I TURNED OFF HIGHWAY 93 for the entrance to Rocky Flats. At this time in the afternoon there was a line of cars heading in the opposite direction, going home. I was the only one coming in.
Low, dense clouds from an oncoming storm threatened the Front Range. The forecast called for an evening blizzard. Already, intermittent flakes of snow floated from the sky.
I continued past the administrative trailer complex where I worked and parked in the lot adjacent to the plant manager’s office.
The Protected Area stood one hundred meters to the east. A Humvee with a machine gun mounted on the roof was parked outside the gate. Within the fence perimeter remained the white trailer, the same one Gilbert Odin suspected contained the cargo that had caused the nymphomania. Guards in sage-green parkas and armed with submachine guns walked the fence. A black semi-tractor truck backed up to the white trailer. Workers in heavy overalls and yellow safety helmets motioned to one another as they guided the truck into position. More Humvees and a row of white Suburbans were parked on the road leading from the Protected Area. It seemed that the trailer was going to move out tonight by convoy, regardless of the anticipated blizzard.
My plan was simple. I was going to get answers directly from Herbert Hoover Merriweather, the plant manager. If Merriweather wouldn’t share what he knew with Gilbert Odin, Merriweather would have no choice but to cooperate with me once I put him under vampire hypnosis. Then I’d wait for the gloom of night to stalk and subdue the guards, hypnotizing them one by one until I could penetrate the Protected Area, break into the trailer, and expose the secret behind the conspiracy. Hopefully I wouldn’t contaminate myself and the Denver metroplex in the process.
I no longer had the luxury of subtlety. Gilbert would have to deal with the consequences of my trampling over DOE’s security rules. I’d tell him what I discovered, he would pay my fee, and I’d disappear into the vampire underground to lend my fangs in the fight against the vânätori de vampir.
Cracking my knuckles, I prepared myself for the unexpected. Nothing would surprise me tonight. To the attacker goes the initiative.
Flipping up the collar of my barn coat, I turned off the car motor and adjusted my knit cap. I clipped my ID badge to my coat, got out of my Dodge, and tread carefully across the icy sidewalk to the front door.
Past the second set of glass doors, a guard stood in the lobby. He wore full combat regalia, black webbed harness over a gray camouflaged uniform, a holstered pistol, extra ammo, and a gas mask strapped to his thigh. To his right, between the manager’s office and myself, stood another guard. Besides a pistol, he was armed with an HK submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
Both guards stood taller and more alert when I came in and stamped snow from my boots. They glared at me, no doubt suspicious of why I wore sunglasses on a dark, snowy afternoon.
The first guard read my badge. “What’s your business here?”
“Merriweather paged me.”
The second guard stroked the forestock of his submachine gun. “You’ll have to see him later. He isn’t available.”
The second guard took a position behind his comrade. Neither of them stood more than ten feet away from me, and their eyes stared into mine. Perfect.
“Then please give this message to him.” Carefully, so as to not provoke the guards, I removed my sunglasses.
The closest guard’s aura flared with alarm. His eyes opened wide and bugged out. “Holy-” He froze in mid-cry.
The second guard stepped back. His aura flashed bright. The two of them stood motionless like a pair of mannequins.
I didn’t know how long I’d be with Merriweather, so I would have to fang the guards to keep them quiet. I bit them and dragged their limp bodies to an empty office and shut the door.
I put my sunglasses on again and approached the thick door to Merriweather’s office. My vampire hearing caught him murmuring on the phone. He hung up.
Remembering that his desk was to the left, I opened the door, entered, and turned, locking the door before I released the knob.
Merriweather sat behind that wooden barricade he called a desk. His dark complexion matched the leather of his high-backed executive’s chair. His squat, square-shaped head looked as if it had been screwed into the collar of his off-white turtleneck sweater.
He gasped when he saw me and immediately fumbled with a drawer. I reached for my sunglasses to subdue him.
Merriweather pointed a SIG-Sauer 9mm pistol at me. “Don’t move.”
My hand stopped where it barely touched the glasses. “Careful now. That’s not a stapler you’re holding.”
His thumb released the safety catch. “How’d you get in?”
“I walked.” I wiggled my fingers to signal that I wanted to remove my sunglasses. “May I? It’s dark in here.”
“I said don’t move, wise-ass.” Merriweather shouted, “Security.” He scowled and repeated, “Security.”
When he realized that no one was coming, his expression tightened, and his finger curled on the trigger. “What did you do to my guards?”
“Sang them a lullaby.”
The cell phone in my pocket buzzed and vibrated against my keys. Merriweather flinched but kept his gaze and the muzzle of the SIG-Sauer trained on me. “Don’t answer.”
“I don’t intend to.”
Merriweather glowered. After my cell phone stopped buzzing, he reached for the phone on his desk. In the instant he turned his eyes from me, I would fling off the sunglasses and zap him.
He hesitated from dialing his phone and squinted at me. “Step back. Keep your hands where they are.”
My cell phone buzzed again.
“You’re a popular man,” he groused. Merriweather waited impassively until the buzzing stopped and diverted his eyes to his phone. I took my sunglasses off.
He flipped his gaze back to me. “I told you not to move. What the-”
The whites of his eyes looked like two enameled disks against his purple-black complexion. His shoulders jerked back, and his finger clutched the trigger. The SIG-Sauer fired. I ducked and broke focus with Merriweather’s eyes before I could control him.
He dropped behind his desk, his aura so agitated with panic that it left a trail of sparks in the air.
I lay prone on the floor, supported by my fingertips and toes. I crawled toward the desk, quiet as a tarantula.
He groped for his phone, pulled it off his desk, and jabbed the buttons. The phone cord hung off the side of the desk close to me. I wrapped my hand around the cord and yanked. The phone jerked free, thumped against his side of the desk, and whipped over my head. The phone crashed into the floor, breaking into pieces.
Nervous gulps betrayed his location on the other side of the desk. I circled to the right.
My cell phone buzzed again. Now he knew where I was.
Merriweather’s aura surged over the desk above my head, giving me enough of a warning to get ready. He lunged over me, leading with his pistol. He fired two wild shots into the carpet. I grabbed his hand and hooked my index finger behind his to block the trigger from moving again.
I stood and faced him. I twisted his arm. Our eyes met again. Merriweather froze in terror.
I grinned. “Boo.”
He went, “Uh,” and then relaxed, dazed, open-mouthed.
I grasped the SIG-Sauer by the barrel, unwrapped his fingers from the grip and took the pistol. His hand slowly dropped until it thumped against the desk. I slipped the gun into the pocket of my barn coat.
Holding his hand, I pushed him until he plopped back into his chair. I kept our gazes fixed and walked around the desk. His sleepy hooded eyes followed mine.
My fingers tingled. We were being watched. “Merriweather, is there a video camera?”
He pointed weakly to his right and whispered, “On the top shelf.”
Security must have seen us. They were bound to come in here, guns blazing. I needed to plan an escape.
“Where’s the video feed?”
“Over there.” He gestured to a cabinet on his right.
A private system? “And the audio pickup?”
Merriweather touched the tape dispenser.
“None of this is hooked up to Central Security?” I asked.
“No.”
“Why?”
He managed a tired chuckle. “The first rule of DOE. Cover your own ass well.”
This was good news. The cavalry wasn’t coming. Still, I had to destroy any evidence of my vampire persona. I held his hands and massaged the webs between his thumbs and forefingers.
“Close your eyes.”
He did. After several deep breaths, Merriweather’s head tipped to the left. His aura swirled slowly around him like the water in a smooth-running brook. I let go of his hands.
Plaques and photos from his navy career lined the top shelf. A black ball the size of an orange rested on the far end. I got up on my toes to examine the sphere of dark, translucent plastic. It sat on a round base. Barely discernible inside was a tiny video camera. A thin cable ran from the back of the ball to the gap between the shelf and the wall. I followed the cable down the wall to where it fit through a hole in the top of a cabinet. Kneeling, I pulled the cabinet doors. Locked.
I rested my knee against the cabinet for leverage and pulled hard, calling on preternatural strength. The handles dug into my fingers. I pulled harder. My strength didn’t materialize. Frustrated, I examined my hands, wondering how much of my power I had lost.
I retrieved Merriweather’s 9mm from my pocket and aimed at the lock. If no one had heard the previous three shots, then I should be okay. I fired. The bullet smashed into the lock, and the doors bounced open.
Inside the cabinet on the top shelf lay a Sony video recorder with a fresh bullet crease across the top of the case. The red recording light was still illuminated. Under the recorder stood rows of videotapes, each labeled with a date scribbled with a marking pen. I put the pistol back in my pocket, pressed the recorder’s stop button, and ejected the tape.
A shredder rested over the top of Merriweather’s garbage can. I yanked the tape from the cassette and fed the tape into the shredder, watching shiny black confetti dump into the garbage.
I turned to Merriweather. I studied his neck the way a chef would a cutlet. My fangs extended. After putting him in deep hypnosis, I was going to probe his mind and scrape out every detail he knew about the nymphomania and the cargo in the trailer.
My cell phone vibrated again. Annoyed, I pulled it out of my pocket and read the display.
It was Wendy. Had all the calls been hers? Four calls in less than ten minutes, what was the urgency?
Merriweather looked peaceful. I had time to answer Wendy and then fang him.
I put the phone to my ear. “Yeah, Wendy?”
A man’s voice growled. “Felix Gomez, you shit from Satan, listen to this.” His words carried a pronounced accent.
Vânätori. My vampire senses went on alert.
Wendy screamed. “Felix, it’s a trap. Don’t-”
The phone bumped against something, and the man spoke again. “You want to save this witch? Then come get her, vampir. At the Soda Creek Wrecking Yard in Evergreen.”
“Hold on. Where?”
“You heard me. You have two hours,” he snapped and hung up.