Jack was appalled—was she telling him the truth?—but relieved too. If Nancy didn't care, why should he? If they were dead anyway, what did it matter? Nancy took his hands and drew him down to his knees; still, he loomed above her. He cradled the back of her head, his fingers entwined in the shiny black hair, as she kissed his neck, and then his chest. Her shoulders, bare, were so white and delicate. He watched the play of the bone beneath the smooth, white skin, watched it flex and settle and roll. He spread one hand across her back, nearly spanning the width of her body, and pressed her closer against him. Her cheek was flat against his chest now; he could feel her breath on one nipple. And then her tongue, flicking at it. The voices of the dead people whispered in his ear. But he shook his head fiercely, to discourage them from talking. Nancy slid herself beneath him, laying her head down on the sparklingly clean yellow brick. It makes a sort of halo, Jack thought. “Oh, no, you're the angel,” Nancy said, reading his mind. He smiled—God, how good it felt to be so understood—and bent down to kiss her. At first her lips were closed against him, then they parted and he tasted her hot breath entering his own mouth. With it came a flood of pictures, writhing dragons in green and gold, snow falling on a field of poppies, red steel girders raised in the shape of a pagoda. So this is what it's like to kiss a Chinese girl. She wriggled her hips beneath him, and opened her legs. He put one hand between them. My God, how he wanted her! He watched as she licked the palm of her own hand, from heel to fingers, and then reached down to hold and stroke his shaft. This was no dream, this was real; he could feel each finger as it wrapped itself around him, teasing him, provoking him, making him wet. He thrust his tongue deeply into her mouth, fetching up a moan that reverberated in his own throat. She pumped his shaft, stiffening it, and he suddenly couldn't wait any longer; lowering himself on top of her, he pulled back his hips, then pressed forward, forward to enter her.
But he was rubbing against something granular and dry and ungiving—the spotless bricks—no, the sheet. He could feel the wrinkles abrading his skin. He pulled back again, afraid he would come before he had entered her, and tried again. But again he was caught in twists of bedding, pressing himself into folds of cotton. “Guide me,” he whispered, “guide me.” Her fingers enclosed him, gently but firmly, and he slid forward, smoothly, effortlessly, as if forever. He slid forward, fully extended, into the warmth and buried darkness. He ground his hips down, hard against her, and before he could stop, before he could prolong it, felt himself coming, in one long, low, shuddering spasm. His whole body froze, became rigid for twenty or thirty seconds; then, a sudden shiver coursed the length of his spine. “Jesus,” he sighed, and found the sound of his own voice oddly intrusive, as if it had come from somewhere else. Nancy's arms were coiled loosely around his shoulders. On his loins he felt the sticky heat of his own semen; on his back, a faint, cool breeze . . . that gradually chilled him. He wished that Nancy would rub some warmth into him. Wasn't she getting cold, he wondered? He tried to embrace her more closely, but all he felt was the sheet again —and a tightly packed clump of pillow. Where had she gone? What had happened to her? The wet patch around his groin was growing slightly uncomfortable; he rolled over, but the dampness clung to him. Was the sheet stuck to his skin? He reached down to free it, and collided with his belt buckle, hanging loose. And his pants, unzipped, and pushed only partway down. When he reached for Nancy's arm, still resting under his head, he found only his own unbuttoned shirt, hopelessly knotted up. What the hell was . . . He turned to the clock; the fluorescent dial said 3:45. Only the faintest silhouettes of his dresser and chair, stereo cabinet and card table, were discernible in the darkness. He rumbled, back-hand, for the light, and blinked when it came on.
He was alone. The bed was a mess.
“Nancy?” He knew there was no one in the room.
But he had felt, so strongly, that someone was mere . . . until only moments ago.
He rubbed his eyes, and threw his legs over the side of the bed. His shirt began to untangle itself, and slowly slip down his back.
He must have fallen asleep during the massage; Nancy must have tiptoed out; he must have just now had his first wet dream in years.
Jesus. It had all been so real.
He undid his wristwatch—man, he'd never even gotten that off—and put it on the bedside table. Right beside a rolled-up Steamroller program.
Nancy's, he thought, before remembering that Nancy hadn't seen the show that night.
He unrolled it, curious, and a slip of paper fluttered out and onto the floor. He picked it up.
Management regrets to announce that Gregory Wheelwright will not appear in this afternoon's performance.
His role will be played instead by Templeton True.
Chapter Seventeen
OF COURSE IT would be the one morning she came in late that all hell would break loose at the institute. There were three slide packets waiting for her at the security desk, her own desk upstairs was covered with loose mail and several pink “While You Were Out” slips, the phone was ringing persistently the whole time she hung up her coat, and from Sprague's inner office—and this was the most surprising thing—she heard several voices in earnest conversation. Sprague never made appointments at this hour. He never made them at all if he could avoid it.
“That you, Liu?” he hollered.
“Yes,” she said, poking her head in the doorway. Two women turned—one was Arlette Stein, red curls bobbing; the other was a pretty blonde who looked vaguely familiar.
“Get the damn phone. And three coffees, all black.”
He went back to what he'd been saying to the two women.
Nancy returned to her desk, fuming, and grabbed the phone.
It was Jack. “Geez, bite my head off why don't you?” he said.
“Oh, God, I'm sorry.” She lowered her voice. “I got in late, and Sprague's being an asshole.”
“I got your note.” He'd found it stuck to the metal rim of the medicine chest. “You can tell the asshole I'll be in, as requested, this afternoon.”
“Good—that's one thing going right.”
“And I'm sorry too—about zonking out on you last night.”
“Yeah,” she said, laughing softly, “some testimonial to my charms.”
He tried to laugh along. “What happened anyway? Did I just fall asleep while you were rubbing my back?”
“If sleep is what you want to call it,” she said. “You acted like you were knocked out.”
“And nothing happened?”
“You mean between us? Not while I was there . . . I just tiptoed out, making sure the door was locked behind me.”
From his silence, it seemed like he was unconvinced.
“Why?” she asked. “Are you pregnant?” He laughed, thank God, and suddenly Sprague was hollering something about the coffee. “I've gotta run,” she whispered. “See you later.”
She brewed the coffee in the lab across the hall, using a Bunsen burner, and carried the cups in on a stainless-steel dissection tray. This was just the sort of menial chore she had sworn to herself she would never do. As a token protest, she didn't stop to offer the tray around, but simply pushed it onto Sprague's littered desk and turned to leave the room.
“Hi, Nance,” said Arlette, reaching past her to claim one of the foam cups. “I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Bonnie Robb. Maybe you've seen her on channel four.”
So that's why the blonde had looked familiar. Nancy offered her hand.
“Have you been assisting on the Logan case?” Robb asked, hanging on to Nancy's hand. Maybe this was something they taught reporters, Nancy thought—hang on to your quarry any way you can.
“Miss Liu helps me with my research and recordkeeping,” Sprague inserted. He managed to make it sound like washing the floors. “Several calls came in earlier,” he said to Nancy. “Call them back and see what they were about.”
Robb relinquished her hand, and Nancy excused herself. Damn him, she thought; he had no ri
ght to treat her like that. She yanked out her desk chair, sat down, and started combing through the packages, mail, and finally, the phone slips, that had accumulated. The calls were all recorded in Sprague's own inimitable scrawl. “Baldwin,” and a phone number; “Merck,” and another; neither name rang any bells. The third slip said “Investigator—Mansfield.” Investigator? What kind of investigator?
And what, now that she had a moment to collect herself and think, was that TV reporter doing up here? Why had she asked if Nancy had assisted on “the Logan case"? Good God, was Sprague angling for a guest shot on some TV show? And was he planning to drag Jack into it?
She pretended to be attending to the slide packets she'd brought up, while listening through the open doorway to the conversation in Sprague's office. It had a kind of summary tone to it, as if they'd already agreed on most of the major premises and were now just confirming the details. Arlette was saying something about Adolph Zakin, that she was reasonably confident she could persuade him to cooperate: “His whole thing was that this was good news, as far as he could tell, and that the world ought to know about it. I think I can talk him into it.” There was some discussion of his health, and lucidity, and Arlette again said she could “deliver the goods.” Bonnie Robb, and now Nancy recognized even her voice, that clipped no-nonsense cadence from the evening news, was reciting dates and times, and Sprague was yeaing and naying. Tuesday, at five-thirty, was eventually agreed upon. For what, exactly? But that had apparently already been discussed. There was the sound of notebooks being closed and stuffed in bags. Bonnie Robb was saying, “Mind if I take this coffee along with me?” and then, standing near the open doorway, asking Sprague if he was sure about Logan.
“I'll be seeing him this afternoon,” Sprague replied. “No problem.”
On the way out, Robb stopped to give Nancy another of her resolute handshakes—she wasn't quite as good-looking as she appeared on television, but still, not bad—and Arlette unwrapped a fresh stick of gum and tossed the wrapper in the wastebasket.
“Want one?” she said, offering the Dentyne pack to Nancy.
“No thanks.”
“See ya.” And she scurried out after her friend.
Nancy was just reaching for the phone slips when Sprague bellowed “What about those calls?” from his desk.
“I'm answering them now.” Then, before she could stop herself, added, “You took the messages—why didn't you find out why they were calling?”
“Because,” he said, and she could hear the wheels on his desk chair rolling back, “I was busy.” He came through the door and plopped an open copy of the Post on her desk. “I was attending to this.”
There was an article circled with a red magic marker. “Adolph Zakin—Back to Work and Back to Life.”
“Yesterday's paper,” Sprague said. “Tulley had to show it to me.”
Nancy was quickly scanning the piece.
“Call back the Investigator first. See what kind of story they're planning.”
“You mean it's the tabloid?” Nancy saw it on the supermarket check-out rack: usually the headline had something to do with UFOs or miracle diets. “You're not planning to talk to them about Jack, are you?”
Sprague pursed his lips and looked as if he were giving it some thought. “Perhaps you're right,” he said. “But call them back anyway.”
She wished she hadn't reacted so vehemently—and said Jack instead of Logan.
“I am going to have to watch how I channel all this publicity from now on. The institute can stand to gain a lot, from the right kinds of stories. And of course,” he said, with a sly smile, “we'll want to run these ideas by Jack.”
So he hadn't missed her little slip.
“When is Jack coming in today?”
“At two.”
“Good. I'll be in the front lab till then. Another brain came in . . . before you got here.”
He whirled out, his white lab coat flapping behind him, and Nancy slumped in her chair with relief. She'd really been skating on some thin ice this morning. She'd have to cool it for a while.
Much as she hated to do it, she dutifully returned the call to the Investigator and asked for Mansfield. The voice, a man's with a slight English accent, said, “Speaking.” When she identified herself, he thanked her profusely for returning his call, mentioned the Post piece, and went rattling on about what a great story it would be for the Investigator and when could he interview the principals, and what kind of exclusive could they give him and was there someplace particularly “evocative, a hospice or even a nearby cemetery,” that could be used for the accompanying photos? It wasn't that he wouldn't take “no” for an answer: he didn't leave time for a “no,” a “yes,” or even a “maybe.” When he did, finally, pause to catch his breath, Nancy said, sounding as much like a dull-witted functionary as possible, that she would give the information to Dr. Sprague and he would get back to him. That didn't satisfy Mansfield at all, and he was off and running again, trying to pin down a time that very day he could come in and “get the ball rolling.” Nancy said she would give the information to Dr. Sprague and he would get back to him.
“Listen, dear,” Mansfield said, in a confidential but slightly sinister manner, “there are other sources, and other ways, of going about getting this story. I'd prefer, you understand, to get it straight from the horse's mouth, as it were, but if the horse won't talk . . . well, others will.”
Nancy wondered who these others might be, but refrained from asking. “I'll give the information to Dr. Sprague and he'll get back to you.”
Mansfield didn't exactly hang up on her, but it was close.
Which made returning the other two calls an even less appealing prospect. The Merck number turned out to be the switchboard at a nursing home, and Nancy found herself transferred to the head nurse. When she explained who she was, the nurse clucked her tongue and said, “Mrs. Merck isn't authorized to make outside calls like that. But somehow she always manages. She's here with Alzheimer's. Please ignore the call.”
With some misgivings, Nancy did. Poor Mrs. Merck. Nancy dialed the third number, and after eight or nine rings, was about to hang up when a woman answered, breathlessly, with a baby crying in the background.
Nancy went through her spiel again, and the woman hesitated for a moment. “My husband must have called you,” she said. The baby started bawling even louder. “I'm sorry, can you hang on for a minute?”
When she returned, making soothing sounds to the baby, she apologized again and said, “Why did they have to discover breast-feeding is better?” She laughed, and said, “Smiling in the face of adversity.”
“Is this a bad time to talk?” Nancy asked.
“No, it's okay—though it's Adam I suppose you should really be talking to.” There was a rustling sound, as if she were adjusting the phone on her shoulder and the baby at her breast. “He showed me the clipping last night. But he didn't tell me he'd called. Basically—and after six months of knowing, I still don't know how to say this—my husband's dying.” Her voice caught for a second. “He's twenty-eight, he has an inoperable brain tumor, and we don't know what to do anymore. He's off chasing some other doctor right now, with a cure made from apricot pits or peanut butter or a secret mixture of ancient herbs . . . I shouldn't sound so cynical and above it all: I encourage him to go.”
“And you're sure he can't be helped with the . . . usual methods?”
“No, we've been down all those roads, and the answer is always the same. ‘Six months to a year, six months to a year.’ We've already used up four of the months.”
“I'm sorry.” Nancy already knew why Baldwin had placed the original call, but felt she had to ask anyway.
“Because he thought this guy mentioned in the article, Jack Logan, might be able to help him. It says he has these mysterious powers. Mysterious powers is what we need right now.”
“But Logan isn't a healer” Nancy said, as gently as she could. “So far we're not really sure what he is
, or what he can do. I'm very sorry about your husband, but honestly, I think your best bet would be to—”
“Betting is all we can do,” the woman interjected. “Don't you see that? At this point, we can gamble everything, because there's nothing left to lose. So what if this guy doesn't turn out to be Jesus Christ? We've already been through half a dozen guys who claimed to be—and none of them were. And we're no worse off, except for the cash of course, than we were before. We've just got a lot less time left to find the right answer.” The baby cried, as if understanding its mother's anguish. Nancy heard her quietly shushing it, and when she came back on the line, she was more composed again. “All we're asking for is a chance. Maybe this Logan guy—or the Dr. Sprague who's studying him—knows something that can help. Maybe they can cure Adam—or maybe they can just bring him back from the dead, when that time comes.”
Nancy felt herself shudder.
“ ‘Maybe’ isn't much, but it's better than ‘no’ . . . Will you help us?”
Nancy was still reeling from the matter-of-fact mention of resurrection. What was happening here? The call from Mrs. Merck, and the Investigator, the conference with Bonnie Robb and Arlette—and now this, a straightforward appeal to be brought back from the dead. For the first time, Nancy could see a whole confluence of forces emerging, a meshing of motives and needs, of some people's ambition and others’ desperation. Was this the first shot in a bombardment yet to come?
And how would Jack, the target of it all, be able to survive?
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