It also made her realise how close he was to undergoing just such a fate. Lockmann's “freedom” was on a tight lead. Hylton's job would be a lot easier if this mutant was under minute-to-minute observation, in a controlled environment. “Controlled” would mean both out of public view, and out of the reach of interested parties. In other words, Lockmann would no longer have a life, except the one they manufactured for him.
If Lockmann's mutation had weakened him, distorted him, or limited his functioning, Sheryl suspected Hylton wouldn't have had nearly this much interest. Despite his metabolic ups-and-downs, the hybrid being that was Richard Lockmann also possessed a lot of pluses—and Sheryl was certain Hylton had already considered ways the DSO could take advantage of Lockmann's “talents".
She'd been told that for the last six weeks DSO researchers had been trying to map the course of Lockmann's transition, by simulating the changes to his physiology with computer models. They'd barely scratched the surface. It was going to take years to figure out how he'd “evolved” into his present form.
Hylton had additional concerns: Lockmann's evolution had been a little too successful for comfort. Not only had he survived the massive change, but he was now nearly fully autotrophic, yet still basically human. His existence might well be enough to encourage further experiments in a similar vein. Sheryl Matthews didn't know exactly what had transpired at Genetechnic, but whatever it was had been enough to instil horror in more than one visitor. Hylton would go a long way to prevent it from happening again.
“Great.”
“What?”
“You asked me how I was. I'm doing fine.”
“What happened to your eyes?”
“Contact lenses. They make me look almost human.” He gave a wry smile.
“Do they affect your vision?”
“They seem to filter some of the light. Who knows? It might even help my concentration.” He grinned at her. “Nice try, Dr. Matthews,” he said. “But my concentration doesn't want to be deflected from Jace at the moment. How is he?”
“I'm hospitalising him. In Isolation.”
Simon's swift intake of breath didn't go unnoticed. She looked at him. “That's right, Mr. Kerrington. It might be something else entirely, but this is one time Hylton should be informed.” She looked unhappy. “If this is WTV, I want some expert help.”
“You've got it.” Simon punched in the “1” on his phone, and spoke quietly to someone on the other end.
“I'm staying here, Sheryl,” Rick told her. “You might need me. In the meantime, though, I'd like to keep Jace company.”
She nodded. “He's resting on the couch.” She grabbed his arm. “Rick, I didn't tell him I was going to isolate him—only that I thought we should hospitalise him.”
Rick gave her a small smile. “I'll handle it,” he said.
She sighed, but this time there was warmth in her smile. “Thanks.”
Simon snapped the phone shut and headed for the elevator.
“Where are you going?” she asked. She knew it was none of her business, but she'd assumed he'd want to stay.
“There's a virologist who knows almost as much about this as Rick,” he told her. “I'm going to get him.” He glanced at his watch. “Tell them it'll take a couple of hours, but I'll be back.”
Sheryl looked doubtful. “Is this ‘virologist’ from Genetechnic?” she asked cautiously.
“Only in a rudimentary capacity. But that's not why he knows so much about WTV,” he admitted. “Phillip Rutgers came down with it. After that night at Genetechnic. With Rick's help, he survived.” Simon hesitated, then asked her, “Could you ask Rick to ring Cole? You can tell both of them where I've gone.” She could see the smile in his eyes as he added, “If Steven Hylton asks, though—I left, and you don't know where.”
* * * *
Cole snorted. “'I've seen the disease manifestations’,” he mimicked angrily. “You haven't seen anything!”
Sheryl Matthews was angry, too. “Maybe I didn't see this man Rutgers’ symptoms, but if they were anything like Dr. Lockmann's—”
“Dr. Dung's symptoms were nothing!”
Rick turned away to hide his amusement. Cole was riled up now, and throwing Rick's Ph.D. in his face hadn't helped.
“I've arranged a special little showing for you,” Cole went on. “I call it the ‘Caroline Denaro Happy Hour’. That's because, after seeing her in action, I always feel like I need a drink. Watch this for a while, Doctor, and you'll know why we're so worried!”
Rick asked him, “Did you hack into Genetechnic for this stuff?”
Cole nodded. “Yeah. They're a mess over there.”
Sheryl picked up the phone, and Rick knew she was about to ring Security. In a blink of the eye, he had the phone out of her hand and back on the hook. She was stunned. She hadn't realised he—or anyone, for that matter—could move that fast. “It's best that you see this, Dr. Matthews,” Rick said quietly. "Please."
She nodded grudgingly. “All right.” It wasn't his words that got to her—it was the pleading look in his eyes. She hadn't seen Jason's illness, even though it was right in front of her face. Her regret made her a lot more susceptible to the reactions of Jason's friends—even Richard Lockmann.
She glanced at Cole. If he did “hack” into Genetechnic, he'd gone to a lot of trouble to get these pictures. He must have considered them pretty important. She sat down. “What? No popcorn?” she asked.
The first of the pictures came up on the monitor. Rick took one look and turned away. He sank into a chair on the far side of the room, lost in the darkness of his memories. The next thing he knew, Simon's hand was on his shoulder. “Rick?” he asked, concerned.
Rick forced a smile. He waved a shaky hand toward Cole and Sheryl. Cole looked as grim as Simon had ever seen him, and Sheryl Matthews was staring in horror at the computer screen, tears rolling unchecked down her face. “Denaro,” Rick said simply, unable to suppress a shudder. “She needed to see it.”
Simon nodded. “Why don't you go out in the hall, Rick? There's someone who'd like to see you.”
“Rutgers?”
“Yep.”
Simon went over to stand behind Sheryl's chair. The tension was so thick that it felt like one of Cole's lightning storms was brewing. As Simon saw Denaro flash across the screen, the thought was reinforced. Preceding a lightning strike, your hair often rose, too, to stand on end. With all the gooseflesh crawling on his skin, Simon felt like his hair was not only rising, but doing a dance.
Time to break their concentration. Denaro had already gotten all the attention she deserved. “This come from Genetechnic?” Simon asked Cole.
Cole nodded, but he was still staring at the screen. “Their Security's a little loose right now.”
Simon was genuinely surprised. “I knew you were good, Calloway,” he said, a trace of admiration in his voice. “But not this good.”
Cole glanced at Simon, startled. “'Good’?” he repeated. “I don't get it.”
Hylton came in without knocking. “Kerrington!” he said angrily. “What do you think you're doing?! What's Rutgers doing here?”
“Look at this,” Simon said.
Hylton took a look at the doctor's expression, and abandoned his argument. He came around the desk, and glanced at the monitor. His face tensed, and he asked hoarsely, “How did you get this, Kerrington?”
Simon nodded at Cole. “Ask Mr. Super-Hacker here.”
“Calloway did this?” Hylton asked, in disbelief. It was obvious Hylton had thought of him as a buffoon.
“Yeah,” Cole said angrily. “Calloway did this.” He pushed a few keys on the terminal and the image disappeared. Then, he stalked toward the door.
“Oops!” Simon muttered. “You should learn to control your facial expressions, Steven,” he remarked. It was one of the first things Hylton had taught him.
“Shut up!” Hylton said with some asperity. “Calloway!” he called to the man, as he was about to close the
door.
Cole pulled it shut with a decisive click.
Simon put a hand on Hylton's shoulder. “I'll talk with him, Hylton. I'm sure he'll come around.” He was grinning as he followed Cole out the door.
Cole was waiting for him. He was still smarting over Hylton's reaction. “I hate that guy,” he told Simon.
“Then why do you want to work for him?” Simon asked.
Cole flashed an embarrassed grin. “I have been sort of pushing it, haven't I?”
Simon smiled back. “Sort of.” He sobered. “Seriously, Cole—think twice if Hylton approaches you with an offer.”
Cole looked doubtful. “Why the hell would he approach me? He hates my guts—besides thinking I'm some kind of half-wit.”
Simon shook his head. “Not after that little display you just gave.”
Cole snorted. “That? That was easy. We're talking games, here.” He considered it for a moment, looking slightly disillusioned. “If that's all it takes to impress the guy, he doesn't have very high standards.” He glanced at the closed door and shrugged. “I've got Denaro brain-drain,” he complained. “Let's talk about something else. What d'ya say we grab Rick and go outside for a little sun-fix?” He glanced over at Rick, and suddenly regretted that Rick had been in the room when he'd done his little display. Rick still had that shivery look, and his complexion had paled. “After seeing her again, he needs it.”
Simon nodded. “Rutgers is going to be wondering what we've done to him.”
Cole remarked, a little dully, “I thought I saw a thunderhead in the distance. Rick oughta be able to spot it better than we can.” Cole grinned. “It'll give Jace a reason to get well in a hurry.”
“'Get better, Jace, so we can fry your butt’.” Simon clapped Cole across the shoulder. Both of them knew Jace was too sick to care about lightning or anything else right now, but for once Simon didn't disparage Cole's optimism. “So if we don't die of melanoma, from hanging out with Rick the Sun-Worshipper, we're bound to be electrocuted by lightning.” He smiled wryly. “And I used to think guns were dangerous.”
“It's the excitement, Kerrington. You just can't live without it.”
Simon nodded, then sighed. “I hate to say this—and I know you'll make me regret it later—but, for the first time, you're probably right.”
* * * *
Sheryl Matthews sat there, so lost in her misery that she didn't even realise she was crying out loud. Some basic tenets of her existence had just been shaken, shattered, and ground to dust, and now she was trying to rebuild enough of herself to cope. In a world where God ruled—deciding births and deaths, terminal diseases and second chances—"in-your-body” meant you were still alive, and “out-of-your-body” meant you were gone—dead—terminated. The dead weren't able to maim, and they never actively sought to kill you. She wanted to dismiss everything she'd seen as some kind of raunchy fiction, except she knew most of the actors.
And they hadn't been acting. Sheryl had always thought that horror must be one of the hardest emotions to convey—simply because it carried with it an element of embarrassment, of humiliation—a betrayal of weakness in high-pitched screams, flying spit and tears, unleashed urine, and wide, white-rimmed eyes. Well, the people on the screen had shown no embarrassment—only abject terror. It had been bad enough at first, but the final scenes had shown people she knew, in moments of despair.
Cole had condensed the footage to scenes of Caroline Denaro in action. A Denaro who was no longer even a parody of a human being: a gooey, bloated mass of distorted flesh, that could no longer even elicit pity—only revulsion. At first, the people she was killing appeared to be Genetechnic employees, and then some who looked like mercenaries or security guards. Then, there must have been some gap in time, because suddenly Denaro was lying on the floor in some hallway. She was surrounded. Jace was there, and Simon; Steven Hylton and some of his people; and Richard Lockmann. Sheryl thought back to how grievously injured Rick had been when they'd brought him in. Jason hadn't given her much of an explanation—he'd merely said that Rick had suffered internal damage. Now, Sheryl didn't need one.
She watched as Denaro ripped into the people around her. Sheryl wanted to scream at her to stop, as blood and entrails went flying. Gashes and agonised screeches, groans and shrieks. Until Richard Lockmann pinned her down.
Never again would Sheryl look at Richard Lockmann the same way. He'd held that grotesque distortion of a human being in place—using the last of his strength to deflect hers. Held her until the blackness of her goddamned soul passed through him, and back where it belonged. The first moments of Sheryl's viewing had brought aversion—the last few held nauseating, mind-crunching images that she knew she'd never forget. Nor would she forget what Rick Lockmann had done for these others—despite what some of them had done to him.
Her tears went through a transition: horror, terror, confusion, remorse. It seemed like a long time before she could ground herself once more, and accept this new version of reality. Once accepted, it was just a small step to pity, to wonder what Jace must feel at facing this disease, knowing the grim spectre of Caroline Denaro that dwelt behind it. And to wonder how Richard Lockmann—with what he had seen—and felt—could still face her, and the others, with a smile. No wonder he'd withdrawn when Cole had rolled the tape: no one should have to live through that twice.
She no longer had any regrets over the “specialty” that had somehow ended up in her lap. Were her patient base larger, she might be able to save a few more lives—but Richard Lockmann had already saved more than his share. If there was anything she could do to help him, she was damn well going to give it a try.
* * * *
Steven Hylton was left staring at the closed door—the doctor sobbing softly at his back. Grimacing, he turned to look in her direction. Of all the things he had to do right now, this was at the bottom of the list. Denaro's missing body parts, the attacks on Lockmann that were undermining his security, and now Stratton's illness—with its potentially lethal outcome—the last thing he needed was to scrounge up some comforting platitudes for someone else. Sighing, he assumed a coolly detached expression, and went back over to the desk.
She wasn't looking for comfort. These were tears of regret. “I'm sorry—” Sheryl said. “I didn't know—and I was so goddamn self-righteous and sure of myself. I should have known there was more—”
“Too goddamn much more,” he muttered.
* * * *
She'd trained herself to pick up the subtle signs of desolation, of despair. The sigh that didn't belong, the unintentional grunt that revealed an unsuspected ache, the shaking voice that meant tears weren't far away. Signs of humanity, and weakness, that demanded a response. The response hadn't always been heartfelt, but she'd at least been a hand to cling to. Steven Hylton's comment only reminded her how much she'd failed Rick. The signs had all been there. Things that demanded a response. Only, in Richard Lockmann's case, she'd chosen not to give it.
She wondered if it'd been something worse. If she'd been guilty of some form a prejudice. If Lockmann's “mutant” status—or maybe his weird form of healing—had made her feel less of a doctor, and more of a mechanic: tinkering with his sugar imbalances the way someone might play with an out-of-time machine. Maybe even resenting him because he'd somehow come to terms with the lessening of his “Homo sapiens” status—to the extent that he actually derived enjoyment from some of the benefits it brought him: the energy surges, the speedy healing, the strength. The only other people she knew who'd undergone “mutations” to their bodies had suffered by it. The cancer victims, whose tumours could be said to be alterations to their genetic codes—the cancers that took over to become life-threatening—they usually spelled death, instead of life. It wasn't until now, when Richard Lockmann had looked ready to die at the sight of Denaro's vivid image on the screen, that she realised how much he fought the effect of his memories. His occasional reference—that had seemed so flippant at the time: “there but for the g
race of God go I—” The thought must riddle his dreams.
The tears threatened to flow again. Only the reminder of Steven Hylton's weariness kept her from indulging in the weakness she usually didn't permit herself. What she could sympathise with in others, she couldn't tolerate in herself. “Can I help?” she asked quietly.
* * * *
Her voice was stronger now, and he looked at her in surprise. Since day one, when Simon Kerrington had been admitted, he'd hardly spoken to her, except to issue orders or demand information. Hardly the makings of friendly interaction. He'd guessed that she was irritated and infuriated by his arrogance, but he hadn't had time to establish a friendly rapport with her. The last thing he expected now was a voluntary offer of help or consolation from her.
Maybe it's part of her training, he thought, and was instantly, and out-of-context resentful. If it was part, it had to be on the psychological side. He didn't like the thought of anyone trying to second-guess him or decipher his motives.
Besides, her attitude didn't gel with what he'd seen of her relationship with Lockmann. Her medical response had been—essentially—correct. He knew that because he'd double-checked it with a virologist—Dennis Rodrigal. But, her overall attitude had been cool; distant. Steven had actually been relieved by her reticence—the last thing he needed was another bleeding heart leaking all over Richard Lockmann. If the man ever needed to be moved to another facility, at least he wouldn't have to worry that Matthews would put up a fuss.
Until now.
His sigh had been like the rupture of a pressure relief valve on an overloaded system. The last thing he'd needed right now were visions of Denaro to rob him of more sleep—and remind him of the potential hazard this latest patient posed to them all. Hylton had already decided to have Jason Stratton moved to another location, where his isolation could be ensured. Kerrington had interfered by bringing Rutgers here. Now, Sheryl Matthews had seen Denaro, and her sympathies were flowing. There was no way he'd be able to remove Stratton without a battle. Steven sighed again.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 9
