Siege Perilous

by Nigel Bennett

  "It's just for a little bit, then we'll come back."

  "I can stay here with Uncle Richard."

  "No doubt, but we're ill prepared for a long wait, and I rather think that's what this might be. Richard will hold the fort. You and I have things to do, then we'll relieve him."

  A spark of rebellion crossed Michael's face, but he nodded. "We'll come right back?"

  "Yes. I want to be here for her, too."

  Richard felt selfishly glad it was Bourland's chosen lot to look after Michael. He would not have been able to do so, not with that level of confidence. He shot Bourland a look and was shaken by a flash of intense agony in his friend's eyes that had somehow not affected his calm, in-charge tone of voice. How was he able to hide that from the boy?

  "You'll be all right?" Bourland asked.

  Richard knew his reply had damned well better be a yes. He managed a nod and fished out his keys. "Use the Rover. I'll phone you every thirty minutes until you're back."

  "Well, in that case, I'll want an assistant to take on the extra load." Bourland gave his cell to Michael. "That's your job."

  "For real?" He clutched the phone. He had his own, of course, regulated to his backpack and used primarily for keeping track of his after-school whereabouts, but this was a step up from it. His father routinely got calls from people like the prime minister.

  "Don't go all heady from the power. Come on, then. Let's see if Richard's in a no-parking area."

  "Will you fix the ticket if he is?"

  "Certainly not. Do him some good to go to court." He herded the distracted Michael toward the hall and elevators. The watchdog reappeared there, listened to Bourland, then moved purposely off, apparently with an errand to do.

  Richard continued to look through the glass until a nurse—he wasn't sure if she was the same one—got his attention and suggested he might be more comfortable in the nearby waiting room. An impossibility, but he was blocking traffic, so he retreated to a dull chamber with muted lighting and old magazines. There were Bibles on a table in French and English and a bin loaded with bright plastic toys. Thankfully there was no television. He'd have smashed it.

  After two minutes of silence broken by people whisking back and forth in the hall, their rubber soles squeaking on the polished floor, he quit his corner chair and went to the ICU entry to peer again.

  Nothing had changed since his last look. That was good. If she was quiet, she was healing.

  He couldn't bring himself to return to the waiting room and paced down the long hall, past the nurse's station to the end. Bright lights, mysterious voices paging names over the loudspeakers, the smell of illness overlaid with the scent of cut flowers, centrally heated desert-dry air—how on earth could people work here? This was hell to him.

  He pushed through the exit doors and took the stairs on the other side, not clear about reaching any particular place, just needing to keep on the move. Eventually he emerged, wandered, oriented, and either by chance or guided by an invisible influence found himself in the hospital's chapel. From the activity by the altar they were holding mass.

  Richard stood at the back, listening without really hearing. This was a matter of feelings, not words. The atmosphere, whether here or places like Chartres or under the open sky, was always the same for him. The smell of candle wax and incense were instantly comforting, inducing a strange hush within him, reviving a frequently dormant, but ever-present connection to something larger than himself.

  He slipped quietly into one of the pews, bowed his head, and sought to find what he needed in that vastness.

  * * *

  Bourland's man proved himself uncommonly useful and inconspicuously, if not supernaturally, efficient. When Richard returned to the ICU area, he found that Sabra had been moved to a special glass-windowed room at the far end. This alarmed him until the man explained that it was Bourland's doing. Strings had been pulled. Because of this change Richard would be allowed to sit with her so long as he was quiet and kept out of the way of the staff.

  He could do that. Anything to be closer. He humbly thanked the man and went in.

  She looked so small and frail. Where was the strength that made her seem so much greater than the limits of her form?

  Very carefully, as though it might add to her injuries if he moved too fast, he gently took one of her hands. Her fingers were so cold and inert he had to look to make sure he was holding them.

  He bent low, lips to her ear, murmuring just loud enough to be heard over the beep of the monitors. "I'm here, Sabra. You were in an accident, but everything's going to be all right. You rest and get better and I'll watch over you."

  He waited, but there was no sign that she'd heard, no flutter of eyelids or movement from her hand, no variation of her heartbeat. Well, he'd not really expected . . . but it would have been encouraging if . . .

  I'll be right here. I promise, he repeated. Since it was a thought, he could speak in his mind as loud as he liked. He practically bellowed it.

  Still no reaction. But he felt an odd certainty that he'd been heard. He kissed her cold fingers, backed away, and sat in the room's only chair which was against the far wall a few feet from the foot of the bed. He watched her steadily, unblinking for a few moments, then pulled out his cell to make his first call to Bourland.

  * * *

  Bourland and Michael returned as promised. They'd kitted themselves out with proper clothes and seemed prepared to settle in for the duration. Michael insisted on sitting with Sabra, promising to be very quiet and still. Children were not supposed to be in the ICU, but there was no way they could deny him. Richard spoke with someone in charge and an exception was made.

  "Any more phase outs?" he asked as he and Bourland retired to the outer waiting room.

  "No, thank God."

  "Did he say anything about the last one?"

  "Hardly says anything at all. He was remarkably cooperative, though, about getting ready to return here. I'd say he's worried, but not in such a way as we need worry about him. It's like he's getting down to business, where other children might panic and go weepy."

  "Startled?"

  Bourland shook his head. "He's strong. Let's hope he won't have to draw on that strength. How are you?"

  "Bloody awful, but it's easier to be able to sit near her. Thanks for that."

  "If not me, then you'd have done it. This is how I deal with frustration." He had a laptop case with him and a phone, evidence that he would continue his work.

  Several hours of turn-on-turn with no worsening of Sabra's condition seemed to bolster Michael's shaken confidence. Richard watched over him at a distance, on guard for problems, but the boy was the picture of self-possession, showing a depth of maturity that should have been beyond his years. On the other hand he'd been in various stages of therapy since the catastrophe with his family, so he must have had a wealth of psychological tools to help him contend with this crisis.

  Bourland continued to deal with it via his mysterious labors. He took and made phone calls, and employed his assistant to make more. Richard got the impression that many things were being caused to happen elsewhere and on several levels, but checked his curiosity. When Bourland was ready to talk, he'd convey in detail what was going on.

  Richard's own internal defenses were the result of considerable experience. He'd been in such situations before; he knew how to wait and the futility of fretting. But this was Sabra's life, which made the ordeal rawly new to him. When it came down to it, he was wholly terrified.

  Not a damned thing he could do about it either.

  He'd put his cell alarm on quiet mode. The silent jolt when it buzzed shouldn't have been a surprise, but it did make him twitch.

  It was his Scotland Yard friend, with nothing too enlightening to report. He'd put the fear of God into the woman at Lloyd's, who again confirmed (more politely and with more details) what'd she'd said earlier about Sharon Geary. He then traced Sharon's movements as far as Heathrow. Her car was in one of thei
r long-term lots, and she'd taken a flight to the Yucatán, buying the ticket direct from the airline's counter. Apparently her decision to take a trip had been a sudden and last-minute thing. Like other world travelers she carried her passport as a matter of course.

  At a question from Richard, the man replied, "No, we found nothing unusual at either Stonehenge or Woodhenge . . . well, a few of those potty New Age types were upset about something or other at Stone. Said the place was ruined, but our man there couldn't make any sense of what had them so stirred up. One of the women was in moaning hysterics, had to be taken away by her friends. They told him the place had been bombed. He conducted a thorough look 'round with the staff, but they didn't spot any damage or ticking packages, that sort of thing."

  Richard would have given a lot to have interviewed the New Agers. Obviously someone gifted with Sight had seen whatever had happened on Otherside. "What about the staff? Did they see or hear anything odd in the last few days?"

  "Nothing like that. A few tourists fainted there today, I'm told, which certainly is not part of the normal run. They complained of headaches and keeled right over. The staff's in a dither worrying about lawsuits, but everyone recovered and went on their way. Put the blame on everything from jet lag to low blood sugar. There's one man who said the 'feel' of the place was off, but that's the limit. What's this about? Should we expect another rash of crop circles?"

  "I think not."

  "Good, because the farmers here are getting rather fed up about people sneaking into their fields and trampling over everything in the dead of night in the name of art. I know of one fellow threatening to electrify his fences if he could afford the rates."

  "That won't keep out aliens."

  "He's not worried about them, just losing his harvest to thrill seekers and tourists. I've told him to charge a fee every time one of them raises a camera."

  Richard thanked his friend sincerely and rang off, wishing he had that frustrated farmer's problems instead of his own.

  * * *

  Around six o'clock Bourland persuaded Michael that it would be all right to go home for dinner, which would be better than the hospital food they'd snacked on throughout the day. Regardless of that and the situation, Michael had packed away an amazing amount of it. Richard was invited, but said he'd stay on. It was lonely after they left, but he was used to it.

  He eased into the chair, his arms stiffly resting exactly along the line of its arms, hands bunched into fists until he forced them to hang loose. He watched the monitors, and speculated long and hard about attempting a blood exchange. It was impossible for Sabra to partake directly from him, but he could easily accomplish what was necessary with a syringe. God knows this place had enough of them lying about; he'd already nicked a couple without getting caught. But would it do more harm than good?

  Or would it, as she said, make no matter at all?

  He rather thought it would not, but perhaps . . . just to be sure, it mightn't hurt to at least try. Then he would know that he'd done everything within his power for her.

  He was forced to wait. This was a 24/7 place, though he'd already picked up on the general rhythms around him. Sooner or later there would come an interval where he could make his move. To prepare for that he got the staff used to seeing him getting up and standing by her bedside, his head bowed, his back to the glass partition. No one looked twice that he could determine. In this facility they were accustomed to people openly praying, and there was a kind of selective blindness in effect that allowed privacy for spiritual matters. He would naturally take advantage of it and had only to bide his time for his best opportunity.

  If Sabra had the time, if she remained stable. Should that change, then all cautions were off.

  Sitting so still in the chair, Richard out of the blue fell asleep, snapped awake, was bewildered for a tenth of a second, relaxed as he recognized where he was, then tensed again. His neck and shoulders ached from being held in place. How long had he been out? It seemed only a moment.

  His single clue that whole hours had fled and late afternoon had come was what his watch told him, and then he wasn't sure that it might be lying. There was no day or night in this part of the hospital; his body clock had its own unique process for marking time and for now was not to be trusted.

  He checked the monitors. No change in the displays. They beeped on solemnly but held steady. So long as they continued smooth, all was—almost—well. To keep from jumping up every few minutes he'd earlier asked the nurse on duty a few quiet questions, and she gave him a briefing on how to read them, what was normal, what was not. He was a long way from her expertise, but the additional knowledge made him feel like he had a tiny measure of control over the situation, that perhaps he was more useful than before. He very much needed that.

  The nurse came in, on schedule, checked Sabra's blood pressure and other stats, made notations on a clipboard, and asked Richard if he needed anything. He said not.

  "You don't have to be here, you know," she said. "It's very exhausting to sit and do nothing."

  "I'll be fine."

  Apparently she'd seen the syndrome in many others and knew better than to disagree. She nodded sympathetically and left.

  He had thirty minutes at least. She was busy with one of the other patients, and would next go to her desk station.

  He rose to put his back to the window as he'd been doing throughout the day, effectively blocking all view of his actions. Not making untoward moves or looking in any way different, he drew the hypo from his pocket and quietly peeled off the plastic wrapping, removing the protective casing from the sharp end.

  Having watched the nurse draw off samples from Sabra, he knew which catheter implanted in her arm to use to do the same. It had been a bit of a struggle to stand and coldly observe, but he got through it and now repeated those same steps.

  Damned if it didn't work.

  Hopefully Sabra wouldn't suffer from the minute loss.

  Returning to the chair, he sat as before, throwing a casual look toward the next room. Business as usual. No one taking the least notice of him.

  He inspected the hypo reservoir to see if there was a top he could pull off. No, the unit was sealed. Breaking it open would make a mess. Have to do it this way, then.

  Gingerly resting the needle between his lips almost like a cigarette, his tongue tucked well back out of danger, he tried the plunger. The sudden stream of her blood, still warm, startled him. He swallowed.

  The taste . . . chemicals . . . lots of those. Unidentifiable drugs, maybe antibiotics. Nothing that would affect him, but they were unsettling. He tried to discern some suggestion of her emotions, but it was as sterile as the out-of-date stuff he kept in his refrigerator. That was it, then, she was completely unconscious. Whether that was a good thing or not remained to be seen.

  He waited, watching the monitors, listening to the sounds of the ward, and feeling—or imagining that he felt—Sabra's blood working through his system. So small an amount would have no physical effect on him, it was strictly in his head. His mind alone supplied an image of its journey as it flowed to his belly, was absorbed, and eventually dispersed through his body. It needed time to mingle with his own unique blood.

  The nurse came again, made her notations, and departed.

  He'd been successful at not thinking about what came next. No putting it off now. He freed the second syringe from its plastic, took off the cap. My, but that end of it looked to be very shiny and sharp.

  Grimace.

  Richard hated, really, really hated the things. It was utterly absurd. He'd withstood sword gashes, arrow wounds, crossbow bolts, spears, bullets, bombs—name most of the weapons used in the last fifteen centuries and he'd likely been a target ten times over for all of them, but for some reason an inch-long hollow needle little thicker than thin wire absolutely put him in knots.

  He could almost hear Sabra giggling at him.

  Hypodermic, meaning "below skin"—derived from the Greek—syringe,
descended from what they now called Middle Latin . . .

  Stop stalling, old lad. Just get on with it.

  Oh, yes. Somewhere she was definitely laughing.

  How did one do this, anyway? Jab it into a vein? Where? The inside of his left arm he supposed. Those bloodlines were clearly visible, threading just beneath the surface.

  Oh, God. Oh, Goddess.

  He held the needle above his wrist. Hesitating.

  He winced. Practicing, really. It wouldn't hurt. Not much. Not compared to other things he'd been through. It was just the idea that pitched him into such a state. Good grief, teenaged girls and younger got their ears pierced all the time. Diabetics stabbed themselves with these things as a matter of routine. The lot of them miles braver than himself, apparently.

  Well, come on, before you're spotted by the nurse.

  Bloody hell. Literally.

  He pushed it inexpertly into his skin. Ow. Ouch. It took more force than he'd imagined. Was that far enough? Had he hit the vein? Sweat flared on his body. His hand trembled, and his head went light. This was ridiculous . . .

  I am not going to faint.

  . . . Completely ridiculous . . .

  Not.

  Cold all over, then hot. He gulped air and held it.

  Not. I really mean it. Not.

  Gradual release of breath. Take another. Deep and even. Let it out. There. Not too horribly bad.

  He didn't care to look, but had to in order to reverse the plunger or whatever the thing was. He suspected he'd taken the wrong sort for drawing blood. He thought they used something different on television shows—if they got that right.

  But slowly, slowly, the plastic cylinder filled up with a bounty of red fluid. When he'd retracted it as far as it would go, he pulled the thing free and held his wrist to his mouth to sweep away any seepage until the minuscule injury closed.

  Should have used my teeth to make the damned hole, he thought sulkily. He'd done that before and with much less mental fuss. But he'd have still felt the same about dipping the needle into any wound. Ugh.

  He crushed the bout of squeamishness. Sabra had any number of the damned things stuck in her. Hopefully he could alleviate that necessity.