Thirst No. 2: Phantom, Evil Thirst, and Creatures of Forever Page 7

  Oh shit, I think. Could there be a worse example of crossed brain circuits? Now, it’s clear my psychic abilities only go skin deep.

  On the plus side, Gary must not be a sports fan. He couldn’t have watched much of the Olympics. He doesn’t appear to recognize me.

  At the same time that doesn’t make Dr. Treach’s request any less unusual. Gary stands and comes around his desk, and as he does so a cloud of doubt crosses his face. He scratches his head.

  “I’ve been online most of the night and didn’t see anything about it. And no one’s called down from the nurses’ station. Dr. Treach, are you sure about this accident?”

  “Teenagers were fooling with the track controls and derailed a train. We need the blood and we need it now.” She stops and seems to glance at me for support. “Let’s get it.”

  I would laugh if the situation wasn’t so dire. Gary does chuckle but it sounds forced. He glances at his phone like it might be a lifeline to a saner authority.

  “How much blood do you need?” he asks.

  “As much blood as possible and take it to the scene,” Sandy says.

  He nods uncomfortably. “I heard you the first time.”

  I catch his eye. “Show it to us and we’ll take care of everything,” I say softly but firmly. Unfortunately, I don’t feel much power in my voice or in my head. Also, Gary appears to be one of those people who are simply difficult to hypnotize. I run into them every now and then.

  “That sounds like a pretty screwy plan if you ask me,” Gary replies and suddenly reaches for the phone. I have no choice. In a flash I take two steps forward and slug him in the jaw, in the sweet spot, as the boxers like to call it. I catch him as he falls and then let him down gently. Sandy stares at me with a bewildered expression.

  “Why did you hit him?” she asks.

  I grip Sandy by the shoulders and focus on her face as best I can.

  “Forget I hit him. What’s important is the blood. We have to get the blood so we can help the people who were hurt in the train wreck. That’s all that matters.”

  The suggestion appears to strike home. Sandy nods vigorously.

  “We have to get the blood,” she says.

  Being a vampire, I’m not unfamiliar with blood banks. I know the variety of forms doctors store it in. A common one is blood plasma, which I’ve sampled in the past with disastrous results. Plasma is blood with the red cells centrifuged out of it. When it comes to vampires, it would seem the red stuff is essential.

  Yet straight blood platelets are of no use when it comes to satisfying my thirst. I need whole blood, preferably from a healthy donor.

  Sandy leads us into a long narrow room packed with exceptionally large refrigerators. The room is warm; the coolers give off heat. It’s not hard to identify the refrigerators that hold the blood that’s been tested for diseases. Everything in the space is clearly labeled. Opening the cooler nearest the door and seeing row after row after row of plastic baggies filled with dark red fluid, I feel a rush of excitement that is almost sexual. I have to restrain myself from ripping open a bag and downing it in front of Sandy. The fewer disturbing images I put in her mind the better. Also, blood tastes much better warmed to body temperature.

  I’m fortunate there’s a large metal cart in the room. With its wheels and steel compartments and narrow crossbars that are ideal for hanging filled baggies, I know I’m looking at the very tool the hospital uses to make blood deliveries. I quickly load it to capacity—about ten gallons’ worth of whole blood—before covering it with a couple of white sheets I find in a closet. The sheets help give the cart the vague appearance of a gurney.

  We leave the hospital without incident. Just stroll right out the front door and no one asks us a single question, although almost everyone says hello to Dr. Sandra Treach. Yet I worry about leaving Gary Stevens lying unconscious on the floor. He is the worst of loose ends. He will assume I helped steal the blood. He will wonder at the amazing punch I gave him. He will almost certainly end up talking to the police.

  But the thought of snapping his neck, before leaving the hospital, repulses me. For years now, centuries actually, I’ve striven only to kill those I consider evil. I’ve not always succeeded with the vow but I have drawn a line at murdering the completely helpless. And quietly sleeping off my right uppercut, Gary could not be more helpless.

  And since I no longer desire to kill the Treaches, my idea is to plant the most powerful “FORGET ME” hypnotic suggestions I can summon in both Sandy and Bill’s minds. Yet my plan has two weaknesses. I have drugged Bill heavily. I’ll have to hang out at least until morning to take care of him. Plus my powers are questionable. Actually, they are pathetic and Bill is very strong-willed. He won’t be easy to control.

  Of course I could call for Matt. He would help his dear love Teri Raine in an instant. I’ve no doubt he could make the Treaches forget their first and last names. But running to him for help will reinforce his belief that I’m too weak and inexperienced to be left alone. With the important trip to California coming up, that’s the last thing I need.

  Inside Sandy and Bill’s home, I plop the good doctor in front of the TV and turn the channel to the Shopping Network and order her to enjoy herself. Then, after checking on Bill to make sure he’s breathing easily, I heat up a quart of blood and sit on the back porch and slowly sip it. The blood may not be fresh from a human vein but it goes down awfully smooth.

  I instruct Sandy to get ready for bed and when she’s finally ready to slip beneath the sheets, I have her sit on the edge of the mattress. Her pupils swell in size as I focus my eyes on her. She appears much more relaxed now that she’s back in her bedroom.

  I kneel beside her and speak in a quiet but forceful tone.

  “You’re to forget me, Sandy. You’re to forget everything that happened after I came to your door. You never met any Kim or Teri or Olympic runner. You never returned to the hospital, nor did you speak to Gary Stevens tonight.” I pause. “Do you understand?”

  She stares. “Yes.”

  I repeat the instructions several times before I tuck her into bed. Now I have to wait for Bill to awaken so I can repeat the process. Unfortunately, sitting around has never been my strong suit. I soon grow impatient. Then it strikes me that if I pump his stomach, I can probably get the majority of the medicine out of his gut before it can enter his bloodstream.

  I free him from his chair, undress him, and carry him upstairs to the bathtub. There I use the enema bag to force a stream of warm water mixed with Epsom salts down his throat. Even though he’s unconscious, I’m able to trigger his instinct to vomit, and he throws up a large amount of white guck. When I turn the cold shower on his face, he quickly wakes up.

  But the good news is he’s stoned out of his mind from the drugs he did absorb, and they’ve put him in a very suggestive state. I lock eyes with him and command him to forget about me, not only being in his house, but as a possible suspect in the mysterious disappearance of Ken. I realize his partner will eventually remind him about me at some point but I load him with suggestions about how innocent Teri Raine truly is.

  I don’t know if it’s the drugs or my own wishful thinking but Lieutenant William Treach seems to swallow everything I say. He repeats my orders back to me word for word.

  I dry the detective off, tuck him into his pajamas, and slide him into bed beside his wife. Then I go downstairs and collect my ten gallons of blood and leave the Treaches to their dreams. The evening has had its ups and downs but I feel confident that I’m ending on a positive note.

  Time will tell.

  SEVEN

  Paula and Seymour introduce themselves to Professor John Sharp as freelance reporters. Shanti and I are close friends along for the ride. Sharp seems to absorb our lies with a kindly, grandfather-like smile that slightly droops from a long-ago stroke.

  He invites us into his house, which is crammed with books and old photographs, and offers us a pitcher of iced tea and a plate of chocolate chip
cookies. We gather in his kitchen. I take that as a good sign. Decisions are more often made in the kitchen than any other room in the house.

  There’s a feeling of unreality to Sharp’s greeting but I keep my mouth shut and help myself to his refreshments. I figure his motives for letting us into his house so easily will become clear in time. I’m tired of sitting in the car; it’s good to stretch and nibble. We have driven straight through from Denver to San Mateo. Along the way we decided Seymour would take the lead when it came to questioning Sharp. However, we have hardly sipped his iced tea when the professor surprises us with a strange remark.

  “I’ve been waiting for you people,” he says.

  We exchange puzzled looks, although the eyes of the others come to rest on me. I’m not surprised they want my advice as to how to proceed, even Shanti. Since we were all cooped up in a car for so many hours with Shanti—an extremely intuitive young woman—it got to the point where the truth just spontaneously burst out and I had to admit that I was Sita and not Teri. The news should have blown Shanti’s mind but she seemed to take it in stride. Indeed, she seems relieved that I’m still alive.

  “What makes you say that?” Seymour asks.

  Sharp is in his eighties and looks it. I’d wager to say his life has been difficult but interesting. On the surface, he appears to have largely mended from the stroke that I assume forced his retirement but he still walks with a limp and the left side of his face lacks a clear expression. He’s a character, though—I can tell he has secrets he’s going to make us work for.

  But I’m not worried. I know how to handle his type.

  He studies Seymour. “You’re not a reporter,” he says.

  “No?”

  “You’ve never interviewed anyone in your life.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just have to look at you. Experienced reporters have cold eyes. They don’t care what they expose, who they hurt. They rationalize it all away by saying they’re just searching for the truth. You have too much heart to be in that business.”

  Seymour stays cool. “You’re right, I’m a novelist. But that doesn’t mean my interest in IIC isn’t genuine.”

  “Explain,” Sharp says.

  “There’s a mystery behind that company. Its founding, its rapid growth. I think there’s a book there, a book that should start with you.”

  “Why me?”

  “I Googled IIC to get a list of their board of directors. It can’t be a coincidence that all of them were once graduate students of yours.”

  Sharp appears satisfied. “Very good.”

  “Your turn,” Seymour says. “Why did you say you were waiting for us?”

  Sharp shakes his head. “I haven’t been waiting for you per se. Just for someone to come along and ask about the mystery surrounding IIC.”

  “We’re the first?” Seymour says.

  “Yes. Odd, don’t you think? I kept expecting someone from the government to at least get suspicious about my old students. But no one has.”

  “It’s possible others have begun to wonder about the company,” Seymour says. “But something stopped them from pursuing the matter.”

  “Such as?” Sharp says.

  “Money. Nosy people could have been bought off.”

  “Or else killed,” I say.

  Sharp turns and looks me over. He could be a dirty old man but I feel his gaze goes deep. A glance from Paula has already told me the man is sensitive, perhaps a psychic in his own right.

  “You know something about that,” he says finally.

  “I’ve met Cynthia Brutran. It doesn’t take a mind reader to know she’s a killer,” I say.

  Sharp hears the bitterness in my voice. “Has she hurt anyone close to you?” he asks.

  I think of Jeff Stephens, the boyfriend of Lisa Fetch, a member of our small group who is teaching math back in Truman, Missouri, and waiting for the IIC to make her disappear. Jeff Stephens was the first victim of Brutran that I knew. I also think of my own dead body, out there somewhere, maybe in the hands of Brutran and her monsters. To be frank, I think about it every few minutes.

  “Yes,” I say.

  Sharp digests the news slowly. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Do you apologize because you’re to blame?” Seymour asks.

  Sharp doesn’t appreciate the question. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, young man.”

  Seymour realizes he’s overreached and looks to me for help. I hold up my hand by way of apology. Sharp’s anger is real and I don’t want to lose him before we can begin.

  “It was Brutran who stole your life’s work,” I say.

  The insight startles Sharp out of his anger. This is how to get the truth out of him. Shake him up, make him realize he doesn’t have all the answers. Like many intellectuals, particularly the elderly kind, he suffers from arrogance. That’s why he invited us so quickly into his home. He wants us to hear his story.

  “What makes you say that?” he asks.

  “I’ve felt the sting of her Array,” I reply.

  Sharp sucks in a breath. For him, just hearing the word is like a slap in the face. My guess is correct. Brutran and pals must have used whatever they learned from their teacher to smash him down.

  “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

  My tone is sympathetic. “The woman has made us both suffer. Isn’t that enough for you to share your story with us? That’s why we’re here, to listen to what you know. And based on what you said a minute ago, I think you have been waiting for us.”

  Each of my remarks is carefully designed to save us an hour and cut right through his armor. It doesn’t matter that Sharp probably knows that. I believe I’ve sized him up correctly. Especially when he sits back in his chair and smiles at me. He’s been waiting to tell his story before he dies.

  “Now you could have been a reporter,” he says to me.

  I act hurt. “I hope I don’t come across as cold.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I was simply acknowledging that you’re shrewd enough to succeed in the business.” He pauses and scans the rest of us. “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything,” Seymour says. “Take us back to Berkeley. How did you manage to create a graduate program focused on paranormal abilities?”

  Sharp sighs and reaches for a spoon, which he uses to drop a hefty dose of sugar in his iced tea. He stirs it slowly and I can tell his mind is traveling back to another era.

  “That was forty years ago,” he begins. “The UC system was much more liberal then. Particularly when it came to Berkeley. The school wasn’t stuck in the free love of the hippie days but at the same time it had never really lost that flavor. And I was the perfect candidate to explore the weird and wonderful. I don’t know how thoroughly you have researched my past. I have a PhD in psychology and I was in fact the head of the psychology department at Berkeley. But I also have an equally prestigious degree in anatomy and physiology. It was an early goal of mine to be a psychiatrist. But the allure of pure research kept me in an academic world.”

  “What sparked your interest in ESP?” Seymour asks.

  “The need to know. The most basic desire of all. I had read about the research Dr. J. B. Rhine of Duke University had conducted on psychic phenomena, back in the thirties and forties. When I came across his work, I couldn’t understand why other scientists hadn’t followed up on his findings. Of course there was a stigma attached to such research. Many of my colleagues failed to see it as real science—whatever that’s supposed to mean. But to me there was no question Dr. Rhine, with the help of his wife, had established that ESP definitely existed.” Sharp pauses. “Are any of you familiar with his work?”

  “I am,” I say. “He developed the standard deck of ESP cards psychic researchers use to this day. They consist of five symbols: a circle, a cross, wavy lines, a square, and a star. He wanted to keep the symbols simple. He felt that would make them easier to transmit from one person’s mind to another. I know he used a large bo
dy of statistical analysis to back up his claims that ESP existed. He would go through thousands of people to detect the tiniest statistical variance.”

  Sharp nods his head in appreciation of my summary. “You bring up the main strength and the main weakness of his research. With the five different shapes, a test subject should be able to guess what card another person is staring at twenty percent of the time—by chance. But Dr. Rhine showed that certain individuals exceeded that average. They’d guess the correct card thirty percent of the time.”

  “That’s not very impressive,” Seymour says. “They were still wrong over two thirds of the time.”

  “Yes!” Sharp says, excited enough to pound the kitchen table. “Congratulations, Seymour. You just summed up the problem with the entire parapsychology field. The results of Dr. Rhine’s research were real. No one with an open mind could study it and not acknowledge that ESP does exist in certain people. Statistics don’t lie. However, they don’t get people excited, either. I just made an extraordinary statement. I said a select group of people could telepathically read the cards correctly thirty percent of the time. And you responded exactly as most people do. You said, ‘So what. Big deal.’”

  “I’m sorry, it doesn’t sound like a big deal,” Seymour says.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. If the deviation was as little as one percent of what it should be—as predicted by chance—then it would be important. Because no matter how weak the ability to read another person’s mind is, it still proves that ESP exists. And that seemingly small truth, if contemplated seriously, and viewed from every branch of science, should force us to rewrite every science book we have on this planet.”