“Nikki?”
She opened her eyes. “I’m still here.”
There was a long silence. Cage did not know what to say, and Nikki probably didn’t have the energy to speak much, even if she wanted to. There was a padded chair against the wall, and he let her hand go, then pulled the chair over next to the bed. He sat facing her and took her hand once again in his. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin glove.
With the door closed, the room was very quiet. There was pulsing light from the monitors, but mercifully the volume had been turned off. The temperature was surprisingly comfortable, cooler than outside, but not cold the way air-conditioned rooms and buildings so often felt. But the room felt terribly empty—there were no signs of visitors, family, or friends. No flowers, no cards, no books or magazines or bubble messages. As if Nikki had never been here, or had already gone.
“I told you that guy Stinger was an asshole,” she said.
“You were right. But he’s a dead asshole.” And immediately regretting saying it.
“I will be, too,” she replied. “Dead, not an asshole.”
“No you won’t.”
“Cage, please, don’t.”
“I’m not, Nikki. You saved my life. It’s my turn to save yours.”
She smiled, but closed her eyes and slowly moved her head from side to side. “Not in this life,” she said. “Maybe in the next.”
“Nikki…” But he didn’t know what else to say. She was right, and he couldn’t stand it.
“I do think there’s some other kind of life after this one,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but strong. She opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at him, just gazed up toward the ceiling. “Maybe reincarnation of some sort.” She paused. “No, actually, that’s an idea I kind of like, but not one that really feels right.”
“What feels right?” he asked her.
“Survival of the spirit. Our consciousness. Not heaven, no angels or God or anything, but our spirits continuing on in some way, aware, and still connected a little to this world.”
“Like ghosts?”
She smiled. “A little. Just there, just barely there so people sense our presence without knowing what it is they’re feeling. Like a shiver of memory.”
She didn’t say anything else for a long time, and Cage realized that she very much believed what she had just said, and that it gave her a certain amount of comfort. She was having an easier time facing the idea of death, her own death, than he was.
“I’ll come back and haunt you,” she said, finally turning to look at him. “In a good way. When you feel something, that shiver of memory, don’t be afraid of it. It’ll be me.”
Cage didn’t know what to say. He wanted to tell her she wasn’t a ghost yet, but she would say she would be soon, and then he’d say no, and then she’d get pissed at him again for trying to deny what they both knew was the truth—that she was dying, and there was nothing anyone could do. And he did not want to face that.
She squeezed his hand. “Let it go, Cage. Let me go.”
He slowly shook his head. “I can’t, Nikki. I just can’t.”
21
CAROLINE STOOD AT the open window of the room they had given her on the fourth floor, and looked out on the courtyard below. The sun was shining down through a hazy sky, baking the building and the courtyard; late morning, and already it was hot, though there was a slight breeze that came in through the window. Across the way, in the shade of a palm, Hernando crouched over his brazier of coals, just as he had two days earlier. This time he was cooking long, thin strips of dark meat. Hernando had spent much of the past two days there at his grill, cooking meat and fish and sometimes vegetables. Periodically he would fill a plate or two and disappear into the building. Other times people came to him with their own plates, which he loaded with food. He drank beer steadily as he cooked, one bottle after another. He seemed quite content.
Caroline, too, felt content, despite having been kept in this room for two days, effectively a prisoner. Two days with little to do, nowhere to go, and no responsibilities. Two days to read and doze and think. And she’d begun to rethink what she wanted out of all this.
The room was small, maybe ten feet square, with a bed, a stuffed chair, a very old dresser with empty drawers that smelled of cedar. Rashida had sent someone to Caroline’s apartment to pick up a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and half a dozen books. Caroline wasn’t locked in the room, and she had free access to the bathroom and shower down the hall one way, and the kitchen down the hall in the other direction. But there was always someone with her, watching her door, joining her in the kitchen, standing outside the bathroom waiting for her to emerge. She really didn’t mind.
Rashida came several times to visit, and they talked about a lot of things, but never about Cancer Cell or experimental treatments or any of that. Sometimes she stayed for an hour or two, and they would go to the kitchen and have tea, or a bite to eat, and sit at the table, talking. Caroline had the feeling Rashida was lonely, that she didn’t get out in the real world much. She liked Rashida, and she thought Rashida liked her.
She saw Rashida enter the courtyard from the street gate. Rashida glanced up at the window, then walked over to Hernando. She spoke to him for a few minutes, then crossed the courtyard and disappeared into one of the alcoves. A couple of minutes later there was a quiet knock, the door opened, and Rashida stepped into the room.
She stood just inside the door for a moment, watching Caroline, then walked over to the chair and sat in it, crossing her legs. “Testing’s completed,” she said.
“And?”
“You have Gould’s.”
Caroline smiled. “Did you expect anything else?”
“No. But we had to be certain.”
“So do I start on some experimental treatment program?”
“It’s not that simple,” Rashida said. “There’s a lot we have to talk about first.”
Caroline nodded. She went over to the bed and sat on it, her back propped by the pillow against the wall. “Then let’s talk.”
“Your father’s a cop.”
“Yes, he is. Does that make a difference?”
“It makes some people suspicious.”
“He doesn’t know I’m here. He doesn’t know I approached you, and he wouldn’t approve if he did know.”
Rashida smiled. “I’m sure that would be convincing to those who are suspicious.”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re suspicious.”
“I’m not. Not about that, anyway. I believe you. But I am suspicious about plenty of other things. And I’m suspicious about you.”
“Why?”
Rashida shook her head, still smiling. “I’m not sure.”
“Then where do we go from here?”
“That’s up to you. I talked to people while we were waiting for the testing to wrap up. No one’s done anything specifically with Gould’s. But there is someone who has been doing research on other neurological disorders, working on possible treatment approaches, and he’s quite interested in seeing you. Working with you.” She grinned. “He’d love to get his hands on you.”
Caroline nodded to herself, thinking. She’d planned to wait until farther along to present her proposal, but maybe this was the best time.
“How much would he love to get his hands on me?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I’d like something in return for giving myself over to you and this man who wants to turn me into a lab animal.”
Rashida frowned, sitting forward. “What is this? I thought what you were getting was a chance at a cure.”
“That’s not really very likely though, is it? Realistically, the best that can be hoped for is that maybe someone will learn a little something new about Gould’s. Maybe a new direction to look in, maybe eliminate a few approaches. The reality is, I am almost certainly still going to die in a few years.” She paused, and when Rashida didn’t respond, she said, �
��Isn’t that the most likely outcome of all this?”
Rashida eventually nodded. “Yes, that’s most likely what will happen. So what is it you want?”
“I have a friend. Two friends, actually, a mother and daughter. The daughter, who’s eleven years old, has leukemia. Two courses of chemotherapy have been ineffective. The leukemia has come back each time. Her only hope is a bone marrow transplant, either from a compatible donor, or with artificial marrow. They have no insurance, no money, so no one will do it. They’re living in a death house in the DMZ, and the girl is going to die in a few months.”
“And you want us to give her a bone marrow transplant.”
“Yes.”
Rashida shook her head. “That’s a hell of a lot to ask for. It’s expensive, time-consuming, with all the follow-up necessary. I doubt they’ll go for it.”
“I’m giving a lot in return,” Caroline argued. “Several years of being a human guinea pig.”
“And how do we know that? How do we know that once we’ve done the bone marrow transplant you won’t just pull out?”
“You won’t let me. You people are very persistent about tracking down people who don’t honor the contracts they’ve made with you, persistent about forcing them to honor those contracts.”
Rashida shook her head again, frowning. “You know way too much about us. How is that?”
“From Cage. He never thought this was a good idea, and he wanted me to know as much as possible about what I might be getting into. That’s all. He tried to convince me to drop this.”
Rashida sighed heavily. “I’m still suspicious. I like you, Caroline, but I don’t trust you.” She paused. “It doesn’t matter for right now. I can’t make that kind of decision. I’ll need to talk to people, and there will be a lot of discussion, and frankly there’s no way of knowing which way it will come down.”
“Can we proceed with the rest of it until then?” Caroline asked.
“We’d better. Arrangements have been made, and if you back off now, there’s a good chance this would be the end of it. You’d never hear from us again.”
“Then let’s do it. I’m willing to take my chances.”
“And if we don’t agree to do the bone marrow transplant for your friend?”
“I still have my own life at stake. And maybe there will be another favor I can ask.”
“I wouldn’t ask too many, if I were you. We are not in the business of handing out favors.”
Caroline nodded. This whole thing was getting a little absurd, she thought. She really had no fear, but she was seriously beginning to question the notion that she had much chance of learning anything about Tito’s death. Even if she ended up in the Core, they weren’t going to be giving her free access to their facilities, she wasn’t going to have long conversations with these people during which they would reveal all the Cancer Cell secrets, including what had happened to Stinger and Tito. But she still believed there was at least a chance, and that was worth something.
“So what’s next?” she asked.
“Are you ready? To make a commitment right now, with no promises made about your friend? There is no going back after this. As you said, we do whatever is necessary to enforce our contracts. And we don’t have much sympathy for extenuating circumstances.”
“I’m as certain as I will ever be. That’ll have to be good enough.”
“Okay.” Rashida stood.
“I’d like to call my parents before we go, let them know I’m okay. They’re probably worried, they probably think I’ve disappeared.”
Rashida shook her head. “I can’t let you do that.” Caroline wanted to ask her why not, but figured that was pointless. So she tried something else. “Can you at least get in touch with Cage, ask him to call my parents?”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it. Ready?”
Caroline nodded and stood. “Ready.”
“I hope you’re not claustrophobic.”
Two hours later, Caroline was being carefully packed into a long, wooden box that looked uncomfortably like a cross between a casket and a shipping crate for weapons. The sides were lightly padded with foam rubber, and it was a tight fit. Rashida assured her that there would be plenty of air—the box was not airtight—but they gave her a mask and a small oxygen cylinder, and showed her how to switch it on. Just in case.
Rashida waved good-bye to her, smiling, then they placed the top on and screwed it down.
Rashida was probably right. Caroline could see tiny cracks of light above and around her. The wood smell was strong, combined with the odor of oil and something musty. She wondered what this crate had last been used for. Transporting someone else like her? She closed her eyes and tried to sleep.
It was hopeless, of course. Nothing happened for a long time, then she felt herself being lifted, carried a short distance, then set down. Then she was moving again, on a wheeled cart of some kind. She felt every bump, every crack in the ground.
At first she thought she should try to keep track of her movements, her changes in direction, her trips up or down staircases. But she almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. That was even more hopeless than trying to sleep.
After a while, the wheeled cart stopped, and she was lifted again and carried a short distance before being raised and then lowered. Then all the cracks went dark as she heard a loud thud.
There was only silence and darkness for a long while. She lost track of time, almost dozed off. Then she felt a vibration, an engine, maybe, and she was moving again.
It went on for more than an hour, though it was difficult to judge the passage of time. Moving, stopping, rolling, lifted up and set down, bumping along, crashing into a wall. The padding helped a little at first, but as time went on she felt more sharply each bounce, each rattle, each accidental drop by her carriers.
Finally the movement stopped, and she could hear the squeal of the screws being undone above her. A few minutes later, the top came off. Rashida looked in.
“You okay?”
Caroline nodded. Rashida took her hand and helped pull her up out of the box. She was in a small, windowless room. The walls and ceiling were concrete block, the floor was concrete, and all of the surfaces were painted a bright, soft white. In one corner was a sink and a toilet, in another was a small mattress with blankets and pillows. A wooden rocking chair and an empty wooden bookcase leaning against the wall were the only other furnishings in the room.
“Where am I?” Caroline asked.
Rashida just laughed. She pointed at a brown duffel bag on the floor next to the crate. “Your books and clothes and things are in there,” she said. “It’s not much. And the door will be locked. So try and make yourself comfortable. This will be your home for a while.”
22
HIS LEFT ARM in a sling, his shoulder bandaged and taped, Carlucci entered the Mishima building just before midnight. He still felt weak, and he had only been out of the hospital for two days, but he wasn’t going to let this interview with Yoshi Katsuda wait any longer.
One of the guards at the front security desk studied his ID card and badge while another ran portable detectors over his body. A third guard stood a few feet back, the blinking lights on his armor showing a full charge. The first guard ran the card and badge through a scanner, and the second made a thorough but gentle search of the sling and bandage. When they were satisfied, they gave him a special access card for the express elevator that ran to the top floor. The second guard escorted him to the far end of the elevator banks, then waited until Carlucci had used the access card and stepped inside. The guard was still standing there as the doors closed.
The ride to the top was smooth and fast, acceleration and deceleration only barely noticeable. Once the elevator had stopped, Carlucci had to use the access card once again to activate the doors. They opened in near silence, and he stepped out.
The reception area was large, with pale carpeting, the walls and ceiling the color and texture of beach sand. There were low co
uches and chairs, and several planters with bonsais. Sitting at the reception desk across the room was a woman with a silver metal face. One ear was flesh, but the other, like the rest of the woman’s face, was metal. It had to be real, because Mishima would never allow Faux Prosthétique, which had been quite the fashion rage a few years earlier, on any of its employees. The shining metal contoured to her skull had to be the woman’s real face.
He approached the desk in a hush of quiet.
“Lieutenant Carlucci.” The woman’s voice, emerging through segmented metal lips, was cool and smooth. “Mr. Katsuda is waiting for you.” Her tongue and teeth appeared to be real, as did the eyes looking out at him.
To her left, the wall swung open. When he hesitated, the woman said, “You may enter now.”
He walked through the opening, and the wall swung closed behind him. Katsuda’s office was enormous, on the building corner, and the two exterior walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. Katsuda stood at one of the glass walls, looking out onto the city. Against the wall to Carlucci’s right was a long, dark wooden desk, the top surface shining in the light from two small, shaded lamps on either end. They were the only lights on in the room.
Yoshi Katsuda turned to him. “Lieutenant, have you ever been in this office before?”
“No.”
Katsuda nodded. “Come and see the view then,” he said. “It is, I have to say, quite spectacular.”
Carlucci joined him at the wall of glass. Katsuda was thin and almost as tall as Carlucci. He wore a tailored, dark silk suit, a white shirt, and a simple black tie. Since he was Naomi Katsuda’s father, he had to be in his sixties, or even older, but his skin was so smooth, and there was very little silver in his dark hair; he looked easily ten or fifteen years younger.
Carlucci looked out through the window. Katsuda was right about the view. The lights of the city below them were bright and shiny, flickering silver and blue and amber, with other red and silver lights of vehicles swirling everywhere. The city looked brilliant and alive in the night, the filth and poverty and decay effectively camouflaged by the darkness and the gleam of the lights. Out across the water, in the bay, Alcatraz was a blaze of floodlights and swirling neon. The casinos out on the former island prison had reopened a few months earlier, and the island docks were aswarm with luxury boats. To the left was the Golden Gate Bridge, beautiful as always, unchanged over the decades, a stunning lattice of amber and crimson lights spanning the entrance to the bay.
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