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Chapter 3
I COULDN’T DO much else about the lawsuit business, at least not for a while. The wheels of justice were turning, and it was in the lawyers’ hands. There’d be response, counterresponse, deal making, and all I had to do was stand aside and look innocent. What were the odds?
Or maybe Cormac would come up with something interesting, in which case there might be fireworks. I didn’t know which outcome to wish for more.
During my office hours the next day, I tried to stay focused and avoided calling Cormac, even though I wanted to, to see if he’d learned anything yet. It had only been a day. This would take time. My phone still sat on my desk, taunting me, luring me.
When it actually did ring, I jumped out of my chair to pounce on it. The voice on the other end wasn’t Cormac’s.
“Kitty, this is Elizabeth Shumacher, from the CSPB.”
That was Dr. Elizabeth Shumacher, who headed up the Center for the Study of Paranatural Biology, the research clearinghouse for all things supernatural that was part of the National Institutes of Health. I’d had a long and not always wonderful association with the center, but I liked Dr. Shumacher. The center had become much more rational and useful—rather than clandestine and paranoid—with her at the helm.
I sat back down and calmed myself. “Hi, Doctor. What’s up?”
“I’m afraid . . . well, there’s no good way to put this. We have something of a problem, Kitty. We ne
ed your help.”
I recognized the tone of voice; she sounded like someone calling into the show. “Who’s we? Is it something with the lab?”
“We—” She sighed. “I guess you could say it’s the U.S. government.”
Okay, that sounded heavy. My impulse was to vehemently deny that I could possibly be of any help whatsoever. Then hang up and refuse to pick up the phone when her number showed up on caller ID. Then maybe flee the country so she could never find me again. That might have been an overreaction. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“It would be much easier to explain this in person. Would you be willing to meet with me? The sooner the better. Today, if possible.”
“I’m not sure I could get out there on such short notice,” I said.
“I’m not in D.C. right now, Kitty. I’m at Fort Carson in Colorado Springs.”
About eighty miles away, in my backyard practically.
“What are you doing there?” I said.
“I’d rather explain it all in person.” Clearly spoken in a tone of bureaucratic stubbornness.
“Is this a werewolf problem?” I said, fishing.
After a hesitation, she said, “Yes.”
Color me intrigued. “It’ll take me a couple of hours to get there, but I think I can make it.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, clearly relieved.
I agreed, and she gave me directions about getting to the huge army base south of Colorado Springs, then what to do when I got there. I had the impression she’d set up a temporary office at the hospital there. This made me think that her problem was military in nature—or maybe she just felt more at home at any government installation, whatever the flavor.
THE NOONTIME drive to Colorado Springs was crisp, wintery, and clear. I managed to miss rush hour.
I didn’t spend much time in the Springs. It had started life as a quiet, respectable enclave for the state’s nouveau riche a hundred-plus years ago, and since then had turned into an almost Lovecraftian behemoth of urban sprawl. It’s also home to something like half a dozen major military bases and even more fundamentalist Christian organizations, which established a rather dubious reputation for ultraconservatism, giving the place a weird vibe. A couple of our pack members lived here, and it marked what we considered the southern boundary of our territory.
After pulling off the freeway, I wound my way along side roads to the main gate at Fort Carson, which looked simultaneously innocuous and aggressively military. Chain-link fence strung with barbed wire, then tall black fences, lined the street. But behind the fences lay normal-looking suburban tract housing. The gate looked like a toll plaza, but the attack helicopter parked on display outside it indicated that this wasn’t so ordinary.
Dr. Shumacher had given my name to the security guards on duty. I still had to hand them my ID and car registration, and they inspected my car’s trunk and undercarriage. I supposed it was comforting, but I still felt twitchy. There didn’t seem to be any problems, though. The guy handed my driver’s license back, gave me helpful directions to the hospital, and ordered me to have a good day.
Very carefully, I pulled away. Five minutes of driving on a long, winding road brought me to a modern building of tan brick and narrow windows. Again, I might have mistaken the area for a typical suburban hospital and neighborhood, except that in the parking lot, a lot of the cars had “Army” and “Infantry” stickers in their windows.
Dr. Shumacher was waiting for me outside the building’s glass front entrance.
