Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  “They’re parked out front, on the street. I don’t see any cars in the back.”

  “Then go down the back, but be careful. Put the phone back in your shirt. Let me know when you’ve got your feet on the ground.”

  “Okay.”

  Again I waited—always this god-awful waiting, where there was nothing I could do and I couldn’t even say anything to be helpful, because the kid would never hear me, and anyway, I’d only distract him.

  I detected the wet creak of old metal, and bolts that were rusting into place.

  A splash announced his landing, and shortly thereafter he had the phone back up to his face again. “I’m down,” he told me.

  “Right. Now I want you to walk away from the building at a swift but innocuous pace, all the way to the end of the street where the frozen yogurt place is, next to that coffee shop.”

  “Away from the building? But Pepper—”

  “Pepper is either in one of those cars outside the building, or inside it very securely.”

  “And what does that word mean? Inno-something.”

  “Innocuous. It means try not to look like you’re running away. Listen, punk. When you get to the end of the street, I want you to go into that coffee place and buy some hot chocolate.”

  “Are you crazy?” He was on the verge of losing his whisper.

  “And stop whispering,” it occurred to me to tell him. “It makes you look guilty.” Before he could interrupt me again I continued, “Go get some hot chocolate and then, nice and lazy and slow, I want you to stroll back down the street to where their cars are hanging out.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Good, he was catching on. “They don’t know what you look like, do they?”

  “I don’t guess.”

  “Let’s assume they don’t. And let’s also remind ourselves that being a nosy kid isn’t a crime. So go get yourself some hot chocolate and mosey back over to the vehicles. Hang around and listen, if you can. See if you can overhear anything. But keep the phone up to your ear. Pretend like you’re talking to somebody.”

  Suddenly he sounded afraid again. “You’re not going to hang up on me, are you?”

  “I am, in a minute. But only for a minute, while you go get the hot chocolate. I didn’t spring for an expensive phone, bucko. The battery on that thing isn’t going to last all night.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said, and the proximity of his voice to the mike told me he was checking the display.

  “I haven’t heard it beeping low battery, but still you want to conserve the thing. I’m going to go out on a limb and guess you didn’t take the charger when you ran?”

  “Shit,” he complained. “I should’ve thought of it. I should’ve grabbed it.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Only a crazy person would’ve thought that meticulously about evacuating a scene.” By which I meant that I, personally, kept my chargers and all important electronics in my oversized purse-slash-messenger-bag. “It’ll be fine for a little while. Now I’m going to hang up, and I want you to call me back when you’re at the edge of the action, okay?”

  “Got it. And Raylene?”

  “What?”

  “Thanks,” he said before flipping the thing shut.

  I’m not going to lie. It almost gave me a warm fuzzy.

  I exhaled a huge breath—one that I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. As if this elongated gasp were a signal, Adrian came swanning back out of the bedroom (how could he have heard it in there?) and into the dining area, where I was sitting just shy of a fetal position upright. I began to uncurl, letting my legs straighten out on the floor and putting my head in my hands—leaving the cell phone beside me.

  Adrian said, “Dare I ask?”

  Without looking up I said, “Ask away.”

  “What was that about?”

  So I told him. I didn’t tell him everything; I mean, I’m not stupid. I didn’t know him well enough to give him the address of the place or the finer particulars. But I filled him in on the kids, and I made my standard disclaimers regarding my place in their maintenance. I told him about the place that once was a factory, and now was my warehouse, and how it was at right that moment being swarmed over by federal agents—or special forces ops, or CIA dudes, or whatever those guys were. Guys like Peter Desarme.

  Right around the time I’d finished explaining everything I felt like explaining, the phone rang again. I’d forgotten I was holding it, and when it began to yodel and vibrate I nearly had a heart attack, flipping the thing up into the air and catching it—miraculously without hanging up on Domino, who was calling me back.

  “Kid,” I answered, knowing it was him.

  “Hey,” he said in a casual voice that only trembled around the edges, a tiny bit. He was doing good.

  “Where are you now?”

  “Oh, I’m just on my way home, you know how it is,” he told me, which also told me that there were other people within listening distance.

  “Any sign of your sister?” I asked.

  “No, not yet. I’ve checked all the obvious spots, but I can’t find her. And near as I can tell, nobody else has, either.” Still level and cool, and now tempered with hypothetical relief. In the background I heard car engines and men talking, and I detected the drizzling patter of rain—which only made it a night ending in y.

  I did most of the important question-asking-type-talking, since he obviously couldn’t, out there where all the action was. “Were you able to look inside their vehicles?”

  “Pretty much. Nothing to see there.”

  “Good. That’s good. Do you think they could’ve taken her away already?”

  He slurped at something, the hot chocolate I assumed. Or maybe it was a latte with Irish whiskey in it. There really was no telling with that kid. “I doubt it. Man, there sure are a lot of people out here at this hour. And they keep arriving, too.”

  I nodded, as if he could see me or hear my head rattle. “They’re still incoming, and not clearing the scene, that’s what you’re saying.”

  “You got it.”

  Somebody came close, with a gruff “Move along, kid.”

  I could imagine the look Domino gave the speaker, and I didn’t have to imagine his response. “Hey, fuck you, asshole! It’s a public street, I got a right to be here! What’s going on, anyway?”

  “None of your goddamned business, you little shit,” the somebody growled at him.

  I almost laughed. One of these days, Domino may as well change his name to “Little Shit.” But I said to him, “Don’t antagonize anybody, dumb-ass.”

  “Ooh, asshole’s got a baaadge,” he said in a singsong voice.

  “Asshole’s got a pair of handcuffs, too, and a big car over there. You wanna take a ride?”

  “Fuck you,” Domino said again.

  But I had an idea. I said, “Ask him what kind of badge it is.”

  The boy said, “For all I know that badge is a fake, anyway. Doesn’t look like any badge I ever saw.”

  “Good boy,” I whispered.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything. What are you, fifteen? You got any ID?”

  “I don’t need any ID. I’m fifteen,” he lied. He was fourteen, but he could run with it either way. “And my parents don’t care that I’m out, so don’t bother asking to call them.”

  “Maybe I’ll just throw you into the car.”

  “Maybe you can just suck your own dick and flash your fake badge at somebody else, and see if it gets you anywhere. You’re not even a real cop.”

  “I’m worse than a real cop.”

  “What is he—like, a rent-a-cop?” I asked.

  Domino read off the badge, answering both me and his interrogator, “CIA? Like I’d know what a real CIA badge looks like. For all I know you got that thing at Party City.”

  “Are you still talking on that cell phone?” asked the man with the badge.

  “Yes, motherfucker. What are you gonna do about it anyway? You big-ass knob-go
bbling donkey-raping—”

  There was a clatter and a crunch, and the phone went dead.

  I sat there, stupidly holding my own phone up to my ear and listening to a whole lot of nothing. As soon as I realized I was doing this, I folded it up and let my hand drop to the floor. I said, “Wow.”

  Adrian was still there, unobtrusive in the arched doorway that led to the living area. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Not sure,” I confessed. “Probably … well. It’s probably okay,” I told him, thereby telling myself.

  “What happened?”

  “The little shit with the big mouth got his phone taken away.”

  “While he was talking to you?” He sounded worried. “Could they trace the call back to you?”

  “I doubt it.” I should’ve been worried, but I wasn’t. “Domino was doing a good job of acting like a low-life street punk. It wasn’t much of a stretch, I’ll grant you, but he was working it. I don’t think anybody suspected anything except that he was an adolescent douchebag, and I don’t think the officer—or whatever he was—actually took the phone. I think he broke it. Sounded like he smashed it against a wall, or stepped on it.”

  Adrian considered this, and then said, “I don’t know the little shit, but I’ll take your word for it. I guess I have to.”

  Setting the phone down, I said, “There’s no reason for anyone to pick it up and try to put it back together except Domino. It won’t do him any good, but that’s all right.”

  “Don’t you need some means of contacting these kids?”

  I put my head in my hands and rubbed at my temples. “Yes, but I’ll just express them another phone. I keep a PO box down the street; the kids have a key and they know to check it.” The only thing that really worried me was Pepper, but if Domino didn’t see her captured anyplace, it was like I’d said—we might as well just assume that she’d holed up tighter than a turtle’s asshole. She’d come out when the trouble was gone, and she’d calm her brother down, and maybe keep him from doing anything stupid.

  Credit where it was due, the boy had handled things downright admirably.

  I hate to revisit my assumptions; I prefer to let them lie and fester, but one of these days—when I have nothing better to think about—I might get thinking about it and decide there’s an off chance he’s not wholly irredeemable.

  Adrian said, “Okay. Well, whatever. Now what do we do?”

  I picked up the phone and opened it again. “Now we arrange for another disposable phone, call the airline to confirm our tickets, and start packing for Washington, D.C.”

  “Still? You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. And the sooner the better. They’re watching my place, man. They’re watching for me, which means they think there’s a chance that I’m still in Seattle, and they don’t know for certain that I’ve skipped town. We need to hit this guy fast, before he figures out that I made a run for it.”

  11

  Twenty-four hours later we were at the Lincoln Memorial, me and Adrian. Not the most inconspicuous place to gather, no, and we sure as hell weren’t alone. Tourists peppered the big white stairs and tried to make shadow puppets in the spotlights that lit the old guy, seated up there in all his stony glory. Security guards ambled fatly about. Children who really should’ve been in bed by now shrieked and shoved at one another, leading to at least one little girl’s head-crack on the stairs and subsequently to two fighting parents, debating who should’ve been watching her.

  We made a point to dress blandly and refrain from skulking, pretending to take in the sights and occasionally check the walking map of the lawn, as if we really gave a shit. Nobody looked at us twice, not that I noticed.

  Not until I heard the soft clearing of a throat. It could’ve been any throat, cleared for any reason at all, but it wasn’t. It was a signal from Cal, projected from the bottom of the steps—where he stood beside Ian. I’d known it as surely as if he’d sent a text message. You can write that off to my middling psychic abilities or to my expectation that he’d arrive any minute, or you can assume I’m lying, and that’s fine, too.

  I gave them a friendly wave—acting so aggressively normal that it must’ve looked weird, but I couldn’t stop myself. I gestured them up to join us, and within a few seconds they stood before us while the thin nighttime crowds milled around us.

  Ian was as tastefully dressed as always, in expensive and well-fitting clothes plus a slim black cane and the ever-present glasses. Cal could’ve been wearing the exact same thing he’d worn the last time I’d seen him. I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.

  “Ian,” I said, beginning the introductions. “This is Adrian. Adrian, this is Ian and … um … Cal.”

  “A pleasure,” said Ian through lips that were a little too tight to have meant the sentiment, but he did not seem frightened or even angry. Just uncomfortable.

  “Cal is Ian’s assistant,” I explained with a hand-wave indicating that yes, I knew I was being vague, but no, I didn’t intend to be any more precise.

  Adrian said, “Nice to meet you both.” He was every bit as stiff as Ian and even more nervous.

  Everyone stared back and forth awkwardly, except Ian, of course—but I’m pretty sure he would’ve been right there staring awkwardly along with us, if he’d only been able. So I said, “Well!” with too much forced cheer, and then I went on to suggest, “There’s a bar a couple of blocks away—not far, and it’s still a nice part of town, with a fireplace and everything. Let’s adjourn there, shall we?”

  Anything to get the conversation moving along, even if that meant moving us along, too.

  We walked in relative silence except for my vain attempts to get people chatting, which mostly fell on deaf ears. The winter air was cold anyway, and it froze my throat when I tried to breathe or cough sociably, so I gave up and instead of being the conversation instigator, I settled for shepherd. Together, in an unfriendly clot, we found our way to the Revolutionary—a joint that was hopping with posh-looking tourists and overworked civil servants, with a smattering of lobbyists on cell phones.

  I ushered everyone over to a table near the fireplace because I liked the warmth and glow of it, and the blend of orange shadows with flickering yellow light made Ian and I look more alive and less suspicious than usual. Not that we usually looked dead and suspicious, but you know what I mean. Firelight is like Photoshop for the flesh.

  Wait. I already said that about vampirism.

  So I’m redundant. Sue me.

  We all sat down, though Cal looked as if he’d love nothing better than to resume a spot somewhere out of sight rather than hang out with this group of loonies. If by force of habit he usually lurked in the background, tough noogies. He could stay quiet if he wanted, but for the moment, he was stuck with us.

  Wine arrived for me and Ian, and a double whiskey neat for the ghoul. Adrian had a Guinness because I guess he felt like drinking a loaf of bread or something. That’s what it smelled like, anyway.

  Finally we were all settled, served, and left alone, and there was no further excuse to keep us from talking. I broke the ice, since nobody else would.

  “All right, guys,” I opened. “I know this is awkward, but we’re going to have to have a civilized conversation about some uncivilized stuff. Speak in euphemisms if you feel the need, since we’re in public, but there are some things that have to come out into the open.”

  Ian bobbed his head gently, and asked, “Did you bring the paperwork? Do you really have my files?”

  Adrian answered for me. “We have them. I’ve been sitting on them for years.”

  The vampire’s head continued to bob as he took this in. He said, “I understand you had a sister in the program.” It came out with difficulty, and I almost felt bad about having pushed this. But I thought it couldn’t hurt, and maybe it’d even help him to have someone to tell … and it’d definitely help Adrian, hearing about his sister, even if what he heard wasn’t very nice. Without even thinking about it ver
y hard, I trusted Ian not to share anything too jarring.

  Adrian said, “Yes. Her name was Isabelle. Did you know her?”

  “I knew no one by name. And after the first few weeks, I likewise did not know anyone … on sight,” he finished softly.

  “She was … she was quite young,” Adrian tried a different approach. “Sixteen or seventeen, or at least that’s how she would’ve seemed. Since she had become … like you. She would’ve sounded like a girl, still. With an accent,” he said suddenly, as if it’d just occurred to him. “Like mine. But hers was stronger.”

  If I were to guess, I’d say he’d spent some time deliberately uncultivating his own, in order to better hide himself. But I didn’t accuse him of it, in case it was a sensitive subject. And anyway, it was none of my business.

  “Spanish,” Ian murmured.

  “Cuban,” Adrian clarified. “Our mother came over on a raft before we were born.”

  “Such strange stories we have. All of us.” Ian sipped at his wine. He grimaced faintly, but not at the vintage, I didn’t think. And he said, “Please understand, Adrian—I am a vulnerable man in a dangerous position, even now. It is not in my nature to discuss my past and my infirmities with anyone apart from my doctor.”

  Adrian almost cut him off. “But—”

  “But in a case like this,” he carried on, “I suppose I must make an exception. Though I’m not entirely sure what you’d like to know, or what I could possibly tell you.”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “I can’t tell you much; I saw almost nothing. And I never saw her. But I heard her, as you said. And her scent …” His nostrils flared so barely that I could hardly see them move. “It was something like yours. I believe you, when you call her kin.”

  Eager and desperate, and reining it in with some difficulty, Adrian asked, “She was there, with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did they do to her?”

  “I …” Ian hesitated. “I could not say. Most of us there, we were different, as you can guess. Someone, somewhere, had the idea that our abilities could be tapped—and taken. Or at least designed for use in a less … conspicuous person. For example, they wanted my night vision. There was talk of developing a bio-hack that could be introduced to soldiers, to special forces. To men like you once were,” he added quietly.