Blood Pact

before and the whole building exuded an aura of expectant doom.

    Which is not only overly melodramatic, it's ridiculous. She dried moist palms against her pants and kept her eyes firmly focused on the next band of illumination. She would not give in to fear; she never had and she wasn't about to begin now.

    Who was in number eight's isolation box?

    There could be any number of very good reasons why Donald hadn't been around all day; Vicki Nelson's investigation was only the most obvious. Donald, charming, brilliant, and undisciplined, had never had any trouble in coming up with reasons to take a day off.

    Who was in number eight's isolation box?

    Memory continued to replay the fall of Henry Fitzroy's wallet onto the pile of clothes.

    Who was in number eight's isolation box?

    There was only one way to find out.

    Rounding a corner, she could see the outline of the lab door. No light escaped, but then they'd gone to a great deal of trouble to ensure that none did.

    They're probably both in there. Arguing about something trivial. Or he's watching her work, letting those damned candy wrappers fall on my floor.

    She put her hand on the metal doorknob, the stainless steel cold under her fingers. Stainless steel. Like the isolation boxes.

    Her heart began to pound. The metal warmed under her grip. Fifteen seconds passed. Twenty. Forty-five. A full minute. She couldn't turn the knob. It was as if the link between brain and hand had been severed. She knew what she had to do, but her body refused to respond.

    Lips compressed into a thin line, she jerked her arm back to her side. This kind of betrayal could not be allowed. She drew in a calming breath, exhaled, and then in one continuous motion grabbed the knob, turned it, pushed the door open, and stepped into the room.

    The lights were off. She could see a number of red and green power indicators at the far end of the room but nothing else.
    Stretching out her left arm, she groped along the wall, the sound of her breathing moving outward to meet the hum of working equipment. The light switches were just to the right of the door. Turning her back was out of the question.

    Her fingers touched a steel plate, recoiled, then continued on until finally they hooked behind a protruding bit of plastic.

    A heartbeat later, Dr. Burke blinked in the sudden blue-white glare of the fluorescents.

    At the far end of the room, number eight's isolation box, number eight's no longer, hummed in unattended solitude. The other two boxes were gone and with them the portable dialysis machine and one of the computers. A quick scan showed smaller pieces of equipment were missing as well and apprehension turned to anger as Dr. Burke stomped the length of the room to the remaining computer.

    "That vindictive little bitch!”

    The message on the screen was succinct and to the point.

    I've hidden Mr. Fitzroy. You can have him back when you agree that numbers nine and ten can continue to their natural conclusions. I have the only copy of today's data. I'll be in touch. - Catherine.

    Obviously, she'd not only hidden the vampire but numbers nine and ten as well.

    "Damn her! She must've started the second I hung up the phone." This would ruin everything! If Catherine couldn't be brought round and quickly, the whole plan would be as dead as . . .

    . . . as dead as . . .

    She raised her head and bands of pressure settled around her temples. The distorted reflection of a small, warped figure in white stared back from the curved side of the only remaining box.

    Why hadn't Catherine hidden this box as well?

    Because it couldn't be unplugged.

    Why couldn't it be unplugged?

    Because the bacteria still worked on the body it contained.

    Who was in number eight's isolation box?

    The clothes remained on a chair on the other side of the lab, a pale brown windbreaker draped over the back.

    Lots of people wear jackets like that in Kingston in April.

    She made the largest circle around the box she could without admitting to herself that she was avoiding it. Desperately holding on to the anger, using it as a weapon against the rising fear, she reached out and lifted the jacket off the chair. It could still belong to anyone. Ignoring the damp smudges her fingers printed on the fabric, she reached into one of the front pockets and drew out two wrapped candies and a half-eaten chocolate bar, package neatly resealed with a bit of tape.

    There's nothing that says Donald couldn't have left his jacket