It had to do with Denaro, and the way she'd touched him. Somehow, she'd transmitted something to him, and—even now—the trail of her passage into his body ached with a scalding agony that nothing seemed to relieve.
It hadn't been like that at first. He reasoned that his own body had fought hard to reject her—to reject the virus and—he suddenly realised—whatever gene sequences had been transmitted with it.
Even as the thought occurred, Rick tried to reject it. The thought of absorbing foreign gene sequences into his body was appalling, even though he knew that was what happened every time any virus insinuated its way into his tissues.
He didn't know exactly when he'd realised he had WTV. It had started out as one of those vague nigglings that ate at him, much as the so-called pneumonia was eating at his lungs. He hadn't even known the idea was so strongly lodged in his brain until he'd said the words—and even though his fevered mind was a little hazy about the context, Rick knew they'd been spoken. He only hoped now, with the virus eating away at him, that Cole understood what his conscious mind had been trying not to admit.
It was only in the past few hours that Rick suspected more than WTV had been transmitted into his cells. In this long limbo time, he understood Denaro better than she understood herself: how, fevered and unable to control what was happening to her, she would seek to preserve her research; to find a means to preserve those moments which had been the highlight of her existence. Her cry for help had also been a scream for recognition.
No! A ghost can't transmit a virus, any more than it can carry gene sequences.
Only, if Denaro was a ghost, it was only since he had last visited with her.
“She had the motive. She had the opportunity." The lines from a TV trial popped into his head. And she didn't give a damn about anyone else.
It's okay, Rick. Some of our cells mutate every day.
No! Not like this—
But, logic wouldn't let him deny it. Mind over matter. And Denaro's mind had been roaming, bringing with it whatever matter it could transport. That semi-solid-looking picture she had projected must have included some particles of matter—some pieces of herself.
It wouldn't take very much.
Radiation, invisible and undetectable to our senses, could be a powerful mutagen. As could even small amounts of certain chemicals, including some, like acridine orange, that Rick had worked with in his lab. And viruses—so tiny that they needed to use their hosts’ mechanisms for replication—could be transmitted with a touch, a sneeze, the insertion of an aphid's stylet.
And what were gene sequences comprised of, but acids and bases? Deoxyribonucleic acid. Minuscule titans of the living world.
Airborne mutagens?
It happened all the time.
Chapter Eight
Simon couldn't resist. He pushed the button to trigger the fountain, then stood there watching the spout and trickle of the underlit water. Unbelievable! The clean lines, high windows, tiled floors, and palatial rooms were the complete antithesis of Rick's small house, or Cole's casual apartment. He really couldn't imagine either of his friends living here. Cole had been wrong when he'd thought Simon would want to move in. Simon decided the place was far too cold and sterile for anyone to live in.
Anyone alive. Simon, becoming accustomed to the white opulence of his surroundings, recalled that the place was haunted. It didn't matter at this point whether the spook was alive or dead—the fact that she visited here minus her body was enough to qualify as a “haunting” by Simon's definition. He studied the empty spaces with a new wariness. He'd never admit it to Cole, but he was a damn sight more concerned about running into a partially-fleshed female, than he was about seeing someone from Genetechnic. The living he could handle.
As Simon climbed the stairs, he began to wish he had company. He'd met Stench the night before, and he could now understand why Rick had formed an attachment to the cat. The stinky feline must have leant an air of normalcy to his surroundings.
Simon reasoned that the information in Rick's possession must have come from the lab. That was the place he would have looked, if he were seeking some reference to Denaro's research. Simon knew it wasn't the lab where she'd done most of her work—that was at Genetechnic. But, it had been where she'd “played", and in that respect, it might well be the place where she'd lodged some of her secrets. Simon hoped so, anyway.
The first things he saw were the papers strewn across the floor. The second was the circular lens of a secreted video camera. Simon averted his face, and snatched up the file. Then he raced down the stairs, all the while searching for a phone. He didn't know why Rick hadn't taken this stuff, too, but it was obvious that whatever he had taken had been recorded. Sooner or later Genetechnic would realise that Rick had something potentially dangerous in his possession. And then they'd come to get it back. It wouldn't take them long to discover where Rick was.
"Fuckin’ hell!" Simon swore. Apparently, Rick's finances hadn't been able to stretch enough to afford a phone in both his houses. "Fuckin’ bloody hell!" Simon swore again. He'd just remembered he didn't have his car—that he'd come here with Cole. And I sure as hell don't want Cole to leave the hospital right now, he thought. Someone's got to watch out for Rick—
He knew that the one most qualified to do the watching was him. None of the others realised exactly what it was he did for a living, and Simon never told them. His reticence got in the way sometimes, but he'd long ago decided his occupation would get in the way more.
Now, he felt incredibly stupid. Too much worry and too little sleep had dimmed his thought processes, and he hoped Rick wouldn't pay the price. Rick Lockmann deserved the chance to fight for his life till his last breath—not to be exterminated because he accidentally got in the way when one of Genetechnic's experiments got out of hand.
Simon jogged in the general direction of the hospital, until he came to a phone booth. He tried to get Cole first, but he was still in with Blaisden, and Blaisden had told them to hold all calls. Simon itched with frustration.
He ordered a cab, then rang Rick's old number, and spoke to Jace. “We've got trouble,” he said tersely. “Genetechnic knows Rick has the stuff. You'd better get out of there.”
“Should I take it with me?”
Shit! Shit! Shit! “Bring it to me. I'll be at the hospital.” With any luck, it might take a while for Genetechnic to realise where Rick was.
* * * *
Etiolated. The word flashed into his brain, bringing with it a longing for light so strong that his entire body ached. He remembered some cucumber stems, that he'd deprived of light for an experiment. The stems became weak and tender—much more susceptible to disease. He realised that was happening to him: for a month now, he'd felt too ill to cope with much more than a brief outing, and he'd spent hours under low-intensity artificial light, pouring over texts and literature, as he'd tried to figure out what had become of Denaro—and what it was doing to him.
It had happened gradually, but he recognised it now: his skin had always been on the ruddy side, prone to sunburn and freckles. Over the last few weeks, it had changed, becoming sallow and yellow. That was one of the things that had shocked Cole the most, he realised—his illness had been emphasised by the change in his skin.
If they'd taken me out in the light, I would have been much better off. He knew now that was the reason he'd felt so much stronger during his brief forays. Even the sun coming through Denaro's skylights had been enough to strengthen him.
I need light! His brain screamed it, as he grew consistently weaker. The lighting in the room was dim, so that it wouldn't disturb his rest. They didn't realise he'd rest better under a window.
The physical agony was torture, but his mental agony was worse. Unwittingly, Cole, Jason, and Simon had been exposed to him. To what he was becoming. Had they been with him long enough to succumb? Could his condition be spread by anything short of a bodily invasion, like Denaro had done to him? Rick shuddered with pain, but this tim
e it was mental. He kept thinking of the glasses he'd used at Cole's, and wondered whether enough of his personal inventory of microbes would be removed by Cole's dishwashing methods. The last thing he'd ever want was any of his friends to go through what he was enduring now—
* * * *
Daniel Vizar studied the list of names Syrazew had given him, and compared it with the print-out in his hand. He frowned and shifted in his chair. This was the kind of work he usually handed over to Sacchara. It was too time-consuming and basically non-productive. The kind of stuff he usually couldn't afford to waste his energies on.
Except in a case like this. Blaisden's claim, at this point, took priority over Denaro's rampaging. Denaro was contained, and the “chemical spill” fallacy would cover their asses in an inquiry. Even if a spill had to be produced to explain their casualties.
This mess at the hospital could easily get out of control, if he couldn't come up with the name. Sweat started to well up on his palms, staining the paper. None of his absent employees appeared to be hospitalised.
He'd almost given up, when he saw a name he recognised: Lockmann, Richard C. For a moment, he was taunted by some of the fears that had rattled him at the beginning of Caro's illness: the spectre of aberrant genes invading unsuspecting bodies. Could there have been enough remnants of Caroline's own condition left to engender illness in someone inhabiting her house? Daniel began to panic.
No. Teams had been through there, searching for Caroline's research. Hunting for the notes Vizar was sure she'd hidden away. He even knew how she'd done it now: that little address book had shown up clearly on the video, once they'd started to look. But even though the searchers had been through every dirty corner, none of them had succumbed to disease.
There could be only one answer: Lockmann—either intentionally or by accident—had come across her research notes, and whatever she'd had with them. Computer records, maybe even a specimen of some kind—some slides or a vial. And he'd somehow infected himself.
The phone rang and Vizar glanced at the digital read-out in the corner of the monitor. Right on time. “Here,” he answered abruptly.
“Do you have a name?”
“Lockmann, Richard C. Isolation. Level three.”
“S & D?”
"Seek and Destroy?” Not until he tells us where Caroline's research is. “No. Sequester only.”
The phone line went dead.
* * * *
Jason loaded his car with CD, address book, and the books he'd been perusing. Blaisden might want to see them. Then, he went back and unplugged Rick's computer, and took that out, too. Just in case Rick had stored any of Denaro's files in the memory.
He knew he was putting off the moment when he'd have to touch the box of vials. His hand was shaking so much he was certain he'd drop it, so he made himself pause and take a few deep breaths. Then, grabbing an oven mitt, he gingerly lifted the box and placed it inside four plastic bags. When he'd finished, he dumped the mitt, set down the bagged box, and ran outside, where he dragged in deep breaths of clean air. Sucking another breath, he held it and ran back in for the box.
He stowed the box in the trunk, and drove with all the windows open. Several people honked at him, and he finally picked up speed—terrified that someone would rear-end him and spill the contents of the box-from-hell. When he finally reached the hospital, and saw Simon getting out of a cab, he sighed with relief. If only Rick would recover now—everything was going to be all right.
* * * *
Sheryl Matthews stood in the nurses’ station, talking to Karen Negilia, one of the nurses. Sheryl had other patients on this floor besides Richard Lockmann—many who'd panicked when there'd been a brief power outage. Everyone had spent the last ten minutes running around, adjusting monitors and calming down patients. The emergency generator had been slow to kick in, and there was still an air of panic through the rooms. In her experience, non-ambulatory patients were always sure that loss of electricity was synonymous with “fire".
“What about Rick?”
Sheryl recognised him as one of Richard Lockmann's friends, who'd been here through most of the long hours of waiting. “The visual's out,” she said, turning the screen so he could see it, “but I've been watching the monitor. I'm going in to adjust things now.” She stood for a minute, staring at the vital signs on the screen; unaware that her puzzlement showed in her face. During those first busy moments after the blackout, she'd done little more than glance at Lockmann's readings, to assure herself that he was still stable. Now—really looking at them—she could see that his vital signs were far better than they'd been before the power loss. It didn't make sense. The surge, or whatever it was, must have knocked all his readings out of alignment. “I'm going down there now,” she told Cole hurriedly.
“Do you want me to get it, Sheryl?” Karen asked.
Sheryl smiled. “I know electronics aren't my thing, but I'll let you know if I need help.”
Cole followed her down to the anteroom to Isolation, which made Sheryl feel uncomfortable. “I'll let you know how he is when I'm finished,” she told him, a little abruptly.
“Are you taking lessons from Blaisden?” Cole muttered under his breath, and sat down in a chair near the door.
She heard it, and instantly felt like a bitch. “Sorry,” she said, with a smile. “Blackouts make me cranky.” She disappeared into the room.
After garbing herself in the requisite gown, mask and gloves, Sheryl took a deep breath and pushed open the door. This was the moment she always hated: that first instant of approaching a seriously-ill patient, when things could go either way. Saving lives was one thing, but telling loved ones and friends the worst was another. Sheryl found she was frowning and smoothed her face into a professional smile. The readings had been so good that there was always the chance—slim as it seemed—that Richard Lockmann was awake.
At first, she thought it was a trick of the light. The man in the bed was thrashing, much as Lockmann had thrashed in the height of his fever. And, much like Lockmann, he'd had to be secured to keep from injuring himself. This man, however, had a blindfold over his head.
Sheryl yanked away the cloth, and stared down at the man with disbelieving eyes. Then, she fumbled with the bandage that had been wrapped over his mouth.
“What the hell took you so long?” he asked angrily.
It was Blaisden.
* * * *
“—potentially dangerous,” Blaisden was saying over his shoulder, as he blustered out of the room. His hair was askew, and he was still wearing the gown Sheryl had found him in. It was obvious he was fuming, and he barely glanced at Cole as he shoved past.
Sheryl Matthews followed more slowly. Unlike Blaisden, she'd searched the small bathroom and closet, just in case. When she saw Cole Calloway waiting for her, she didn't know what to say. “H-he's gone,” Sheryl told him haltingly.
Cole looked bereft. Some part of him had already accepted that Rick was dying; the other part of him wanted to deny that such a thing could happen.
Simon came around the corner, and saw Cole's expression. He reached out and gripped Jason's arm. “It doesn't look good,” he warned him.
Sheryl was so confused, that it took her a moment to realise Cole had misinterpreted her words. “No,” she told him, gripping his arm much as Simon had Jason's. “It's not like that. He's gone—I don't know where—”
Cole was stunned. “What?!”
Simon had heard the last. “What's happened?” Simon asked. His tone was quiet and even. “Facts. How's Rick?”
Sheryl turned to him like the voice of reason. “He's gone. Missing. Blaisden thinks Mr. Lockmann attacked him and bound him to the bed.”
“Do you think Lockmann was strong enough to do that?”
She shook her head. “Not a chance.”
Jason pushed into the anteroom and through to the room beyond. Simon called to him, “Jace, don't touch anything!” Simon turned back to Sheryl. “Did you see anyone else on this l
evel? Anyone who didn't belong?”
“The power was out for a while. It didn't come back on till ten minutes ago.” She added wryly, “We've all been pretty busy since then.”
“So this all happened within the last fifteen, twenty minutes?” Sheryl nodded. Simon didn't wait for any more. He took off at a sprint, heading for the stairs.
Cole was right behind him. “Why don't you take the elevator?” he asked.
“Because the power was off. They took the stairs,” Simon called back over his shoulder.
When they came to the stairs, Simon started climbing, two and three at a time. Cole grabbed his arm. “We need to go down—”
Simon shook him off, and started climbing again. “Too many obstacles,” was all he'd say. Cole shrugged, and took off after him. He thought he was in shape, but after three levels, he was puffing, while Simon didn't even look winded.
“What d'ya do? Work out?” he puffed out grumpily, as he struggled to keep up.
“Something like that—” Simon threw back, then picked up his speed.
Cole suddenly realised there was a lot about Simon he didn't know. Somehow, the other man always managed to deftly avoid any personal questions.
They could hear a rumble now, coming through the levels above. As they ascended the last set of stairs, the rumble changed to a loud, and regular, whupp-whupp sound. “That's a helicopter!” Cole yelled.
“What did you expect?” Simon yelled back.
The door to the roof was locked, but Simon didn't let it stop him. As Cole watched in disbelief, Simon rammed into it with his shoulder. The door gave a little, which apparently was all the encouragement Simon needed. He booted it open the rest of the way with a massive kick.
“I want the name of your gym—” Cole started to say.
But, Simon was already out the door. To Cole's amazement, he pulled a gun out of his jacket, and went down on one knee. “Stay back, Cole!” he yelled, his eyes and gun focused on the helicopter pilot. The helicopter had just begun to lift off the tarmac. For a moment, the machine hung there, the powerful chuffing blades keeping it aloft, then it slowly settled back onto the roof.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 15
