Irina
Ryan sat in his home, at his computers.
The Basement Board had given Dr. Marcus pause. There was one particular posting that had screamed to him, a hand-written note with a qusetion on it. This question, to determine a cause of death for a young man lost to the world, drained of blood without a scratch on him, triggered a hunch in Ryan.
For Ryan had been drained. At least, he thought he had. Why else would she have been there? Not fully, or else he'd be dead, of course -- and he remembered only incredible bliss as she was latched onto his neck, biting and licking and -- ugh. And there was never a scratch after. After all, if there had been fang marks, Ryan might have shot her sooner.
But he needed help. He needed cover. Yet the search for answers on this particular incident did not seem as dangerous as some might be. What Ryan needed to do was an autopsy, or an investigation, or something... and while his status in the medical community might get him there, he'd need help with the investigation. And that might involve some very difficult work, with some risk that could not be traced back to him, lest he lost everything.
There was a man, however, who might be able to assist him. God only knew how he had found Ryan to begin with; he had to be good. Pulling up the cheap phone to his ear, Ryan phoned Doctorow . Maybe through this, the doctor could see what the enigmatic voice on the phone was capable of.