“What if these vânätori are already here?”

Bob’s gaze cut to me. “What do you mean?”

I shared what Jenny had told me. The more I talked, the more Bob’s aura acquired a prickly surface indicating alarm.

“Why didn’t you say something before?”

“Because it had to do with my investigation. You’ve already blabbed to Wendy Teagarden and I don’t want to make what I’m doing any of Ziggy’s business.”

“Don’t you worry, unless it involves engorged genitalia, it won’t ever be Ziggy’s business,” Bob said. “I’ll pass along what you told me to the Araneum. In the meantime, I’ll need proof about the vânätori.”

“What Jenny told me is proof.”

“What Jenny told you was the talk of a medicated crazy woman. That’s what Ziggy would say. Felix, bring me proof. Something I can show to the nidus.”

“Proof? Bob, I’ve got my own investigation to run.”

“This takes priority.”

“To you maybe, not me,” I said. “If I run into the vânätori, I’ll see what I can get as a souvenir.”

“I’m surrounded by comedians. Go, then. Do what you have to.” Bob turned to the table and sorted through the wine. “The hell with this. I can’t solve these problems with grape juice. Where’s the scotch?”

CHAPTER 12

MRS. ANGELA FINAMORE, civil servant level GS-13, managed the Rocky Flats Personnel Records Department. She was the custodian of Dr. Wong’s file. Documents that could lead me to the secret Tiger Team report and the truth behind the outbreak. I’d corner Finamore in her office, put her under vampire hypnosis, and make her show me Dr. Wong’s file.

Surprisingly, when I arrived, the Records Department was unoccupied except for a fellow at the front desk. Boxes bulging with files surrounded him. Behind his desk stood rows of steel filing cabinets and empty desks. In his late twenties and wearing a light-blue oxford shirt hanging limply on his trim body, he exuded the clean-cut and overworked demeanor one expected from a trustee of federal records. His badge read Gary Higby.

I asked, “Where’s Angela Finamore?”

“Ms. Finamore is not here”-Gary Higby’s eyes focused on my badge-“Mr. Gomez.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No, she’s out with the sickness.” He studied me a bit too intently.

I fixed my gaze into his. “The sickness?”

Higby blushed and averted his eyes. “You know,” he hesitated and whispered, “the nymphomania. It affected the women in the office, and I’m here alone to cope with all this.” He waved to the mounds of documents awaiting his attention. Dots of perspiration shined along his brow. What the hell was heating him up?

So what if he wasn’t Angela Finamore; I’d give him a good dose of vampire hypnosis and have him hand over Dr. Wong’s file.

Higby abruptly swiveled in his chair toward the cabinet behind him, as if he were hiding something and I had made him uncomfortable. No problem, I’d uncover his secrets soon enough.

With his back turned to me, I quietly closed the door and removed my contacts to expose my tapetum lucidum.

I cleared my throat to get his attention.

His aura flashed, yet he remained still, ignoring me.

I rushed around the desk, seized his arm, and jerked his face toward mine.

His eyes closed, Higby sprang from his chair and embraced me. He kissed my lips.

Turning my face to avoid his mouth, I pushed him away. “What the hell?”

He clung to me. “You made me so hot the second I saw you. I was praying you felt the same way.”

Was the nymphomania turning into homosexual satyriasis?

Higby clasped the back of my neck. “Why should the women here have all the fun?”

Higby unbuckled his trousers and let them drop past his knees. His erection formed a tent inside his royal blue briefs. He swept the files off his desk and scooted his butt onto the desk. I needed to put him under before he tried to bone me.

But Higby wouldn’t open his eyes for me to hypnotize him. I tugged at the collar button of his shirt, hoping to subdue him with a bite of my vampire saliva.

Caressing my back, Higby tilted his head to one side as if expecting me to nuzzle him. I sank my fangs into the jugular of his warm neck. Gasping with desire, he squeezed me hard. His blood spurted into my mouth. I spit into a wad of tissue-no telling what contaminated him.

Holding him still, I sucked at his neck again and worked my saliva into the wound. His grip loosened. The tent inside his briefs began to deflate. With my mouth still attached to his neck, I lay his relaxed body across the desk. His hairy, naked legs dangled over the edge, his trousers bunched at his ankles.

The door opened, and a security guard entered. He hollered in surprise and reached for his pistol.

I released Higby. His head thumped on the desk.

I froze the guard with my vampire glare. Leading him into the office, I locked the door. At the rate things were going with these interruptions, I’d have to hypnotize all of Rocky Flats. In order to erase his memory of me with Higby, I’d have to bite the guard as well.

I sat the guard in a chair and bit him. I tried not to gag on his Aqua Velva aftershave.

With Higby and the guard sedated, I searched for Wong’s file in the cabinets. Meanwhile the phones rang and rang. Someone jiggled the doorknob. Whoever it was beat on the door for several minutes and then left, cussing, “Goddamn lazy-ass records people are never here.”

When I couldn’t find the file, I revived Higby just enough for him to give me his computer password. His spreadsheet listed an entry for Wong dated two weeks ago and noted that his file was stored in Building 371, inside the Protected Area.

I had found the trail. Dr. Wong’s otherwise innocuous personnel file contained something worth keeping secret.

Before I left the Records Department, I put my contacts back in. I dropped the guard’s trousers and sat Higby on his lap. When the two men came around, I’d let them sort the situation out for themselves. Maybe they’d start dating.

I was hoping that Higby had attacked me because he mistakenly got the gay hots for my body; otherwise the outbreak had made the jump to those of us with XY chromosomes.

Getting into the Protected Area was routine, considering that I had the appropriate clearance. I entered the concrete tunnel building straddling the perimeter wire. In the locker room I stripped to my skivvies and socks. I grabbed a set of baggy, white overalls from the laundry cart and put them on. Blots of grease on the legs and yellow circles under the armpits stained the fabric. I sorted through a pile of work boots until I found the only pair my size. The stink from the boots was so bad it made my toes curl. Whoever wore them before hadn’t been familiar with the concept of hygiene. Hell, a strong dose of radiation would probably have done this pair some good.

I took off my watch and set it on the shelf in the locker. The rule was don’t take anything into the Protected Area that you can’t afford to lose, in case it gets contaminated.

Properly attired as an anonymous worker ant, I presented my badge to the guard. He slid it over the scanner and when the indicator flashed green, he motioned me to proceed through the metal detector.

The tunnel connected to Building 371. A sign in the foyer gave directions to the materials containment facilities and the archives office.

The dilapidated appearance inside Building 371 startled me. In the movies, nuclear facilities are always futuristic beehives made of stainless steel and glass tubes filled with glowing liquids. Everything runs with the precision of a European racing car.

The reality was that Rocky Flats, including within the Protected Area, where plutonium manufacture had taken place, had the feel of an old factory mill that had seen better days. The rough edges from layers of paint applied to the walls and floors revealed the constant battle against decay. Capped, discolored pipes hung from the ceiling.