“But, I—” he started to argue.
Her voice was firm. “Consider it mandatory.” Then, she smiled, which did a lot to set his mind at ease. “This is my payback for bailing you out of that dumpster.” She went out the door, then poked her head back in to add, “This time, Dr. Stratton, bring a change of clothes.”
* * * *
For the first time in days, things were starting to come back into perspective. Rick looked at his friends and grinned—glad to have them there. With Cole's arrival, especially, all the tension in the room seemed to evaporate.
“What's her name, Cole?” Jace leaned back against the sofa cushions, and put a foot up on Rick's coffee table. “Haven't seen much of you the last few days.”
“What are you talking about, Jace? You saw me yesterday.” Cole grinned. “People can never get enough of me,” he told Rick. “It must be my effervescent personality.”
Jace forced a smile. “I guess I forgot.”
Cole smiled at the slur, and only Rick saw the trace of confusion in Jason's eyes. Jace really had forgotten, and even now, Rick knew he was struggling to remember. For a moment, Rick's crystalline eyes darkened in concern.
Then, he decided he was making too much of his friend's forgetfulness. After all, when I'm busy, I forget everything from appointments, to where I put my car keys. Jace was probably not only busy, but overworked, as usual. Rick booted his leg. “Hey, show some respect for the furniture.”
Jace looked startled, and yanked his foot off the table. Rick plopped down in the chair opposite him and put both his feet in the spot Jason had just vacated. “It's two feet, or nothing. You'll knock it out of balance.” He demonstrated by jiggling the table back and forth. Then he grinned. “Gotcha.” Rick stared at Jace for a minute, noting how exhausted—and yeah, just plain sick—he looked. His unique colour vision picked up a weird flush to Jace's complexion. “You okay, Jace?” he asked quietly.
“Yeah. Fine,” Jason said. “Just a migraine.”
“No women this time. I'm conserving my energy,” Cole told them.
The “women” brought a smile to Rick's face. With Cole, the noun was usually plural.
Cole was obviously waiting for one of them to ask him what he was saving his energy for. When they didn't, he said casually, “I've been working out.”
Rick's eyebrows shot up. “Working out?”
“Yeah. I got to thinking about how easily Simon climbed those stairs the day we got shot—and how he's been working out now, to get the stiffness out of his shoulder.” Cole grinned. “I've joined two gyms, and—” he leaned back in the chair, and laced his fingers behind his head, then said smugly, “—I'm learning karate and kung fu.” After giving it a moment to sink in, he sat forward excitedly. “Remember that old TV show, where the monk goes all over the Old West with his kung fu—”
A flicker of movement in the doorway caught his eye. Simon had joined them. He stood there with a pained expression on his face. “I suppose I should be glad you admire me so much, but somehow, all that comes to mind is, ‘what the hell have I done?’”
“Hi, Simon,” Rick said, somewhat absently. He was still trying to work out the connection between the monk and Cole's kung fu lessons. “Are you going for the ‘monk’ bit, too?” Rick asked in disbelief.
“Are you crazy? I gave myself three days off, to see if it'd enhance my strength. But my phone's already ringing off the wall. All the ladies want to see my bullet wound—or maybe it's just my pistol they admire.” He grinned, a little smugly.
Simon grunted. “More like they want to check if the hole's actually in your head. You haven't been telling them where you picked up your little injury, have you?”
“Hey—discretion's my middle name. ‘Simon the Spy’ isn't the only one around here who can be sneaky.” Cole gave him a dirty look. “As for that other thing—”
Simon looked momentarily blank as he tried to figure out what the “other thing” was.
“—I didn't say I admired you,” Cole snorted disparagingly. “Only that it must have taken one hell of a good gym to get you into shape.” He added, “Having such lousy material to start with.”
“Cole,” Simon said, and the way he said it drew all eyes. For a moment there, Simon looked dangerous, and Cole flinched. “When you're ready to try out your ‘kung fu’, just let me know.” He ruined it in the next second by grinning.
Cole sighed. “For a moment there, Kerrington, I thought you meant it. I was ready to drape my black belt around your over-sized ego.” He glanced at Jace. “You're quiet tonight. What d'you think? Want to join my karate class?”
Jace's smile was strained. “I'll think about it.” He stood up. “I've gotta go.”
“Think hard. With everyone and their mother interested in Rickardo here, I think a little ‘hi-yuh’ might come in handy.” He turned to Simon. “What do you think my chances are of joining the DSO?”
“I think Hylton said something about needing a janitor or an office-person. Want me to ask him?”
“Very funny. Is the bastard on speaking terms with you again?”
“Only because he can't help it. I'm the ‘Rick’ connection.”
“Spare me,” Rick said dryly.
“Gladly. By the way, he sent you these.” Simon pulled a small box out of his pocket and chucked it to Rick.
“Contact lenses?”
“Steven Hylton sent them with an apology. He said they'd help you look more ‘normal’.”
Rick unscrewed one side and peered at the lens closely. “Are they equipped with tracking devices or something?”
“Not the lenses, but I'd lose the case if I were you,” Simon told him seriously.
“See! That's what I mean!” Cole jumped up and began to pace around Rick's furniture. “It's just so fuckin’ cool!” He took the contact lens case out of Rick's hand and held it up to the light. “I mean—think about it! A ‘tracking device’ built into something like this—and you all just take it in your stride.” He grinned. “I'm really beginning to think I've found my niche!”
* * * *
“What's wrong with Jace?” Rick looked expectantly at Simon.
Simon shook his head. “He seemed a little tired.”
“So, he was a little quiet,” Cole said, almost defensively. The last thing he wanted was for anything more to go wrong, now that their lives were starting to get back to normal. “Maybe he's been working a lot of late shifts.”
“It can't be work,” Simon said thoughtfully. “He told me he wasn't getting much of a paycheque this time. He's missed a lot of days.”
Rick's crystalline eyes were worried. “How's Rutgers doing?”
“The anti-serum from your blood seems to have worked. He has nearly full mobility back in his legs, too.”
Rick nodded, but his mind was still on Jace. “So the anti-serum works?”
“Apparently.” Simon said sharply, “Rick, you don't think Jace—”
Rick refused to look at him. He didn't know whether the horrifying thought that had just sprung into his head was the result of his own fears, or whether he recognised something in Jace that he'd once seen in himself. He said quietly, “Jace was the only one with subcutaneous contact, at a time when I might have been contagious. He gave me mouth-to-mouth. Remember?”
Cole looked ready to explode. "Are you saying what I think you are?! That Jace might have WTV?!"
“He's sick, Cole,” Rick said quickly. “If it's WTV, I damn well want to make sure we can do something about it.” He stood up. “In the meantime, though, I'm going to make sure he gets home all right.”
Simon stopped him at the doorway. “Not you—me. If you go out right now, you'll pull a lot of people out of their beds.”
Rick nodded, but he was still worried. He said quietly to Simon, “I just don't want anybody telling Hylton yet. Not until we know.”
“Don't worry, Rick. I'll take care of it.”
Cole's agitated pacing was interspersed with angry kicks
at Rick's already worn furniture. Rick looked pained, but said nothing. He knew how Cole felt—he wanted to boot something himself.
Simon was also watching Cole. The firm kicks to Rick's sofa showed he'd learned something from his karate lessons. A few more blows and the couch would be as lopsided as the table. Simon cleared his throat. He wondered when Cole's pacing was going to take him right out the door. He decided to leave, before Cole beat him to it.
Too late. “I'll go after him,” Cole said firmly. “And if there's something wrong with him, he damn well better tell me.”
Rick grabbed his arm. “Wait, Cole!” He looked pointedly at Simon, his expression saying, Do something to stop him. It was obvious Jace was already worried. The last thing he needed was for Cole to descend on him, demanding explanations. “Is someone already tailing Jace?” he asked, a little desperately.
Simon looked down at the floor, to hide the amusement in his eyes. His next words were calculated to distract. “Finlay.” Simon glanced at Cole, and this time he made no effort to hide the trace of humour. “He had a choice between Jace or Cole, and he begged for Jace. Your stinky bedpan must have made quite an impression.”
The distraction worked. “You mean someone's following me, too?” Cole asked, pleased that he was considered important enough to merit a “shadow", but disgruntled because he'd failed to notice.
“Geraldo has you.” Simon pulled out his keys. He told them both, “Jace has an appointment with Sheryl Matthews tomorrow. Maybe it's not business.”
“Can you make sure he gets there?” Rick asked.
Simon nodded, then smiled coolly. “I have my ways. He'll go—kicking and screaming, if that's what it takes.” He added, “I'll call you if I need you, Cole.” Simon explained to Rick, “Some of us have lots of experience dealing with people who don't know what's good for them.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “Tell me about it.” Rick looked embarrassed, and Cole gave him a good-natured shove.
After Simon had left, Cole asked in amazement, “How does he know all that shit? About people tailing us, and Jace's appointments and all?”
“Your job involves a lot of computer work, Cole. Simon's involves knowing a helluva lot about a helluva lot of different people.”
* * * *
Simon drove fast enough to beat Jace home. He stood there in the shadows, watching as Jason walked up the block toward the set of rundown apartments he called home. Spying Finlay across the street, Simon waved him away—letting him know he could take a break.
Jason was wobbly on his feet, but when he stumbled, Simon was there to help him. “What are you doing here?” Jace asked in astonishment.
“Helping out a friend,” Simon said. “It's no more than you would have done,” he admitted. “In fact, it's no more than you already have.” He didn't say any more until Jason had opened the door. Then he asked, “Want to talk about it?”
Jason shook his head. “I'd feel ridiculous right now, Simon. Wait till tomorrow.”
Simon nodded, but put an object into Jason's hand. “Keep it by your pillow. If you have a problem, push the button. It'll scream loud enough to wake the dead. I guarantee you'll get some help—in a hurry.”
Jason nodded, too sick and exhausted to argue about having someone keeping watch on him. “Thanks, Simon. G'night.” He turned and went into the apartment, to stumble over and flop on the bed.
Simon stood there a moment longer, a frown on his face. Rick had been right—Jason was sick. He hoped Rick wasn't right about the cause.
Simon put his hands in his pockets, and went slowly down the steps. Then, he went over to Finlay, to warn him that tonight, it would be a lot better to be a pair of ears than an unseen pair of eyes.
* * * *
“Okay, Dr. Stratton. Tell me all about it.”
Jason nodded. He was quiet for a minute, then the words just tumbled out. “It's been six weeks since I tried to resuscitate Rick, and I've been feeling sick for the last two.” He looked up and met her eyes. “At first I thought it was a cold, or maybe the flu, but now I'm not so sure.”
She was slightly shocked, but didn't let it show. Of all the revelations he could have made, this was the one she least wanted to hear. Despite their differences, she liked Jason Stratton. Sheryl's face reflected some of her concern. “You think he was contagious?”
Jason shrugged. “I don't know. He wasn't a few days later, but—” He bent over and put his head in his hands. “It's why I've been taking so much time off. I don't want to infect anyone else.” He added, “At the same time, I feel like a fool for even worrying about it.”
Sheryl felt a surge of affection and compassion run through her. He must have been through hell worrying about this, but his primary concern had still been his patients. “Jace, if there's even the smallest chance it could be related, then it's worth worrying about.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “What are your symptoms?”
She was his supervisor, and it was her job to notice problems in her staff. He'd been sick for two weeks, and she'd barely given him a cursory glance. I've failed him, she thought.
“Fever, headache, sore throat, swollen glands,” Jace told her. “Now you can add vomiting. That started a week ago.” He sighed. “It could be any of a dozen things, from glandular fever to some form of leukaemia.”
She studied him for a minute, noting the way he refused to meet her eyes. “What else?”
He was quiet for a minute, and she knew it went beyond embarrassment. Jace was afraid.
Who can blame him? she thought. After what his friend went through? “Is there something else you're not telling me, Jason?” she prompted.
He nodded. “I think I've been blacking out.”
“Passing out?” Jesus! Have I been blind?!
He sighed, remembering the night of the lightning storm. “Sometimes it's that. The rest—it's more like I find myself somewhere, and I don't know how it happened—or I forget things I've done.”
“Any blows to the head? History of epilepsy?”
“No, and no. The last time I hit my head was on the side of a dumpster.” He gave her a trace of a smile.
She could have cried. “But this just came on recently, you said.”
Jason nodded. “The last two weeks.”
“Did you run any blood tests?”
Jace gave her a wry smile. “Are you kidding? That would be like admitting something was wrong.”
“Typical.” She smiled, and forced herself to look calm. “Okay, Jace, get your clothes off and get into a gown.”
“I go on duty at eleven.”
She shook her head. “And have you keel over on to one of your patients?” She smiled. “Not a chance.”
Sheryl saw the look of relief on his face, and realised how hard it had been for him to keep up the charade. At this point, all Jason Stratton really wanted was his bed.
“Sheryl?” he said.
“What, Jace?”
“Thanks—for noticing.”
She did something then that she rarely did with any of her staff. She put her arms around him and gave him a quick hug. As she pulled back, she saw his slightly shocked expression and grinned. She told him, “Thanks—for not saying the obvious: that if I hadn't been so goddamned blind, I might have noticed a whole helluva lot sooner.”
Chapter Six
When Sheryl Matthews came out of her office, Richard Lockmann and Simon Kerrington were waiting for her.
“What is this?” Sheryl asked, somewhat irritably. “A convention?”
Rick smiled at her. “Something like that. Is Jace okay?”
She looked at him shrewdly. “So you've noticed, too.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Only recently,” he admitted.
She nodded. “Tell me how you're doing first.” She tried to invest some warmth into the question, but Rick wasn't fooled. It came out sounding like something between a perfunctory inquiry and an unpleasant social platitude. Whatever dislike she harboured for him,
it had just been magnified by Jason's illness.
Sheryl Matthews had seen a lot of Rick during the last six weeks. Somehow—and she still wasn't sure exactly how it had happened—she'd been designated his personal physician, with Jace as her assistant. Part of it had been due, she realised, to Jason's intense commitment to his friend's survival. She was Jason Stratton's supervisor, which brought her into this—whether she liked it or not. And even though Jace had spent more time with Lockmann than she had, it was her opinion and signature they wanted on the paperwork.
It had bothered her to confine her skills to such a narrow field—and one which she'd believed was unlikely to be manifested in any other patients. It'd seemed like a waste of her training to “specialise” in something that was so singular, when she could help so many more people if she could expand her patient base more. Richard Lockmann might be a nice guy, but his case was demanding, and time-consuming. Her patient load had gradually decreased, as her contact time with Lockmann, and the paperwork his case necessitated, had increased. She'd never signed on to be a paper jockey. Sheryl tried not to let her resentment show, but sometimes she had trouble hiding it.
Each time she was tempted to turn him over to someone else, though, she experienced a strong sense of guilt. Jason was good, but too inexperienced to handle something like this. And, she had a feeling that it was only her willingness—and expertise—that kept Lockmann out of more impersonal hands. She'd already been “informed” by Steven Hylton that if anything seemed beyond her capabilities, help would be only a phone call away. Sometimes she wondered if she'd even need the phone call. She shrugged the thought away. That way lay paranoia.
At least, Lockmann was somewhat familiar with his own condition. A lot of his problems had to do with the integration of foreign proteins and enzymes into some kind of balance, to form a functioning whole. In this they could work as a team. Lockmann knew a lot about plant physiology, but not much about his own. Sheryl and Jace filled in the gaps.
There were still a lot of unexpected problems, particularly with his sugar balance. During the last six weeks, he'd been re-admitted five times—three of them in a coma. Once, she'd jokingly said he should take a permanent room. The near-despair in Richard Lockmann's eyes had made her realise that—to him—incarceration was no joke.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 8
