“Señor Wales?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Let’s have a look.”
As she put on surgical gloves, she motioned for me to sit on the table. Without her asking, I removed my shirt. She peeled away the bandage and probed the wound with her index finger.
“When did it happen?” she said.
“Last night. I removed the bullet, but it got infected.”
She took my temperature and blood pressure and motioned for me to lie down and, removing a penlight from her pocket, made a closer examination. The area was very tender and, although she did her best not to cause me pain, I had to grit my teeth against the intense throbbing.
“You’re right—I couldn’t find any bullet fragments. I’m going to flush the wound and suture it. And I’ll prescribe an antibiotic. Oh, and a painkiller.”
“I’ll stick with Ibuprofen.”
“Whatever you say. This shouldn’t take long.”
She left the room and returned a few moments later with a surgical tray containing a hypodermic needle and syringe, a suture needle and thread, and other instruments and supplies. I braced myself for the pain as she administered a local. Using what looked like a turkey baster, she flushed the wound with Betadine and proceeded to sew me up. The entire procedure took less than ten minutes.
Soon I was back in the waiting room with Cuco. I had been given a foil packet of Ibuprofen and a prescription. Sasha was still in the back.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” I said.
“No problemo,” he said, making a comical expression.
“How do you say it, really?”
“No hay problema.”
In a few minutes, Cuco and I were called into Dr. Fernandes’s office, which was sparsely decorated with diplomas from both the US and Colombia hanging on the wall. He was a pleasant-looking man, maybe in his early fifties, short with a shiny bald head and wearing gold rimless glasses. On his desk stood a photograph of his family—a wife and three smiling teenagers with himself in the center.
Sasha was already seated in front of his desk. Cuco and I sat on either side of her. He and Cuco exchanged greetings in Spanish. Then Dr. Fernandes turned to me.
“We’ve made a complete examination. I’ve taken blood and urine and have ordered blood tests. I put a rush on them at Cuco’s request. We should have the results in a couple of hours.”
“That fast?”
“The lab is in the same building.”
“Did you notice anything unusual during the exam?” I said.
“Unusual?”
“Wounds of any kind. Or bite marks.”
“No, nothing. Only the needle mark on her hand where they had inserted the IV.” He must have sensed my skepticism, because he flipped through Sasha’s chart quickly. “Look, Mr. Wales, everything is normal.”
“What about the pain she’s been experiencing?”
“Could be a stomach virus. We’ll know more after the tests come back.”
“Okay,” I said. Then to Cuco, “So, should we wait here or . . .”
“There is a very good Salvadoran restaurant not far from here. I know the owner very well. I suggest you go there. Have coffee. Relax. I’ll call Cuco when the results are in.”
We got up, thanked the doctor and turned to go. “Señor Wales?” he said. “What exactly are you looking for?”
I wanted to tell him about the virus that had killed so many in Tres Marias and about the cutters who had infested LA. Instead I looked at Sasha, who lowered her head.
“The truth,” I said.
A pharmacy was conveniently located next door. Unlike other places I was used to, they filled my prescription right away. Then we walked farther down the street to the restaurant the doctor had recommended. Instinctively I kept my eyes open for black Escalades. So far, we had managed to elude them.
The restaurant wasn’t crowded. The interior was decorated in beige and brown with an overlit bar that practically extended the length of the room. Plants hung from the ceiling and the walls were covered with photos of Latin American soccer teams. Large flat-screen TVs were mounted everywhere, tuned to various soccer matches, courtesy of ESPN. Behind the bar hung the blue-and-white flag of El Salvador We found a table away from the windows and took seats.
The owner, a short, stocky man with wavy black hair, a formidable moustache and perfect teeth, came over and began chatting in Spanish with Cuco. I heard Cuco mention the doctor. Smiling broadly, the owner went away, returning with coffee and a tray of delicious-looking pastries.
Though two hours was a long time to wait for test results, the time seemed to pass quickly. The owner brought plate after plate of food. At first I ate to be polite, then found myself sampling everything. After the meal, I took my medication and wished that I could loosen my belt like an old man after the early-bird special at NORMS.
“You didn’t like the food?” Cuco said.
I belched, making Sasha laugh. “It was amazing. I need to walk around.”
“Sure. There are shops up and down this street.”
When the owner presented the bill, I almost laughed. He had charged us twenty dollars for what must have been a hundred dollars’ worth of food. I paid and left a generous tip.
A Guatemalan shop stood next to the restaurant. Intrigued, Sasha went in. As Cuco and I hung out, not looking at anything in particular, she came up to me and shoved a colorful worry doll in my face. It was made entirely of cloth and stuffing. Bits of fabric had been used to fashion its clothing and head covering. In her other hand, she held a dark pouch containing the rest of the dolls.
“I don’t have money,” she said.
Rolling my eyes, I took the doll and pouch and bought them for her. After we got outside, Sasha made the doll kiss my cheek. “Thank you for rescuing me,” the doll said, also in a Russian accent.
“Are you finished?”
We returned to the doctor’s office and spent the remainder of the time in the waiting room, Sasha playing with her dolls. Though she was a grown woman, there were things about her that were childlike. Rather than irritate me, I found them endearing.
That same woman called us to go back into the doctor’s office where he was poring over the lab report. At one point he shook his head, baffled by what he was reading.
“So what’s the verdict?” I said as we sat.
He looked at Sasha. “Overall, I would say you are a healthy young woman. We didn’t find any traces of venereal disease or HIV. However . . .”
“What?” I said.
“It’s her blood. The lab was confused when they tested the samples. They suspected something and called me. I told them to go ahead and do a separate test.”
“What kind of test?”
The doctor looked at me gravely. “Rabies.”
“Right,” I said and got to my feet. Cuco and Sasha stared at me, not knowing what was going on. “Is she contagious?”
“No, apparently not. But the lab found traces of the antibodies.” Then to Sasha, “Were you bitten by an animal recently? A bat, perhaps?”
“Nyet,” she said.
As I looked at Cuco, the doctor turned to me. “You don’t seem surprised by this, Mr. Wales.”
“No,” I said. “I was expecting it.” I signaled for Sasha and Cuco to get up so that we could leave.
“Wait.” The doctor got to his feet and came around the desk. “There’s something else.”
I could feel myself being pulled down a well of endless sorrow and danger. I didn’t want to hear what was coming.
Looking at Sasha with hooded eyes, the doctor said in a voice that was almost a whisper, “It seems you’re pregnant.”
CHAPTER NINE
A Bad Idea
“It’s not true!” she said, her expression both crazed and angry.
After the doctor’s revelation, Sasha had stormed out of the office and into the street where she was almost hit by a car. By the time Cuco and I made it down there, she was sitting on the cu
rb, a small crowd of well-meaning people surrounding her. Thank God, she wasn’t hurt.
I helped her to her feet and made her look at me. “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “We’ll figure this out.”
She pressed her head against me, muttering in Russian. I looked at Cuco, helpless to know what to do or say.
“Let’s go back to the house,” he said. Squinting at the prescription the doctor had given him, he walked into the pharmacy to get her vitamins.
Lifting Sasha’s chin, I found myself getting lost in her. I didn’t want to care this much but couldn’t help it. She was alone. I knew what that was like. I took her frozen hand.
“Come on,” I said.
A steady rain fell as I helped her into the backseat and climbed in after her. Though I had never been good at giving comfort, I did what my mother used to do when I was little and afraid. I let Sasha rest her head on my shoulder and gently stroked her hair, which seemed to calm her. In a few minutes Cuco was back and we took off.
“Getting a soda,” I said as we came in through the front door. “Anyone want anything?” A minute later, Cuco joined me in the kitchen. “Where is she?”
“In her room,” he said.
“I need to talk to her.” I put back my drink and closed the refrigerator door. “Those bastards at Hellborn did this.”
“Hellborn?”
“Baseborn Identity Research. A very dangerous organization.”
“Be careful,” he said as I headed for the bedroom.
The door was closed. I knocked and, without waiting for a response, entered the room. Sasha was lying on the bed, her head turned towards the window. Her long, light brown hair covered her face. With one hand she twirled a worry doll, turning it over in the light and humming softly. I crossed to the bed and sat beside her, also facing the window. For a time, neither of us spoke.
“You know what they did,” she said. Her voice was accusatory like this was all my fault.
“I think so.”
“Tell me.”
“They impregnated you.”
She grabbed her abdomen and wailed softly. “It hurts.”
I was helpless to do anything. After the last wave of pain had passed, she sat up, scooted next to me and took my hand.
“And you really had no idea?” I said.
“No.” She stared at me, her eyes pleading. “I swear. They take me and other girls out of those boxes. We go to the ‘special room.’”
“That’s what they called it?”
“They say we were so special. And that good things will happen soon. They stick the needle in our hands. When they do this, I know I will go to sleep. When I wake up, I am in the box again.”
“Were you, uh, were you sore? After?”
“Yes. Other girls, they . . .”
“What?”
“They get so sick. The men, they take them away. I don’t see them no more. But I don’t get sick. I heard them say they will move me to new place in the desert. This is when I decide to get out. Dave. Am I going to die?”
“No.”
Though she knew I was lying, she let it go. I stood and crossed to the window. Pulled back the curtain and looked out at the street. The rain had let up and white rays of sun had broken through the dark clouds. The glare from the wet streets was blinding. Though we were safe for now, it was only a matter of time before the grey-suits found us.
I tried to guess what Hellborn was up to. In my mind, I reviewed everything I knew about Robbin-Sear, Bob Creasy and “the protocol.” He and his team had unleashed a deadly virus on an unsuspecting population and studied its spread. The result was a town filled with undead people who could infect others by biting them. Then something happened. The virus mutated. People no longer died. Instead they transformed into flesh-hungry creatures with superhuman speed and strength.
One of the cops we had arrested—Hannity—had told us that the researchers were looking to create the perfect soldier. He would be someone immune to fear, who when injured would heal quickly and go on to kill the enemy. But who could also look and act normal in every other way without the side-effects of PTSD.
The protocol. I could almost picture it—a dense book with the words Top Secret painted across the cover. The thing would have described phases of the experiment. Many of the infected had been brought down to LA and presumably kept at Hellborn. But they couldn’t continue unleashing these things into the wild. They would have to find a way to evolve the virus in a more controlled way.
Genetics!
It made sense now. They had decided to impregnate young girls with the semen of the infected patients they were holding, hoping to create what—a super human? I wanted to laugh. This was the stuff of science fiction—The Boys from Brazil! And yet there was no other plausible explanation.
If the Russian girl was carrying the child of one of these infected mutants, wouldn’t the best thing be to rid herself of it? How could God expect an innocent girl to give birth to a monster? This was not something I was prepared for. I thought of the baby Holly had carried in her womb when they gunned her down and a sharp pain tore through my heart. That little life—my child’s life—gone in an instant. But this was different. Wasn’t it? We weren’t talking about a child conceived from love—this was something evil. Hellborn.
I was a fallen Catholic who had racked up enough sins to last an eternity. With all of the bad things in my past, the last thing I wanted was to end an innocent life. And despite how it had been conceived, wasn’t this child innocent? If it was up to me alone, I might try to save it. But this wasn’t my decision. It was Sasha’s.
“What do you want to do?” I said, turning to face her.
I hadn’t wanted to say the word—I couldn’t say it. But she knew what I had meant and looked at me with the kind of expression that always manifests when death is on the table.
“I want to see my brother,” she said.
Retreating to the kitchen, I used the burner to call Vlad. From the sounds of traffic in the background, he must’ve been driving.
“Limo service,” he said in a professional voice. His accent was more pronounced than Sasha’s.
I wasn’t sure how to start. Better to keep things short and to the point. I took a breath and began. “You don’t know me. I’m calling to talk about Sasha.” There was a pause, followed by the sound of a horn blasting. I must have surprised him, causing him to do something unsafe.
“Where is she?” he said. His voice was deadly cold. Though he hadn’t yelled, I could feel something fierce and threatening in his tone.
“She’s safe,” I said. “She wants to see you.”
“Where?”
“MacArthur Park. Near the water.”
“What time?”
“Two hours. I’ll be wearing a grey jacket and a blue Dodgers cap. I have a beard.”
He disconnected without saying goodbye. As I lowered the phone and turned around, Cuco and Sasha were standing in the kitchen, looking at me expectantly.
“I’m going over there alone,” I said.
Sasha grabbed my sleeve. “But I want to see him.”
“And you will. But I don’t want to put you in any danger. I have to make sure he doesn’t intend to—”
“Kill me?”
“I was going to say hurt you.”
Cuco was pensive as he pulled two beers from the refrigerator. He tried handing one to Sasha, but she shook her head and pointed at her abdomen.
He smiled and put it back. We took seats at the table. Cuco said, “What kind of man are we talking about?”
Sasha frowned. “When our parents were killed, Vlad raised me by himself. There were other relatives, but he always protect me.”
“What’s he capable of?” I said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Did he ever hurt anyone because of you?”
She looked away, her face flushed. “When I was thirteen, there was older boy. He tease me a lot. I think he like me. One time after school,
he wait for me. Pretend to be nice. Then he ask me to follow him. I was a stupid girl—I went. In alley he try to . . .”
“I understand,” I said.
“I don’t let him do nothing. When I get home, Vlad see my arms and face. He make me tell him who hurt me. When I say name, he leave. I was scared because of Vlad. When he return, he say boy will not bother me again. I ask him what he did. He tell me he teach him a lesson.”
A tear fell on Sasha’s cheek and she wiped it away quickly. “Next day in school, we hear this boy fell and broke both arms. He never come back.”
Cuco and I exchanged a glance. “If he wants to protect you, why did he kick you out?” I said.
“He get enough of my . . . lies. I wasn’t good to him. Always complain and disobey. I think he was mad.”
“So?” I said to Cuco.
“No sé. When he finds out she’s pregnant . . .”
“What, an honor killing?”
“We are from Moscow,” Sasha said, her voice tart. “Not Chechnya.”
I got up from the table. “That’s it, I’m going alone. Cuco, can you drop me off? I want to scope out the place.”
“Sure.”
“My brother will think of that. I’m sure he is going there now.”
“So what do I do?”
Sasha rolled her eyes. “You Americans,” she said.
Cuco pretended to look offended. “Pues, I’m Mexican.”
“Cuco takes you, right? You wait in car while he checks everything. Then he call you when it’s safe.”
“I like that idea,” Cuco said.
“No charge.”
I had to admit, it was a good plan. “Cuco, I want to move my car away from the house. Is there a private garage around here?”
“Yes. You can follow me. Then we’ll go straight to McArthur Park.”
“Sasha, watch the street. And don’t show yourself in the window.”
Without a word, she embraced me and kissed my cheek. “I wait for you.”
By late afternoon, we were there. Cuco parked on the street and walked towards the lake while I waited in the front passenger seat. The traffic was heavy on Wilshire, the sidewalks filled with middle- and working-class people. Though it was a weekday and people should have been working, there were a surprising number in the park.
Even The Dead Will Bleed Page 8
