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.