Satisfied that she was unconscious, I sat up, pulled a handkerchief from my coat, and wiped my mouth. A wave of remorse turned into a nauseating dread. What had contaminated her at Rocky Flats? And since the nymphomania had begun, what sexually risky aerobics had she indulged in? I tried not to ingest her blood-even one drop containing a pathogen could be enough to destroy me. If she were infected. I hung my hopes on that doubt.

Tamara lay peacefully on the bed, her serene face pale. Blood trickled from the two small holes in her neck.

I pressed the handkerchief against the wound until the bleeding stopped. Besides its analgesic and sedative effects, vampire saliva also accelerated healing. I had hardly drained any blood, so the bruising would be negligible, and by the time she awoke she’d only have two tiny scabs surrounded by yellow discoloration.

I climbed off her and replaced my contacts. To erase evidence that I’d been here, I washed my shot glass and returned it to the cupboard.

Tamara would suffer amnesia from both my hypnosis and the narcotic chemicals of my saliva. She wouldn’t remember anything, starting from the half-hour before I arrived. Tomorrow morning she’d be one very confused woman.

I returned to my apartment and climbed into my coffin to reflect on what had happened. I ran the air conditioner to recreate the cool dankness of a crypt. Incense-Dresden cadaver, my favorite-should have given my bedroom that perfect Old World decaying smell that induced relaxed meditation.

Funny how becoming a vampire changed things. And, no, I don’t mean the obvious physical stuff. I was much more of a beer and tacos man, and I still like them, only now I needed to add the rich liquid texture of blood. I couldn’t deny my vampire personality and my awareness of the psychic plane we inhabited. In times like this I embraced the gloom to rejuvenate myself.

But this time, the incense and darkness weren’t working.

One afternoon years ago, when I was still human, I had discovered that my car was missing from where I had left it. I searched the parking lot, bewildered, wondering if I had even driven to the store at all. I couldn’t believe that my car had been stolen. I felt off-center, empty, and confused. Not only had someone taken my property, they had also upset my perception of reality.

Now I had the same feeling of disorientation. I fidgeted against the satin lining of my casket. This incident with Tamara was supposed to have enlightened me. Instead I had stumbled deeper into a labyrinth of questions and shadows. Why hadn’t vampire hypnosis worked? Why had her aura changed from red to yellow when she succumbed to nymphomania? What in Building 707 had caused this? I needed to interrogate the other affected RCTs and cut through the confusion surrounding the investigation. This time I wouldn’t be so complacent.

The next day I left my apartment to visit the second RCT. To bypass rush-hour traffic, I took a short cut along a quiet road parallel to an abandoned railroad line in the neighborhood.

I drove with the driver’s window open. The sun filtered through the trees growing alongside the railroad tracks. My fingertips tingled where they touched the steering wheel. The day was too clear, the air too crisp, the mood too normal to inspire trouble. Concerned that something might be wrong with my car-a wheel out of balance, for example-I let off the gas pedal and listened to the tires rumble over the asphalt.

A whirring sound, like a hornet, buzzed past my ear. Something popped against the right inside of the convertible top. Sunlight instantly beamed through a finger-sized hole in the fabric.

My fingers twitched in alarm. Someone was shooting at me.

I pressed the gas pedal. The Dodge leaped forward, pushing me back against the seat. A second buzzing sound and another hole popped in the convertible top. The shots came from my left.

Yanking off my sunglasses, I turned my head to see where the shooter might be. A car horn blared at me. I faced the front. A stop sign appeared from the center of an overgrown lilac bush and a blue Chevy Impala screeched before me. I stomped on the brakes. My Dodge skidded through the intersection and missed the Chevy by inches. My car slid to the muddy right shoulder and stalled. The Chevy slowed, honked the horn as a curse, then hurried off.

A black Ford Crown Victoria approached in the rearview mirror.

I turned the ignition key, but all the engine did was whine and not start. My vampire sense blaring the danger signal, I opened the door and bolted from the car.

The Ford swerved and presented its passenger side to me. A large man wearing black leaned from the window and panned me with the muzzle of an M16 that had a silencer attached.

I sprang to the left and right as I ran for the cover of the trees along the railroad tracks. Bullets nipped the air close to my head.

I tripped and splashed into a shallow ditch next to the railroad. Scrambling to my feet, I kept running as the bullets pecked at the leaves and branches around me.

The dirty water went from ankle deep to mid-shin. I hurdled over tires and a shopping cart discarded in the ditch. The Ford started up the road to overtake me.

I crashed through a wall of reeds. Here the ditch joined a culvert about as wide as my shoulders. I dropped to my hands and knees and shimmied into the culvert, wallowing in grime and mud. I slid deep into the dark corrugated tube, not waiting to find out if I had lost my pursuers.

I needed to see. Removing my contacts in these conditions would be risky but I had to do it. I whisked my hands through the water to rinse the mud from my fingers. Carefully, I pulled the left contact out, then the right. Grit scratched my eyeballs. I splashed the filthy water into my eyes in an attempt to flush the irritation away.

Minutes passed. I heard nothing and could see little. A human would’ve been mortified with claustrophobia to be in this tight culvert for so long. But this reminded me of stories of being buried undead and emerging decades later, refreshed by the extended siesta.

Something blurry with a red aura approached to sniff my head. My claws instantly extended to defend me. The thing with the red aura growled and snapped at my face. It was a raccoon.

I bared my fangs and snapped back. The raccoon held its ground. We bitch-slapped each other until I’d had enough and retreated backwards to the ditch. Pausing before exposing my feet, I listened for danger, the quickened breath of my excited pursuer, the scratch of his finger along the rifle trigger, the tires of the Ford scraping over gravel. Nothing.

I backed out to my knees. Still nothing. Then out completely. The sun poured upon me and stung my naked eyes. A crow squawked at me from the concrete embankment of the ditch. The shooter was gone. I sloughed off the mud and rotting leaves from my trousers. Reeking of garbage I stumbled out of the ditch and walked along the shoulder back to my Dodge. Water squished in my shoes.

I inspected my car to see if it had been left alone. It had. Getting a canteen from the trunk, I washed my face, touched up my makeup, and put in a new pair of contacts. I sat on a towel to protect the driver’s seat and tried the ignition key. The engine turned over right away. Before I drove off, I surveyed the area and reflected on the attack.

Who was the shooter? He knew my route. He knew me. I was sure I had seen him and the black Ford before, if only incidentally. I promised myself that in the course of this investigation I’d get even with this shooter. It would be a delightfully hideous revenge.

Back in my apartment, I scrubbed myself clean and decided to continue my interrogation of the RCTs. I headed for the next address, which turned out to be a town house in Littleton, a suburb southwest of Denver. The dwellings were three-story units scrunched together between juniper hedges. I walked up the narrow porch of my destination and rang the doorbell. The lock on the front door clicked and the door opened.