Chimera

by Rob Thurman

  “It’s strange.” His eyelids fell. “You’re strange.”

  “Yeah?” That wasn’t exactly news. “How so?”

  “I don’t know.” His respiration began to deepen as the exhaustion took its toll. “From the beginning you’ve treated me the same as you would treat Lukas, the same as you would treat your brother.” He shrugged his shoulders minutely. “You’ve been so . . . patient. So harmless. Then today . . .” The words trailed away. Either he was at a loss for the rest or was losing the battle against sleep.

  He’d seen me in action during his rescue, but that had been swiftly done and the majority under the cover of my darkness. Following that I’d been the big brother . . . a teddy bear. This morning, however, I’d become a teddy bear with teeth—teeth coated carmine red and anything but harmless. I was the guy who bought him apple pies, but I was also the one who shot men without hesitation. It was a dichotomy of darkness and light that would be hard for anyone, much less a kid, to absorb. And what made it more difficult was that the same duality lived inside him. His had been forced upon him while I had chosen mine, but it didn’t change the fact we both straddled that bloodred line.

  We were brothers all right, in more than genetics.

  “I’m here to take care of you, Michael. To be on your side.” I didn’t know if that reassured him or not. For that matter, I didn’t even know if he was still awake, but I repeated it all the same. “I’m here for you, nobody else.”

  The here-and-gone glimmer under masking eyelashes let me know he had heard. “I guess neither of us is harmless,” he said softly. “The only difference is you use weapons and I am one.”

  “Don’t get stuck on yourself, kid,” I contradicted, sliding down a little in the seat. “Compared to most people I know, you’re barely a fluffy hamster.”

  He laughed. It was barely audible and smothered in fatigue, but it was a laugh and not half as somber as I expected. Then he rolled over onto his side and this time did slip into a peaceful sleep. I wasn’t far behind him.

  Chapter 18

  The double vision was mostly gone, but reading the map was still a bitch. Rubbing my eyes against the blistering pain, I directed, “Take the next exit, then go left.”

  Nodding, Michael announced, “I like driving. How much does a car cost if you actually buy one instead of stealing it?”

  “Funny. Funny stuff.” I tried to thread fingers through my hair but backed off immediately with a grimace. The curls were matted thick with dried blood. Pulling down the visor, I took a look at myself in the mirror. Jesus. I looked like the the lone survivor of a ketchup factory explosion. I couldn’t check into a motel like this. I’d have to grab a shower at the doctor’s place.

  “Are you hungry?” With his hands precisely at ten and two on the wheel, just as the manual said, he glanced over at me. “I still have food from the drugstore.”

  My nausea peaked at the thought. “No thanks, kiddo.” It might be a day or two before I could keep anything down. Concussions were good for that. Football had taught me that particular lesson and working under Konstantin had only reinforced it. “Maybe later.”

  That didn’t seem to satisfy him and he checked the rearview mirror, then the side mirror, before turning his attention back to me. “Are you sure? You should at least drink something. You’ve lost blood. You need to replenish your fluid volume.”

  “Replenish, eh?” Holding my hands up in surrender as he slitted his eyes, I gave in. “Okay. Okay. There’s a bottle of something down here.” I retrieved the half-empty soft-drink bottle from the floorboards and opened it for a lukewarm sip.

  Mollified, he let me drink in peace, although I had the suspicion he’d be pushing those snack cakes again in no time. After I finished drinking, I blew softly into the opening of the bottle. The resulting musical note accompanied the bass drum pounding between my ears. “I’m going to be okay, Misha,” I declared lightly, unsure of the best way to approach a delicate subject. “I promise. I won’t leave you all alone out here.”

  His hands tightened on the wheel until his knuckles stood in stark relief. Setting his jaw, he denied stiffly, “I’m not afraid to be alone.”

  Of course he was afraid to be alone. He’d gone from a tiny fishbowl to the wild blue ocean. And while he may have shared that tank with a piranha, that didn’t mean there weren’t predators out here as well; unknown dangers that lurked around every corner. Everything was strangely surreal, and nothing was quite like it was in the pictures and books he’d been shown. Naturally, he was scared. I’d have pissed my pants in his situation.

  “I know you’re not,” I said agreeably. “I’m just saying.” It was one thing to be aware of his perfectly justifiable fear but another thing altogether to shove his nose in it. No teenage boy would be accepting of that, free-range or lab raised.

  “That’s not why I came back for you.” Stopped at a light, he studiously looked out his side window. “It’s not.”

  I knew it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop the tiny verbal nudge I gave him. “Then why did you?”

  “Good question.” The light turned green and he fed the car more gas than was strictly necessary in a move that had nothing to do with inexperience. “That’s a very good question.”

  Casa de Vanderburgh turned out to be quite the dump—big surprise. A squat block covered with stucco that was crazed with as many cracks as a two-dollar ceramic pot, it didn’t precisely shout House Beautiful. The driveway was floating islands of asphalt shot through with rivers of yellowed weeds, and the flower beds hosted only dust and cola cans. The one spotless and gleaming exception was the satellite dish on the flat roof. Cleanliness might be next to godliness, but twenty-four-hour-a-day porn beat lawn care hands down.

  The twisted shit that stoked his engine couldn’t be found on television, not even satellite, but he was likely making do with what he could get, poor suffering bastard. I choked down the growl that threatened to push its way from my throat and closed the car door. This was business. If I kept that first and foremost in my mind, I might get through the next few hours without resorting to violence. Saul wouldn’t thank me for putting a source in the hospital . . . no matter how much he deserved it. As for paying his debt to society, ten years fell short . . . by about ninety or so.

  Resting my hand on the hood of the car, I waited until the dizziness settled and then I headed for the front door. I plodded the ten feet and every step felt mired in the thickest mud. Michael hovered behind close enough to catch me if I fell, but I managed to avoid the embarrassment. Standing on the concrete blocks doubling as a poor man’s verandah, I raised my fist and knocked on the door. As we waited, I commanded, “Stick close while we’re in there. The guy’s a . . .” I stopped and reconsidered. Michael had had a psych course, true enough, but how in depth they would’ve covered child molestation I couldn’t begin to guess. And it was not a concept I particularly wanted to get into while standing on a pedophile’s porch. I settled on an evasive, “He’s a bad guy, and he likes to hurt kids. I want you to be careful, okay? Keep me between you and him at all times.”

  Technically, Michael was probably too old for Vanderburgh, but he did look younger than seventeen. He had the self-possession and an intellect older than his years but the appearance and naïveté that could have him passing for fifteen, maybe even fourteen. Worse, he was beautiful. If anyone had said that to me when I was that age, I would’ve squirmed with outrage. Beautiful simply isn’t a word a guy wants applied to him. Good-looking. Hot, if it was a girl saying it . . . sure, no problem, but not beautiful. Unfortunately for Michael, that was the word that suited him the best. He’d outgrow it eventually. In a few years he’d be the model type I’d joked about when I’d cut my hair. But for now he was a young David, pure as shining white marble and incandescent as the sun.

  “Why? I can take care of myself, Stefan,” he countered with an obstinate streak that was beginning to show more and more. “If I have to.”

  Maybe he could and maybe h
e couldn’t. From what I’d seen this morning, he was in no hurry to hurt anyone, and that was all to the good in my book. It could be that might change when it came right down to the wire; I couldn’t say. Regardless, I wasn’t about to place him in a situation that required him to use an ability that he was so obviously ambivalent about; not if I could avoid it.

  “Against assholes like this guy you shouldn’t have to,” I replied firmly before pounding on the door again. “So stick close.”

  “Who is it?”

  The wary question was easily heard through the cheap metal of the door. “Friends of Skoczinsky’s,” I answered. “We need a doctor.”

  Silence. Then came a voice. “You have money?”

  “I wouldn’t be standing here if I didn’t.” The jamb was scratched and the grain irregular beneath my hand, but it was enough to keep me upright. “Now hurry up and open the door before I give it a new puke paint job.”

  There was the metallic chuckle of a lock tripping and the door opened, a rectangle of light in the dusk. Standing there in a dark blue robe over burgundy and white striped pajamas was Santa Claus. His pink scalp peeked through snow-white hair. His short beard was as curly as the cocker spaniel my mom had had before she died, and his eyes, half hidden behind bifocals, were the same limpid brown. Just how goddamn disturbing was this? Forget the better mousetrap; someone had built a better pervert. He was a malignant hook concealed in the bait of pudgy cheer.

  Robe straining over the swell of belly, Vanderburgh looked me up and down. Full pink lips curved into a distasteful sneer. “You couldn’t have made yourself more presentable first?”

  He had a lot of gall. He hadn’t wasted any spit and polish on the outside of his squalid shack, but he was bitching at me over some dried blood. I can’t say that I was much in the mood to hear it, whether it came directly from old St. Nick’s mouth or not. “And my money’s just as dirty as I am,” I drawled, “but I bet you’ll take it just the same.” Pushing past him without an invitation, I blinked. What he hadn’t wasted on the outside he’d run wild with on the inside. There wasn’t much space in the small living room, but what there was he’d filled with plush furniture, lamps of jeweled glass, and finely woven rugs that covered a dingy tile floor. The television was plasma and hung like a cherished painting in a place of honor on the far wall.

  “Nice. I guess you don’t shoot all your cash into a vein.” I wanted nothing more than to sink onto that soft, soft sofa and sleep for days. But even if I’d trusted Vanderburgh enough to shut my eyes, it simply wasn’t in the cards.

  “No, a portion I spent on this.” He lifted a pistol from his robe pocket and pointed it at me. It wasn’t anything fancy—your standard .38 available at any pawnshop—but it would do the job as well as the pricier models. Those soft brown eyes had become small, hard stones. “Now, let me see the color of your money. And, gentlemen, credit cards are not accepted.”

  It wasn’t an unexpected turn of events; business was business. I opened up my wallet to flash the money at him. It was the only thing it held. My ID, genuine and fabricated, was hidden in a much more secure location. “There you go. Happy?”

  He was. Six-gun-packing Santa clucked his tongue in satisfaction and laid his gun on the mosaic-inlaid coffee table. “Go to the back and try not to drip any bodily fluids on your way.”

  Nudging Michael ahead of me, I obeyed. The back room was twice the size of the living room. There were cabinets of drugs and supplies, a low bed with plastic sheets, and a portable X-ray machine. “Sit down.” The esteemed ex-doctor waved a plump hand at the bed before pulling over a wheeled silver tray laden with instruments. He didn’t bother to ask what the problem was or give a heyhowyoudo as I took a seat. He had no bedside manner whatsoever. Wielding a pair of surgical scissors, he put a hand on my shoulder, shoved me flat, and deftly sliced my shirt up the middle before I had the chance to slip it off. After a quick look, he grunted and went to work.

  He cleaned the wound efficiently but without a whole lot of tender loving care. I gritted my teeth and endured it. Filling the raw channel with antibiotic cream, he covered it with a bandage and tape. “Hardly worth my valuable time,” he grunted as he flexed gloved fingers painted with dabs of red. “Let’s see if the head trauma is a tad more interesting.”

  At the head of the bed Michael bristled slightly but kept an even tone. “He has a concussion. Even I can see that and I’m no doctor.”

  There was an assessing look aimed at my brother, and it was one I didn’t care for . . . not at all. “A concussion, you say. Aren’t you the knowledgeable boy? Well, could be or perhaps it’s more than that.” Strong fingers mercilessly probed the gash in my scalp. “A slow bleed in the brain is a possibility, but without a CAT scan there’s no reliable way of knowing.” Cold, avid eyes moved from Michael to peer at me over the top of crescent-shaped lenses. “Then again the fact that you haven’t dropped dead yet can be counted a good sign.”

  “Thanks. That’s a real comfort,” I muttered.

  If he noticed the sarcasm, he was unfazed by it. “You’ll need stitches and IV fluids for the blood loss. Local anesthetic and painkillers are available at an extra charge.”

  Hippocrates would be so proud. “Give me the local and a bottle of pain pills. I prefer to dose myself.” If there was any doping to be done, I didn’t trust Vanderburgh to do it. “What about the dizziness and nausea?”

  “They’ll pass,” he said dismissively as he reached for a syringe and a rubber stopper vial. “I can give you something for it until then. Of course, it’ll cost—”

  “Extra. Yeah, I gathered that.” The sharpness of a needle bit at my skin and filled it with a cold, numbing liquid. I was glad he hadn’t decided to shave a patch of my hair for the stitches. That would be taking my new look a step too far.

  Michael was still at my side and looking less impressed with the ex-doctor all the time. He’d been fine through the dressing of the gunshot wound, but now at the sight of needles piercing flesh, a sliver of discomfort showed. That was only going to get worse when it was his turn. The memories made in the Institute basement were going to color anything medically related with suspicion and anxiety. I couldn’t change that or erase the past, but I still had some minor tricks up my sleeve.

  “Misha.” Snagging his sleeve, I suggested, “Maybe you should check the car. Make sure you put it in park. With driving as shaky as yours, better safe than sorry.”

  “Shaky?” It wasn’t outrage on Michael’s face. He had his emotions far too battened down for something as overt as that. Control was the name of the game, and it was a game that had kept him alive longer than that poor doomed roommate of his. That type of ironclad restraint wouldn’t allow for visible wrath, but it had no problem with annoyance.

  “Why do you think I’m so nauseated? Forget concussion. It’s car sickness. You drive like a drunken grandma.”

  The annoyance went from mild to a diamond-hard intensity. “I do not. And, by the way, I was not the one who ran over the statue of a large purple pig.”

  “Now you’re just being petty,” I rejoined. “That pig died for the greater good and you know it.”

  By the time Vanderburgh finished with the stitches, Michael had decided it wasn’t worth wasting valuable oxygen to argue with me, as I was clearly insane. Bending down to examine the results, he relented, “It looks better. Quite a few stitches, but I don’t think it should scar too badly.”

  “What’s one more?” I asked wryly before sitting up. Within five minutes I had an IV going into the crook of my arm. I’d chosen the IV bag myself. As I’d said to Michael, better safe than sorry. “Okay, Doc.” The man was no more a doctor than I was despite his years of med school, but I had even less desire to say his name. It was bound to taste foul, like rot. “Now we have a more complex problem.” I explained, in very general terms, about the tracer planted in Michael. Being more specific wasn’t to our advantage. The man would sell us out in a heartbeat if he knew whom to get the money
from.

  “Intriguing.” Those repulsively fleshly lips pursed. “If it’s not too deep, it may be possible to remove it. I’ll need an X-ray first for location. That’s going with the assumption that it has a metallic component.”

  “Yeah, here’s hoping,” I said, standing. Towing along the IV pole, I moved in front of the doctor. He’d left his gun in the living room, carelessly enough, but mine was still here with me. Retrieving it with one smooth motion, I centered it directly between his eyes. The muzzle indented rosy skin just below the V of silver-tufted eyebrows. “I’d just like to go over a few things with you first, Babysitter.” I smiled. It wasn’t a wolfish smile or that of a shark. It was merely a simple friendly one. After all, weren’t we beginning a trusted doctor-patient relationship? Didn’t I have Santa’s best interests at heart? Sure I did.

  “First, you perverse prick, look at him like that again and I’ll kill you.” I didn’t bother to elaborate. He knew all too well which look I was referring to. “No warning. No second chances. Just a bullet to that squatting cancer you call a brain. Second, when you remove the tracer, you’ll be a damn sight more gentle with him than you were with me.” I pressed harder. “Are we clear?”

  Those round eyes seemed to sink deeper into doughy flesh like oven-wizened raisins. He’d survived what couldn’t have been a cushy prison stretch; he wouldn’t scare too easily. But then again, I wasn’t trying to frighten him. I was only giving him the unvarnished truth, and that could be more terrifying than any threat. “I’m not—,” he started to deny. They always denied, his kind. Always.