Darkyn - If Angels Burn Part 12

"From Rome?" She inspected her thumb where she'd been gnawing and nipped off a sliver of nail. "The long- distance bills will bankrupt you."

So she had read the note he'd left in her room. "I am leaving, tomorrow morning."

She sat back in her chair. "So you're going to have to fix me tonight, huh? Knock yourself out, bro."

"I thought we'd talk. The police called me and told me about dropping the investigation." When she said nothing, he added, "I know that must have upset you."

"The police are idiots. My personal happiness, or lack thereof, is none of your business." She turned her head, spit out a tiny piece of cuticle, and turned back to give him a brilliant, insulting smile. "Anything else?"

He ignored the belligerence. "Did you lie to the police? What really happened?"

"You think I need to see a shrink." She shot to her feet. "Thanks for the concern. You know the way out."

"You don't need a psychiatrist." He got up and came around the desk, and tried to take her hands in his. "You used to suck your thumb when you were little; now you bite them."

"Oh, I can switch." She showed him her middle finger.

"You need to come back to G.o.d."

"Really? A nice dose of the Celestial WD-40, and all of Alexandra's annoying squeaks in life will disappear. Would also save her big brother a lot of embarra.s.sment, too, I bet." She tapped her cheek. "I'm so tempted."

John reined in a sigh. "I'm not ashamed of you."

"So if I went and told my story to the newspapers, you'd be, what, delighted?" She caught his reaction and nodded.

"Right, nothing in the papers that someone holy might see. Or is there anyone holier than thou these days, Johnny?"

Anger rose inside him, dark and ugly floodwaters spilling over the crumbling wall of his patience. "Stop talking to me like that."

"It's the only way I talk, Father. Maybe you should have stuck around during my formative years. But don't worry." She waved a hand. "No one believes me."

"Alex, G.o.d believes in you." It was the last shred of his faith, the one he clung to. "G.o.d loves you."

"G.o.d." She pretended to think about it. "That would be the G.o.d who sat back and let Mom and Dad die in that stupid car accident. The G.o.d for whom you became a Jesus clone j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. saving souls in the rain forest while I was stuck in a boarding school full of snooty little rich white girls who hated my guts. The same G.o.d who did absolutely nothing while half my patients were beaten, tortured, and mutilated, or when I was kidnapped by a maniac who thinks he's-" She stopped abruptly. "Never mind. Bottom line here, John? I'll pa.s.s."

She was angry, so angry. He understood that rage-he carried its twin in his own heart-but he couldn't allow her to suffer like this. It would poison her life as surely as it had his. "Blame me, blame our parents, blame anyone you want, but don't blame G.o.d. He is not responsible for the sins of others."

"When, according to you, he's this all-knowing, all-powerful dude who loves us so much?" She bared her teeth with a snarled, "Watch me." She walked out of the office and grabbed her coat and keys.

John followed her, pleaded with her. "You're wrong, Alexandra. Our parents died in a senseless, random accident.

It was my decision to leave you behind. As for that poor child in the hospital, and the others like her, what happened to them is terrible, unspeakable. But this is life, and these are the crosses we have to bear."

"Crosses to bear. I'll mention that to Luisa next time I'm on rounds." She switched off the lights. "She should get a lot of comfort out of it."

He grabbed her arm to keep her from walking out. "You're still acting like a spoiled teenager."

"How would you know?" She looked down at his hand, and then up at his face. "Um, you're hurting me here, Father."

"Stop calling me that." He tightened his grip. "I'm your brother-"

"No." It was a cold whisper she somehow made sound as loud as a scream. "My brother didn't come back from G.o.d school. My brother died in that place. I don't know you."

Shame returned full flood, and he s.n.a.t.c.hed his hand away from her. "I know that you're doing this because you're in pain, because of me. I'm so sorry that I hurt you, Alexandra."

"Don't absolve me of my sins just yet, Father. I haven't gone to confession in ten years." She went still, and focused on him. Not on his face, but on something under his chin. "Have a good trip. Don't write."

His vision blurred. "Alex, please."

"Lock the door on your way out, huh? Oh, and give my love to the pope."

Before John could stop her, she was gone.

"Do you know it's four twenty a.m.?" Grace demanded.

Alex scrubbed a tired hand over her face. "Now I do." Thanks to a raging case of insomnia, she'd gone and mixed up her days and nights. She had tried to sleep, but the minute she lay down, her eyelids refused to close. "I didn't think, Grace. Sorry."

"Hang on, I have to pee." The line clattered as her office manager set down the receiver.

Alex looked through the window at the moths dashing their brains out by careening into the lit Motel 6 sign. She'd picked it simply because it was the sixth place she'd stayed in since leaving her home. She'd been changing motels every day since she'd caught someone following her.

She didn't know who was after her, but she wasn't taking any more chances.

Alex would have never spotted the tail without John's little hit-and-run visit at her office. When she had run from the building, she'd kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see her brother coming after her. She watched the rearview as she drove off.

As if Father John would chase after me and beg me for another chance to talk.

She didn't see her brother, but she did notice a discreet, silver blue sedan. The driver kept his distance, but he turned when she turned, and he never allowed more than two cars to get between them. When she tried to see who it was, she noticed that there were actually two men in the car: both fair-haired, both in suits, and both wearing wraparound sungla.s.ses.

Sungla.s.ses, at nine p.m. at night.

Alex had done a paramedic rotation during her residency, and one of the EMTs had coached her on driving an ambulance. She employed those skills with the two men in the sedan, and after some crazy minutes on the interstate, she'd lost them.

It might have been Cyprien's goons, or just some cops anxious to bust her for some moronic reason of their own.

Misdemeanor Lying on a Statement. Whoever it was, she didn't want to be caught carrying Cyprien's millions. She didn't want to explain them.

So Alex had begun living like a Gypsy, changing motels every night, paying cash, parking her car out of sight, sleeping when she could during the day, using only her cell phone to make calls and only when necessary. The money stayed with her wherever she went, dangerous baggage, because while she didn't want it, she couldn't bring herself to leave four million dollars in a Greyhound bus station rent-a-locker.

A spasm of pain made Alex press a hand to her belly. The cramps were getting more frequent and lasting longer. I can't believe I'm getting an ulcer on top of all this s.h.i.t.

At least, she was fairly sure it was an ulcer. The blood tests she'd run on herself had come up with some very weird numbers, so much so that she'd sent the results along with some slide shots off on a consult to a local hematologist for a second opinion.

"Back," Grace said over the line, making her jump. "Okay, Dr. Haggerty's left about a dozen messages. You better call him before he files another missing-person report on you."

Her heart twisted. "Charlie filed the first one?"

"Uh-huh. Beat my report by three hours."

Charlie, who had taken care of her and run tests on her. Charlie, who had been her friend and lover, who had cried-real tears-when she'd regained consciousness. Charlie, whom she hadn't given a single thought since leaving the hospital. But until she figured out what to do about Cyprien, she didn't want Charlie anywhere near her.

Great way to turn him loose, Alex. Just call him and say you're being stalked by a vampire.

"Boss, are you okay? This-whatever this is-is not like you. When was the last time you ate something?"

"I'm all right." No, she wasn't. The last time she had eaten... she couldn't remember; it had been that long. "Have you heard anything from John?"

"No. Isn't he in Rome?"

"Yep." Disappointment congealed into a tight, cold ball in her belly, along with a healthy dose of self-disgust. Why had she expected John to try contacting her from Italy? Going to Rome was probably the priest's equivalent of a wet dream. He was probably walking around the streets by the Vatican, stopping and dropping on his knees to pray every five minutes to show G.o.d what a good priest he was. "Any other messages?"

"That's it." Grace's voice changed. "Hey, you know things are pretty slow for Don down the hall. I bet he could give you some time this afternoon."

"Don down the hall" was Dr. Donald Hammish, a psychiatrist whose offices flanked Alex's. His a.s.sistant and Grace were good friends and often went out to lunch together.

"You think I'm nuts, Grace?"

"Boss, I saw those letters, and I called and faxed that Cyprien guy. I still can't believe I gave all that stuff to the cops and then they went and 'misplaced' all of it." She made a rude sound, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. "What really creeped me out was calling the you-know-who and finding out there are no records of the you-know-what."

Grace was convinced that mentioning the phone company and their records over the phone immediately got you a line tap. "It's like an X-Files episode or something."

"Yeah, seems like it." Alex suspected David Duchovny wasn't going to show up anytime soon to save her. "I'll call you later."

"Before you call, look out the window," her office manager advised. "If you don't see sun? I'm sleeping."

Alex turned off her cell phone and went over to close the blinds and draw the curtains. The sun would rise in another hour, and if she didn't block out the light it would give her another migraine. She turned down the room thermostat to sixty degrees Fahrenheit, trudged back to the bed, and flopped down. Cold temperatures always made her sleep like a baby; maybe dropping the AC would help.

Maybe going and talking to Don down the hall would, too. Yet try as she might, Alex couldn't see repeating her story to anyone else, particularly a shrink, who could instantly commit her to a mental-health facility. There were laws that allowed for involuntary commitment. Crazy people needed protecting, too. Is that what I've become? A danger to myself?

Grace's voice, warm with concern. When was the last time you ate something?

Alex sat up and looked at her reflection in the mirror across the room. She had lost more weight, but she was sure she had eaten something now and then. The last full meal she'd eaten had been so awful she could remember every bite: bland macaroni and cheese, soggy broccoli, a square of spice cake, a carton of skim milk. She'd forced down half of it, that last day she spent in the hospital.

Her reflection stared back at her. That was a week ago. I haven't eaten anything for a week?

Horses.h.i.t, her medical sense shouted inside her head. If you hadn't eaten in a week, you wouldn't be capable of doing much more than crawl around the floor. You just weren't paying attention.

Despite the arctic temperature of the room, Alex slept fitfully that day, tossing and turning until she gave up and watched game shows, marveling at how excited the contestants became over lousy furniture and cars they probably couldn't afford to insure. Each time she thought about eating, her stomach shriveled to a tight, churning knot. She really couldn't remember eating a single thing since leaving the hospital, and it was starting to worry her.

More worries cropped up during her second call to Grace late that afternoon.

"Dr. Whelton faxed back the consult," her office manager said. "He says to redo all the counts, and if they're the same, to overnight samples over to the CDC."

"Why?"

"Let me read from the sheet." There was a rustle of papers. "Okay, here's what he wrote: 'Counts don't make sense.

Not ADDS, leukemia, or septicemia, but it has characteristics similar to all three. Need a bone marrow to narrow the field. Also need the actual slides, not shots of them. Shots show four times normal saturation of mutant phagocytes and two distinct, uncla.s.sified bacterial cells. Send samples and I'll personally run the next test batches. Alex, this is major grant material. Call me ASAP, Jerry.' "

So Cyprien had infected her with whatever blood disease he carried. Why hadn't anyone picked up on it when they had run all those tests on her in ICU? "Fax him back a thanks, but no on the retests, and don't copy the report to the CDC.".

Grace took in a sharp breath. "You sure about that, boss? What if this patient infects someone else?"

"She won't be doing that. She's dead." Or she soon would be. Pulling out of a deeper well of self-pity, Alex added, "I'm doing research on leukemia patients. If this is a new strain, it's my baby, not theirs or Jerry's."

"Okay." Grace didn't sound too convinced. "Listen, this is probably not the best time to ask, but I've had a job offer. My cousin Kyung, the podiatrist, remember? His office manager got pregnant and is going on maternity leave.

And with all our patients referred out, it's not like you really need me..."

"I understand." Alex closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. Cyprien had infected her with some G.o.dawful disease, and now she was losing the only person she could depend on. But however fast she was spiraling down, she needn't take Grace with her. "I'm gonna miss you."

"You ever need me back, all you have to do is call. You know that, Alex." Grace sighed. "You sure you don't want to talk to Don? Just, you know, to shoot the breeze?"

"I'll be okay. Good luck with the new job."

"Same to you." The office manager chuckled. "Hey, if you discover a new disease, don't name it after me."

What had Cyprien dumped into her bloodstream? Keller's Blood Rot. Alexandra's Dementia. Acute Postabduction Syndrome. Or is it Infectious Vampirism? "I won't, I promise."

Chapter Ten.

John had never been to Rome, but he was given little chance to play first-time tourist. A young Italian priest holding a placard printed with John's name stood by the customs gate, and led him outside to an old SAAB parked behind the long line of taxis. The priest loaded John's single case into the trunk before climbing in behind the wheel.

"We go, see Brethren," the priest told him, gesturing toward the outskirts of the city.

John nodded and sat on the pa.s.senger's side, and clipped on his seat belt. Italians had a reputation surpa.s.sed only by the French for reckless driving, and he really would have preferred to rent his own car. Hightower had overruled him and told him he would never find the order's house on his own.

Rome was big and crowded and noisy. There were flowers everywhere, bold scarlet roses, gla.s.sy yellow tulips, and stately lavender hyacinth. On the way through the city, they pa.s.sed more stray cats, restaurants, motorbikes, and rusted-out Fiats than John had ever seen in his life. He thought the Fiats and motorbikes were understandable, given that the city had been built centuries before cars had been invented. Most of the streets were more like cramped alleys, however, with widths better suited to pedestrians, horses, and the occasional cart.

"My name Tolomeo," the priest, a friendly young man with handsome dark features, said. He drove through snarled traffic with the usual European manic disregard for safety. "You no speaka Italian, eh?"

"No, Father Tolomeo, I'm sorry I don't."

"Is okay. You hungry?" The priest slowed down after screeching around the Piazza Navona and parked illegally in front of a small cafe. "Zuppa, you like, eh?"

John looked at the three famous fountains and nodded. Tolomeo jumped out and returned a few minutes later with two Styrofoam containers. In the one he handed John was a steaming, fragrant jumble of bright vegetables in reddish broth.

"Minestrone, you drink, like?" The younger man lifted his container and drank the soup from it directly.

John took a sip and scalded his tongue. "Thank you, ah, grazie."