Pard suddenly became the giant floating bald green head from The Wizard of Oz. His voice echoed: (“Just tell her your partner, the great and powerful Pard, worked a miracle.”)
Yeah, right. A sure way to land me in the booby hatch. And go away, please?
He vanished.
“I don’t see that reconciling them is my problem, Doctor. I have no conflicts. I’m very happy with the way things turned out and I believe I’ll just leave it at that. You should too.”
“But I can’t. You had some sort of interaction with her and now she appears to be cured.”
Daley was feeling less and less comfortable with this level of scrutiny. Time to go.
“I have another appointment.”
But as she was turning away, Dr. Holikova grabbed her arm.
“What is going on, Ms. Daley?”
Dr. Holikova’s expression … Daley could describe it now only as hungry.
“Nothing’s going on. Now let me go.”
Her grip tightened. “Please. I need to know.”
Daley pulled free and hurried down the hall. What could she say that wouldn’t sound insane?
Pard reappeared as she started down the stairs.
(“I gather you’re skipping your MMPI?”)
I need to get away from her. I have no answers for her. But let me ask you something about this lady you supposedly cured. Can—?
(“There’s no ‘supposedly’ about it. You heard from Doctor Holikova that Grace’s EEG is normal.”)
All true, but despite wanting to believe, Daley was having trouble making that final leap. The miracle cure was a recurring scam and her upbringing warned her against allowing herself to get sucked into it.
“Okay. You cured that lady. Can you cure others?”
(“As long as there’s skin-to-skin contact between you and the other, I’m in. But I need more than a simple touch. You can’t just shake hands and that’s it. From what I experienced with Grace, I need a few seconds of steady contact before I can assert myself. Break that contact and I’m cut off, so total contact has to last long enough for me to do what must be done.”)
“So you’re saying, given enough time you can cure anything?”
(“I can’t cure stupid.”)
Daley blinked. “Is that directed at me?”
(“No, of course not. Just stating a fact. You’re anything but stupid, but it would be illogical and unsubstantiated for me to say I can cure all illness. I’ve had experience with only one person and she had a very specific lesion. As for curing anything and everything? I doubt it. I need more study to learn disease processes.”)
“You’re still reading while I’m asleep?”
(“I’m sure you’d be bored to tears if you were awake. But my point is: I can probably do a lot with a disease process, but not with the damage it has caused over the years. The first I can accomplish quickly, but undoing, say, all the nerve damage from multiple sclerosis or the ruined joints from rheumatoid arthritis, I don’t see how that would be possible.”)
As they reached the first floor, he said, (“Hey, look.”)
He was pointing at an office door that read, Dr. R. Patel—Oncology & Hematology.
So?
(“He treats cancer. Let’s go in.”)
What for?
(“You wanted to know what I can cure, let’s find out. Maybe there’s someone in there I can help. Let’s just take a look. Please?”) He leaned close, hands folded in supplication. (“Please-please-please?”)
All right, all right.
Daley stepped into the low-lit waiting room and saw that the receptionist’s desk was empty. She took in her surroundings.
A pale young woman around Daley’s age sat nearby in the front row. She had a knit cap pulled low on her head. No hair stuck out from the edges. Had it fallen out from chemo?
(“There’s a prospect. Go and talk to her.”)
About what?
(“About why she’s here.”)
Dumb question in an oncologist’s office.
(“Ask if you can read her palm—anything that involves contact.”)
I don’t know …
(“Please-please-please?”)
Is that your new thing?
(“It will be if you don’t help me out here. You wouldn’t believe how long I can keep it up.”)
Suppressing a growl of annoyance, Daley took the seat next to the girl. Pard seated himself on her far side.
“Hi. Can I read your palm?” She cringed at how lame it sounded.
The girl leaned away. “I don’t think—”
“Hey, I’m not looking for money or anything. Just to pass the time. What can it hurt?”
Still she held back. “You gonna tell me my future or something? Because maybe I don’t wanna know because maybe I already have a pretty good idea.”
“Don’t let anybody tell you they can tell the future, because it’s totally bogus.”
This seemed to disarm her enough to let her stick out her hand, palm up. “Okay. Go ahead.”
“What’s your name?” Daley said as she took her hand.
“You tell me.”
“Good for you,” Daley said with a laugh. She liked her.
(“Okay. Hold on to her. I need a few seconds or so to—”)
Pard disappeared.
Back when Daley had turned thirteen, the Family started teaching her palmistry. They had tiny shops all over LA County, and raked in a bundle from them. Daley remembered a little of it—enough to fake it.
Pard reappeared. (“Damn, she’s got leukemia. I can’t do anything about that.”)
Why not?
(“Abnormal white cells throughout her bloodstream being spewed from all through her bone marrow. No way can I shut down all that.”)
But I like her. No hope?
(“She seems to be responding to her chemotherapy.”)
Well, that’s something, I guess.
(“Her name’s Linda, by the way.”)
Daley said, “Okay, Linda—”
She snatched her hand away. “How do you know my name?”
Daley didn’t miss a beat. “Just a little talent I have.”
“What about my—?”
“Leukemia?” Had to be careful here. “I can’t see the future, but keep up your chemo and you should be fine.”
As Linda’s features slackened in shock, a robust-looking man seated behind them leaned forward and thrust his hand toward Daley.
“Here. Read mine.”
(“An eavesdropper! Well, go ahead.”)
He doesn’t look sick.
(“Maybe waiting for someone. Let me take a look.”)
“Sure,” Daley said and took his hand. It felt cold.
Pard waited for a few heartbeats, then faded away.
(“Okay, I’m in.”)
A half a minute later, he popped back into view, looking distressed.
(“No use.”)
What do you mean?
(“It’s his pancreas. It started there and it’s spread all over—liver, lungs, everywhere. No way I can help him.”)
What do I tell him?
(“His name’s Edward. He knows it’s his pancreas but he doesn’t know how bad yet. You should be telling him to get his affairs in order, but leave that to his doctor. Tell him something like what you told Linda.”)
Feeling bad for the guy, she said, “Well, Edward, I can’t see the future, but keep up with Doctor Patel and you should do fine.”
“But—”
Daley jumped up and moved away before he could start quizzing her.
This is a waste of time.
(“One more? Please-please—”)
Don’t start.
She settled near a woman who was wiping a tear from her eye.
“You seem upset. Is there anything I can do to help?”
The woman shook her head. “Not unless you can take away a spot on my lung.”
“Well, I don’t know—”
“I had a cou
gh that wouldn’t stop.” She seemed to be talking more to herself than to Daley. “So my doctor ordered a chest X-ray and they found a spot. So they did a CAT scan and said it was c-c-cancer! Now they’re sending me next door to get a PET scan to see if it’s spread before they buh-biopsy it to see what kind!”
As she sobbed, Pard said, (“Take her hands and I’ll check her out.”)
Daley grabbed both her hands, as if trying to comfort her. “I’m sure it will be all right.”
The woman tried to pull away. “You have no way of knowing that!”
(“Don’t let go. I’m going in.”) Pard faded from sight. After a few seconds he said, (“I’ve found the problem—a little tumor, still localized.”)
Fixable?
(“Finally, yeah. Tell her you’re going to cure her, anything to maintain contact. Just don’t let go.”)
I can promise that?
(“I guarantee it.”)
All right …
Daley held on tight, saying, “I can know it will be all right because I’m going to make it right.”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“Because I have the healing touch.”
Pard reappeared. (“Okay. Done.”)
So soon?
(“Once I got in there it was easy peasy, as the saying goes. Her name’s Lynn and her malignancy is a thing of the past.”)
Daley released her hands and stood. “There, Lynn. You won’t need that biopsy because you’re now tumor-free.”
“That’s impossible!”
“You’ll see.” Daley waggled her fingers in the air. “Magic.”
“Are you one of Doctor Patel’s patients?” said a strange voice.
Daley looked up to see a large woman in scrubs towering over her. The receptionist, she presumed.
“Um, no. Just entertaining the troops.”
“You’ll have to leave.”
“Let her stay,” Lynn said, looking slightly dazed.
“Sorry. Patients and family only. Leave or I’ll call security.”
(“Better do as Nurse Ratched says. My work here is done.”)
“No problem,” Daley said.
At the door she took a peek out into the hallway to make sure Dr. Holikova wasn’t around, then hurried outside into the bright sunlight.
(“You do understand, don’t you, that you were laying it on rather thick back there. I mean, magic fingers and all.”)
Let’s just hope you live up to your own hype.
Suddenly he became Justin Chambers, dressed in scrubs. (“The tumor is history.”)
Oh, we’re doing Grey’s Anatomy now?
(“Well, it’s one of your favorite shows and I feel like a hero surgeon, so maybe this will help you think of me as one.”)
You cut out the tumor?
(“No, I strangled it.”)
Meaning?
(“I closed off the blood vessels that were feeding it. Without oxygen, the cancer cells died. Then I sent in an army of phages to gobble up the corpses.”)
You’re pretty proud of yourself, aren’t you.
He puffed up his Justin Chambers chest. (“Hero surgeon.”)
Lose it, okay?
Abruptly he was back to Pard.
(“Anything you say, partner.”)
And we’re not partners.
3
(“I have to say that was very tasty—messy but delicious.”)
“You can taste?”
(“I taste what you taste.”)
Daley had brought a cheeseburger and a chocolate shake home from In-N-Out—animal style, of course—and virtually inhaled it. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. The fries never even made it home.
Pard had sat opposite her, eating his own burger—well, the image of a burger. Just so she wouldn’t have to eat alone, he’d said.
Couldn’t say her parasite wasn’t gentlemanly.
“Sometimes I forget to eat, and then I overeat. I need to organize my life and get on a schedule.”
Pard slouched back in his chair. A toothpick appeared in his hand and he started sucking on it.
Okay, not a perfect gentleman.
(“I’ve sensed some self-assessment going on.”)
She wondered how much Pard was privy to her private thoughts. She could communicate by thinking at him, but how about when she was mulling a problem? She could ask him, of course, but could she trust the answer? He might not want her to know he was listening in.
“Yeah, well, I’m twenty-six and I’m wondering if it might be time to set a new course for my life.”
(“And the destination?”)
Daley leaned back, not exactly sure what to say.
(“Am I sensing inner conflict?”)
“I’m thinking I’d like to accomplish something in my life.”
(“Like?”)
She shrugged. “I dunno. Anything.”
(“Well, you’re only twenty-six. Plenty of time to—”)
“Not going to accomplish much on the road I’m on, living off fake invoices and mid-level scams. But … whatever. It’s all moot if I don’t get my life back.”
Moot? She’d never used “moot” before. Pard’s vocabulary-building again.
Daley grabbed her warm-up jacket and headed for the door. “Let’s go check on Lynn and see how she did with her scan.”
(“Wait. Aren’t you going to clear the table?”)
She glanced back. She’d taken out a small plate to catch the animal-style droppings and a fork to finish them off.
“Later.”
(“You have a dishwasher. It will take you ten seconds to put them in.”)
Was he kidding?
“No one’s going to steal them.”
(“I find this very disturbing.”)
“Okay. You put them away.”
(“Not funny. Please?”)
Oh, hell. He said please.
“Have you any idea,” she said, grabbing the plate and fork, “how anal you are?”
(“There’s a right way and a wrong way. I prefer the right way.”)
She decided not to argue. She jammed everything into the dishwasher and resumed her exit.
Back again along the same route. She’d soon be wearing a groove in the sidewalk.
(“I hesitated bringing it up back at the apartment, but did you ever consider arranging all the forks and knives and spoons together in the dishwasher? It would make unloading—”)
An inarticulate howl escaped her, triggering worried looks from passersby.
(“What’s wrong?”)
I’m seriously thinking of throwing myself in front of a bus right now.
(“Forget I said anything.”)
She’d calmed down by the time she passed the repaving crew and stepped into the medical arts building.
(“FYI: Her full name’s Lynn Graverson but there’s all sorts of laws controlling the release of medical information.”)
She said she was scheduled for the scan today and that was a couple of hours ago. We’ll take a peek.
The imaging center took up half the ground floor across the hall from the oncologist’s office. Daley tried there first, telling the receptionist she was here to pick up Lynn Graverson. But Lynn had been and gone. Daley tried without success to get her phone number.
(“Well, if nothing else,”) Pard said as they returned to the hall, (“it’s good to know they take privacy seriously.”)
But a pain in the butt for us. Let’s try the oncologist.
(“You really think Nurse Ratched will be more help?”)
We’ll never know if we don’t try.
Daley entered Dr. Patel’s office and went straight to the receptionist window. Still about a half dozen people seated in the waiting room, but a different half dozen. She had no plan beyond winging whatever conversation ensued.
“Hi,” she said. “Remember me?”
Instead of a narrowing of the eyes and a command to leave, Ratched’s eyes widened.
“Doctor Patel!”
she said, calling toward the rear of the office. “Doctor Patel, she’s back! She’s here!”
Hmmm … I’m not sure I like this.
(“Perhaps the good doctor doesn’t like people telling his patients they’re cured—even when they are.”)
A stubby, bespectacled Pakistani in a white coat emerged from the rear, moving fast, closely followed by Lynn Graverson.
He pointed to Daley, saying, “This is her?” first to Ratched, then Lynn.
When they both said “Yes,” he burst into the waiting room, Lynn following.
“I must speak to you,” he said.
What’s going on?
(“I’m pretty sure we’re about to find out.”)
“Okaaaay,” Daley said slowly. “What about?”
“You told my patient you cured her tumor. ‘Magic,’ you said.”
Not sure where this was headed, Daley said, “Oh, well, I was just—”
“But it’s gone!” Lynn blurted as tears filled her eyes. “The PET scan showed no tumor, just like you said! There’s nothing to biopsy, just like you said! I’m cured!”
“Now, now, Lynn,” Patel said, “we can’t be one hundred percent sure of—”
“Do you hear that, people?” Lynn cried out to the waiting room. “This girl cured me of lung cancer just by taking my hand!”
A half dozen people were suddenly on their feet, saying “What?” “How?”
“Do you see what you’re doing?” Patel said, visibly angry now. He leaned closer. “You’re giving them false hope.”
“She did it for me,” Lynn said to the others. “Maybe she can do it for you.”
(“Now she’s done it.”)
Daley wasn’t sure what Pard meant until the other patients started clutching at her with a chorus of “Can you? Can you?”
Their desperation was so palpable, Daley instinctively backed away.
“She can!” Lynn said. “I know she can! I’m proof!”
Feeling as if her throat were closing, Daley broke free and backpedaled toward the door. But they followed. She yanked the door open and burst into the hallway, making for the exit.
The tinted glass doors to the outside lay straight ahead. Daley pushed through and squinted in the sudden burst of sunlight. She heard a babble behind her. A quick rearward glance showed the whole group, including Lynn, charging after her, crying out to her, reaching for her.
Thoroughly frightened now, she broke into a stumbling run.
(“I don’t think they want to hurt you.”)
They might not want to, but who knows what’ll happen once they catch up to me.
Double Threat Page 8