Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  When Rick was first admitted to the hospital, Sheryl Matthews had been both sympathetic, and compassionate. Something had happened since then, and it bothered Jace a lot. Matthews had lost her compassion in Rick's case, to the extent that even Rick could tell she viewed him as a nuisance. Jason didn't know what her reasons were, but her dislike was apparent, and it was all Jace could do not to accuse her of being unprofessional.

  He didn't know if it was Rick's mutation, the fact that his metabolism sometimes faltered due to what might be interpreted as foolish mistakes, or that Rick managed to recover so quickly. Or maybe it was just that he took so much of her time. It was probably some weird combination of all those reasons, but that didn't make either Jace or Rick feel any better about it.

  Jason had tried to handle most of Rick's problems, to keep Sheryl away from him, so maybe—not knowing Sheryl the way Jace did—Rick might not guess that she acted differently around him than she did the rest of her patients. Jace knew he hadn't been totally successful. Rick was too smart to be fooled for long.

  And the last thing in the world Rick needed was to dwell on his mutation, and the effect it might have on others. Because of the changes to his form, Rick was susceptible to a whole new kind of prejudice, directed solely at him. Bigotry. Jason just found it a little hard to believe that one of its practitioners was Sheryl Matthews, a person he'd always taken to be rational, and empathetic to her patients’ needs.

  The worst part of it was that Matthews had picked up on his—Jason's—resentment of her attitude. It would have made things damn near impossible if Sheryl hadn't reacted by overdoing the professionalism bit, so she was treating him nearly as coolly as she was Rick.

  It's a good thing. Her professionalism would work for him now. He guessed she'd only notice him if he were one of her patients—or if I made a mistake with one of her patients, he thought ruefully—and he had no intention of being or doing either. He shook his head to clear it, straightened up, and checked his watch again. Then, he moved hurriedly toward the door. He'd just remembered the other thing that would catch her attention and her wrath—if he were stupid enough to be late.

  * * * *

  “The only fingerprints on it are Lockmann's.”

  “That doesn't mean he made it up,” Finlay said, a little angrily. “You should have seen him—he was scared. Mostly because it reminded him of Denaro.”

  What was it about Lockmann that made his staff so damned obstinate? It was the first time in Hylton's experience that the protection they afforded a “client” had extended all the way into his office. “I wasn't suggesting he ‘made it up’, Mr. Finlay,” Hylton told him, with some asperity. “Merely that it's significant there were no other fingerprints. I'd expect a few smudged ones, at least. Instead, it's been wiped clean. A damned professional job, too,” he added quietly. “Any ideas how?”

  “The window. The alarm can be circumvented, and no one was watching very closely because Lockmann wasn't there,” he admitted. “Besides, we had the lasers activated.”

  Hylton nodded. “That's the worst part. Whoever's decided to engage in a little psychological warfare is damned well-equipped—and knowledgeable. This was no ‘gift’. Lockmann was right: the inscription's directed at him—in a wavelength only he can read. Have you seen it?”

  Finlay looked at the photocopy in Hylton's hand. "Jesus!" he exclaimed. “No wonder the guy looked sick. That spidery handwriting doesn't help, either.”

  “Yeah,” Steven said grimly. “The personal touch. Any ideas who might have done it?”

  Finlay shook his head. “What I'd really like to know is why.”

  * * * *

  “Letter for you, Rick.” Johnson tossed him the envelope. “It's from your mother.”

  Rick smirked. “Thanks,” he said, sarcastically. “Why don't you just tell me what's in it, so I don't have to strain my eyes?”

  Johnson laughed—one of his deep booming laughs that always brought a smile to Rick's face. “What d'you think I am—nosy? I just wanted to make sure your mom wasn't some terrorist bomber—”

  “The terror part's right. You wait—one day she's going to come up here, just to make sure I can still function after ten years on my own. I'll give you a personal introduction.” He grinned. “She even scares Cole.”

  Johnson laughed again. “A woman Calloway can't handle, huh? Now, that's someone I have to meet.”

  Rick opened the flap. Inside was a length of shimmery silver thread. Rick pulled out the string to look at it. It was beautiful, of some shiny, almost holographic material. He'd never seen anything like it before. “Nice thread, Mom,” he muttered, confused. He quickly scanned what his mother had said.

  "A letter came today, Rick. I think it's some kind of chain letter. Anyway—I hate to do this to you, and I'm normally not superstitious—"

  “Yeah, right, Mom.” He grinned. As he read on, his smile faded.

  "It was really horrible. It referred to this string as the ‘thread of life’. It said not to break the chain, because it would put my child at risk. That I had to send it to you, or risk the chance of the thread becoming detached from the body. Horrible stuff, and your dad is furious with me for wanting to send it to you. I know this is stupid, Son, but being your mother, I couldn't not do it, if you know what I mean. Just in case."

  “I'm sorry, Richard, but since you don't have any kids yet (that you'd have to send it on to), I let my superstition get the better of me.”

  “The other thing I was supposed to tell you (according to the letter), is CHAKRAS. The ‘Fated Ones’ will supposedly know what that means. And one end of the silver thread had to be glued to the word.”

  “You're probably laughing at my foolishness, and I know you think I'm gullible for going along with something like this. Who comes up with these things?

  I'll write you a decent letter tomorrow. I didn't want to include it with this one (I think you can guess why). As your mother, I'm ordering you to stick this in the rubbish ASAP. Or, even better—burn it. I've heard burning is the best way to get rid of stuff like this—that's not quite right.

  “Love, Mom

  PS If you're angry with me, call. If you're not, but just think I'm stupid, keep it to yourself."

  Rick stood there blankly, staring at the silver thread, which was hooked—by a big glob of shimmery glue—to a giant “CHAKRAS” written in bold across a sheet of plain white paper. His mom had done a thorough job, that was sure. Not taking any chances that her son's thread of life was going to be snuffed out.

  Well, the “Fated One” knew what it was, all right. Chakras, the Hindu wheel, that acts as the spiritual centre. The silver thread was that gossamer linkage between the living body, and the extant soul. The soul that was no longer trapped within the boundaries of flesh, but anchored to it by a silver cord.

  Like the nebulous umbilicus Caroline Denaro had used to snag her prey.

  Johnson was staring at him. All traces of laughter were gone, as he watched Rick run his fingers along the silver string. “What's wrong, Rick?” he asked seriously.

  Rick's eyes were dark and unreadable. “Someone got to my parents,” he said. “This little package?” he said, looking at the envelope. “It was a bomb,” he added grimly, “and I think it just went off in my face.”

  * * * *

  “That's all he said,” Johnson told Hylton. “Then he just dropped it on the floor, walked into his bedroom, and closed the door.” He handed it to Hylton. “I took a look at it, but it just sounds like a bunch of gibberish to me. I think maybe it got to him, because it was from his mother.”

  The last was said with a trace of sympathy, and Hylton hide to fight to suppress his amusement. Damn Lockmann's hide! He'd have Hylton's operatives working for him before he got through.

  Steven pulled out the thread and studied it, frowning now. It stirred a memory, and he tried to remember where he'd seen a reference to a silver cord, and the word Chakras. Suddenly, he had it—the book. The book that had been
left on Lockmann's table.

  The book had held nearly as much aversion for him as it had for Richard Lockmann. Even the smell had reminded him of Denaro. The mouldiness had a “fleshy” aspect to it that was reminiscent of Denaro's scent, though he didn't know if he was making the leap because so much else in the book reminded him of Denaro, too. He'd forced himself to look through it, because someone had put it in Lockmann's house for a reason.

  Part of that reason was obviously psychological pressure. Hitting the mutant in some of his most vulnerable areas: his encounters with Denaro, his relationship with his parents. The last was particularly disturbing. Richard Lockmann had very little that was truly stable in his life. His parents had no idea what had happened to him, and Steven suspected that Rick kept the solidarity of their relationship at the back of his mind.

  Hell, I do it myself. My parents would be horrified if they knew what I really did for a living.

  By initiating this last “assault” in his mother's hand, their adversary was jiggling the cornerstones of Lockmann's stability. It as good as said there was no true security for him. Not in his own home, nor in the place he'd grown up. Steven was surprised at the pity he felt.

  Now, he's doing it to me. Steven frowned, and forced himself to concentrate on the letter and Lockmann's reaction. He'd be willing to bet a day's wages that Lockmann already knew what the word and thread meant.

  “Maybe Rick and I need to have a talk,” he told Johnson. If the two events were related, something serious was going on.

  “Good luck,” Johnson told him, amusement back in his voice. “I have a feeling you can talk to him all you want, Mr. Hylton, but I'd be willing to bet—” Steven looked slightly surprised as Johnson echoed his thoughts, “—he's not going to do much talking back. And if he brings it up, you can guess that it's not what's really bothering him.”

  Steven leaned back in the chair and sighed. His eyes met Johnson's, and he gave a wry smile. “Then maybe I'd better use someone with a real grasp of subtlety. Someone with finesse, and a facile mind.”

  Johnson chuckled. “Someone who'll grab Lockmann by the balls and squeeze the truth out of him, just because he figures it's what's best for the poor bastard.”

  “You guessed it.” He handed the plastic bag with the letter back to Johnson. “Have this analysed. That'll give me a few minutes to prepare myself. Then—” he shook his head in regret, “—send me Cole Calloway.”

  * * * *

  Cole breezed into Rick's house. "Hey, Rick!" he yelled. He turned around, and saw Rick over by the bookshelves. Rick had his hands over his ears. “Oh, there you are!” Cole said cheerfully, and only slightly less loudly. “Heard you got some hate mail from your mom.”

  “Word gets around.”

  “Hey, better you than me. If it's any consolation, she doesn't write me any more. She asked me what I was doing, to keep busy, and I actually told her.” He grinned widely. “I don't think she really wanted to know.” He considered it for a moment.

  Rick smiled. “You're a bad influence. Fast cars, fast women, wine, and—”

  “Just don't say ‘wine, women, and song’. I don't sing. Though, I will, the next time your mom comes visiting.”

  “Spare her. She'll have enough to cope with when she sees me.” Rick hid his nose back in a journal.

  “Tell Uncle Cole all about it. Hylton told me there was all kinds of metaphysical shit in the envelope, like it was airmail from Denaro.”

  Rick frowned. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “So?” Cole put his feet up on the coffee table. “Stevie-boy wants me to find out how much it's bothering you. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. Why doesn't he just ask you himself?” He snorted. “He thinks he's so damn sly.”

  Rick was grinning now. “He knows I won't tell him. So, he's using you instead—figuring you'll either get me to spill my guts, or nag me to death. Either way it'll save him a lot of trouble.”

  Cole looked momentarily upset. “Is that how everyone thinks of me?” he asked, a little more quietly.

  Rick was instantly contrite. “Of course not, Cole. He just knows you're a friend of mine—”

  Cole was laughing now. “Gotcha. Now that you're feeling all sorry for me, go ahead and spill your guts. I promise I'll mop ‘em up afterwards.”

  “Did he tell you about the book?”

  Cole looked blank. “What book?”

  Rick stood up and began to pace erratically. “So, he sends you over here—”

  “Hey—I object to that, Dr. Dung. I came over because I wanted to. I wouldn't sell you out to Hylton.”

  Rick flashed him a smile. “I know, Cole.” His crystalline eyes were worried. “The letter had some references to out-of-body experiences—and—and paraphernalia.” He hesitated. “I'm not really going over the edge,” he said, grinning. “It just took me by surprise.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cole had known Rick too long to be fooled by a forced smile. His own expression sobered. “Thanks for the load of bullshit. What's this about a book?”

  “It came a couple of days ago. I got back, and it was sitting here. Same topic.”

  Cole exploded. “They let someone get in here? What kind of goddamn bodyguards are they, anyway?!” He stood up. “Thanks, Rick—I'll take care of this now. I'm going to have a few choice words with Mr. Bullshit Crap Hylton!” He gave Rick a perfunctory pat on the back, that nearly toppled him on to the floor, then stomped angrily out of the house.

  Rick stood there staring at the doorway long after he'd gone. Leave it to Cole to focus on the part that should have been bothering him, instead of the part that actually was.

  He smiled. Cole was right. It was all a matter of focus. What he should have been worried about was the fact that someone was trying to get to him, instead of the means they were using. Because, by reacting the way he had been, he was doing just what they wanted.

  Rick closed the journal and glanced out at the afternoon sunlight. Grinning widely, he headed for the door. It was a great day, and he'd been letting too many shadows haunt his life lately. Humming off-key, he strolled outside to catch some rays.

  * * * *

  “Off to work, Doctor Dung?”

  Rick had opened his mouth to say, “Hi, Dave,” and for a second, it just hung open. "Doctor Dung?" he repeated. “Where'd you hear that one?”

  “From Calloway. He said everyone calls you ‘Rick’, but ‘Doctor Dung's’ actually your nickname. The one you prefer.” Geraldo said it seriously, but when Rick glanced at him, he was grinning.

  Rick burst out laughing. “I'm gonna kill him,” he said. “Did he tell everyone?”

  “Let me put it this way,” Dave said. “This morning, we all had e-mails—supposedly from Hylton—directing us to call you by your nickname. As a kind of morale booster for you.”

  “What did he tell you to call Hylton?”

  “You know him pretty well, don't you?” Dave said. “We're to call him ‘Stefan’—only pronounced steh—fawn. There was a big accent on the ‘fawn’ part. A few people fell for it, and Hylton's livid. He can't prove it was Calloway, either, or he'd dismantle him. He somehow found a way in around the system.”

  Rick grinned. “It's Cole, all right. That kind of joke has his signature all over it. He probably stayed up half the night, cracking codes to weasel his way into your system.”

  “Hylton can't accuse him outright, and I don't think he wants to believe Calloway is that smart. With a sense of humour like that, he feels safer thinking Calloway's not involved.”

  When they got to Entadyne, Dave prepared to spend his time in the lobby.

  “Come on up, Dave,” Rick suggested. “I don't know if I'm any less boring than the wallpaper down here, but at least I'm in motion.”

  “Any dung up there?”

  Rick grinned. “Shovel loads. You can help me haul it.”

  Dave was still smiling when they reached the lab. Usually the DSO people waited for Rick down in the vestibule, where they could wa
tch all activity coming or going. It raised fewer questions, and it gave Lockmann some time to himself. Today, though, besides the usual two, there was a third person on watch. It made it not only appropriate, but advisable, to accompany Rick to his lab. Especially with the way so much of their security had been circumvented lately.

  Dave didn't say anything to Rick, but he knew the real reason Hylton was shitting bricks was the further breakdown of security—of someone getting into, and manipulating—their communications network. By itself it might have been a prank, but with the other incidents taking place in Lockmann's house it seemed to indicate that all of their security measures were in jeopardy. What Calloway may have intended as a morale-building joke might end up with his friend Lockmann incarcerated in some safe facility.

  Dave had been a little surprised when Rick invited him up to the lab. But, then he thought about it: if he were in Lockmann's shoes, he'd want a squad of armed defenders watching his back. And, he admitted, I'd raise hell if I didn't get it.

  He smiled. All Lockmann had requested was company—and it wasn't because he was stupidly naive, or unaware of the danger. No, Rick was nervous, and more than a little edgy. He did a good job of hiding it, but Geraldo had known him long enough to see beyond the eruptive speed that propelled him, to his almost jerky movements whenever a loud noise, or an unexpected movement, caught his attention.

  Either the guy had a lot of faith in himself, or he had more trust in his defenders than they deserved, if their recent performance was any example. Or, most likely, Lockmann just realised they were doing the best they could, while letting him retain some kind of a life.