From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSat Nov 2 12:16:53 1996 Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996 20:49:38 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (6/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 6 of 19 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** Somehow managing to force a smile, Natalie continued to breathe as Westwood's question still echoed in her ears. What she know about vampires? "Um. I--um--what?" His cheeks colored in embarrassment and Westwood released his hold on her hand, shoving his hands in his pants pockets. "I know this sounds crazy," he said quickly, "but hear me out. Please?" Natalie simply stared at him for a moment, something inside her chest twisting itself in knots. How many times had she wanted to grab someone's arm, Grace or anyone, sit them down and say, 'You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I really need to talk to someone about vampires--'? "All right," she said softly. "I'm listening." "Thanks. Good. Now, where do I start?" Looking around frantically, he found a chair, ran over to it, then dragged it to her bedside. Finally seated, Westwood leaned forward. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he couldn't decide exactly what he wanted to say. Natalie gently prodded him. "Vampires?" "Vampires. Yeah." He clasped his hands together and stared down at them. "The circumstances of your attack are fairly consistent with some . . . cases I've been looking over." "Circumstances," said Natalie. Her eyes widened and she waved her hand. "Like?" "Memory loss. Inability to identify an attacker. Blood loss. blood loss. The--uh--puncture wounds on the throat--" Natalie's hand went to the bandage on her neck and Westwood nodded. "Identical. Almost identical. Except for one thing." He took a breath. "The woman you saw--I think she might be involved. I think she might be ." "You think this woman attacked me?" "Yes. And I think she might be a vampire. Not that I believe vampires exist. I don't have any proof. Not yet. But--" He paused again, then swept his hand through his hair and leaned back in the chair. "God, you must think I'm an idiot. Even I doubt my sanity when I hear myself saying these things." Natalie clenched the bedsheets in her hands and asked evenly, "Do you say this sort of thing often?" "No." Westwood paused again, then met her eyes. "I haven't dared. But I thought that since you were attacked you might know something--" When she didn't answer, he smiled wanly. "Sorry. I think it's lack of sleep. I mean . . . vampires?" "Vampires. Right." Natalie chuckled beneath her breath, but it was half-hearted at best. "I was attacked in Nick's loft, not some Transylvanian castle." "That's where Detective Knight lives, then?" She looked up quickly at his tone. "Yeah." "And you'd gone by there--?" "To tell him that his partner had died." Natalie took a deep breath and watched him--there was a familiar look in Westwood's eyes. This was an interrogation. Informal, perhaps, but this was obviously a police matter. "How long have you know Detective Knight?" "A few years. We work together." "And your relationship--your --you drop by his place often?" Frowning, Natalie began, "I don't see what that has--" "You're right. I'm sorry." Westwood smiled apologetically. "Sometimes I fall into cop mode. It's the job." He took a breath, his eyes still meeting her own. "I was wondering . . . was Knight expecting someone ?" "Someone ?" Remembering a pale face, a black shirt--LaCroix had been there--Natalie shook her head to clear her thoughts. "I let myself in. I was there when Nick came back--he was out driving. He does that when he needs to be alone, wants to think something through." "Did he ever mention the name 'Serena'?" She froze, afraid to give anything away. Serena. The construction worker who'd fallen to his death. The 'XYY' chromosome type matching she'd done to identify a murderer. The 'mistake' with the French accent, the smart, sassy, knowing manner. Watching Nick when he stood behind the observation window in the police station. Schanke interrogating her. An entire year had gone by and yet she still remembered Nick's pained expression, how he'd tried to stop Serena in the station by grabbing her arm, how she'd shouted at him not to touch her. A mistake. Serena. One look at Westwood told her that she'd paused for too long. Licking her lips, Natalie tried to pretend that she'd been thinking over his question and, with a shrug, had come up empty. "Is that her name--the woman who attacked me?" Westwood blinked, obviously surprised to find himself on the defensive. "It--she--it's one of the names she's used in the past. it's the same woman." He shook his head. "Why would she go to Detective Knight's place? Why attack you?" "Why save my life?" countered Natalie. " if she attacked me. And she save my life by talking to Captain Reese." Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the pillow. Serena had saved her life by warning Reese to send help. Had Nick sent her? Had LaCroix whisked him away and had he sent Serena to save her? She had to find Serena. She had to know. But where could she begin to look for Serena? Or for Nick? "Natalie?" It was a chore to open her eyes. Natalie smiled wearily at Westwood. "Sorry. I think I started to zone on you, there." "Reese was right--I've kept you talking too long." He rose to his feet and pushed back the chair. "I appreciate the help." "Help?" she echoed weakly. "I used to sit in on witness testimony and wonder how people couldn't remember whether the person who shot them was a blonde or brunette. Boy, can I sympathize now!" Natalie sighed and stared down at her hands. "I'm sorry I couldn't give you anything." "You've been more helpful than you know." A lump rose in her throat and she glanced up at him quickly, frightened that she might have said something she hadn't intended to say. "Have I?" "Yeah." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small business card. Westwood picked up a pen from the nightstand, flipped the card over, and scribbled something on the back. "I'm leaving you my number--I'm at a hotel right now. You can reach me there or leave a message at the precinct in case you think of something. Or . . . if anything happens." Natalie took the card he handed her, barely looking at it. "If anything happens--?" "The person who attacked you may think you're dead. Once they find out you're not, they may try to finish the job, in case you can identify them." Westwood moved closer to the bed, then reached down to take hold of her hand again. "I don't want to scare you." For a moment, Natalie thought about a number of scary things she'd encountered during the last few years. "Believe me, in my line of work I don't scare that easily any more." "I thought that might be the case." He smiled, then squeezed her hand in reassurance. "When I get back to the station, I'm going to suggest to Captain Reese that he post someone outside your room for a few days, until you're on your feet again." "I don't think that's necess--" "We'll let Captain Reese decide." Westwood shrugged and ducked his head almost shyly. "About that 'vampire' stuff--?" "It's forgotten," said Natalie quickly. "Thanks. I'm just a little on edge, y'know. Haven't had a good night's sleep in . . . God knows how long." He wiped the flat of his hand over his features. From the creases in his trousers and the look of his shirt, Natalie guessed that he hadn't been back to his hotel to change clothes since he'd appeared at the scene of her rescue. "Captain Reese said you were from the Vancouver P.D., right? I'm sorry to ruin your vacation." "Don't be. It was more business than pleasure." His answering smile was thin, almost forced. "I took a leave of absence. I'm working on something and it's not . . . ." "Official?" "Yeah. I check in with other P.D.'s when I hit town, borrow their resources, see if I can offer a hand while I'm here." "Lucky for me," said Natalie quietly. When Westwood looked at her questioningly, she added, "Lucky for me you have a lousy sense of direction. You said you were lost when you ended up at Nick's loft, you were headed to the Ninety-sixth for a courtesy call. That would've taken you away from the precinct, not toward it." Westwood's smile became less forced and more genuine. "Are you sure you're with the ME's office? Sounds like you're a pretty good detective yourself." "I guess it's the company I keep." "Having friends like Detective Knight?" "Yes." Natalie's smile faded and she wrapped her fist in the sheet, concentrating her attention on that. "Natalie--we'll find him." Westwood's voice was quiet. He moved closer to the bed, standing almost directly over her. "Like I said, he's probably out drinking somewhere, right? Or he needed some time to think. He's fine. And we find him." She met his eyes, wanting to scream to him that it might already be too late. If Nick had decided to walk into the sunlight, there'd be nothing left of him but dust. Like her dreams of his cure, her dreams of what they might have had together. "Thanks," she said softly, noting the concern and compassion in his eyes. "You're right. Nick will be fine." "And so will you. You've got a couple of pints of Westwood in you. That's gotta count for something." The smile vanished, but the concern didn't. "I'm serious about calling. If happens, anything at all. Maybe sleep deprivation is making me paranoid, but humor me, okay?" "Okay," echoed Natalie. She looked at the card he'd given her, turning it over in her hand. "Thomas?" "Yes?" She focused on the card, the Vancouver P.D. emblem and print back against a pristine white background. Black and white. How easy the world would be if everything was black and white. "You said something earlier--that my case was identical to other cases you'd seen. But with one exception?" Westwood looked toward the window, avoiding her gaze. "You're alive." She didn't want to ask the question. Didn't to ask the question . . . but asked it anyway. "And the others?" He didn't answer. Westwood simply met her eyes, then looked away again. He headed for the door, calling, "You call?" Natalie held the business card in her right hand against her heart, as if swearing an oath. "Promise." "Good. And get some rest." He closed the door as he left-- standard hospital procedure but Natalie was just as happy for the silence and solitude it provided. She tossed the business card onto the table beside her bed. For the first time since she'd awakened, she allowed herself to relax, falling back upon the pillow and letting her mind drift. Vampires. Westwood knew about vampires. Or thought he did. Suspected Serena of being one. What had he seen in Vancouver? The special project, the cases like her own . . . he was hunting vampires. He'd followed the trail to Toronto, to Nick's loft. That was how he'd arrived shortly after the EMT's. He hadn't been lost, he'd tracked someone there. Serena? The thought thundered through her brain like a roller- coaster--someone else knew about the existence of vampires. She wasn't alone any more. She could talk to Westwood, compare notes, see what ideas he might have about her treatments to make Nick mortal. And then . . . terror. Westwood was looking for a vampire, a vampire. Was he like Liam, a hunter? Was he a danger to Nick? And, if not, surely he was a danger to himself. She wasn't certain of the protocol, but she knew that knowledge of the existence of vampires was a closely guarded secret. She hadn't pressed Nick, but she gathered she was something of a special case. Westwood had no idea what he was getting into, that he was endangering his life. If she could think of any way to dissuade him, to convince him that in a sane, modern world vampires could exist . . . . Even though she'd nearly been killed by one last night. Natalie closed her eyes against even the threat of tears. Nick was all right. If LaCroix had taken him away, he wouldn't have harmed him; she knew enough about LaCroix to be certain at least of that. He wouldn't release Nick without one hell of a fight. She should be dead. From the blood loss. From the sheer fact that she'd been bitten and all but drained by Nick. She be dead. Or, at the very least, have been brought across. But she was alive. And, Natalie suddenly realized, she was determined to stay that way. The door to her room opened and Natalie tensed, sitting up in bed to see her visitor. At first all she saw were the flowers. There had to be two dozen yellow roses in a crystal vase. The nurse carrying the flowers set them down on the small table beside her bed. "Oh, Dr. Lambert, I thought you might still be asleep." Smiling, she turned and looked around the room, saying, "It's no wonder you're awake, with all these lights on. Would you like me to turn some of them off?" "Please," she answered. But her attention was on the flowers. And the card sticking out at the side--a white envelope amidst a sea of yellow. The nurse moved to the wall just inside the door and adjusted two dials. The lights over the other bed disappeared, while the lights on Natalie's side of the room dimmed considerably. Only a fluorescent light above Natalie's bed remained lit, glowing faintly with an electronic hum. The nurse met Natalie's eyes. "All right?" In response, she pulled the sheet up to her chin, as if preparing to sleep. "Thanks. That's much better." "I thought it might be. The doctor will be by on his rounds in an hour or so. You're first on his list--he said something about you being his 'miracle of the day.'" She touched the petal of one of the roses lightly. "There are more flowers for you at the front desk and several messages. We'll have them delivered after you've seen the doctor." "Messages?" asked Natalie quickly. She sat up and the IV tube dangling from her arm swung from side to side. "Has there been anything from Nick?" "Nick?" The nurse thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't remember anything from a 'Nick.' I'll go and check if you'll like . . . ?" Natalie sank back against the sheets at the news, but smiled at the offer. "Thanks. I'd appreciate it." The nurse paused again at the door, cupping one of the flowers with her hand. "These really should have waited with the others," she said, almost to herself. "But I was answering the phone, looked up, and they were so lovely I said to myself that you absolutely to have them now, so they'd be the first thing you saw when you woke up." After a little shake of her head, as if to clear it, the nurse left. Natalie took one deep breath, then another. She turned on her side and reached for the card buried amongst the flowers and tried to pretend that her hand wasn't shaking. Plain white like the envelope, there was only one word in a handwriting she didn't recognize-- Azure. It was as if someone had thrown the room into sudden darkness, or turned every light in the place on at the highest setting. Images flashed through her mind, faint now and growing fainter, but they struck her with enough of a jolt to take her breath away. Nick kissing her, mauling her with his fingers and his lips. His hands slipping down her body, his voice thundering in her ears as he spoke to someone--someone else. She was frozen, unable to move, but he was melting her soul with his kisses, with his touch. She was burning inside, barely breathing, wanting-- Her eyes snapped open and she stared across the dimly lit hospital room, gasping for air. Azure. The restaurant. She'd met LaCroix there. He'd threatened to kill her because of some old bargain between between him and Nick. Nick had sworn he didn't love her, had offered to bring her across. But every touch of his lips to her skin, every stroke of his hand through her hair had screamed 'Liar!' against his empty words. All of it. She had all of it now. And it nearly broke her heart. Instantly, Natalie crumbled the card in her fist, raised her hand to throw it across the room . . . then stopped herself. She glanced up at the roses again, remembering the nurse's behavior. This wasn't a threat. This was a message. It was an invitation. From LaCroix. Very carefully, Natalie placed the card down against the sheet and smoothed it out. If her hands had trembled before, now they were shaking in anger, in fear, in frustration. She had to know what had happened to Nick, no matter what it cost her. LaCroix would know. And now she knew where to find him. The IV connected to her arm swung loosely in place, jostled by her movements. A sudden calm stole over her and Natalie set herself to the task of escaping the hospital. LaCroix was waiting for her at Azure. She removed the bandage from the spot where the tube slipped beneath her skin, then carefully withdrew the needle. The bandage went back in place--after all she'd been through, she had intention of dying from an infection--then pushed back the sheet and slipped out of bed. The card was dropped onto the table beside her roses. Natalie walked toward the closet, careful to adjust the door to her room so that it was barely ajar and that no one outside could see her moving around. Unfortunately, the closet proved to be something of a disappointment; her panties and bra were still intact, but her skirt, blouse, and cardigan were gone, along with her shoes. The barest breeze of air from the vent caused Natalie to shiver and she reached behind herself to pinch the back of her hospital gown closed. Of course her clothing was gone--her attack was being investigated by the police. Her clothes were in forensics, being pored over by technicians. She wondered what they'd think about the salad dressing stain from her lunch last night. They'd left the bra and panties because they'd no doubt determined that rape hadn't been an issue. Sloppy work--if they'd brought the evidence to her, at the coroner's lab, she'd have demanded they give her everything just to be thorough. Then again, if they'd taken her stuff to the coroner's lab, she'd have been dead. Brushing aside that thought, Natalie turned and looked across the room, biting her lip thoughtfully. Without clothing, she was trapped. She couldn't leave. Then again, she wondered if the at Azure would let her through the front door if she was wearing scrubs . . . . -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSat Nov 2 12:17:04 1996 Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996 20:49:47 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (7/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 7 of 19 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** "I'm sorry gentlemen--" Reese spread out his hands and inwardly smiled when the two Internal Affairs officers, Wilkinson and Rogers, frowned and glanced at each other. "We've got an APB out on Detective Knight. As soon as know where he is, know where he is." Wilkinson stepped closer--just a little too close in Reese's opinion. "Captain," he said quietly and with menace, "I don't think you understand--" So far, it had been civilized. Not friendly, but he'd settle for civilized. Joe Reese took a quick look around the bullpen. He thought about moving the conversation into his office knowing that everyone was trying to pretend that everything was business as usual, then gave up. Damnit, his people had a right to know. And he might need witnesses later. "Constable, I understand all too well. I've got one detective missing and one in the ." He let that word linger in the air, saw a number of his people flinch, and lowered his voice. "Hell, we haven't even washed the blood off the wall in the locker room yet. You've talked to me. You've taken statements from my people. As soon as Detective Knight turns up, you'll talk to him. He may be dead for all I know. I hope to God he's not. But until we find him, I don't think there's anything else here that can help you." Wilkinson backed off and turned away. Rogers offered him a conciliatory smile and Reese smiled back. However grim the response, he knew they weren't the enemy. "Look, I know you guys are under the gun," he said to Rogers. "However much I hate the idea of us having an Internal Affairs Division, some of the things you guys do, and the way you do them, I'll be the first to admit that you've got a place. It's just that your place right here and it's definitely not right now." Constable Rogers nodded thoughtfully. "I appreciate your candor, Captain. If you could give us . . . what are you doing to find Knight? How many people have you got on this? Do you have any leads?" "People? I'm two detectives. I've barely got the staff to cover the precinct calls right now." With a sigh, Reese gestured toward Knight's desk. He walked over to Sakai, who was sitting at Tracy's old desk surrounded by a foot high stack of files on every side and was doing a very good job of pretending that he'd taken no notice of the conversation going on behind him. "Sakai, you got a minute?" Sakai put the can of Coke on his desk and swiveled in his chair. "Captain?" "This is Constable Rogers and Constable Wilkinson, from Internal Affairs." He waited while pleasantries were exchanged and the men shook hands, Sakai giving him a nervous glance. "They're here looking for Nick." Reese let that sink in, before Sakai broke out in a sweat at the thought that some of his past misdeeds had suddenly caught up with him. "We've got an APB out. And we've got Sakai running through Nick's and Tracy's current case load." "Anything so far?" asked Rogers quickly, moving to the other side of the desk. The two men flanked Sakai--they were good. Intimidation 101 at its best. "Easy fellas," warned Reese, with a low growl. "He's a new boy--just transferred in tonight. We haven't even assigned him a car yet to check out Knight's place." Rogers' eyes opened wider. "You mean, Knight's place hasn't been searched?" "He's not there. We don't have the staff for a stake- out, but we've been sending a patrol car by on the hour. No sign of him. We're having a problem with the paperwork. You may have heard, we had an incident there this morning." He turned to Sakai. "Anything from Dr. Lambert?" "No, sir. I called the hospital, but the doctor hasn't seen her yet and he's left orders that she isn't supposed to be disturbed again." Wilkinson pulled a notebook from his coat pocket and flipped it open. "That's Mercy Hospital, right? Maybe we should talk to Dr. Lambert. What room is she in--?" "There's nothing to connect her to Knight's disappearance," said Reese quickly. "Excuse me, but wasn't she attacked in Knight's loft?" Rogers met Reese's gaze evenly. "I'd say that was connection enough. Who's got the Lambert case?" Sakai hesitated, glanced up at Reese, then raised his hand. When Rogers glared at him, Reese merely said, "Hey, I told you guys . . . I'm understaffed. Right now, he's just a missing person. Now, if we could get that search warrant for Knight's place, maybe things would be different. If the Commissioner wants--" "The Commissioner wants ," boomed Vetter's voice. "Oh God," muttered Reese quietly. He put a hand on Sakai's shoulder, keeping him in his chair and added in a tone only his detective could hear, "Damnit! Here I had to go and speak of the devil . . . ." Vetter charged the length of the bullpen under a full head of steam, ignoring the officers scrambling to get out of his way. Even the usual protestations of the prostitutes and petty theft perps from booking next door dissolved into a cowed silence. Reese steeled himself, whispered, "Steady, son. Just get back to work," to Sakai, and then turned his back on the detective, shielding him from Vetter's immediate attention. He settled for a grim expression and wasn't surprised to see Wilkinson and Rogers part like the Red Sea as the police commissioner reached them. "Commissioner," said Reese softly. "My condolences. Tracy was a great person. We'll miss her." Richard Vetter's steps faltered for just a second. He met Reese's gaze and, for a moment, Reese saw something there other than the hard, self-righteous bully he'd encountered only a few times, thankfully, in his career. He recognized the look as one he'd seen in his own eyes in a mirror, right after he'd put the girls to bed; tucking them in, he'd been unable to believe he and his wife had been blessed with such joyous, noisy little spirits to care for. This man had been a father. Whatever else he was or had been, that one fact couldn't be escaped. The Commissioner ducked his head for a moment, took Reese's hand in a quick shake and muttered the perfunctory "Thank you." But then the momentary weakness was gone, replaced by a look that dared anyone to suggest that he might possibly be here on anything except the most important of police matters. "Captain, might we use your office?" he demanded gruffly. "While it still your office." Half-turning, Reese gestured for the men to precede him. Before following, he gave his surroundings a quick glance. There were half a dozen nervous looks, while the rest were still pretending not to notice anything. These were his people. Despite the fact that he'd earned his position through hard work--well, maybe a few chosen words in the right ears and a little glad-handing had helped--as far as they were concerned, he'd come in covered by the blood of their comrades. Since that time, so many months ago, he'd come to know a good number of them, liked quite a few of them, and respected damn near all of them. He hoped they felt the same way about him. He wasn't about to go down without a fight. "Miller, you got that car for Sakai yet?" he bellowed. Miller looked up with a grin, keys dangling from her fingers as she entered from the booking area. "Got it, Captain." The best damned fight he could manage at such short notice. "Good. Have my calls held. And . . . get back to work, people. This is a police station, not an ice capade." The noise level suddenly shot up, voices raised above the hushed whisper that Vetter's arrival had induced. Things were back to a status quo. Appreciating the change, Reese nodded at Miller's 'thumb's up' then headed into the lion's den. He'd managed to reassure his people. Now all he needed to do was save his own hide. Reese didn't flinch when he entered the office and saw that the Commissioner was seated in the chair behind his desk. Closing the door behind him, he leaned on it. "I was just going over the situation with Internal Affairs. We're still trying to locate Detective Knight. There's a possibility that he blames himself for your daughter's death. He may have committed suicide." "Knight might be better off dead," said Vetter coldly. "Because I want his hide nailed to my office wall. And as for you, Captain . . . I'm disappointed in you, Joe. I recommended you for this precinct." "I know, sir. And I'm grateful--" "Some people said that you weren't ready. Maybe they were right." Vetter rose from behind the desk and walked around it, passing Rogers and Wilkinson, who were standing beside the filing cabinets and looking anything but comfortable. He planted himself in front of Reese. "I wanted to tell you in person--tonight's your last shift. I've gotten a preliminary report from Internal Affairs and I think it's enough to justify an inquiry into your behavior on the night of my daught--the officer's death. Until that inquiry is held, I'm having you placed on suspension, without pay or benefits." Reese knew what Vetter wanted. The Commissioner wanted to see him squirm. The Commissioner wanted to see him beg, on his knees. And even though Denise was going to kick his butt half way to Florida when she found out he'd been suspended without pay and benefits, never mind the fact that Vetter was setting up a fight with the union on that point, he just couldn't bring himself to do it this time. "Well, Commissioner, I want to thank you for coming down here and telling me yourself. I'll clean up whatever I can--" He was interrupted by a knock at the door behind him. Noting Vetter's annoyance, Reese decided not to ignore it, said, "Excuse me," to his other guests, and opened the door a crack. Miller stood there, grim-faced. "Sorry, Captain, but this arrived for the Commissioner, internal mail. It's been following him all day and it's marked 'urgent.'" "Thanks, Miller." He took the envelope she handed him, then closed the door and passed it to Vetter. "This just arrived for you, Commissioner." After Vetter snatched the envelope from his hands, Reese walked around his desk and returned to his chair. "As I was saying--I'll do the best I can with the time you've given me. I don't think you'll have any trouble with this precinct. These people are professionals--" Vetter made a strangled sound, his face tinted a distinctly unhealthy shade of red. He'd opened the envelope and removed a manila folder of photocopied pages, many sections highlighted or underlined in red. "Commissioner?" "Later!" he barked. Shoving the file haphazardly back into the envelope, he glared at the two men from Internal Affairs. "What are you still doing here? I want those reports on my desk first thing tomorrow morning." Rogers opened his mouth to say something, but Wilkinson held his hand out to one side, keeping his partner from moving forward. "Yes, Commissioner," said Wilkinson, casting a glance at Reese. "We'll give you what we can. But with Detective Knight still missing--" Vetter turned on Reese, furious. He slammed his fist down on the desk top and the pictures of Reese's wife and children tipped over, falling face down. "I want that detective found so that these men can do their job." "It seems like they've already done their job," said Reese evenly. "Or it's been done for them." Wilkinson's grip moved to his partner's shoulder, holding him back when Rogers sputtered angrily. Without turning, Vetter gestured behind him, toward the door. "Out!" he commanded. "That report. My desk. Tomorrow morning." "Yes, sir." Reese seated himself as the men left, knowing that Vetter would wait until the door closed before he continued. For a moment, they simply stared at one another. Then Vetter pushed himself up from the desk. He walked over to the office window and opened a section of the blinds with his fingers. "I don't want to make this hard on you, Joe. It go easy. You'll take the suspension--I can't let you off from that--but you'll draw your salary and benefits until your demotion. When you're placed, I'll make sure you get a nice desk job. No beat to walk. Just air conditioning in the summer, heat in the winter, and all the coffee you can drink." "I'm off caffeine. The wife's worried about my blood pressure." The blinds rattled as Vetter released them. He turned and fixed Reese with an indulgent smile. "All the water you can drink, then. Gatorade. What ever you want. I want a clean transition of power. I don't want any grievances from your people." Reese cleared his throat and calmly picked up the photos of his wife and children, setting them back into place. "I told you, Commissioner, my people are professionals. There won't be any problem. I'll give you whatever you need." "There's one more thing I need." Vetter stepped closer to the desk and the smile disappeared. "I need Tracy's partner. I need him on a slab. You bring him in alive or you bring me a body, but you bring me Detective Knight." Turning away again and tapping his fingers against the envelope in his hand, he added softly, "You can imagine what it's like, Joe . . . to lose a daughter. And the force-- this can't help the morale problems we've had lately. I want to get this whole thing wrapped up and out of the way so we can all get back to business. I can't finish this case without him." "I understand, sir." "Do you?" Vetter turned, wearing a slight smile. "You can't hold a kangaroo court without the kangaroo, can you, Commissioner?" For a moment, Reese was certain that he was a dead man, that Vetter was going to come at him across his desk. He'd been in enough rough-and-tumbles to know who he could and couldn't take and he'd be no match for Commissioner Vetter. Despite the decade and a half the man had on him, he'd augmented a lifetime obsession with physical fitness with daily visits to the gym and a personal trainer. The scars on his knuckles and their flatness were a tell-tale sign that Vetter had boxed. Probably still did. But Vetter held himself in check. He slowly drew himself to his full height, knowing how to make an impression, then opened the office door. "Clean out your desk," he said sharply. "You're through, Reese. It's time to look for another line of work." When he left, he slammed the door behind him with such force that the glass rattled in the frame. Reese gave himself a count of at least twenty without moving. He picked up his wife's picture and smiled sadly. "Sorry you had to hear that, Denise. But we'll get by, hon. We have before." There was a knock at the door as he rose to his feet. "Yeah? C'mon in." Miller poked her head around the door. "Everything okay, Captain?" "Fine, Miller. The man just lost a daughter. We've gotta give him some slack." He met her at the door and added, "Sakai still here?" She gestured over her shoulder, where Sakai was sitting on his desktop, receiver held up to his ear and phone cord wrapped around him. "They're still trying to get a court order to search Nick's place." Waving her away, Reese headed for Sakai. The detective nodded, acknowledging his presence, still caught up in his phone call. "Okay--thanks. I'll wait. This number. Bye." He unwound the phone from around himself and replaced it in the receiver, then slipped off the small clear space on his desk. "No-go on an order to search Knight's place on a missing persons complaint, I can get one on Lambert's case. Since it's a crime scene, they've got no problem with that. Which is why you gave me both cases, right?" "Right." Reese smiled, pleased that his intuition was paying off. "We may have a set of keys for Knight's place around. Ask Miller." He was turning away when Sakai called him back. "Captain?" "Uh-huh?" He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. He turned completely when he realized that Sakai looked uneasy. "Yes, detective? If it's about what the Commissioner said, you're still here, whether I'm here or somewhere else. This is home now. Get used to it." "That's part of it." Sakai parked himself on his desktop again and picked up a computer printout. "I had a couple of questions for you. Knight worked alone for two years when he transferred in to the Toronto P.D. Then he got partnered with Detective Schanke, who died in the plane crash last year. Knight should have been on that plane, escorting that prisoner. But he bowed out and let his partner get the press." Taking a breath, Reese nodded, having an idea where he was going with this line of questioning. "Nick isn't much of a glory hound." "Well, he got the gold anyway. Which is why they assigned Commissioner Vetter's daughter as his partner." Sakai glanced away, his voice lowering. "Now she gets killed. Captain, my fiancee is going to be happy when she finds out I'm teaming with a guy who's gone through two partners in less than a year. Why not let him work alone? He did it before. Had a pretty good case closure record, too." "You want the policy answer or you want the truth?" Sakai licked his lips, then met Reese's gaze squarely. "Both." "Okay. Department policy says that when an officer falls in the line of duty, the next available transfer is assigned. That would be you." Reese held up a hand, stopping Sakai's protests. "A lot of the department regs don't make sense; we both know that. But this time they're right. When someone loses a partner, they need to start from scratch. You don't split a team that does work to put together a new team that may or may not work. And you don't send an officer solo after his partner's been killed-- there's a good chance he may never feel comfortable with a partner again if he doesn't get right back into the habit of knowing someone is covering his back." He took a deep breath. "You watch his back, Sakai. Just like he'll watch yours. Nick's a bit of a hotshot, too, but he's not on probation like you are. You'll keep him on the straight and narrow and, if he wants to keep you, he'll make sure you're by the book every time. As for your fiancee being happy--?" "Yeah?" he asked hopefully. "Buy her flowers. Wives like flowers. If I remember, it used to work on fiancees, too." He patted Sakai's shoulder, then turned and headed toward his office. "Miller'll give you the number of the florist around the block. I'm picking up a couple of long stems, myself. And the minute that court order comes in, I want you in a car and at Nick's place before IA gets wind of it and horns in on the action." "Yes, Captain." Reese stopped in his office doorway and gave Sakai a smile, then closed the door behind him. Not a bad kid. Good instincts. Speaking of which-- He walked to his phone and picked up the receiver. "Gladys? Do me a favor and dial up Forrentino's for me." While he waited for the dial tone to kick in and the phone began to ring, Reese cast an eye around his office. When a man partnered with someone who had Nick's history, maybe a bunch of daisies or a couple of long stem roses would ease the blow. But when a man was facing the end of the only career he'd ever had turned down a chance to retain his salary and benefits because he didn't want to lose the little bit of soul it would cost him . . . . "Hi, Rita? This is Joe Reese. Okay, I guess. You got a dozen long stems on hand for my wife? No--better make that dozen>--" -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSat Nov 2 12:17:14 1996 Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996 20:49:56 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (8/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 8 of 19 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** Nick sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. He rested his head on his arm atop his knees. The slightest movement caused the chains around his ankles to rattle or clack together, reminding him of just how much a prisoner he was. Starlight entered through the window. He watched the movement of it across the floor, the only light that offered him safety, the light which shone even through the darkness. That was what Natalie had been for him. In this life, in this decade, he'd all but lost hope. There had been no cure, no for a cure. And then she had faced him on a dark street, beneath starlight and street-lamps, and told him that she might be able to help him, that she wasn't afraid of what he was, and--later--that she had faith in him. He felt the tears trickle down his cheeks as he realized that this time had been the betrayer, instead of the betrayed. He'd failed her. He'd promised that he wouldn't allow her to die, that he'd bring her across, that they'd be together forever. Natalie was dead. He'd murdered her. And LaCroix wouldn't allow him the only escape left to him, the only chance he had to join her. Tilting his head back against the wall, he stared up at the ceiling, his tears still running freely. There was no wood in the room; LaCroix had made certain of that. Strangling himself with his chains would be fruitless and there wasn't enough leverage for him to decapitate himself. There were shards of glass from the bottle scattered across the floor, but slitting his wrists or his throat would merely weaken him. There was no way out, no hope, no chance of deliverance. Natalie was dead. Hunger burned inside him, but he ignored the droplets of human blood that clung to the glass shards. He closed his eyes and wished for unconsciousness, considered battering his head against the wall until he knocked himself out. Or perhaps he'd merely sit here and scream until his throat was too dry and sore to carry the sound and he only had the clink of his chains with which to register his despair and misery. It reminded him of something, this utter despair, the screaming and the clinking of chains . . . . <<< A scream rent the air, a long, low, unearthly wail that froze the blood within his veins. Nicholas turned in the hallway and caught LaCroix's arm, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. The cellar was a dank, dark place, belying the elegant close-clipped, green beauty of the sculptured gardens outside and the airy manor house above them that formed the public portion of the asylum for the incurably insane. The so-called doctor accompanied them through the lower hallways of the mad-house, to the surgery. "My pardon, gentlemen--it's the moon. The fullness of the moon brings out the madness." LaCroix smiled and pushed Nicholas forward, giving him a hard glance before smiling at Dr. Abscombe and the attendant who preceded him down the hall. "Ah, the progress of science. Even a century ago it would have been said that the moon brought out the demons in your patients." "Demons?" Dr. Abscombe chuckled and paused, clapping LaCroix heartily on the back. "Frightening, isn't it? A century ago the same gentlefolk of Coventry would condemn us both for having such fancies that we could cure ills of the mind by something other than an exorcism." He nodded at LaCroix's forced smile. "After we've finished, will you have time to discuss some of your theories, how the blood can be used to diagnose the different forms of madness?" "Some other time, perhaps," explained LaCroix. "We plan on returning to London soon. Before then, I think I can promise to pay you at least one, final visit some evening." He hesitated at the doctor's disappointment and reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing a leather wallet, which he passed across. "But you shall have payment in full, now." There was no hesitation--the wallet disappeared into the doctor's vest pocket almost immediately. "I shall look forward to it, then." Dr. Abscombe pulled a key from his belt. Unlocking the door to the surgery, he stepped to one side to permit them entrance. "This way, gentlemen." LaCroix swept past the doctor, the elegance of his bearing and his clothing incongruous with their surroundings. As his 'colleague,' Nicholas was less finely attired, although their short, double-breasted frock coats had been cut by the same tailor. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pockets and raised it to cover his mouth and nose at the stench of dried blood that permeated the room they'd entered. "A little stale, wouldn't you say?" asked LaCroix and with a grim smile. He tapped his cane against the floor, dislodging a series of rust-colored flakes. Nicholas hung back in the shadows as Dr. Abscombe drew a cloth from a large, inclined table. It had indentations in it much like the human form, with straps that were to be fastened across the chest, upper arms and legs, and another restraining device for the head. The wood was worn and shiny from use. Trenches that ran from the wrists and arms down the side of the table gathered into small spouts at the base of the table, which was tilted at an angle. The attendant attached small ceramic tubs to those spouts. On a table beside the restraining device, a series of scalpels gleamed. Nicholas walked over to them. He lifted one in his gloved hand, examining it beneath the gaslight of the place. Knowing that LaCroix stood behind him, he whispered over the lump of disgust in his throat, "How can you deal with this man? This is barbaric!" "Better this than starve," returned LaCroix icily. "Janette is still preparing our place in London. If we don't wish to leave a trail, we have provisions for our journey. This will be our final collection, if that makes you feel any better." "Much." "Ah, be careful with that," warned Dr. Abscombe, shaking a finger at Nicholas in warning as he looked up from preparing another tray of instruments. "It's very sharp." With a taut smile, Nicholas took the scalpel in two fingers, dropped it to the tray, and then stepped back. He shuddered when another scream rent the air and turned toward the door. An instant later, he felt LaCroix's grip on his elbow. "Leave, if you haven't the stomach for it. You can tell the servants how to load the cases when we've finished with them here." "Yes." He answered LaCroix's whisper with the barest one of his own and a nod of assent, enduring the scathing glance he received. He couldn't endure this place any longer. "Dr. Abscombe?" LaCroix's tone was gracious as he approached the physician, who was still bending over his tray of instruments. "I'm sending my colleague out to our carriage; he'll assist your servants and load the cases as soon as they've been filled. It may save us some time." "Excellent." Dr. Abscombe clapped his hands together and nodded at Nicholas. "If he can wait a few moments, I'll have my servant show him the way--" "I can find my own way," said Nicholas quickly. He stiffened as a howl echoed down the corridor, then glanced at LaCroix. "There's no need to take your servant from his duties." "How thoughtful." LaCroix's response was wry. He gave Nicholas the barest quirk of a smile, then turned his attention back to the doctor. "Why don't you have the first patient brought in? We should begin. The night is passing." "Ah, yes. It is, isn't it? Tempus fugit and all that." Nicholas hurried toward the door. His hand was upon the latch and he opened it, just as he heard Dr. Abscombe call. "Sir?" Nicholas turned, still trying to maintain the pleasantries--he knew he'd hear about it from LaCroix later if he didn't succeed. "Yes?" Abscombe peered at him over the tops of his spectacles. "You go directly to the staircase and the main concourse. Many of the patients on this floor are from the finest families, but that makes them no less dangerous. Your presence may upset them." "I'll do as you say," promised Nicholas. He nearly flinched at LaCroix's warning glare and repeated sharply. "I do as you say." "That would be best for all concerned." LaCroix turned his back and walked over to the table. As Nicholas closed the door, he was fingering the restraints and asking, "Tell me, doctor, how long would it take to drain a patient utterly, do you think . . . ?" Nicholas rested for a moment with his back against the door and tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. He coughed lightly into his hand and tried to compose himself, but the rancid scent of the spoiled and stale blood still clung to his nostrils. It, however, was at least a change from the other bodily odors that permeated this place. As he walked down the center stone hallway, noting the cell doors that sat to either side, he raised his hand to his nose to wave away the odor of urine and excrement. Dr. Abscombe's violent patients might be from the finest families, but that seemed not to matter to their care. There was a cry from a cell, which startled him. Nicholas stumbled against one of the cell doors on the right side of the small hall and hands thrust through the bars, the fingernails torn and bloody. The woman inside shrieked into his ear and grabbed at his coat. He swiped her away and over-compensated, falling now to the left side of the hallway, against yet another door. Almost immediately, he backed away, fearful that this inhabitant might grab at him as the last had, but there was no response. Indeed, the cell appeared to be empty. Curious, he peered into the cell, finally finding the occupant sitting on a long, low, mattress, reading a book. She was wearing one of the long, hospital shifts and had a plaid woolen shawl thrown around her shoulders. A faint stump of a candle afforded her the barest light for reading and she held her head close to the flame to compensate. Her hair shown brass and gold in turns in the firelight. If she had lived two decades, he would have been surprised. She didn't realize that she was being observed until she looked up from the book. Upon seeing him, she gasped, wetting her fingers and dousing the candle quickly, then setting it aside. "Please," she whispered, "I was only reading. Please don't take my candle?" "I'm a visitor here, not a warden," answered Nicholas pleasantly. "I won't take your candle." Relieved, her smile was faint in the darkness, but the look of gratitude was so sincere, it touched his heart. "Thank you, sir. Reading is my only consolation in this horrible place." "What is it you read so intently that you don't hear a visitor at your door?" Nicholas leaned his arms against the grate in her door and stood, watching her. "Dickens. 'David Copperfield.'" She smiled shyly and raised the book to show him. "I'm afraid it's all I have, at the moment. The laundress traded it to me, for a blanket." The smile disappeared and she looked around fearfully, pulling the shawl tighter around her as a long, anguished scream echoed. Nicholas held his breath, but watched her. She was as shaken as he by the sound. "Does that happen often?" "Constantly. This is the place of the damned." Her eyes widened. "You'd best leave, sir. The wardens forbid me to speak with visitors, lest I infect them with my madness." "Then I shall bring you another book," promised Nicholas. "'The Pickwick Papers'? Would that suit?" She bowed her head. "I fear, sir, that your kindness would be too late. I shall be dead by morning." "Dead?" Nicholas stared at her through the bars, then checked to the left and right, but there was no sign of any of the warders or attendants. "Are you ill? I can bring a doctor--?" "Ill?" The woman laughed lightly and raised her head. Nicholas saw the sparkle of tears at the corners of her eyes. "Not ill, but wronged. And further wronged, once my husband arrives. He's coming here tonight, to poison me." Nicholas drew back from the bars with a sigh, suddenly understanding the nature of her madness. "You think your husband means to poison you? That's why they hold you here?" "No, sir," she said firmly, placing her book aside and folding her hands primly in her lap. "My husband coming this night to poison me. He's had me held here these past four weeks because I know something of which I've been ordered not to speak." As if the defiant speech cost her effort, she sagged against the wall behind her, adding softly, " is why my husband is coming to poison me. Money will buy silence, even the silence of death. If I cannot speak, my husband's secret cannot be told." Nicholas glanced down the corridor again--there was someone coming. Quickly, he placed his hand on the door and pulled the handle toward his body. There was a 'snap' as the lock broke, then he slipped inside the woman's cell. He touched his fingers to his lips as she rose, then he moved to one side of the door where he couldn't be seen, and held the door in place with his arm. The warden's keys jingled from is belt as he passed, the heels of his boots tapping against the brick flooring of the hall. Nicholas waited there for an instant, catching the woman's gaze with his own, holding it and willing her not to betray him. She looked away, sank to the bed and stared at the far wall, as if he weren't there. But he heard her heart beat faster in her chest. When the danger had passed and he walked over to her, she still refused to look at him. "If you're from my husband," she said softly, "please do your work quickly and then go. I can't bear it in this place for another moment. Death would be kinder." "Death is never kind," answered Nicholas. Seating himself beside her on the bed, he took her hands in his-- they were cold, her hands, like the room. On impulse, he removed his coat and quickly placed it around her shoulders. She drew the coat to herself, then turned to meet his eyes, her tears falling in earnest. "Thank you, sir. It's so very cold here. Without my blanket . . . ." Nicholas lifted the book from the bed. "Dickens provides warmth for flesh only when used in a fireplace." He set the book aside and took her hands again. "Now, tell me--what is the secret your husband would murder you to keep hidden?" The woman looked down again. "I wouldn't betray my marriage vows, but by my husband's actions . . . I fear he has betrayed " She looked up at Nicholas. "When we were married, my husband hired each of our maids. I gave no thought to it, until I noticed that no girl seemed to stay longer than a month's time. If I asked where one had gone, she'd returned to her family, or run off to town with some stable boy, or left due to illness." Her eyes widened. "Imagine my horror, sir, when I awakened early one morning, earlier than my husband, and discovered the body of one of the missing maids in the coal bin." Nicholas patted her hand kindly, trying to soothe her. "No one else saw this?" "My cries roused the house." She swallowed and looked away again, staring at the wall. "I was not in control of myself. One of the servants gave me a brandy--a rather large one--and it calmed me so greatly that I slept. When I awoke--" She turned sad eyes to Nicholas. "I was a captive here. My husband had spirited me away. He's told the caretakers that I'm quite mad, that I murdered my maid because I was jealous of her glances in his direction and had accused her of having a dalliance with him. He's coming tonight to take me back for my trial, but I know I won't live to see the prisoner's dock." "In open court, your testimony would mean as much as his." "Even with the words of the wardens and the keeper of this asylum against me, he fears that I'm so well-spoken, the judge would take my truth over his own. I am to die on the way to gaol. He will poison me and then claim that I took my own life." Tears trickled down her cheeks and she grasped Nicholas hands and pulled them to her lips. "Please, sir," she murmured desperately, "save me? Is there anything that can be done?" Her lips were warm against his hand. Nicholas pulled his hands from her own and touched her hair gently--it was pulled back from her face with a single band of ribbon. "You'll come away with me, now. I'll take you to a magistrate directly. Not matter how wealthy and powerful your husband is, your words must be heard by right of law. I'll make certain of it." Oddly enough, his oath brought only the faintest of smiles to her lips. "You don't believe me?" he asked lightly. "I've a carriage waiting outside." "I believe the best of your intent," she answered sadly, "but in practice your plan is most cruelly flawed." Bending down, she lifted the bottom of the floor-length shift, just high enough to reveal the manacle around her ankle, which was chained to the wall. Standing, she walked across the room, the chain dragging after her, until she almost reached the door. The chain drew taut at that point. When he looked up to meet her eyes, she shook her head despairingly. "You have no key." Nicholas walked over to her. He placed his hands over her arms, rubbing the chilled skin of her shoulders through the thickness of his woolen frock coat. "I don't need one," he told her, smiling broadly. "Chains, like hearts, are easily broken . . . ." <<< The clank of the heavy metal chain attached to the manacle on his ankle broke his reverie. Nicholas bowed his head again, then peered over the edge of his arm. He was too weak to break his own chains; LaCroix knew his limits only too well. If he were to escape, he would need blood. He'd need to feel stronger. Starving himself would be useless because he'd still remain a prisoner. But if he fed, he'd be strong enough to escape. He'd be strong enough to end it. The broken remnants of the bottle were spread across the floor, sparkling like tiny stars as they reflected the moonlight. Reaching out a hand, he lifted one of the bottle shards closest to him, taking care not to dislodge the tiny droplets of blood that still clung to it. Nicholas touched a finger to a droplet, then swiped it quickly across his tongue. He closed his eyes at the taste. Not as sweet as Natalie's blood--no blood could ever taste as sweet and as fiery as hers had been--but the drop still burned. It fed the hunger that roared within him and pain jolted through his body. If he'd been standing he would have been bent double. Nicholas drew his knees tight against his chest and raised the glass shard to his lips, licking the droplets of blood from the glass, careless of the sharp edges that cut his lips and mouth. It wasn't enough. It was no where enough. The hunger raged through him again and he groaned, the wound in his shoulder throbbing. Nicholas fell over, panting, the fire of the blood hunger racing through him, burning him alive. Finally, it gave him a chance to breathe. Forcing himself to his hands and knees, he crawled to the next nearest piece of glass. It was rounded and a few tablespoons of blood were pooled within. Tilting his head back, he let it drip into his mouth, then again licked the glass clean. This time a warmth spread through his chest, the hunger reacting to something more than a taste of what it desired. Crawling to the next piece of glass, he knew that it would not be long before he was free. He was going to get out. And then he was going to join Natalie, as he'd promised. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSat Nov 2 12:17:26 1996 Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996 20:50:05 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (9/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 9 of 19 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** More often than not, hospitals were like bus stations-- long periods of light or non-existent activity punctuated by sporadic instances of crowded mayhem. Natalie had hesitated in one of the public restrooms after changing into a pair of borrowed scrubs and scrub booties, then decided to try her disguise in the world just beyond the door. She ran smack dab into one of those instances of mayhem and no one gave a second look at another person in scrubs hurrying through a corridor with an intent and slightly nervous expression. She was on her way out, heading for the emergency entrance, when she was forced to stop; two gurneys were being wheeled through the emergency doors and into the corridor. EMT's, interns, and orderlies suddenly seemed to be everywhere, a wave of people cresting over the gurneys. The tidal pool remained after the initial flow, as life signs were checked, diagnoses made. There was some yelling about a car accident and two more victims on the way, but for an instant her world faded away into a single thought-- The smell of blood was something she was used to but at the sight of the crimson soaking through the white and blue striped shirt of the accident victim, something twisted inside her. She fell back against the wall, hard, her head slamming into the paint and plasterboard as she took the deepest breath she could, unintentionally filling her lungs with that faintly sickeningly-sweet smell. The air around seemed to turn crimson, bright and red and thick. A second later and the gurney was wheeled past, an intern yelling orders. Natalie closed her eyes and felt at the wall behind her, then opened them when she realized she was standing beside a low table upon which a fake potted fern rested. Pushing aside the fern with a mute apology, she sat down on a small section of the table before her knees could give way beneath her. She was shaking, uncertain whether it was in response to her sudden weakness or her reaction to the blood. It had been horrible, an over-powering urge to reach out and smear her hands in the stuff, to lick it off her fingers with gusto like a child licks the remnants of cake mix left in a bowl after the batter has been spread in a pan. It disgusted her. It sickened her. It excited her. She was still staring down at the floor, trying to regain her equilibrium, when a pair of black pumps and stocking-clad female legs came into view. Natalie followed the legs up to a black crepe skirt and a starched white blouse, some tiny voice in the back of her mind telling her that she'd been busted and deservedly so. The face, though was familiar--dark hair about shoulder length, lightly curled, blue eyes, elfin features, a self-knowing smirk. Serena. Natalie didn't quite know what to do. She looked to the left and right quickly, trying to assess her chances of escape. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't scream," said Serena quietly, just a hint of a French accent tinting her words. "Although you look more like you're going to be sick. Shouldn't you be in your room?" "I was trying to escape." "In that?" Serena quirked a smile and then glanced over her shoulder. "Local color, certainly, but I don't think you'd get very far on the street. Try these." Natalie accepted the handles of the plastic shopping bag that Serena thrust into her hands and then opened it and peered inside. Blue jeans, a white blouse, a pair of sandals? She looked up at Serena in surprise. "I guessed at the sizes," admitted Serena. She gestured up at a sign to their right. "A restroom? I think you might feel better once you've changed." There was no where to run. And Serena saved her life. The two thoughts combined helped Natalie come to the conclusion that Serena was right--she'd feel a better once she was in street clothes and out of the hospital. Ignoring the hand up the vampire offered her, she made her way to the restroom a few feet away, the bag clutched tightly in her grasp. Serena followed. Natalie stood to one side as a woman exited the restroom lounge, dabbing a tear-stained tissue at her eyes, then she hurried into one of the stalls and opened the bag. She could see Serena's shoes just outside the door of her stall. "There's no one else here," said Serena, after a moment. "I assume that you're feeling better?" Natalie slid into the jeans and pulled up the zipper--a half size too large, but they wouldn't fall around her ankles. The booties came off next and on went the sandals, then the blouse . . . which was a little small, but she left the collar and top two buttons undone. "Did Nick send you?" Serena let out a hoarse, sudden laugh, then looked down at the floor, as if the sound had answered the question. If anything, it only gave her a moment's pause-- obviously Nick sent her. Finished with fastening the buttons, Natalie tossed the scrubs into the plastic bag and then opened the stall door. "You saved my life." Barely blinking at the statement, Serena answered, "I happened to be in the neighborhood." The words were an echo of what Thomas Westwood had said earlier. Natalie stared for a moment, then smiled. "Good timing." "Bad. Very bad. If I had been there earlier--" Serena's expression suddenly seemed harder, more fixed. She looked away over her shoulder, then started as she caught sight of her reflection in the restroom mirrors, her hand touching her hair, as if she'd spotted a strand or two out of place. "That should never have happened to you." "I asked for it." When Serena looked back at her sharply, Natalie managed a wan smile. "Well, not . I wanted . . . ." She faltered, fixed by those piercing blue eyes, then looked down, suddenly realizing how foolish and needy she sounded. "It doesn't matter what I wanted." Serena's hand cupped her chin, lifting her eyes to meet Serena's gaze. "What you want should always matter," she said firmly. "That's all that should matter." Serena released her and turned away, hugging her arms to herself. "It's the only way you can survive, when Nicholas is involved. Because he'll never know what you want or what you need. He assumes, but never asks." That sounded precisely like Nick. For a moment, Natalie eyed Serena, wondering just how well she knew him. "Do you know where he is?" Serena politely ignored the waver in her voice. With a shrug, she leaned back against the basin countertop. "No. In the city, somewhere." "Alive?" Another catch in her voice. Serena lowered her gaze to the floor, hiding her expression. "Yes. alive." Natalie's knees felt weak for a moment and she held onto the edge of the toilet stall. Alive. Nick alive. She'd been so afraid, what Reese had suggested was so possible, Tracy being dead . . . . She glanced up to see Serena watching her with a careful expression. "You know who I am." Truth or dare and consequences to every answer. Natalie met her gaze evenly. "You're Serena. Nick . . . brought you across. You thought that Trilling might be able to make you pregnant, that a baby might make you mortal. " "Trilling." Serena spoke the name aloud, her brow furrowing. Then she swallowed and looked away quickly-- Natalie thought she might cry. "It didn't work. Something went wrong. Perhaps the translation . . . something went wrong." After a moment, she cleared her throat, her expression serious. "If you value your life, if you value your mortality, go home and never think of Nicholas again. Go back to the world of sunlight. Forget what he is. Forget that we exist." "Don't bother trying to hypnotize me," said Natalie with more than a little bravado. Even though she didn't think that Serena was attempting it, she wanted to take care of that problem right off the bat. "I'm not about to forget. And I need to find Nick. I need to know what's happened to him." "Then I'm too late, again." Serena lowered her gaze as if thinking the matter through. "Where will you look?" "I have a lead." Natalie licked her lips. "I'm going to see LaCroix." Serena's head snapped around and Natalie realized she was suddenly the subject of the vampire's complete attention. Then, after a second, Serena smiled, softly. "I think I should go with you. If you wouldn't mind?" Natalie could think of a half dozen reasons why Serena shouldn't accompany her--she had no idea what the current relationship was between Serena and Nick, she didn't know how LaCroix would feel about the extra company, she had no real reason to trust Serena, there was this business between Serena and Thomas Westwood . . . . The door of the restroom was pushed open and a woman entered, followed by a little girl whose hand she was holding. Natalie barely glanced at them before stuffing the plastic bag into a garbage receptacle, then nodded for Serena to follow her. "Let's go." LaCroix would have to take them both, or neither of them. It didn't hurt knowing that she was taking some vampire back-up, especially after what had happened the last time he'd had her all to himself, alone. At Azure. Again, they were anonymous. No one looked twice at the two women as they walked through the emergency room waiting area and out the doors of the hospital to a large parking area. Once outside, Natalie took a deep breath of fresh, non-sanitized-for-your-protection air, then looked over at Serena. "Do you have a car? Mine's at the loft. And my purse, along with my car keys, is probably in the forensics' lab at the station." "I don't often use cars." She lifted her head slightly, as if sniffing the wind, and there was something feral and glorious about her profile against the darkened sky, the light breeze whipping her hair. Looking up at the beauty of the dark sky, Natalie couldn't blame her. What must it be like to fly through that on a night like this? She caught Serena watching her again and looked away, embarrassed at the knowing smile. Then Serena caught her arm and gestured, indicating a taxi sitting less than a hundred yards away. "There." As they approached, the cab driver rolled down his window. "Sorry, ladies, but I'm reserved. You can call another cab inside." Serena pouted. "Oh, that's too bad. It's just a little trip. It wouldn't take any time at all." She locked eyes with the cabbie, leaning down to meet his gaze and giving him a good view of her assets. "You can spare us a few minutes?" Natalie felt something twist in her guts as she watched Serena hypnotize the cabbie. He was average height and weight, maybe on the slim side, with light brown hair, brown eyes, and wearing what looked to be a plaid shirt a jeans. A local. Just an ordinary working stiff. And he was being hypnotized by a vampire right before her eyes. "We're old friends after all," continued Serena, concentrating on the driver. "Just a quick trip to--" She turned toward Natalie, her eyes holding a golden-green tint to them. "Where are we going?" "Azure," said Natalie, then cleared her throat--it felt dry. When Serena looked at her questioningly, she added, "It's a restaurant. Five star." "Azure," repeated Serena thoughtfully, her accent giving the word a sensuous and decadent air. She returned her attention to the driver and asked, "Do you know where that is?" The driver continued to stare at Serena as he answered sleepily, "Old friends. Azure. Know where that is." "This way." Serena opened the rear passenger door and Natalie tumbled in, just before Serena closed the door behind her. Then Serena walked to the front of the car and slipped into the seat beside the driver, pushing aside a newspaper. "Drive," she commanded. Folding her hands tightly in her lap, Natalie stared at the back of the driver's head. What she remember about having been hypnotized by LaCroix, now that the sudden influx of Nick's memories had rattled her brain? A feeling of warmth, of distance and yet the most incredible intimacy. A wave of desire, passion, yearning for darkness . . . . "LaCroix knows that we're coming?" asked Serena softly. Startled from her reverie, Natalie felt a blush steal across her cheeks, then shook her head, angry at herself. Now was the time to lose it. Concentration, that was what she needed. "He sent me an . . . invitation." "Ah." Serena leaned her arm on the top of the front seat, then placed her chin on it, still regarding Natalie thoughtfully through those brilliant blue eyes. "I gather he's not someone you simply 'drop in on'." "You've never met LaCroix?" asked Natalie, somewhat surprised. From what Nick had told her about LaCroix's interference in his affairs, she'd assumed he'd been involved in every phase of his protege's existence. Serena shrugged. "There was no need. I wanted nothing to do with Nicholas or anyone around him." "And that's changed?" Serena blinked for a moment, then smiled lazily. "No." She reached out a hand to touch a strand of Natalie's hair that had decided to wander off on its own and set it carefully back in place. "I was hoping this would be the end of it. But then I found you . . . I couldn't let him do this to someone else. Not again." For all of her brightness and vitality, there was the same sense of darkness hovering around Serena that Natalie had felt around Nick--a oppressive layer of gloom, despair, doom. "I appreciate the thought, but I can take care of myself," said Natalie defensively. "So could I." Serena's smiled faded as she added, "Or so I thought. But against Nicholas' best intentions, few defenses are effective." Natalie swallowed, hearing more than a little truth in Serena's words. She looked out the windows of the cab, watching the light traffic on the early evening streets. The cab slowed as a trolley came through and she glanced up at the passengers she could see through the windows. Ordinary, mortals living ordinary lives. How many of them could continue to live their lives, knowing what she knew about the existence of vampires? How had continued? And what about the people like . . . . "Tom Westwood followed you to the loft," she said softly. Serena arched an eyebrow. "You've met him?" "He came to see me in the hospital." She paused, watching the information sink in. "He thinks you're the one who attacked me." "." Natalie smiled in spite of herself--only in French could a word like that sound elegant. Serena took a breath and then released it slowly. She glanced away, over at the driver, who still seemed oblivious to them. "And you told him--?" "I'd told him that I'd seen a woman at the loft. When he brought up your name and said that you might have attacked me, I reminded him that you'd saved my life by picking up the phone and talking to Captain Reese." Natalie hesitated, then added, "He asked me what I knew about vampires." Serena nodded once, slowly. "And you said--?" "I laughed it off." She leaned forward and touched Serena's arm, getting her attention. "How much does he know?" "A little." Serena leaned her mouth against her wrist for a moment, as if thinking. "Enough to be dangerous." "But . . . you haven't killed him?" "No." The answer was short and sharp and seemed to surprise Serena as much as Natalie. Natalie sat back against the rear seat of the cab as Serena repeated, "No," much more softly. "It wasn't his fault. I was doing . . . research, I suppose you might call it. I spoke with him on a few occasions. He was nice. Intelligent. Charming, in an unaffected way." "You started seeing him?" Wincing, Serena turned around in the seat, facing the windshield. "For coffee. We talked about . . . I told him I was a reporter, working on a story. When I was done, I was going to say good-bye and move on. Only a matter of weeks, a few months, after all. What harm could there be?" She shrugged. "I underestimated him. There were a few deaths involving men we had spoken about. At the last one, the one, damnit--" There was silence for a moment, then Serena turned her head, looking at Natalie. "He saw me standing over the body. He didn't anything. A glimpse of my eyes, my fangs . . . it would have been too quick to be certain." Natalie nodded, knowing how quickly the change could take place--she'd seen it often enough with Nick. She had kissed him, he'd looked away and in less than a heartbeat, the vampire was . "What did you say to him?" "I didn't. I panicked. I . . . ran." Serena half- turned in the seat again and smiled. "That's so unlike me. I should have hypnotized him. But when I saw his face, his disbelief, his --" She lowered her head. "I think he would have forgiven me. I couldn't bear that. And I couldn't kill him." Sighing, Serena touched her thumbnail to her lips, then added, "He's an honest man. A good man. And believe me, I --I've tasted the blood of enough murders and beasts to tell at a glance. I couldn't hurt him." "He's hunting you." "He's me," corrected Serena. She stared out the window again. "He doesn't want to hurt me, he only wants answers. His curiosity will be the death of him." Then she smiled back at Natalie. "Because if I get close enough to hypnotize him, I might not be able to control myself. I might be tempted to taste the blood of an honest man, at least once. But I won't let him die; I'll make him into what I am--" She met Natalie's eyes, her lips drawing into a tight line. "What Nicholas almost did to you." Her eyes narrowed, flecked with gold and green. "And he'll me for it." "The way you despise Nick for what he did to you," said Natalie softly. "The same way he tortures himself with guilt for having done it." "It's the legacy we carry, part of what we are, measured in spilt blood, broken hearts, and guilt." She took a deep breath and turned away, looking out the windshield again. "It's not too late to walk away, Natalie. You can avoid it." Natalie leaned forward, grasping the seat with her fingertips, her chin almost resting on Serena's shoulder. "It too late. Spilled blood?--you saw what was left of me. Maybe my heart hasn't been completely broken, but it's been bruised all to hell. All that's left is . . . the guilt. And Nick has enough of that for both of us." "It's your choice." Serena caught Natalie's chin with her fingers, turning her head toward the driver's side. "We're here." As Natalie slipped back against the seat, Serena touched the driver's cheek with her fingers. He turned his head toward her, as if waking and muttered, "What, huh?" "Thank you for the ride. Here--" She reached down the front of her blouse, withdrew a few bills, then tossed them onto the seat between them. "You won't remember us. You won't remember anything about us. You'll return to the hospital. The fare you were waiting for was late--you took a drive and then returned." Natalie slipped from the cab on the driver's side, waiting for Serena to join her. She glanced down at the driver, who still seemed somewhat dazed. "He'll be fine," said Serena pleasantly. Then she lowered her head slightly, as if studying Natalie's expression. "You don't approve?" "It's not for me to approve or disapprove, is it?" There was a break in traffic and Natalie hurried across the street, glancing this way and that. She reached the curb, then watched as Serena followed, her movements unhurried, precise. Serena stepped up onto the curb and they stood beneath the restaurant awning. She gestured for Natalie to pass her and, as she did, whispered, "It's very different when you're the one being 'persuaded,' isn't it?" The doorman held the door open. They walked along the length of royal blue carpeting and passed dozens of patrons who were holding drinks in their hands and talking quietly. Locating the thin wooden podium of the , Natalie automatically turned toward it, trying to ignore the curious stares of the other patrons. "Yes." Natalie released her breath angrily and turned to Serena. "It's not . . . right. It's not right to tamper with someone's memories that way." "You're saying that just because we have the ability, we don't have the right to use it?" Serena smiled sharply and Natalie shivered. "What would your friend LaCroix have to say about that, I wonder?" "He's not my--" The question brought her down to earth. All righteous indignation and a half-dozen arguments fled from her thoughts as Natalie stared at the and wondered just what she was getting into. "May I help you, ladies?" Natalie didn't miss the condescension in the man's voice or the emphasis on the word 'ladies,' as he pointedly looked over her attire. Self-conscious, she twisted her finger nervously. "We're here to meet someone--he has a reservation." "The name?" "LaCroix." The 's eyelids flickered and his manner changed abruptly, becoming palpably obsequious. He reached down and picked up a small, white envelope. "I'm so sorry, Mr. LaCroix has called to cancel the reservations. He asked that I pass along his regrets and this message." "Thanks." Natalie swiped the envelope from the man's hand and turned, even as he called out behind her, "I hope you are inclined to dine with us again." She waited until they were outside before opening the envelope. The note was handwritten--probably by the or someone at the restaurant. An address. "Dead end?" asked Serena. Natalie held out the card, then stepped to the edge of the curb and looked up into the sky. Damnit, where the hell Nick? She had to find him. She had to know what had happened. She had to know why he'd left her there to die . . . . "Another chance to walk away." Serena took Natalie's hand, pressed the card into her palm, and folded her fingers over it. "Think about it." Staring down at the card, she thought. She thought long and hard. Then she took a deep breath and met Serena's eyes. "Do you have enough cash in your blouse for another taxi?" -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com. From V4S@CYBERVANGUARD.COMSat Nov 2 12:17:37 1996 Date: Fri, 1 Nov 1996 20:50:15 -0500 From: Virtual Fourth Season To: Multiple recipients of list FKFIC-L Subject: V4S: Resurrection (10/19) Episode Number: Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season - Episode #1 Episode Title: "Resurrection" Author: Susan M. Garrett Part 10 of 19 This story is based on characters and situations created by James Parriott and Barney Cohen and owned by Sony/TriStar. No infringement is intended. Copyright 1996 Susan M. Garrett -------------------------- *** He'd lost Serena. Thomas Westwood stood with his back to the wall, his hands shoved in his pockets, waiting for one of the people on the pay-phones to finish his call. Yeah, there was a small, flip cell-phone in his back pocket, but he was trying to conserve the batteries. His financial reserves were beginning to show some wear and tear and he'd only been following Serena's trail for a little over two months. Who knew how long he'd have to follow her or where she'd go from here? That was, of course, if he was able to pick up her trail again. He leaned forward and ran his eye along the bank of phones--still busy. One of the women was smoking. His gaze immediately shifted to the 'no smoking' sign on the opposite wall and he settled a glare on the woman, hoping to cause her as much discomfort as her cigarette was causing him. Because he wanted it. Right now, he would have traded his cellular phone and the remains of his modest bank account for a lit cigarette and a clear conscience. But he'd quit smoking six months ago. And as for a clear conscience . . . . Westwood glanced at the elevators, wondering if he'd be able to sneak upstairs and talk to Natalie Lambert again. If they'd let him, he'd grab a chair in her room and watch over her until sunrise. The vampire who attacked her would be back. He knew it. That was the way it worked, wasn't it? At least, that's what the stories said. That was the problem . . . he was relying on contradictory myth and legend, stories and films, and little snips of horror and fantasy and romance that didn't make a lick of sense when you dropped them all into the same bucket. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe vampires didn't exist. Maybe Serena was just a stunning woman who was attracted to hardened criminals with histories of violence against women and an odd quirk in the chromosome structure. Maybe he hadn't found her standing over the body of Carl Laemmle, just released from prison and on parole for murdering a man during a bar fight after a football game. Maybe she hadn't stared at him with those eyes--they were like cat's eyes, golden and hungry. She'd run right past him and when he'd followed her from the alley and out to the street, there was no sign of her. Carl Laemmle, however, had a broken arm, a broken neck, two small incisions on his neck, and was lacking a goodly amount of blood. Westwood knew his horror movies too well to let that pass by, although it had taken him one hell of a tussle to get a coroner's report out of Detectives Morrigan and Wayne, even as a favor. They thought they had a serial killer on their hands; Laemmle was the fourth victim they'd found in that condition. He'd sat in a restaurant and stared down at a red-checked tablecloth, barely able to eat his dinner while they'd asked him if he'd do a profile, if he'd had any requests for the ex-cons files--because they were ex-cons, recently released--if he knew anything about this weird chromosome thing and could he guess why two of the murders had occurred during a full moon and one during a lunar eclipse . . . . He'd delivered the request for a leave of absence the next morning, spent two days finding out where Serena had been staying, then combed the dive she'd rented to find any and all clues to tell him where she'd gone next. That's how he'd spent the last two months, going from town to town across Canada, sometimes slipping across the border into the United States. Sometimes he'd guessed right, sometimes he'd guessed wrong, but he hadn't come this close to her since the murder that had set him on her trail in the first place. Natalie Lambert was the key. If Serena attacked Natalie Lambert, she'd be back to finish off her victim. But then, why would she have phoned the paramedics and saved the coroner's life? It just didn't make sense. He was very certain Natalie Lambert had been attacked by a vampire and if that vampire Serena, then that meant . . . that there was another vampire, here, in Toronto. The thought chilled him--how many of these things there? If they even existed at all and he wasn't suffering from some delusion brought about through overwork and nicotine withdrawal. It was more important than ever that he get someone upstairs to guard Natalie Lambert's room, but all the phones were still busy . . . and that woman was smoking. Casting her a look of high dungeon as he passed, Westwood decided to try the phones back down at the emergency entrance--sensible hospitals always kept phones at the visitors' reception desk and the emergency reception area. The hallways grew busier as he neared the emergency area; a gurney with a patient strapped to it, immobilized, was whisked past him. Westwood turned as it passed, following it with his eyes, then looked up-- Serena was walking out the emergency room door. He was only certain it was her because she tilted her head a little as she held the door open for . . . Dr. Natalie Lambert. He opened his mouth to shout something, to stop them, then covered his mouth with his hand. Was Serena somehow controlling Dr. Lambert? Or was Dr. Lambert going with Serena of her own free will? Moving closer to the door, he stood to one side and watched through the glass window. The women paused, then he saw Serena point at a taxi sitting to one side, as if waiting. They walked over and Serena leaned into the window to speak to the driver. In the two months he'd followed her, she'd never looked the same when he'd managed to catch glimpses of her or when he'd spoken to people who might have seen her. Her hair style was usually similar, but the color changed as often and as radically as her mode of dress. Now she looked something like she'd looked when she'd first introduced herself at his office, although her choice of clothing was more severe and less casual. It struck him that he didn't often notice what a woman wore, but for some reason he could still describe every outfit he'd seen Serena wear. They were getting into the cab. Westwood panicked and ran from the window to the glass doors. They opened automatically as he approached, but as he walked outside the cab was pulling away. Slamming his fist against his thigh, he cursed beneath his breath--his car was still around the corner from Detective Knight's loft, since he'd ridden to the hospital in the ambulance. Which meant that he was left with no way to follow. Until, less than thirty seconds later, another yellow taxi cab came into the hospital drive. He ran for it and threw open the passenger door, only to find a man backing out . . . and then helping his very pregnant wife. "My bag?" cried the woman, between moans. "Honey, my bag!" Westwood imagined he heard a popping sound as she finally made her way out of the cab, then he leaned in, picked up the overnight bag from the floor, and placed it on the concrete walk. Slipping into the cab, he closed the door behind him and said to the driver, "I need you to follow that cab--the one that just left." "Wait a minute," said the cabbie, "I'm not finished with these people." Digging out his wallet while the cabbie lowered the driver's side window to talk to the expectant father-to-be about the fare, Westwood said, "I'll pay for it." He glanced at the meter, then held a twenty dollar bill through the plastic that divided the passengers from the cabbie, saying, "Here. Keep the change. Just follow that cab!" The cabbie stared at him, then took the money and recranked the meter. Westwood waved to the expectant couple--the husband was trying to thank him, while the wife was frantically trying to get her husband's attention diverted toward the attendant with a wheelchair who was approaching them--then fell back against the passenger seat as the driver accelerated the cab. "No one's ever told me to follow another cab before," said the driver. "I'm with the police." Digging into his pocket, Westwood withdrew his Vancouver ID and flashed it quickly, knowing that the brief glimpse of it would be enough. The driver took the cab out into traffic and said worriedly, "There's not going to be any shooting or anything--?" "No, just following a suspect." He tucked the ID back into his shirt pocket and then leaned forward--the cabbie had managed to keep the other taxi in sight. "Is that the right one?" "It's the plate that just left the hospital." "That's the right one, then." "Don't you guys have you own cars?" asked the cabbie. Deciding that it wasn't worth the explanation, Westwood turned to look out the window. He was new to this city and had never been to Toronto before, but he'd gotten used to learning city layouts on the sly during the past two months. Serena was consistent about a few things, tending to choose basement rentals with westward-facing exits, usually just outside the center of town. He'd found her twice that way. But this time he doubted she'd had a chance to seek a permanent shelter. He still wasn't certain what she was doing, or why. In the two months he'd followed her, he'd only found two more victims, but there seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to the cities she'd chosen to visit. Then he'd nearly lost her when she'd suddenly headed to Toronto. Westwood rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. God, he was tired. Two months of this perpetual motion was wearing him out. He was tired of lying to every law official he met, but how could he warn them of a danger he wasn't even certain existed? He had to know more. He had to prove to himself that vampires existed, find the truth in the mythology of lies that had been built up through legend and media fantasy. He had to find Serena. The cabbie slowed and he sat up again, looking out the window. He saw their cab ahead. "Drive past it," he ordered, ducking down to prevent them from seeing him. As soon as they'd passed the cab, he sat up in the seat again and saw Natalie Lambert and Serena crossing the street, heading for a posh restaurant named 'Azure.' It meant nothing to him. A vampire meeting place? "Do you want--?" "Just . . . wait a minute. Keep the meter running, but wait a minute." Westwood wasn't entirely certain what to do. He was very conscious of the weight of the flip cell- phone in his back pocket, but there was no one he could call for back up. He was on his own, which meant that he could follow them into the restaurant or wait until they came out again . . . which could be hours. Glancing at the meter, something inside him grimaced-- he didn't have the cash to leave a cab waiting for hours. But if they headed somewhere else, he'd have no way to follow them-- They were coming out of the restaurant. Westwood felt his heart stop as the women stopped for a moment, exchanging words. Then Serena stepped forward with a raised hand and another cab stopped for them. Tapping on the driver's shoulder, Westwood pointed out the cab, saying, "You see--?" "I know--follow that cab." The driver let out a low whistle through his teeth, then pulled back into the flow of traffic when the other cab had left the curb. "Are you sure there's not going to be any shooting? It might make things more interesting." "These people don't use guns," explained Westwood. "At least, I don't they do." The ride seemed shorter. From the looks of the neighborhood, it wasn't the best section of town--they were surrounded by warehouses. The cab ahead stopped. "Go past?" asked the driver. "A block. Take the next corner." Westwood could feel his heart pounding--he was more likely to get mugged in a neighborhood like this than attacked by a vampire. And he didn't carry a gun--forensic psychologists weren't automatically licensed. Not that he'd ever really liked the idea of carrying one. And he doubted the cross in his pocket would be any protection against someone intent on a little assault and theft. The cab stopped around the corner. Another glance at the meter told him that he was going way over budget--have to hit an ATM or figure out the local subway route to get back to his hotel, if the subway and buses ran anywhere near there. Fishing another twenty and a ten from his pocket, then adding a five, Westwood opened the door, stepped out of the cab, and then handed the driver the money through the open driver's side window. "Keep the change." "You want me to stay?" asked the driver. He waved at the surrounding area with his hand. "Tough neighborhood." "Good reason for you to leave." Westwood threw him a polite smile. "Thanks for the help." "Anytime, officer. Just doing my civic duty." The window rolled up and the cab pulled away from the curb. Westwood walked to the wall of the warehouse and plastered himself against it. He peered around the corner, his heart pounding in his ears, and tried not to feel immensely foolish. Serena and Natalie Lambert were heading into an alley; it looked like it lead to a loading dock. As soon as they were gone from sight, he made his way down the front of the building, passing a door with a heavy metal grate and windows that were bordered over and covered with graffiti. At the edge of the building he stopped and listened. Fragments of echoed conversation drifted back to him. One word--a name--was repeated, the only instant of clarity. 'Nick.' He took a deep breath and waited, then heard a sound like rusty metal being moved. Daring a glance around the corner, he saw the two women at the top of a set of concrete steps, opening a door leading into the warehouse--the light bulb for the safety light over the door was dark, so he couldn't see much more. Once they were inside, he took a few steps into the lip of the alley, then stopped. He remembered a signpost they'd passed one or two blocks ago--Wilton Street, wasn't it? He'd been somewhere around there last night, had spotted Serena on foot and had followed her at a distance to Gateway Lane and Detective Knight's loft. Detective Knight. They were looking for Knight! Vampires or no vampires, he couldn't do this alone. Serena could disappear on him in a flash and if she and Dr. Lambert expected to find Knight here or near here, he might need some help to follow them to the next location. Westwood withdrew the calculator sized flip-phone from his back pocket and hit the auto-dial, thanking his devotion to routine that the first thing he always did when he came into town was make a contact on the local police force and drop the number in his cell-phone memory. "Ninety-sixth precinct, Desk Sergeant--" "This is Thomas Westwood," he said quickly, turning to look at the empty street that the alley intersected. "I need to speak with Captain Reese immediately." "I'm sorry, Captain Reese has gone home for the evening. Can I take a message?" "Damn," he muttered. "Oh, no--yes, leave a message. It's about Detective Knight--" "Detective Sakai is handling that case. One moment and I'll connect you." "Oh--no--hell!" The line switched to muzac and Westwood took a moment to check the battery indicator on his cell-phone--it was flashing yellow. "Hurry, hurry," he urged, making a decision that, in future, he'd always carry a spare battery on him even if the damned things cost forty dollars each. "Detective Sakai, here. Can I help you?" "Yes, thanks. I was looking for Reese--this is Thomas Westwood." He spoke quickly, hoping to outrun the end of the battery. "I'm on a cellphone and we may get cut off--my battery's dying. I might have a lead on Knight. I'm near a Wilton Street--?" "Yeah," said Sakai--he heard papers rustling in the background. "That's not far from where Knight lives--he's on Gateway. Captain Reese said you'd be earlier." "I got side-tracked." With a sigh, Westwood glanced down the alley, then stopped. Something moved in the shadows. "My court order to search Knight's place just came down, so I'm heading out your way. Can you meet me there?" Westwood barely heard Sakai's words, his eyes straining to discern something within the darkness of the shadows, but there was nothing. He swallowed, decided he hadn't seen anything, and turned back. "Maybe you'd better meet me here. I don't know if this means anything, but--" Something hit the small of his back and he found himself slammed forward into the brick wall of the alley, the cellphone falling from his hand. He heard the shattering of plastic and was somehow conscious enough to groan inwardly--he he should have paid for the next model up! Cutting corners never seemed to get him anywhere . . . . There was a grip on his arm and Westwood found himself swung across the darkened alley. He managed to raise his hand before his face hit the wall and his palm stung--he'd scraped it on the rough brick. Before he could move, the breath still knocked out of him, his right arm was grabbed and twisted behind his back. He heard the snarl of an animal, like a large cat, then there was a hand at his neck, ripping his collar open and forcing his head to one side. Another snarl, a breath of cool air on his exposed throat-- He was dead. Somewhere inside, he knew that he was dead. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears and the scrape on his palm burned like his skin was on fire. It was as if all of his senses had been cranked up to the highest setting. No chance to struggle or to call for help. He was dead. And then, behind him, there was a low, anguished moan. It was the last sound he heard before he was slammed into the wall for the third time. Somebody turned off the lights. -------------------------------------------- For more information or to participate in the Forever Knight Virtual 4th Season, write to V4S@cybervanguard.com.