An Apple for the Creature

They went down a hallway and faced Nash’s door. Jackson rapped on it sharply. Nash opened it, and Claire did a quick sweep of the interior. American flag, portrait of the POTUS, commendations.

“Take a seat, please,” Nash said to Claire and Jackson as he sat down behind his desk. Nash picked up the folder. “Agent Anderson, I need you to stay calm.”

She sat down. A million scenarios ran through her mind: She had done something to cause a civilian’s death. She had a fatal illness. She was becoming a vampire. The vampire had risen and was terrorizing Salem.

And: By his demeanor, Jackson knew a hell of a lot more about what was going on than she did.

“The perp,” she said. “The vampire. He’s struck again?”

Nash nodded, his expression somber. “Yes. He has.”

Then why are we in this room? she thought. Why aren’t we with the rest of the team? “Let’s roll” obviously meant lights and sirens. As in, get your tail to the crime scene. “Suit up” meant vests and helmets. A violent confrontation.

Jackson gave her a look and she kept her mouth shut.

Nash flipped open the folder. The topmost picture was the first vic they’d seen onscreen, the one in the pink turtleneck sweater. Second vic. Third vic. Purple glow at the puncture sites. And then a form she recognized as DNA test results.

Like any decent bureaucrat, she was a champ at reading upside down. In one box, MATCH was typed and in the “subject’s name” box, ANDERSON, CLAIRE.

“Match? What’s this?” she demanded, reaching for the document. Nash kept his hand splayed over it, preventing her from taking it. Her blood pressure spiked. Bad news. Frame-up, she thought. Setup. But how or what, she had no idea.

“Listen to him,” Jackson said, his voice that gentle voice he used, connecting with her, helping her focus.

“I’m going to be blunt,” Nash said. “We’ve had a prime suspect in this case for some time.”

“Not me,” she said, reaching again for the piece of paper. Nash kept a firm hold of it.

“The suspect had access to your DNA and planted it at each of the three crime scenes your class has discussed,” Nash told her. “Hair follicles. To make you look like the guilty party.”

Stunned, she looked at Jackson. “The swabs—”

“We’ve been taking swabs so we could ensure that you are not a vampire, and we arranged this school so we could keep you under observation if and when he killed again,” Nash said plainly. “If he hadn’t struck within the two weeks, we would have extended the duration of your training.

“You’re not a vampire,” he added.

Dumbfounded, she could only sit and listen. A terrible feeling was spreading throughout her body—Claire was smart and she could piece things together, which was why she was so good at what she did. But she couldn’t fathom that she was drawing the correct conclusions.

“The perp was careful. He wore gloves and booties, and he wiped down the scenes. But he obviously did not consider that when he bites his victim, he leaves behind a vampiric marker we can catch with Luminol. And he didn’t do a perfect cleanup job. He’s not a professional criminal, just a killer. But we had to be sure of you.”

She looked from him to Jackson, handsome, kind Jackson, whose cheeks were blazing, and who looked ashamed.

“Be sure of me,” she said.

“Because you know the vampire in question,” Nash said.

“No,” she said, feeling dizzy.

“We think the reason he’s been killing these women is because they resemble his mother. We have cause to believe that the vampire in the tomb is his father, and that he killed his father after his father killed his mother because she was unfaithful to him. In the seventeenth century.”

“He,” she said, swallowing hard, not wanting to think about who had easy access to her hair follicles.

“The perp—the son of the vampire in the crypt—began his attacks approximately two and a half years ago—after he became convinced that you were being unfaithful to him.” He looked at Jackson.

“I discussed our relationship with Agent Nash,” Jackson said to her. “We’re partners. Nothing unprofessional has passed between us.” He leaned toward her. “I went along with all of this to clear you, Claire. And to make you safe.”

My husband is a vampire. My husband is the vampire. My husband is a serial killer.

She didn’t know how long she sat there. She became aware that Nash was holding out a shot glass of whiskey to her. She took it and tossed it back.

“The ten other agents in your class know all this,” Nash said. “DeWitt is the agent in charge of the task force.”

“This was a sting operation,” she said shakily, “in case I was the guilty party.”