Carrie Vaughn - Kitty Goes to Washington

But for the last hour I opened the floodgates. I was sure someone out in radioland had some good stories to tell.

"Ray from Baltimore, thanks for calling."

"I can think of plenty of military jobs that are just perfect for vampires. Like submarine duty. I mean, you stick somebody on a sub for three months, cooped up in a tiny space with no sun. That's, like, perfect for vampires, you know? Or those guys who are locked up in the missile silos, the ones who get to push the button and start World War III."

That "get to" was mildly worrying to say the least. "There's still that food supply to contend with," I said. "It's always been a big limitation on anything vampires accomplish in the real world. I can't picture any navy seaman being really anxious to volunteer for the duty of 'blood supply.' Though it may be a step up from latrine duty."

"Awe, freeze a few pints, they'll be fine."

"All right, next call, please. Peter, you're on the air."

"Hi. Uh, yeah. When I joined the army, I knew this guy who washed out of basic training. We were all surprised, 'cause he was doing really well. Aced all the physicals, obstacle courses, hand-to-hand, nothing held this guy down. The drill sergeant said 'drop and give me a hundred,' and he seemed happy to do it. Never broke a sweat. But he turned up missing on a surprise inspection of the barracks one night. Then it happened again. They kicked him out for going AWOL."

"Let me guess: these were nights of the full moon."

"I don't really remember. I didn't notice at the time. But they were about a month apart. So I'm thinking, yeah."

"Do you think he would have made a good soldier, if he'd been allowed to take a leave of absence for those nights? If the army had made concessions?"

"Yeah—yeah, I think so."

"What about in the field? If his unit happens to be deployed in the middle of nowhere, during a full moon, what's he going to do?"

"Well, I don't know."

"I think it would take some advanced planning. A 'don't ask don't tell' policy probably isn't going to work. Thanks for calling, Peter. Moving on."

I checked the monitor. Then I double-checked it. Line four: Fritz from D.C. It couldn't be. It just couldn't be.

I punched it. "Hello, Fritz?"

"Yes. Kitty? Am I speaking with Kitty?" He spoke with a German accent, tired and grizzled. It was him. My Fritz.

"Yes you are, Fritz. It's me."

"Good, good. I almost did not wait, when the boy put me on hold." His conversational tone made me wonder if he realized that he was on the radio. How refreshing, though, to talk to someone like we were just two people on the phone, rather than being subjected to an attention-seeking crackpot.

"I'm glad you did wait. What would you like to talk about?" I held my breath.

His sigh carried over the line. "I have been thinking of what you said. All day I think to myself, 'Finally, here is someone who wants to listen to you, and you run away from her like a frightened boy.' Now, I think that was a mistake. So I call you. I will die soon. Think, to die of old age. Is rare for ones like us, eh? But someone should know. This story—someone should know of it."

"All right." I didn't dare say more. Let him talk, let him say what he wanted without leading him on.

"You must understand, it was war. People did things they would not have thought possible before. Terrible things. But we were patriots, so we did them. On both sides, all of us patriots. I was very young then, and it was easy to take orders.

"The S.S. found us, people like us. I also heard rumors, that they created more, throwing recruits into the cage so the wolves would bite them. This I do not know. I was already wolf when they took me. They made us intelligence gatherers. Spies. Assassins, sometimes. As beasts, we could go anywhere, cross enemy lines with no one the wiser. Then we change back to human, do what we were sent to do, and return again. They trained us, drilled us, so we would remember what to do when we were wolves. Like trained dogs. I carried a sack in my mouth, with papers, maps, photographic film. I still remember."

"Fritz, just so I'm clear, you're talking about World War II. The S.S., the Nazi Secret Service—"

"Bah. They call me the Nazi, though they think I do not know. I am no Nazi. We had no choice, don't you see? It was a madness that took all of Germany. Now days, you do not blame the madman who commits a crime. No, you say he was insane. That was Germany."

If I stopped to think about it, my throat would go dry. I would fall speechless. I let the momentum of his story carry me forward. "Something I don't understand: you say you had no choice. But werewolves are stronger than normal humans. Even in human form, they can overpower just about anyone they come up against. Why didn't you? Why didn't you and the others rebel? It sounds like they recruited you against your will, but why did you let them take you instead of fighting them?"

"Besides the fact that it was war? You do not question your countrymen in uniform in time of war. It isn't done. But more than that, they had silver bullets. The cages were made of silver."

My heart thudded. Flemming had a cage made of silver. "Fritz, is there any documentation of this? I've been doing some research. The Nazi resistance to Allied occupation after World War II were called the Werewolves. Were you involved in that? You're not telling me the members of that group were literally werewolves, are you?"

"I do not remember. It was a long time ago." It didn't matter. With the story in hand, I had to be able to find the evidence somewhere. There had to be someone else with stories like this. Flemming, for instance.

"Have you told Dr. Flemming this story? Did he ask you to tell him what you did in the war?"

"Yes, he did."

I closed my eyes and felt the air go out of me. "Did he tell you why?"

Fritz gave a snort. "He works for government, yes? It seems obvious."

"You know, I'd give quite a bit to get Flemming back on the show right about now. Fritz—how do you feel?"

"I'm not sure what you mean. I feel old. Tired. Shape-shifting with arthritis in the hands, the shoulders, it's very bad."

"I mean about what happened. What was it like? How old were you? You don't like talking about it, but do you feel better? Does it feel better to talk about it?"

"I think I should go now. I told the story you wanted. The only story anybody cares about."

"Fritz, no! What did you do after the war? Where did you go? When did you come to America? Fritz!"

"Goodbye, Kitty."

"Fritz!"

The line went dead.

Damn. Now what did I do with that? Tiredly, I spoke at the mike. "Dr. Flemming, if you're listening to this, I'd love it if you called in. I have a few questions for you."

Again, I checked the monitor, dreading what I'd find. I wasn't sure I really wanted Flemming to call. This wasn't likely to inspire him to a sudden bout of openness and sharing.

But Flemming didn't call in. None of the calls listed looked remotely interesting. Anything I said next would be the height of anticlimax.

"Right. It looks like we need to move on to the next call. Lisa from Philly, hello."

"Hi, Kitty. Do you know anything about rumors that there's a version of Gulf War Syndrome that causes vampirism? I'm asking because my brother, he's a veteran, and—"

Sometimes, I had absolutely no idea how I got myself into these discussions.

"You have a lot on your mind," Luis said. He was driving me around Saturday morning in a cute, jet-black Miata convertible he'd rented for the occasion. He looked dashing, elbow propped on his door, driving one-handed, with his handsome Latin features and aviator sunglasses.

God, did he know how to romance a girl. How could I possibly be distracted with him sitting not a foot away from me? A hot Brazilian lycanthrope at my beck and call, looking like something out of a car commercial, and I was frowning. I shook my head, because I had no idea how to answer him.