Demanding compassion to the patients, but not to or from her staff.
Where had it gotten her?
Jace had almost died, and she hadn't even noticed. Sheryl would have a hard time forgiving herself for that one.
Jackleby was driving erratically. The thought penetrated her consciousness, and she wondered if something was wrong—if he was trying to warn her, or tell her something. He'd watched over her often enough that she'd come to know him fairly well.
They don't really care whether you live or die. It's just a job. You still have value, so they'll protect you. Hell, they're paid to protect you.
They would have checked her apartment already, the way they always did. It drove her crazy, but she supposed it was a necessary evil. It made her feel like she had to clean up every day, before she went to work. On the weekends, she found herself staying at home now, just to avoid the bother of picking up—and better than going out somewhere in an attempt to force herself to relax.
The thought brought a smile to her lips. At first, when Hylton had assigned her a “guard", she'd gone only to edifying places, like museums and art galleries. Open-air bistros to sip espresso and watch the passers-by. She'd seen some of those foreign films with subtitles—the ones labelled “classics", or with some redeeming value. Now, she'd relaxed. Her outings were generally to fast food places, and to the library, where she checked out stacks of historical romances. Non-redeeming, and no social value. Her video selection was the same. For a while there, she was checking out musicals and foreign films. Now, she'd dropped back into spy movies and adventure films; romantic comedies and the occasional thriller. The thriller selection was new. She'd never had the guts to watch them alone before. It was different now, with someone watching over her. Sometimes, she'd even invite her “guard” to come in and watch with her. It was something none of them talked about.
It's not Jackleby. He'd pulled into the underground parking garage behind her, but he hadn't flashed his lights. Jackleby always flashed his lights at her—to let her know it was okay to lower the gate.
Oh, Jesus! she thought, suddenly petrified. The gate was already on its way down, and she hadn't done it. She fumbled in her bag for her phone. It was gone, as was the pager Hylton had given her. It confirmed any suspicions she'd had: this was pre-meditated.
She wanted to cower in the car, but she knew it wouldn't help her. She put a finger on the gate button, but she knew she'd never have time. They'd be on her before she could get out the gate. And this isn't bulletproof glass.
Her best option was to pretend she hadn't noticed. That everything was normal. Then, run like hell and lock the doors behind her. Until Steven could get here. As much as she sometimes hated him, right now she wished he was at her back.
She got out of the car, and tried to make herself walk normally, even though her legs were trembling and she felt like gagging. She even gave her observer a quick wave of thanks—the way she always did. And she headed for the stairs—the way she always did.
Her feet hit the steps, and all thoughts of what she always did went out of her head. She sprinted up the steps—two and three at a time—using the rail to pull herself up even faster.
She pushed through the landing door, and someone grabbed her. Screeching—panicked now, she pummelled the man with her fists, and kicked him as hard as her rubber-soled hospital shoes could.
The problem was, he fought back. He punched her, hard, and she felt some ribs go. Then he twisted her arm up behind her back. She bit her lip against the pain, and tasted blood.
"If he wanted me dead, he would've done it already" didn't work, so she told herself "You can only die once". The thought wasn't all that comforting.
She sagged against him, letting him think he'd taken the fight out of her. Then, when he'd pushed back open the stairwell door, she let him have it.
She butted her head into his jaw as hard as she could. She yanked one arm loose, and elbowed him in the ribs, then scratched, bit, and clawed at anything she could reach. She put as much force as she could behind it.
The grip on her arm tightened, but she twisted anyway—using her full weight and all the force she could muster to try to pull away.
Her shoulder gave, and her teeth clenched from the pain. Screaming in anger, she kicked backwards—sideways—any way she could to hurt him. Dimly, she was aware that one of the doors down the hall had opened, and she heard a shout. “Police!” she shrieked, trying to warn them. Then she heard running feet, and someone pulled her free. Twisted her arm in a way it was never meant to go. Some part of her registered the snap as the bone went.
It's me they want. The battle was still raging behind her, but she knew the best way she could help Allen Browning was to run. To give them a reason to abandon the fight, and track her down. Pushing herself to her feet with her good arm, she stumbled to the door of her apartment, and fumbled for the key.
The phone. I need the phone— Her eyes focused briefly on the elevator, as the key turned in the lock, but no—there was no escape that way. They were waiting downstairs.
The door opened, and Sheryl sobbed with relief. The sounds had ceased behind her, but she didn't dare look. No time, no time, no time. The words pulsed in her brain with every beat of her pounding heart.
She slammed the door and threw her weight against it as she fought to lock it. Her weight might as well have been nothing—the door exploded inwards, and rammed her backwards across the carpet. Her head thunked against her coffee table as she fell.
She fought to stay conscious. Concussion, her brain rattled, through the waves of pain. Keep the patient conscious. She felt oddly detached, and she knew she was going into shock. But there was no one to treat her injuries, or keep her warm. A tear rolled down her cheek. First-aid was the farthest thing from her tormentor's mind.
She saw his expression, and experience told her his thoughts. He was furious. It showed in every heavy step, in the hunched shoulders, in the brooding scowl and the lowered brows. He was supposed to keep her alive.
But, she's a minor player. Which is why they'd wanted her—easier to procure, less reaction to her loss.
Less likely to be missed.
He was going to kill her. Despite the ones waiting for him below. Because she'd hurt him. Because, in her scratching and biting, she'd drawn blood.
She could read it in his eyes.
But, she couldn't move. In her present state of detachment, she could only watch him come. Only watch him read the knowledge in her face—and smile. She could feel the vibration of his feet through the floorboards. The tremor, transmitted through the carpet, met an answering quiver deep inside her. For the first time in her life, she knew what it meant to be totally helpless, and at the mercy of another human being. She didn't even have the power of an infant's wail over its mother to plea for help.
She was wrong. Sheryl had the sudden, overwhelming feeling that she wasn't alone—and for just a moment—childhood memories of a guardian angel flooded her mind. Only, the light that brightened the room wasn't a brilliant white. Instead, it was as though a shadow had come between her and the encroaching figure.
A shadow that coalesced out of the multi-coloured patterns of her room—a mingling of colours that drew form out of expediency; out of whatever was handy. Imperfectly, like the odd contours of an abstract painting. Meant to give shape, when none was needed.
Her adversary checked—momentarily frozen in his path. Another set of expressions crossed his face: fear, superstition, acceptance, dismissal. His fear of discovery—of her power as a witness both to his own kind and others—was greater than his fear of this nebulous light show guarding his victim. He came on.
She'd been wrong. It wasn't shape her angel needed: it was form. Form, and enough substance to fight her battle for her. As she stared, in a kind of stupefied blankness, the multi-coloured phantom acquired both.
It advanced on her killer. For that's what he was: for all that the action remained to be taken, the decision
had been made.
The phantom had seen it done before—but unlike its tutor, it made no effort to retain its shape. Instead, it coalesced into a glittering ball of energy, and darted at Sheryl's adversary. Like ball lightning. Jason's words echoed in her brain.
It hit the man with the force of a battering ram. The killer flew—out of the room, across the hall, and through the stairwell door. Sheryl heard the thud and bang as he fell backwards down the stairs.
Then the angel was back. She felt him lift her to her feet, and she had the odd sensation she was floating. He directed her through her door, and out into the hall, then deposited her at the hero's side—one Allan Browning, who was now bleeding heavily from a wound in his abdomen. The inference was clear: Browning needed her help more than she needed protection.
As she used her good arm, and what strength she had left to apply pressure to the wound, she took one last look at her guardian angel. He was lingering, but she sensed it was an effort.
Running feet pounded up the stairs, and Sheryl's heart began to thud in a panic once more. She glanced at her angel, and he coalesced enough to give her a reassuring smile. These were her rescuers, not her killers.
In that moment she knew him. All he would have needed to give him away was a pair of crystalline green eyes. Her saviour—the one who'd stood between her and death—the one who should have been back in his body where he belonged—
Was Dr. Richard Lockmann.
* * * *
Steven Hylton knew he was verging on panic, but he didn't care. He didn't even know why until he saw her.
This is why you don't get involved, reason told him.
Steven decided not to listen.
Johnson was still pounding up the stairs when Steven pushed through the door. He knew he was making a fool of himself—he hadn't even bothered with the spare set of keys Johnson had. It was too slow. Deep in his gut, he knew something was wrong. It was as though the dream—the one that haunted him nightly—was a premonition. He just knew that he didn't want something to be wrong with Sheryl Matthews.
As he cleared the doorway, there was a sharp popping sound, and the lights in the hall seemed to flicker. Steven, interpreting the sound as a silencer, threw himself across Sheryl.
She groaned, then muttered something like, “Get your big ass off me—”
He glanced quickly up and down the hall, then yelled to Johnson, “Get an ambulance!”
He looked at her pained face, and didn't bother asking whether she was all right. It was obvious she wasn't. He also suspected, from her colour, and the vagueness of her expression, that she was about to pass out. Bad for a concussion. Keep her awake. “What was that sound?”
“Sound?”
“When I came in—that popping.”
It reminded her. “Is Rick dead?” she asked him urgently. She gripped the front of his shirt with her good hand. “Ring Phil. Make him check. Bring him back—”
“Where's this blood from?” He frowned at the blood on her hand.
Sheryl remembered Allan Browning. “He's bleeding,” she said. “Let me—he'll die!”
“No, he won't, Ma'am,” Johnson told her. “I'm applying pressure. The ambulance is on its way.”
She drifted for a moment, then, and Steven's voice called her back. She had the impression he'd been calling her name for a while. She didn't bother opening her eyes—the light in the hall was too bright. “Did you ring Phil?” she asked.
She felt, rather than heard him sigh. Somehow, she was leaning against him now, and she could guess at his thoughts. One more inconvenience. For just a moment, she pitied the man. But, he did as she asked. “This is Steven, Phil. How's Lockmann doing?”
Sheryl could hear the garbled tones on the other end of the line, but she didn't know what Phil was saying.
“Is he okay?” Steven was asking now. He listened for a moment, then hung up.
It was silent, but Sheryl could hear the thumping of his heart.
“How did you know?” It was almost a whisper.
She whispered back. It was easier, anyway. “He was here.”
“Here.”
“Saved me. Threw him out of the room.” It was garbled, but Steven had no trouble understanding what she was trying to say. She forced her eyes open. “Did he make it back?”
Steven nodded. “Yeah.” He was wondering what the hell he could do about this latest development. “Just barely.” He didn't elaborate.
“Steven,” she whispered. “I think I'm going to be sick—”
She was. It was the last thing she remembered for a while.
* * * *
Jace picked up the phone.
“They're bringing in Sheryl Matthews,” Jamaal told him. “By ambulance. Someone got to her.” He added, “Thought you might want to know.”
“Thanks,” Jason said tersely. He slammed down the phone and sprinted out of the house. Finlay, who'd been half-dozing on watch, fell off the chair, and limped along after him.
* * * *
“Sheryl, can you hear me?”
“Did you finish your report?” she mumbled.
“On your desk,” Jason lied. He flinched as he probed her shoulder. “How's your head?” There was no response. She was out again. “Stay with her,” he told the orderly, and went out to speak with Steven Hylton.
“Was she conscious when you found her?”
Steven nodded. “At first—then she faded in and out.”
Jace saw the look of anxiety in the other man's eyes and misinterpreted it. “It's not Jackleby's fault, Steven. He's got a pretty nasty skull fracture.”
“I don't give a rat's ass whose fault it is, Stratton,” Hylton told him. “Just make sure she's okay—” He turned and stomped away.
Jace shook his head in disbelief. How long had this been going on? He lifted his head, and his eyes met Gabriel Finlay's.
“Hell,” Gabe said, shrugging. “I didn't know about it, either—and I'm paid to keep my eyes open.”
Chapter Fifteen
“I need to see Hylton.” Rick suddenly realised, from the expression on Jamaal's face, how it must sound. “Please,” he added. “It's important.”
While he waited, Rick stared down at the grass below. They'd moved his room, so that he was only one level above the ground. Hylton wasn't taking any chances with his prize prisoner. They'd taken other precautions as well. Before Jamaal left the room, he'd made certain Johnson replaced him.
Steven Hylton looked tired. “What is it, Rick?”
“Did Simon mention the possibility of alternate hosts for the virus?”
Steven nodded. “How serious a problem is it?”
“Deadly—if it retains its virulence. It means that even though everyone here has recovered from the virus, there could still be the odd receptacle for infection out there.”
Steven sighed. He wished he'd never heard of WTV. “How can we tell? Test Stratton's or your blood on plants?”
“Something like that.” He had no intention of telling Hylton about the vials still sitting in his laboratory. “But it'd be better to use something with a high titre of live virus. Both Jace and I have recovered. What happened to Denaro's remains?” Please, some part of him begged, tell me you burned her.
Steven was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “Unavailable.”
Rick's eyes met his, and Steven felt the full impact of his sharp crystalline gaze. “Why didn't you burn her when you had the chance?”
“It wasn't my decision,” Steven replied with a sigh. He gave a wry smile. “If I'd had my way, I would have burned what was left, then sprinkled her ashes with salt.”
That brought the trace of a smile. It was enough to convince Steven Hylton that the Richard Lockmann he and his staff had come to know was still lurking beneath the surface.
Hylton had appeared to accept Rutgers’ explanation for Rick's behaviour, but he'd seen too many instances of stress-induced reactions not to recognise one when it occurred. In his experience, one of
the best methods of alleviating stress was to re-direct it—with activity. Considering Lockmann's high energy levels, it seemed to be an especially good idea. He also knew something else: if the ideas came from him, then he'd only be adding to Rick's tension. So, he stood there, and waited patiently to see what Rick was going to suggest. He was sure Rick would try to take on more than he could handle. Steven had already decided his role would probably involve setting limits, rather than generating ideas.
“I'll need a clean facility. Sterile-type clean. No insects or fungi to act as vectors. I'll give you a list of indicator plants that I'll need at the site.”
Hylton shook his head at that. “You direct the show. Someone else will do the testing.”
“I'm going to work with live virus, Steven,” Rick said calmly. “The one that killed Denaro.” At the expression on Hylton's face, Rick smiled. “Beginning to wish you'd burned us both, Steven?”
“Bullets didn't do the trick,” Steven replied ambiguously, and Rick didn't know whether he was referring to the bullets that killed Denaro, or the one that had almost killed him. “Where are you going to get this ‘live virus’?”
“That information is ‘unavailable’.” Again, that trace of a smile. “But, don't worry—I'll tell Phil. If anything happens to me, he can carry on.”
“How many people do you need?”
“Only one. Rutgers has had WTV, so he can assist me. It won't be safe for anyone else.”
“What about Stratton?”
Rick wasn't ready to face Jason yet.
Jace must know by now.
Rick was too unsure of his own stability to handle a confrontation. “No—not Stratton,” he said. “He's no microbiologist.”
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 23
