“I’ve faced worse.”

“This isn’t some gang of trigger-happy dope smugglers. You’ll be dueling with one of the most secretive arms of the federal government.”

“You’re forgetting that I’m a vampire.”

“Don’t be too cocky about your powers. Rely on them too often, and they’ll give you away. And then”-Bob cupped his hands together-“humans will trap you. An iron cage won’t hold us for long, true, but what about a magnetic containment unit, or something more exotic? Look at their prize. A vampire. They’ll perform biopsies-no, vivisections-to learn about our immortality and powers of transmutation into other forms, a wolf for example.”

Bob touched his eye and then his upper incisors. “They’ll carve out your tapetum lucidum and your fangs. You might get into trouble so deep not even the Araneum could help you.”

If he had witnessed the paranoid nuttiness at Rocky Flats as I had, perhaps he’d lose this appreciation of DOE’s prowess. “You make it seem bleak. I can handle myself.”

“I don’t understand why you don’t quit this assignment. What are you trying to prove?”

“This is my job, for one. Am I supposed to wet my pants and run every time someone yells boo? I’m a vampire, for Christ’s sake. Humans are supposed to run away from me. And I agreed to help a friend in trouble.”

“A human?”

“Yes, a human.”

“Felix, remember who you’re dealing with. In the centuries I’ve been around I’ve seen humans only get more conniving and cruel. We are supposed to be the evil ones, yet are we worse than a serpent? We are simply predators who dine on human blood. Isn’t that how God made us? Look at the real evil in history. The Inquisition, the Holocaust. Vampires didn’t highjack airliners and crash them into buildings. Who invented the guillotine? Nerve gas? Humans! And you’re working for the very people who massacred hundreds of thousands with the A-bomb in Japan, injected pregnant women with plutonium just to see what would happen, and lied about radioactive fallout poisoning families in Nevada. God knows how much land they contaminated around Denver.”

“I’m aware of this.”

“Be careful, Felix. If you get caught and the government realizes that they have a vampire, then we as a species are doomed.”

DURING MY FIRST OFFICIAL day as a nuclear health physicist, I spent my time organizing my desk and learning how to find my way around the maze of office trailers. Gilbert Odin met with me to pass along the names of the three women who first exhibited the nymphomania. All of them were radiological control technicians who had been on the same survey team for Building 707. And all three RCTs were still on medical leave. Gilbert cautioned me not to pry into their records at Rocky Flats or I’d alert Security about my investigation.

In the afternoon, I left Rocky Flats and returned to my apartment. First, I had to find the RCTs. Since a private detective deals in information, what better source for that commodity than the Internet? I sent five hundred bucks a month to a private mailbox in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and in return an anonymous freelance hacker offered a keyhole into almost every database hooked into the Internet. I wrote an email asking where the RCTs lived, what kind of cars they drove, and their family status.

While I waited for a reply, I warmed up a half-pint of cow’s blood in the microwave. I poured the blood over a slab of focaccia and ate dinner.

A little after six in the evening I got my answers. I decided to begin by questioning the team leader, Tamara Squires.

She was married and had three sons. I received the vehicle plate numbers of a late-model Jeep Wrangler registered to her, plus home and cell phone numbers. And two addresses, one to a house in the suburb of Lakewood, and the other to an apartment, also in Lakewood. Tamara had lived in the house for ten years and for only one month in the apartment.

There could be two Tamara Squireses, but I had my doubts. I guessed that the nymphomania had strained her marriage and that she had moved out of the house and into the apartment. I’d look there first.

I waited until well after dusk before setting out. Vampires are nocturnal predators, so it is then that our powers are strongest.

The apartment was in a small complex, a two-story building overlooking the parking lot. A balcony ran along the front of the second floor. Each apartment had a picture window beside the entrance door. Lights above each door and in the stairwells illuminated the complex.

A white Jeep Wrangler sat in the parking lot. The Jeep’s plates matched the numbers I had been provided.

I munched on a breath mint, climbed the stairs to the balcony, and walked to apartment 2C. Before knocking, I scanned the area, listened carefully, and took a couple of deep sniffs. I didn’t detect anything unexpected.

I rapped on the door. From inside, footsteps approached. The window blinds parted a crack, not enough for me to see who peeked out.

Her voice muffled by the windowpane, a woman asked, “What do you want?”

“My name is Felix Gomez. I’m with DOE.” I slipped a badge from my coat pocket and showed it to her.

“And?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Are you from Security?”

“No.”

The window blinds closed. The deadbolt clicked, and the door opened. A brass chain stretched at shoulder level.

A woman, easily six feet tall, looked down through the gap between her door and the jamb. She had an oval-shaped, pretty face that tapered to a delicate chin. A mane of loose blond hair hung past her neck. She appeared to be in her early forties.

“Mrs. Tamara Squires?”

“That’s me,” she replied irritably. “Isn’t this kinda late? Is this so goddamn important that you couldn’t call me to the Flats instead? I don’t like work following me home. It’s wrecked my private life enough already.”

“That’s why I’m here. I want to talk about what’s happened to you.”

Her eyes narrowed and scrunched the tiny crow’s-feet at her temples. “What’s your job?”

“I’m a health physicist.”

“With Rad Safety? Industrial Hygiene? I’ve never seen you before.”

I thought I’d be asking the questions. I’m not even in the door and this woman was busting my chops.

“I specialize in post-exposure rehabilitation. I’m from the Lawrence Livermore National Lab. California.”

“Yeah, I know where that is.”

I gave her my most sincere look. “I’d thought you’d be more comfortable talking here in your home than at Rocky Flats. My apologies, I should’ve called first.”

Tamara’s frown disappeared. “You’re the first from DOE to ask how I’m doing. And the only one to offer an apology for anything.” Closing the door, she unlatched the chain. “Come in.”

She was a big, well-proportioned woman. A baggy, light-gray sweatshirt covered her torso and clung to the swell of her large breasts. She wore tight, black leggings that came down to the middle of her well-muscled calves. Her toes peeked from under the straps of blue plastic slides.

Tamara lived in a studio apartment. A twin bed with a quilt and pillows stood against the far wall to the right, opposite a television stand with a TV and DVD player. In the middle of the wall hung a framed photograph of three smiling, adolescent boys. A tiny kitchen with a two-burner stove and a small refrigerator was to my left. Empty cartons of Chinese takeout sat by the sink. Separating the living area from the kitchen was a wooden card table surrounded by padded folding chairs. A brown leather purse, a packet of cigarettes, and an ashtray rested on the table.

“Mi casa, su casa, yada, yada.” Tamara walked into the kitchen. She moved in a loose gait, and the exaggerated movement of her hips and shoulders emphasized her meaty curves.

I sat in the chair closest to the door.