Hosts

by F. Paul Wilson

  7

  Just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

  Jeanette released Kate's arms and staggered back to lean against the counter, as if dizzy. She blinked and looked at Kate.

  "What just happened?"

  "I don't know," Kate said, as baffled by this new shift in mood as she was by the first. Like turning a switch. "Don't you?"

  "No. I think I must have blacked out. First you were standing over there and now you're right in front of me and I don't remember you moving."

  "'But you were talking to me, shouting, in fact. Something about 'it's taking over.'"

  Shock mixed with uneasiness on Jeanette's face. "I said that? No, I… couldn't have said that. I'd remember."

  "Why would I make that up, Jeanette?"

  "I don't know. Taking over what?"

  "You didn't get to it, but you seemed terrified." Kate stepped closer and placed a hand on Jeanette's arm. "Jeanette, I think you had a seizure."

  She pulled away. "What? Epilepsy? Don't be ridiculous! I've seen seizures. I know what they're like. I wasn't shaking, was I? I didn't fall down and start foaming at the mouth."

  "That's a grand mal seizure. But there are all kinds of seizures. Temporal lobe seizures can cause personality changes, bizarre behavior. I—"

  "I did not have a seizure!"

  "It could be the tumor, Jeanette. Maybe it's not responding as well as we thought. Or maybe this is an aftereffect of the treatment. We've got to call Dr. Fielding."

  "No. Absolutely not."

  "But just a moment ago you were begging me to."

  "You must have misunderstood. Why would I want to see Dr. Fielding? I'm fine. Never felt better."

  "Jeanette, please." The more Kate thought about what she'd just witnessed, the more concerned she became. She'd never seen such a dramatic personality shift—a real-life Jekyll and Hyde without the smoking potion. She felt the nape of her neck tighten. "This could be serious."

  "It's nothing, Kate. Don't trouble yourself about it. Just leave me alone. I—" She turned her head sharply, as if listening. "Wait. Someone's coming."

  Jeanette slipped past her and headed for the door. Before she was halfway across the front room the door swung open. A man stood on the threshold. Kate recognized him as the one who'd welcomed Jeanette into the house in the Bronx last night.

  "How did you get in here?" Kate blurted.

  His eyes briefly fixed on her—Kate hadn't been close enough until now to notice how small and cold they were—then flicked away. Neither he nor Jeanette bothered to answer her, but she noticed something metallic in his hand.

  The realization that Jeanette had given him a key to her place made Kate queasy.

  He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He held out his hands to Jeanette. "What happened to you?"

  She shook her head and placed her hands in his. They stood staring at each other.

  "Concerned," the man said.

  Jeanette only nodded. They stared a few seconds longer, then Jeanette said, "Seizure."

  With that they both glanced at Kate.

  "What is going on here?" Kate said. "And who are you?"

  "This is Terrence Holdstock," Jeanette said. "A friend."

  "All right?" Holdstock asked Jeanette.

  "Not sure."

  "See myself."

  More staring, then Jeanette turned to her. "We're going for a walk."

  A panicky voice inside was telling Kate not to let Jeanette go off with this man. She had this terrifying and wildly unscientific impression that there were two Jeanettes, and the one she'd known and loved was trapped inside this stranger and trying to claw her way out.

  "I'll come along."

  "No," Jeanette said. "We need to be alone."

  Without another word, not even good-bye, they turned and left.

  At any other time, Kate knew, she would have been crushed. But she was too shaken for that. Something was terribly wrong. The problem was neurological. It had to be. And the man who had worked on her brain was her oncologist, Dr. Fielding.

  Her hand shook as she reached for the phone. She had to call Fielding. But after that… what? What could Fielding do if Jeanette refused to see him? That man Holdstock seemed to have some mesmerizing influence over her.

  Which meant she should make another call. To her brother. Much as she'd wanted to keep him out of this, she couldn't discount how the two women she'd called this morning had said they'd trust Jack with their lives. Maybe someone like him was needed here, because Kate found the coldness in Holdstock's eyes as unsettling as Jeanette's behavior.

  Could she trust Jack with Jeanette's life? She didn't have much choice.

  God, she hoped she wouldn't regret this.

  8

  With aching legs and burning feet, Sandy plodded toward his apartment door, grimly certain that he'd find the place empty, Beth gone. Which would be in perfect synch with how he'd come up after a day of trudging through the Upper West Side: empty.

  Can't expect to strike it rich first time out, he kept telling himself.

  But he couldn't deny that the hope of a lucky lightning strike, however unreasonable, had nestled in his brain when he'd set out this morning.

  So much for hope. By five-thirty he'd had it. He knew he should keep pushing but he'd run out of gas. The streets and sidewalks were jammed and he couldn't take any more suspicious looks or negative headshakes. He was tired of hearing "Never seen him before in my life," and even more tired of lying about why he was looking for the man in the drawing. So he'd packed it in.

  Tomorrow was another day.

  But what about tonight?

  I could sure use some company now, he thought. Female company with big brown eyes and short black hair. Beth company.

  But he couldn't allow himself to hope that she'd still be there. She'd probably awakened, maybe hung around a little, got bored, and went back to her boyfriend.

  And then Sandy heard the music, the spellbinding strains of "It Could Be Sweet" from Portishead's first album filtering through his door. He keyed it open and stepped inside. The music engulfed him along with an odor. Food. Someone was cooking.

  "About time you got back!" Beth said, smiling from the kitchenette. "I was getting worried."

  Sandy tried to take it in. Bottles and jars and boxes on the counter—wine, Ragu, Ronzoni. A candle burning, the blinds drawn, music playing…

  Beth's face fell. Something in his expression maybe.

  "Is this okay?" she said. "I hope you don't think I'm horning in but I woke up and there was no food so I thought I'd cook us dinner. If you're not cool with that…"

  Sandy couldn't speak so he held up his hand to stop her.

  "What's wrong?" Beth said. "Say something. Look, if I've overstepped my bounds…"

  What to say? Sandy thought. Then it hit him: try the truth.

  "Sorry. I was kind of afraid to speak. I'm so happy you're still here I thought I'd cry."

  Her smile lit the room. She ran to him and threw her arms around his neck. She hugged him, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, then stepped back.

  She said, "Jesus, you're something, you know that? So sweet! I've never met anyone like you."

  "Well, I—"

  "And I can't believe you like Portishead—at least I assume you like them because you've got all their albums. I love them. And not just because the lead singer and I have the same first name."

  Lead singer? Sandy thought, still dazed. Oh, yeah. Beth Gibbon.

  "You bought food?" he said. So lame, but it was the best he could do at the moment.

  "Yeah. Are you anorexic or something? I mean, there was no food in this place."

  Sandy's head was spinning and Beth was talking at light speed. Could she be a crankhead or something?

  "I eat takeout a lot. Look, uh, Beth, are you all right?

  "All right?" she said, laughing. "I'm miles better than all right. I don't think I've been so all right in years!" She dashed to the couch and
picked up a handful of yellow sheets from his legal pad, the one he'd left the note on. "Look at this! Notes, Sandy! It's just so pouring out of me!"

  "Notes about what?"

  "About what? What else? Last night. I woke up and found your note and remembered what you'd said this morning and suddenly it was like wow! Insight! I am 50 psyched!"

  "What'd I say?"

  She grinned. "Oh, so you like Ray Charles too."

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind. You said maybe you were able to handle what happened because you had to write about it. That the writing forced you to confront your reactions, that putting it all down on paper was some sort of exorcism. Remember?"

  "Yeah." He vaguely recalled saying something like that. "Sort of."

  "So that's what I've been doing! For months now I've been going crazy trying to decide what to do for my thesis film, and when I woke up this afternoon I remembered what you said and there it was, staring me right in the face!"

  "Your film?"

  "Yes! It's going to be about what happened on the train last night. Not literally, of course, but metaphorically about having your mortality so shoved right in your face. And you know what? Ever since I started writing down these notes, I'm not afraid anymore."

  She tossed the yellow sheets back toward the couch. They never made it. They fluttered instead like dying birds and fell to the carpet.

  She threw her head back and shouted. "I'm saved!"

  They drank the wine and talked as she cooked the spaghetti and spiced up the Ragu in some wonderful way. And they talked while they ate. Beth was twenty-four, from Atlanta, with an English degree from Baylor. Her folks were the sort who valued stability, she told him, and weren't all that crazy about her going for a film degree; it wasn't a career that guaranteed a steady income and benefits—like teaching, for instance.

  And all the while Sandy ached for her but couldn't say so, couldn't make the first move.

  Finally the wine and the food were gone. Sandy cleared the table with Beth. They were both standing at the sink when she turned to him.

  "Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure. Anything."

  "Have you got something against sex?"

  Sandy blinked in shock, tried to say no, but found himself stuck in a Porky Pig stutter. "M-m-m-m-me? No. Why would you say that?"

  "Because I'm here and I'm as willing as I'll ever be and you haven't made a move. Not a single move."

  That fear of rejection shit again, Sandy thought. Damn me! How do I get out of this?

  "Well, look," he said. "I mean, after you gave me such a brush-off last night I thought maybe you might be, you know, playing for the other team."

  He hadn't thought that at all, but it was a good cover.

  Her grin split her face. "Me? A lez? Oh, God, that's such a riot!"

  "It is?" It was the best he could come up with on such short notice.

  "You were just a stranger on a train then." She nudged him. "And hey, how about that—I was reading a Hitchcock book no less. But now…"

  Beth slipped her arms around Sandy's neck again and pulled his face down to hers.

  "Now you're a guy who saved my life, or at least was willing to take a bullet for me, and then you calmed me down when I was so freaking out, and then you inspired my student film. Where the hell have you been all my life, Sandy Palmer?"

  "Waiting for you," Sandy said.

  And then her lips were sealed over his and she was hooking her right leg around him and tugging at the buttons of his shirt.

  She wants me! he thought, his heart soaring. Wants me as much as I want her.

  What a difference a day makes.

  9

  Kate was waiting outside on the front step as Jack neared the Arsley. She wasn't alone. In the fading light he could make out a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered man in a suit.

  Who's this? he wondered.

  He'd figured the easiest way to get to Pelham Parkway and back was to drive, so he'd offered his services. But he'd expected only Kate as a passenger.

  Felt a smile start at the sight of her, and was struck again by what a good-looking woman she was. Dressed simply and casually in a fitted white shirt and black slacks, she still managed to project taste and style. Guy with her looked to be about her age, but on the homely side. Jack hoped this wasn't the "someone special" she'd mentioned last night. She could do a lot better.

  He pulled his two-year-old black Crown Victoria into the curb before the pair. Kate leaned in the passenger window.

  "Jack, this is Dr. Fielding, Jeanette's oncologist. He wants to come along."

  Swell, Jack thought sourly.

  Didn't know what Kate was getting him into, and a third party might tie his hands. She'd told him about Jeanette Vega, a dear friend from college recovering from brain tumor therapy with no one to care for her. And she'd told him about this Holdstock guy popping into Jeanette's unannounced with a key; that plus his apparent influence over Jeanette earned him a high creep quotient. Hopefully tonight's excursion would run smoothly, but Jack found cults generally creepy. Too unpredictable. Jonestown and those Hale-Bopp weirdos were prime examples.

  But he smiled and said, "Sure. Why not?"

  The doc slipped into the back seat and Jack noticed his dark hair, over-gelled and frozen into long shiny black rows left by his comb. He stretched a bony, long-fingered hand toward Jack. "Jim Fielding."

  "Jack," he said, shaking Fielding's hand. "An oncologist who makes house calls. Am I witnessing an historic event?" He turned to Kate who was belting herself in next to him. "Hope you didn't use any illegal means of coercion."

  "As opposed to legal means of coercion?" Kate said. "No, Dr. Fielding insisted on coming along."

  "Really."

  "I'm concerned about Jeanette's bizarre behavior," Fielding said, "particularly the possibility that she might be developing a seizure disorder. She's fortunate a trained observer like Dr. Iverson was there as a witness."

  Dr. Iverson? Jack wondered, then realized he was talking about Kate.

  "I'd like to do a little first-hand observation myself. And if Jeanette won't come to me, then I'll go to her."

  Sounds like a good guy, Jack thought.

  Kate patted the seat between them. "Big car. Reminds me of Dad's."

  "He's got a Marquis, same car but sold by Mercury. It's the state car of Florida."

  "I wouldn't have thought you were a big-car type, Jack."

  "I'm not."

  "You rented this just for tonight? Jack, you should have told—"

  "No, it's mine. Sort of."

  "Sort of how?"

  "Just… sort of." Should he explain how he'd paid for the car but it was registered under someone else's name? Nah. "Don't worry about it."

  "I'm not worried about it—just you."

  "It's okay."

  Cars were an ongoing problem for Jack. With no officially recognized identity, he couldn't own one in the conventional manner. At least as a city dweller he had little call for one, but on those rare occasions when the need arose he wanted immediate access. Used to keep an old Buick registered under Gia's name but that arrangement had led to a dicey situation where Jack had been linked to the car and the car had been traced back to Gia.

  Wasn't about to let that to happen again. He made a point of learning from his mistakes and so he'd hunted around for another way to have access to wheels that couldn't be traced to him. Came up with a beaut: find a guy equipped to field whatever a disgruntled target of Jack's work might toss his way, then clone his car.

  After weeks of careful searching, Ernie, his documents guru, found just the man: Vinny the Donut Donate

  Vinny D supplied muscle for a Bed Stuy shy; lived in Brooklyn Heights and drove a recent model Crown Vic—black, of course. Jack would have figured Vinny as more a Cadillac kind of guy, but when he looked in the Crown Vic's trunk he understood: big enough to hold three, maybe four bodies.

  So Jack had Ernie make him up a set of tags and a registra
tion identical to Vinny's; and a driver's license which, except for its photo, was a perfect match of Vinny D's. Then Jack went out and bought a Crown Vic like Vinny's—a banged-up version that he never washed, but the same make and model.

  The thing Jack liked most about Vinny D was his perfect driving record. Ernie's probe of the DMV computer showed no points. Whether this was due to diligence and skill behind the wheel, or a liberal application of grease in official places, Jack neither knew nor cared. The important thing was that if Jack ever got stopped he wouldn't be hauled in as a scofflaw.

  It wasn't perfect. Always the possibility of Jack and Vinny D winding up on the same street at the same time and Vinny just happening to notice that their tags were identical. But since Vinny kept his car in Brooklyn and Jack garaged his in Manhattan, and hardly used it, he figured the chance of that happening was practically nil.

  "Do we have a plan?" Jack said. "Do we even know she's at this address?"

  "It's the only place I can think of to start," Kate said. "She left with that man this morning and hasn't been back since."

  Jack said, "I'm feeling a little left out here. You both know this woman and I've never met her. What's she like?"

  Kate cleared her throat. "The Jeanette you'll meet tonight—if you do meet her—is not the same woman she was before her treatment."

  "And just what was this treatment?"

  "For a brain tumor—an inoperable malignant glioma."

  Fielding added from the rear: "By far the most common primary tumor developing in the human brain and too often refractory to current therapeutic approaches."

  Kate went on. "So when the diagnosis was made I did some research and found Dr. Fielding and his clinical trial. Jeanette qualified for his study and—" She turned in her seat toward Fielding. "Perhaps you can tell it best."

  "Of course." Fielding leaned forward. "Jeanette's tumor was treated with a stereotactically administered recombinant adenovirus vector carrying the herpes simplex thymidine kinase gene, followed by intravenous ganciclovir."

  "Oh," Jack said. "That clears that up." He glanced at Kate. "Anyone care to translate?"