Blood Pact

the one thing I came back for never changed. . . .

    She couldn't put it off any longer.

    The security door had been propped open. A security door protects nothing unless it's closed and locked. If I told her once I told her . . . I told her . . . The reinforced glass trembled but held as she slammed it shut and stumbled down the half flight of stairs to her mother's apartment.

    "Vicki? Ha, I should've known it was you slamming doors.”

    "The security door has to be kept closed, Mr. Delgado." She couldn't seem to get her key into the lock.

    "Ha, you, always a cop. You don't see me bringing my work home." Mr. Delgado came a little farther into the hall and frowned.
    "You don't look so good, Vicki. You okay? Your mother know you're home?”

    "My mother . . ." Her throat closed. She swallowed and forced herself to breathe. So many different ways to say it. So many different gentle euphemisms, all meaning the same thing. "My mother . . . died this morning.”

    Hearing her own voice say the words, finally made it real.

    "Dr. Burke? It's Donald.”

    Dr. Burke pulled her glasses off and rubbed at one temple with the heel of her hand. "Donald, at the risk of sounding clichéd, I thought I told you not to call me here.”

    "Yeah, you did, but I just thought you should know that Mr. Hutchinson has gone to get the subject.”

    "Which Mr. Hutchinson?”

    "The younger one.”

    "And he'll be back?”

    "In about an hour. There's no one else here, so he's going to start working on it immediately.”

    Dr. Burke sighed. "When you say no one else, Donald, do you mean staff or clients?”

    "Clients. All the staff are here; the old Mr. Hutchinson and Christy.”

    "Very well. You know what to do.”

    "But . , .”

    "I'll see to it that the interruptions occur. All you have to worry about is playing your assigned role. This is vitally important to our research, Donald. It could bring final results and their accompanying rewards practically within our grasp.”

    She could hear his grin over the phone as he broadly returned the cliché circumstances demanded. "I won't let you down, Dr.
    Burke.”

    "Of course you won't." She depressed the cutoff with her thumb and contacted the lab. "Catherine, I've just heard from Donald.
    You've got a little more than an hour.”

    "Well, I've got number eight on dialysis right now, but he shouldn't take much more than another forty minutes.”

    "Then you'll have plenty of time. Call me just before you arrive and I'll have Mrs. Shaw begin making inquiries about flowers and the like. The state she's in, she'll probably be able to keep the lines tied up for most of the afternoon. Has number nine quieted?”

    "Only after I cut the power again. He's barely showing life signs.”

    "Catherine, it is not alive.”

    "Yes, Doctor." The pause obviously contained a silent sigh. "It's barely showing wave patterns.”

    "Better. Did all that banging damage it?”

    "I haven't really had time to examine him, but I think you'd better come and take a look at the box.”

    Dr. Burke felt her eyebrows rise. "The box?”

    "I think he dented it.”

    "Catherine, that's im . . ." She paused and thought about it for a moment, knowing Catherine would wait patiently. With natural inhibitors shut down and no ability to feel pain, enhanced strength might actually be possible. "You can run some tests after you get the new lot of bacteria working.”

    "Yes, Doctor.”

    My, my, my . . . Dr. Burke gave the receiver a satisfied pat as it settled into its cradle. It sounded like they could actually have made a breakthrough with number nine. Now, if we can only keep it from decomposing . . .

    Breakfast dishes were still out on the drying rack and the chair with the quilted cushion sat out a little from the table. The makeup case lay open on the bathroom counter, the washcloth beside it slightly damp. The bed had been made neatly, but a pair of pantyhose with a wide run down one leg lay discarded in the center of the spread.

    Vicki sat at the telephone table, her mother's address book open on her lap, and called everyone she thought should know, her voice calm and professional as though she were speaking of someone else's mother. Mrs. Singh? I'm Constable Nelson, from the Metro Police. It's about your son . . . I'm afraid your husband . . . The driver had no chance to avoid your wife . . . Your daughter, Jennifer, has been . . . The funeral will be at two tomorrow.

    When the funeral home called, Mr. Delgado