The blank looks were working, so I gave her another one. I vaguely knew what sequencing a genetic code meant, but had no idea about the relevance to a company’s R&D outcomes, possible future products, and profit margins. Nor did I yet know if the vampire research was real or a figment of her imagination. And I didn’t know what it had to do with my cover about abused animals. “Okay. That sounds expensive and time-consuming. But I don’t really care about vampires or were-creatures. I’m interested in rescuing animals.”
“The company’s intent is to find out if there are applications for life-extending and cancer-fighting and virus-fighting properties. Except this employee”—she pointed to herself—“thinks that there is another purpose. I’m not sure what, but I have ideas based on conversations I’ve overheard.”
“Like what?” I asked, thinking about Candace’s conspiracy theories. I was discovering that conspiracy theories gave me a headache.
Mary had freckles on her nose and her hair was cut short and worn like a red ball of curls. It looked good on her. Better than my multicolored wig did on me. Maybe that was why I had a headache coming on, wearing a wig.
“The second-floor researchers are experimenting on chimpanzees and pigs, with werewolf blood and vampire blood,” she said. “Some super-secret DNA studies with genes implanted in human embryos—with an emphasis on curing humans of genetically caused diseases.
“The third-floor lab is working with vaccines against a virulent plague that hit the African Congo. The plague was kept out of the media”—she lowered her voice—“even though it killed every single human in two villages in the bush, striking and killing before anyone could get away. And the new Ebola vaccine doesn’t work on this strain. DNAKeys is the only pharmaceutical company working on it, in conjunction with someone at CDC—though that’s unofficial thanks to a funding cut. Keys is using vampire blood for that one, in a biosafety level four lab, which is nothing but a disease-infested prison. They’re testing the Ebola under controlled circumstances on chimps and three species of macaques.” Her eyes filled with tears and focused on me fiercely. “The doctors are giving the animals diseases and then trying to cure them, but none of them are staying alive for long and they are so sick. When the animals die, they cut them up. It’s horrific. And there’s more . . .”
She nattered on for several more minutes, talking about things that sounded like Internet urban legends and myths. I wanted to tune her out. I was doing a lot of that lately, and on one hand it seemed foolish to ignore possible witnesses and covert sources, but on the other hand, there was only so much conspiracy stuff I could handle.
“Okay,” I interrupted, shoving my hands into my pockets, mimicking her body language. My Spook School interrogation technique trainers would have patted me on the back. My self-defense trainers would have given me a failing grade for hiding my hands, making sure there was no way on earth I could protect myself if Mary Smith—surely not her real name—attacked me. But it was cold, cold, cold in the computer lab. I didn’t think the heat was on at all. Could computers freeze? “What else?”
“What else? Are you kidding me?”
“Not really. You told me that what the research lab is researching, and the results they’re hoping for, could be good or could be bad. That’s the way life works—good or bad. And you haven’t said anything my animal rights group could get excited about without catching Ebola. We want to help, but not die a horrible death over it.”
Mary sat back in her chair, nostrils flaring, hands still in her pockets. “No. You don’t understand. DNAKeys has goals and they aren’t sharing them. They want to end human lives or make humans unable to procreate, or maybe unleash the Ebola virus and wipe humans off the face of the planet. No one knows. It’s all hush-hush research and testing, compartmentalized in various sections of the facility. And they have werewolves and vampires captive. In cages,” she emphasized. “Like animals. With the animals.”
Finally. That sounded like something of significance to PsyLED. I sat forward. “Okay. Lots of things going on. Paranormal beings in cages. Experiments. Got it. But there’s government oversight, right?”
“No. Nothing. Even with the CDC interest and input, it’s privately funded. No ethics rules are being enforced like in government-funded research facilities and pharmaceutical companies overseen by the FDA.”
I nodded. “Okay. I understand.”
My cell dinged. I pulled it from a pocket and glanced at the screen. The note was from JoJo, who was monitoring my conversation with Mary. The text said, Plague is real. It’s called Zaire ebolavirus 1.75 (EBOV 1.75). DNAKeys branched out to include researching strains of Ebola after the 2014 outbreak. Bet that’s when they got themselves some werewolf captives with the hope that their blood might hold the cure.
Mary looked as if she was about to bolt, so I gave an offhand shrug. “My roommate,” I said, to explain looking at a text in the middle of a meeting. “She’s stuck in traffic and she’s got dinner. Okay, so maybe animal abuse. Maybe you can get me inside and I can see for myself? Then I could alert the local chapter about an ongoing abuse situation?”
“Are you crazy? No way!” Mary stood up fast.
My cell dinged again and I held up a hand as if to pacify Mary. JoJo had texted, Justin Tolliver’s wife Sonya and the senator’s son Devin—motorcade just attacked. Limo in flames. Sonya presumed dead. Child saved by Soul. Get back here.
I pocketed my cell. “Fine. I need to check some things, verify your claims. Can we chat again?”
Mary Smith walked away. Actually she stomped away like a petulant child. She hadn’t touched a single thing; I had no way to obtain prints. As she left the room, she muttered, “Bitch.”
I frowned. “What did I do?”
Ten seconds later, Occam stuck his head in the door. “You ticked her off, Nell, sugar. Whatever she wanted, you didn’t give it to her. Let’s go. We’re wanted at HQ.”
“I got the texts. Soul saved a kid from a fire. We got too many fires, Occam.”
He pushed open the library’s security door and we stepped into a shadow, looking around, making sure that Mary Smith didn’t see us leave together. When we were reasonably sure that Mary—and no one else either—was watching us, we raced to Occam’s fancy car and got in, out of the icy wind that had blown up.
“Fire. Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, starting the engine. “Yeah. You’re right. There is fire at every crime scene. The fires seemed natural, but fire is the single consistent factor at every incident. Fire is what makes this investigation a single, unified, cohesive case.”
I thought back to the Holloways’ party. “We thought the gunshots knocked over candles and started the fire. But what if they didn’t? What if our shooter is a firestarter?”
Occam punched a screen on his dash and told the car to call HQ. It did. He passed our speculations to JoJo.
Over the tinny connection, Jo said, “Roger that. Running a search on that angle now. Checking the mythical creatures compendium with the addition of fire, hoping it’s part of the existing mythos.” We heard keys clacking softly and before Occam could sign off, she added, “FYI. Soul and the kid she rescued are at HQ; the others are heading in.”
“We might beat them there.” He peeled out of the parking lot, tires fishtailing on the thin layer of freezing rain. “ETA soonest depending on traffic.” He ended the call.
Trusting in my seat belt to hold me in place, I snuggled my arms out of my sleeves and tucked my hands beneath my armpits to warm them. Occam’s fancy new car had come with seat warmers and he adjusted mine to warm. This small service was mystifying to me, disorienting, bewildering. I tucked my chin down into my coat collar so I didn’t have to look at him. I didn’t have words to respond to all the strange feelings that were . . . not assaulting me, but hopping up and down on my heart.
I hated this. I had been a perfectly happy widder-woman—
I snorted out a soft giggle.
“What?” Occam asked as he maneuvered around a corner and the tires sashayed back and forth harder.
My giggle went louder. I shook my head and giggled some more, saying, “Nothing.” And then the giggles went away. I breathed out and felt some of the tension I hadn’t recognized fade. “Nothing at all. Except that I’m happier now than before I joined PsyLED. I miss spending time in my garden. I miss time with my hands in the dirt and supporting my plants and herbs and veggies and trees. I miss time alone in my house. But I’m happier now. And that’s weird.”
“Not so weird, Nell, sugar,” Occam said softly. “You got friends now. People who will protect you. Defend you. Stand with you. And you’re getting your family back—on your terms. This is all good. It’s stuff that makes for happiness.”
I slid my eyes to the side and studied him. He was slouched in his seat, enfolded in layers that were all open down the front except the Henley T-shirt beneath. His hair was too long and swinging. His beard was always scruffy. He was a cat-man. His body felt hotter than a normal human’s. He would purr in his sleep from time to time. And . . . I liked him. Maybe too much.
I slid my arms back through my sleeves and scooted my hands under my thighs, squishing them between flesh and warm seat. Maybe smiling, just a little. “What about you?” I asked. “What do you do for family?”
“I spent twenty years in a cage as part of a traveling circus. Don’t remember much before that. Went to school when I got away and then joined PsyLED pretty soon after. The job’s my family right now. Hopefully that’ll improve, and sooner than later.”
I wasn’t sure what the last words meant. But I blushed again, my flaming face hidden in the cold and dark of the car.
• • •
Back at HQ, we opened the door to the narrow stairway up to the second floor, and the stink of fire struck instantly. Occam stepped back outside, his nose wrinkled like a cat’s snout. I didn’t laugh. Much. I raced up the stairs, yanking the pins and the tight-fitting wig from my head, scratching my fingernails through my sweaty hair and scalp, pulling at the tiny green leaves growing at my nape, smoothing my short bob down over them. I’d have pulled the wig off sooner except I knew the sweat would make me colder. I slid my ID through the reader and straight-armed my way inside.
The stench of burned gasoline and scorched upholstery hung heavy and foul, polluting the air. Along with the smell of burned human flesh. Surely Soul hadn’t brought a burned child here, one who needed medical attention.
I dumped my gobags in my office cubicle and made sure my weapons were locked up, then went in search of Soul and the child she had rescued. The little boy, whose name I didn’t remember, was asleep in the break room, curled on the couch. Someone had found a blanket and it was tucked around him, but his collar and sleeves showed, singed and charred. I wanted to take him for a shower and give him a clean shirt, but that wasn’t happening. Not in a law enforcement office where allegations of abuse might be made.
His face was coated in soot and streaked with tears, dried snot at his nose. His chapped lips made little fluttering sounds as he breathed. Brown hair curled over his head and he looked younger than the eleven years I remembered the senator’s son being. Beneath the soot, his flesh was red, but not burned. No visible burns on him at all. Just that awful stench of . . . the burned body of his aunt. That was what I’d been told, that Soul had saved the boy, not his aunt Sonya. In his sleep, his hands clasped the blanket and he whimpered. My heart clenched and melted all at once. I had seen children cry themselves to sleep after some awful trauma. This little boy was sleeping the sleep of survival.
• • •
I went to the conference room, where the other members of the team were gathered. T. Laine vacated my chair, which I realized was positioned with a clear view of the break room doorway. I nodded to her that I’d keep watch.
Rick and Occam were standing together near the window, which was cracked open to allow in fresh icy air. The smell was rank and offensive. It would be overpowering to the cats’ noses. As if to make up for the stench, T. Laine set a package of cinnamon sticks on the table, and turned on the Christmas tree lights. Neither helped much except to remind me that I hadn’t bought or made a single Christmas gift. Usually by this time I had the Nicholson family gifts all made: jams and preserves and plants and floral fabric for dresses, plaid fabric for the men’s shirts. Small store-bought items. Candy for the young’uns. I’d done nothing. And would start feeling guilty and get on the job of Christmas gifting as soon as this case was over.
As I slid into my seat, Soul glanced down the hall toward the break room and said quietly, “I thank everyone for being here. I know this case is exacting a toll on everyone. I’ll try to keep this brief: the fire and the rescue and my impressions. Then, Nell, I’d like you to update us on the two interviews. I know it will be in your report, but I’m interested in intuitions. I have a feeling we’re missing something important.”
I dipped my head in agreement.
“I was behind the senator’s limo convoy,” she said, “three cars back, when they came to a red light and stopped. I saw the fire explode inside.”
“Inside?” Rick asked. “Not underneath and then up into the body of the vehicle?”
Soul shook her head and said to the group at large, “No. The fire originated inside. Then it burst out the windows. First fire. Then the explosion. I can only postulate that an instant of opportunity gave the aunt time to unlock the door and shove the boy out onto the pavement. The explosion caught him, burned his clothes and hair, but he escaped the worst of the blast and fire. His aunt, the driver, and the security detail were all killed.”
But Soul was unscathed. Not a hint of scorching. I wondered how the feds and the Secret Service would take all this. I wondered if rainbow dragons breathed fire and smoke. As if she heard my thoughts she sent a smile to me, but spoke to the cats. “Do you have a sense of smell about the child?”
Both were standing in the window’s draft and shook their heads, noses crinkled and brows furrowed. “Everything stinks,” Rick said. “Just like the Tollivers’ house fire but with diesel fuel.”
Even more softly, Soul said, “And Justin and the senator? We know Justin’s wife’s linens had a peculiar odor. But when you were with them, did they smell of that same oddness?”
Occam shrugged. “Fire and smoke stink interfere with and overwhelm other scents, and we’ve had fire everywhere they’ve been. Fire was the clue. We just didn’t put it all together until Nell did. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
The last bit made me smile.
Soul murmured, “To me, this child does not smell human. I never got close to his family, or to the other Tollivers. However, you are agreed that at least Justin is human?”
“Justin Tolliver smells wrong,” Rick said, “but not enough to trip my predator sense. I can’t explain it but predators, meat eaters, smell of meat. This man smells of human, but also of fish and water and something musky. It could be scent transfer. His wife smelled worse but she wore perfume. Like body lotion and shampoo and perfume all in the same scent. Expensive matching products.”
“Lots of perfume,” Occam agreed. “So maybe Justin smells normal and the odd scent was from his wife?”
“The senator’s wife wears too much scent, too,” Rick said, comparing the two women. “Clarisse Tolliver may wear even more perfume.”
“Or maybe the cats smell things when nothing is really there. We humans should get close to her,” JoJo said. “After a shower or something.”
“You women figure out how to do that,” Occam said. “I got no desire to be arrested for busting into the senator’s wife’s shower and sniffing her. Rick stole a pillowcase. I’m not sticking my nose on a person.”
“We’ll know more about the fire after Arson finishes their investigation,” Soul said to the unit.
“But there was something odd about the initial flash of fire. There was a purple and orange blast of flame, just for an instant. I’ve seen many fires and explosions and this one was odd.
“Change of subject.” She swiveled in her seat and said to me, “I can read your report later. I want your impressions of the two women you met today.”
I frowned. “I grew up in a hotbed of conspiracy theorists. I can pretty much recognize the type whether they’re right or left wing, religious or atheist. They all have a certain feel.” I stopped, looked at T. Laine, and grinned. “A certain vibe.”
“Listen to Ingram, going all new age, millennialist teenager,” she said.
“And both of these girls had that vibe. But the first one started out fine and then at the end changed, got worried, fidgety. I got the feeling she was conflicted and feeling guilty about something.” I shook my head. “That wasn’t quite it. It’s a lot easier to just be yourself, except some people don’t know who they are and so for them it’s easier to pretend to be someone else.” T. Laine and Jo exchanged a glance I couldn’t decipher. “But the girl posing as Candace McCrory was fully aware of who she was, but was pretending to be someone else and wasn’t altogether happy about that. She was playing . . . I guess was playing several parts. Trying to be a lot of different things at one time.”
Rick nodded, as if agreeing, watching me, listening. Evaluating. That was it. He was evaluating my performance. And he seemed pleased. I went on.
“The girl calling herself Mary Smith was earnest. She was a believer and full of anger and frustration. She was real. Why Candace sent us to Mary I don’t know. But I will say that I have a feeling something is going on inside DNAKeys. Where there’s smoke there’s . . .” I stopped. “Well, you know.”
Soul said, “I’ve listened to most of both interviews. It sounds as if some of the women’s reports might have a basis in truth, but to what degree I can’t speculate.”