Phantom (The Last Vampire #4)(25)
Author: Christopher Pike

"Because the baby has to remain in an incubator for a day. Tell her that's normal hospital procedure."

Seymour repeats what I say. He doesn't cover the phone this time but I still can't hear Kalika speak— her voice is too soft. I tire of this game. But there is a reason why my daughter doesn't let me talk to her directly at critical times. It heightens my helplessness, and her strategy says a lot about how her mind works. She is a master manipulator. I have as much hope for the two missing police officers as I do for Eric. Seymour finally relays her latest message.

"She says you are lying about the incubator but she doesn't care," he says. "As long as you bring the baby, she will wait to meet you."

"She has to bring you as well," I say. "Alive."

Seymour acts cheerful. "I made that a condition of the bargain."

"Does she know where the Santa Monica Pier is?"

"We both know where it is, in Santa Monica." I try to sound optimistic. "Hang lose, Seymour. I'll get you out of this mess somehow." He pauses. "Do what you have to, Sita." Kalika must have taken the phone from him. It goes dead.

16

Midnight has arrived, the witching hour. I stand in a clean hallway and stare through the glass at the newborn babies in their incubators. There are six— they all look so innocent, especially Paula's. A pediatric nurse busies herself with the infants, checking their temperatures and heartbeats, drawing blood. She sees me peering through the glass, and I must look like a sight because she comes to the door and asks if I'm all right. I shuffle over to her.

"Yeah, I was just wanting to hold my friend's baby again. Before I leave the hospital." I add, "I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back."

The nurse is sweet. "I saw you earlier with the mother. Put on a gown and mask and you can hold him. I'll get you the stuff. Which one is he?"

"Number seven."

"He doesn't have a name?"

"Not yet."

Soon I am dressed appropriately and I am led into the newborns. I watch as the nurse draws blood from Paula's baby and places the vial in a plastic rack, with the other vials. Ramirez is all she writes on the white label. The nurse hands me number seven to hold.

"He's so beautiful," she says.

"Yeah. He takes after his mother."

It is good to hold the baby after the shock I have been through. Somehow the nearness of the child soothes me. I stare into his lovely blue eyes and laugh when he seems to smile at me. He is full of life; he kicks the whole time, tries to reach up and touch me with his tiny hands. It is almost as if I am his mother, I treasure him so.

"Why couldn't this have been my child?" I whisper.

Of course I had prayed for a daughter.

Ten minutes later, when the nurse is prepared to leave, she says I can take the baby to Paula's room if I want. The nurse has her back to me as she speaks.

"I'll do that," I say.

"I'll come check the child again in an hour," she says, working with the last baby on her rotation. I turn toward the door.

"I'll tell Paula," I say.

Then I stop and stare at the vials of blood. Warm red blood—it has been the center of my life for five thousand years. Perhaps that is why I halt. I want to be near it, to smell it, to enjoy its dark color. Yet a part of me has doubts. There is something about this blood in particular—number seven's—that draws me. It is almost as if the red liquid hypnotizes me. Hardly thinking, I remove the vial from its plastic rack and slip it into my pocket. The nurse doesn't look over.

I take the baby to Paula.

She is sitting up and praying when I enter, a rosary in her hands. Standing silently at the door, I watch her for a full minute. There is something about how she focuses as she prays. She projects an intensity and at the same time an ease that baffles me. She hardly speaks above a whisper but it is as if her words fill the room. "OurFather, who art in heaven ..."

"Hello," I say finally. "I brought you a present."

Paula is pleased. But she only smiles as I hand her the child. The boy is wise—he immediately searches for and finds her right nipple. I sit by Paula's bed in the dim room. The window is open, we are high up. The city lights spread out beneath us like a haze of jewels and dust. Seymour never leaves my thoughts, nor does Eric. I have twenty-two hours left to do the impossible.

"How do you feel?" I ask.

"Wonderful I'm hardly sore at all. Isn't he ador­able?"

"If he was any more adorable we would do nothing else but stand around and admire him."

"Thank you for staying with me."

"Are you still mad that I brought you here?"

Paula is puzzled. "I like this hospital, but why did you bring me here?"

I lean forward. "I'd like to answer that question honestly because I lied to you before, and I think you know it. I'll tell you in a few minutes. But before I do, may I ask about this child's father?"

Paula appears troubled. "Why do you ask?"

"Because of your precise reaction right now. The day I met you, you reacted in the same way when I asked about the father." I pause. "I really would like to hear how you got pregnant."

Paula tries to brush me off. "Oh, I think it was in the usual way."

"Was it?"

Paula studies me. Even though she is feeding her baby, her gaze is shrewd. It is ironic that she pays me precisely the same compliment.

"You're perceptive, Alisa," she says. "I noticed that the day we met. You miss nothing. Have you always been this way?"

"For a long time."

Paula sighs and looks out the window at the city lights. "This is called the City of Angels. It would take an angel to believe what I have to say next. The priest at St. Andrews didn't believe me. I told him my whole story one day, in confession. He ordered me to do ten Hail Marys." She adds, "That's a huge pen­ance."

"It must be a great story."

Paula shakes her head. "It's a confusing story. I hardly know where to begin."

"At the beginning. That's always easiest."

Paula continues to stare out the window, while her child suckles her breast "Igrewup in an orphanage—I told you that—and was alone most of my life, even when I was surrounded by people. I purposely lived in my own world because my whole environment seemed harsh to me. But I wasn't what you would call unhappy. I often experienced moments of unusual joy and happiness. I could see a flower or a butterfly, or even just a tree, and become joyful. Sometimes the joy would become so strong I would swoon. A few times I lost track of where I was, what I was doing. When that happened I was taken to the doctor by the woman who ran my orphanage. They did all kinds of tests and I was given a grim diagnosis."