by PJ Manney
He opened both eyes.
“Mandy?” he croaked. He tried to clear his throat, but it didn’t help. “Mandy?”
Amanda didn’t answer. Peter didn’t understand. He was sure she was there in the hospital room. His perceptions betrayed, he felt lost, disoriented. He hadn’t seen Amanda since . . . since he’d left for camp. Dread crushed his chest. He struggled to get out of bed, but he was strapped in traction. He shimmied a hand free and pushed his buzzer.
The nurse finally arrived. “Are you okay?”
“Where is she?” he rasped. “What day is it?”
“She’s right down the hall. I’ll go get her.” She moved quickly to the door.
“You sure?”
“Of course! I just saw her.” And she was gone.
He was so relieved . . . and yet . . . was she really here? Where was here?
Blond Talia walked in, with the nurse right behind her.
Peter panicked. “Where’s my wife? What day is it?”
Talia said very clearly, looking him steadily in the eye, “Honey, I’m right here.”
“You’re not my wife!” He tried to scream, but couldn’t say it louder than a raspy whisper.
The nurse shook her head in pity. Talia hustled her out the door and the two women spoke in hushed tones outside. Only Talia returned and shut the door behind her.
“You’ve got to listen to me . . .”
“Get away from me! Where’s Amanda?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s dead . . .”
“We don’t know that . . .”
“Where the fuck’s Carter? He said they’d kill her . . . I couldn’t save her . . . she’s dead! Jesus, she’s dead . . . I let her die . . .”
“Calm down. Right now.”
“Who the fuck are you?” he raved.
She stepped closer and he thrashed to evade her. “Please, you’ve got to calm down. You’ll hurt yourself again. Please . . .” She sat on the bed, but he shook and stared, wild-eyed, tears rolling down his cheeks. She slowly, gently brushed them away. At her touch, he flinched.
“How’d you find me when the others couldn’t?” asked Peter.
“The kid at Stanford.”
Peter was stunned.
“He injected a nanochip in your leg. It’s so small, you never felt it. It’s recorded your location, vital signs, even emotional distress by measuring cortisol levels ever since he nailed you. I’ve known where and how you are ever since Stanford. Thank God.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” he asked.
“I’m saving you. Not hurting you. I tried before, but you wouldn’t listen.”
That was the last straw. He laid his head back on the thin, plastic-wrapped pillow that crinkled with every move. There was nothing left to do but weep. Talia grabbed a box of tissues and patted his face, catching the tears before they flooded his ears. He had no idea if she and the people who brought him here were part of the club or here for some other agenda. He remembered she knew Dulles, but that raised more questions than answers. She’d rescued him from the copters and shown him kindness, but did that prove trustworthiness? He tried to think clearly. It was hard. He only knew he was completely in her control.
“Have you looked for Amanda?” he finally asked.
“I’ve tried home, work, friends. I hacked her electronic accounts, but no phone calls, e-mails, IMs, or texts were made since you disappeared. I don’t know where else to look.”
He was too afraid to tell her about the commune. What if she led the club right to Amanda and her family?
“And Carter?”
“Living his life. Out in the open, at home, at Prometheus . . .”
He struggled in his traction restraints. “Get me out of here.” He was desperate to search for Amanda himself. And kill Carter.
She shook her head with chagrin. “You can’t even walk yet.”
“Why are you helping me?”
“You’re a very important person, and we share a common enemy.”
“What’s that even mean?” he sneered.
“You’re not dead yet, are you? You have to trust me.”
“Really? Is that why you tried to seduce me in DC?”
“Yes. I was trying to get you alone, where we weren’t bugged, to talk to you. And help you.”
“If you want to help, find my wife. Bring her here.”
“I’m doing the best I can, but you have to help me, too. Can you do that?”
He grunted noncommittally.
“According to this hospital, you’re my husband. Terrence McKinley. I’m Beatrice. Terry and Bea.”
“Who are you, really?”
“Talia Brooks.”
“And what if you’re not?”
“You have to take me as I am.”
He studied her face. Her eyes looked as truthful as could be, even if they had once been green and now were blue. She could be manipulating him. Just like Carter.
He turned a corner when he stopped passing out. Instead, he slept. He spent more time conscious than unconscious. And he didn’t float through the day in a drug-induced haze. He was thinking and understanding. It was a beginning.
Surreality continued and he tried to grasp what he could. The Hippo 2.0 was working, but without the processor, there was no hard drive to dump the memories onto. Or retrieve them from. He had to rely on his own manipulated, battered cortex. Who had the processor now? He assumed Talia, since she had found him, but . . . had she passed it on to someone else?
There were only two sure things based on everything that had happened: He should be dead. And his best friend was responsible.
Had there been hints Carter would betray him? The signs could have gone back to graduate school, when the club first recruited his friend. Only now could he imagine Carter saying, “I’d love to join and I’ve got two juicy worms to reel in with me: Dr. Nikolai Chaikin and Peter Bernhardt.” And why would he think Peter was capable of murder? Peter said he’d do “anything” to save himself, but “anything” rarely included homicide.
Or was it simply those who perform heinous deeds usually assume others capable of immorality as well? And hadn’t Peter acted immorally? He’d lied, participated in corruption, acted violently, let an innocent man tortured with his technology die . . .
His head hurt. He found the media remote attached to his bed. With free arms, he turned on the HOME monitor and chose from a selection. The news. He needed to know what day it was, what was happening, so he could figure out what to do next. Yet another interchangeable, blow-dried anchor blabbed about the latest security threat. But that wasn’t what shocked him. It was the date.
September 9. He had been in the hospital almost two months.
Blond Talia came in, smiling. “You look so much better. You have no idea.”
“Where is she?”
She pulled a chair up close and whispered urgently, while an ad for antiterrorism home security systems played in the background. “I’ve looked everywhere, checked everywhere, even the morgue and the obituaries. She’s disappeared. Would she go underground?”
“I don’t know,” he lied. Two months and no sign. He felt nauseous. “Give me my . . .”
She smiled. “If you mean the ‘gadget,’ I’ve got it. I’ll give it back as soon as you’re out.”
“I want it now.”
“No. You’ll only expose yourself. You’ll get it when you’re safely out of here.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
She gripped his arm, squeezing until it hurt. “I’m your guardian angel, asshole, so be nice to me. Instead of treating me like the Grim Reaper, how about saying, ‘Thank you, Talia, for saving my life.’ ”
Peter was learning you don’t mess with redheads. Even when they’re blond. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
“Honestly, you’re lucky to be alive with everything you’ve got. You shattered your ribs, your face, broke an ankle, fractured the femurs and tibia in both legs and a few vertebra
e, had bullets in several places, burned twenty percent of your body, but that wasn’t even the worst of it. You had ARDS . . .”
Acute respiratory distress syndrome; the result of drowning. The lung tissues were so inflamed by saltwater, they couldn’t perform the gas exchange of oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. If she hadn’t found him, he would have died within a day, suffocated by lungs that didn’t work. That would explain the intubations, the ventilators.
“And fifty percent of people treated for ARDS die,” continued Talia, “even with all possible medical intervention. And they probably didn’t have half as much wrong with them as you did.”
“But . . . two months gone . . .”
“They had to medicate you into a drug-induced coma, so you’d stay unconscious for as long as possible to heal. It also makes it easy to starve you. They want you as lean as possible, to lessen the burden on the lungs and heart. You should see yourself.”
He held an arm up to examine. His hand was stringy. All knuckles, blood vessels, tendons, and mottled skin. The hospital bracelet around his bony wrist said “Terrence McKinley, O+.” He ran his thumb over fingertips. They were smooth. No guitar calluses. He looked at Talia, puzzled.
“Your hands were ripped to shreds, which was good, because they were bandaged for a long time. When they took them off, I had to buff off your prints with an electric sander.”
“Whoa . . .”
“Yeah. Glad no one caught me. That would have been hard to explain. ‘My husband may die, but he likes smooth fingertips . . .’ I also had to make sure they ran no MRIs. Wasn’t sure if the implants were metal or not. It was tricky, because you’ve had a lot of facial surgery, but I told them you had a deep-brain stimulator for depression. Steve knows that’s bullshit, but he sold the story to the rest of the staff.”
“Steven Carbone.”
“That Hippo 2.0 still works. Yeah, he’s your lead doctor and a good egg. You can trust him.”
Peter trusted no one.
“I’ve paid your medical bills, as your wife. We’ve had no insurance since our COBRA expired after your lay-off from the plant, so we’ve been paying cash, with the help of a generous relative.”
“You mean you . . .” His rack-rate bills must have run into the millions.
“Don’t worry. It’s fine. Now this is important: You can’t remember who you are. Or who I am. You’ve got amnesia from a mysterious boating accident nowhere near your real ‘accident,’ that may or may not have been an attempted suicide. At some point, local law enforcement may try to question you about it, but we’ll be long gone. The point is, once you’re able, we keep moving until we get somewhere safe for you . . . and your wife. Because, even though they probably think you’re dead, they won’t stop until they’re sure.”
“What about DNA?”
“Good. You’re thinking. At first, we used the DNA for lab work from a comatose John Doe. Steve arranged it, but it was risky. The guy had to be enough of a match that they didn’t do something to you contrary to your real DNA. You know, treat you for sickle cell or something. Did you have DNA documented or tissue samples anywhere?”
“Sperm samples. For IVF.”
“I’ll try to see how I can get them back . . .”
“Don’t bother. Assume they have my DNA. From my bed at camp, from a drinking glass. My house’ll be covered with it. Terry’s DNA can’t be sampled from me. Or they’ll match me.”
Talia handed him an old-fashioned cell phone. No one had these single-function electronics anymore with GOs around. “Call the preprogrammed number if I’m not here and you need help. Don’t call landlines. They trace those faster than the mobiles, which use GPS. And don’t call anyone else with it. Otherwise, you’ll leave a digital trail. Think of this as a one-time, disposable, get-out-of-jail-free card.”
There was a knock at the door. Peter palmed the phone and slipped it under his pillow.
“Come in,” said Talia.
A head peeked in. It was Dr. Carbone. “How’s my patient?”
Talia and Peter just looked at each other.
“Fine. Got it,” Carbone said. “Well . . . I’ve got good news. It’s time to take the casts off, get you on your feet. You’ll need significant physical therapy, but we’ll go over all that later. Ready for a little freedom?”
Peter couldn’t wait.
CHAPTER FORTY
After days of physical therapy, this was the first day Peter could move around on his own, although “move” meant a painful, old-man shuffle in grippy hospital socks across slippery linoleum.
Freedom of movement meant he could see himself in the mirror over the sink. As he washed his hands, he looked at his reflection for the first time in almost three months. And it didn’t register. He thought he was dreaming.
But this was his face. They had shaved what little chestnut hair remained after the explosion for surgery. It had grown back completely white, like his father’s. His hairline was altered, the slight widow’s peak he inherited from his father gone. Beneath the hair was a face he didn’t know. It had different proportions. The nose was narrower, longer. His cheekbones were more pronounced, and his jawline more refined, giving the face an upside-down egg shape, instead of his squared-off one. His eyes were almond-shaped and had a slight uplift at the outer corners. They also looked much larger on this face. His lips were thinner.
The only familiar things were his azure eyes. Those eyes were his anchors. Struggling for objectivity, he studied the face as though it weren’t his. It didn’t look bad—in fact, the reflection was handsome in a sickly poet way—but the gulf between meeting that face and owning it was huge. Speaking to Talia and the hospital staff over the last few days, he accepted his voice had changed for good. Dr. Carbone found vocal cord granulomas, developed from extended intubations, giving him a bourbon-and-cigarettes growl that didn’t sound like his higher-pitched, clear-toned, clean-living self, either.
It was all too much. He shuffled out of the bathroom and sat on his bed to turn on the monitor for distraction. Finding a news service to surf, he found a story about a yacht sinking off the California coast with its owner, Anthony Dulles, and his guests, Peter Bernhardt, Dr. Jeremiah Vail, and Dr. Larry Zuckermann, as well as twelve crew people aboard. All were lost. Terrorism was suspected, but no suspects named, although the article insinuated a link between the bots from Biogineers and Bernhardt’s recent death, as though he were the terrorist on a suicide mission. There was a short obituary for Peter in the San Francisco Chronicle, but no mention of Amanda or quote from her in any news item related to him, including obituaries.
He turned off the screen and shuffled to the window. He hadn’t been outside in three months. It had rained for the past four days, which was unusual. People ran from their cars for the shelter of the covered hospital entrance. Two vehicles looked familiar: a pair of government-issue black Chevy Suburbans, identical to the FBI cars that had visited Prometheus. He was sure they had the same plates, although he’d need his processor to confirm it. Three stories below, a man in a trench coat paced the sidewalk in front of the building. He looked like one of the men in the line of cars who was there the day Chang died.
There was a knock at the door. It startled like a shot. A nurse peeked her head in.
“You look so much better, Mr. McKinley. It’s good to see you up and around.”
“Uhhh . . . thanks.”
“It’s good timing. You’ve got a friend to see you . . .”
For a moment, he imagined it was Amanda.
“. . . he might help you jog your memory,” she continued.
He. “Who is it?”
She ducked her head into the hall again to ask and back. “Lazlo DiLillo.”
Who the hell was Lazlo DiLillo? The combination of a stranger claiming to know an imaginary patient and the presence of two FBI SUVs could mean up to a dozen agents in and around the hospital. But why now? Talia had used his fake DNA weeks ago. He didn’t look like himself. Had no fingerprints. Al
l identifiable info had been excised from his record. But he’d been admitted the day of the yacht explosion. That alone may have tagged him. For DNA. They’d want hair, skin, blood, anything to ID Peter Bernhardt. Then they’d kill him and make it look like a medical event. Like Jack Ruby.
He had to get out of here.
A male voice in the hallway spoke. “Can’t I pop my head in? Just want to see if I can help.”
Peter jammed his foot at the base of the door, wedging the nurse between the door and the frame. He spoke quickly and quietly to the nurse. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember a Lazlo DiLillo. And I don’t feel up to it today. Can he come back . . . next week?”
The man spoke quickly, smoothly. “Buddy, I know you’ve got amnesia, but I drove four hours to see you. Just a quick hello, man . . .”
Peter looked meaningfully at the nurse. “Please, it’s a lot to handle. Can you give me a few minutes to pee, clean up? I look like hell.”
“You let me know when you’re ready. I’ll make him cool his heels for a few minutes,” conspired the nurse.
“You’re the best . . .”
She winked and shut the door.
He looked around the room. One door. One window. Three floors up. No fire escape.
He hobbled to the window. Through the rain, he could make out an agent in one of the Suburbans. And the pacer was still at the entrance. He would disappear beneath the concrete portico and reappear under his window. The portico hung out two rooms to the left and one floor down.
Grabbing two pairs of latex gloves from the nightstand, he double-gloved his hands. Then he stretched a pair of gloves as best he could over his feet, still covered in the grippy slipper-socks.
He unlocked the bed’s castor brakes, but starvation-weak, rolled the bed with difficulty below the fire alarm to climb onto the mattress and unplug the alarm. Then he wheeled the bed across the room, lengthwise against the front door, and reset the brakes.
He quickly stripped the bed of linens and gathered up anything that he could have left skin, blood, or hair on and threw it in a pile on the floor next to the bed and the door. He placed the cell phone hidden under his pillow on the windowsill.