4 Blood Pact

by Tanya Huff

  “She had no lover,” Vicki ground out, “spurned or otherwise.”

  Behind a mask of polite apology, Dr. Burke enjoyed the reaction. Of course she didn’t. Mothers never do. Aloud she said, “That brings us back to my scientists, then. Shall I have Mrs. Shaw make some phone calls for you, set up appointments?” It was a large university and there were ways to make it larger still.

  “If you would. Thank you.” Well aware that Dr. Burke’s assistance could cut through the time-consuming tangle of academic red tape, Vicki had been about to ask. That Dr. Burke remained on the list of potential suspects devalued that assistance not at all. The manner of the assistance, could, in fact, be used as further evidence. “I need to talk to the faculty in the school of medicine.” She’d start with the obvious. Later, if necessary, she’d widen the circle. If necessary, she’d tear the bloody university apart, limestone block by limestone block.

  “I’ll do what I can. If I might make a suggestion, your mother was quite friendly with a Dr. Devlin, a cellular biologist.” And talking with that old Irish reprobate should keep you busy sorting fact from fancy for days. “In fact, he comfortably covers both our theories as I believe he was very fond of her.”

  “Both our theories?”

  “The scientist and the spurned lover.”

  Just for a moment, Vicki wondered if her mother had gotten involved with someone who’d refused to surrender to death; wondered if a twisted love had tried to force a return of life and created the travesty of her mother she’d seen at the window. No. Impossible. Henry said there was another one. And besides, she’d have told me if she’d met someone new.

  The way she told you about her heart condition? asked a small voice.

  Dr. Burke watched the emotional storm playing out across her visitor’s face and decided the experiment was in no immediate danger. Although last night’s unfortunate lapse in security had brought Ms. Nelson closer to the truth, when it came right down to it, close didn’t count. And now I’ve given her something new to think about. Dr. Devlin should be in for an interesting interview. When that played out, another wild goose could always be found.

  In the meantime, it was obvious to even the most casual observer—which she most certainly was not—that Marjory Nelson’s daughter rode a precarious balance between rigid control and a complete breakdown. An emotional teeter-totter that could only get in the way of an objective investigation and a situation easy to exploit.

  “It’s amazing,” she murmured, almost as though she were speaking to herself, “how much you resemble your mother.”

  Vicki started. “Me?”

  “You’re taller, of course, and your mother wore no glasses, but the line of your jaw is identical and your mouth moves very much the way hers did.”

  Did . . . Her mother’s face rose up in memory, a sheet of glass between them, eyes wide, mouth silently working.

  “In fact, you have many of the same mannerisms.”

  Vicki desperately tried to banish the horror her mother had become and replace it with an earlier memory. The sheet lifted, the gray and waxy pallor of death, the chemical smell of the hospital morgue . . . In the memory before that, a phone rang on, unanswered.

  “Ms. Nelson? Are you all right?”

  “Fine.” The word was a warning.

  Dr. Burke stood, satisfaction covered with polite regret. “If you have no further questions, I’m afraid I have a list as long as my arm of meetings to attend. I’ll have Mrs. Shaw set up those appointments for you.”

  Vicki shoved her notes into her bag and stood as well, jabbing at her glasses. “Thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth to form the conversational phrases. “And thank you for your time this morning.” Throwing the bag up onto her shoulder, she headed quickly toward the door. She neither knew nor cared if she’d covered all she’d intended to. She wanted out of that office. Of that building. She wanted to be somewhere where no one knew her mother. Where no one could see reflections of the dead in her face.

  “Ms. Nelson? We miss your mother around here.” Intended to be a parting dig at damaged defenses, Dr. Burke found to her surprise that she meant what she was saying and instead of twisting the knife, finished simply with, “The office seems empty without her.”

  Halfway out the door, Vicki turned and acknowledged the observation with a single nod. She couldn’t trust herself to speak and wished, just for that instant, that she’d listened to Celluci and not come here alone.

  Dr. Burke spread her hands and her voice picked up the cadence of a benediction. “I guarantee, she didn’t suffer at the end.”

  “No. I’m sorry, Detective, but none of these photographs are of the Tom Chen that we employed.”

  Celluci pulled the shot of Tom Chen, medical student, out of the pile. “You’re sure about this one?”

  “Quite. Our Mr. Chen had slightly longer hair, more prominent cheekbones, and a completely different eyebrow line. We reshape a lot of faces in this business, Detective,” the younger Mr. Hutchinson continued in response to Celluci’s silent question. “We become used to observing dominant characteristics.”

  “Yeah, I suppose you do.” Celluci slid the grainy black and white photographs back into the large manila envelope. Tom Chen, or whatever his name actually was, was not now attending medical school at Queen’s, nor had he graduated from the program over the last three years.

  Detective Fergusson had been more than willing to call the registrar’s office on campus and suggest they release the pictures.

  “No problem,” the Kingston police officer had declared with complete insincerity. “I’m more than willing to humor ex-Detective Nelson and her wild corpse chase.” The distinctive sound of hot coffee being slurped from a cardboard cup echoed over the line. “You catch the news this morning? Half the fucking force goes out with some kind of spring flu and some asshole starts strangling young lovers. We got a hysterical witness—who’s seen Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ video one too many times, if you ask me—and no suspects. And I don’t need to tell you that the fresher the corpse, the higher the priority. If a phone call will keep your girlfriend happy and off my back while I deal with this new situation, it’s worth the two minutes it’ll take.”

  Celluci’d been tempted to tell him that the two were connected in one final attempt at enlisting law and order against whatever it was that Vicki and Fitzroy were dispensing but at the last minute decided he’d better not. Your murderer is a reanimated corpse, Detective. How do I know? A vampire told me. Kingston had a large psychiatric facility and he had no intention of ending up in it.

  Meanwhile, the search for Igor moved no further ahead.

  “All right, Mr. Hutchinson.” Time to try another angle. “You said that all funeral directors have to serve a four-week observation period at a funeral home before they’re accepted into a training program.”

  The younger Mr. Hutchinson leaned back in his chair. “That’s correct.”

  “Well, where do these observers come from?”

  “From the applicants to the program at Humber College in Toronto.”

  “So this young man, whoever he was, had to have applied to that program?”

  “Oh, yes, and gone through an interview. The Health Sciences people try very hard to weed out unsuitable candidates before they’re placed for observation.”

  Celluci frowned. “So, it was just chance that Ig . . . Tom Chen, for lack of a better name, ended up here?”

  “No, not at all. He asked to come here. Said he’d been impressed by the way we handled the funeral of his aunt some years before and wanted to work with us.” Mr. Hutchinson sighed. “All fabricated, I presume, but at the time we were flattered and agreed to take him on. He was a very pleasant fellow and everyone liked him.”

  “Yeah, well everyone makes a bad call now and then.” Celluci finished scrawling a note to call Humber College, shoved his notebook in his pocket and stood, glad to be leaving. Funeral homes, with their carpets and flowers and tastefully a
rranged furniture gave him the creeps. “I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t suppose you get much opportunity to practice character assessment.”

  Mr. Hutchinson rose as well, his expression stony. “Our services are for the benefit of the living, Detective,” he snapped. “And I assure you, we are quite as capable of character assessment as, say, the police department. Good day.”

  As he had nothing more to ask, Celluci accepted the dismissal. Once outside, he snorted and headed for the nearest bus stop—with the suspect’s transit habits still their only concrete clue, he’d left his car at the apartment building. “Quite as capable of character assessment as the police department,” he repeated, digging for change. “Just a little sensitive there, aren’t we?” Still, he supposed that funeral directors were as sick of stereotypes as, well, police officers, so the comment hadn’t been entirely undeserved.

  Swinging up onto the Johnson Street bus, he glanced back at the seat just in front of the rear door, hoping for a young, Oriental male, eating candy. The seat was empty.

  “Of course it is,” he muttered, sitting in it himself. “Or it would be too easy.”

  “Violent Crimes. Detective-Sergeant Graham.”

  “Why the hell aren’t you out working? Jesus, I can’t take my eyes off you for a second.”

  “Hello, Mike. I miss you, too.”

  Celluci grinned and braced the phone against his shoulder. “Listen, Dave, I need you to do me a favor.”

  On the other end of the line, his partner sighed with enough force to rattle the wires between Toronto and Kingston. “Of course you do. Whey else would you call?”

  “I want you to call Humber College and talk to someone in Health Sciences about a Tom Chen who applied recently to their funeral director’s program.”

  “Humber . . . Health Sciences . . . Tom Chen . . . Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “Everything they know.”

  “About this Chen?”

  “No, about life in general.” Celluci rolled his eyes at his reflection in the etched mirror over the couch. “The name’s an alias, but that shouldn’t make any difference to your inquiries. And I need the info ASAP.”

  The wires rattled again. “Of course you do. How’s she holding up?”

  “Vicki?”

  “No, her mother, asshole.”

  “About as well as can be expected, all things considered.”

  “Yeah. Well . . .” There was a pause while things were considered. “So, you going to be at Vicki’s mother’s place for the next couple of days?”

  Celluci looked around the apartment. “Far as I know. You got the number?”

  “Yeah. I’ll call collect.”

  “Cheap Scots bastard,” Celluci muttered and hung up, smiling. Dave Graham was a good cop and a loyal friend. Except in their dedication to their work, they were nothing alike, and their partnership was both successful and uncomplicated.

  “Uncomplicated; I could use a little of that right now.” Celluci headed for the kitchen and the coffee maker. “Vicki’s dead mother is paying house calls. Some joker who’s equally dead is murdering teenagers. And there’s a vampire in the closet.”

  He froze, a step half taken.

  “A completely helpless vampire in the closet.”

  Even with the door braced from the inside, it would still be so easy to remove his rival. To have Vicki to himself. To let in just enough sunlight . . .

  He finished the step and picked up the coffeepot. Fitzroy was too smart, had lived too long, to be in that closet if he thought he was in any danger. Celluci shook his head at the subtlety of trust and lifted a mug of coffee in salute.

  “Sleep well, you son of a bitch.”

  Rubbing at her temples with both hands, Vicki exhaled noisily. Adrenaline had run out some time before and she was mind-numbingly tired. The physical exhaustion she could cope with—had coped with many times in the past—but emotionally she felt as though she’d spent the day being flayed and then salted.

  Dr. Burke had begun it, with her sudden sympathy, and then Dr. Devlin had finished the job. He had been more than fond of her mother and, still devastated by her death, had, in typical Irish fashion, poured out his grief. Vicki, unable to stop him, had sat dry-eyed while the middle-aged professor railed against the cruelties of fate, told of how universally Marjory Nelson had been liked and respected, and went on in detail about how proud Marjory Nelson had been of her daughter. Vicki knew how to stop him—“Sometimes,” the cadet instructor had told them, “you want to give the person you’re questioning their head. Let them talk about whatever they want, we’ll teach you how to separate the gold from the dross. But sometimes, you have to cut it short and take control—” she just couldn’t do it.

  She didn’t want to hear what a wonderful person her mother had been, how much they’d all depended on her, how much they missed her, but not listening felt like a betrayal. And she’d done enough of that already.

  The box of personal effects she’d taken from the office sat accusingly at the end of the coffee table. She hadn’t been able to do more with it than get it back to the apartment and even that hadn’t been easy. It had weighed a lot more than it looked like it should.

  All at once, she became aware that Celluci had just asked her a question and she had no idea what it had been. “Sorry,” she said, shoving her glasses back into place with enough force to drive the plastic bridge into her forehead.

  He exchanged a look with Henry and although she didn’t catch the content, she didn’t like the possibilities. Separately, she could barely handle them. At this point a united front, on any issue, would be beyond her.

  “I asked,” he repeated levelly, “about Dr. Burke’s grad students. You told us she had some. Any chance they could be doing the work under her supervision?”

  “I doubt it. According to Mrs. Shaw, when I went back for that appointment list, one’s into bacteria, a couple have something to do with computers, and one—and I’m paraphrasing here—is a fuck-up who can’t make up his mind. I’ll . . .” Celluci opened his mouth but she corrected herself before he could speak, “we’ll check them out further tomorrow.”

  Henry sat forward in his chair, his expression one she’d begun to recognize as his hunting face. “So you do suspect Dr. Burke?”

  “I don’t know what I think about Dr. Burke.” Looking back on the interview, all Vicki could hear was the doctor’s voice saying quietly, “It’s amazing how much you resemble your mother.” Which was an irrelevant observation at the best of times and doubly so now; her mother was dead. “She’s got the necessary arrogance, that’s for damned sure, and the intelligence and the background, but all anyone can talk about is what a brilliant administrator she is.” She shrugged and wished she hadn’t; her shoulders felt as though they were balancing lead weights. “Still, until we know she didn’t do it, she stays on the list. I think, though, we can safely ignore Dr. Devlin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he could never have kept the research secret. If he were doing this,” she made the innocuous pronoun sound like a curse, “he wouldn’t be able to keep from telling the world. Besides, I gather he’s a devout Irish Catholic and until recently, they weren’t even keen on autopsies.”

  “He’s also a scientist,” Celluci pointed out. “And he could be acting.”

  “All the world’s a stage,” Henry added quietly, “and we but players on it.”

  Celluci rolled his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

  “That if you do talk to the person responsible, they’re going to lie.”

  “That’s why you build a body of evidence, Fitzroy. To catch the liars. We know more tonight than we did last night and we’ll know more tomorrow than we do now. Eventually the truth will out. Nothing stays hidden forever.”

  We haven’t got forever. Henry wanted to say. Every moment that passes eats into her. How long before there’s nothing left but a cause? “We need a smoking gun,” he said instead.
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br />   Celluci snorted in disbelief. The phrase sounded ridiculous coming from Henry’s mouth. “You have been reading the literature.”

  Henry ignored him. “I’m going to track the other one; the male who killed the teenager. There were too many police around to do it last night. If I find him, I’ll find your mother’s body as well.”

  “And then?” Vicki demanded. “What do we do then?”

  “We give them to Detective Fergusson. Lead him to the laboratory. Let him deal with the . . .”

  “Wait a minute,” Celluci interrupted. “You’re actually suggesting we let the police handle this?”

  “Why not? We have no one to protect this time, except me, and unlike ancient Egyptian gods of darkness or demons summoned up out of hell, mad scientists should fall within the capabilities of the law.”

  Celluci closed his mouth. Wasn’t that his argument?

  “Henry, you can’t go to the police,” Vicki began.

  Henry smiled and cut her off. “I won’t. I’ll deliver the information to you. You’ll deliver it to the police. Detective Fergusson will be so happy to have his murderer, I think he’ll let you be a bit vague as to where and how you found it.”

  Vicki’s lips almost curved. “You know, most guys just give a girl flowers or candy.”

  “Most guys,” Henry agreed.

  The air in the apartment seemed suddenly charged and Celluci felt the hair on his arms rise. Fitzroy’s eyes had darkened and even from across the room he thought he could see Vicki’s reflection gazing out of their depths. The sudden flash of understanding snapped the pencil he held. Neither of them noticed.

  Vampire.

  How often do vampires have to feed?

  Had Fitzroy fed at all since they’d come to Kingston?

  Yeah, well you’re not feeding in front of me, boyo. And you’re not sending me off to never-never land again while you . . . while you . . .

  While you offer her a comfort she won’t take from me.