Thirst No. 3 (4 page)

For several minutes I stand and study the situation. My nearest neighbor is ten miles away—one of the few families I know in the state—but by chance they are in Europe. They would not visit anyway, not without first calling. Also, I don’t take any mail at the house, but use a PO box in town. There’s no reason for someone to visit.

My hearing spreads out like invisible sonar. I hear rabbits, squirrels, and possums in the woods, baby birds squeaking in their nests, but I don’t detect the telltale rhythm of a human hiker. Of one thing I’m sure: No one drove up to my property
in the last few hours. I would be able to smell the odor of their car fumes.

Yet I do smell something foreign, and I squat beside the broken pottery and bring it near my nose. Whoever bumped the pot was sweating, as if they had walked to my place from a great distance. However, I see no prints in the grass.

The mystery deepens when I go inside and check the recordings of my video cameras. The cameras are an important part of my security. They scan inside and outside, and I’ve arranged them so there is no blind spot. I find one of the cameras has gone dead, the very camera that was pointed at the broken pot. But when I pull it from its place beneath the eaves, I can find nothing wrong with the camera. The damage is internal, beyond the scope of my senses. I don’t smell any sweat on the camera, nor do I see any fingerprints. If someone did handle it, they wore gloves.

I check the large walk-in vault I keep in my master bedroom, hidden behind a heavy chest of drawers. Inside the vault is an assortment of weapons: Glocks, semiautomatic .45s, old favorites of mine; AK-47s; two laser-guided Barringer sniper rifles, which are accurate over a mile.

I also have ten million in cash on hand, in various currencies. I never know when I might suddenly need to travel. I have passports and credit cards that allow me to assume a half dozen different identities. The IDs are not just expensive fakes. They are the real thing—I have built up the identities over decades.
Indeed, I purchased this house under the name Lara Adams, and that’s the name I go by around town.

It was just a slip of the tongue that I told Teri my name was Alisa. It’s not my real name, of course. At most, a handful of people know me as Sita, the name my father gave me long ago. But Alisa is a favorite alias; for some reason I wanted Teri to know it.

I’m still upstairs in my vault when I hear a car approach up my long driveway. I seldom get guests. I assume the people who have come to visit are the same ones who knocked over my pot. I know without looking that there’s more than one person in the car. I hear a man and woman talking, idle conversation:

“Do you think she’s home?”

“How much should we tell her?”

I close my vault, but I exchange the Smith & Wesson I took with me to dispatch Daniel and replace it with a powerful Glock .45. I’m not paranoid, but I am always careful. It’s probably the main reason I’m still alive.

The couple—she’s in her late twenties, he’s at least five years older—drive a rented Camry. I can tell it’s rented by the Hertz sticker in the window. I study them through the window as they park and ring my doorbell. She does not look threatening, although I can tell she is nervous. She has an academic demeanor. She talks with her hands and uses big words when small ones would suffice.

I already know her partner’s a cop. He has the look, and he’s carrying a gun, although it’s well concealed beneath his pants, above his ankle. I can tell they’re lovers. He touches her arm lovingly as she waits anxiously for me to answer.

I finally do.

“Hi,” I say as I open the door. “What brings you two all the way out here?”

“Hello,” the man says. “My name’s Jeff Stephens and this is my friend Lisa Fetch. We hope we haven’t caught you at a bad time?”

Jeff is portly, on the short side, with a receding hairline, a brown mustache, and a friendly face. Yet I can tell he works out; he’s nimble on his feet. Lisa is the same height as her boyfriend, but thin, with red hair and tired green eyes. There are shadows beneath those eyes. There’s no doubt she’s under a lot of stress.

I smile. “I suppose that depends on what you want me for.”

The woman returns my smile. “Are you Alisa Perne?”

Damn, I think. They know my old alias. They must know a lot about me to have come across that name. Yet neither of them smells like the person who knocked over my pot. Hmm.

“Yes,” I say. “May I ask where you got that name?”

Lisa answers. “An old boyfriend of mine was doing some research on the firm I currently work for. He came across your name.”

“What’s the name of your firm?”

“IIC. Infinite Investment Corporation. They’re based in
Malibu, California. Their primary business is investing in the stock market.”

“They cater to private investors?” I ask.

“They pretend to,” Lisa says bitterly. “But they mostly cater to themselves.”

I’m curious. I open my door wider. “Please come in and tell me all about it.” Yet I stop Jeff as he comes through the door. “I’d rather you left your gun in the car.”

He’s impressed. “How did you know I’m carrying?”

“’Cause you look like a cop.”

“Really?”

“It’s a compliment.”

Minutes later they are sitting in my living room. I offer them fresh coffee, which they gladly accept. For a vampire, I’m unusual—I drink more coffee than blood.

Unless I’m mistaken, they are both “nice people,” and I’m not afraid they intend to harm me, at least not directly. A superficial scan of their minds has told me that much. But the fact they know my old alias is not good. They could damage me by talking about me with the wrong people. A few years ago I had a serious run-in with the FBI—and the U.S. Army, for that matter—and I doubt they’ve quit searching for me.

Once we’re comfortable, I cut to the point.

“I assume when you say your old boyfriend was researching the firm you work for, you mean he was hacking into their computer files,” I say to Lisa.

My insight surprises her. “How did you guess?”

“What better way to get dirt on a company?”

“Why do you assume they’re dirty?” Jeff asks.

“Your tone when you speak about them. You sound angry.” I turn to Lisa. “What’s the name of your old boyfriend?”

Lisa is uncomfortable. “Why is that important?”

“He’s snooping around files that contain information about me. I deserve to know his name.”

Lisa replies, “Randy Clifford. I only asked him to look into IIC because I noticed highly irregular patterns in their investments.”

“Why isn’t Randy with you today?” I ask.

“He disappeared not long after we asked him to hack into IIC’s system,” Jeff explains.

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” I ask.

“A month ago,” Lisa says sadly.

“But you say this is an investment company. They hardly sound like the type that would have people whacked. I assume it’s staffed with stockbrokers and lawyers and accountants?”

Lisa nods. “Yes. And one mathematician. Me.”

“What sort of work do you do for them?”

She spreads her hands helplessly. “For the first six months I wasn’t sure what I was doing. They’d hand me reams of papers filled with numbers and order me to search for patterns. It took me a while to realize they were records of their investments. For some reason, in the last two years they’ve begun to make
only ten percent a year on their money, rather than their usual twenty-five percent.”

I almost choke on my coffee. “There’s no investment firm in the world that gets that kind of return on their money.”

“IIC does. Or at least they did,” Lisa said.

“Did you figure out why their returns have dropped?”

Lisa hesitates. “No.”

She’s lying, or at least she knows more than she’s willing to say.

“This is all very interesting, but what brings you here?”

“We told you, your name came up when Randy hacked into their system,” Jeff says. “IIC even had this address. That’s how we were able to find you.”

I’ve lived in Missouri only two months. No one should have my address. “In what context was I mentioned?” I ask.

“Randy was looking into that when he vanished,” Jeff says. “All we know is that IIC considers you ‘a person of interest.’ That’s how you were described in their files.”

“Where does Randy live?” I ask.

“Manhattan,” Lisa says. “He works for an investment firm on Wall Street, Unlimited Investments Incorporated, or UII. But here’s the real kicker. After he hacked into IIC’s system, he realized it was indirectly connected to a half dozen investment firms, his own included. In fact, that’s how he was able to break through IIC’s firewall. It was familiar to him.”

“Are you saying all these companies are really one and the same?”

“Yes,” Lisa says.

“Aren’t there laws against such things?” I ask.

Jeff nods. “Sure. But as far as Randy was able to tell, IIC and their partners are simply fronts for a single gigantic investment firm.”

“Which is called?”

“That’s the point. It doesn’t have a name. It’s not supposed to exist,” Lisa says.

“This sounds like it has all the makings of a complex conspiracy story. But I still don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“Surely you must be curious why IIC is interested in you?” Jeff asks.

I’m extremely curious, but I respond casually. “I’m a person of some wealth, although I prefer not to advertise the fact. I’m sure, like any other investment firm, that IIC keeps a record of wealthy individuals.”

“You weren’t just on a list,” Lisa says. “They had a whole file on you.”

“Why didn’t you say that at the start?”

“I’m saying it now!” Lisa snaps, and I can tell she’s not angry at me, but at her company for making her old boyfriend disappear.

“What else was in my file? Besides my name and address?”

“We told you, Randy was looking into it when he vanished,” Lisa says.

“Randy did say the file spoke of you as having a ‘lengthy history,’” Jeff says.

“What does that mean?” I ask, but it’s easy for me to imagine the true answer.

“We don’t know,” Jeff replies.

Lisa leans toward me. “You don’t appear to be worried that IIC is obsessed with you. Frankly, I’d be very worried.”

“Because of what they did to your old boyfriend?” I ask.

“That’s the tip of the iceberg,” Jeff says. “The more we dig into IIC and their partners, the more we discover how big and powerful they are.”

“They may be the richest company in the world,” Lisa says.

“And no one knows their name,” Jeff adds.

I shake my head. “How do they make so much money on the market?”

Lisa hesitates. “We don’t know.”

“Are you still working for them?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

“That must be risky.” When Lisa does not respond, I add, “Don’t you have some idea how they make their money?”

I’ve finally asked the question that matters. Lisa and Jeff exchange an uneasy look. “Have you heard of the Array?” Lisa asks.

“No. What’s that?”

“We’re not sure, not yet,” Lisa says.

“But it’s clear from the info Randy dug up that the Array allows them to invest with remarkable accuracy,” Jeff says.

“Is it an advanced software program?” I ask.

“It might be,” Lisa says. “We know it deals with computers.”

“Did you come all the way to Missouri hoping I’d know about this Array?”

“We were hoping you would know something,” Jeff says.

“Whoever you are, you’re important to IIC,” Lisa says.

“I promise you, I know nothing about the Array or IIC.” I suddenly stand, signaling that our meeting is over. The fact I don’t know about the investment firm doesn’t mean I’m not going to find out everything I can about them. Lisa and Jeff get up reluctantly. They don’t want to leave. Lisa offers me her card.

“Please call if you hear from IIC,” she says. “Or anyone else that worries you.”

“I will,” I promise. “But may I offer a piece of advice?”

“Please,” Jeff says.

“Be careful who you discuss this matter with. If they made Randy disappear because he hacked into their system, they can make you two disappear as well.”

“We’ve tried to be careful,” Lisa says. “But we thought with you, we could—”

“We thought we could trust you,” Jeff completes her remark.

I like them. I give them a quick hug.

“I assure you I’ll keep our talk confidential.” I give them each a card of my own. “Keep in touch. I’m very interested to hear more about this Array.”

When they’re gone, I call two separate agents who are employed by the FBI but who really work for me. I tell them what I know about IIC and ask them to learn more. I instruct them to look into Randy Clifford’s disappearance while they’re at it. The two agents—who don’t know each other—agree to get on the case right away.

I also hire two private detectives to look into the matter—again, a man and a woman who don’t know each other, but who once worked for the CIA. These four people I pay handsomely, and I have every confidence in their abilities and their discretion. I trust them and they trust me. I warn them the job could be dangerous, and to call if they feel the least bit threatened. I like to think I take care of my own.

But it’s at times like this that I wish I had a true confidante, someone I could open my heart to without hesitation. In five thousand years I’ve known only a dozen people I could totally trust. I don’t know if that’s a testament to my nature or to human nature. I just think it’s sad. Now, in this age, the one person I know I could trust above all others, Seymour Dorsten, doesn’t even believe I exist.

Oh, Seymour knows about Alisa Perne. He even knows my real name is Sita. But he sees me as a fictional character,
an amazing immortal vampire who exploded in his mind one day and who didn’t give him a moment’s peace until he wrote down the story of her life. He thought I was a product of his muse, when in reality I was in deep telepathic contact with him.

Now, this instant, I write my own story, but at first I let Seymour do the job. One might wonder why. Well, it was not something I planned—my mind just found him one day, and I discovered I couldn’t let go. So rich was his imagination, so deep were his feelings. For these reasons alone, I thought he should be the one to tell my tale. Plus the telepathic link between us was almost flawless.