“The second-floor researchers are experimenting on chimpanzees and pigs, with werewolf blood and vampire blood,” she said. “Some super-secret DNA studies with genes implanted in human embryos—with an emphasis on curing humans of genetically caused diseases.
“The third-floor lab is working with vaccines against a virulent plague that hit the African Congo. The plague was kept out of the media”—she lowered her voice—“even though it killed every single human in two villages in the bush, striking and killing before anyone could get away. And the new Ebola vaccine doesn’t work on this strain. DNAKeys is the only pharmaceutical company working on it, in conjunction with someone at CDC—though that’s unofficial thanks to a funding cut. Keys is using vampire blood for that one, in a biosafety level four lab, which is nothing but a disease-infested prison. They’re testing the Ebola under controlled circumstances on chimps and three species of macaques.” Her eyes filled with tears and focused on me fiercely. “The doctors are giving the animals diseases and then trying to cure them, but none of them are staying alive for long and they are so sick. When the animals die, they cut them up. It’s horrific. And there’s more . . .”
She nattered on for several more minutes, talking about things that sounded like Internet urban legends and myths. I wanted to tune her out. I was doing a lot of that lately, and on one hand it seemed foolish to ignore possible witnesses and covert sources, but on the other hand, there was only so much conspiracy stuff I could handle.
“Okay,” I interrupted, shoving my hands into my pockets, mimicking her body language. My Spook School interrogation technique trainers would have patted me on the back. My self-defense trainers would have given me a failing grade for hiding my hands, making sure there was no way on earth I could protect myself if Mary Smith—surely not her real name—attacked me. But it was cold, cold, cold in the computer lab. I didn’t think the heat was on at all. Could computers freeze? “What else?”
“What else? Are you kidding me?”
“Not really. You told me that what the research lab is researching, and the results they’re hoping for, could be good or could be bad. That’s the way life works—good or bad. And you haven’t said anything my animal rights group could get excited about without catching Ebola. We want to help, but not die a horrible death over it.”
Mary sat back in her chair, nostrils flaring, hands still in her pockets. “No. You don’t understand. DNAKeys has goals and they aren’t sharing them. They want to end human lives or make humans unable to procreate, or maybe unleash the Ebola virus and wipe humans off the face of the planet. No one knows. It’s all hush-hush research and testing, compartmentalized in various sections of the facility. And they have werewolves and vampires captive. In cages,” she emphasized. “Like animals. With the animals.”
Finally. That sounded like something of significance to PsyLED. I sat forward. “Okay. Lots of things going on. Paranormal beings in cages. Experiments. Got it. But there’s government oversight, right?”
“No. Nothing. Even with the CDC interest and input, it’s privately funded. No ethics rules are being enforced like in government-funded research facilities and pharmaceutical companies overseen by the FDA.”
I nodded. “Okay. I understand.”
My cell dinged. I pulled it from a pocket and glanced at the screen. The note was from JoJo, who was monitoring my conversation with Mary. The text said, Plague is real. It’s called Zaire ebolavirus 1.75 (EBOV 1.75). DNAKeys branched out to include researching strains of Ebola after the 2014 outbreak. Bet that’s when they got themselves some werewolf captives with the hope that their blood might hold the cure.
Mary looked as if she was about to bolt, so I gave an offhand shrug. “My roommate,” I said, to explain looking at a text in the middle of a meeting. “She’s stuck in traffic and she’s got dinner. Okay, so maybe animal abuse. Maybe you can get me inside and I can see for myself? Then I could alert the local chapter about an ongoing abuse situation?”
“Are you crazy? No way!” Mary stood up fast.
My cell dinged again and I held up a hand as if to pacify Mary. JoJo had texted, Justin Tolliver’s wife Sonya and the senator’s son Devin—motorcade just attacked. Limo in flames. Sonya presumed dead. Child saved by Soul. Get back here.
I pocketed my cell. “Fine. I need to check some things, verify your claims. Can we chat again?”
Mary Smith walked away. Actually she stomped away like a petulant child. She hadn’t touched a single thing; I had no way to obtain prints. As she left the room, she muttered, “Bitch.”
I frowned. “What did I do?”
Ten seconds later, Occam stuck his head in the door. “You ticked her off, Nell, sugar. Whatever she wanted, you didn’t give it to her. Let’s go. We’re wanted at HQ.”
“I got the texts. Soul saved a kid from a fire. We got too many fires, Occam.”
He pushed open the library’s security door and we stepped into a shadow, looking around, making sure that Mary Smith didn’t see us leave together. When we were reasonably sure that Mary—and no one else either—was watching us, we raced to Occam’s fancy car and got in, out of the icy wind that had blown up.
“Fire. Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, starting the engine. “Yeah. You’re right. There is fire at every crime scene. The fires seemed natural, but fire is the single consistent factor at every incident. Fire is what makes this investigation a single, unified, cohesive case.”
I thought back to the Holloways’ party. “We thought the gunshots knocked over candles and started the fire. But what if they didn’t? What if our shooter is a firestarter?”
Occam punched a screen on his dash and told the car to call HQ. It did. He passed our speculations to JoJo.
Over the tinny connection, Jo said, “Roger that. Running a search on that angle now. Checking the mythical creatures compendium with the addition of fire, hoping it’s part of the existing mythos.” We heard keys clacking softly and before Occam could sign off, she added, “FYI. Soul and the kid she rescued are at HQ; the others are heading in.”
“We might beat them there.” He peeled out of the parking lot, tires fishtailing on the thin layer of freezing rain. “ETA soonest depending on traffic.” He ended the call.
Trusting in my seat belt to hold me in place, I snuggled my arms out of my sleeves and tucked my hands beneath my armpits to warm them. Occam’s fancy new car had come with seat warmers and he adjusted mine to warm. This small service was mystifying to me, disorienting, bewildering. I tucked my chin down into my coat collar so I didn’t have to look at him. I didn’t have words to respond to all the strange feelings that were . . . not assaulting me, but hopping up and down on my heart.
I hated this. I had been a perfectly happy widder-woman—
I snorted out a soft giggle.