“So I might still be contagious?”
Rutgers nodded. “In the short term. None of the antigens are in saliva, however, and very little in blood. Sweat and urine are also clear. I don't know about faeces.”
“In other words, you'd have to eat me raw in order for me to contaminate you?” Rick smiled.
Rutgers smiled, too. Lockmann wasn't the only one relieved to find he wasn't notably contagious. “Something like that,” he said.
Since Denaro's first appearance, Rick had been wondering how he could help her. The problem had stuck with him during the long weeks of illness and research, but it wasn't until he'd diagnosed his own sickness that he'd come up with any ideas. The one that seemed most promising revolved around his antibodies to WTV. “What would my antibodies do to Denaro?” Rick asked Rutgers.
Rutgers’ focus—like everyone else in the room—had switched to the door. His eyes flicked to Rick then back again. “What did you have in mind? Antiserum?”
“Direct transfusion. My blood to hers.”
Rutgers shook his head. “Direct transfusion's not done any more. What are you trying to do?”
“My antibodies to WTV—what are the chances of a cure? For Denaro?”
Phillip Rutgers frowned. “Not likely. It's more prevention than cure. You might extend her life, but—”
“She'd kill you if you tried,” Sacchara said.
Rick was silent. How long could a person ask for help, and be ignored, before it embittered her? Had Vizar tried at all? When her spirit had been shunted from her body, and haunted them all, had anyone tried to find a way to put it back?
It was that disparate existence that was getting to the others right now—even hardened individuals like Raeiti, and Shaine, and Sheilson. Richard Lockmann looked at Raeiti's gun, which was ready to blow Denaro away the moment she came through the door. “You can shoot the hell out of her body, Raeiti,” Rick said loudly, “but you'll still have to deal with the other side of her—the one that got me. I survived, but that doesn't mean you will.”
Rick turned to Rutgers. “The way I see it—the only way to help her—and us—is to find a way to get her back into her body and keep her there.” He recalled some of the things she'd whispered, in that harsh voice, during his visits to her house. Rick added, a little sadly, “It may not be what's driving her now, but it's what she's wanted all along. She's afraid she'll die and be left like that.”
Rick knew there were some flaws with his reasoning. If it was the change in her gene sequences that was shunting her spirit out of her body, then nothing they could do would help. If it was WTV that was doing it, then they—and Caroline Denaro—had a chance.
There was no way to tell from his own experience. Except for the fact that he, like Caroline Denaro, was transgenic. And I've stayed right where the good Lord put me, Rick thought thankfully.
But, Caroline Denaro had experienced a much worse case of WTV than he had. It was a major difference between them, and it might be that the virus infecting him was a different strain; mutated somehow in the passage from her to him. Just as the strains of the virus infecting Morgan and Solomon had been more severe. So severe, in fact, that the men had succumbed within hours.
Maybe the strains are so different that my antibodies will have no effect, Rick thought, worried. He'd hate to go to all that trouble, only to have it fail. Sacchara's gloom and doom might be right. All he might get for his trouble was another sock in the teeth—or a dose of the more severe strain of WTV.
Raeiti answered his phone, only to hear a shrill scream erupt into the room. Raeiti fumbled and dropped the cellular on the ground. Another of his people had fallen. Denaro was several levels below—and still coming.
Rick made his decision. Everyone in this room was going to die unless he did something. “Can we make up some antiserum?”
“In the next half hour? Not a chance.”
“If she knows we're trying to help her, it might stop her from hurting anyone else. What are our options?”
“Can we sedate her?” Rutgers turned to Vizar.
Vizar shook his head. “Sedate her body and she'll leave it,” he said simply. “She's done it before.” He turned to Lockmann. “About this plan—the antiserum, or transfusion, or whatever you try: the fact that you're trying to help her may be meaningless. I don't think she has control over her out-of-body experiences—at least, not totally.”
“In that case, you'd better clear everyone out of here and leave her to me. I still think the only way to give her control over herself is to offer her some of my antibodies.”
“But what's she going to do if you try to give her a transfusion?” Vizar doubted whether Denaro would trust anything they'd do.
“Then I'll go back to plan A—and give her my blood directly. From me to her. So she knows I'm not trying to trick her.”
“Who's going to help you?” Raeiti asked, sneering.
Rick had seen the parts of the tape, too, where Denaro tethered her victim between her body and her spirit. “Me, myself, and I,” Rick said. He beckoned to Rutgers. “You just need to show me how.”
* * * *
Jason remembered seeing a movie, where the hero had used a fire hose to swing down from the roof and in through a window. The window had shattered, but he tried to put that part out of his mind.
The feeling of urgency was like an itch running up and down his backbone. He'd promised Simon he'd be there for him—and for Rick. If Simon bailed out of the DSO's plans for an assassination, he might well find himself on his own. Jason just hoped this Angsley fellow wasn't allowed to shoot others of his own kind.
Jace tried breaking down the door, but it was no use. They'd put in a new locking system, since Simon had kicked out the old one, and all Jason's kicking did was dent the door. He searched fruitlessly for a fire hose, but there wasn't any to be found. No fire hose, no exterior drains, no water pipes to shimmy down. No air vents without fans to yank off and duck through. No sky lights. No fire escape. The only thing that offered an exit on the roof was the chute they were using for renovation—the one that all the old brickwork, tarpaper, and broken tiles travelled in.
Jason looked fearfully down to the distant sight of the dumpster. It'd be one hell of a trip, and the landing might well be onto brick. He frowned. Not an attractive prospect.
Maybe I can use my arms and legs to slow myself down.
If I think too much I'll never do it.
Jason sucked in a breath and clambered into the chute. It's probably full of asbestos. I'll be dead in twenty years.
Hell—if I can't slow down—I'll be dead in twenty seconds.
Jason closed his eyes—and let go.
* * * *
Richard Lockmann's burst of energy was fading. Since their discussion about antiserum, Phillip Rutgers had been watching him with a professional eye, and noticed that he looked paler than before, and was starting to get fatigue rings under his eyes. “We've got a problem,” he said softly to Vizar.
“What's wrong with him?”
“Remember—for all that energy he exhibits—he just got over a major illness. Eight hours ago he was in a coma,” Rutgers reminded him. “The last thing we want right now is a relapse.”
Rick knew his strength was ebbing, too. But, he also knew it wasn't totally attributable to his recent illness. The daylight in the room had faded, and his system was still adjusting to its new physiology. Whatever storage systems his body was setting up to accommodate its new productivity hadn't yet come on line. His internal batteries had run out of juice. He needed to find a way to compensate. “Can I get something to eat?” he asked.
Rutgers actually smiled. Lockmann hadn't taken anything by mouth except water since he'd come off the IV. Stacely went into the antechamber, and came back with a sandwich.
Rick unwrapped it with shaking fingers. It looked totally unappetising to him, but he forced himself to eat it. Almost instantly, his body rejected the gesture, and he was sick. “I'm sorry,” h
e said. “I can't.” He met Rutgers’ eyes. “Maybe some rest—” he suggested.
Rick got to his feet, but his knees buckled. Stacely came up under one arm, and Rutgers under the other. “Get him back on the IV,” Rutgers ordered.
Rick could feel himself going. The colours in his eyes were darkening, and he knew that his body was going into some kind of shutdown. Why? Darkness? Insufficient nutrients? Some kind of imbalance?
Or was this going to be his night-time response from now on? Day closes down, and so does Rick Lockmann.
The solution suddenly hit him with an overwhelming clarity, as it sometimes does at those last moments when the conscious and subconscious mingle. It was so simple, that, for an instant, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before.
Then he knew. Because I didn't know my body would shut down this way. I didn't know what prolonged exposure to dim light would do to me.
They needed a way to stop Denaro—to control her. If she was built like him now, all they had to do was turn off the lights. The same clarity that revealed the solution also pointed out its drawbacks. There was danger here: in letting these others know the degree of her mutation, and—by extension—his. In allowing them to know there was a way to control her—and him.
But, if he didn't tell them, the only person alive in this place when he awoke might well be him. And it wouldn't be Denaro who did it. The sole reason any of Raeiti's people had supported him was because he was a better alternative than having to deal with Caroline's otherness. If he wasn't around to help, and Denaro returned, Tazo and his gang wouldn't let anything stand between them and the exit. And, if there wasn't an exit, they'd find a way to make one.
It might not work on her. Maybe she has amyloplasts, or other storage systems, that my body hasn't organised yet.
Maybe she can function just fine in the dark. After all, she's doing all right now, and those other levels can't be much brighter than this one.
No excuse was good enough.
If I have a chance to save these people, I have to take it. There's no point in worrying about the future. If Caroline and I are going to have our little encounter session, I might not have too much future to worry about.
Before his consciousness faded completely, he reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Rutgers’ isolation coveralls. “Get rid of the lights,” he told him. “Control—” he mumbled. “Might stop her—” Rick's eyes closed, and his head dropped back on the bed.
Daniel Vizar listened in astonishment. Lockmann's words were like a bombshell to anyone familiar with Denaro's research. The man was suggesting she could be controlled by eliminating the light—like a plant, put into the dark. But, to Vizar, it suggested a lot more than that. It also explained a lot of things about Lockmann's own physiological changes, and the weird colour of his eyes.
Vizar had always known there was more to Caro's research than sequences to modify ageing and healing. Something she'd been hiding. Those few words had suddenly clarified what it was. Light reaction. Light response. Lockmann's collapse, as his energy reserves were used up. Photosynthesis. “Did you hear what he said?” Daniel asked Phillip Rutgers excitedly.
Rutgers continued adjusting the IV. “Yeah. He was rambling. Not a good sign.”
Vizar gripped his arm and turned him around.
“Hey—watch it! I almost pulled out the needle.”
“Don't you get it?”
Rutgers looked blank.
Vizar turned to Sacchara. “Justin!” Sacchara turned confused eyes his way. “Sacchara!” Sacchara's eyes slowly focused. Vizar asked him in a whisper, “Do you know where Caroline's equipment is stored?”
“What?”
“Her equipment! After we cleared her lab, do you know where the grow lights went?”
“Mastickson would know.”
“Call him,” Vizar said softly, and Sacchara recognised it as an order, even though he could barely hear it. “Have him deliver a couple of lights to the roof. Don't let Raeiti know.” If Raeiti were to hear about it, Vizar had no doubt he'd try to hitch a ride on the helicopter.
Sacchara mumbled something that Daniel took for agreement, and went to place his call on the far side of the room.
Daniel Vizar smiled at Rutgers. “If Lockmann's right, we won't be needing that IV again.”
* * * *
Sheryl Matthews was just inserting the key in her car door when she heard a prolonged thumping rattle, followed by an irregular series of loud bangs. Wary, she swivelled swiftly to check behind her, along the poorly-lighted rear of the hospital.
She was about to hop in her car and drive off, when there was more banging, and a scuffling noise, followed by loud swearing. Was it a fight? With one finger on the speed dial of her cellular, she crept noiselessly around the corner of the building.
The inhabitant of the dumpster wouldn't have noticed whether she was quiet or not. He was too preoccupied with disentangling himself from the depths of a nasty-smelling pile of refuse. Apparently, what wasn't filled by the contractors during the day, was made up for by the kitchen at night.
The noise was what had drawn her, but the familiarity of the voice was what kept her there. “God damn stinking broccoli!” it was saying now.
“Dr. Stratton?” Sheryl ventured. “Jason?”
The sounds in the dumpster ceased abruptly.
Sheryl couldn't help herself. She started to laugh. “D-do you need some help? Should I call Security?”
“No,” Jason replied sourly. “I don't need help, and I don't want Security, and if it's a consultation you want, you picked one helluva rotten time—” He tried to wipe smashed broccoli off his shirt. “God, I hate the smell of this stuff!”
Sheryl Matthews had developed a certain respect for the man. He was hard working, and she liked the way he'd kept his head and functioned when his friends got hurt. She'd been planning on recommending him for a staff position. Now, she wasn't so sure. She couldn't imagine how he'd ended up in the dumpster.
“What are you doing in there?”
Jason poked a green-blotched head and shoulders over the rim. “I came down off the roof!” he said, indicating with a green-flick of one hand the distant top of the building. “Through that,” he added, pointing at the chute.
Sheryl's eyes widened. “Off the roof!” She reached out and patted his hand. “Look—just stay there, Jason. I'll get some help.” She turned away. “We'll have you out of there in no time—”
“'Just stay there?’” Jason repeated incredulously. He clambered out of the bin and stood leaning against it. His legs were wobbly with leftover adrenaline. “Will you look at me!” he said, staring down at his coated clothes in disgust.
“Are you hurt?”
“Bruised as hell.”
“Let's go to my office. I want to take a look at you.”
“I'm still capable of diagnosing my own goddam bruises.”
“Did you hit your head at all?”
“What do you think?” Jason replied sourly. He knew he wasn't acting very grateful, but every part of his body either stung or ached, and now he was going to the goddamned rescue smelling like he'd rolled in a goddamned cabbage patch.
Jason patted his pockets and groaned.
Sheryl asked him swiftly, “Are you okay?”
“I can't believe this! I've lost Cole's goddamned keys!” He peeked over the side, into the depths of the rubbish. “I'm going to have to go back in—”
“I'll help you.” Sheryl put one leg on the side of the dumpster and prepared to climb in to help.
Jason realised she meant it. His anger instantly evaporated, and he said apologetically, “No—but thanks. I really mean that.” He jumped back onto the top of what had now become broccoli slurry, thanks largely to his efforts.
This was all taking too much time. By Jason's estimate. Simon must have left at least half an hour before. He glanced at his watch, only to find he was no longer wearing one. “What time is it?” he asked, a little urgently.
&n
bsp; “7:20.”
It had only been fifteen minutes. Jason couldn't believe it. It seemed like a lifetime. Just then, a chink and a rattle told him he'd either found his watch—or the keys. He dug around, and lifted the Rumbler's keys out of a nest of squished tomatoes. “Yes!” he exclaimed triumphantly.
“Can I get you something out of your locker, or are you going straight home?”
No time to go home, and the spare set of clothes that was usually in the locker had gone back to his apartment to be washed. Jason sighed. Matthews was senior staff. He wondered how amenable she'd be to his request. “There's a bag of stuff in room 229,” he told her. “But I'll need some other supplies.”
Sheryl waited patiently as he climbed back over the side of the bin, and even gave him a hand down. She saw him flinch, but didn't say anything. “What else?”
“Simon's gone off with the DSO to look for Rick. I'm supposed to be there when he finds him.”
“Enough said.” Sheryl Matthews became brisk and businesslike. “How long do I have?”
“Upwards of ten minutes,” Jason told her, somewhat apologetically.
Sheryl nodded and glanced at her watch. “Be back in eight.” She turned to go back the way she'd come. “Meet you at your car.” She paused, “Which one is it?”
“It's actually Cole's. You'll recognise it. He calls it the ‘Rumbler’.”
She smiled. “One more question: how did you end up in the chute?”
“Everyone else left by helicopter. I got locked out.”
“It seems to me, Dr. Stratton, that you ought to kiss that broccoli instead of swearing at it. That goddamned broccoli probably saved your goddamned hide.”
Jason was still chuckling as he plopped down behind the wheel of the Rumbler and revved up the engine.
* * * *
It was the strangest request Mastickson had had, but it came from Sacchara, so he was neither surprised, nor prepared to object. The word was out that Sacchara had finally folded under the pressure, but he hadn't been laid off or sent on leave, so whatever he requested still went. Besides, when Sacchara said, “Mr. Vizar needs—", his words might as well be a royal decree.
Light Play: Book One of The Light Play Trilogy Page 24
