Wake Up Call
Many thanks go out to Andy for Marcus. He talked Irina off the ledge. Thanks, Andy!--Maer
Monday, 01 Aug 2011
The Franklin Agency
Natchez, MS
2130hrs, local time
Irina had gone straight to the Agency after her early lunch with Caroline and had spent the balance of the day doing whatever a daylight business needed doing. She manned the front desk, fielded inquiries, and went through the case files from the records room. By the time five o’clock arrived, she’d finished the last of the files and had a fairly good picture of the landscape. The Franklin Agency was a legitimate agency, taking legitimate cases, and based on the income level of the client, charging only what the client could bear. Quite a lot of cases were pro bono or brought in so little as made no difference. Yet the bills to run the place were paid in full and on time. Mr. Franklin, the Agency’s founder, was apparently well-heeled and had set up a house account whose figure was quite frankly a shock. Irina doubted she could have made that much across her entire career on the force had she been able to stay until retirement. Times ten, Irina thought. Maybe make that a hundred. She spent a pleasant moment thinking what she could do with all that money, then set the activity aside. No point in daydreaming about it. It was enough to know that if she or the others needed something, they’d only have to buy it and not worry unduly over the cost. By all accounts, she had the perfect dream job, she thought as she flipped the sign on the door from “Open” to “Closed”. Only it didn’t feel like it at the moment. Images kept crowding to the fore, from impressions gleaned from Ray’s first email to the last word in parting before sunrise this morning—they all came back and clamored for attention.
It was all a bit much.
Massaging her brow against the pinpoint throb between her eyes, Irina drew the blinds against the late afternoon sun and locked the up the front. She hit the common room in the back, pulled a chilled water bottle from the fridge, and held it against her forehead hoping to stave off an incipient migraine. Reading at full concentration sometimes triggered one and she’d been hitting the files hard for nearly a week in her self-imposed quest for information. She was still on the hook to Mayfield and she needed to know what she could use to convince the Sheriff the Agency wasn’t a threat but an asset. The last thing she wanted—especially after the revelations of the weekend—was to sic the local law on the one team who might be best qualified to take a bunch of rogue ghouls off the streets of Natchez.
Or maybe we’re the best qualified because we’re the best cannon fodder the Prince can throw at the problem. You ever think of that?
Irina cracked the seal on the bottle and took a sip. The water was ice cold and chilled her going down. It also made the pain in her head sharper. Screwing her eyes shut, Irina breathed through it until her gullet warmed again and the pain backed off. She needed to lie down. Taking the bottle with her, Irina walked back to the front of the house.
For all the money the Agency had at its disposal, Marcus and the others had opted for more modest digs for their business, choosing a three-room office in a retasked commercial building downtown instead of something more prestigious in the suburbs. The three rooms basically held everything. At the rear of the house was the windowless common room. It had a large open floor with decent lighting, the agents’ private desks and their computers taking up two-thirds of the room. The rear wall had a bank of storage lockers to either side of the rear entrance. A loading dock waited just outside. Their parking spaces were right up against it. A long counter with a sink, a microwave, cabinets and a fridge took up the wall on the right, and a table and chairs separated the break area from the bullpen. The wall on the left held the utility room and the restroom. Everything was well stocked down to the ice cubes and office supplies. Doing a little discreet snooping, Irina had ascertained that the other desks were very much in use even if she saw little of their owners.
The records room lay between the common room and the front of the house and also ran the width of the suite. Like the common room, it had no windows either. It had the requisite file cabinets and a concealed safe for sensitive materials. There was a work table and chairs running down the center of the room, the better to read the records and the lighting was damned near perfect. Irina had put in long hours going through the records over the past week, and she could attest to the quality of both. She could also vouch for the quality of the locks and the alarm system installed on the doors and windows, as well as the safe. They were all top notch.
The front was the fanciest, though it lacked the width of the other two rooms, and was furnished with a generous couch and comfy chairs for the clients. An exuberant potted ficus held court in the one corner where the light from the tall windows wouldn’t burn it to a crisp. It stood next to the powder room door. More potted plants livened up the place as did several framed prints. The walls were paneled in wood that was neither too dark nor too light. The carpet was plush and thick, the furniture substantial and heavy, yet neither screamed money and privilege.
The leather couch sighed when Irina measured her length on it and put the water bottle to her brow. She stole a look at her watch. Quarter to six. She set it to go off in twenty minutes and closed her eyes. She’d barely managed two hours sleep when she’d finally turned in before dawn and her rest had been broken by nightmares. Irina wedged the water bottle into the corner of the couch and put her arm over her face to block the light.
Twenty minutes. Just a combat nap. Then back to work …
The faint hum of the AC and murmur of street traffic were lulling and she dropped off quickly. Twenty minutes later, her watch beeped for two minutes before falling silent. She didn’t wake but slept on …
---
Irina woke with a start, a nightmare shredding instantly to a sense of unease and half remembered shadows. It was dark in the front room and the window blinds painted stripes across the floor. Irina sat up groggily, her limbs heavy with fatigue, and that damned throb behind her eyes felt worse instead of better. She squinted at her watch. The luminous dial showed 10:30.
“Shit!” She shot to her feet and her migraine slammed her down again. Digging her palms into her forehead, she set her jaw, and breathed.
Snap.
One of the table lamps turned on and Irina looked up with a jerk. Blinking stars, she saw Marcus Stone sitting in the club chair facing her.
"Marcus," Irina husked … and remembered too late that she’d left her notes and the files in plain view on the desk before falling asleep at her post. Shit. Shit. Shit. DiSanti, you fucking idiot—! "Sorry. Migraine. Give me a minute." She leaned back and closed her eyes and prayed that Marcus hadn’t realized what she’d been doing.
Marcus sat there quietly, the lamp light only slightly pushing back the shadows from his face. He took his time before saying anything, as he watched Ms. DiSanti try and control her pain. "I've seen you've been doing some investigations in your off hours," he said calmly, one eyebrow slightly raised in sardonic comment. "I find that I am neither surprised nor bothered by it. If one hires a teacher, one expects to get lectured upon occasion. Hire a private detective and one should expect to get investigated now and again."
That brought Irina’s hands from her face and she looked at him, squinting against the low light of the lamp. Angry black and red stars still sparkled in her vision and the pain from her migraine had started involuntary tears running. She blinked and dragged a hard sniff against the wet, but the damned tears spilled over anyway. She wiped off barehanded and sat up. Damned if she’d face the music lying down.
"I have to hand it to you, Marcus," she said, her voice low and her speech clipped to manage the pain. "You really had me going. Office. Resume. Website. Case files. Client list. I went through the records. About thirty percent were bogus. From what I can tell, the client names and numbers were picked at random from the phone book. Numbers didn’t match the clients. Thirty percent. If I pulled the financials on this Agency, would thirty percent of the money be bogus too? What else will I find if I keep digging? How long before others start asking questions and do some digging of their own?"
"Records can be searched...investigated without your knowledge." And Marcus gave her a knowing look, an obvious reference to all the searching she had done through the Agency's records. "A good percentage of what we investigate is so far off the radar of the normals that even if we kept 100% honest and accurate records, nobody would believe them anyway. So I create fakes, change names, shift phone numbers, whatever needs to be done. I protect my clients. Are we flying under the law? Yes. Am I concerned? No. After what you've seen, I would think you would agree."
"Granted." Irina wasn’t about to give up just yet. "But as someone standing between you and the line of fire should the mundanes find out, our methods for hiding the truth must be watertight. Keep in mind a thirty percent discrepancy might be enough to engage the IRS’s interest. And that’s a set of bloodsuckers I don’t want to face. Ever." Certain that Marcus wasn’t immediately going to rip her head off for her snooping, she leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes again. The light was really too much to take. "Speaking of bloodsucking, does Ray know about you? Does Nancy? Franklin? Just how did you get involved in this anyway?"
"Know what about me?" His facial expression didn't change in the slightest.
That got her to open her eyes again. "That you’re a vampire," she said. Is he shittin’ me?
"Ah. Well, it is a compliment to an old stage magician's skills that you bought into my illusion thoroughly. Did you really think I would go into a group of vampires who believe that I am one of them and not be prepared for that sort of situation?"
"You're telling me that these vampires totally bought the fact that you're one of them when all they needed was to take one freakin' sniff of me and tell right off I was human? So why aren't you pinging their radar, Marcus? You're warm like me. You've got color like me. Which they do not. So ... why did they peg me and not you?"
"As with any illusion, the key is the pledge. Due to my skills as an illusionist and my knowledge as an occult specialist, I had already convinced them that I was one of them. After that, people, even undead people, choose to believe what they already know. Inertia is any illusionist's greatest ally."
"Look," Irina said, feeling her blood pressure rise. "Illusions will go only so far, Marcus. They touched you, for chrissakes. Either you're a vamp or you're not. They could tell right off I wasn't. They accepted you as one of them. Ergo, you're one of them. How many vampires are actually working the Agency?” Irina persisted. “There's you. Are Ray and Nancy vamps, too?"
"At last count, 0 vampires are actually working the Agency," Marcus said, unruffled. "Perhaps next time I should make the illusion slightly less convincing." He flicked invisible dust off his cuffs and asked calmly, "Do you feel a hunger for vampiric blood, like a ghoul would? If I were a vampire and I had given you my blood, would you not be a ghoul now?"
"No," Irina said through her teeth as her migraine intensified. “However, I have it from a reasonable source that I'm one of the lucky ones that the blood doesn't work on. But that's not exactly a good thing—that bond or whatever you call it—that was my shield, my badge that gets me into the super secret club without getting my head ripped off. And I don't have it. But that doesn’t prove you’re not a vampire, Marcus," Irina added before he could respond. I can’t believe this. I’m arguing the existence of vampires with one of the bloodsucking undead and he doesn’t even believe he is one. Either he’s insane or I am. "Tell me something, do you doubt that Renny is a vampire?"
"It would not surprise me, but I did not test him and I did not see him demonstrate any obvious powers."
"Excuse me, but weren’t you at the Post Office with me? With him? As he was channeling answers from that poor soul bound to the building?" God, what is it going to take to get through to him? "What would you call what Renny did two nights ago? Charades?"
Irina could hear the absolute conviction in his voice that he wasn’t a vampire, even though she believed otherwise. How? Gut instinct and Irina never went against her gut. Oh, yeah, and it gave you some excellent advice about bringing that gun, DiSanti. You sure it wasn’t just indigestion talking that night?
"Any obvious vampiric powers," Marcus saw fit to qualify. “I have run into seers before and they were certainly alive.”
"Really, Marcus?" Irina growled. "You’re going to split hairs on this one? Really?"
"I see. Well, if you have all the facts and the correct conclusion already, then why ask me?"
"Until I have proof, all I have is conjecture. Conjecture isn't good enough. You know that. And as to proof, the surefire litmus test of vampiric existence is also the most fatal to the subject. Whatever else has happened, Marcus, I don't want you or anybody else dying."
"One more point for your argument, Ms. DiSanti. The prince summoned all new vampires. If Ray was a vampire and Nancy was a vampire, would he not have summoned them as well?"
"I'd have to get the invitation list from him to be absolutely sure."
"Marcus had expected many things from Ms. DiSanti, but this seemingly unshakeable belief that he was a vampire was something he had not foreseen."
"And another thing—internal narration is Ray's disability. How come all of a sudden you've got it too?" It was something Irina still expected only of Ray and it clawed at her for attention. "That's twice you've done it. Why?"
"I'm sorry if that disturbs you. I have picked it up from being in Ray's presence. Potentially a bad habit, but one, that if kept internally, gives Ray some comfort."
The migraine had its teeth in her now, inexorably grinding her brains to mustard—pungent and biting behind her eyes, throbbing hot inside her skull—and Irina knew she didn’t have much fight left in her before she succumbed to it. It was making a hash of any logical argument she could throw at Marcus but her pride insisted that she try. She had one ploy left, once she’d hoped she would never have to use. She clawed up from the couch and stood.
"Marcus, listen to me. I've seen a lot of strange things on and off the force but it’s always come down to once I've eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And I believe I've got it eliminated down to the weird-assed but undeniable truth that you really are a vampire. You know why? It's because my wrist is NOT an erogenous zone, never has been, and never will. When you put your mouth on it, I thought I'd die of orgasm on the spot. That sort of thing just does not happen with humans. There's something else going on here. I've looked into it. There's no contact poison or medication that can do that to someone. You didn't smear your lips with Love Potion #9 and kiss me with it. You did something, something no human can do. I was there. I know what I felt." She moved closer to Marcus as she spoke, until she was right in his face. "I've been kissed before, Marcus. I'm no virgin and I'm no nun. What you did, in front of God and everybody, isn't human."
"Well, I am sorry you seem convinced of that. You, of course, did extensive research into all the occult and magical solutions when you looked into what happened with your wrist. Because having been researching and investigating the occult for close to 40 years now, I have no more resources than your average Joe Blow investigator." "The sarcasm was evident in Marcus's voice."
That tore it. The migraine had the bit in its teeth and it ran away with her tongue and Irina was in too much pain to give a good Goddamn.
"You know what, Marcus?" she finally hollered. "I don't care you don't believe me. In the end, I've got an agency staffed by a Head of Security who has a brain injury that compels him to narrate his thoughts aloud, a CEO who is faking being a vampire, a financial wizard who rarely shows up for roll call but seems to specialize in white collar crime, and now you've got me, a migraine-ridden ex-Homicide cop who suffers from nightmares and the apparent delusion that she's the front man for a legitimate investigation agency. In a town full of freakin' vampires, the scariest of whom are now looking her way. You know what? Fuck it!" She threw her hands wide and stalked away from him. "Damned if I'm going to let this Agency go down in flames. You hired me to be your front man? Fine. I'll front. I'll answer the phone. Open the mail. Flip the open sign in the window. Chase the cases that come in through the door. And I'll somehow keep the vamps off our back. Right now, we have rogue ghouls running around rocking the boat for everybody. What are you going to do about it?"
"Rely on my investigators to do their job?" Marcus said smoothly. "And she actually specialized in burglary, which I believe is technically a blue collar crime."
She got maybe five steps away from him before her migraine made her pay for it. Ice picks stabbed through her skull might have hurt less and she vainly grabbed her head, wavering on her feet. Deep in her gut, the first tendrils of nausea stirred. Not. Going. To. Happen. Get a grip. Your temper’s making this worse. Behind her, she heard Marcus continue as if nothing were wrong.
"I suspect that you and the group of vampires should have no problem running down some ghouls. I did try and give you some warning about what to expect, Ms. DiSanti. Instead, you took that as license to investigate myself and the rest of the members of the Agency. Once you were proved wrong and I was proved right about the dark things that run in the night, you adjust by accusing me of being one of them. What happens when you are proven wrong there too? You accuse yourself of secretly being a vampire? Stop complaining and do the job I hired you to do—investigate the occult goings-on in this town. Starting with the ghouls gone wrong. Speaking of which, have you reported the crime of murder to the police yet?"
"He knew very well that she had not and she would not."
"I can't report the murder. It would be breaking the Masquerade or whatever it is the vamps call their cover story. You know that. We break it, we're dead, and it won't matter if you're a vampire or not, Marcus. You or Ray or Zadie or Gramma Willi or anyone. Midnight, Cotton and the others will rip us to bits and that'll be the end of it. You hired me to investigate the paranormal. So be it. I like the challenge. But if I'm going to do my job to the best of my ability, I can't do it going in blind. Which is what happened this weekend. If you’d known what was coming, why didn't you brief me? You've got 40 years with the paranormal. I've got ... what? 48 hours? 72? If you expect me to keep up with you, you're going to have to throw some of your training my way. Don't you think? Hell, even as a rookie I had training to back me up. New York is rough, but I didn't hit the streets deaf, dumb and blind." She took a deep breath, lowered her hands, and deliberately straightened her shoulders from the hitch the migraine put in them.
"The way I see it is this—we've got those rogue ghouls to capture. We may have to kill them. If we do, we've got bodies to hide or deliver to parties interested. Their inside line at the hospital, Martha and her husband—that's gone. Can we use that to our advantage? Do we send someone out as bait and shadow them as back-up, then apprehend the ghouls when they go for the lure? If we do that, who the hell do we send? How strong are the ghouls, Marcus? Half as strong as a vampire? A third? A quarter? Once we have them, do we question them first? Make sure there aren't more of them running around? If there are, where? And ... shit. Never mind. One thing at a time. We need a vampire for bait. Who do we use?"
"If I had let you know any earlier or given you warning about what they were going to ask me to do to you, then you wouldn't have been able to play your role as effectively as you did."
Irina would have given much to discover just what would faze the man. She crossed her arms and fisted her hands for control as he went on.
"And as far as the ghouls, the answer depends. Which vampires have they been feeding off? How much? Do they have any blood left? It is all about the blood. I suggest asking Zadie about bait. Pay close attention to her answer. She knows something she doesn't wish everyone else to know."
"I caught that. I'll talk to her. Maybe she and her Gramma can come up with something." She glanced down and up again. "Marcus, we're on the same page. I don't want anything to happen to you or the others. You're good people. You and Ray and well, I haven't met Nancy or Franklin yet, but I'm trusting they're good people too. I won't betray you or the agency to Sheriff Mayfield and I can't let Cotton and his Sheriff take you down either. But we're on the hook for both. Did you know that Mayfield had you on his suspect list for the murders before I even came to town? How long were you going to leave things like that?"
"I didn't kill them." Marcus pulled a very elegant and minute shrug, a lifting of the eyebrows and nothing more. "The sheriff seems efficient enough. He would have cleared my name soon enough. I am not a police officer, Ms. DiSanti. Running to them and asking them to clear me for a murder that I think they suspect me of is only going to draw their attention even more. You have a unique in. Or were you suggesting something more violent?"
"No! I wasn't saying I was planning on running to them. I am not suggesting anything violent. I'm suggesting that I might be an asset to deflect Mayfield off the Agency, because right now, he's looking kind of interested in what you're—we—are doing." Irina took a deep breath and held it for a count of five, listened to her pulse pounding in her ears. Let it out again. "Are you deliberately baiting me, Marcus? Cuz I gotta say, right now, you're doing a great job. Must be that silver hair and that accent getting under my skin," she added with an eye roll, despite the pain it inflicted. She blinked stars and managed to stay upright. "God knows it can't be anything to do with blood drinking rituals done with a metaphorical gun to our heads."
She didn’t wait for a reply from the man but gathered the paperwork she’d left on the desk, closing the folders and stacking them. They made a nice little pile and her notes went right on top.
"Marcus, I am seeing the Sheriff tomorrow and I have to give him something to get him off our backs. These will help me do it." She hefted the files and tipped her head toward the records room. "If you’re of a mind to lend a hand, you know where to find me.”
Advil. Records room. Doctored files for the Sheriff. Dying in my bed. In that order.
Again she didn’t wait for a reply but got moving.
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