Capitol Murder (24 page)

“And that’s—”

“Hurting myself. Cutting myself. I used a razor blade. Sometimes I’d draw patterns,
shapes.”

Loving winced. “Bet that stung.”

“Wonderfully so. After I was done cutting, I’d pour alcohol over the wounds. To prevent
infection—but also because it hurt so good.”

Loving’s eyes narrowed.

“Once the welts formed I’d have the image of a raven, an ankh, whatever design I’d
crafted.”

“But—why?”

She shrugged. “Who can explain why they like what they like? There’s no logic to it. We’re
just hardwired that way. Some say it’s endorphins—the body releases them to help you deal with
pain and you get a head rush. A natural high. It’s a deeply spiritual experience. Try it
sometime.”

“Mmm . . . maybe later.”

“It beats living the usual life of quiet, desperate mimesis.”

“Uhhh . . .”

“Imitation. Doing what everyone else does, just because they do it. Never doing anything to
please yourself.”

“Which is what these folks are planning to do, right? Tonight. What’s the Ceremony? Some big
orgy?”

She glared at him. “Don’t be absurd. The Circle is not about sex. Sex is nothing. Anyone can
do that. Animals do it. The Circle is about true blood intimacy.”

“Blood intimacy?”

“When you offer your own life energy, you give a part of your self, your essence. You need
your blood to live. Nonetheless, you share it with someone else to give them pleasure. It’s a
beautiful thing. Sex—that’s just selfishness. Two people gratifying their carnal desires. Blood
intimacy is exactly the opposite.”

“And this doesn’t seem a little . . . whacked?”

“Who’s to say what’s whacked? I don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t drink . . . wine.” She
giggled at her little joke. “Most of the people you see in here are perfectly normal citizens who
work during the day at perfectly normal jobs. No different from anyone else.”

Whatever. Time to get back to the reason he was here. “Do you know a woman named Beatrice? I
think she may be a member of the Circle.”

“No. But we rarely use our real names here. In fact, we rarely use names. What does she look
like?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t really know. I believe she may have been blond. She’s been described
as mousy—not by me—and as being, um, somewhat large around the hips.”

“Last name?”

“Don’t know that, either.”

“Then how did you expect to find her?”

Good question. He thought for a moment. “Any other places the Circle Thirteen crowd
frequents?”

“Well, many of us are members of the Playground. But if you couldn’t handle that little
spanking episode, I wouldn’t recommend it to you.”

“Anyone disappeared from the Circle recently?”

“Disappeared? No. Sometimes the minions select recruits for the Inner Circle, but—”

“Where do they go?”

“I don’t know. I’m not in the Inner Circle.”

“Who are these . . . minions?”

“The minions of the Sire, of course.”

“And these people—what? Take women against their will? Kidnap them for human sacrifices?”

“Don’t be absurd. I told you—we’re perfectly normal citizens who happen to share a common
interest. We’re not even unique. There are vampire clubs across the nation. Take my word for
it—I’ve traveled. There’s a network of them; the insiders know where they are and how to find
them. My girlfriend runs vampire workshops—”

“Workshops?”

“Yeah, at science fiction and bondage conventions all over the country. Did you realize there
are at least three hundred and fifty thousand bona fide blood drinkers in this country? Some
people believe that we have a genetic quirk that makes us crave satisfaction in a manner . . .
different from other people. ’Course, that’s the same thing they started saying about gay people
a few years ago, right? ‘They’re not mentally abnormal—they’re just different.’ The Circle
network is not unlike the gay bar world twenty years ago. We’re a minority, so we have to keep a
low profile. The middle-class majority always fears anything that’s different. But that will
change. Gay bars, gay men and women, gay marriages—they’ve come out of the closet. I think we’re
next.”

“So you’re tellin’ me that you folks—every one of you think—” He wasn’t sure he could make
himself say it. “You think you’re vampires?”

“Not necessarily. Some of these folks are just batting.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pretending. Playing dress-up. Plastic fangs, white makeup, scary contact lenses. It’s like a
big role-playing game for them. We let them hang out here, but they aren’t actually members of
the Circle. Some girls I know do it just so they can cruise the clubs. You know—Looking for Mr.
Goodvampire. They’re in love with the undead mythology but aren’t actually—how to say
it?—drinking from the well.”

“And that’s battin’?”

“Right. You know—like in the movies. Where the vamps turn into bats.” She paused. “Of course,
real vampires don’t turn into bats.”

“And that’s what everyone else is? A real vampire?”

“No. Many are wannabes—they’re into vampires, they act like vampires. But they aren’t. Some
are here for the S-and-M stuff. Some are casual blood sippers—like, from a cup. Only a relatively
small fraction of the Circle are actual bloodsuckers who—you know, drink it in the traditional
manner. They call themselves classicals or, worse,
vampyrs
.” She pronounced the last
syllable as if it were
piers
. “So pretentious. True vampires are immortal and dead, or
undead, if you prefer. They’ve been made a vampire by another vampire. They have inverted
circadian rhythms—in other words, they’re genetically ‘night people.’ They are usually
photosensitive—meaning they don’t like sunlight. In addition to those made vampires by another
vampire, there are also Inheritors—people born into it, who are either immortal or exceedingly
long-lived. They tend to be the bad boys—the ones who earned our community its negative
reputation. Nighttimers are regular people who have been altered to become vampires. Like me. Not
immortal. Not undead. But we don’t turn to ashes if we go out in the noonday sun, either.”

She stopped, licked her lips. “Enough with the lecture. All this talk and no action is making
me hungry. You ready to go yet?”

Loving looked at her blank-faced. “Go where?”

“You know what I mean. You must be curious. What do you say?” She leaned forward and brushed
her lips against the side of his neck. “Ready for a little suck?”

“You mentioned the Alaskan wilderness bill, Mr. Melanfield,” Ben said. “Could you explain to
the jury exactly what that is?”

Melanfield took in a deep breath, starting a spiel Ben knew he had delivered countless times
before. “It’s a bipartisan bill designed to increase our domestic production of oil and thus
reduce our reliance on foreign oil.”

“And how does this bill propose to do that?”

“By stimulating production in undeveloped fields.”

“Undeveloped—why?”

A tiny crease spread across Melanfield’s forehead. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Those oil fields you’re talking about haven’t been tapped in the past because they’re located
in the federally protected Alaskan wilderness, correct?”

“That would, uh, technically be correct. The purpose of the bill, of course, would be to
alleviate the federal protection.”

“And thus allow developers to destroy the last untouched wilderness area in the entire United
States.”

Melanfield blew out his cheeks. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I didn’t expect a rational response from
you. I know about your past work for the eco-terrorist group.”

“Move to strike!” Ben rang out.

Judge Herndon gave the witness a stern look. “The lawyers are advocates, not defendants, sir.
I will not permit any aspersions on counsel in my courtroom.” Especially, Ben thought, since it’s
almost certain grounds for a mistrial or an appeal.

“Yes, your honor. I’m sorry. But as I said, I’ve worked with this company for a long time, and
this is an issue I feel strongly about. I care about the environment as much as the next fellow.
But I also care about this nation. And we need more oil. Our dependence on foreign oil has been
disastrous. Fifty years of meddling in the Middle East have made us worldwide pariahs. How many
governments have we propped up or torn down? How many times have we sent our troops into combat?
And why? It isn’t about Israel, it isn’t about stabilizing the region, and it isn’t about weapons
of mass destruction. It’s about oil.”

“That’s a lovely speech,” Ben said, “but you’re not answering my question.”

“I think I am.” Ben knew he was doing a lousy job of controlling the witness—the most
important principle of cross-examination. But that was a difficult task when you were dealing
with a man who talked persuasively for a living. “Studies have shown that if we could just reduce
our energy consumption—or increase our production—by ten percent, we could eliminate our need for
foreign oil. Problem is, we can’t. Good grief—Jimmy Carter asked us to drive slower and wear
sweaters in the winter and we practically impeached him for it. No politician has had the guts to
advocate conservation ever since—it’s considered political suicide. Americans think it’s their
constitutional right to drive gas-guzzling SUVs and leave their lights on when no one is in the
room. So we must increase domestic production. And the only way we can economically do that is by
passing this bill. I regret the inevitable damage to the Alaskan wilderness, too. But I prefer
that to sending more troops to die in the Middle East. Or God forbid, seeing a repeat of
9/11.”

“My purpose was not to give you a forum for your canned lobbying spiel,” Ben said. “My purpose
was to find out why you haven’t been able to pass the bill.”

“I think you already know the answer to that question. Two words: Todd Glancy.”

“Despite your best efforts, Senator Glancy wouldn’t support the bill, right?”

“Worse. He led the opposition. And as a senator from a top oil-producing state, he had a lot
of clout.”

“So it would be fair to say that your job would be a lot easier if Todd Glancy was out of the
Senate.”

Melanfield looked as if he were taken aback by the very idea. “If you’re suggesting that I
made my testimony up, I can—”

“Just answer the question, sir. Senator Glancy is your political opponent. And your job would
be a lot easier if he was gone. Right?”

“I . . . suppose I can’t deny it.”

“And if he loses this trial, he will be gone. He’ll be replaced by an appointee of the
Oklahoma governor, a Republican with deep ties to the oil industry, right?”

“I don’t know what the governor will—”

“What’s more, Brad Tidwell will become the senior senator from Oklahoma. And he already backs
this bill, right?”

“He has had the foresight to lend us his support, yes.”

“So a conviction against Senator Glancy is a win–win for you, isn’t it?”

“Objection,” Padolino said. “This is becoming offensive.”

“Overruled,” Herndon said. “But I do think you’ve made your point, Mr. Kincaid. Is there
anything else?”

“Yes. After this alleged eavesdropping incident, sir, did you tell anyone what you had
heard?”

“No. Why would I?”

“You’re saying you caught a U.S. senator engaging in ethically and perhaps legally improper
behavior. Implying that he either was blackmailing her and was being blackmailed. Did you report
this to the Senate Ethics Committee?”

“Becoming a tattletale isn’t exactly the key to popularity for a lobbyist.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“No.”

“Did you tell anyone? A friend? Your boss? Your wife?”

“No.”

“But now, after all these months of silence, you expect the jury to believe this heretofore
unmentioned story?”

“Look, it was one thing when I thought the man was diddling around with his intern. That’s not
exactly unprecedented. But when she turned up dead, that was different. Of course I went to the
authorities.”

“With what? Did you hear Senator Glancy make any threats against Veronica Cooper?”

“No.”

“According to your testimony, she threatened him.”

“Right. Said she was going to ruin him.”

“I submit, sir, that your testimony makes no sense. We knew from the videotape that, at or
around the time you heard this alleged conversation, Veronica Cooper was having intimate
relations with Senator Glancy. That she was even instigating the encounter, at least to some
degree. That’s an odd way to ruin someone.”

Melanfield smiled. “My guess is she made the videotape.”

All at once, Ben felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room, as if his heart had
stopped beating.

It hadn’t even occurred to him, but it made perfect sense. What was more likely, that the tape
was made by a political opponent, or by one of the persons involved? She made the tape—and made
sure it got out—to bury her boss. To set up a lawsuit that could make her rich for the rest of
her life. If she had lived.

“Move to strike,” Ben said, much too late to be effective. “Witness is speculating. His
testimony is not based upon personal knowledge.”

“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “The jury will disregard the witness’s statement.” But Ben knew
it would make no difference. Whether Melanfield’s theory had any proof was irrelevant. It made
sense. It fit. And even the most persuasive lawyer on earth would have a hard time convincing a
jury to disregard their common sense.

“You’re tellin’ me you really suck people’s blood?” Loving asked, leaning as far away from
Morticia as possible. He wished he’d worn a turtleneck.

“I wouldn’t lie to you,” she replied. “Why should I? There’s nothing new about it. Human
beings have drunk blood since the dawn of time. Vampires were reported by the ancient Sumerians.”
She scooted closer. “All my life, I’ve felt like an outsider. Someone who didn’t belong. But as
soon as I was introduced to Circle Thirteen, I thought—I’ve found my tribe! These are my people.
I don’t need scarification, now. I have something else to take its place.”