legs, Celluci grunted, “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Do you want to?”
It was asked innocently enough. No. Not innocently. Nothing Fitzroy did came under the heading of innocent. Neutrally enough. “No.” Celluci tried to keep his response equally neutral. “I just thought that if you had any idea of what we’re supposed to do next, well, I’d like to hear it.”
Henry shrugged and threw a quick glance back over his shoulder toward the bedroom where Vicki’s heart beat slow and steady, finally free of the angry pounding it had no doubt taken all day. “I honestly have no idea.” He turned to look through the shadows at the other man. “Don’t you have a job to go back to?”
“Compassionate leave,” Celluci told him shortly, eyes half closed. “Shouldn’t you be out, oh, I don’t know, stalking the night or something?”
“Shouldn’t you be out detecting?”
“Detecting what? It hardly makes sense to stake out the scene of the crime and you can bet that asshole Chen, or whatever his real name is, has vanished. All the profiles in the world won’t help us identify a perp we can’t find.”
Henry reached down and fanned the papers on the coffee table by Celluci’s feet. Vicki had spent the evening compiling the day’s data and when he’d risen, just before eight, she’d presented her results.
“I spoke to everyone who might have had contact with him—except one of three bus drivers, and I’ll speak to him tomorrow. Clothes and hairstyles may change, but tiny habits are harder to break. He smiles a lot. Even when he’s alone and there’s nothing apparent to smile about. He drinks Coke Classic exclusively. He usually has some kind of candy in his pocket. He most often sits in the seat in front of the rear door next to the window. He’d get on the Johnson Street bus at Brock and Montreal with a ticket, not a transfer. That probably means he lives downtown.”
Henry had been impressed; and equally concerned. “Victory” Nelson appeared to have no room in her investigation for grieving. A steady emotional diet of rage, especially at this time, couldn’t be healthy. He scanned the pages of notes and shook his head. “She’s got everything here but a picture.”
Reluctantly, Celluci agreed. Years of training seemed to have gained a foothold in Vicki’s emotional response and she was now searching for the person instead of just blindly clutching at the name. “Detective Fergusson says he’ll try to free up the police artist tomorrow.”
“Why do I get the feeling that Detective Fergusson doesn’t think that’s necessary?”
“It’s not that. It’s resources. Or specifically lack of resources. As he pointed out, and this is a quote, ‘Yeah, it’s a terrible thing, but we can’t hardly keep up with indignities done to the living.’ ” Celluci’s lips thinned as he remembered various “indignities” he’d witnessed done to the living that had gone unpunished due to lack of manpower, or departmental budget cuts, or just plain bad management. He didn’t, by any means, approve of Vicki’s recent conversion to vigilantism, but, by God, he understood it. The satisfaction of knowing that Anwar Tawfik was dust and this time would stay dust, of knowing Mark Williams had paid for the innocents he’d slaughtered, of knowing that Norman Birdwell would loose no further horrors on the city, all of that weighed heavily against law in the scales Justice held.
He peered blearily at Henry Fitzroy from under heavy lids. How many others had there been? Hundreds? Thousands? While he’d been busting his butt and walking his feet flat, had Fitzroy and others like him been spending the night methodically squashing the cockroaches of humanity? Celluci snorted silently. If they were, they were doing a piss poor job.
Vampires. Werewolves. Demons. Mummies. Only for Vicki would he even consider accepting such a skewed view of reality. Maybe he should’ve listened to his family, married a nice Italian girl, and settled down. Much as Henry had done earlier, he shot a glance over his shoulder toward the bedrooms. No. A nice girl, Italian or otherwise, couldn’t hope to compete. Vicki was a comrade, and a friend, and, as asinine as it sounded, the woman he loved. He’d stand by her now when she needed him, regardless of who, or what, stood by her other side.
He didn’t want to have anything to do with Henry Fitzroy. He didn’t want to respect him. He sure as shit didn’t want to like him. He appeared to have no choice regarding the first point, had months ago lost the second, and strongly suspected, in spite of everything, that he was losing the third. Jesus. Buddies with a bloodsucker. Responses had to be filtered through the memory of power he’d been shown in Vicki’s living room. Safer to play with a pit bull.
Henry felt the weight of Celluci’s gaze and tried to remember the last occasion on which he’d spent this much time alone with a mortal he hadn’t been feeding from. Or hadn’t intended to feed from. The situation was, to say the least, unusual.
In all his long life, Henry had seldom felt so frustrated. “We can’t resolve this,” he said aloud, “until the body is found and interred, and her grieving is over.”
Celluci didn’t bother pretending to misunderstand what this referred to, although he was tempted. “So find the body,” he suggested, a yawn threatening to dislocate his jaw.
Henry arched a brow. “So easy to say,” he murmured.
“Yeah? What about that funny smell Vicki says you ran into last night?”
“I am not a bloodhound, Detective. Besides, I traced it as far as it went—to the parking lot.”
“What did it smell like?”
“Death.”
“Not surprising. You were in a body parlor.” He yawned again.
“Funeral homes go to a great deal of effort not to smell like death. This was something different.”
“Oh, lord, not again,” Celluci groaned, dragging a hand up through his hair. “What is it this time? The creature from the Rideau Canal? The Loch Ness fucking monster? The Swamp Thing? Godzilla? Megatron? Gondor? Rodan?”
“Who?”
“Didn’t you ever watch Saturday afternoon monster movies?” He shook his head at Henry’s expression. “No, I guess you didn’t, did you? Every weekend thousands of kids were glued to their sets for badly dubbed, black and white, Japanese rubber monsters stomping on Tokyo. Not to mention Jesse James Meets Frankenstein’s Daughter, Abbott and Costello Meet the Mummy, The Curse of the Werewolf.”
A car door, slamming in the parking lot, suddenly sounded unnaturally loud.
“Jesus H. Christ.” Celluci’s eyes were fully open. Still tired, he no longer had any desire to sleep. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “A motive. You don’t think . . .”
“That Tom Chen was playing Igor to someone else’s Dr. Frankenstein?” Henry smiled. “I think, as I said before, that
you watch too many bad movies, Detective.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you know what I think? I think . . .”
Bam. Bam. Bam.
They faced the door, then they faced each other.
“The police,” Celluci said, and stood.
“No.” Henry blocked his way. He could feel the lives, hear the singing blood, smell the excitement. “Not police although I suspect they’d like us to think so.”
Bam. Bam. Bam.
“A threat?”
“I don’t know.” He crossed the room. When he stopped, Celluci moved up to stand behind his left shoulder. It had been a very long time since he’d had a shield man. He opened the door.
The flash went off almost before he could react. A mortal would have recoiled—Henry’s hand whipped out and covered the lens of the camera before the shutter had completely fallen. He snarled as the brilliant light drove spikes of pain into sensitive eyes and closed his fingers. Plastic and glass and metal became only plastic and glass and metal.
“Hey!”
The photographer’s companion ignored both the sound of a camera disintegrating and the accompanying squawk of protest. Sometimes they got a great candid shot when the door opened, sometimes they didn’t. She wasn’t going to worry about it. “Good evening. Is Victoria Nelson at home?” Elbows primed, her notebook held like a battering ram, she attempted to push forward. Most people, she found, were just too polite to stop her.
The slight young man never budged; it felt like she’d hit a not very tall brick wall. Time for plan B. And if that didn’t work, she’d go right through the alphabet if she had to. “We were so sorry to hear about what happened to her mother’s bo . . .” Her train of thought derailed somewhere in the depths of hazel eyes.