The Savior
“I brought you guys food.” The doctor put a large tray down on one of the tables. “Do you like lamb? It’s Wrath’s favorite. We’ve also got baby new potatoes broiled in the oven and boiled carrots.”
As a cloche was lifted off, and all kinds of rosemary heaven wafted around, Sarah decided she needed some real food.
“Your timing couldn’t be better,” she said as she sat down and took one of the two plates.
Jane eased into a chair and smiled. “I should have had Fritz send it down from the big house as soon as we sat at the table. We haven’t been very good hosts.”
“You’ve been great.” Sarah tucked into the dinner, starting with the potatoes which were proof that God existed as far as she was concerned. “Hey, you didn’t happen to see John while you were there?”
“No, why?”
Shifting her knife into her right hand and the fork into her left, Sarah thought about how she could answer that as she cut into the lamb.
“No reason. Wow, this is delicious—and as soon as I’m finished, I’m ready to get back to work.”
“You sure you don’t want to have a sleep? We have a room you can use. Is that where Murhder is? Catching some z’s? I figured he’d be with you.”
Keeping her eyes down, Sarah nodded and then pointed at the crumpled wrappers, the crushed bag and the Coke can. “As for me, I’m wired.”
She also didn’t know how much more time she had. Any moment not working on John’s case seemed wasted, although realistically, she didn’t know that she was going to be able to offer him any kind of solution the medical staff hadn’t already considered.
Breakthroughs didn’t just happen; they had to be earned through sweat equity.
At least that’s what she and Gerry had always believed.
As a wave of sadness came over her, she beat back the emotion with a reminder of what he’d done in that secret lab. How could he have tortured Nate like that? In the name of making money for a man like Kraiten? It broke her heart to think the student she’d loved had turned into a man she didn’t recognize.
A man who did evil things to an innocent boy.
Refocusing on the present, she knew she needed a plan for when she got back to her real life. She was not sure it was safe to return to her house, given that she didn’t know what Kraiten remembered of the previous night. But where would she go? And how was hiding from a billionaire going to work?
Kraiten had endless resources.
She had a year’s worth of expenses saved, a small inheritance, and her 401(k).
Not really the size wallet you needed if you were going to try to disappear for the rest of your life.
Abruptly, she realized that it was more than just Kraiten she might have to evade … because something dawned on her as she looked across the shallow table at the doctor who’d brought her dinner: There was no way of going to the authorities without exposing all of these people and their secret way of life. After all, how could she share the experiments and the test results without providing humans with proof that another species lived among them?
As she considered the ramifications of such a revelation, she knew they would be potentially catastrophic. Given how the human race typically treated things viewed as “other”? The idea of vampires being widely known made her heart pound with panic for the species’ safety.
And in this regard, she realized, she and Kraiten were in the same place for completely different reasons. Neither of them could really bring in law enforcement, could they.
Too bad he was the one with the experience killing people, and she was just a scientist.
Where was Iron Man when you needed him.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Jane said softly.
“Do you read minds?”
The doctor shook her head. “No.”
“Oh, I forgot, you’re not one of them.” Sarah wiped her mouth as she swallowed the truth. “And as for my thoughts, I’m just wondering what I can do for John. By the way, this mint jelly is fantastic, is it homemade?”
Jane smiled a little. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
The wind was cold on John’s face as he walked up the rise and looked across the municipal park toward downtown’s forest of skyscrapers. He was right on the shore of the Hudson, by the boathouse where rowers put their sculls into the water during the warmer months. Over to his left, there was a playground with brightly colored tubes that kids could scramble through and several sets of vacant swing sets, the seats of which had snowpack-passengers that did not travel far.
Everything was blanketed in winter white, only the shallow, shuffling print-trails of squirrels having crossed the open area disturbing the pristine fall.
When the mournful wail of an ambulance sounded out on the highway, he glanced to the bridges that went over the river and saw the flashing red lights in the midst of the traffic. The emergency vehicle was heading toward him, instead of away, which made sense. The St. Francis ER was on this side of the waterway.
He wondered who was in the back. What their ailment was. Whether they were going to live.
His shoulder hurt more as the thoughts went through his mind, but he didn’t think it was because things were suddenly much worse with the wound. Or maybe they were. Who knew.
John refocused on the snow and thought back to Christmases when he’d been at the orphanage—which was an unusual place for his mind to go. Before he’d found his way to the vampire world he belonged in, he’d refused to dwell on what his childhood had been like—nothing good could come of those memories. And afterward, when he’d found his true home and people? He’d told himself none of his human past mattered anymore because he was where he belonged.
Just let it go, he’d always told himself.
Now, though, his brain insisted on digging up a golden oldie from the holiday season. He’d been placed in a Catholic orphanage—because Our Lady of Mercy was pretty much all Caldwell had for unwanted kids outside of the state-sponsored foster program—and he could remember being told all the time that he was one of the lucky ones. The chosen ones.
Nobody had ever told him who had done the choosing, and given that he’d been found in that bus station as a newborn, it wasn’t like he had any memories of being rescued. And as for the special status? He’d always had the sense that the people who worked for Our Lady said that to the kids because they themselves wanted to feel part of an elevated platform, a righteous, better-than-anything-else kind of thing.
Performance piety, he thought.
But whatever, fine, he’d been one of the chosen ones, kept out of the foster care system, saved from some terrible fate that clearly had Charles Dickens–in-the-twenty-first-century written all over it.
In reality, he’d found growing up without parents, and waiting around in a valiant hope that some couple would come and declare they wanted to adopt a scrawny kid who couldn’t talk, to be pretty grim, even if he’d had a warm place to sleep, three squares a day, and free dental.
And then there had been the Christmas season.
For reasons that, in retrospect, now totally escaped him, every December the orphans were loaded onto a bus and taken to the local mall. They weren’t allowed to sit on Santa’s lap, because the season wasn’t about all that—but they were instructed to walk around and see all the presents they would not be getting, and all the families they were not a part of, and all the normal that, through no fault of their own, they could not participate in. And this was back before online shopping, when throngs of people crowded into those shopping centers, carrying out bags and bags of Christmas morning loot into parking lot sections that were standing room only for new car arrivals.