“Blood type AB. I guess that makes sense. ABs can get blood transfusions from all four blood types. Lower than average levels of serotonin,” Claire read to Jackson, as they studied their blood sample readouts. It was their fourth day of training, and they were sitting in a lab off the autopsy room. The agents had been paired off, and everyone was discussing results. It was still raining, and gloomy.
The three vics were in cold storage in that room, but today the VSI students were analyzing vampire blood that they themselves had drawn. The vampire in the coffin had not appeared to feel anything when the needle went in, and no one had any reasonable theories about why his blood hadn’t coagulated inside him long ago. Also, about whose blood it actually was that they were studying. If the vampire drank the blood of his victims, what happened to it?
“Lower levels of serotonin have also been found in the brains of murderers on death row, accounting for increased aggression,” Jackson said, reciting from their class lecture.
“There are caps on short tandem repeats of DNA strands,” Claire continued.
“Which suggests increased life span,” Jackson said. “Caps allow for little to no unraveling of the strands.”
“Time for swabs,” DeWitt announced, holding the box out to them. They’d had one swab a day since arriving. Claire was becoming increasingly apprehensive. Was there concern that something was happening to them?
“I don’t like this,” she murmured to Jackson as she unwrapped the swab. “Do you think they’re withholding information from us? Even experimenting on us? I mean, we didn’t even volunteer for this. This could be construed as a form of coercion.”
“It could,” Jackson said. “You want to see Nash?”
“Yes,” she said. “Absolutely.”
Then the lab door opened and Nash himself poked his head in. He looked straight at DeWitt and then the class and said, “It’s time.”
“Let’s roll,” said DeWitt. “I’ll brief you all while you’re suiting up.”
In near-unison, the ten other agents in the room rose from their chairs and made for the exit. DeWitt went with them. Claire looked around in confusion, then began to get up, too.
“Claire,” Jackson said in an odd tone of voice, “you and I are staying behind.”
“What? What’s going on?” she demanded.
“Jackson, Anderson, in five,” Nash said, closing the door.
“Do you trust me, Claire?” Jackson asked, locking gazes with her. “Please, trust me.”
“Tell me what’s going on,” she insisted. “Why are we staying behind?”
“You’ll find out everything in a few minutes,” he said.
“You bastard. I don’t trust you. You’ve been holding out on me.” She glared at him. “You’re my partner.”
He looked upset. “I know, Claire. I know and I’m sorry, but it’s going to be okay now.”
“Okay now?” she asked, her voice rising. “What hasn’t been okay?”
Jackson stood up. He said, “Let’s go see Nash.”
They went down a hallway and faced Nash’s door. Jackson rapped on it sharply. Nash opened it, and Claire did a quick sweep of the interior. American flag, portrait of the POTUS, commendations.
“Take a seat, please,” Nash said to Claire and Jackson as he sat down behind his desk. Nash picked up the folder. “Agent Anderson, I need you to stay calm.”
She sat down. A million scenarios ran through her mind: She had done something to cause a civilian’s death. She had a fatal illness. She was becoming a vampire. The vampire had risen and was terrorizing Salem.
And: By his demeanor, Jackson knew a hell of a lot more about what was going on than she did.
“The perp,” she said. “The vampire. He’s struck again?”
Nash nodded, his expression somber. “Yes. He has.”
Then why are we in this room? she thought. Why aren’t we with the rest of the team? “Let’s roll” obviously meant lights and sirens. As in, get your tail to the crime scene. “Suit up” meant vests and helmets. A violent confrontation.
Jackson gave her a look and she kept her mouth shut.
Nash flipped open the folder. The topmost picture was the first vic they’d seen onscreen, the one in the pink turtleneck sweater. Second vic. Third vic. Purple glow at the puncture sites. And then a form she recognized as DNA test results.
Like any decent bureaucrat, she was a champ at reading upside down. In one box, MATCH was typed and in the “subject’s name” box, ANDERSON, CLAIRE.
“Match? What’s this?” she demanded, reaching for the document. Nash kept his hand splayed over it, preventing her from taking it. Her blood pressure spiked. Bad news. Frame-up, she thought. Setup. But how or what, she had no idea.
“Listen to him,” Jackson said, his voice that gentle voice he used, connecting with her, helping her focus.
“I’m going to be blunt,” Nash said. “We’ve had a prime suspect in this case for some time.”
“Not me,” she said, reaching again for the piece of paper. Nash kept a firm hold of it.
“The suspect had access to your DNA and planted it at each of the three crime scenes your class has discussed,” Nash told her. “Hair follicles. To make you look like the guilty party.”
Stunned, she looked at Jackson. “The swabs—”
“We’ve been taking swabs so we could ensure that you are not a vampire, and we arranged this school so we could keep you under observation if and when he killed again,” Nash said plainly. “If he hadn’t struck within the two weeks, we would have extended the duration of your training.
“You’re not a vampire,” he added.
Dumbfounded, she could only sit and listen. A terrible feeling was spreading throughout her body—Claire was smart and she could piece things together, which was why she was so good at what she did. But she couldn’t fathom that she was drawing the correct conclusions.
“The perp was careful. He wore gloves and booties, and he wiped down the scenes. But he obviously did not consider that when he bites his victim, he leaves behind a vampiric marker we can catch with Luminol. And he didn’t do a perfect cleanup job. He’s not a professional criminal, just a killer. But we had to be sure of you.”
She looked from him to Jackson, handsome, kind Jackson, whose cheeks were blazing, and who looked ashamed.
“Be sure of me,” she said.
“Because you know the vampire in question,” Nash said.
“No,” she said, feeling dizzy.
“We think the reason he’s been killing these women is because they resemble his mother. We have cause to believe that the vampire in the tomb is his father, and that he killed his father after his father killed his mother because she was unfaithful to him. In the seventeenth century.”
“He,” she said, swallowing hard, not wanting to think about who had easy access to her hair follicles.
“The perp—the son of the vampire in the crypt—began his attacks approximately two and a half years ago—after he became convinced that you were being unfaithful to him.” He looked at Jackson.
“I discussed our relationship with Agent Nash,” Jackson said to her. “We’re partners. Nothing unprofessional has passed between us.” He leaned toward her. “I went along with all of this to clear you, Claire. And to make you safe.”
My husband is a vampire. My husband is the vampire. My husband is a serial killer.
She didn’t know how long she sat there. She became aware that Nash was holding out a shot glass of whiskey to her. She took it and tossed it back.
“The ten other agents in your class know all this,” Nash said. “DeWitt is the agent in charge of the task force.”
“This was a sting operation,” she said shakily, “in case I was the guilty party.”
“We got a search warrant for your condo,” Nash continued. “We found a diary your husband’s been keeping. It’s written in Romanian, which, as you know, is not a problem for the Bureau. The entire document has been translated. If what it says is true, Peter Anderson has had several dozen aliases, and he’s hundreds of years old.”
“I need a moment,” she said, feeling ill. “I need a bathroom.”
Jackson moved to help her up. She waved him away and pulled herself to her feet. Then she swayed out of the room and made it down the corridor to the bathroom. On her knees, she threw up. Then she tumbled against the cold metal of the stall and began to hyperventilate.
“Claire,” Jackson said, opening the door and hoisting her up. He wrapped his arms around her. “They’ve gone to get him.”
“Oh God, oh God,” she murmured against his chest.
“They recruited me a month ago,” he told her. “All they told me was that they thought your husband was involved in a crime, and that he was planting DNA evidence to make you look guilty. But they didn’t tell me it was murder, and they sure as hell didn’t tell me anything about goddamn vampires. If they had, I would have staked that son of a bitch first chance I got.”
She hitched a breath, and he leaned his cheek against the crown of her hair. He did not kiss her. “As soon as we arrived here at FSU, and I found out what exactly was going down, I pitched holy hell. Nash and DeWitt came down on me hard. You were under surveillance before we got here, and it’s been going on here, too. Hell, I’ve been standing outside your window at night myself, to protect you.”
“You faked me out,” she said accusingly, pulling out of his arms.
“I’m a hell of an FBI agent,” he affirmed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “But I’m an even better . . . friend.”
“Did he kill someone tonight?” she asked. Her voice sounded as if it belonged to someone else. It sounded like someone who was about to completely lose it.
“An undercover cop has been posing as a coed at MIT,” he said. “She fits the resemblance pattern of his victims, and he moved in fast. She was supposed to go over there tonight. I’m guessing he made his move, and that’s why the team went out.”
Anger surged through her, burning away some of the trauma. “So, what, was he building up to murdering me?”
“Escalation is consistent with what we know about serial killers,” he said.
“Is it consistent with what we know about vampires?” she countered.
He held her. “I don’t know, Claire. Life was simpler when it was just basters.”
“I want to be there,” she said. She swallowed down all her emotions except for grim determination. “For the takedown. I have to be there.”
—