Bite Back: Raw Deal Part 2

"It could also be, I have seen too much of your TV." He shrugged, and spun the little screen on the machine around to show me. "Now look, your feet, here."

The machine had scanned my feet in, and was now displaying them as 3D models, slowly turning around.

"When I make you your boots, I have exact measurements. The fit will be perfect."

"I'm a policewoman, Mr. Schumacher, and I can hardly afford store boots, let alone handmade."

"Store boots!" He snorted. "Rubbish. A waste of money. My boots," he leaned forward, "my boots are an investment."

I laughed. "I need to invest in my car first, but I'm tempted, really I am."

Note to self, go buy a lottery ticket.

"You said there's three of you," I went on. "Who's the third?"

"Our daughter, Emily."

Something in his voice made me glance up from my notes. This had nothing to do with my job here, but the shop was the last one on the block and I needed an excuse to sip some more coffee and nibble the last sweet ginger cookie. "Problem?"

"No, no. Not really." He smiled a little. "Every year, you look back and think the problems from last year weren't so bad, not so?"

"What's this year's problem?"

"Oh, such a little thing really," Klara said, coming back in with the pot. "She and her friends, they dress in black and do the makeup." She indicated around her eyes. "You know, the dark eyes. They call it Goth or Emo. They listen to the ugly music."

She'd brought over a photograph from behind the counter, a young girl with black hair and wide eyes. She had an innocent look I never quite managed at that age, no matter how hard I'd practiced in the mirror.

Back then, I thought I'd get away with things if I looked like that. Now, it just made me wonder what she'd been up to.

"Kids experiment with styles," I said, handing the photo back.

"Did you?" Klara asked.

Actually, I hadn't. When I was not much older than Emily, my dad got sick and died. The insurance company wouldn't pay. Bad things happened. I dropped out of school to help support the family. I joined the army and got expert in ways of killing people.

"No, I was kinda too busy."

I left the Schumachers' shop a short while later, with an invitation to stop in when I was pa.s.sing and an a.s.surance that there was always coffee and sometimes there were cookies too. I did not look at the boots as I went out. I have a will of iron.

And I needed it, to keep from biting Buchanan's idiot head off when we reported back. He took it as an affront that all we'd collected between us was one shoemaker who might have seen three people heading down the street, looking mean.

I tuned him out as he vented, using the time to scan the activity in the alley. The body was long gone-bagged, tagged and on its way to the morgue. I really wished I'd gotten a better look at it.

I was seeing Colonel Laine today-my liaison with the army. The man who I was supposed to report to if I found any credible sign of vampire presence or activity here in Denver. Operative word-credible. I'd seen an unusual pattern of neck wounds and a suspicious lack of blood at the scene, but so far that was inconclusive. I needed solid proof before making any reports; the only thing worse than being the only known person who could identify vampires would be turning into a person who saw vampires when they weren't there.

I'd already managed to p.i.s.s off my partner, and made an a.s.s of myself in front of the other uniforms here. On top of that, I'd probably persuaded the CSI team I was a morbid lunatic. Buchanan had clearly written me off already. If I brought the army in now and it turned out I was wrong, the whole house of cards would come down.

Strictly speaking, I should have been back at the base right now, under close observation. I'm sure that's what the scientists had recommended. Their version of close observation included restraints and a soundproof cell with no windows.

I'd spent time in that cell. My vocal cords ached with memories; my wrists itched with phantom burns.

I still couldn't quite believe that I'd been let out, even though it had been a year now. Not just let out-I'd been set up with a job. Two, in fact, since I'd blown the first job. Working in the police was my second chance, and common sense said it was also my last chance.

None of it's my G.o.dd.a.m.n fault!

I stomped on that. I couldn't waste time b.i.t.c.hing. This was my reality. Just to keeping standing still, I had to succeed at my police job and I had to meet my obligations to the army. The problem was when they overlapped like this, I could screw up both of them with one false move. And the minute I was no more use to the army out here, I would end up back in that cell. Sweat chilled my forehead. Anything but that.

Knight was herding me back to our patrol car. I wanted to check out the alley and the dumpster again, sniff around for a hint of vampires, but there were still techs crawling around, making notes and bagging garbage. As far as Knight was concerned, I was just rubbernecking, and I'd caused enough problems with him for one day. I drove us back to the station and we clocked out.

I thought about trying to get into the morgue and have a look at that body, but figured I'd already rocked the boat enough for the moment. I could check the reports once the coroner had determined cause of death. Then, if further investigation was warranted, I could make a decision about what to do.

There were more mundane problems as well. I needed to leave some extra time in case I had trouble with my car, and I really needed to get some rest before my meeting with the colonel. These meetings weren't ever easy, and this time I had to hide today's suspicious murder from him until I confirmed it one way or the other.

I had plenty of time to regret those decisions over the next few days.

Chapter 3.

I'd set my alarm for an hour's sleep, and it jerked me awake, sending another nightmare slithering back into the pit of my subconscious.

I didn't linger over it. I took a shower, tied my hair back and got dressed. Breakfast was coffee and some fruit to go. I glanced around out of habit to see if there was anything I'd forgotten. Laundry was bagged and ready for a spare moment. My spare police uniform was hanging, ready for my next shift. My handguns were in the safe underneath the bed.

The little apartment was bright and somehow sad. Maybe I needed to get some pictures on the walls. The only things I had out were on my bedside table. Some photos and, of course, Tara's plaque: my twin sister's memorial. It was plain, a glossy stone rectangle the size of a desk photograph, jet black, with cursive gold lettering at the bottom, saying simply Tara Farrell. I brushed it with my fingers.

I was delaying. The run-up to every appointment with the colonel was like this: a sick dread that built and built. If I failed any of his tests, answered a question wrong-if he even thought I'd begun to turn-he'd have me hauled back to base without even a chance to say goodbye. He could have a squad waiting right now.

But putting it off wasn't going to help, and being late was unthinkable. That wasn't just my military training; I didn't want to give them any reason to feel they had to come hunting for me. I slipped out, locking the door behind me.

Twenty minutes later I was downtown where the colonel had told me to meet him, in front of the Denver Art Museum.

He was right on time, appearing suddenly around a corner and moving with that deceptively quick stride of his. He was wearing dark pants and shirt, with a pale summer blazer.

"Colonel." We weren't in uniform-I wasn't even in the army now-and I still wanted to salute, d.a.m.n it.

"Sergeant." His eyes flickered at my twitchy arm. He was calling me by my old rank. It was a compromise; either Amber or Farrell would have sounded odd. Or maybe it was a subtle reminder of our relationship; I wasn't in the army, but I sure as h.e.l.l still worked for him.

To my surprise, he bought tickets and headed inside. I followed him into the museum's galleries. At that time of the day, there was little chance of being overheard if we kept it down, so maybe it was as good as any other public place.

I'd left school early and joined the army. It wasn't an impulsive decision, more that a whole bunch of circ.u.mstances had pushed me that way. I'd vaguely hoped to get into something exciting, but I hadn't even heard of the unit that offered to transfer me from my basic training to a special program. That intrigued me. When I got there, the instructors told me they'd watch me walk out within a month, if they hadn't kicked me out before then. That motivated me.

I loved it. I spent ten years in Ops 4-10, the unit that almost no one, not even the regular army, knew about. We did the high-risk tasks where the US couldn't be seen to be involved, where other channels had failed. Where there was no hope remaining. We acquired strategic information, extracted people and destroyed organizations in areas where, if we were caught, the US would deny all knowledge of us and leave us to our fate.

There was plausible deniability all right; we didn't officially exist.

The colonel had been the commanding officer. He was d.a.m.ned good at that. I'd been d.a.m.ned good at my job, too, until one night I wasn't. I'd lost my entire team, and nearly lost my life. In a way, I had lost my life, and was left with this-a tightrope walk between hunting down creatures people didn't believe existed, and being locked up as one.

"How have you been feeling?" he asked.

"I'm fine."

Lie.

I couldn't say anything else. Anything other than 'fine,' and the scientists would start to cover their a.s.ses, telling the colonel that I could go crazy and rampage through malls killing children. The colonel must have stuck his neck out to get me out of the cell in the first place, but he would have no choice but to put me back if the scientists got nervous. And once back, they'd never let me out again.

I handed him an envelope of expenses and written reports as a distraction. He slipped it in his folder and pa.s.sed me back an envelope which would contain a check for my last expenses.

I knew he wouldn't be happy with my answer. He tried the long silence way of getting me to talk, but I'd been there, done that. I'd walk silently through the whole museum and look at every exhibit until his time was up, if necessary.

"It's been a year," he said eventually. "And only a few months since the last job blew up on us. I'm not sure 'fine' quite covers it."

A year. I knew that. I knew it in my bones, in the itch of my throat when I looked at it in the mirror, or in the panic of my nightmares. A year ago, I'd lost my squad, one by one, in the dark jungles of South America. I'd survived. They'd actually bagged me as a corpse-no one could have survived those injuries. Half my throat had been torn out. It must have looked as if there was more blood soaking the dirt around me than remaining in me. But I wasn't dead, and five days later you could hardly see the scars. I was raving and screaming, but I was alive and physically healed.

The army hadn't believed in vampires. And if you were talking Hollywood vampires, they still didn't. Vampires didn't turn to dust when you killed them-I was still clutching my attacker's severed head when they found me. Sunlight and religious artifacts had no effect. But they drank human blood all right, and the army wanted to know if I was going to.

I hadn't yet. I was stable. There were some physical changes: it was harder to injure me, and I healed quickly. My health, strength and stamina had improved. I saw better in the dark than the average person. The army was very, very interested. Or at least, the little part of the army I'd been involved in. No one else knew, and part of the conditions of my 'release' was that it had to stay that way. The drawbacks-the nightmares, the paranoia-those the army weren't so interested in. 'Just Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. You'll get over it. Oh, and you can't go talk to a head doctor, by the way. Security issues.'

"I'm getting along," I said out loud. "Police work is better than the accounting job." My voice sounded creaky. "I'm finding my feet, and I'm doing everything you asked as well."

The colonel flipped his folder open. "Well, as long as the medical team is happy with your answers, you won't need to come back in for another checkup yet."

c.r.a.p. He had to remind me. I'd do pretty much anything to stay away from them, even answer their questions. I'd never been claustrophobic until they'd strapped me to a bed and left me in that tiny room. The only thing that had kept me from screaming and thrashing till I pa.s.sed out again was that they'd been watching me. Even when they weren't there in person, their cameras had focused cold, unblinking eyes on me, 24/7.

'The subject is distressed...'

One of them had actually said that. The sound of his voice floated out of the maelstrom of memories, cold and detached. I shivered.

I'd found a way to force the reactions back down inside, to show them nothing of what I was feeling. I used that again now, determined not to let the colonel see how rattled I was.

"Nightmares?" he asked abruptly, his pen hovering over a printed list.

"Fewer. The same ones. They're getting real old now," I lied.

"Any other sleep problems?"

"No." That was true. The nightmares didn't leave time for anything else.

"Anxiety, unexplained physiological changes, sensations of heat, cold, racing heart, arrhythmia?"

Like right now.

"None of them," I said.

The colonel paused beside an exhibit.

"Outside of the nightmares," he read from his list, "do you repeatedly visualize or think about events in the army?"

"No," I lied again. I tried to avoid it. I'd loved my life in Ops 4-10 and now I could never go back. Thinking about it was torturing myself. I had to break this habit. This was the new me. Out here, on my own. Standing strong. Not looking back.

"Blackouts?"

p.r.i.c.kles of cold ran down my back. We were heading off the PTSD track. The medical team had theorized that I would experience psychogenic blackouts if my 'condition' progressed.

"No." Not yet. Not ever, I hoped. There would be no repeal if I turned. I'd spend the rest of my life in restraints, being studied by scientists who would dispa.s.sionately note down how distressed the subject looked.

The colonel folded the pad under his arm and gazed at the Western scene we'd stopped in front of. I wasn't fooled. There were more questions to answer.

"Are you still running, Sergeant?"

"Yeah. It's not as regular now because of my hours."

"Have your fitness or stamina levels improved unexpectedly?"

"Not unexpectedly," I hedged. "I've been doing a lot of workouts at the police gym and I've also taken up Kung Fu training again. I found a Kwan here, with a good teacher."

Colonel Laine raised an eyebrow. "You're hardly in need of more martial arts training."

"With respect, Colonel, I don't agree. And I'm careful with other students."

He snorted, looked as if he was about to turn away, but came back suddenly, right in my face.

"Cognitive dissonance?" he asked, staring at my eyes. He didn't blink any more than a camera lens would have.

There it was: The Question. The medics had drummed it into me before I'd been allowed out. In order to be a vampire, I'd have to hold different beliefs. I'd have to be able, not just to do previously unthinkable things, like sucking blood, but to want to do them. And they theorized that the changeover would be relatively slow. There'd be a time when I'd be halfway, wanting to do something and not wanting to do it at the same time. Seriously screwed in my head. That was their warning flag. They'd have to imprison me. Once I turned completely, there was no knowing what I'd do or how it might end.

No way. Just not going to happen.

"No, sir. I'm stable," I said.

We stayed like that, eyeball to eyeball, for a good minute before he broke away.

Relief flowed through me. I took it I'd pa.s.sed again and I was still free.

We walked into the next gallery.

"Your searches have all come up blank so far," he said.

I'd been worrying they'd take the lack of progress as a sign I was hiding something from them. Now I was worrying that if I told them about the body in the dumpster and it turned out to be a false alarm, they'd think I was becoming unstable. That I was imagining things. That I needed to be back under observation.

"Yes, but it's a big city, there can't be many of them-"

"And they keep their heads down. We did draw up the projections together." He frowned. "Maybe the underlying a.s.sumptions were wrong. Maybe we're looking in the wrong place."