There was understanding in Daniel's eyes. “What did she do?”
“Let me put it this way.” Rick frowned as he recalled his first meeting with Denaro. “I can't vouch for in her body—but out of it, the lady carries quite a punch.”
* * * *
This time when Jason came in, Simon awoke—instantly wary. He couldn't be sure he hadn't dreamed that last little episode. In his dreams, it was a lot easier to find forgiveness.
Jason regarded him in silence for a moment, then smiled. Simon could have kicked himself for somehow destroying the little fiction he'd built up. He didn't know if he had the strength to re-invent his cold and emotionless image. To hide the fear that he might somehow fail, and inadvertently contribute to the death of one of his friends. To acquire Jason's help, without having to put up with his interference.
But Jason didn't say anything. He'd brought a load of bandaging with him, and he carefully swathed Simon's shoulder—re-inforcing the dressings that were already there. When he'd finished, he asked, “What do you need?”
“Painkillers, and maybe some amphetamines.”
Jason sighed. “Give you a boost, but knock out the pain?”
Simon nodded. “I'll also need some kind of sedative.”
“For Rick?”
This was Simon's chance to prevaricate. To let Jason think he intended to tranquillise Rick rather than shoot him. Simon shook his head. “No. For Angsley. He's bigger than Rick. And a helluva lot faster.”
“You want something that'll drop him like a stone?”
Simon grinned. “That might inconvenience the rest of the party. Make it more like a pebble.”
“How are you with your left arm? The only way to really immobilise the other one is to bind it against your chest.”
Simon shook his head. “Can't do that, Jace. I'll need it.”
Jason went out, and came back with a dinner tray. “Eat,” he said.
“Can you get the rest of my stuff?” Simon asked.
“Where?”
“Room 251. In the closet.”
“You really get around, don't you?”
When Jason came back, Simon was trying to button his shirt. The tray was pushed to one side; the cover discreetly back on. Jason wasn't fooled. “Need those painkillers now, Simon?” Jace asked.
“Wouldn't hurt,” Simon replied. For an instant, a trace of humour brightened his eyes.
It took Jace a moment to get it, but then he grinned. “I'll do my best to see that it doesn't,” he said.
* * * *
Raeiti watched Richard Lockmann warily. The man's hyped-up movements were getting on his nerves. In his experience, that kind of energy and hyperactivity was unpredictable—and that made him dangerous. “How long will it take to finish the testing?” he asked.
Rutgers looked at him with bleary eyes. Obviously, Vizar hadn't explained to Raeiti the extent of the testing required: the in vitro studies, the monitoring of changes in Lockmann's chemistry, affinity chromatography, immunodiffusion, electrophoresis, radioimmunoassays, ELISAs. They'd even procured samples of the gels he'd run on clover at Entadyne, and removed some of the indicator plants which Lockmann had used to build up virus titres for testing—all without Entadyne's knowledge or consent, of course. They'd probably also need to run some trials for infectivity in mice or rabbits, and it might take a while before any symptoms appeared, or antibodies showed up in blood and tissues. Vizar had far more qualified technicians and research people within the surrounding buildings, and he'd also put them to work on the problem. At his request, all other research was set aside, while the results were compounded.
“It can take days,” Rutgers replied. He'd just spent the last four hours studying fluorescently-labelled samples under a microscope. He was nearly as sick of looking at blood and tissue bits, as Lockmann was of supplying them. “We haven't exactly been idle, Mr. Raeiti. Besides the special series we're doing now, we've had to run all the standard tests.” He rattled some of them off, for Raeiti's benefit: “Calcium, phosphate, protein, albumin, electrolytes, serum iron, saturation, ferritin, iron combining power, LFT, lipids, full haematology screening, and now we're running immunohistochemistry—again.”
Vizar had stayed, ostensibly to observe the testing procedures, but in reality, to watch Richard Lockmann. It had been six hours since Lockmann had awoken, and nearly that since they'd released him from confinement. He'd been incredibly active ever since. He'd read three journals, and when he wasn't reading, he was doing something physically demanding—jogging in place, jumping jacks, push-ups. “Where's he getting all his energy?” Vizar asked.
Rutgers shrugged. “I don't know. His biochemistry's a mess: calcium, iron, phosphate, and lipids are all off the scale. He has so much glucose in his system that he should be in a permanent coma.”
“Is that why he's drinking so much water? Because he's diabetic?”
“Something like that. I'm telling you, Vizar—under these conditions it's damn hard to tell what's normal and what's not.”
Tazo Raeiti was tired of wearing the isolation suit, and frustrated by the lack of action. “It's not normal we're looking for, Rutgers. It's infection.” In his mind, this was all taking too long. He picked up a syringe. “Is this his blood?” he asked.
Rutgers noticed the man's eyes were colder than usual. “Yes, but suited or not, you shouldn't be handling it.”
Raeiti nodded to two of his people. They levelled their weapons on Vizar and Rutgers. “Keep them there,” he ordered. Then, he walked over to Justin Sacchara.
“Sacchara has been here for hours, without any protective gear,” he said. “Take his blood and check it.” Rutgers nodded, and, as Shaine and Harrison held him down, Stacely drew a blood sample.
Sacchara, seeing Raeiti approaching with the blood-filled syringe, started to kick and scream in terror. A third gunman, Sheilson, put pressure on Sacchara's legs, so he couldn't flail.
Tazo held up the syringe, and squeezed out the air at the tip. “What's Lockmann's blood type?” he asked, almost casually.
“O positive,” Rutgers replied in a whisper.
“Good. He's a universal donor.” Raeiti lowered the syringe and prepared to inject Lockmann's blood into Justin Sacchara's arm. Sacchara was squealing now—squirming in terror as he tried to get away.
* * * *
Vizar stared past the gunman, his eyes on Sacchara's face. Justin might not be the most popular of his employees, but he was the one he'd spent the most time with. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming at Raeiti to stop. The man was definitely out of control.
But that's the way I wanted it. Independent action without personal liability. It was too late to realise he'd been wrong.
He glanced around to see how the others were reacting. Expressions ranged from horror to carefully suppressed terror. Except one.
* * * *
Richard Lockmann. His eyes shifted from Sacchara to Raeiti, but his expression was a blend of pity, anger, and disgust. And as Vizar watched, Lockmann acted.
Vizar had never seen anyone move that fast. Lockmann had leapt over a table, and was at Raeiti's back before any of the gunmen could react. Before Raeiti even had a clue he was there.
* * * *
The first Raeiti knew of it was a voice in his ear. “I wouldn't do that,” it said, quietly but firmly. At the same time, the syringe was whipped out of his fingers. “Don't do unto others what you don't want done to you,” Lockmann told him.
Raeiti held out his hand and Sheilson handed him a gun. Raeiti very deliberately put the muzzle against Richard Lockmann's forehead. His eyes were chill, but his lips were curved in a smile. “Doing unto others always worked for me,” he said.
If Tazo Raeiti had seen Lockmann clear the table, he would have known he didn't stand a chance. In the next instant, the needle was poised at his throat. There was only a thin layer of kevlar between him and the blood-filled syringe. Raeiti's eyes widened, and the hand that held the gun started to sha
ke.
Rick's hand was shaking, too. He felt like he was caught up in some elaborate game. If he played by Raeiti's rules, there'd be only one way to win. But I don't play that way, he thought, dismayed. All he'd wanted was for Justin Sacchara not to lose.
It was almost with a sense of relief—and certainly a feeling of deja vu—that Rick spied the spectral figure in the doorway. She was even more decomposed that the last time they'd met, and he wondered whether the others would even be able to see her.
“Hello, Denaro,” he said.
* * * *
Cole wasn't sure how he was going to manage it, but he'd already decided on the time. Around five-thirty, the dinner trays were delivered. There was a lot of confusion and extra people on the floor. He just needed to get rid of his bodyguard.
Cole had seen all those TV programmes where the hero slipped some kind of sleeping powder into dessert, then passed it on to his stupid, but always starving, guard. Drugged juice may have worked on Rick, but it wouldn't work here. As Cole saw it, there were four drawbacks: he was no hero, he had no sleeping pills, his guards never wanted his food, and the man was far from stupid.
Plus, Jace had been unkind enough to warn him.
Well, there were other ways. Cole had already discovered the man's weakness. Finlay obviously had an aversion to bedpans, so Cole decided to store up a little surprise for him. Just before his tray was due to be delivered, he turned up the radio, and sat on the bedpan. He remained there quietly while the aide brought the tray, then let Finlay have it.
Gabriel Finlay was sitting on the other side of the curtain, trying to eat his own, somewhat makeshift, dinner. When the smell came wafting through, he frowned and looked over at the curtain in disgust. Cole placed his filled bedpan on the end of the bed, and called through to Gabe, “Do you think you could get rid of that for me? I'm dying in here.”
Finlay muttered, “You're dying!” More loudly, he asked, “Did you ring the bell?”
“Of course I did. But, I don't think they're coming.” Cole grinned.
Somehow he managed to look suitably remorseful when Gabe poked his head through the curtains. Cole had laid his napkin discreetly across the contents of the bedpan. “I'm sorry, man. Hospital food always does that to me.”
Finlay didn't say anything—he couldn't. If he opened his mouth, he'd gag. There was one thing for sure: he needed to get the bedpan out of here if either of them was going to eat.
Holding it at arm's length, Gabe Finlay pulled open the door and walked swiftly out into the hall. Cole was counting on Finlay's difficulty in finding a way to dispose of his unwanted burden.
By the time the door was fully open, Cole had the needle out of his arm. Before it had swooshed closed, Cole was on his feet, and searching desperately for his balance.
He was still a little woozy when he poked his head out the door. Cole glanced toward the nurses’ station, and saw Finlay standing there, still holding the bedpan at arm's length. Cole grinned. The man's body language said it all.
He looked toward Simon's room, and judged his timing. The food cart, bearing the remainder of the trays, had just reached the end of the hall. Simon's room. As he watched, one of Simon's guards stood up, and turned to go into Simon's room.
This was it. The cart stood between him and the other guard. There was no way she could see him right now.
Cole wobbled across the hall and into an adjoining corridor. He needed to find some clothes, some shoes, and a better sense of balance. But at least he was free.
For at least five minutes, it made him feel nearly invincible. He'd outwitted seasoned professionals, and shaken off their protection. Now, he could find what he needed, meet up with Sterner—and traipse off to get himself killed. The giddy burst of invincibility faded.
He took the elevator to the top floor. If they thought Genetechnic had him, they'd probably check the roof, just as Simon had. He didn't think it was very likely, but even if they headed that way, they'd probably bypass these service rooms. Now, he just had to find one that was open.
Cole glanced over at the stairs, and saw dark smears on the banister. Either his—or Simon's. It sent a shiver of gooseflesh down his spine, and made it harder to block out the pain in his arm. He'd thought at the time that Simon was dying. First Rick, then Simon. He turned away. It was something he didn't want to think about.
Cole jiggled doorknobs until he found an unlocked ventilator room. It was small, but he squeezed himself into a spot behind the door. At least, if they opened it, they wouldn't see him right away.
Two hours to go. An hour's rest, and then he'd have to locate some clothes. He was really beginning to wish he'd found a way to con Jace into helping him.
Cole sighed, picked a spider off his bandage, and glanced down at his watch. It had only been eight minutes since he'd left his room. Two hours suddenly seemed like an awfully long time.
* * * *
If his words had been a bomb, that side of the room couldn't have cleared out any faster. Caroline Denaro moved jerkily into their midst, and Rick was astounded by how much her image had changed.
At one time, he'd thought she was beginning to forget what it was like to be human—and whole. But, this time, he had the impression that she no longer cared. This creature was genderless. In fact, it had barely enough parts to distinguish it as human.
When Rick had first seen her, he'd been compelled to help her. Her eyes and expression had been pleading; the overall impression one of desperation and need.
She'd changed.
Her seething hatred was mirrored by the seething inaccuracies in her shifting image.
Her eyes sought him, and Rick almost wished he hadn't spoken. Denaro drifted his way, but he stood his ground. Raeiti, however, didn't. Whatever fury he'd had for Richard Lockmann had been displaced by a gut-crunching terror. He turned the muzzle that had been aimed at Rick, and directed it at Denaro. He fired.
The bullet passed through her, and Rick wondered if she'd even felt it. It seemed to have no effect on her, other than to rile her further.
She turned toward Raeiti, and Rick saw something in her translucent eyes, that hadn't been there before: lust. Not sexual, not desire—something more like a compulsive need.
“I'm protected!” Raeiti screamed at her, as she jerked in his direction. His gloved hands pinched his suit. “You can't get me!” But the words were more for himself than for her. In this transitory state, no mere layer of cloth would be able to keep her out.
“No, Denaro!” Rick said. He stepped between her and Raeiti, then wondered what the hell had possessed him.
She hesitated, then spied Daniel Vizar, and something like a smile creased her lips. Rick could almost read her thoughts—so clearly were her emotions being played upon what was left of her face. As she turned away he wondered, Can the others see her as clearly? Probably not. Not only was he much more attuned to her physiologically, but the changes in his vision allowed him an unhappily minute scrutiny of her every move.
“It's not his fault, Caroline,” Rick told her, almost gently. “You did it.”
Her face didn't exactly whip round. It was more like a fluid motion, as though it were floating in a gel.
“It was a virus. WTV. A plant virus.” She drew closer to him, but he refused to yield. “SA22. Remember?”
Caroline's image appeared almost to coalesce. It assumed a solidity it hadn't had before.
Raeiti had the feeling that if he shot it this time, it would have some effect. But, seeing the venom in her eyes, he knew he didn't dare.
"No-o-o!" she hissed, and everyone, including Rick, jumped. All this time, she'd been able to accept at least some of what had happened to her, because it meant her research had worked. She'd successfully, albeit accidentally, introduced a full array of foreign gene sequences into a human being. And the unintended research subject—herself—had survived. Now, to find out it was all for naught—all the result of stupidity—
Denaro's scream was like the
high-pitched screech of metal on metal, that seemed to peak as her would-be hands coalesced into near-human form. With a final gasp before she faded, she gave Rick a mighty push, that sent him flying halfway across the room.
* * * *
“I've checked the bathroom! I tell you, he's not there.”
Grace Maraimis looked worried. “Where could he have gone?” She was thinking about what Steven Hylton would say when he found out.
David Geraldo grinned. “I'd be willing to bet Simon engineered this himself. So Hylton couldn't keep him out of the mission tonight.” He took out his cell phone. “I'll let him know he should expect one extra.”
But, before he could place the call, Gabe Finlay burst out of the room down the hall. He looked up and down the corridor, then ran over to where the two of them stood. “Have you seen Calloway?” he asked.
Geraldo frowned. “He's gone?”
Finlay nodded.
Geraldo ignored the other buttons, and just pushed “1". It was the emergency connection with the DSO. “This is Geraldo. Both Kerrington and Calloway have disappeared.” He listened for a moment, then replied, “No—no violence.” He looked at Finlay, who mouthed “five minutes” and held up five fingers in the air. “Less than five minutes ago,” Geraldo said. Geraldo looked around. “No. No sign of Stratton.” He added, “Right away,” and hung up. “Look around,” he ordered. “Maraimis, you take the roof. As you go, keep watch for Stratton. If he didn't help them, he may be having problems, too.”
* * * *
“Burn the fuckin’ building!” Raeiti demanded. “That'll get rid of them both!”
Rick didn't know if he meant Caroline's spectre and body, or Caroline and him. He wasn't sure Raeiti knew, either. He figured Raeiti wanted to exorcise their demons by burning the building to ashes, then salting the earth. He'd be tempted to do it himself, if he could convince himself it would work—and that his role would be spectator, rather than unfortunately active participant.
Daniel Vizar extended a gloved hand, and hefted Richard Lockmann to a standing position. Then, he braced himself. It was time to deal with Raeiti. “It won't stop her,” Vizar told him.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 22
