4 Blood Pact (14 page)

“All right.” He sighed. She’d asked for his help. While it wasn’t exactly the kind of help he wanted to give, it was something. “I’ll check the alibi and I’ll run a picture over to Hutchinson’s. I don’t think you should be alone, but you’re an adult and you’re right, this will go faster with both of us working on it.”

“All three of us.”

“Fine.” Too much to expect she’d want Fitzroy to butt out, “What’ll you be doing?”

She set her empty coffee mug down on the table with a sharp crack. “Tom Chen wanted my mother’s body specifically. In the time he was at that funeral home, he passed up two other women of roughly equal age and condition. I’ll be finding out why.” As she stood, she knocked her knife to the floor. It bounced once, then slid across the kitchen floor, across tiles still whole, still covering . . .

The eggs became a solid lump the size of her fist, shoved up tight against her ribs. Eyes up, she stepped over the knife. Another two steps took her off the tiles.

Just one more board. . . .

 

“Raise right leg.” As Donald spoke, he fed the stored brain wave pattern corresponding to the command directly into the net.

In the open isolation box, the right leg trembled and slowly lifted about four inches off the padding.

“Hey, Cathy, we’ve got a fast learner here. Remember how ol’ number nine’s leg flew up? Like he was trying to kick the ceiling?”

‘I remember how Dr. Burke was worried he might have damaged his hip joint,” Catherine replied, continuing to adjust the IV drip that nourished the rapidly deteriorating number eight. “And at least we didn’t have to manipulate his leg for the first hundred times like we had to on all the others.”

“Hey, chill out. I wasn’t saying anything against super-corpse. I was only pointing out that number ten seems to have quantitative control.”

“Well, we are using
her
brain wave patterns.”

“Well, number nine used
my
brain wave patterns for gross motor control.” He echoed her supercilious tone. “So
he
should’ve had the advantage.”

“I’m amazed he learned how to walk.”

“Ow.” Donald dramatically clutched at his heart. “I am cut to the quick.” Rolling his eyes at her nonresponsive back, he tapped another two computer keys. “And it’s painful going through life with a cut quick, let me tell you. Lower right leg.”

Surrendering to gravity, the right leg dropped. “Raise left leg. I’ve got a feeling that number ten’s going to be the baby that makes our fortune.”

Catherine frowned as she moved to check on number nine. There’s been too much talk of “making fortunes” lately. The discovery of new knowledge should be an end in itself; the consideration of monetary gains clouded research. Granted number ten represented a giant step forward as far as experimental data was concerned, but she was by no means as far as they could go.

 

There was something she had to do.

The need began to force definition onto oblivion.

 

“Frankly, Vicki, I’m amazed your mother didn’t tell you all this.” Adjusting her glasses, Dr. Friedman peered down at Marjory Nelson’s file. “After all, we had a diagnosis about seven months ago.”

Vicki’s expression didn’t change, although a muscle twitched in her jaw. “Did she know how bad it was?” She could refer to anyone’s mother, not that the illusion of distance helped. “Did she know that her heart could give out at any time?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, we’d agreed to try corrective surgery but, well . . .” The doctor shrugged ruefully. “You know how these things keep getting put off, what with hospitals having to trim beds.”

“Are you saying budget cutbacks killed her?” The words came out like ground glass.

Dr. Friedman shook her head and tried to keep her tone soothing. “No. A heart defect killed your mother. She’d probably had it all her life until, finally, an aging muscle couldn’t compensate any longer.”

“Was it a usual condition?”

“It wasn’t a
usual
condition . . .”

Vicki cut her off with a knife-edged gesture. “Was it unusual enough that her body may have been stolen in order to study it?”

“No, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t.”

“I’d like to see the file.”

Brow furrowed, Dr. Friedman studied the plain brown folder without really seeing it. Technically, the file was confidential, but Marjory Nelson was dead and beyond caring. Her daughter, however, was alive, and if the contents of the file could help to bring healing out of dangerously strong denial, then confidentiality be damned. And it wasn’t as if the file contained anything she hadn’t already divulged during the last hour’s interrogation—details had been lifted out of her memory with a surgical precision both frightening and impressive. Reaching a decision she pushed the folder across the desk and asked, “If there’s anything else I can do?”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Vicki slid the file into her purse and stood. “I’ll let you know.”

As that hadn’t been exactly what she had in mind, she tried again. “Have you spoken to anyone about your loss?”

“My loss?” Vicki smiled tightly. “I’m speaking to everyone about it.” She nodded, more a dismissal than a farewell, and left the office.

Loss, Dr. Friedman decided, as the door swung shut, had been an unfortunate choice of words.

 

She almost had it. Almost managed to grab onto memory. There was something she
had
to do. Needed to do.

“Cathy. She made a noise.”

“What kind of a noise? Tissue stretching? Joints cracking, what?”

“A vocal noise.”

Catherine sighed. “Donald . . .”

“No. Really.” He backed away, still holding the sweatshirt he’d been about to pull over electronically raised arms. “It was a kind of moan.”

“Nonsense.” Catherine took the shirt out of his hands and gently tugged it down into place. “It was probably just escaping air. You’re too rough.”

“Yeah, and I know the difference between a belch and a moan.” Cheeks pale, he crossed to his desk and dropped into the chair, fingers shredding the wrapper off a mint. “I’m going to start running today’s biopsies.
You
can finish dressing Ken and Barbie.”

 

“Your mother was a pretty everyday sort of person.” Mrs. Shaw smiled sadly over the edge of her coffee mug. “You were probably the most exotic thing in her life.”

Vicki let the sympathy wash past her—waves over a rock—and pushed at her glasses. “You’re certain she wasn’t involved in any unusual activities over the last few months?”

“Oh, I’m certain. She would’ve told me about it if she had been. We talked about everything, your mother and I.”

“You knew about the heart condition.”

“Of course. Oh.” Flustered, the older woman cast about for a way to erase her last words. “Uh, more coffee?”

“No. Thank you.” Vicki set what had been her mother’s cup down on what had been her mother’s desk, then reached over and gently laid her academy graduation portrait facedown.

“An investigation must not become personal.
” The voice of a cadet instructor echoed in her head.
“Emotions camouflage fact and you can charge right past the one bit of evidence you need to break the case.
”

“Actually, if anything, well, unusual was going on with your mother, Dr. Burke might know.” Mrs. Shaw set her own mug down and leaned forward helpfully. “When she found out about the heart condition, she convinced your mother to have a whole lot of tests done.”

“What kind of tests?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think your mother . . .”

“. . . knew.”

“Is Dr. Burke available?”

“Not this afternoon, I’m afraid. She’s in a departmental meeting right now, but I’m sure she’ll be able to make time for you tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you.” Moving carefully, Vicki stood. “I’ll be back.” Lips twisted in a humorless smile. She felt more like Charlie Brown than Arnold Schwarzenegger.

 

“Goddamn, look at the time. It’s almost 8:30 in the p.m. No wonder I’m so hungry.”

Catherine carefully set the petri dish in the incubation chamber. “Hungry? I don’t see why, you’ve been eating sugar all day.”

“Cathy. Cathy. Cathy. And you a scientist. Sugar stimulates hunger, it doesn’t satisfy it.”

Pale brows drew in. “I don’t think that’s exactly right.”

Donald shrugged into his jacket. “Who cares. Let’s go for pizza.”

“I still have work to do.”

“I
still have work to do. But I doubt I’ll be capable of working to my full potential if all I can think of is my stomach. And,” he crossed the room and punched her on the shoulder, brows waggling, “I’m sure I heard your turn demanding attention mere moments ago.”

“Well . . .”

“Doesn’t your research deserve to have your full attention?”

She drew herself up indignantly. “Without question.”

“Distracted by hunger, who knows what damage you could do. Come on.” He picked up her coat. “I hate to eat alone.”

Recognizing truth in the last statement at least, Catherine allowed herself to be herded to the door. “What about them?”

“Them?” For a moment, he had no idea of who she was referring to, then he sighed. “We’ll bring them back a pepperoni special, pop it in a blender, and feed it to them through the IV, okay?”

“That’s not what I meant. They’re just sitting there, out of the boxes. Shouldn’t we . . .”

“Leave them. We’re coming right back.” He pulled her over the threshold. “You’re the one who said they needed the stimulation.”

“Yes. I did.”

With Catherine safely in the hall, Donald reached back and flicked off the overhead lights. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he caroled into the room, and pulled the door closed.

 

One by one, the distractions ceased. First the voices. Then the responses she couldn’t control or understand. Finally, the painful brightness. It grew easier to hold on to thought. To memory.

There was something she had to do.

She remembered walking.

Slowly, lurching to compensate for a balance subtly wrong, she crossed the room.

Door.

Closed.

Open.

It took both hands, fingers interlaced, to turn the handle—not the way memory said it should work, but memory lay in shredded pieces.

There was something she had to do.

Needed to do.

 

Number nine watched. Watched the walking. Watched the leaving.

This new one was not like the other. The other had no . . .

No . . .

The other was empty.

This new one was not empty. This new one was like him.

Him.

He.

Two new words.

He thought they might be important words.

He stood and walked, as he’d been taught, toward the door.

“This isn’t the eighteenth century, Fitzroy. Medical schools stopped hiring grave diggers some time ago.”

Henry tugged at the lapels of his black leather trench coat, settling it forward on his shoulders. “You have a better idea, Detective?”

Celluci scowled. He didn’t, and they both knew it.

“Historical precedents aside,” Henry continued, “Detective Fergusson seems certain that there were medical students involved; an opinion based, no doubt, on local precedents.”

“Detective Fergusson blames Queen’s students for everything from traffic jams to the weather,” Celluci pointed out acerbically. “And I thought your opinion of Detective Fergusson wasn’t high.”

“I’ve never even met the man.”

“You said . . .”

“Enough,” Vicki interrupted from her place on the couch, the tap, tap, tap of her pencil end against the coffee table a staccato background to her words. “Logically, all the storage facilities in the city should be searched. Also logically, for historical reasons, if nothing else, the medical school is the place to start.”

“Those who refuse to learn from history,” Henry agreed quietly, “are doomed to repeat it.”

“Spare me the wisdom of the ages,” Celluci muttered. “These places don’t do public tours at midnight, you know; how are you planning on getting in?”

“It’s hardly midnight.”

“At twenty to nine, it’s hardly open house either.”

“It’s April, the end of term, there’ll be students around, and even if there aren’t, it isn’t easy to deny me access.”

“Don’t tell me. You turn into mist?” He raised a weary hand at Henry’s expression. “I know; I watch too many bad movies. Never mind, I meant it when I said don’t tell me. The less I know about your talents for B&E the better.”