by Andrea Speed
Leaving the apartment, Holden pulled out his cell phone and reported that he was just walking through his building, and he’d noticed a neighbor’s door ajar, and while he couldn’t be sure, it looked like there was a person huddled on the floor beneath a blanket, a person who didn’t move or respond when he talked to him.
Okay, an anonymous 9-1-1 call was chickenshit. But there were too many questions he didn’t want to answer and, to be completely fair, just couldn’t.
DYLAN knew he was in ahead of visiting hours, but he didn’t care. He’d barely got any sleep, and he felt he had to be here.
It wasn’t anxiety keeping him up, but nightmares. Well, one in particular. He was at Roan’s funeral. Or was it a wake? Must have been a wake; Roan had already told him, when he died he wanted to be cremated and thrown in the face of his enemies. He assumed that last bit was just his dark sense of humor… but maybe it wasn’t. Actually, there was a fifty-fifty chance it was actually what he wanted and not a joke.
Dylan was getting a soda from a lobby vending machine—so much better than the industrial-strength coffee they had—when a woman asked, “You’re Mr. McKichan’s partner, yes?”
He turned to see the short Indian doctor from last night. According to what he could see of her security badge, her name was Doctor Singh. “Well, uh, I guess.” He hated that term, “partner.” Like they were business associates. He really would have preferred “butt buddy,” frankly. Partner was so cold and clinical, so American Family Association. Like there was no emotional attachment whatsoever. It was all financial or bureaucratic and seemed to indicate it was something other than a relationship that could end in bitter acrimony and clothes getting tossed out on the lawn at three in the morning. That was so unfair.
“During a routine test this morning, Roan had an unusual pupil response, so we did some scans—”
“He’s off the respirator?” he interrupted, as this seemed vital.
She looked distracted, and then a brief look of annoyance flashed across her face before she resumed her medical poker face. “Yes, he seems to be breathing on his own now.”
Dylan let out a sigh of relief, unaware he’d even held his breath. “Good, I’m glad.”
“Anyways, we… found something. Do you know if he has a regular doctor? As an infected, I imagine he does, but it’s not in the files.”
This threw him for a moment. Dylan’s hand tightened around the cold can of pop, and he was glad for its indisputable reality. “You found something? What do you mean, you found something? Can you be more specific?”
She shook her head, sweeping her bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Not at this moment, no, and that’s why I need to talk to his doctor. Do you know who that is?”
Dylan scowled at her, wanting more answers, scouring his brain for the name of Roan’s doctor. Did he even have one? He hated doctors. But he recalled there was one he seemed to talk to on the phone, one who occasionally left messages on the machine. What was her name again? “Umm… Rosenberg. Petra Rosenberg, I think. I remember it’s an unusual name.”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Rosenberg from the Institute? I didn’t even know she treated patients anymore.”
He didn’t know what the Institute was exactly, but he supposed it was infected-related. “I don’t know that she does. She treated Roan as a kid, I guess, and they’ve kept in contact. He seems to trust her. He doesn’t trust too many people.”
Doctor Singh nodded. “She’s good. Her work on infecteds will probably get her a Nobel Prize one of these days.”
Dylan didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing.
“Thank you,” she said, turning away.
“Wait,” he said quickly. “This thing you found… can you tell me anything about it?”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell at this moment. It could be an anomaly related to his condition, which is why I need to talk to his doctor.” It felt like a dodge to him, but he wasn’t sure how to call her on it. And honestly, did he want to? His heart and stomach were both fluttering nervously. No one wanted to hear a doctor found “something” in a routine test or scan. The “something” was never a thousand-dollar bill or a deed to an island in Hawaii. It was always a horrible something. “Oh, and you can see him now. We’re hoping he’ll regain consciousness soon.”
Dylan was hoping that too. Now more than ever.
As it turned out, Roan never woke up.
Dylan talked to him, mainly about the many twists and turns of the Newberry case, and how none of them could figure out what it meant. And how disconcerting Holden’s continued radio silence was. None of this roused him from a deep sleep that was just this side of a coma.
After a while, Dylan just laid his head on his chest to make sure he was still alive. Yes, he was. There was a slow, almost thick thud inside his chest, nearly normal but far too slow.
Something had been wrong with Roan previous to this, and he knew it, didn’t he? Dylan supposed he did, but he didn’t know how to say it, or even if he should. After all, Roan knew better than he did that his migraines were getting worse. Was he supposed to tell him something he already knew?
This was what he hated about relationships. Just fucking hated. The emotional investment and the slow, subtle death of it in one way or another.
Roan’s eventual death was a fact of life he’d had to grapple with the second he thought he might really like the guy. He was infected and had lived years beyond any virus child of record. The clock was ticking. Dylan knew this, and he wasn’t sure he could deal with it, but he also knew emotions had a tendency to carry him away, no matter how he tried to be Zen about it. The moment Roan took off his shirt, showing him the scars he had so Dylan didn’t feel self-conscious about the self-inflicted scars on his arms, was the moment he fell in love with him. You just had to love someone who was so utterly fearless and yet so kind. They were rare.
Too rare to live. Just like Jason.
A nurse eventually kicked him out, which was fine by Dylan, as he knew he was getting maudlin and that Roan, if he happened to come to then, would probably just slug him. He wasn’t a fan of the soppy.
On the way out, Dylan barely recognized the cute Asian guy who was Dee’s current boyfriend. He said he’d call him if Roan regained consciousness, and Dylan thanked him for that. He left feeling numb and strange, slightly disconnected from the world around him, as if he was sleepwalking and yet aware of it.
He felt that way all the way home, only realizing as soon as he parked in the driveway that he should have gone to the store. Fuck it, he wasn’t hungry. If he got hungry later, he could order a pizza.
Dylan was still in a personal fog, unlocking the front door, when someone grabbed him around the neck from behind. “Roan McKichan? Are you Roan?”
Dylan grabbed the man’s arm. He knew enough self-defense that he could have thrown the guy if he had the room, but he didn’t, so he could do nothing at the moment save keep him from strangling him. “No, I’m not. Why do you want him?”
“Where is he?” The guy sounded desperate. He also smelled, of body odor and, strangely enough, a scent like wet cat.
“In the hospital. Somebody tried to kill him. Was it you?” Dylan didn’t think so, he didn’t know Roan on sight, but he wanted to put him on the defensive.
“No! No, I didn’t do that. At least, I don’t think I did—” His voice cracked, and he made a slight keening noise as he tried to keep from crying. Results were mixed.
And that’s when it all suddenly clicked into place in his mind. “Grant Kim?” Dylan asked.
17
The Sound of Light Breaking Down
IN THE manner of dreams everywhere, Roan was aware he was in what was supposed to be his house, but wasn’t his house. It was a big, nearly empty room of plain white walls, save for a huge floor-to-ceiling picture window. He’d never seen a room like this, and it surely didn’t exist in his house. But in his dream mind, this was home. And he
was looking out the window on an expansive green lawn where a tiger lolled, its tail flicking lazily as it surveyed its surroundings with what seemed to be boredom. Once again knowing without knowing, he knew he was looking at Paris’s tiger. Not Paris in tiger form—Paris’s tiger, the one that hid inside of him. “So, you finally got out,” Roan said, even though there was no way the tiger could hear him through the glass. It still looked at him anyways, as if it could.
Did that mean Paris was around here, free of his infection? He looked around, but the room was empty, save for him. There was a strange noise, though, a kind of scritching, and he turned back to see the cat was now scratching on the glass, as if wanting to come in. But it was no longer a tiger but a lion, a lion with a mane shot through with deep reddish-brown fur the color of half-dried blood. His lion. The tiger was nowhere to be seen. “You can’t come in ’til I let you in,” Roan told it. Wow, his dreams weren’t subtle at all, were they? Very in your face with its supposedly veiled messages. He almost didn’t trust how desperately it wanted to come in.
Roan was aware enough to wake up, hearing small random noises before he decided to open his eyes. There was a black male nurse in a sea-green uniform checking his IV bag, and almost offhandedly he noticed him.
“Hey there, back to the world of the living, huh?” he asked, picking up a clipboard and looking at it. He had a Puerto Rican accent.
“Guess so.” Roan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wondered why he still felt so incredibly groggy.
“Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”
Roan looked up at him in disbelief. “Did someone drop me on the floor? Did I get a concussion?”
“Not that I know of, but it’s always a good thing to be sure. How many?”
This was annoying. He glanced at his hand and said, “Four. Did I pass the vision portion of the test?”
The nurse marked something down on the clipboard and said, “Yes, you did. What do you want to do for the talent portion?”
Oh good, a funny nurse. Was Robin Williams not available? “Punch people in the head.”
That made him snicker. “Nice to know you still have your sense of humor.”
“Who’s joking?”
“Can you tell me if you’ve had headaches recently? Before now, I mean. Problems with your vision?”
“I have migraines. That should be in my records.”
“It is, but have they gotten worse?”
Okay, maybe he was still groggy and out of it, but he knew leading questions when he heard them. This was leading to something. “Why are you asking me these questions? What’s going on?”
“We just want to make sure you had no adverse reactions to the treatment. You were given some pretty heavy downers, man; your system was well overloaded. Most people wouldn’t have survived it.”
“Most people aren’t freaks. And it doesn’t make any sense that you’re asking me how I was before the treatment to determine how I took the treatment. You’re asking me for another reason.”
“Damn, you are awake, aren’t you?” He shook his head, and the tiny braids of his hair shook slightly. They were small and close to his scalp, so there was little room to move. “The notes just say I’m suppose to ask you these questions, it doesn’t say why.”
“Bullshit.”
“Ooh, now we’re getting personal.”
“You know why, or at least you can guess.”
He appeared to consult the clipboard once again, but Roan didn’t believe it. He was stalling for time. “I assume it’s related to your migraines.”
“You assume, and so do I, but I doubt it.”
“I also notice you’re dodging the questions.”
Roan sighed. “My migraines are always bad. It likes to get my attention. Could you excuse me? I really gotta piss.”
The nurse shrugged. “Doesn’t bother me none. Now, would you answer—”
“I’m asking you to move so I can get out of bed,” Roan asked pointedly, sitting up and gesturing toward the bathroom. “You mind?”
The nurse seemed slightly nonplussed by that. “Um, you’re hooked up to a catheter.”
“What?” Roan lifted the sheet and looked under, and either his penis had become much longer, thinner, and translucent, or…. “Fucking Christ on a pogo stick,” he snapped, dropping the sheet so he didn’t get nauseous. No one really wanted something up their dick, did they? Well, maybe those with piercings didn’t mind. And of course now that he knew it was there, he was fairly sure he could feel it. “Can I get this removed? Can I also be drugged for its removal?”
The nurse grinned, his teeth movie-star straight and blindingly white. “Yeah, we can remove it, but drugging isn’t really an option, not after what you’ve been through.”
God, this was humiliating. “What was I through? What’d I get dosed with?”
“Elephant tranquilizers. You were on a respirator for a while, so your throat will probably be sore for a bit.”
It did hurt a little, but he was so concerned with the feeling of a tube jammed up his dick he really didn’t notice it. “Now that I’m conscious, can I get outta here? After you remove the tubes and things.”
He shook his head, briefly pasting on a sympathetic smile. “Sorry, dude, but we have to run some tests. You’re not off the hook yet.”
Somehow he figured that. But why was he asking him all these questions? It had to do with his worsening migraines, that weird pain in his head. They’d found something, and the fact that the nurse wasn’t telling him meant either they weren’t sure what it was, or it was so horrible the doctor had to break it to him. Roan took a calming breath and decided to level with the nurse (whose security badge read Ethan Velez). “Look, I’ve spent a good portion of my life in hospitals. I’m an infected, so either they were poking and prodding me to see what was wrong with me, or, oftentimes, what wasn’t wrong with me, as they were often thrown by the fact that I didn’t have something wrong with me that I should have had wrong with me. You get me?”
He nodded. “You’re pretty remarkable. You could probably dislocate all your limbs and have ’em popped back in without noticing.”
Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He decided not to ask. “These questions you’re asking me… I know you found something you didn’t like. Would you just level with me and tell me what it is? I assure you I can handle it. When I was ten, I was told I’d probably be dead in three years. I didn’t freak out then, and I’m not going to freak out now, no matter what you say.”
“Whoa, that’s harsh. They told you you were gonna die when you were ten?”
“Yes. And when I was twelve, fourteen, and every year between sixteen and twenty-six. Eventually they realized how foolish they looked and stopped. So are you going to level with me or what?”
He shook his head, grimacing doubtfully. “Sorry. I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
Roan sighed. Fine, he wanted to be difficult? Why the hell not? Everyone else in his life was. “Is it a brain tumor?” That’s what they were always testing him for, since his migraines were so bad.
Ethan shook his head and shrugged simultaneously. “Honestly, I don’t know. All it says is I’m supposed to ask you these questions and record your responses. But, at a guess, I’d say they were worried about any after-effects of the drug overdose. Humans aren’t supposed to have those drugs, and certainly not in that quantity. How it didn’t permanently fuck you up, I don’t know.”
“I’m not completely Human.”
“Don’t say that. Just ’cause you’re infected—”
“I’m a bit more than simply infected,” he countered. “Look at that chart. Tell me what on it is normal.”
“That’s no way to think of yourself. Your readings are great: you have the heart rate and blood pressure of a nineteen-year-old.”
“And I’m almost forty, I have a minor pill habit, most of my diet is take-out food, and I spend a lot of time sitting on my ass in a car. My body is a garbage
dump and it should reflect that, but it doesn’t. You know as well as I do how freakish that is.”
Nurse Velez scowled at him. “Why do you keep calling yourself a freak, man? You’re not a freak. You’re a fucking miracle. Be proud of it. I know I would be.”
He wanted to say, “You’re not me, and I’m not a fucking miracle,” but that sounded both bitchy and self-pitying, and he really wanted no part of either. Instead he looked away, aware of how privileged he was to have a private room, no matter how small. But infecteds were generally segregated from the other patients, especially if no one was sure of their time of the month. No one wanted the legal drama of one patient eating another. That reminded him of Grant Kim. “How long have I been out?”
“’Bout a day. Your boyfriend was in here from early this morning ’til they kicked him out. Want I should give him a call?”
Dee wasn’t just friends with every goddamn EMT on the planet; he managed to have lots of friends amongst the nurses too. Since nurses didn’t usually extend such a courtesy, he figured Dee must have spread the word that he was a friend and to be treated accordingly. Roan had had no idea when he started dating Dee that he would turn out to be the most important man he would ever know in his entire life, but there it was. “Yeah, sure.” Velez was on his way out of the room when Roan asked, “Does he know?”
Velez had to consider that a moment, but the confusion collapsed after he figured out he wasn’t asking if he knew about the overdose, since he’d brought him in. He was asking if Dylan knew why they were asking these extra questions, if he knew there was possibly something else wrong with him. Velez finally just shrugged. “I dunno. I wouldn’t think so. Medical privacy and all that. You guys aren’t married, are you? I mean, maybe then, but maybe not. Kinda depends on the doctor.”