“Well,” he said, nodding, “if that isn’t just so-o-o Sara Jane! It’s my turn to have fun, my turn to shine, and all you can think about is you and your little quest!”
“Knock it off, will you? This is no time to try and kick-start the electricity. Trust me, it’s barely beneath the surface. So, here’s what we should do . . .”
His head bobbed as he mocked me, saying, “Here’s what we should do-o-o!”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I’m not kidding either, because I’m Sara Jane Rispoli, and I never kid!” he brayed madly. “And I never laugh and I never joke and never, ever, ever have fun! Because why have fun when I can get punched in the face and then brood about it? Why have fun when I can lick my wounds while pondering the injustice of the universe? Chase, fight, whine, repeat! Chase, fight, whine, repeat! Jesus, you know what you are?” he announced, pointing an oddly bony finger at me. “You’re a bore!”
Coldly, feeling alone on Earth, I said, “I’m just trying to find my family.”
“Screw them, Sara Jane! You’re never going to find them! This whole thing has been a fool’s game!” Doug exploded. His pronouncement expanded between us, dangling in the air like iron balloons. His jaw slackened, showing those teeth and that tongue. Regret flashed across his face, and he stared at the floor for a moment before looking directly at me. “I’ve been consumed with your life and your problems, but now I care about me more. I want to become that slim, sensual thing I’ve dreamed of,” he said. “It’s becoming real, and nothing else matters. Not you. Not your family. Nothing.”
All I could do was absorb the words like a body blow. “It’s not you talking,” I said quietly. “It’s Sec-C, doing something terrible to your brain. You want to see what you’re becoming? Look . . . it’s sitting right there on the couch.”
Doug held out his arms crucifix style, a scarecrow billowing with loose padding and empty cloth. “No, Sara Jane. Look at me. Sec-C has made me almost normal sized for the first time in my life,” he said. “You don’t know what that means or how it feels.”
“But it’s not healthy. It’s hurting you.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “When you’re as overweight as I am—was . . . whatever—you’re two terrible things at once: a freak everyone stares at, always in the worst type of spotlight, and a complete outcast. They gape, but they won’t come near. They gasp sadly when you bend to tie a shoe, or look piteously when you yank a huge T-shirt over an exposed acre of belly, but they grimace if you dare to sit near them on the El. They stare, fascinated, as you sip a large coffee something with whipped cream, but act like you have the plague if your hand accidentally brushes theirs, like they’re going to catch your fatness . . .”
“Doug—”
“That’s the worst part . . . human contact doesn’t exist. It’s not natural, never being touched or caressed, and it hurts worse than being called some idiotic name. Even the people that quote-unquote love you are secretly repulsed and hug reluctantly, or only when it can’t be avoided. They think you’re a self-indulgent glutton, unworthy of affection, when really you’re trapped and smothering beneath a landslide of yourself.”
“I never thought that you were a glutton.”
“I know,” he said. “All you thought about was you. Well, this is my life now. This shrinking body, my growing group of friends, and yeah, Sec-C. And don’t tell me it’s the drug talking, because we’re one and the same. It’s me, and I’m it . . . I’m Sec-C. And I’ll do anything not to lose it.” He turned away, ignoring Harry whining at his feet, unzipped a backpack, and began throwing clothes inside. “There are other places where I can shower,” he mumbled.
“It’s after midnight.”
“So? My friends and me . . . our party never ends.”
“What about the Cubs game tomorrow?”
“What about it?”
“After all we’ve been through,” I said, standing over him while he sniffed shirts and rolled up socks, “do I really need to tell you how important it is? It could be the life or death of my family. I can’t get anything out of Johnny, so now all I have left is me. I’m trading myself to Juan Kone in exchange for my family’s freedom.”
He stood motionless but didn’t face me. “What if he doesn’t let them go?”
“I have to try. I’ve got nothing left. I need you to get me into that party suite.”
“But why?” he said, and then paused, tightening his jaw. “Why this way? Barging in on all of those people. Why do you have to . . . ?”
“Ruin it for you?” We stared at each other, and he knew what I would say, and then I did, softly. “I don’t care about ruining it for you, Doug. I don’t care about ruining fortunes, futures, or lives if it helps me find my family. If I cared, I couldn’t take action. You know that . . . you’ve always known it.”
Doug exhaled, jaw tightening, then rifled through the backpack and handed me a ticket. “That will get you into the game. The party is in suite sixteen. That’s all I can do,” he said, slinging the backpack. He went quickly to the elevator and pushed the button.
“So you’re leaving? For good?” I said.
“I think so. Probably.” He nodded, the back of his head rising and falling as the arthritic elevator announced its arrival. “Yeah. I’ll get my other stuff later.”
“What about remembering the chauffeur, Doug?”
He boarded the steel box and stared at the floor. “Forget him. That’s my advice.”
“Okay. Well, thanks . . . for all of your help.” The cables clunked as the elevator descended, and I crossed the floor, saying, “Wait! Not just for your help! For being my friend!” I reached the cage but he’d fallen away as I said, “My only friend,” hearing the words tumble into darkness. Something cold and insistent touched my leg, and Harry stuck his nose toward me with a disappointed look. “Only human friend,” I said, trudging back to Doug’s laptop. My gaze drifted to his Sec-C friends having an excited conversation, and I noticed an improbable name nestled quietly among the chatter:
GetUrLicksIn: Perfect day tomorrow for sunshine and S-C at Wrigley Field!
IscreamUscream: MKK fans are pumped! Go Cubbies!
MeltMyHeart: Forget the Cubbies—go S-C!
AbeFroman: Be careful, S-J.
SuperScooper: Hey, Sausage King of Chicago . . . typo! You mean S-C!
MeltMyHeart: Sausage and soft serve?! Eww . . .
IceQueen: With S-C, I never crave encased meat anymore! Miraculous!
I stared at it—Abe Froman!—as blood rushed in my ears like Niagara Falls. There was only one person in the world who knew that name would mean something to me. It was Lou’s favorite part of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.
It meant that he was still alive.
I was so flooded with love that I nearly wilted from enervation, like a battery running dry, but shook it off as an urgent thought came to mind—it also meant he knew I was going to the Cubs game. For Lou, the scene in which Ferris impersonates Abe Froman is a perfect cinematic example of taking a risk to seize an opportunity. His message seemed to acknowledge that I was about to do that, as if he were being informed of my plans. But how, and how had he gained access to a computer? I touched the keyboard, hesitated, and then used Doug’s online name.
HotDoug: AbeFroman is right! MKK fans—be careful at the game! S-C is not for all!
IscreamUscream: Only the enlightened few! Like ex-alcoholics!
IceQueen: Regretful potheads!
MeltMyHeart: Former fatties!
HotDoug: Thanks for the thoughtful reminder, Froman! You must have lots of friends!
I drummed my fingers impatiently, heard the ping! and read:
AbeFroman: One friend in particular, whom I’m with now.
MeltMyHeart: Boyfriend or girlfriend? Come on, Froman. Share!
IceQueen: MKK fans share everything! Especially life-changing S-C!
AbeFroman: Can’t say.
MeltMyHeart: Froman’s shy! Loosen up, Abe! You ne
ed some S-C on a sugar cone!
AbeFroman: Can’t because I don’t know. Impossible to tell.
IscreamUscream: Sounds like some other MKK fans I know!
AbeFroman: Signing off. Friend must go, right now. Please be careful, S-J.
SuperScooper: Instead of the Sausage King, Froman’s the typo king!
A crackle of electricity crossed my shoulders, and I attacked the keyboard.
HotDoug: You be careful too, Froman. If I could say thank you in German, I would.
My eyes held the screen, nearly dilating, and then a tiny ping! as I read:
AbeFroman: It’s danke schoen, like the song. I still sing it now and then with my parents.
My parents—the most beautiful words I’d ever read; Lou confirming that all three of them were still alive. I inhaled tears, swallowed them away, and looked over at Johnny’s slumping form, one hand wrapped around the glass of water. I eased him back and turned off all of the lights. The room was enveloped in grayness, the only illumination rising from the city far below. I gazed out the window, feeling the cutting loss of Max combined with the deficit of Doug. For every step forward I took to find my family, I’d taken two steps back in losing the other people who were part of me.
I cracked all ten knuckles percolating with a perfect hatred for Juan Kone.
Love could wait.
22
SATURDAY MORNING I CLICKED AWAKE LIKE an alarm clock, fully alert to my surroundings and what the day could hold. I spoon-fed Johnny cereal and helped him guzzle more water like a big pliant baby as he gazed past me. Afterward I secured him (cuffed but comfortable) to the couch. At the last minute, I scribbled instructions of what to do if I didn’t make it back and pinned it to his chest. I didn’t know if he could read it or if anyone would find him, but it made me feel better to do it.
And then I rode the subway alone, despite the fact that Cubs and Cardinals fans stood shoulder to shoulder or sat butt to butt as the train burrowed from the Loop toward Wrigley Field. The presence of so many people barely registered. I was inside my head, blotting out the world and formulating a plan for when I encountered Juan Kone.
The train emerged from Chicago’s clay belly, morphing from subway to El.
Minutes later, it eased to a stop at the Addison Street station.
There was nervous jostling as people debarked, fearful that the train would whoosh away before they got off. I was the last to step on the platform, looking up Addison, across Sheffield Avenue, squinting down Waveland Avenue, straining to hear the tinkle of ice cream trucks. It was crucial to scout the adjacent streets, since that’s all there is around Wrigley Field—bustling boulevards, grimy alleys beneath the El, and overparked residential lanes. It’s the last of the urban ballpark neighborhoods, with a billion places to ambush the unsuspecting. All I saw were fans competing for sidewalk space with vendors, scalpers, and cops, and the only sound was the hum of a crowd converging in an enclosed space for a public spectacle—voices and shouts, horns and brakes, and an express train that roared north, leaving airborne scraps of litter in its wake. I pulled the cap low and descended to ground level, hurrying up Addison.
An enormous pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses undulated outside the main gate.
It was as large as a school bus, pumped up by loud industrial air blowers.
Cubs fans wearing the same type of glasses posed for pictures next to the giant bouncy rubber thing, and a nearby sign read:
Dominic Hughes Day!
Honoring the Cubs Center Fielder’s Gold Glove Award!
First 10,000 Fans Receive Commemorative Eyeglasses!
Hughes had been my dead uncle Buddy’s favorite Cubs player, known for his speed on the field and thick glasses on his face; it felt like an omen, but I was unsure if it was good or bad. And then I joined the throng, allowing it to give me cover while being swept up a ramp leading to the party suites. It didn’t take long to find number sixteen. I took a deep breath, blew out any lingering fear, and entered. Cubs memorabilia hung from the walls, overstuffed furniture covered the floor, and a huge window looked out over the bright-green field, just now being populated by both teams.
What the empty suite lacked were people.
What did not belong there was a hospital gurney.
I spun for the door as fingers like iron squeezed a cloth over my face. I inhaled sharp chemicals, took a step to turn, kept turning, or maybe the floor was spinning, and then my head was not attached to my body. The world became a carousel twirling with color—red eyes, snowy face, black gloves lifting my neck, my arms—as I tumbled into weightlessness. I was unconscious for three seconds or a year, it was impossible to tell, pushed into the abyss by Doug’s betrayal.
When I opened my eyes, I was strapped to the gurney.
Two electrodes trailing thin tubes sucked at my temple, one connected to a laptop, the other spitting crimson droplets into a plastic bag. A nearby tray held a scalpel, hypodermic needle, and five glass vials filled with my blood. I wasn’t constrained but my limbs were as useless as the tentacles of a dead squid and my head was filled with a million stinging marbles. Woozily, I lifted it toward the picture window. Outside, the old scoreboard announced the bottom of the sixth inning, Cubs in the lead, two to one. With great effort I looked to the left at a commemorative bat hanging from the wall, and to the right, where Teardrop stared at me with devil eyes.
“You’re not a freak, you know. There’s nothing the least bit paranormal about you,” a voice intoned behind me, rippling with an Argentinian accent. “You are simply a human being . . . un mortal . . . with a neurological abnormality.” I knew who it was but couldn’t turn, so I flicked my eyes at the laptop, seeing my brain composed of colored lines, the middle area pulsating with a blue glow.
“My limbic system,” I slurred, “where enzyme GF is produced.”
“Muy bueno. Very good, yeah,” Juan said, his tone like a concerned physician. “Enzyme GF cannot be extracted from the normal bloodstream. It must be harvested within inches of the source.”
A moist suction noise, like a thick milkshake through a thin straw.
The muted crack of a bat, muffled cheer of the crowd, my breaking heart.
“My friend, Doug. How did you force him to sell me out?”
“You’re partly correct. No force, but plenty of selling out,” Juan said. “He’s nowhere near the transformational stage . . . one eye must turn completely red to indicate the halfway point. But since he demanded unlimited Sec-C in exchange for you, perhaps he’ll get there sooner than expected.”
Washed with pity and hatred for Doug, I said, “He didn’t betray me. It was that sugary poison.”
He ignored me, saying, “Ah, see there, the blood bag is nearly full. I’ve already collected five vials from you. This beautiful plastic pouch comprises the sixth vial.”
“Wait—that’s what all of this has been about?” I said. “Six vials of Rispoli blood? Then why . . . why did you keep my dad . . . my whole family, for so long?”
“I need only six more vials. Isolating the enzyme requires gallons of blood, to separate plasma from red blood cells, but this is of no concern to you. I drew nearly the full amount from your father. These six glass tubes finally fill the quota.” The suction noise sounded, and Juan’s tone turned accusatory. “It was a bitter disappointment to learn that your brother was not an enzyme carrier. It nearly caused me to drain your father dry. His blood supply regenerated, of course, but it took time, which is the sole reason I kept your mother and brother alive . . . to provide comfort, hoping to speed the process of his heart refilling his body. But then he did something with his brain. When I tested fresh samples of his blood for enzyme GF, they contained less and less, and recently, none at all. It was as if he were locking down his limbic system so nothing could leak out. Six small vials away from my goal! That’s when we came after you.”
“What is it?” I asked, feeling a whispery itch at the end of a toe. “What’s your goal? After what you’ve done t
o my family, I have the right to know.”
“You have the right to nothing. You’re less than human . . . a tree yielding sap, a mine giving up ore. Then again, every genius likes to hear himself talk.” He chuckled.
Teardrop came alive, pushing away from the wall. “No le diga cualquier cosa!” (Tell her nothing!)
“Hear me, you vile thing,” Juan said in the icy, assured tone of master to slave. “Speak out of turn again and your silver cone will remain decidedly empty. ¿Entienda?”
Teardrop stared over me, dipped its head subserviently, and stepped back.
I felt a finger jump and then a thumb, the digits slowly reawakening.
Juan cleared his throat. “I learned of ghiaccio furioso when Abuelo Cohen told me about his spat with your great-grandfather. ‘Spooky Sicilian phenomenon,’ he said . . . valuable enzymatic mutation, I said. Years and countless experiments at Kone Quimica later, I realized its origin had to be in the limbic system, where fears are formed, memories made, and pleasure and addiction frolic. I tried and failed twice to create a synthetic version of enzyme GF. In fact, I was my own first lab rat,” he said as the suction noise grew louder and he drew up alongside the gurney.
The NASA-like wheelchair Juan sat in whirred, elevating him to my level.
I turned to him, unable to stifle a gasp.
To say that he had lost weight was a grotesque understatement; he’d lost almost everything. His face, pale with piercing eyes, glossy hair, and goatee, stuck to his skull so tightly that it looked sprayed on. He was dressed in a black suit that clung like snake skin to a narrow, pointed cage of brittle bones. Arms like breadsticks, fingers like pencils, and legs thinner than broom handles were a shocking warm-up to the tight ball of stomach that visibly rose and deflated beneath his suit, making the suction noise with each revolution. Slowly he opened his coat, revealing a rubbery pump where his stomach should have been. “Disgusting, yes? This is the result of my first failure to create a Rispoli-like enzyme. I injected an experimental chemical into my bloodstream and voila, the little bugger ate away most of my guts. Without a steady stream of what I so deliciously call ‘blue goop’ forced into my digestive tract, my body will eat itself. Inconvenient, but at least I’ll live. Unlike Primero and the others.”
Flicker & Burn: A Cold Fury Novel Page 23