by C. T. Adams
He left the light off, but sufficient sunlight found its way through the blinds.
As I performed a heel-to-toe, straight line walk that reminded me of a roadside DUI test, I asked, “Have you ever finished off that bottle of The Macallan?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I keep it in my desk for special occasions. It was eighteen years old when you gave it to me, and will probably make it another eighteen before I finish it. Every sip is bottled joy, so I refuse to waste it.” He motioned for me to stop walking and stepped forward with a small penlight.
He flicked the light into my eyes as I stared straight ahead. “So, have you learned anything new about the Thrall that you can share?” I wasn’t surprised at the subject of conversation. Research into the effects of the Thrall parasite is both his job and his passion. I know he likes me as a person, but even that is overshadowed by his endless curiosity about my “link” to the creatures he spends his life studying.
“Nope. I’ve tried to avoid them.”
He stopped in mid-flick and stared at me very seriously. “That’s stupid, Kate. You should always know your enemy.”
Part of me knew MacDougal was right. I should have spent these years learning as much as I could about them. But the other part had wanted to pretend that if I ignored them, they’d go away. Denial is more than de river in Egypt.
I took a deep breath and thought about the call from Dylan and the look on Monica’s face. I shook my head. It hurt. A lot. Damn it.
“Okay, okay. So enlighten me with your wealth of knowledge.” The words sounded cranky, but MacDougal ignored the tone. He moved behind me and began to lecture as he checked the range of motion of my head.
“Well, as you know, the Thrall have existed since the dawn of time. They’ve evolved over the millennia from the equivalent of a tapeworm to become a highly intelligent parasitic species with a unique culture and language. Does this hurt?” he asked, pressing firmly on my abdomen where the seat belt had crossed me. I shook my head no so he continued. He knows Edna doesn’t have shoulder belts so he didn’t bother to check there.
“We’ve learned since last time we talked that they are extremely sensitive to damage to the Host. This is apparently because the primary ganglia actually fuses to the Host’s spinal cord.”
Hey, that was new. “So a gunshot or knife wound to the Host’s back will hurt the Thrall?”
Dr. MacDougal nodded. “And damage to the Thrall, such as an injury to a feeding tube in the mouth or a blow to the nesting site at the base of the skull will stun the Host into a comatose-like state.
I pursed my lips. “Is that why all the attempts to operate and remove the parasite have killed the Host?”
“Precisely. It’s the same with drugs. Anything sufficient to kill the Thrall will kill the Host. It’s only recently that we’ve learned that the Thrall’s body actually merges with and replaces human brain tissue. When the parasite grows too big, the hypothalamus is destroyed and the Host dies. The usual life span seems to be about three to four years. Your friend Monica is a notable exception.”
He reached up and ran cool fingers over my forehead, searching for lumps or swelling. His probing at the back of my head produced a quick flash of pain. He saw my reaction and then carefully moved to my jaw. I reached up and felt the sore spot. It wasn’t much of a lump, but it was certainly tender. There was a clicking sound as he moved the jaw back and forth.
“Make an appointment with your dentist,” he commented. “You’re a little out of alignment. Could give you headaches and change your bite pattern.”
“Anything else new on the research front?” I changed the subject away from a possible dental visit. Not my favorite place.
He ignored the question, stepped away and dug in his pocket for a moment. He withdrew a ring of keys and selected one. “I’ve got something here that will take care of the swelling and concussion.”
The key opened a cabinet on the wall and he removed a large white plastic bottle. “Take two now and one tonight with food, and again for the next two days. I’ll write up a prescription that you can fill at your normal pharmacy.”
I glanced at the pair of red and white capsules he dropped in my hand, and raised a leery brow. “They have drugs to get rid of a concussion now?”
He smiled and handed me a plastic bottle of water from the little refrigerator on the countertop and I popped the pills. “That’s the nice thing about the best minds in the world researching the effects of the Thrall. We’ve learned a lot about head injuries since you played ball.” My stomach took that moment to comment on the word “food.” He glanced down at the sharp rumble.
“And I mean with food, Kate. You don’t eat nearly as often as you should. Go to see your old chiropractor if he’s still practicing, too. This looks about the same as the knock you took in your last game, so your back’s probably out of place. I’ll file a report with the police. But I want you to take the usual precautions.”
He handed me a printed leaflet from the counter that discussed head injuries. While I read what I already knew, he scribbled on a pad. “If you experience any dizziness, increased thirst or if you still have a headache in twenty-four hours, give Joe a call.”
I sniffed in amusement. “Calling my brother gives me a headache.”
“And you him.” MacDougal chuckled for a moment, handed me the square of paper with an unreadable scrawl that I presumed would mean something to the pharmacist, and then changed the subject back to his personal obsession.
“You asked about my research. I think I’ve found out something very valuable that would be of interest to you. Someday it could help Bryan.”
That caught my attention. I moved to sit down on the couch.
“Just by accident, I’ve discovered that EKG patterns of drug zombies like Bryan are identical to those of Hosts.”
I gave him what must have been a quizzical look. “What does that mean? That the Thrall are somehow responsible for the zombies?”
“Not at all. But it may mean that improperly prepared Eden, which causes the zombie-like state in its junkies, is similar in composition to the yolk of the Thrall egg which enslaves the Hosts. It’s just a theory, but I’m putting together a grant application to study it.”
Interesting as the conversation was, my stomach took the opportunity to remind me, again, how hungry I was. The rumble was loud enough that MacDougal let out a low growl. I shrugged but blushed.
“Sorry. I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”
He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. “Like I said earlier, take the pills with food. Go—eat.”
I grinned. “Yep. Food and then bed. That’s second on the short list.”
He shook his head and gave me a stern look. “Not with that head injury. You need to call someone to sit with you—or at least set the alarm and wake up every hour until the medication kicks in.” I stepped out into the hallway through the door he held open for me. I immediately felt the familiar tickle and buzzing in my head. It was almost dawn. Normally the hive activity would be winding down. The fact that they weren’t meant something was going on. It was a forcible reminder that MacDougal had been right about more than the head injury.
Apparently, ignoring the Thrall was no longer an option.
3
The sun was past the horizon by the time I reached LoDo. The orange brilliance that chased away the night struck the mirror and caught me right in the eyes. I had to flip the rearview to night mode, which meant I couldn’t see cars behind me very well, and the lancing pain I got every time I turned my head made me want to scream.
Gee, it wasn’t even eight o’clock, and the day already sucked.
Traffic downtown was moving at a crawl. I can remember a time when there was almost no traffic in the early hours of the morning. That time is long gone. The Denver area is growing faster than the city facilities can support it.
The long, slow drive gave me far too much time to think about things I’d rather not have cont
emplated. Dylan Shea was at the top of that list. But I didn’t have enough information to make a decision about Dylan. Better to think of something else.
Probably because of the conversation with MacDougal, my thoughts were of my brother Bryan. I originally became a courier because I wanted to travel. Be careful what you wish for. I now spend the bulk of my life in foreign countries. But I’m good at the job, and it pays well. I need to make good money to pay my share of the costs for Bryan’s care.
I fought down the wave of hurt and anger that threatened to overwhelm me. My nose and eyes burned for a moment until I slapped myself sharply on the cheek. Don’t knock it—it works. I can’t afford to cry while driving.
Bryan had been the best and brightest of our family. Captain of the football team; class valedictorian. Why in the hell he’d gotten involved in drugs, especially something so horrible as Eden, is beyond me. It breaks my heart to look into those vacant green eyes and realize that he doesn’t recognize me, Joe, or anyone else. No glimmer of intelligence is left. He does what he’s told if the commands are simple enough. Eden zombies have even less will than the Herd. He eats because Mike tells him to. He sweeps up the church and helps with the lifting in exchange for food, shelter and protection. Between them, Michael and his small staff keep Bryan and the others from wandering off and either starving to death or getting run over in traffic.
I took the highway exit that goes past Coors Field. Downtown was deep in shadows, still and cool. The open window let in a chill breeze that was filled with city smells. I love city smells. Cold steel, exhaust and brewing coffee, with a hint of morning dew. I slowly calmed down. Drivers racing to work cut me off more than once but I was just too exhausted to cuss them out. Now that the adrenaline and caffeine were both gone my entire body felt leaden. I turned the corner, stopped and entered my code on the keypad. A metal grate rose and I drove down the ramp to the parking area beneath my building. It was good to be home.
I own a converted factory, a four-story red brick building, with huge multi-paned windows. I bought it with my inheritance and the last of the volleyball money, back when the neighborhood was bad. The price was reasonable enough for an injured pro beach volleyball player to afford, and that’s saying something.
When they moved in Coors Field, Six Flags, and the Pepsi Can—oops, I mean the Pepsi Center, the neighborhood became upscale and expensive. Now the place is worth a for tune. Renovating it helped me get through the pain and anger of Dylan leaving me for Amanda.
Joe is probably right that I should either sell the units as condos or raise the rents. But I love the place and want to get in tenants who will stay forever and love it too.
One of the biggest selling points for this particular building was that it had parking. The previous owner had been foresighted enough to convert part of the basement. It only has six spaces. There will be one for each of the other tenants, plus one for a guest. As the owner, I take two. One for Edna, and one for my motorcycle.
I watched in the rearview mirror to make sure no one tried to sneak under the gate as it came down. It was just that sort of a day.
The grate clanked as it hit the ground, and I pulled the truck forward into its usual slot. I didn’t feel like unpacking right now, so I left the bags in the cab and locked up. I felt the wave of exhaustion flood my muscles and make them ache. All I wanted was to get up to my apartment, grab some food and rest.
When I want exercise, I take the stairs. They’re narrow and steep, guaranteed to give me a great workout. Not this morning. I wasn’t taking one extra step I didn’t have to. Mornings like this were why I kept both elevators during the renovations.
The freight lift that opens into the garage is a massive, fully functional relic of the industrial age. It’s noisy and it’s ugly, but it works. I got used to it while hauling things upstairs during the remodel of my apartment. The freight elevator is now walled off on every floor but mine.
The elevator in the lobby is small and elegantly decorative with ornate brass that matches the kick plates on the door. I’m sure the tenants will love it. But, perversely, I like this one better.
My body felt leaden. It was almost too much effort just to climb out of the truck. But I was alive, and I was home. I closed the door of the truck and started across the parking area. My footfalls on the concrete echoed off of the brick walls. I could hear the street sounds through the grate behind me. There was a long honk and a screech of tires. I held my breath for a moment and waited for an impact. Nothing. Another accident narrowly avoided.
I made it to the elevator without meeting another person. As soon as I got upstairs I planned to lock the door, turn off the elevator and collapse in bed after some food. I don’t usually turn off the elevator, but I was feeling more than a little paranoid. My mind kept repeating the same thing over and over—I’m Not Prey. That means they’re supposed to leave me alone or issue a one-on-one challenge—as if by repetition I could undo the events of this morning. I couldn’t, and I knew it. But I was afraid enough that I was only a half-step away from panic. My home was supposed to be off limits, but what if all the rules changed? I reminded myself that Monica shouldn’t know where I live. I’m unlisted and keep a low profile—but I couldn’t be sure. Dylan shouldn’t have had my telephone number. We haven’t spoken since I left my old apartment. The fact that he had tracked it down, or gotten it from someone I knew was unnerving. If he could get the number, there was a good possibility he, and they, had the address. Shit.
The elevator took me smoothly but noisily up to my apartment. I pulled open the reinforced gate and stepped into the foyer of my apartment. I had thirty seconds to shut down the alarm system, so I hurried across the kitchen to where the controls are discreetly mounted on the wall next to the fridge and entered the code.
Then, before I could forget, I grabbed the spare key to the elevator out of my junk drawer. I’d given Joe my copy of the elevator key and the pass code for the system ages ago so he could take care of the plants when I’m away on business. I was beginning to think that had been a mistake, but in the meantime I’d use the spare. I glanced at the answering machine next to the phone on my way back to the lift. There were four new messages, but judging from the small amount of tape still showing through the window, Joe hadn’t managed to erase the calls he had heard.
But first I needed to unwind. I turned the key and heard the elevator lock “snick” into place. The tension in my shoulders relaxed a bit.
It was good to be home. My apartment takes up what was once the entire third and fourth floors of the building. I left the red brick walls mostly unadorned; the only exception is a six foot framed coat of arms with the Reilly family history that has a place of honor on the north wall.
The only interior wall is on the lower floor where a set of wide steps curve up to the bedroom loft. The wall’s painted a pale peach. The walk-in coat closet and downstairs bathroom are behind it. The north and south walls have no windows, but the east and west walls more than make up for it. The thick rippled glass of the old factory windows seems to capture rainbows and then spray them across the room. I love to lie on the floor and watch the colors dance across my skin as the sun sets behind the mountains. They’re not energy efficient, but I like them. So do the plants—the living room is part jungle.
I walked directly into a large living room with a ceiling that is open to both floors. Industrial size ceiling fans circulate the air, making the custom vertical blinds rattle sharply if the setting is on high. Joe had left the blinds open when he watered the plants, and the sunlight streaming into the living area was almost blinding. I crossed over to the wall by the entertainment center and hit the switch for the motor that would close them slightly. I hit the button to rewind the tape on the machine, and then straightened one of the picture frames on my way back to the kitchen.
I keep all of my important pictures on the wall above my stereo system. They’re all different shapes and sizes, with a variety of frames. It gives it an eclec
tic look that contrasts the smooth clean lines of the curving staircase that leads to the open loft I use for my bedroom.
I opened the fridge. It was achingly empty. Only a half-empty carton of eggs, a partial stick of butter and a six-pack of bottled water. My trip had been planned, so I hadn’t bothered to go grocery shopping before I left. There was more in the freezer, but I didn’t have the patience to wait for something to thaw.
Beep! “Kate, hey . . . um, well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” I recognized Chuck’s voice. He’s my brand new tenant in 2B, right underneath my apartment. He’s a cop on the Denver force. I pulled the egg carton from the fridge and unhooked one of the copper-bottomed fry pans from the rack on the wall. I flicked the switch to open the gas jets and put the skillet on to heat. I didn’t really need to hear any more bad news, but with Chuck it probably just meant he’d lost the lease I gave him to sign. Not critical, but a pain.
Excitement filled his voice. “The third time was a charm! You were right. I passed my Detective test yesterday. I really appreciate you taking the time to go over the materials with me. It really helped.” Now his voice was nervous, filled with worried sighs. “Which is why it’s so hard to tell you—”
I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to watch the boot drop on my head. “Actually, it’s good news, but I know you’ve been strapped for cash. I got offered a slot on the Fort Collins squad, as a full detective. The guy who’s leaving got a promotion and is going to Boston. He, urn, said I could sublet his apartment until the lease expires. I hate to, Kate—I really do, but it’s a hell of a drive from here to Fort Collins every day. I won’t be able to take the apartment, and I feel just rotten about it. I know I promised.”
I rubbed my temples with tired fingers and angrily grabbed a plastic spatula to turn the eggs. He was right, it was good news. And he was also right that the drive would be hell. It’s over an hour on a good day. I was happy for him . . . sort of.