Manitou Blood (9 page)

“Over three liters of blood, none of it his.”

“Jesus.”

“That's not all. Dr. Garrett has just had another one brought in. A middle-aged male, also vomiting blood, his face and his hands covered in thick foundation cream.”

“Another one? Maybe it's some kind of blood-drinking cult.”

“There's no way of telling
what
it is, not yet. It could be a virus, incubated by the heat and the high humidity. Or maybe it's not a physical sickness at all. Maybe it's some kind of mass hysteria.”

“You think it could be catching?”

“There's no way of telling, not yet. We're carrying out all the regulation disease-control protocols, in case it is.”

Detective Mancini shouted, “
Okay, Ryker, for sure! I'll talk to you later!
” He pushed his way back in through the door, catching his foot on the wastepaper basket.

“Well?” asked Lieutenant Roberts.

“Right on the button, Lieutenant. They found them in the kitchen. Two dead, a man and a woman, both in their twenties, both with their throats cut, both bled out.” He checked his notebook and sniffed. “Mr. Michael Harris and . . . Ms. Priscilla Trueman.”

“Oh, God,” said Frank. In spite of her confession, in spite of all the medical evidence, it still came as a shock to him that Susan Fireman's story was true. He felt as if the lights had suddenly gone up in the middle of a horror movie, and he had found himself spattered in real, warm blood.

“Well,” said Lieutenant Roberts, “it looks like we have ourselves a double homicide, and that's just for starters.” He checked his large Rotary watch. “Since Ms. Fireman isn't in a fit state to be interviewed, I think we'll go take a look at her handiwork for ourselves, and come back later, if that's convenient with you. I'll also need to interview those other two patients of yours, down in emergency—ask them whose blood
they've
been drinking.”

“Of course,” said Frank. “However you want to do it.” He felt suddenly very cold and watery, and he dragged out his tan leather chair and sat down. “I'll call you, shall I, if Susan Fireman shows any signs of coming round?”

Lieutenant Roberts stopped, unbalanced, and frowned at him. “Are you okay, doc? You're looking kind of queasy.”

“I'm fine. Just a little shocked, I guess.”

“Well, that's understandable. You take it easy, we can see ourselves down to the emergency room.”

“Wait, Lieutenant—before you go—”

“Yes, doc? What is it?”

“I don't know, maybe this isn't important. But Susan Fireman was talking in some foreign language. Nothing that I've ever heard before . . . eastern European, by the sound of it. But the young man they brought in,
he
was talking the same language.”

“Really?”

“ ‘
Tattle nostrew
,' something like that. But there was a whole lot more of it.”

Lieutenant Roberts raised both eyebrows. “
Tattle nostrew?
Doesn't mean anything to me. Still—” he said, tugging out his notebook and jotting it down. “
Tattle nostrew
. I'm glad you remembered it. You never know.”

“Dr. Garrett and I thought that maybe there might be some kind of connection between them. You know—maybe they're terrorists or something.”

“Well, sure. It's worth bearing in mind. They could be al Qa'eda, trying to spread this disease deliberately, like anthrax. On the other hand, like you say, maybe it isn't a disease at all, and maybe they simply belong to the same Esperanto club. Maybe it's the heat, and everybody's gone bananas and developed a raging thirst for Rhesus negative, instead of Coke. Until we find out what the hell's going on, we don't know what the hell's going on.”

The phone buzzed again. This time, Frank flicked the intercom button so that Lieutenant Roberts could hear it, too. “Frank, it's Dean Garrett again. Ambulance Battalion Eight has just called in to say they're bringing us three more people barfing up blood. And they warn us that we might have to expect more. Apparently NYU Downtown has reported five similar cases; St. Luke's has three and Lenox Hill has two.”

Frank said, “Christ—this is turning into an epidemic.”

“Either that, or a massacre,” said Lieutenant Roberts. “Or
both
. Let's think about it—if all of these folks have been
drinking human blood, how many throats have they cut to get it?”

Detective Mancini's phone warbled again. “It's a message from Inspector Conroy, Lieutenant. He wants us back at the precinct, urgent.”

“Okay, doc,” said Lieutenant Roberts. “It looks like we'll have to love you and leave you.”

Frank said, “Sure. You still want me to call you about Susan Fireman?”

“Oh, yes. I got this very voodoo premonition. I think that you and me, we're going to be sorely in need of each other's help in the next few days.”

Frank drank a glass of water and then he went back down to see Susan. Her skin looked even more luminous than it had before, and when he approached her bed she could smile only very weakly.

“Who were those men?” she asked him.

“The police. They sent some detectives to your apartment. They found your friends.”

“I see.”

Frank cleared his throat. “They'll want to talk to you when you're well enough.”

“What time is it? I've been asleep.”

“Two-thirty-five. Why don't you try to sleep some more? The best thing you can do is rest.”

Susan shook her head. “I can't . . . I keep having that dream.”

Frank stood beside her bed for a while, saying nothing.

“I'm in trouble, aren't I?” asked Susan.

“If it was you who killed Prissy and Michael, then yes.”

“It won't matter. They can't convict dead people, can they?”

“What do you mean? You're not going to die.”

“I'm not going to live, either.”

Frank looked at her for a few moments longer, and then he said, “I have to go. There's a hell of a crisis going on downstairs.”

“You don't hate me, do you, for killing Prissy and Michael?”

“It's not my job to hate my patients, no matter what they've done.”

“I'm glad about that. The funny thing is, I don't hate myself, either. At least they died doing something useful, didn't they, which is more than most people can say?”

“Susan,” said Frank, “have you ever heard of
the pale ones?
”

Susan shook her head. “No,” she said, “no, I never have.”

“You're sure about that? A man who was watching you this morning . . . he said that you were one of the pale ones. He said he couldn't explain it to me, because I wouldn't understand what he meant.”

“I never heard of them, never. I promise you, I never heard of them.” Susan's voice was suddenly different—rambling and blurred, as if she were concussed, or talking in her sleep. “I promise you . . . I really promise you.” She kept on shaking her head, but as she did so, her eyes kept rolling up.

“
Susan
—” said Frank. He glanced up at her monitor, but her heartbeat was steady and her blood pressure was constant, even if it was still very low. Her eyes were closed now and she was breathing soft and steady.

He waited a little longer and then he left the room and walked along the corridor toward the elevators. He had almost reached them when he had the unnerving sensation that Susan had climbed out of bed and was following close behind him, in her white hospital gown. He stopped and turned around, but the only person in the corridor apart from him was a cleaner, mopping the floor and singing
Lazy River.

He pushed the button for
down
. As he waited for the elevator to arrive, he kept glancing back toward Room 1566. A nurse went in, and then came out again. He felt distinctly unnerved. He was sure that Susan had been only inches behind his back.

“
You're not going to die
,” he had assured her. But what had
she
said, in reply?

“
I'm not going to live, either
.”

What the hell did she mean by that? Either you live, or you die. You can't do both.

The elevator pinged and the doors opened up. A man was standing inside, his head wrapped up in white bandages, so that his eyes and his mouth were nothing but slits, like a mummy. Maybe you
can
do both. Frank took a deep breath and stepped inside.

When he stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor the emergency department was already in chaos. He found Dean helping a young woman in a lime-green summer dress who was vomiting blood all over the gurney and all over the floor.

“Oh God,” she kept mumbling. “Oh God, oh God.” Then her throat constricted and another gush of blood came up. Dean was doing his best to catch it all in a pressed-cardboard kidney-bowl, but there were pints of it. He was unshaven and sweaty and his hair stuck up like Stan Laurel's.

“You look like shit,” Frank told him.

“You're about the tenth person to tell me that,” said Dean.

“Are they going to give you some more help?”

“Oh, sure, they're bringing them in from all over. Kieran Kelly's come down from intensive care; and Bill Medovic's coming back from White Plains; and I'm supposed to be getting five more technicians and seven more nurses. But if it carries on like this I'm going to be swamped.”

“Have you heard from The Death Troll?”

“Not yet. But Kieran said that if the casualty numbers go over fifty, he's going to declare an Emergency Code Red.”

The young woman sat up and retched, but this time she brought up only a few spatters of blood. When Dean had wiped her mouth, Frank leaned over and said, “Miss—my name's Dr. Winter. Can you tell me
your
name?”

“Kathleen . . . Kathleen Williams. Oh God, I'm burning all over.”

“You feel like your skin's on fire?”

“I'm
burning!
Help me!”

“We're going to do everything we can for you, Kathleen, I promise you. But I need to know whose blood you've been drinking.”

“What?” she said, staring at him in horror.

“
Frank
—” Dean protested. “You can't ask her a question like that!”

“You drank somebody's blood, Kathleen,” Frank persisted. “You have to tell me whose blood it was.”

“I didn't drink anybody's blood. I'm
sick
, that's all.”

“Listen,” said Frank, “I know what you did. Do you hear me?
I know what you did
. This isn't your own blood, is it?”

“Leave me alone! I'm hurting! I can't bear it! I'm hurting so bad!”

“You'll be hurting even more if we refuse to give you treatment.”

“You can't do that! I'm burning up! Doctor! Help me! I'm burning up!”

“Frank, for God's sake!” hissed Dean, looking around to make sure that there weren't any witnesses. “We could be sued from here to next Hanukkah.”

But Frank stayed where he was, and when a nurse came to push the gurney away he said, “
No
. Wait. Kathleen has something she wants to tell us.”

The young woman opened her mouth, and closed it again, and then she moaned and said, “All right. I
did
drink their blood.”

“Whose blood? Come on, Kathleen. You have to tell me.”

The young woman's eyes suddenly overflowed with tears, and her mouth was pulled turned downward by grief. “My children. My two little children. I couldn't stop myself.”

“Holy mother of hamsters,” said Dean, pushing his fingers through his mussed-up hair.

“What did you do?” Frank pressed her.

“I can't tell you! It wasn't me! I would never hurt them, ever!”

“Tell me what you did, Kathleen. It's the only way we can help you.”

“I was—I was burning up all morning. I couldn't stand it. I felt like my skin was shriveling up, it was so hot! I kept thinking about their little hearts beating, and all that blood in their bodies. I kept thinking that it would cool me down.”

Dean covered his face with both hands, but Frank persisted. “How did it happen, Kathleen? Come on—if you don't tell me, you'll have to tell the police.”

“Oh God, I was making their lunch. Cutting sandwiches for them. But all the time I felt like I was on fire. I pulled all the blinds down, to keep the sunshine out, but I was still burning. Then Marty came into the kitchen and asked me why it was so dark. I looked at him and I knew what I had to do. I couldn't stop myself.”

“How old is Marty?”

“Eleven . . . and Melissa, she's nine. When I was finished with Marty, I went through to my bedroom. She was sitting in front of my dressing-table mirror, playing with my lipstick. She saw me in the mirror and she thought I was angry with her but I wasn't angry with her. I was still burning up and I needed her blood.”

“So you cut her throat?”

The young woman swallowed, and nodded. “I'm going to go to hell for this, aren't I?”

“Hell?” said Frank. Then, under his breath, “You'll be lucky if they let you in.”

Dean led Frank out into the corridor.

“They're murderers, aren't they? All of these people.”

Frank said, “Yes. It looks like it.”

“God almighty. We've got more than thirty of them now, and they're still coming in.”

“We can't judge them, Dean. That's for the courts to decide, not us.”

“That's if they survive. Some of the early ones are in a pretty bad way.”

“Let me take a look.”

Dean led him across to the pediatric crisis ward, which he had set aside for hemorrhage cases only. A large red-lettered notice warned
QUARANTINE AREA KEEP OUT
.

“Just a precaution,” Dean told him. “There's no evidence at all that this is contagious, or infectious, or that it's caused by any kind of toxin.”