Kitty Goes to Washington kn-2 Read online

  In the same calm voice I recognized from a half-dozen phone calls, he said, "You're not what I expected."

  I was taken aback. "What did you expect?"

  "Someone older, I think. More experienced." I wasn't sure if he intended that as a compliment or a mere statement of fact.

  "You don't have to be old to have experience, Doctor." And what did he know about it? "Come on back and I'll show you the studio."

  I made introductions all around. I tried to put Flemming at ease; he seemed nervous, glancing over his shoulder, studying the station staff as if filing them away in some mental classification system for later reference. I wasn't sure if that was his academic nature or his government background at work. He moved stiffly, taking the seat I offered him like he expected it to slide out from under him. The guy was probably nervous in his own living room. Maybe he was relaxed, and this was how he always acted.

  I showed him the headphones and mike, found my own headset, and leaned back in my chair, finally in my element.

  The sound guy counted down through the booth window, and the first guitar chords of the show's theme song—Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising"—cued up. It didn't matter how many different stations I did the show from, this moment always felt the same: it was mine. I had the mike, I was in control, and as long as that on air sign stayed lit, I called the shots. Until something went horribly wrong, of course. I could usually get through the introduction without having a crisis.

  "Good evening. This is The Midnight Hour, the show that isn't afraid of the dark or the creatures who live there. I'm Kitty Norville, your charming hostess.

  "I have as my very special guest this evening Dr. Paul Flemming. As you may or may not know, a little over a month ago Dr. Flemming held a press conference that announced scientific recognition of what used to be considered mythical, supernatural forms of human beings. Vampires, werewolves—you know, people like me. He has an M.D. from Columbia University, a Ph.D. in epidemiology from Johns Hopkins, and for the last five years has headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Welcome, Dr. Flemming."

  "Thank you," he said, managing to sound calm despite the anxious way he perched at the edge of his seat, like he was getting ready to run when the mortars started dropping.

  "Dr. Flemming. The Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology. Am I correct in stating that this is a government-funded organization dedicated to the study of what I believe you've called alternate forms of human beings? Vampires, werewolves, et cetera?"

  "Only in the simplest terms. The nature of the research was not always explicitly stated."

  "You couldn't exactly put down 'Give me money for werewolves,' could you?"

  "Ah, no," he said, giving me the tiniest smile.

  "So this was a secret government research program."

  "I don't know that I'd go that far. I don't want to enter the realm of conspiracy theory. The Center's findings were always available."

  "But in the most obscure outlets. No attention was drawn to a potentially explosive area of research. I would have thought, as part of this research team, you'd have wanted to announce your findings a lot sooner."

  "It's not so simple. You can appreciate that we risked a great amount of criticism if we drew too much attention before we were ready. We needed to have data in hand, and a good potential of public support. Otherwise we would have been relegated to the back pages of the annals of bad science."

  "In your mind, this is clearly a scientific endeavor."

  "Of course. The best way to approach any line of inquiry is through the scientific method."

  I was quite fond of postmodern literary analysis myself, as a line of inquiry. "What drew you to the scientific study of a subject that most people are all too happy to dismiss as folklore?"

  "So many legends have a seed of truth. In many cases, that seed of truth persists, even in the face of great skepticism. The existence of a real-life King Arthur for example. How many legitimate historical and archaeological investigations have been inspired by Arthurian literature? Vampire and shape-shifter legends exist all over the world, and I've always been struck by the similarities. I simply pursued the seeds of truth at their core."

  I said, "I read a book once about how many vampire mythologies might have grown out of primitive burial practices and superstitions—bloated corpses bursting out of shallow graves with drops of blood on their mouths, as if they'd been feeding. That sort of thing. By the same token, some scholars traced werewolf legends to actual medical conditions marked by excessive hair growth, or psychological disorders that caused periodic animalistic, berserker-type behavior. That's where scientific inquiry into these subjects usually leads: to rationalizations. What told you that there was something real behind it all?" I was fishing for a personal anecdote. He'd had a run-in with a were-dingo as a small child and it changed him forever, or something.

  "I suppose I've always appreciated a good mystery," he said.

  "But there are so many other mysteries for a medical doctor to unravel. Like a cure for cancer. Surefire weight loss on a diet of chocolate ice cream."

  "Maybe I wanted to break new ground."

  "Why now? Why last month's press conference? Why draw attention to your research at this point and not earlier?"

  He shrugged and began obviously fidgeting—wringing his hands, adjusting his seat. I felt a little thrill—was I getting to him? Was I making him squirm? Maybe he was just shifting his position on the chair.

  "Ideally, a complete report would have been published in a respected journal, making all our findings public. But this isn't always an ideal world. Members of Congress began taking an interest, and if Congress wants to ask questions, who am I to argue? I wanted everyone to be clear that this project isn't shrouded in secrecy."

  Could have fooled me. In a rare show of restraint I didn't say that. I had to be nice; wouldn't do any good to totally alienate my only source of information.

  "What do you ultimately hope to accomplish with the Center?"

  "To expand the boundaries of knowledge. Why embark on any scientific endeavor?"

  "The quest for truth."

  "It's what we're all trying to accomplish, isn't it?"

  "In my experience, this particular subject evokes a lot of strong emotion. People vehemently believe in the existence of vampires, or they don't. If they do, they firmly believe vampires are evil, or they're simply victims of a rare disease. Where does this emotion, these strong beliefs, fit into your investigations?"

  "We approach this subject only from the standpoint of fact. What can be measured."

  "So if I asked what you believe—"

  "I think you know what I believe: I'm studying diseases that can be quantified."

  This was starting to sound circular. And dull. I should have known that Flemming wouldn't be an ideal interviewee. Every time I'd ever talked to him, he'd been evasive. I'd really have to work to draw him out.

  "Tell me how you felt the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes."

  Until that moment, he hadn't looked at me. That was pretty normal; there was a lot in a studio booth to distract a newcomer: dials, lights, and buttons. It was natural to look at what you spoke to. People tended to look at the foam head of the microphone.

  But now he looked at me, and I looked back, brows raised, urging him on. His gaze was narrow, inquiring, studying me. Like he'd just seen me for the first time, or seen me in a new light. Like I was suddenly one of the subjects in his study, and he was holding me up against the statistics he'd collected.

  It was a challenging stare. He smelled totally human, a little bit of sweat, a little bit of wool from his jacket, not a touch of supernatural about him. But I had a sudden urge to growl a warning.

  "I don't see how that's relevant," he said.

  "Of course it isn't relevant, but this show is supposed to be entertaining. I'm curious. How about a cold hard fact: when was the first time you looked a werewolf in the eyes?"
r />   "I suppose it would have been about fifteen years ago."

  "This was before you started working with the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology?"

  "Yes. I was in the middle of a pathology residency in New York. We'd gotten an anomalous blood sample from a victim of a car accident. The report from the emergency room was horrendous—crushed rib cage, collapsed lungs, ruptured organs. The man shouldn't have survived, but he did. Somehow they patched him up. I was supposed to be looking for drug intoxication, blood alcohol levels. I didn't find anything like that, but the white blood cell count was abnormal for a sample with no other sign of disease or infection. I went to see this patient in the ICU the next day, to draw another sample and check for any conditions that might have accounted for the anomaly. He wasn't there. He'd been moved out of the ICU, because two days after this terrible accident, he was sitting up, off the ventilator, off oxygen, like he'd just had a concussion or something. I remember looking at his chart, then looking up at him, my mouth open with shock. And he smiled. Almost like he wanted to burst out laughing. He seemed to be daring me to figure out what had happened. I didn't know what he was at the time, but I'll never forget that look in his eyes. He was the only one who wasn't shocked that he was still alive. I never forgot that look. It made me realize that for all my knowledge, for all my studies and abilities, there was a whole world out there that I knew nothing about."

  "And the next time you saw that look"—the challenge, the call to prove one's dominance, like the one I'd just given him—"you recognized it."

  "That's right."

  "Did you ever find out more about him? Did he ever tell you what he was?"

  "No. He checked himself out of the hospital the next day. He didn't have health insurance, so I couldn't track him. He probably didn't think he needed it."

  I'd seen werewolves die. It took ripping their hearts out, tearing their heads off, or poisoning them with silver.

  "You wanted to find out how he'd survived. How his wounds had healed so quickly."

  "Of course."

  "Is that as far as your research goes? You mentioned once the possibility of a cure."

  "Every scientist who studies a disease wants to find the cure for it. But we don't even understand these diseases yet. Finding a cure may be some time off, and I don't want to raise any hopes."

  "How close are you to understanding them? I've heard every kind of theory about what causes them, from viral DNA to unbalanced humors."

  "That's just it, the most interesting feature of these diseases is that they don't act like diseases. Yes, they're infectious, they alter the body from its natural form. But far from causing damage or sickness, they actually make their victims stronger. In the case of vampirism, the disease grants near immortality, with relatively innocuous side effects."

  He called the need to drink human blood an innocuous side effect?

  He continued. "To learn the secret of how that happens would be a fantastic discovery."

  "You're talking about medical applications." He hesitated again, folding his hands on the table in front of him and visibly reining back his enthusiasm. "As I said, I don't want to raise any hopes. We've barely begun to scratch the surface of this field of study."

  I had a feeling that was all I was going to get out of him.

  "Okay, I'm going to open the lines for calls now. Do you have any questions for the good doctor—"

  His eyes bugged out, like I'd pulled out a gun and pointed it at him. Surely he knew I'd be taking questions from listeners.

  Shaking his head, he said, "I'd rather not answer questions from the public."

  Um, problem? "I'm the public," I said. "You answered my questions."

  "No, not like this," he said. He put down the headset and pushed his chair away from the table. "I'm sorry."

  Liz, Wes, and the sound guy stared through the booth window, helpless to stop him as he set his shoulders and rushed out of the room.

  "Wait, Doctor—" I stood to go after him. Who did that bastard think he was, walking out on me? The wire trailing from my headset tugged at me. The show, I couldn't leave the show. Damn.

  I settled back into my seat. I had to talk quick to cover up the silence. "I'm sorry, it looks like Dr. Flemming has urgent business elsewhere and won't be able to answer your questions. But I'm still here, and ready for the first call of the evening. Hello, Brancy from Portland…"

  The Senate hearings were scheduled to start Monday, but I drove into D.C. proper Saturday evening. I had reservations at a hotel close to the Capitol, and within walking distance of many of the tourist attractions. I'd never been to the city. I saw no reason not to make a vacation out of this. I wanted to see the Smithsonian, dammit.

  It was hard to drive and keep my eyes on the road, not craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the Lincoln Memorial. I'd checked a map; it had to be close. I didn't even know if I was looking in the right place. The sun was setting, casting a smog-tinted orange glow over the city. Sightseeing would have to wait until tomorrow it seemed. Traffic ahead slowed. One of Ivy's notorious jams, on a Saturday no less. I was impressed. Then I spotted the flashing red and blue lights. Accident, maybe. The cars ahead crept to a stop. The trick was not to be impatient. I wasn't in a hurry. I hit the scan button on the radio, hoping to find something catchy. I could play drums on the steering wheel while I waited.

  Orange reflective cones squeezed three lanes of cars into one. Up ahead, barricades blocked the road. A pair of police cars were parked on the shoulder. Four cops, flashlights in hand, were checking cars and license plates, asking the drivers questions, looking over passengers. A security checkpoint. Not surprising in these parts, I supposed. I hadn't heard anything about a terror alert or heightened security. Trust the powers-that-be not to tell anyone about a real threat.

  My turn came to get waved through the checkpoint. A couple of uniformed cops approached the car from each side, shining their lights on the license plates, the interior, and finally at me. I rolled down the window. "Can I see some ID?"

  I had to dig in my backpack for a minute, then I showed him my driver's license. I smiled politely.

  "Ma'am, could you pull over to the side of the road here?" He pointed to a spot on the shoulder beyond the barricade. He didn't give me back my license.

  My stomach lurched. I suppose everyone's does when they get pulled over by the cops, no matter how innocent they are. I was pretty sure I was innocent.

  "Um. What seems to be the problem, Officer?" That may have been the most cliche thing to ever come out of my mouth. In the movies, only guilty people said that.

  "Just pull over and we'll get to you in a minute."

  While I watched, the cops removed the barricades, cleared the cones, and worked to get traffic flowing normally again. The roadblock had served its purpose. Apparently, they'd gotten what they were looking for: me.

  I refused to believe this was all for me. I really didn't consider myself a terrorist threat. There was something else going on.

  I found my cell phone and brought up Ben's number. My finger poised on the call button, I watched.

  A dark sedan, coming from the other direction, did a U-turn over the median, zipped across the three lanes to this side of the road, and pulled over in front of me. The driver was so smooth the move only took a minute, and the tires never squealed.

  Two men climbed out, one on each side. They wore dark suits, conservative ties, and looked clean-cut and unremarkable. They seemed big, though, broad through the shoulders, and confident.

  Holy cow. Genuine, honest-to-God Men In Black. This had to be a joke.

  The cop handed the driver of the sedan my license and pointed at me. Unconsciously, I shrank down in my seat, like I could melt through the floorboards.

  I should have called Ben, but I waited, wanting to see where this was going to go. Surely this was all a misunderstanding.

  The two Men In Black stalked toward me. Actually, they probably walked perfectly calmly and normally.
To me, though, they stalked. The Wolf wanted to growl. And she wanted to get the hell out of here. I was still in the car, I could still drive—and so could the cops. I waited. Had to listen to the human half, this time.

  Thinking before acting. Good girl. That was what T.J. would have said if he'd been here. Maybe he'd even have given me a scratch behind the ears. I felt a little better.

  They stopped by my window, peered in, and looked me over. My nostrils widened; I took a breath. Human, they were normal humans beings. Warm blood coursing through live veins, so they weren't vampires. No hint of lycanthropy about them, either. Lycanthropes had a sort of musky, wild scent that couldn't be covered up. They had fur just under the surface and it always showed, if you knew what to look for.

  But there was something about them, something cold. They made my shoulders bunch up, and the hairs on my neck stand up—hackles rising. I gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled. I met the driver's gaze. Couldn't show weakness.

  His gaze dropped first.

  He offered my license back to me. "Ms. Norville? Alette, the Mistress of the City, wishes to extend her hospitality. If you'll step out of the car, please?"

  I stared in disbelief, and a wave of spent adrenaline washed through me, making my muscles feel like rubber. The fear left with that wave, but now I was annoyed. Severely annoyed.

  "Mistress of the City? As in vampire?" I said, and I realized what I'd sensed about them. They weren't vampires, but they had a little of the scent on them. Human servants, who spent far too much time with vampires than was healthy. They were too pale.

  "Yes. She's pleased that you're visiting her city and is anxious to meet you."

  "Her city? The U.S. capital and she's calling it her city?" But then, what did I expect from a vampire?

  The MIB pursed his lips and took a deep breath, as if collecting himself. He was probably under orders to be polite. "Will you accept Alette's hospitality?"

  "Why should I?"

  "She fears for your safety. You don't know the situation among your kind here. You lack protection. She wants to keep you safe."