"How much more do you have to do before the Pope's program is finalized?" she asked conversationally as she wrote.
George swiped at his face again. "Polishing. Some redrafting to smooth out the final training segment. Another week, maybe, and that part will be completed. Two more weeks to set the holo tapes. I called my old partner and he agreed to bring some specialized equipment to the island for me to use. It's going to cost Rafe, but he'll like the results."
"I want to see the holos before they go to Rome." She laid down the pad.
"There may not be time. I'm running behind. I told Rafe he'd have the tapes on his desk in forty-five days and that's next week. I don't think there's going to be time for previewing." He caught the look on her face and shrugged. "Makes no difference to me. They're his programs. If he wants you to proof 'em, you can proof 'em." He scooted off the table and pulled his shirt back on. "If you don't get me some cool air down there, neither one of you will see tapes." He fumbled with the shirt buttons a moment then held his hands out, turning them back and forth. "I don't know what's wrong with my damned hands, they don't seem to remember what they're supposed to do."
"Come here. I'll do it."
He stood quietly while she buttoned his shirt.
"There." She patted his chest. "Nothing's wrong with your hands, George. The serum has a slight numbing effect that causes you to use more energy to accomplish the same thing, but you'll adjust."
His gaze dropped below her waist. "Yeah, I noticed that—if you get my drift. If I were you, I wouldn't count my pennies too fast. I doubt this libido-builder of yours is going to have a lot of takers." He swiped the handkerchief over his face and across the back of his neck.
I'll get through this, he thought. The Pope's tapes were nearly finished and the virility project was in its last phase, although why any sane person would want to put themselves through the treatment program was beyond him. But what the hell—he'd managed to hold on this long, he could hold on a little longer; whatever it took to complete his contracts. Then it was take the money and run—start over again and forget all about this shit. His mouth opened.
Bianca held up her hands. "Don't say another word. I know you're frustrated and I know you're tired, so tell you what—since you only have five injections left to take, let's stop the treatments until you finish the programs for His Holiness. A couple of weeks off shouldn’t affect the test results and will give you a chance to regain some of your energy. Okay?"
"Hell, yes. We can stop them forever as far as I'm concerned." Reaching up, he scratched at the back of his shoulder. "Now, do I get some cool air or not?"
She nodded. "I'll see to it immediately."
George lifted his face into the cooling air. About time, he thought, looking at his watch. Ten minutes to get a little comfort. He started to unbutton his shirt, desperate to feel the coolness on his chest. Struggling with the top button, he finally gave up. With a soft curse, he bent to the papers on the table and worked furiously on final revisions.
Until he began to shiver.
Arms pressed tight against his sides, he tried to continue despite the waves of chilled discomfort. In the pit of his stomach, a gnawing hunger strengthened, became a painful need. He slammed his pen onto the table. Leaning back, he hugged his arms across his chest.
"You bitch," he muttered. "Now you're trying to freeze me to death. And my shot. There's nothing in our contract that says I have to wait until these fucking tapes are finished before I can have my shot." He jumped up from the chair, yanked open the door, and jogged down the hall. Her laboratory door stood open.
"It's time for my shot and I want it. You got no right to keep it from me!"
Bianca looked up from an open book on her desk, then twisted her chair around and reached for the syringe. "Don't shout, George. It's ready."
He thrust out his arm, his hand already clenched into a fist. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
She plunged the needle deep.
"I'm cold. So cold," he whispered. He watched the pale pink liquid disappear into his arm, waited for euphoria to begin.
"Sit down for a minute, George. I have to tell you something—bad news, I'm afraid."
"Can't. Have to finish the program." His eyes were closed. He began to weave. He could feel her hand, warm against the coldness of his arm, as she steadied him. As if from a distance, the sound of her voice reached him.
She had it ready.
At first, the thought was fuzzy, but then it came again—clear and sharp edged.
"You'll have time to finish. I promise."
She had the serum injection ready! Eyes open, he focused on her face. "How come . . . what do you mean I'll have time to finish you promise?"
A muscle jerked at the corner of her mouth. "You're not well, George." She guided him to the chair beside her desk and slid forward the medical volume she had been reading when he came in. Her finger tapped an entry. "I suspected when I saw the tissue specimen, but the disease is so rare I couldn't believe it was true. In the last forty years, only seventeen cases have been reported."
"Seventeen cases of what?"
"That." She tapped the entry again. "MSM."
Bending close to the book, he tried to read the bold, black words. "Multiple . . . Multiple Sclero . . . Multiple . . ." He leaned back. "It's too blurry."
"Multiple Sclerothenia Myositis. The tests have confirmed it. You have MSM."
"What the hell are you trying to tell me?"
"It's an auto immune disorder. We don't know what causes it. All we know is that the body's immune system destroys the receptors in the muscles responsible for picking up nerve impulses. As it progresses, the central nervous system is attacked and spasticity develops."
"Then what?" His voice was hoarse and sounded nasal to his ears.
"That depends. If the white matter of the brain is involved, you'll experience fatigue, numbness, and slurred speech. In the early stages, the eye muscles are the most commonly affected, causing droopy eyelids and double vision. Sometimes a severe inflammation of all the body muscles occurs and a scaly rash covers the body, or sometimes the damaged muscle tissue is replaced by bone. In extreme cases—only five are listed in the medical journals—malformations of the face and hands occur. A nasty disease."
"If caught in time though, curable. Right?" His glance strayed to the open book.
She closed the book gently, shaking her head.
"You're a goddamned doctor. Find a cure."
"It's so rare, George." She lowered her eyes.
Rare. A memory flashed. He was eight years old and kneeling beside his mother's hospital bed, asking God to let her live. There was nothing more they could do, the doctors told his father. It was a cancer about which little was known. A disease that required specialized treatment—expensive treatment that would only prolong, not cure. It was a matter of finances, the father apologized to the son when the eulogy was spoken. A matter of finances. He could feel the rage begin and shook the memory away.
"I've got money—as soon as these damned contracts are up."
"It isn't that."
"Yeah. Right." He rose.
"It isn't the money. I know you have it. It's the time. It could take years of research to find a cure. Years of trial and error. Even then, I couldn't guarantee we'd be successful."
The rage rose like gorge into his throat. His hands tightened into fists. After all these years of planning and working and failing, he had finally hit the jackpot, had finally grabbed the gold ball; first with the virility program and then the holo tapes for his Holiness. Never again would it be a matter of finances.
Now this.
"George, listen to me. You know how the virility serum affects your body and that drug is FDA approved. Using untested, experimental medications wouldn't be wise." She shook her head. "I don't know how your system will react, but I suspect it would be unpleasant—if it didn't kill you. I can't take that risk, George."
The bitch. I need h
elp and she's afraid of being sued. His mouth twisted at the thought. Anyway he turned it, it still came down to money. His voice thick with resentment, he said, "You're not the one with MSM, I am. That makes it my risk, not yours. You want a contract to protect your precious ass, draw it up, but don't give me any more crap about the risks. Just think of me as one of your apes. That ought to salve your conscience." With tightened jaw, he whirled and left Bianca sitting in the silence.
In his quarters, blankets pulled up to his chin, George felt a tear slide from beneath his eyelid and trickle down his cheek. Jumping out of bed, he scuffed into the bathroom and held his face close to the mirror, turning his head from side to side. It was subtle. Just shadows really—a lengthening of the nose and cheeks, a shortening of the jaw. Reaching back, he rubbed his finger across the roughness on his shoulder. He stretched his arm farther, felt another patch of scaliness. Bianca's voice rang in his ears. In extreme cases . . .
A blister of hate formed deep in his brain. She could stop this if she wanted to. He knew she could.
He stared at his mirrored image as a vague thought tried to surface. There was something he couldn't remember. Something about the serum. No matter, his head hurt too much to think. With a soft curse, he returned to his bed.
Chapter 34
Bianca
Bianca watched George stalk away through the laboratory door. That turned out better than expected, she thought. He had practically forced her into finding a cure and once a new contract was drawn up, George was hers for the rest of his days. Sitting on the edge of her desk, she chewed at the inside of her cheek. It was careless having the serum ready; thank God she'd deflected his attention.
She was glad to have remembered the disease, remembered that it exhibited many of the same symptoms that George would develop as the virus carrier in the serum made its inroads. He was not nearly far enough into the change to be controlled should he ever discover what was really happening. Crass he might be, but he was also intelligent. Her forehead pulled into deep ridges. She needed time. Slowly the frown disappeared. Opening the drawer where she kept the Dakota dossier, she grabbed the file and headed for the rear exit. As she stepped into the early evening glow, she could hear Dvorak's Polonaise.
Taking a deep breath, she flung open the bungalow door and entered the warmth of her sister's music. Mouth drawn tight, she stalked to the table.
The girl jumped up from her chair. "What's wrong?"
"George is what's wrong." Bianca tossed the folder onto the table, jerked out a chair and sat down. "Over the past several weeks, he's been exhibiting symptoms that reminded me of Multiple Sclerothenia Myositis—a disease that's so uncommon we could only read case studies in medical school. I made a tissue test today just to set my mind at ease."
"And?"
"It is, in fact, MSM."
With deft words, Bianca painted a bleak future for George Kayman. A future that included the grisly body changes that had already begun to take place. She concluded with, "The worst part is the effect of the virility serum on MSM. Once I determined he had the disease, I checked my medical references for anything that might offer some relief and there it was. The main ingredient used in the serum actually accelerated the disease process." Bianca pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger—rubbed gently. Her voice, when she resumed, sounded tired, without life. "God forgive me. If I had only known."
From the corner of her eye, Bianca saw her sister take a step backward, a look of horror on her face. "Poor Mr. Kayman," Sefura whispered. "Does he know?"
"About his condition, yes. About the serum, no, and I won't tell him, at least not yet. You mustn't either. He's so angry about the illness that I don't know what he might do if he knew the shots had brought it on so fast."
"Can you fix it?"
"I don't know. I'm going to try. The problem is, I have to find a lab assistant who can keep him calmed down enough to give me the time I'll need."
"Maybe I can help, Bee."
Bianca vehemently shook her head. "Out of the question, Sef. His temper is too volatile. I can't let you take that risk."
"George wouldn't harm me. I know he wouldn't. We've spent a lot of time together and he seems to really like me."
"That may be, but right now George hates the world and everyone in it." She waved a hand in dismissal. "As I said, you are out of the question. I need someone big enough and strong enough to restrain him if necessary."
"Bee—please! I know Mr. Kayman. He doesn't need a strong arm, he needs someone to talk to and he trusts me. I know he does."
Bianca tapped a finger against her lower lip, her gaze focused on Sefura's face. At last she said, "He does seem to mellow out whenever you're around. We could try it, I suppose, but if he gives you any trouble at all you're out of there. Understand?"
The girl nodded. "He won't, Bianca. I know he won't."
"Just until school starts, though. By that time, the palace will be ready for us to move into and George will have more privacy while I try to get this problem resolved."
"It's settled then," Sefura said. "You've just hired yourself an assistant. Now, what exactly do you want me to do?"
Bianca glanced at the Dakota dossier lying on the table. "Besides keeping George company, you could help me find something," she said thoughtfully. "I'm trying to put together a genetic report on the BH Gene. I have most of the information, but there appears to be something I'm missing. At Victoria Jensen's wedding, an elderly man made a comment that Victor Dakota got more than he bargained for when the twins were born." She picked up the folder. "There may be a clue in all this mess that can tell us what he meant. See if you can find anything. Okay?"
Sefura grabbed the folder and plopped down on the floor. "There was an article I read before that I thought was pretty interesting. It was in those news clippings I sorted." She shuffled through the papers. "They aren't here."
"They must have dropped out into the drawer." Bianca leaned down and ruffled Sefura's hair. "I'll find them tomorrow, Sef. There's nothing in those old clippings anyway. I've read them dozens of times."
Stepping into the kitchen, she ran water into the coffeepot. "You just focus on those pages of research, okay?" she said. "That ought to keep your mind busy for a long time." Not hearing so much as a grunt in answer, she poked her head around the corner. Chin cupped by both hands, Sefura was immersed in the first page.
For a moment, Bianca saw the bright smile of trust flashed by a six year old on her first day of school. I would never lie to you, Sef. The long ago words echoed in her head and a surprising twinge of guilt gnawed at the corner of her mind. With an impatient toss of her head, she put the image from her mind, turned the brew switch to on, and headed down the hall.
Sefura doesn't need to be around when the change really begins to show, she thought. Once that starts, I can handle George without any help. She nodded to herself. Tomorrow, I'll find the most exclusive private girl's school available. She won't like it, but it will be the best thing for her. Do her more good than palaces and sports cars.
She turned on the shower and adjusted the water temperature, her thoughts fastened on Raphael Munoz and his San Francisco palace. Their palace. Raborman millions could have purchased any mansion in the world—except the church-bestowed residence of a Cardinal-turned-Pope. Those last brief moments at the airport had changed all that. Now the bluff residence belonged to her as surely as did the owner himself.
Rubbing soap on the bath brush, she envisioned his face, his gentle hands, his naked, eager strength. Her body tingled at the image and she felt her nipples harden. The brush became a punishing weapon as she furiously scrubbed her arms, her legs, her back and chest. Suddenly, she paused—it didn't come! The driving, gnawing hunger didn't come. In its place was a strange sensation; passion choosing to wait.
It was time to move off the island. From now on, they would need all the privacy they could get: she, George—and Raphael.
Chapter 35
&nb
sp; Ellery
Ellery breathed a sigh of relief as the car rolled to a stop. Crisscrossing the nation in her search for Dakotan descendants was finally coming to an end. Unless the Hudson family no longer lived here.
Tracking down the names on her list had been a slow, tedious process, what with deaths, marriages, and relocations. In some cases, entire lineage names had been changed, especially when a male child had been born or, worse, died during development. More than once, she'd hit a wall and had to abandon a family line.
A sense of time running out had dogged every mile she'd traveled when, after knocking on the doors of the first six descendants, she discovered that Bianca Raborman had been there first, asking questions about the growth, threatening, cajoling, and paying for information. How the woman had found out about the growth was beyond her.
So closely did the new Tartarus Director adhere to the alphabetical listing of names, it was almost as if her ex-protégé had stood behind her and read Grandfather's journal over her shoulder. Once she saw that Bianca followed an A, B, C order, she had immediately jumped to the last name on the list, making her own search in a pattern of bottom up and center down; that procedure put her ahead of the woman. She knew Bianca. When the scientist began to draw blanks, she would abandon a physical search and turn her mind to other solutions. By that time, there would be no Dakotans to be found.
Even though several Dakotans had been hostile and angry, Ellery was pleased with the results of her search. With each receptive family, she instructed and cautioned. Twice, she had assisted with a development and once she had stood alongside the open grave of a young man who had lost his fight with the unfolding bud, knowing she wasn't wanted but praying with the family anyway. On her return home, heartsick and weary, she was met by an exuberant Vickie who announced she was pregnant—a little girl. A carrier. Somehow the pain and disillusionment turned into determination to protect that gift at any cost. So the search continued.
Somewhere along the way on this trip, Ellery had lost her prescription sunglasses. Now—as she squinted her eyes against the glare—she rued the stubborn streak that had prevented her from stopping long enough to buy a pair that would do until she returned to San Francisco. She peered back and forth between the numbers scribbled on the paper in her hand and the faded figures on the soiled mailbox beside the dirt road. It was no use. She couldn't tell if they were the same or not. Shaking her head, she turned off the car motor and sat without moving.
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