by Linn Chapel
“Repurposed? What do you mean?”
“I think that your friend, Dr. Hayes, might have been lured to California so that his medical apparatus would be available for experimentation. Someone could be using his lab, tampering with the blood. Thinning it, adding drugs, experimenting with it.”
“But why would they want to change something that works so well?” interrupted Peter.
“Because they don’t want it to work so well. They want the vampire subjects to stay strong, fast, and impervious to death by normal means. All that, and controllable. That’s where the pharmaceuticals come in.”
“You might be onto something,” said Peter in a low voice.
Luke began to pace again. “A room in a half-empty apartment building would make a handy ‘Treatment Center’. The operative who’s working for Margot could administer the doses of altered blood by injection and follow up with the other drugs and tranquilizers. They might be planning for these altered vampires to begin their new lives firmly under the control of human masters, and remain that way.”
Peter frowned. “This scenario doesn’t have any useful role for me,” he observed.
“You’re right. They’d probably force you to donate a sufficient supply of blood to suit their needs and then quietly eliminate you, along with Tressa. They might even go so far as to track me down, too.”
“If any of this is happening, it’s got to be stopped.” Peter’s jaw tightened. “What do we do next?”
“I need some more details. Who was Tressa’s subject? You told me that Ted Johnson singled him out from several potential subjects.”
“He’s an English vampire who goes by the name of Holt.”
Peter went on to sketch out for Luke the whole sorry tale of Tressa’s lapse from protocol and her subsequent meeting with Holt on the following evening. “She never even planted a tracking bead on him. But she promised me to steer clear of him, from now on.” Peter was still angry about the whole business and more determined than ever to protect Tressa from her own poor judgment.
Luke gave him a long look. “This English vampire must be valuable to them in some way. They might have plans to shadow him until they find out where he sleeps and then administer the new drugs to make him cooperative.”
Peter uttered a mirthless laugh. “I’ve met him. Gaining his cooperation could be tricky, even if they manage to drug him.”
“In that case they might just destroy him. He’d know too many of their secrets by that time.” Luke began to pace again, taking another turn around the living room. Then he stopped and added, “But they wouldn’t kill him right away. They’d let him live – for a while.”
“What do you mean?” A sense of foreboding prickled over Peter’s scalp.
“Remember that he’s going to feel feverish and unstable from the dose of Tressa’s blood. With more drugs, they could induce enough aggression in him to stage the killing of an innocent member of the Operation. They’d record it on video, of course. Just think of how easily that would gain them sympathy and continued funding from the feds. Then they’d kill the English vampire.”
A cold chill swept over Peter. “It’d be Tressa. They’d make him murder Tressa,” whispered Peter. “It would look horrifying on video. Just what they’d want.”
Luke stopped pacing and shook Peter by his shoulder to gain his attention. “Bring Tressa here as soon as you can. I’ll run the Bug Catcher on her to see if she’s clean, then we’ll warn her about our suspicions.”
“Maybe none of it will happen.”
“Maybe. But remember the bloated accounts you found. There could be a number of private investors, and investors always expect a return on their money. It would make sense, a whole lot of sense, for altered vampires to be hired out, or maybe even sold.”
“Sold? Like armaments?”
“Like deadly mercenaries.”
Peter ran a hand through his hair. “Who would be the buyers?”
“Military groups overseas. Terrorist organizations,” answered Luke. “Or Big Business, but not legit.”
“Crime rings?”
“You’ve got the picture. Listen, Peter, do you have a security-level account with the Operation?” asked Luke.
“Yes, for sending coded messages.”
“Give me your password,” said Luke. “I’m going to do a little snooping. I’ll let you know what I discover when you come back to Boston. Just be sure to bring Tressa with you.”
Tressa’s memories of the previous night receded like a bad dream as she went about her duties at the hospital that afternoon.
She slipped a pillow into a fresh case and placed it under the head of an elderly man. “There. You’ll be more comfortable now,” she told him soothingly.
The door swung open and Dr. Patterson entered the small room. “Good morning,” he said briskly to the patient. He turned and inclined his head briefly in Tressa’s direction. “Thank you, Tressa, that will be all,” he said, dismissing her in a professional tone.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Patterson,” she responded just as professionally.
Out in the hallway, Tressa exhaled her pent-up breath. Her first interchange with Dr. Patterson since the incident had gone better than she had dared to hope. Filled with relief, she made her way to the nurses’ lounge for lunch.
Just inside the door to the lounge, Tressa pulled up short.
“What’s going on?” she asked uncertainly. Her eyes moved from face to face, seeing everywhere the eager looks and knowing smiles of her co-workers.
Nine
“We want to know everything about that man,” said one of the nurses in a brisk voice, the kind that got results with even the most temperamental of patients. The rest of the nurses in the lounge murmured loudly in agreement.
“What man?” said Tressa unsteadily.
“Mr. Dark and Dangerous,” chimed in Sue Callahan. “The man who looks like he needs a few warning labels, like ‘Caution’ and ‘Too Hot to Handle’!”
The roomful of nurses laughed. Their eyes became even more avid.
Tressa longed to turn around and leave, but she was trapped, for running away would cause even more gossip. “I met him a few nights ago,” she explained, “but we’re not dating.” She tried several times to change the topic but it kept swinging right back to Holt. “Yes, he drove me home two nights ago,” she had to concede. “What’s he like?” she repeated, stalling for time. There had to be something safe to tell them! “He’s opinionated. He doesn’t like modern things.”
At last the ordeal was over. She had eaten only half of her lunch by the time her break was over, but she didn’t care. She wrapped up the remainder and escaped to her round of afternoon duties.
On her way home later that day, she stopped by a store to buy a bouquet of cut flowers for Mrs. Bridges, knowing that it was the lonely woman’s birthday. When Tressa arrived at the nursing home and entered the small room bearing the bouquet, her former patient’s eyes brightened at the sight of the butter-yellow daffodils and pink carnations.
As Tressa arranged the flowers in a vase on the bedside table, she listened to Mrs. Bridges reminisce about her childhood.
“I’m eighty-four years old today, Tressa, but I can only remember what I did when I was a little girl.”
“Tell me some of what you remember.” Tressa took a seat nearby.
“We didn’t have any gadgets, like the children nowadays. I remember jump ropes and sidewalk chalk and marbles. I had my first bicycle when I was seven years old. It was blue with white handlebars. I was so proud of it, Tressa! I rode it all over town.”
Times had changed a lot, Tressa mused. Nobody could ride a bike around the city these days, not with all the traffic.
She had enough time to read to Mrs. Bridges that day, so she found one of the gardening magazines the elderly woman enjoyed. Leafing through it, Tressa’s attention was caught by a feature article with full-page photos and information about the historic gardens of England.
S
he turned the colorful pages of photography with bated breath, but the strange garden she had seen in her dreamscape did not appear in any of the photos. And yet... the paths and neat hedges and arbors that filled the pages of the magazine article reminded her strongly of that mysterious dreamscape garden. She was certain it would lie somewhere in England – if it were a real place.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she began to read the feature article aloud, stopping every now and then to show Mrs. Bridges some of the pictures. But as she read, her thoughts began to drift.
The scent of roses and lavender came back to her. She could remember the shock she had felt when she had spotted Holt pushing her on the white swing, dressed in historic clothes.
Somehow Tressa’s voice continued to read aloud while her thoughts spun on. She found herself wondering what it would have been like to live in England two hundred years ago. Would she have lived in poverty, or would she have dressed in beautiful gowns and dined by candlelight?
Would she have met Holt himself at some ball or evening soiree – before he was turned?
But there would have been other young women present, and it wasn’t hard to imagine some of them acting in a bold and flirtatious way. Who wouldn’t want to capture the attention of the handsome and dashing heir?
As for herself, she would have hovered at the edge of the dance floor, trying to avoid the attention of the other men. She would have looked lovely dressed up in a ballgown, no doubt, but she would have been just the same as she was now – as quiet and unexciting as ever. Would Holt have noticed her?
Would he have courted her?
She had been trying very hard for days not to think about the things Holt had whispered when he thought she couldn’t hear, but they came back to her now.
You should have known how much I wanted to pull you into my arms and kiss you.
But the urge to kiss her must have been very fleeting, because nothing remotely close to that had ever taken place while they were together. Any attraction Holt had felt for her must have been a momentary impulse born of his long years of loneliness and despair.
“Tressa, dear!” The thin voice of Mrs. Bridges broke into her thoughts. “Why did you stop reading?”
“I’m sorry,” Tressa apologized. “I was thinking of something else.” She finished the article, keeping her mind firmly on the page.
Later, when she arrived home, she took a careful look up and down the street as she stepped from her car. Dark shadows were beginning to gather in the nooks and doorways, but she could see no sign of a thin figure with pale, spikey hair.
Maybe Holt had found some way to intimidate Stix for good before leaving for London.
The thought of Holt’s imminent journey made her spirits droop. Listlessly, she unlocked the entrance door and passed into the foyer of her apartment building where she opened her mailbox to retrieve the contents. One of the pieces of mail inside the box was different from the others, she noticed. It was a formal white envelope, and she pulled it out right away.
Miss Theresa Newman had been handwritten across the envelope in vigorous cursive. Her address followed below in the same elegant, slanted letters.
There was no return address, but there was no doubt who had sent the letter. That vigorous, antique handwriting could only belong to Holt.
Was he confirming his plan to pick her up at the hospital Wednesday night? Most people would call on a phone, but then again, Holt was not like everyone else.
She traced a finger over the letters of her name, smiling to herself. No matter what she found inside the envelope, his handwriting was something of Holt that she could keep. She’d have something tangible after all, something that she could bring out later, when he was gone.
She passed quickly up the stairs to her apartment where she opened the envelope at once. Inside, more of the elegant, slanted cursive filled a page of heavy writing paper.
Dear Tressa,
Would you care to attend a performance at the Willoughby Theatre tonight? A tenor will be singing a promising program of arias. I’ll arrive at your place at seven-thirty tonight to learn your answer.
Yours as ever, Holt
She set the letter down, feeling a little breathless. Then she changed out of her white uniform and left her apartment to make her way on foot to the nearby market, where she bought some more of the Abbey Ale that had met with Holt’s approval.
Arriving home, she stored the bottles in her refrigerator. She was about to start cooking a quick dinner for herself when she heard a noise at her door. She stopped to listen, and tensed as the bolt rasped.
Her heart turned over with sudden anxiety. It was too early for Holt to arrive! She wondered if Stix had managed to steal the spare key she had given to Holt.
She fumbled in the cupboard for the box of matches and a candle, ready to use fire again for protection, but then a familiar voice called out her name.
It was Peter, entering with his own spare key, she realized. She should have remembered her brother was in the habit of dropping by her place at least once a week in search of homemade food.
Shaky with relief, she put the matches and candle away and went to greet him.
Although Peter usually headed straight for the kitchen, this evening he didn’t. His expression seemed more worried than hungry, in fact. Something had to be on his mind.
Whatever it was, she had to find a way to get rid of him before Holt arrived.
“I just dropped by to remind you about volunteering at my studio. I’ll write you a note so that you don’t forget.” Peter turned toward her desk. “Where do you keep your notepaper?”
Tressa’s eyes widened in alarm, for she had left Holt’s letter lying on the desk in plain view.
“Peter, there’s a notepad in the kitchen,” she quickly answered. There were plenty of writing supplies in her desk drawer as well, but at all costs she had to keep Peter from seeing Holt’s letter. Steering Peter into the kitchen, she found pen and paper for him, and once he had become occupied with the writing of his note, she slipped back to her desk and hid Holt’s letter and envelope under a book.
On her return to the kitchen, Peter handed her his note. As Tressa skimmed the lines, a chill came over her, for the note wasn’t about volunteering at his studio at all.
I came here to give you a warning. Your apartment might be bugged, so I’m going to write everything down.
I went to Boston yesterday to see Luke. He has some ideas about what’s gone wrong with the Operation. I’ll bring you to Boston in a few days so that he can tell you more.
Just stay away from Holt. There could be operatives searching for him so that they can drug him. There’s more at stake than you know.
Tressa looked up at Peter. He looked steadily back at her with a furrowed brow. A sense of foreboding filled her.
Quickly she took up the pen and added more words underneath Peter’s, describing for him the tablets in the unmarked brown bottle.
Peter wrote back:
Give me the bottle. I’ll ask Michael to test the tablets when he gets back from California.
She retrieved the bottle from the bathroom and handed it to Peter. Her brother looked it over carefully and slipped it into his pocket, along with the notepaper containing their messages to each other.
“I can’t stay for dinner,” Peter said aloud. “I’ve got to leave now. Gerry’s meeting me at my studio, tonight. He’s bringing some take-out for us to eat.”
Tressa felt a surge of relief pass through her. She had been trying to think up a way to hurry Peter’s departure, but now there’d be no need.
“I’ll just take something to drink with me,” he added, turning toward the refrigerator.
Tressa suddenly remembered the bottles of Abbey Ale chilling on a shelf inside the refrigerator. She never stocked ale or beer for herself – Peter was certain to be suspicious.
She flew past Peter to the refrigerator. “I’ll get it for you.”
Reaching for a bottle
of spring water, she quickly closed the refrigerator door and handed Peter the bottle with a helpful smile.
He thanked her and made his way to the door. “Don’t forget you’re supposed to show up at my studio tomorrow night, Tressa.”
“I won’t forget.”
She closed the door after him, bolted it, and checked the time. An hour remained before Holt was to arrive.
Her nerves were still pinging with tension from Peter’s unannounced visit as she set about making a simple dinner for herself. She felt guilty about her response to Peter’s warning, for she had no intention of altering her plans for the evening.
She consoled herself with the thought that she’d only be in Holt’s company for a few hours tonight. As for Wednesday night, their time together would likely be even shorter.
Whatever was happening behind the scenes in the Operation, it seemed to be happening slowly, one strange incident at a time... too slowly for anything dangerous to happen to her in less than a week.
Entering her bedroom, she lay down on the bed and tried to calm her spinning thoughts before Holt arrived, but after twenty minutes she felt as nervous as ever, so she closed her eyes and prepared herself to enter a dreamscape.
It still troubled her that something had gone wrong with her recent dreamscapes, but if she were careful to make a fresh, new scene without any fog or rivers – or gardens – she was bound to be safe from more intrusions.
Deciding on a tropical scene this time, she painted bright and vivid colors and forms all about her. Soon she was in a tropical forest, with the drip of rainwater falling from the leaves overhead and the fragrance of jasmine hovering in the humid air.
Her footsteps carried her along a narrow path through the lush undergrowth. Orchids peeked at her from wet spear-shaped leaves, their petals glowing brilliant orange, the throat of each flower splotched with violet.
Soon she emerged from the forest to stand at the top of a steep embankment. Below her stretched a crescent of pure white sand. Blue water rippled away to a far horizon, where the evening sky met the sea in a pale band of fading light. It would be nighttime soon.