Double Threat
Page 10
Improvise … Daley could barely focus. She had her hand back—her hand was back!
She pulled the door open to check the hall—
—and found herself face-to-face with Juana.
Daley jumped back in shock but Juana seemed unfazed. “You are leaving?”
“What are you doing here?”
Juana pointed down the hall. “My mother, remember?”
“Oh, right.” Awfully early but—whatever. “Okay, yes, I’m leaving. I need to get out of here without anybody seeing me.”
“You have a plan?”
“I’m thinking I’ll walk to the elevator like I’ve been here visiting someone, like you, take it down to the lobby, and stroll out the front like I haven’t a care in the world.”
Juana pointed to Daley’s left arm. “You will have a hard time sneaking past the nursing station with all those bandages. You’ll need a distraction.”
“You’re volunteering?”
Juana nodded. “I believe I can handle it.”
Daley met the woman’s dark gaze. “Why would you do that?”
“To ‘help and guide you,’ remember?” She looked around, then pointed to the left. “The elevator is that way. Give me half a minute.”
Daley thought she should ask: “How’s your mother?”
Juana shook her head. “The same. Which means not good.”
As Juana moved off, Daley stepped back into the room but left the door open six inches or so.
(“I think she’s following you.”)
I get that feeling too. But why would she want to follow me?
(“Maybe she feels responsible.”)
No cause for that. For some strange reason I get a feeling that you and she are connected somehow.
(“That woman and I? Connected? Ridiculous. How would that be possible?”)
No idea. Just a feeling in—
Somewhere out in the hall a woman began wailing in pain.
“I believe that’s our cue.”
(“I’m curious as to the nature of her diversion.”)
Well, we’re not risking a look. We can ask her next time we see her—which I’m betting will be soon.
Keeping her face half-turned toward the wall, Daley quick-walked to the elevator and jabbed the DOWN button. After something like a half-century wait, the doors slid open and she slipped inside but kept her back turned. When they whispered closed with no one raising an alarm, she released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding.
Made it.
2
The Nofio …
What a way to waste a nice Sunday afternoon, Rhys thought as he watched half a dozen fully clothed pregnant women wade around in hot spring water. Not that he would have preferred to see them in bikinis. But you’d think the Elders would allow them to wear one-piece swimsuits for the Nofio. Nope. Tights and long-sleeved T-shirts were the style du jour. The clan had strict rules on what women wore.
Osian Pendry, the patriarch who moved them from Wales to SoCal, had chosen to build his family lodge over a hot spring. Admittedly, the Pendry spring wasn’t anywhere near as big or elaborate as the one the Tadhaks had claimed for their spa, but the area hosted such a network of geothermal activity, hot mineral water was never in short supply.
This spring ran in a trickle under the Lodge foundation and pooled in a depression that ran maybe twenty feet on a side, arriving from the uphill side and dribbling away downhill into an underground channel that took the waters to … wherever.
The Nofio was just one more clan ritual that made no sense to Rhys. Mindless tradition. Ask why they did it, the answer invariably came that they’d always done it. And so they kept on doing it: Four times a year all the pregnant women in the clan would trek to the underbelly of the Lodge and immerse themselves for an hour or so in the warm pooled spring water. After they were through, they’d dry themselves off, go back home, and no one would visit the pool until the next Nofio.
While the women were immersed, the head of the clan—these days, that meant dear old Dad—would read a passage from the Scrolls that supposedly invoked a blessing upon the unborn from the absent Visitors.
For safety’s sake, a younger male member of the clan would watch over the bathers to make sure no one drowned. Typical of the clan, women weren’t considered capable lifeguards. The pool water never rose past chest height, so drowning was unlikely, but Rhys couldn’t argue with erring on the side of caution. He did argue with his name being in the pool of lifeguards, but didn’t raise much of a fuss. With the way the rotation worked, it came down to one hour on one Sunday a year. He could donate that much to the family, right?
Fuck the Nofio …
He’d been shocked to read that from Cadoc, who rarely used profanity in his notes. Rhys had mentioned the Nofio a number of times over the years, but had never evoked that sort of response. Just last year he’d joked about adding Cadoc’s name to the lifeguard rotation list, to which Cadoc had replied, Do you want to cause a rash of miscarriages?
Yeah, he’d had a sense of humor about it once. But now …
What had changed in the past year?
You’ll know soon enough …
Yeah. In less than two years, when Rhys hit thirty, all secrets would be revealed. But what secrets? What did Cadoc already know?
Watch & see things … Listen & hear things … I know things … someday I tell …
Obviously he’d learned something that had turned him against the Nofio.
Rhys was beginning to wonder if learning the clan’s secret lore should be something to look forward to, or something to dread.
3
Scissors ready, Daley stood over her bathroom sink.
“And now for the big unveiling. Ready?”
Pard popped into view beside her, dressed in surgical scrubs, a mask, a cap, and latex gloves.
(“Ready.”)
“You’re kidding, right?”
(“I thought it appropriate.”)
“It’s not.”
(“You’re no fun.”) He flashed back to flannel and jeans. (“I think I should warn you that the fingers might be a little short. After all, I was working in the dark. But short is no problem because I can always make the bones grow a little longer.”)
“I’ve got my hand back, Pard. Do you think I’m going to quibble about finger length?”
Slowly, carefully, Daley began snipping away at the gauze.
(“You need to go on a high-calcium, high-protein diet,”) he said at a machine-gun cadence, (“because I stole calcium from your existing bones and—“)
“You sound nervous.”
(“I suppose I am. I’ve never done this before. I found the gene that acts as the master control switch for EGR and turned it on, then I worked at breakneck speed. You have no idea how I taxed your system. Mistakes might have been made.”)
Somehow she knew that “EGR” meant early growth response and that it controlled regeneration. The gene was normally turned off in humans.
(“You should start taking calcium pills for a while so I can strengthen the bones. I also broke down some of your existing muscle into amino acids so I could build new rudimentary muscles in the fingers.”)
As Daley kept snipping away—damn, she was wrapped like a mummy—she said, “You stole from other muscles? I don’t feel weak anywhere.”
(“Mostly your glutei.”)
“My butt? You stole from my butt?”
(“Not to worry. I didn’t need much and with a high-protein diet we can rebuild it in no time.”)
“That’s okay. My butt was too big anyway.”
She stopped cutting and began unwrapping the gauze. First she saw fingers, and then a thumb and a palm. The skin was unnaturally smooth, with no wrinkling or whorls or creases by the finger joints. She flexed them, making a fist. The skin felt tight, like a too-small glove. As she straightened the fingers, she couldn’t help it—she began to cry.
(“What’s wrong?”)
“I’m so huh-huh-happy!”
Daley wiped her eyes. She turned the hand this way and that, then held up her right to compare them. Except for the smoothness, the fingers looked perfectly formed, same length and caliber left and right, except …
“It’s yellow.”
(“I’d say it looks more gold than simply yellow.”)
“You would.”
(“Either way, I don’t know where the pigment came from. However, in my defense, I will remind you that I was working in the dark, sight unseen, as it were.”)
She kept rotating her hand back and forth. She couldn’t stop staring at her wonderful, wonderful new hand.
“First my hair, now my hand. What’s your prob with pigment?”
(“I can fix it. I’ll have the skin tone matching the right hand in no time.”)
“Don’t you dare.”
(“You want a golden hand?”)
“For a little while, yeah. Might serve as a reminder to a certain know-it-all that he makes mistakes too.”
But that wasn’t the only reason. A plan was taking form in the back of her mind.
(“I can only assume you’re referring to me. Well, let me tell you—“)
“Thank you, Pard.”
(“For what?”)
“For giving me back my hand.”
(“You mean our hand. And thanks are not in order. I had no intention of letting us spend the rest of our lives in a maimed body.”)
The reality of her situation settled over her with an inescapable finality.
“We really are partners, aren’t we.”
(“So, you’ve finally accepted that. Another milestone! All for one and one for all. For better or worse. Till death do us part … I’m running out of clichés.”)
Daley said, “Hmmm.”
(“‘Hmmm’? I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”)
“It means I’m seeing dollar signs.”
(“Where?”)
“In my head. My hand aside, first Grace, then Lynn … if we can cure them, we can cure others. There’s got to be a way to monetize this.”
(“What? You can’t be serious!”)
“Why not? Doctors charge for their services. Why shouldn’t I?”
(“Because they’re not your services. They’re mine.”)
“Ah, but where would you be without me? Stuck on a cave ceiling, maybe?”
(“That’s hurtful, Daley.”)
“You said you were pure mind. How can you have feelings?”
(“You denigrated my humble origins.”)
Did she? She hadn’t meant to. Maybe she was still angry for what had happened to her hand. As she stared at its replacement, an obvious question came to the fore.
“Where do you come from, Pard—besides a cave ceiling, that is? I mean are you a rare life-form or some sort of alien or what?”
He put on a puzzled expression. (“I honestly don’t know. I’ve wondered that myself. I had no awareness before I began to integrate with you, so I have no way of knowing.”)
Daley returned to her front room.
“Are there others like you?”
(“Again … I don’t know.”)
“We should find out, don’t you think?”
(“Absolutely. We should start with Juana. That woman knows more than she’s telling.”)
“No doubt. We’ll have to get on her case next time we see her. Meanwhile … remember I said I wanted to accomplish something? I think I’d like to be a healer.”
Pard began to pace the room. “A healer? You mean put on some sort of modern-day medicine show?”)
Daley narrowed her gaze. “How do you know about medicine shows?”
(“Because you know about them. I know whatever you know, remember?”)
“Oh, right. Okay, but I’m not talking about putting on a medicine show, because that’s a scam. I’m talking about doing real healing.”
(“No, you’re talking about me doing real healing.”)
“We’re partners, remember? Your word. And you can’t heal anybody without my touch. I see us on network TV in worldwide syndication.”
Pard adopted a scandalized expression. (“You want to be a televangelist?”)
“I want the money to roll in so fast we can’t count it.”
(“Is that all you’re interested in—money?”)
She’d grown up poor, with Mum working crummy jobs and trying to stretch every dollar to the max. Money had been a day-and-night concern, as in Where’s the next dollar coming from?
“Mostly I’m interested in not having to worry about money—ever again. As for televangelists, they’re fakes and everybody with half a brain knows it. We’ll have no religion connection, but we will be providing miracles. That’ll be our thing: We’ll be dealing with truly sick people and truly healing them!”
(“Doing well while doing good, in other words.”)
“Exactly! And doing very well. We’ll have reputable doctors do before-and-after exams to verify the cures. As you said yourself, what you did seems like a miracle.”
Pard stared at her. (“Real cures on TV. You don’t see a problem there?”)
What was he talking about?
“I see a lot of people who won’t be sick anymore.”
(“You’ll be an instant, international celebrity, recognized everywhere. You won’t be able to show your face without—“)
“I’m a homebody and I’ll be able to afford all the privacy I need.”
(“Okay, then, here’s another question: How do we stop?”)
“Stop what?”
(“Healing. Consider: We’ve shown the world that you can cure people of life-threatening or life-ruining conditions without surgery or harsh medications, simply by touching them. Now, after years of doing that, we’re older and tired of it, burned out. We want to stop. How do we manage it?”)
Daley shrugged. “We simply cancel the program—pack up and go home.”
(“Do you really think you’ll be allowed to do that—deny sick people your healing power, your miracle touch?”) Pard shook his head. (“You’ll be considered public property—a national resource. You quit and you’ll be vilified like no one else in history, you’ll be hounded to the ends of the earth. You’ll never know a day’s peace.”)
“Stop trying to harsh my mellow, Pard. ‘Vilified’? You mean an army of trolls dumping on me on Twitter? I can live with that.”
(“No, I’m talking about riots, Daley. I’m talking about a mob breaking into your home and burning it to the ground.”)
The doorbell rang. Daley stepped to the window and looked below. Dr. Holikova stood at her front door.
What on earth did she want?
The bell rang again. And again.
(“I don’t think she’s going away.”)
“Oh, hell.”
Daley hurried down the stairs to her front door but didn’t open it. She watched Dr. Holikova through the peephole.
“Can I help you?”
“Stanka? I check at hospital and they say you leave AMA this morning.”
AMA? American Medical Association?
Pard appeared beside her. (“You’ve heard it on Grey’s Anatomy: ‘Against medical advice.’”)
“You are all right?” the doc said. “I just want to see how you are after terrible accident yesterday.”
Yeah, sure.
Daley held up her new hand … My new hand. How many people in all the history of humanity had been able to say that? Still hard to believe what Pard had done.
She said, “It wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed at the time. I’m okay now.”
“Please let me in, Stanka, just for minute. I must speak with you. Is very important. And is not just about Grace. I hear from Doctor Patel downstairs that young woman with dark hair and Dodgers cap like yours held patient’s hands and tell her she is cured of her lung cancer and…” Dr. Holikova seemed to struggle with her next words. “And PET scan done right after shows no cancer. So yo
u can see is important I speak to you.”
She glanced at Pard. What do you think?
(“Bad idea. You can’t let her see that hand. Not yet. Even if she thinks it was merely injured, it looks too good.”)
Daley leaned her head against the door. She really and truly had lost control of her life. But then again, when had she ever had complete control?
“Just curious, Doctor Holikova—how did you find me?”
The only addresses people had were her two mail drops.
“You gave my address when you had EEG.”
Oh, right. Dummy! Why had she given her apartment?
She checked the doctor again through the peephole and noticed a group of about a half dozen women crossing Burbank Boulevard and angling her way.
“You didn’t happen to give it to some people from the oncologist’s office, did you?”
“I would never give privileged information to anyone. But group of patients have been hanging around the building. They ask me about you, but I tell them nothing. I think they’re waiting for you to reappear.”
The group was closer now and Daley recognized Lynn leading the way.
“Not anymore, they aren’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those people behind you look awfully familiar.”
She turned and gasped. “They must have followed me! Let me in before they get here!”
“Not a chance, Doc.”
Daley hurried back up to the top of the stairs and paused on the landing, listening. She heard faint arguing below, and then the bell started ringing as fists hammered on the door. She stepped inside her apartment and locked the door.
“What do we do?”
(“Unfortunately, like most buildings around here, this one has no fire escape, and that new hand of ours is in no condition for any acrobatics. So I guess we wait them out.”)
The banging didn’t go on for too long. Daley watched from the window as the owner of the ground-floor bookstore chased the women away with a threat to call the police.
Suddenly restless, she began wandering the room and checking the street again and again.
“I’m feeling trapped.” She glanced at Pard who was sitting in the recliner with his legs crossed, looking like he hadn’t a care in the world. “How can you just sit there when I’m all on edge?”
He tapped a finger against his temple. (“Pure mind, remember? I’m not really sitting and I’m not subject to mood swings.”)