Nightshades (3 page)

Still, plenty of agents had taken a run at interrogating Ambrose through his two-inch-thick plexiglass cell—not to mention Bureau psychologists, biologists, and MDs. Ambrose had proven himself impervious to all of the Bureau’s forms of psychological manipulation, and they were pretty good at that kind of thing. If Alex wanted to get anything out of him, he would need to get creative. Trouble was, every FBI agent in the world spent years being trained how to think the way the Bureau wanted. Even out-of-the-box thinking was according to Bureau specifications.

Unable to remain still any longer, Alex got up and paced the conference room. Chase, who had worked with him for over a decade, just pushed back in his chair, stretched, and waited him out. “Make the call to Camp Vamp,” Alex said finally. “I’ll think of something.”

Washington, D.C.

Friday night

One good thing about being the new Chicago SAC, Alex thought a few hours later, was you could get things done in a hurry.

By eight o’clock that night he and Chase had arrived at the National Security Branch building, where they met Lucius Tymer, the high-level SAC in charge of the care and keeping of the Bureau’s most famous prisoner. When Alex was a teenager Tymer had been a notorious Bureau cowboy, someone his mother had to call on the carpet at least once a month. As he got older—Tymer was a couple months shy of fifty—he’d drifted away from insubordination and taken an interest in oddities: female serial killers, complex international kidnappings, and yes, reports of otherworldly creatures who had abilities beyond normal humans. By the time Ambrose was captured, Tymer had already spent a couple of years looking into these sightings. He’d volunteered to run the first, D.C.-based BPI pod, the one devoted specifically to Ambrose’s confinement and study. Alex suspected Tymer would be studying shades right up until retirement—unless, God forbid, something even weirder came along.

Tymer was a collector: His primary interest was the acquisition of anomalies. With that in mind, he’d made a point to keep tabs on the career of Alex McKenna, the legacy agent. When Alex got on the phone with him, Tymer had already heard about the promotion, despite it being less than five hours old, and he readily agreed to let the newly minted SAC visit Ambrose later that evening—though he balked at letting Chase Eddy join Alex during the interrogation. “We rarely allow more than one person in front of him at a time,” Tymer explained. “We don’t feed him as often as he’d like, so when there’s extra blood around he gets overstimulated, like a toddler in a candy store. Makes it hard for him to focus on the questions.” There was a pause, and then the senior agent added, “We always keep two spotters at the end of the hall, though, staring right at you for any signs of compulsion. I’ll act as one, and Eddy can join me.”

Tymer was waiting for them at the first checkpoint, a broad-shouldered black man of average height, a little more rotund than Alex remembered, although it had been a couple of years. He had a scar on his throat and several more on his hands and forearms, defensive wounds from various street-level battles during his early years with the FBI. Tymer was a bit vain about the scars—the man had a reputation for going around in rolled-up shirtsleeves even in the dead of winter. “Alex,” he said warmly. “Good to see you again, my boy. Congratulations on the promotion.”

“Thank you, sir.” Alex shook his hand and gestured to Chase. “You’ve met Agent Eddy, I believe? He’s going to be my number two in Chicago.”

“Right, of course.” Tymer, who appeared to be just noticing the other agent’s existence, shook Chase’s hand as well. “I’m glad you boys could stop by before you take off. Gives me a chance to show off the little we’ve learned.”

“We’re anxious to see if he can shed any light on the situation in Chicago, sir,” Alex said, just to remind Tymer that this wasn’t a tourist visit.

“Right, right.” Tymer eyed him. “You got papers or something to show him?”

Alex nodded and held up a file folder. “Stuff from Chicago. We’re hoping he’ll detect a pattern.”

Tymer held out his hand, and Alex gave him the folder. He flipped through it, removing several staples and a paper clip from the group of photos. He sighed heavily as he handed it back. “Well, those should get his motor running. We’ll deal with it, though. I know the kind of pressure you’re facing.” Alex nodded and thanked him. The other BPI agents might have seen him as a dead man walking, but none of them wanted to be the guy who made things harder for the new agent in charge of the Chicago debacle.

Tymer led Alex and Chase through the first, general security check, the same one used by all building visitors. Then all three men moved toward a nondescript stairway that led to the basement—or what was known in-house as Camp Vamp. At the bottom of the stairway was a second checkpoint, which appeared to be a few tables set up to form a sort of
U
shape that closed off the hallway except for a slim opening, just wide enough for Tymer to squeeze through. Two female lab techs in white coats and surgical masks sat behind the table, fussing with equipment that Alex didn’t recognize. “Now, this here,” Tymer said with pride, “is my own brainchild. After the first escape attempt, our biggest concern was that a shade would either break in here or transmute one of our own agents, send him in to get Ambrose out. But as you probably know, we’ve yet to develop a decent blood test for codifying humans and shades.”

Alex nodded. “Shade and human blood samples are similar all the way down to the DNA code, and that can take days to run.” Since Ambrose’s capture the previous year, every DNA lab in the country was backlogged.

Tymer smiled, pleased. “Exactly. Our labs just aren’t fast enough, and my advisors say it’ll be a couple of years yet before we can put together an instant blood test. We spent the first six months trying to develop a high-tech test,” he explained as he held his badge and ID up to the first technician. “Something that could work at the speed we needed. Finally I realized we were overthinking it.” He paused, turning back to face Alex and Chase. “Are you aware of how we feed Ambrose?” he asked abruptly.

Alex knew, but he tilted his body a little, indicating that Chase should step forward and join the conversation. “Blind donation from a bloodmobile,” Chase said, and Tymer gave him a pleased nod as if he were a star pupil at Quantico. Really, anyone with a newspaper would know how Ambrose was fed, because it had sparked quite the public debate a few months earlier. When biologists had finally confirmed that yes, Subject A did require human blood in order to survive, thousands of weirdos had rushed forward with offers to donate, hoping to be personally fed on by a vampire. At the same time, thousands of protestors had come forward claiming that there was no way in hell their tax dollars should do anything to help the evil filth survive. The BPI and a special police task force racked up overtime trying to get the two sides to calm down, while working on the thorny ethical issue of drawing blood from a free citizen and giving it to a federal prisoner.

The quandary was eventually solved by the Red Cross, of all things. The company’s spokeswoman came forward and suggested that a permanent blood drive location could be set up specifically for the vampire groupies. From that supply, Ambrose would receive his minimal nutritional requirements, and the rest would be donated to the many good causes for which the Red Cross provided blood. The BPI decided to give it a three-month trial run, and the Red Cross reported exponential gains in blood donation, enough to nearly meet blood requirements at East Coast hospitals, for the first time in the history of the organization. These results eventually reduced the anti-vampire brigade to grumbles and mutters, which was a hell of a lot better than the street riots that had previously been threatened.

“In every donation scenario,” Tymer went on, “there is a certain percentage of blood that simply can’t be used, because of the donor’s illness, health risks, and so on.” He smiled smugly. “We take possession of that excess, and use it for the simplest test imaginable.” He waved toward the lab tech, who pressed on one of the large containers, which was roughly the size and shape of a small copy machine. A door panel popped out, and she reached in and pulled out what looked like an especially high-quality Tupperware container, completely transparent. Inside, Alex could see a thick red liquid sloshing around, and his stomach churned just a little. Blood. He wasn’t one of those people who fainted at the sight of it, but he wasn’t an enormous fan, either.

The second tech handed the first woman what looked like a gas mask with a long tube running out of the bottom. The first tech connected it to a valve in the top of the container. She handed it to Tymer, who donned the mask with practiced motions. When it was secured on the back of his head, he took a deep breath, in and out, which the first tech followed on a handheld monitoring device. After the breath, the second tech leaned over the table with a flashlight, shining it at Tymer’s eyes while he stood there complacently. Both techs nodded, and Tymer peeled the gas mask off.

“That’s it?” Alex said, incredulous. “You just inhale . . . what, blood fumes?”

Tymer grinned. “That’s it. We got the lawyer’s permission to try this on Ambrose—which was a huge pain in the ass from a security standpoint, by the way—and every single time, he exhibits the stimulation response.” He motioned to his own eyes to indicate what the press loved to call “vamping out,” when blood drained into a shade’s irises and pupils to indicate their awakened blood hunger. Ambrose had done it a couple of times on national television. “We’ve tested different amounts of blood, using control substances instead of human blood, trying him at different times of day, everything our scientists could think of. We’ve tinkered enough to get this thing damn near perfect—
if
you’ve got about three liters of human blood lying around. It will withstand a certain amount of refrigeration, although we’ve found that after about a month it loses some of its . . . allure. That’s why we keep getting the fresh stuff.”

“What if he holds his breath?” Chase asked. “Fakes breathing?”

In answer, the first tech held up her monitoring device. “I’ll see that here. We can monitor the air pressure in the tube.”

“Smart,” Chase said approvingly.

“Jesus,” Alex blurted. “If the private sector finds out about that . . .”

Tymer’s face turned grave. “I know. The world’s most secure corporations are already requiring DNA tests from new employees. If this gets out they could create a whole new market for selling blood, which is desperately needed by hospitals already. That’s why we’re keeping it quiet.” He motioned for Alex and Chase to step forward, and each took a turn breathing into the mask. When they had passed the test, the two women waved them through the narrow space between the wall and the table.

Chase eyed the simple setup. “No offense, but the checkpoint doesn’t look all that imposing,” he commented.

“It’s not supposed to. We
want
one of these assholes to take a run at springing Ambrose, so we can have another specimen. Aw, hell. Let me show you.” He nodded at the female tech, who must have pressed some sort of silent alarm, though Alex barely saw her arm twitch. A siren blared, and Alex looked up to see lights flashing in the ceiling. By the time his eyes moved down again, he was looking down the barrel of a Micro Desert Eagle wielded by the woman who’d gotten the blood out of the cooler. Adrenaline spiking, Alex raised his hands, and Chase did the same beside him. He was dimly aware of the sound of running behind him, and realized there were several armed agents there as well. They were trapped.

“These aren’t technicians,” Tymer said proudly, motioning to the woman in front of Alex. “Rebecca here is my finest marksman.” He shot her an apologetic glance. “Er, markswoman. Sorry, Bex.”

The woman gave a good-natured eye roll and holstered the sidearm, reaching up with her free hand to pull down the surgical mask, exposing a grin. She peeled off her surgical glove and held out her hand. “Agent Rebecca Lanver, sir. Good to meet you.”

Alex shook, introducing himself and then Chase. Seeing the opportunity to talk to someone other than Tymer, he asked Lanver how often they ran the agents through the test.

“Every day. The process is so simple that every agent in the pod can administer it,” she answered. “We test each other every single morning, and when we have someone coming in to see the subject, we take turns on checkpoint duty.”

“Not bad, right?” Tymer grinned proudly, and Alex and Chase exchanged a glance. Alex was pretty sure Chase was thinking what he was—could they replicate the test in Chicago? It was definitely something to think about.

It took a few minutes to de-escalate the false alarm, and then Tymer walked them through the third and final checkpoint, where Alex and Chase surrendered their guns and badges. “We had an agent last year who was one of those Champions of Humanity assholes,” Tymer said, rolling his eyes at the mention of the anti-shade religious lobbyists. “Got right past all our background checks somehow. He actually snuck in there with his gun and got a couple of shots at Ambrose. The idiot failed to realize that three-inch plexiglass can keep bullets out as well as it keeps the shade in. Got himself right in the kneecap with the ricochet.”

“I didn’t hear about that,” Alex said, surprised.

“You wouldn’t have. The powers that be hushed it up but good. BPI’s got enough media problems without them finding out one of our own was a wing nut.” He motioned for them to keep emptying their pockets, until Alex had given up his phone, wallet, and even spare change. He raised his eyebrows at Tymer.

“He’ll try to mesmerize you right away,” the older agent explained. “He
should
need the saliva, but we’ve discovered that about one in every hundred people is just naturally susceptible to it, enough that he can get you on visual cues alone. There’s no way to break him out from this side, but if he gets you to pass any of your stuff through the airlock he’ll make a pest of himself so we have to come in and take it away.”

He let them keep their belts and shoelaces—“Your spotter would see you taking that stuff off in time to stop you”—and the three of them went through the final door into Camp Vamp.

The door opened onto a short entryway with bright fluorescent lighting. Just inside the door was a desk with ten monitors—nine of them dark—and a spotter’s chair, positioned so the occupant could see both the monitor and the short corridor of plexiglass cells beyond. The basement had been renovated for this purpose shortly after Ambrose’s second escape attempt, when he’d managed to spit shade saliva through cell bars in a guard’s eyes.

There were five cells on each side of the hallway, with Ambrose as the only occupant. “He’s in the fourth cell on the left,” Tymer said quietly. “The rooms are soundproofed, but we don’t quite trust it, given how little we know about their enhanced senses. Anything you don’t want him to know, don’t say. We’ve got a one-way mirror in front of the plexiglass, but we can turn it on and off so the prisoner can see out.” He nodded to a control panel on the wall near the door. “When Alex gets down there I’ll hit the control, so Ambrose can see him. We’ve got audio here”—he handed Chase a set of headphones, picking up a second pair for himself—“and we’ll be recording as well, just in case. If the spotter sees anything off, or either of us thinks you’re getting mesmerized, I’ll hit the control and he’ll have a one-way mirror again. Understood?”