“I don't want to assist with Lockmann any more,” Jason told her. He hadn't intended to blurt it out—but he couldn't suppress his resentment.
Sheryl frowned, but she could understand it. He'd been infected by Rick—and in his present mood, he probably felt he had to blame somebody. “I understand, Jason,” she said.
He knew she didn't, but he knew he couldn't elaborate without making her think he was abnormally resentful, or giving himself away. He nodded, then turned over on his side.
Sheryl felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was alienating himself from one of his closest friends, and was probably worried about whether he'd be able to operate at his former standard. She'd done what she could to reassure him, but he knew as well as she did that she couldn't really make him any promises.
In the end, she said nothing. She sat down on the chair by his bed, and gripped his hand. She held it until he was asleep once more. Then, she covered him up, gave his hand another squeeze, and walked slowly out of the room.
* * * *
“You're looking good,” Simon commented.
“Yeah.”
“Phil says the ‘therapy’ you received saved your ass.”
Jason frowned at him. “Maybe my ass shouldn't have been saved.”
“Okay,” Simon said. He pulled out his gun and laid it across his lap. “Do you want to do it, or should I?”
Jace thought he was joking—until he looked into Simon's face. What he saw there sent a chill down his backbone. In that moment, he could almost believe Simon meant it. "Jesus Christ, Simon!" he whispered.
“It seems to me,” Simon said quietly, “that you doctors do all kinds of damage in the name of healing—like slicing people up, and taking out their organs. Putting little boxes in their chests, and pins in their hips. Things like that.” He lifted the gun and stroked the cool metal surface. “It makes what I do—injecting a small piece of metal into some portion of the human body—seem minor. Yet who's considered the killer?” he asked musingly. “Sometimes both of our victims die. And sometimes they don't.” He looked up and met Jason's eyes. “Maybe you'd better decide whether you want to live or die,” he said seriously. “If it's ‘living’, then you might have to accept the fact that it took some ‘therapy’ to get you through this.” He stood up, replaced his gun in its underarm holster, and turned to go. “Good-bye, Jace. Let me know when you've made your decision.”
“Simon?”
Simon was at the door. He turned back to look at him. “Made our decision already, have we?” he asked coolly.
“Would you have done it?” Jace inquired solemnly.
Simon's smile held real warmth for the first time since he'd entered the room. “No,” he admitted. “But, then, I don't have Rick's guts.” He turned around and walked out the door.
* * * *
“Why'd they change Rick's room?” Cole asked angrily. “The nurse stopped me on the way in, but she wouldn't tell me where he was.”
“If you don't learn to control your temper, you're going to give yourself a stroke,” Simon told him coolly.
“Shut up, Spy-man.” He knew how much Simon hated the term.
“The window broke in his, Spy-man.”
Cole frowned. “How?” He considered it for a minute. “I'm not a Spy-man.”
“You worked on an operation for the DSO, didn't you?”
“Yeah—I guess I did.” He grinned. “And I gave you directions. Does that make me your boss?”
Simon ignored the jibe. “You wanna go work out? Do some karate?”
Cole started to nod enthusiastically, then leaned against the wall, his arms crossed and his look like thunder. “You've never wanted to work out with me before,” he said. “What are you not telling me?”
“You've never been trained enough before to offer me a challenge.”
“Uh-uh. I'll beat you to a pulp some other time. What's going on?”
“A freak event broke the window in Rick's room, so they moved him to another one.”
“What kind of ‘freak event’? A bullet?”
“No.”
“I hate it when you do your ‘I'm a sneaky bastard’ act. Can't you just give me a straight answer?”
“Okay. Try this one: it's no good trying to see Rick. He's out for the count, and they're restricting his visitors.”
“Why? What's happened?”
Simon had been wondering how to handle this. Cole was already having trouble adjusting to the changes in Rick. Would this alienate him further? He'd already more or less accused Rick of trying to centre attention on himself—of playing hero at everyone else's expense. This might be the detonator for another blast of TNT.
The problem was, if Cole walked away now, it would be exactly what Richard Lockmann expected—what he wanted. So he could exist—or not exist—without having to worry about how it was going to affect everyone else.
Maybe Cole needed it this way. Maybe he had to think the worst of Rick, in order to come to terms with Rick's problems. If Cole was going to remain Rick's friend, he'd need to accept what he was, and what he was capable of doing. Simon knew it was asking a lot. Rick, himself, was only partway there. But, he'd gotten stuck somewhere in the region of his conscience. It was only the acceptance of the people around him that would drag him out of the depths into which he'd sunk.
“Rick flipped out after you left. He broke the window with his fists.”
Cole snorted, and shook his head. “Bullshit! Sounds like drama to me.” His anger with Rick was still simmering, and now, illogically, the change of rooms just added to it.
“It didn't start out like that,” Simon said reasonably. “He did a lot of talking about us chopping him up, or burning him at the stake. He thought it was a good idea.”
“Rick's not like that—”
“Well, he says he's got ‘too much blood on his hands’. He was very reasonable about the whole thing. He didn't think it would be suicide—”
At that, Cole's head jerked up, and he said, “You didn't say anything about suicide!”
“Anyway, like I was saying, he didn't think it would be suicide, because that's human, and he's not.” Simon shook his head. “When he beat the glass out with his fists, I was taken by surprise, but I have to admit that what really got to me was when he was perched on the window sill. He warned me not to touch him—he thought it might make his decision for him.”
“I don't believe it!” But the denial sounded weak, even to his own ears. “Besides, he was running all over those ledges a few days ago.”
“Yep,” Simon said agreeably. “Let's go take in a movie, or get something to eat.”
“What else did he say?”
“Just a lot of dramatic rubbish, about sharing a genetic heritage with Denaro, putting his head on a pike to warn others—stuff like that.”
“He doesn't believe that—”
“You're probably right. Just don't say anything to Finlay or Johnson. They didn't realise it was just an act.”
“They were there?”
“Yeah. It was a packed performance. At least four stars’ worth.” Simon glanced at his watch. “You hungry yet?”
“Cut it out.”
“The last line was a clincher. Jamaal was almost weeping. It went something like: ‘I can live with their obliviousness, but I can't live with their hate’. Pretty good for an ad lib, huh? I think I'll tell him he should write it down—when Phil finally decides to wake him up.” He shrugged. “That's if Rick will see me, of course.”
Cole was still angry, but it wasn't directed at Rick any more. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Rutgers doesn't think Rick will want to see anybody. He's waiting to see if—when he's stronger—his outlook's a little more positive.”
“What about Hylton? What's he going to do?”
“Phil lied. He said it was the metal having a temporary effect on Rick's brain.”
“Maybe that's what happened.”
Simon snorted. “Sure, Cole.
Anyway, Phil says that if it happens again—when Rick's up to speed—no one's going to be able to stop him.” He smiled wryly. “I told Rick I'd never forgive him if he made me watch. So he probably won't let me in the room.”
“This is Rick we're talking about, Simon,” Cole said seriously. “He wouldn't really have done it, would he?”
Simon refused to give him the reassurance he wanted. Cole had to see it like it was. He sighed. “Yeah, Cole, I think he would.” He gave a wry smile. “The only thing that stopped him was because nobody agreed to share his remains with the world. He had some idea that if they parted him out, they could use his bits to feed millions or something—”
Cole sank down in a chair. "Jesus!" he muttered.
“Think of all that's happened to him, Cole,” Simon said. “Phillip called it ‘delayed trauma’. He said he's been expecting something like this.” Simon frowned. “The problem is, someone's got to teach Rick to live with himself. The biggest thing I got from all this was how much he hates what he's become.” Simon put a hand on Cole's shoulder. “Apparently, he was barely tolerating the ‘new Rick’ until he did that thing with Jace. The weird part is, half of him agrees with you, and your assessment. He's begun to think of himself as a monster.”
“Is it my fault?”
Simon shook his head. “Nope. You're just good at bringing things out in the open, Cole. Rutgers said this would've happened sooner or later. He feels bad because he didn't warn us. He just didn't think it would do Rick any good for us to be watching him, waiting for him to crack.”
“Can you show me where he is?”
Simon looked hesitant. Cole might be good at bringing things out in the open, but now Rick needed them sealed, so he could heal.
“I'll find him myself, if you don't.”
Simon nodded. “If you're a good boy,” he said, “I might see if they'll let you in.”
“They can just try and stop me—” Cole said, with a trace of his old anger.
Simon just shook his head, and led Cole down the hall.
* * * *
“What did he do to his hands?” Cole looked at the heavy bandaging that went halfway up Rick's arms.
“Pounded them into the broken glass.”
“Jesus!” he whispered. Cole looked sick. “Does Jace know?”
“No. He's feeling so much better that Denis says he can leave his room tomorrow. This might cramp his recovery.” Simon looked warningly at Cole. “You're not to tell him, either.”
“Lips like a clam.”
“Face like a baboon. Just act as stupid as usual, and you'll have him fooled.”
“No problem.”
“Don't kid yourself, Cole,” Simon said seriously. “Jason doesn't know about any of this. He thinks Rick's been out with one of his sugar episodes. No one even told him he was shot.”
“Don't look at me! I've been in to see him every day, and I haven't said a thing!”
“Which is probably why he's chafing at the restraint. Sheryl says he's decided he's going to check things out for himself.”
“Do you think he wants to have it out with Rick, for mutating him?” Cole whispered in Simon's ear. Finlay was in the room with them, watching doors—and windows.
“I don't think he ever really did,” Simon replied. He'd forgotten that Cole was still under the impression that Jace resented what Rick had done. “If Jace ever intends to mention it, I'm pretty sure it'll only be to say ‘thanks’.”
Chapter Fourteen
“What do you mean, ‘he won't see me’?” Jace was frowning now. “Of course, he'll see me. I'm one of his goddamn best friends.”
Denis Rodrigal stood in the doorway, and blocked his way. Jason sat in the wheelchair, and pounded the arm with frustration. It had taken him a while to work up to this point—where he could face Rick and talk to him about what had happened. Now, after so many hours of deliberation and trepidation, he was going to be deprived of the opportunity to say anything at all.
“Well, then—he'll see me as his goddamn doctor.” Jace stood up, and pushed the wheelchair away. He'd felt like a fool in it anyway, but it had been part of hospital “protocol". Besides, Denis had insisted on it.
Denis gripped his arm. “No, Jace,” he said firmly. “We can't take the chance.”
“Chance of goddamn what?”
“I don't know what you've heard, but we're respecting Rick's wishes. If he prefers not to see someone, we're going to avoid putting any pressure on him. I'm sorry.” Denis looked as though he meant it, and Jason's temper cooled slightly. “If it helps, think of it this way: he's asleep, and we've decided against waking him up.”
“Apparently, your ‘code of ethics’ won't let you level with me. Who else knows what's going on?”
Denis looked over Jason's shoulder, to someone standing just behind him. “He does,” he said.
Simon tapped him on the shoulder. “What d'ya say we go for a stroll, Jace?”
Jason met his eyes, then nodded. “Only if you promise not to shoot me.”
Simon smiled. “Wouldn't dream of it,” he said.
* * * *
"It's your turn." At first, Simon thought he was joking. But, David Geraldo was dead serious, and he wasn't about to be swayed. “Take it, if you want to leave this room in one piece.”
Simon was stunned. He looked down at the cat carrier. Stench's paws were stretched out between the bars as far as he could reach. He was tearing at Geraldo's legs, which were just beyond his claws. “What have you done to it?” Simon asked him.
“You know damn well I haven't done anything to it. It's a rotten animal, and ought to be destroyed.”
“I could tell Rick it got run over,” Simon suggested. “It'd be for his own good.”
“No way,” Geraldo said, and Simon had the sudden impression that Stench had become some new and perverted test of stamina among his DSO brethren. Simon's lips twitched with amusement. David confirmed it in the next moment by saying, “If I can take it, you can. After all, Lockmann's your friend.”
“What do you do with it? Keep it in its cage?”
David gave him an evil smile. “That wouldn't be humane, Kerrington. You'll have to give it some breathing room.”
Simon reluctantly picked up the cage. Stench spat and hissed at him, and he quickly put the carrier back down.
David Geraldo decided to make a quick exit. As he left the room, he threw back over his shoulder, “By the way, he refuses to use a cat box—”
* * * *
Hylton picked up the phone on the first blip. “Hylton.” He answered curtly—his annoyance showing. It was eleven, and he was damn tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good night's sleep. If his slumber wasn't interrupted by sick or missing mutants, it was interrupted by graphic dreams, in which Denaro played the female lead. Lately, these had taken on an extra aspect, that haunted his daytime hours, too: he'd be standing there alone, and suddenly Richard Lockmann would appear at the end of a long hallway. Only, it wasn't Lockmann—physically, at any rate—it was some ghostlike parody of him—like Denaro's shade who'd haunted the halls of Genetechnic. Nebulous, and insubstantial.
Then, the next actor in his nearly nightly drama would appear. Denaro. Bloated and terrifying—as grotesque in his dreams as she'd been in reality. His phone would begin to ring, like it was doing now. He'd pick it up on the first ring. “She's here—”
His staff would come running. All of them, alive and dead. He'd watch them die all over again. Lately, Rickardson had joined their ranks. Screams of agony, blood and gore. His staff, his subordinates, his friends—they'd glance at him, then at Richard Lockmann. Then, they'd run to Lockmann, the words “save me” echoing again and again in Steven's brain.
It was then, while he fought to overcome the pangs of jealousy, that Steven would feel the fear. That wasn't Richard Lockmann—it was a projection of him. They'd abandoned him to Denaro, but he couldn't abandon them to Lockmann. Steven would start to run.
He'd
wake up trembling, nauseated, covered with sweat. Hating Richard Lockmann, then hating himself for the stupidity of detesting the man because he had the misfortune to star in some of Steven Hylton's nightmares. Knowing that—if Denaro appeared again—he'd be running to Lockmann, too—projection or otherwise. Running for his life.
He was sweating now. The phone's ring had nearly matched the ring in his dream, and he was left feeling oddly displaced, and having trouble discerning the dream from reality. The hideous spectre of Caroline Denaro was still floating somewhere behind his eyelids. He reached over and flicked on the light, in hopes that the brightness would dispel her image.
“Jackleby didn't check in,” Johnson was saying. “He's not answering his phone. It could be the battery—”
Jackleby to join the ranks—
Hylton fought down the feeling of unreality. “Who did he have?” Hylton asked.
“Dr. Matthews,” Johnson said. “Her car's gone. So's Jackleby's.”
Hylton was appalled at the gut-wrenching anxiety that suddenly twisted his innards. It's just the dream, he told himself. I'm not awake yet—
“Call her house,” he ordered tensely. “I'll meet you there. Have back-up on stand-by.”
* * * *
Sheryl didn't realise how accustomed she was getting to a “tail” until Jackleby was late. For just a moment, it disturbed her: she'd waved to him in the lot. He'd been about to get in his car. It was a nightly ritual, and the players always changed. Keeps them from getting bored, she thought. She saw herself as a bit player in the Richard Lockmann drama. On the periphery, rather than in the centre like Phil or Denis. She had the feeling Steven Hylton tolerated her only because she was yet another link he could use between medical science, the hospital, and the Lightning Boys. A player who'd soon be out of the picture, once the specialists had acquired more expertise about Richard Lockmann's physiology.
The thought bothered her, which left her feeling small and petty. For just a moment, she felt like a lonely crone, desperate for excitement and human contact. Something other than sticking her hands into and onto other peoples’ bodies. The sourness of it left a taste in her mouth that she had trouble dispelling. It was the same old argument: how much compassion and finer feeling could you spend on people who were going out the door, and that you'd never see again? Bodily functions needed feedback mechanisms, and she was beginning to believe emotional functioning needed it, too. In a fit of depression, she realised that her subordinates were as fickle as her patients. She knew her role a little too well: tough and tight-assed, and bordering on inhuman; high expectations and demands; impersonal and anal-retentive.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 22
