Lucidity

by CJ Lyons

  Since he'd just saved her life, Grace ignored his use of the appellate, "girls". "It was sunny, beautiful this morning in Lissadell."

  He grunted. "Anyway, I'm walking back over the hill and I hear an angel singing between thunder booms. I'm thinking I've been struck by lightning, on me way to meet St. Peter hisself when next I hear a most ill tempered cursing. I say to myself, Jimmy me boy, that's no angel! So I hurry inside here and the cursing is getting louder, so I just follow it, like chasing a rainbow to a pot o' gold."

  Grace almost laughed--his accent grew thicker even as he piled the bullshit deeper. Voice like an angel indeed. She climbed to her feet, swaying for a moment until his hand steadied her.

  "Just a wee bit further then I'll get you warm and dry, some hot soup," he promised her. She let him keep his hand around her waist, helping her up the twisting stairs. She had to admit, it felt nice. Warm, strong, everything she was not right at that moment.

  By the time they made it back to the monastery, the storm had grown in intensity. Jimmy turned her into him, his head bowed against hers as he fastened her hood around her face and cinched it tight as if she was a child. It was as dark as night except for sheets of lightning raining down on them. He shouted to be heard above the wind and thunder. "It's not far. Just follow me."

  He took her hand in his and led the way with the flashlight. Several times Grace slipped on the wet grass and stumbled over hidden rocks and tree limbs. Each time he caught her before she hit the ground. Her teeth chattered and she couldn't feel her hands or feet but she didn't complain.

  A short time later they reached a large, wide stone building shaped like a beehive oven but almost two stories tall. Her guide bent forward and loosened a tarp, the wind twisting it immediately from his fingers. He gave her a gentle push and she doubled over and scuttled inside the dark but dry room. He accompanied her, handing her the flashlight as he fought to re-secure the tarp.

  She held the light for him with both hands but still couldn't keep it from shaking. He strode past her and soon there was a whoosh and the room was lit with the glow of a Coleman lantern quickly joined by a second then a third. He returned to her, taking the flashlight from her numb hands and turned it off.

  "You're freezing," he said. She couldn't stop her teeth from chattering long enough to respond. "Christ, even your lips are blue. Damn it, Moran, why'd you not think of that, could've built a fire, brought a tarp or something--"

  As he carried on his monologue, Grace had the feeling he often talked to himself. He moved around the round room, opened a bright red backpack and pulled out various items of clothing. Some he rejected, others he smelled, testing them, then shrugged and brought her an assortment.

  "Can't vouch for how clean they are, but they're warm," he assured her. He placed the bundle into her arms and turned her to face the wall. "You change, I'm going to build a fire," he told her. "Unless you need help?"

  She shook her head, dropping the clothing to her feet as she worked her way free of her mud-soaked clothes. Her boots were the hardest, but she finally was able to fumble them off with fingers thickened by the cold. She slid into the flannel shirt and fleece pullover he'd brought her, delighting in the feel of the soft, dry fabric against her numb skin. Next, she pulled on a pair of sweat pants, rolling up the cuffs to make a ridiculous pouf around her ankles. She turned around, and saw he'd built a fire in a stone ring. He sat with his back to her, bent over an electronic device.

  "The monks used these beehive huts for periods of private meditation," he told her. "Brilliant design, don't you think? Warm in the winter, cool in the summer, efficient without being claustrophobic. A little dark when the sun's not direct overhead, but you can say that about most places 'round here. You doing all right?"

  "Yes, thank you," she told him, leaving her pile of wet clothes to join him by the fire. The floor of the hut was dirt, but it was hard packed so it almost felt like concrete. He took her hands in his and began to examine them. She'd broken several nails to the quick and her palms were abraded by her attempts to free climb the wall of the cavern.

  "Christ almighty," he said, looking upon her with admiration. "You're a scrappy one, ain't you?"

  "Did you think I was just spending my time down there singing?" she asked. He rubbed his fingers over her calluses. "I'm a pretty good climber. Just couldn't find a handhold."

  "The storm's only getting started, we'll be stuck here a day or so," he told her.

  "How do you know?"

  He held up a Palm Pilot and grinned. "Ain't technology a blast?" In the light of the lanterns and the fire she could see that his features weren't really that of a devil incarnate, despite his rough manner. His hair was fair, a shade redder than blonde but too light to be called auburn, long and a little ragged as if it hadn't been cut in a long while. His eyes were hazel and he was trim, well muscled. "I sent emails to your hotel so your friend would know you're safe and sound."

  "Thank you, Mr.--"

  "Moran, Jimmy Moran." He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "And who do I have the pleasure of rescuing?"

  "Grace D'Angelo," she told him, wishing he'd stop smiling at her like that.

  Frown lines bracketed his eyes. "Italian? I would have thought with those eyes and skin..." he trailed off and shrugged.

  "I could be anything," she said, sliding her hand away from his warm grasp.

  "Right, you Yanks, always proud of your melting pot." He turned away to pour something from a pot on the Coleman stove into a mug. He handed it to her and returned to his seat with his own cup. "Course, that doesn't stop you all from coming over here and pretending to be Irish. Not that we mind it--brings good money in." He peered at her again as she drank the instant soup he'd made. "Sure there's no Irish in you?"

  "No," she snapped. She flinched at the wounded look in his eyes and regretted her shortness. You'd think after all these years, she'd get used to people asking. "I mean, I'm not certain what my heritage is," she amended. "I was abandoned as a newborn."

  She sipped at the soup and waited for the inevitable barrage of questions.

  He pursed his lips and considered her statement. "Reckon that could be confusing," he finally allowed. "You're just lucky you don't live around here where everyone knows each other's family tree gone back generations. All of it coming back to haunt the current generation, of course." His face broke into a wicked grin as he mimicked an old lady, eyes squinted almost shut, mouth curled up in disapproval. "You're Jimmy Moran of the Clifden Morans? Your great-great-grandfather twice removed was a thief, got hisself branded for stealing my grandda's cattle to boot! Ya should be ashamed of yourself. The apple don't fall far from the tree, I always say!"

  Grace laughed, threatening to spill her soup. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through her newly thawed muscles. "I never thought of it that way."

  "Course, if ya were from here, you'd have the nuns to contend with as well. What, Jimmy? You don't have all the lives of the saints memorized? Saints preserve us, lad, you've got to shape up or you'll be going straight to Hell and nothin' we do will save you! What would your poor, sainted mother be saying then?"

  The mincing tones of his mimicry echoed through the room. Grace nodded, feeling warm both inside and out. "Don't worry--I had both nuns and monks!" She launched into a vulgar Latin parody of the Sanctus that Brother Leo had taught her in one of his weaker moments. Both of them paid dearly come Confession that week. To her surprise Jimmy joined in, his baritone mixing nicely with her clear alto.

  "I didn't think any girls knew that one," he said, chuckling when they finished. "Do you know what the words mean?"

  "Of course, I was speaking Latin almost before English." He arched an eyebrow at that. "I was left swaddled in the arms of a statue of the Virgin Mary," she explained. "At the entrance to a Franciscan monastery outside Loretto, Pennsylvania. A Jesuit monk was staying there on sabbatical. He found me, convinced the brothers to keep me, raise me."

  Moran shook his head at her
story. Grace finished her soup, relieved that he hadn't laughed. It was the first time in a long, long time that she'd told anyone the truth about her upbringing.

  "Christ, what an awful thing to do to a baby."

  "I don't know. It wasn't a conventional upbringing, but I had a good time. When I got older, they sent me to live at a convent. Somehow Brother Leo wrangled it so he and the Society of Jesuits were my official guardians. I never had to contend with the horror of the foster-care system." She shrugged, remembering the monk with fondness. He'd seemed ancient to her as a child, but she realized now he could have been only in his thirties. But somehow despite all the years, in her eyes, he never seemed to change in appearance. Flowing silver-grey hair, his one act of rebellion he called it, a wrinkle-free face as if he'd long ago been set free of earth-bound worries.

  "This Leo, he wouldn't be a Leo Augustine, would he?"

  "Yes. Do you know him?" She stretched out her legs and noticed the Duquesne University logo on the borrowed sweat pants she wore. "You've visited Pittsburgh? Is that where you met Leo?"

  "I live there now." He nodded at the logo. "That's my school."

  She looked over at him. It was impossible to guess his age--could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. The only lines on his face were tiny crinkles at his eyes when he smiled or frowned. "What do you do there?"

  "I'm a professor of history," he told her. She raised her eyebrow in disbelief. "Now, you dinna think that I rescued damsels in distress as a full time occupation, did you? Leo and I taught a course together, comparative mythology of early Christianity and ancient Ireland. He's the one who helped me get the grant I needed to come here this year."

  Basking in the warm glow of the fire and Jimmy's whiskey-smooth brogue, she smiled. What was one more minor miracle? Her life had been chock-full of them so far, many thanks to the meddling of a certain Jesuit.

  Jimmy's laugh filled the small space, echoing pleasantly from the stones surrounding them. "Guess I owe the good brother a pint next I see him."

  "So he did save you." Brittany leaned back with contentment at the happy ending.

  "And you and Jimmy lived happily ever after," Tiffany said. "What about Maeve? All his work?"

  "I thought Grace would end up saving Jimmy," Heather said, frowning.

  Budding feminist, Grace thought, lifting her eyes to meet Jimmy's. "She did," she said, speaking of herself in third person. "But it's getting late and that's another story."

  The girls groaned, recognizing a hook when they heard one. "Tomorrow," Grace promised them, stretching her cramped legs and regaining her feet. "Thanks for the tea."

  "Grace, where are you going?" Heather asked, a hint of anxiety in her voice.

  Grace was going to go back upstairs, sneak a peak at Kat's chart, try to figure out why the ECU gave off such disturbing vibes. As much as the place made her feel uncomfortable, she felt drawn to it.

  "Be careful the Witch doesn't get you," Brittany told her.

  Grace spun around. She crouched before the three girls, huddled together now, holding hands. "Do you know what happens up in the Tower," she asked. "On the seventh floor?"

  They nodded. "Bad things. And it's spreading."

  "She wants Vincent."

  "She wants it all. Wants everyone to join her in her world."

  "But none of it's real. It's only what they want to see."

  "It's not real," Heather repeated, taking Grace's hand and squeezing it tight, as if this was vital information.

  Grace nodded; even though she didn't understand any of it, their words resonated with the churning in her gut. She circled the three in her arms, squeezing them tight until the giggles of little girls supplanted the ominous portends. But when she looked up to find Jimmy, he had vanished.

  CHAPTER 9

  Dark of the Moon

  Jonas Helman used to have a life. He used to have it all: wife, two kids, dog, house in the 'burbs, even a goddamned minivan.

  Then he found his addiction and lost it all.

  Best thing that ever happened to him.

  Adrenalin and power were his drugs of choice. He craved them constantly. Every waking moment was spent in the pursuit of one or the other or both.

  It was ten-thirty at night, the OR manager reminded him as she turned the lights off in the other rooms. Helman ignored her.

  Wilson, his assistant, adjusted the screws that held the cadaver's head in precise location in the center of a ceramic halo. Helman glanced up, did some mental calculations, then realigned it a bit so that the holographic image of the MRI fit precisely.

  He donned his goggles and lit up the laser and began slicing into the cadaver's brain.

  "Damn it!" Helman yanked his goggles off and hurled them across the room. He'd just disintegrated the dead man's hippocampus. If resurrected the corpse would have awakened without any memories or the ability to lay down new ones.

  "Sir, if you'd let me tie the laser to the computer guidance--"

  "Shut the fuck up, Wilson!" The operating tech obeyed, clamping his lips together until they formed a single thin line. "What the hell's the good if I let a fucking machine do the goddamn surgery?"

  Wilson knew better than to answer.

  Helman paced the room. "Reset to the thalamic lesion, let's run that one."

  Wilson turned to the computer, his shoulders hunched, presenting the smallest possible target to the irate surgeon. The holographic image changed; still the same cadaver's brain but with a new lesion programmed into the images. The idea was that with a precise map of both the normal and cancerous tissue of the brain, the laser could be guided to obliterate tumor and spare the rest.

  It worked perfectly when the computer programmed the laser's movements. Wilson judiciously did not remind his boss of this.

  Helman held his hand out and Wilson scrambled to retrieve the goggles from the floor, then darkened the overhead lights.

  "I'm gonna get you this time," Helman murmured as his fingers delicately nudged the laser on its path of destruction. "Computer, my ass."

  If medicine was as much an art as a science, then neurosurgery was the fucking Sistine Chapel and he was Michelangelo.

  Helman finished his work and gestured for the room lights. "Take that, you bastard."

  "Computer says there's 1.56% residual tumor remaining," Wilson told his master in a low voice.

  "What? Now it's saying I wimped out? Let's see it do better without taking out the thalamic tract."

  Wilson punched the keys and they watched as the computer guided the laser's bursts of energy. It only took a few seconds. Helman rushed forward to inspect the brain while Wilson waited for the computer's tally.

  "100% tumor free, only 2.3 mm encroachment onto healthy tissue."

  Helman shook his head. It was impressive work--but done by a goddamned machine! He wanted this technique to be his masterpiece, not the product of some mindless pile of circuit boards and wires.

  He even had a name for it: the Helman Process. His legacy.

  "Let's try another," Helman told his assistant, ignoring the other man's sigh of fatigue. "We're not going anywhere until I can take on Grace Moran's tumor and beat that fucker."

  Vincent was in his office on the third floor, emptying the extraneous papers from his lab coat, his last ritual before leaving for home. Not that anything or anyone special was waiting for him at home--or had been for a long time.

  Goddamn lawyers and their malpractice cases. His life would be perfect if it wasn't for the Nguygens. He'd have his staff appointment locked in, salary negotiated, signing bonus in hand for a down payment on a condo in Shadyside and a new car to put in the parking lot.

  Instead all he had to go home to was microwave pizza in a Squirrel Hill studio, his dinner companion a stack of bills, all past due.

  The last papers to spill from his pocket were the notes from the neurosurg conference. Grace Moran, the woman with the tumor Helman was planning to make history removing, still haunted Vincent--had been all day. H
e couldn't seem to get her out of his mind, imagining the circumstances that brought her to this juncture. It was so unlike him. Usually he prided himself on his detachment, his ability to remain objective.

  It was fascinating to imagine the freedom that might come from knowing that you possibly only had a few days to live. Eve Warden said the brain mapping would take a day at least, so in reality Helman's patient would be confined to the ECU during the time before her surgery, but in Vincent's imagination she was living out her dreams.

  A trip to Tuscany? Breakfast at Tiffany's? Diving with dolphins in Maui? The possibilities were enticing, especially after knowing the woman had been a virtual prisoner in her own house for the past several years.

  He scanned the notes again. Vincent sat down at the utilitarian desk and used his computer to access Grace Moran's medical records. One of the few perks of being the Chief Resident. Still had the same lousy pay and rotten hours, but he had his own private office and call room for the year. If the place had a window, he might consider moving in, saving money on rent. Might still if the Nguygens won.

  Grace Moran was listed as a patient in the ECU but there weren't any vital signs or notes detailing her progress today.

  Her phone number and address were included with her other demographic information, including the fact that she was not married. He was surprised to see that she lived only a few blocks away from him. Her occupation was listed as web consultant. Good job for an agoraphobic. One previous admission to the trauma service almost five years ago. No psych admissions listed. Maybe she wasn't as crazy as Helman painted her.

  Might be interesting to wander back over to the ECU, meet her in person. Then he shook his head and cleared the computer screen. Was this what his life had come to? Stalking a patient?

  Worse was the tinge of envy he felt about Grace Moran. The woman was facing an operation that would probably, despite Helman's boasting, kill her.