“That is all true. Although…”
“What?”
“I could use a confocal microscope. And I’d like to upgrade our flow cytometer.”
Metcalf lowered his head into his hand so he could rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He shook his head. “How much is this going to cost?” he asked in a soft whisper.
“What?”
“How much!”
“Oh. Not much. No more than two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred thousand…”
“If we buy it used.”
Metcalf stood rigid for a long moment before removing his hand from his face. His eyes pale blue ice as he looked at his lead scientist.
“Alright,” he said. “Fine. Write me down the model numbers, I’ll order it. But I need results.”
“You will get them. Eventually we will crack this.”
“You’re not listening to me. I need results. Now.”
“We’re doing everything we can.”
Metcalf waved Dr. Chabot closer with his index finger. When the immunologist got off his chair, Metcalf took hold of the doctor by his skull and pulled him towards him so he could talk with his mouth inches from the doctor’s ear.
“You need to listen carefully to what I’m saying. When I tell you I want results now that is exactly what I mean. In one month I want to be able to enjoy a steak dinner.”
“B-But it’s not that simple. We can’t solve these digestive issues until we better understand the virus. It’s all tied together, you see. The virus-somehow it feeds on the digested blood. No other virus acts this way. And just as it does that, it similarly prohibits the generation of any digestive enzymes. More than just that it actively attacks and destroys any artificial enzymes that may be entered into the digestive system. It is as if it doesn’t want any competition for the digested blood. It’s quite amazing, really. We will solve this, but only after we successfully model and understand this virus better. Patience is of utmost importance.”
Metcalf let go of the doctor, who fell back into his chair and nearly toppled over before righting himself. Rubbing his eyes and then staring bug-eyed at Dr. Chabot, Metcalf asked him what else he needed.
“Nothing else right now, no.”
“How about more test subjects?”
“Not now, no.” Dr. Chabot rubbed a hand across his lips, his expression turning queasy. “When we do I’ll let you know.”
Metcalf continued to stare bug-eyed at his lead scientist. “I’m losing confidence in you and your team,” he said finally.
Dr. Chabot shrugged, showing an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, what more can I say?”
“You’d better say something because if I don’t have confidence in you and your team, then I might as well start over and build a new one from scratch.”
“What do you want me to say?” Dr. Chabot asked, an urgency creeping into his voice. The other scientists in the room were looking over at them and paying attention to their conversation.
“All I know is you need to say something to help rebuild my confidence. Maybe there’s someone out there who could make a difference?”
Dr. Chabot squeezed his eyes shut. A pained expression screwed up his turtle-like face. His complexion changed from waxy to an ashen gray.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said.
“How about Dr. Ravi Panjubar,” one of the other scientists volunteered.
Metcalf stared hard at his lead scientist. A vein had started to beat along his right eye.
“Well?” he asked.
Dr. Chabot nodded, his face now a mask of pure agony.
“Dr. Ravi Panjubar could be of help,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “He is doing exciting work in the use of nanotechnology to alter the DNA structure in mice. Yes, he could be of help to the team.”
“Significant help?”
Dr. Chabot nodded.
“Where is he?”
“Stanford.”
“No one closer? Maybe someone at USC or UCLA doing similar work?”
Dr. Chabot looked away. “Just him.”
Metcalf clapped the scientist on the shoulder and nearly knocked him out of his chair.
“Alright then,” Metcalf said with a cheerful smile. “If it’s just him then it’s him you’re going to get. And for Chrissakes quit fretting. Think of it this way, you’re giving him the opportunity of a lifetime. Isn’t that what you scientists are all about? Challenges? None bigger than this one. Someday he’ll be thanking you.”
Dr. Chabot nodded dismally and turned back to his computer screen.
Chapter 3
Don Hayes was glad he was packing some serious firepower. He’d never been to Kansas City before and didn’t know what to expect, but the neighborhood he ended up in was as bad as any back home in Brooklyn. Half the store fronts were boarded up, and the ones still in operation were either bars, tattoo parlors or pawnshops. Scattered along the sidewalks were an equal mix of the homeless, derelicts, drug addicts and street toughs. One of the derelicts he drove past was too busy shooing away imaginary flies to bother looking at him, but the other people he passed made sure to give him a long predatory-type stare-especially the street toughs as they sized him up and tried to decide whether he was worth the risk to carjack. Fortunately, so far none of them decided he was. Also, fortunately, as a licensed PI from the state of New York, he had a permit to carry a concealed weapon, and weighing down the inside of his sports jacket was a Smith amp; Wesson 9mm pistol. He patted the bulge lining his jacket and breathed a little easier. He also had under his seat a police blackjack from his days on the force-an eleven inch piece of weighted spring steel covered in leather. If anyone tried reaching into his car he was prepared, but still, he didn’t want trouble. Around this neighborhood that was all he could smell.
At the next street corner he slowed down enough to read the street sign, then pulled over and parked next to a vacant store front. After getting out of the car, he gave a quick look around. A couple of street toughs were eyeing him from a few storefronts down but stayed where they were. Either they sensed he was armed or simply decided to wait for easier prey.
Hayes unfolded the fax he had received from the Kansas City Sentinel two days earlier to make sure he had the right address, then walked down the side street he had parked near and searched for the alleyway where a local crack and meth dealer, Devon Wilkerson, was found with his throat torn out and most of his blood drained. He stopped for a moment to squint at the sun and then to wipe a handkerchief along the back of his neck. Damn it was muggy here. Hot as hell too, like a steam bath. Ten minutes outside of the air-conditioning of his car and he was already sweating.
Up ahead a homeless man was picking through a dumpster and loading trash into a shopping cart. Even in the oppressive heat, the man wore several layers of clothing under a winter jacket. Hayes walked up to him and pointed a thumb towards the alley they were standing next to and asked if that was where Wilkerson was murdered.
The homeless man’s eyes looked foggy. “Whazzot,” he croaked out.
Hayes didn’t know if this was meant as a question or statement. He tried again, talking slower. “The drug dealer who was murdered around here. Was it in this alley?” Hayes said. He consulted a notepad. “The man who was murdered was big, over six and a half feet. African-American. Had his throat cut open. He was found dead ten days ago in an alley off this street.”
The homeless man shrugged noncommittally, his eyes clouded and glassy. No question he was on something.
“Dunno.”
Hayes pulled a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. The bill was snatched from his hands. Hayes watched as the homeless man folded it carefully and placed it in a pocket inside his jacket lining. He nodded and pointed down the alley. Flecks of dirt or bugs or something flew off his hair as he did this.
“Vampires,” he said.
“What do you mean vampires?”
“Vampires done it. Drank his blood. Kilt him.”