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If anyone were to ask Mel Talbot his opinion as to who was the most stable, most law‑abiding citizen he'd ever met, he wouldn't have thought twice before answering: "John Mills." And if anyone were to suggest that John was in trouble with the law, Mel would look that person straight in the eye and call him a liar – even if that person were a she, and turned out to be Her Majesty, The Queen of England. Mel wasn't the kind of guy who beat around the bush. If he had something to say, he said it. And if you didn't like what he had to say, he would take a moment to explain how and why you were a fool. And if you still didn't agree, he'd simply tell you to fuck off.
Ignorance was okay. Ignorance could be cured. Bold stupidity, however, was something he never put up with. There were a few other quirks Mel Talbot had that most people found offensive. How he kept his house, was one of them. His mind remained totally organized. Pick a subject – any subject – and Mel could give a dissertation at least an hour long, citing passages from reference books, going into great detail and improvising with any last minute theories he'd cook up. As for his home, it looked about as organized as a dumpster. His reason for not hiring a maid was that he didn't want anyone snooping through his personal belongings and messing them up. He didn't have a laundry hamper; he didn't need one. The floor suited him just fine as a dumping ground for all his dirty clothes.
You were apt to find a half eaten, moldy sandwich in the bathroom sink, or on the nightstand next to his bed. The inside of his refrigerator looked like a lab experiment gone awry. He had two file cabinets in the study, both filled with not files, but junk he'd accumulated over the years. Precious junk, like a dead car battery; two or three watches that no longer worked; yellowed newspaper clippings – that sort of thing. When he dressed, he was lucky to find matching socks and equally lucky if he didn't have to wear mismatched shoes.
The only reason his home wasn't infested with bugs was that the exterminators came monthly. Until last fall when he hired an accountant, his bills were never paid on time. Such things he found to be trivial, meaningless. Which was why he found himself single only three years after he'd married. Julie had informed him that she couldn't spend another moment in such a filthy house, talking to the walls. And Mel, taking a moment to remove his reading glasses as he'd looked up from his computer monitor, said: "Goodbye."
Now, in a helicopter with the Phoenix airport miles behind him, he reflected back to those days when he and Julie had first married. Not because he was still in love with the woman. Opposites do attract, and Julie had turned out to be a hopeless airhead. He'd been ready for her to leave long before she had decided to go. He thought about those days, because it was then when he'd first met John Mills. John was one of the few people Mel respected and truly admired, which made it even more important for Mel to determine what manner of chaos had developed in the man’s life to prompt such a bizarre letter. The letter John had sent was perhaps the most curious Mel had ever read, and stranger still because it had been written by the most stable, most law‑abiding citizen he'd ever met. Either John had gone completely mad, or he was in deep trouble. Trouble so deep that he feared to spell it out in a letter for fear of reprisal. The question was: Reprisal from whom?
Mel strongly believed that genius is controlled madness. John, in his own right, was a genius in the field of music. Living alone in the middle of nowhere could have done something to that control. The closing line of John's letter put an end to that theory. The Iron Lady's bank account. Yes. They had gone to the pub for drinks, and Mel, who couldn't resist any opportunity to brag, mentioned how Margaret Thatcher's bank account could be tampered with. But that was only part of the conversation. They had touched upon the subject of computer espionage. Adding up the important details of John's letter: the amount of the check; the mention of their first meeting; the Iron Lady's bank account; time being of the essence; and the request that Mel come in person – yes, John was knee-deep in something that didn’t smell very sweet. The most important part had been written between the lines. The letter was formal, businesslike, not the kind of letter you'd send to a good friend. Had they discussed programs to help John's music career during that first meeting at the pub? Fuck no. So, Mel could safely deduce that John believed someone else might get hold of the letter first. And that was perhaps the most disturbing part of all.
The FBI, the CIA, the police? Mel had no doubt that he wanted to help John, regardless of the circumstances. But, even his imagination couldn’t seize an explanation as to what a man like John Mills was doing under investigation.
The vagueness of the letter had him troubled, which was why – instead of leaving Friday, the day he received the letter – Mel had opted to take a full day to do a little shopping. He'd gotten the equipment through customs with no problem. And on the transcontinental flight over here, he'd thought of a few necessities he lacked. So, after arriving in Phoenix, he'd paid a little visit to the mall, where he found a sizable electronics store.
The pilot tapped Mel on the shoulder and pointed down to a pool of light which shown on a rather large house. Mel didn't bother to take out his map; like everything else he'd either seen or heard, he had it memorized. He gave a nod and the pilot took the helicopter down. Having slept off and on during the transcontinental flight, Mel felt perfectly rested. It may have been only two o'clock in the morning as far as the people of Arizona were concerned, but to him, it was ten a.m., time to start a new day.
CHAPTER 27
Mel stood at the door, annoyed. Not a single light came on in the house and yet a dog barked from inside. He knew he had found the right place. No one else would have been crazy enough to build a single story castle in the middle of a fucking desert. Ahh, but crazy wasn't the right word. No. The word that described Mills best was eccentric – a nice way of categorizing someone who suffered from obsessive-compulsive behavior. Mel remembered the first time he'd visited John's home in Dover. Had a microscope been available, Mel doubted he could have found enough dust for an adequate slide sample. And he was sure this house would be the same way.
Everything he'd brought with him was now piled up on the porch: one suitcase, three wooden crates, and one plastic sack filled with electronic goodies. The helicopter pilot waited for Mel to give the signal before taking off. Mel pounded on the door for the third time, and then crossed his arms as he leaned casually against the wall. He was tall, lanky. His face was mottled with two day's worth of black whiskers. And if his dark hair hadn't been buzzed so short, he would have looked as if he'd just stepped out of an early Def Leppard video. There wasn't enough good material left of his jeans to sew patches to. He wore a leather bomber jacket with the British flag stitched on the back. Sewn on the front of the jacket was a small patch with the words: “Designated Drinker.” He wore a black T-shirt; its pocket partially ripped along the seam and flapped over. The boots he wore were scuffed so badly, not even a bottle of black shoe polish could help. Mel rolled up his eyes, sighing with impatience. He lifted a hand to knock one more time, and then he heard the deadbolt retracting.
When the door finally opened, Mel dropped his eyes to his watch and said quite seriously, "You know, I've been waiting out here for three minutes and twenty‑two seconds." He grinned wildly as he looked at John for the first time in four and a half years. "You look like shit, man."
John stepped outside, closing the door behind him. "I see you still do your shopping at the same dumpster." He flashed a crooked smile and they clapped each other on the back, grinning like fools. "Damn, it's good to see you again. Glad you could come."
While John eyed the crates on the porch, Mel waved an arm, signaling the pilot to leave.
"It's freezing out here," Mel said. "I didn't travel halfway round the world to catch my death of cold."
"Before we go inside, I think you should know my house may be bugged."
Mel shook his head, still grinning. "Please tell me this is all one big joke. I'm dying to laugh, and I'd hate to do so at your expense
."
"I wish it were something to laugh about," John replied.
Mel's expression sobered as he shifted from one foot to the other. "You're the last person I'd expect to find in trouble, John. What the fuck is going on?"
"Let's go inside. There's someone I want you to meet. Just be careful what you say in the living room and in the dining room. As you've probably already gathered from my letter, you're supposed to be here selling computer software. The rest of the house, I believe, is safe. Otherwise, they would have heard something and returned."
"Who is the ‘they’ you’re referring to?"
"The FBI."
Mel rolled up his eyes and moaned.
<<>>
After a brief talk, John left Mel in the guest room and returned a few minutes later with Jillian. Mel, who sat on the edge of the bed, got to his feet when Jillian entered the room. He'd had no idea that the someone whom John wanted him to meet was a woman. And a handsome woman at that. Once the introductions ended, Mel reseated himself on the edge of the bed and John went to the bathroom vanity for a chair.
"Are you the reason I'm here?" Mel asked in John's absence.
"I'm afraid so," Jillian replied.
John positioned the chair in front of the bed and Jillian took a seat.
"So," Mel said. He laced his fingers together and, bending his fingers backwards, cracked his knuckles. "The house might be bugged. The FBI is breathing down your backs. You all but drag me across the planet with your cloak and dagger letter, which, by the way, arrived with postage due. Would someone like to tell me what the fuck is going on around here?" He grinned as he gazed at Jillian. "You'll have to forgive my language. I may have been raised a polite English gentleman, but I was corrupted by your great American educational system."
John leaned his cane against the wall and took a seat on the bed. "She's been forewarned. I've already told Jillian all about you."
"Then I suppose it's time I hear all about Jillian."
Jill crossed her legs at the knee. "It's a long story."
Mel waved a hand in the air. "I've all the time in the world."
"It may be difficult to believe, but around five years ago, I was given less than six months to live."
"Not difficult at all," Mel said, fumbling with the drooping pocket of his shirt. His presentation of being preoccupied was just one more behavior most people found offensive.
"About a year before that, I noticed some swelling in my throat. Just one side. I experienced no pain, though, so I figured it was nothing. Then the other side started swelling. At the time, I was pregnant, under doctor's care. So I figured if there was anything wrong, of course my doctor would tell me. I didn't give it much thought, because, being pregnant, the rest of me was, well, swelling too." She smiled, tensely. "A few months before the birth of my daughter, I noticed a problem with my tonsils. They had enlarged enough so that swallowing became difficult. Still, like a fool, I ignored it. I ignored it right up until my birthday, which was a couple months after I had my daughter, Valerie.
"My husband threw a surprise party for me that evening. Until that night, I hadn't touched any kind of alcoholic beverage for over a year. Jim fixed me a whiskey sour. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes later, I was in agony. I went to my doctor the following morning, thinking I must have had an ulcer or something. I've heard that an ulcer is usually aggravated by alcohol and that sometimes the pain isn't confined to the stomach area. And mine certainly wasn't."
"Hodgkin's disease?" Mel inquired.
She looked at John for a moment, as if to convey a silent message that he'd been right about Mel. The man hadn't appeared to be listening at all. And yet, he seemed right on top of everything. "Yes. The last stages. It had already spread to my spleen. It was everywhere. If I had gone to the doctor when the symptoms first started, I would have had an excellent chance of recovery. Hodgkin's disease is one of the most curable types of cancer...or so the doctor tried to convince me. But I'd waited too long. The drugs and radium treatments only made me sicker. When it got too bad, I was hospitalized. And I knew the only way I was going to leave there was by way of the morgue.
"That’s how my problems started. But that's not the beginning. Sometimes, it difficult to know where the beginning is."
"Take your time," Mel said. He placed his hands on the bed behind him, leaning back into them while stretching his legs. "John already told me you're wanted by the FBI, and every detail you can give me as to why they want you will be helpful."
"My brother was a doctor," she said. Her hands had been folded over her knee, and now she drew them into her lap, studying them meticulously. "My brother, Richard, worked under a Dr. Carl Neas at a medical research facility called Bio‑Tox in Fairshire, Massachusetts. I didn't know exactly what kind of work they were doing. I knew that Neas had been into stem cell research. But he’d stumbled upon something else during that time. Richard kept pretty closed lipped about it. My husband knew some of the details. He and Richard were very close. Every Saturday night they'd get together for what they called 'brainstorming.' Anyway, I'll never forget that day in the hospital room. Richard and Jim had come in to visit me that day. It was on a Sunday. Richard came every Sunday right after church let out. Jim lowered the rail and took a seat at my side. And Richard...
...gripped his sister's hand. His blue eyes sparkled as his free hand brushed against her puffy face. He looked over at Jim. "You're right. I don't have a choice, do I?" He bit down on his bottom lip hard, as if the physical pain could make him forget the mental anguish. "Jill, Jim and I are going to take you out of here. We're going to get you some real help."
Jim, whose face was nearly as pale as the white shirt he wore, exhaled with relief. During the last two months, he'd dropped twenty pounds. Instead of going out and buying new clothes, he simply took in the slack with his belt. It was not the expected look of a prominent psychiatrist.
Jim nodded. "You're doing the right thing, Rick."
"Where are we going?" Jillian asked. She knew it was foolish to be vain at a time like this, but that didn't make it any easier to leave the hospital now that most of her hair had fallen out. She didn't want anyone to see her this way. No one. Her body had bloated. Her coloring had turned ashen. She was weak, tired. The worst part was her hair, her beautiful black hair, now baby fine, and all but gone. She shook her head against the pillow. If she had to die, at least she could do it with dignity. "Ricky, please don't make me leave. I don't want anyone to see me like this."
"No one's going to see you," Jim assured her.
Richard pressed a cotton ball to her wrist, over where the I.V. needle went in. With his thumb in place, he pulled out the plastic needle, applying pressure until he was sure there would be no bleeding. "I'm taking you home, kiddo."
"What about Neas?" Jim asked Richard. "Have you discussed this with him?"
"I'll take care of Neas. He owes me, and he owes me big. If he refuses, we go it without him. But I think he'll go along with it. You take Jill to my house. It's too dangerous to try it at Bio‑Tox. Security's tight. I'll get what I need and meet you at my house in three hours."
Four hours later, Richard arrived with Dr. Neas and a pickup truck load of equipment. Their first concern was for sterility. The guest room was completely emptied. They ripped the carpet up from the floor. The walls and floor were then washed down with disinfectant. Jim and Richard brought the table in from the dining room, overlaying it with freshly washed linen. All of this was accomplished in silence, as if by not speaking of it, they broke no rules.
The surgery itself was accomplished without anesthesia. As Jillian rested on the linen covered table, her head locked in a frame, Jim stood above her. A clean sheet draped over her body.
"I want you to relax," he said soothingly. "Now, close your eyes."
She did.
"Take a deep breath and let it out slowly."
She complied. She knew the routine well, perhaps as well as Jim. He would tell her to pretend that her eyes
were too heavy to open. She would repeat each word he said over and over until it was embedded firmly in her mind and became fact. He would then suggest other things, such as: "Let that relaxing feeling pass over your body, all the way to your toes."
And then he said: "Your body is getting numb. All you feel is a light tingling sensation, nothing more."
"Nothing more," she repeated.
"While Dr. Neas does a little testing, I'm going to ask you a few questions and you'll answer them. What do you feel?"
"A light tingling sensation."
"Very good."
"Now, in a moment, I'll want you to open your eyes. When you open your eyes, you'll keep them open until I tell you to close them. And when you close them again, you'll be at peace, a wonderful peace that will take you deeper and deeper. Again, I'll ask you to open your eyes and the peaceful sensation will magnify tenfold. Jillian, open your eyes."
She did.
"Close your eyes." He waited a moment, and then said, "Open your eyes."
In a dreamlike state, she could see Dr. Neas standing over her at the head of the table. He had a hypodermic needle in his latex-gloved hand, which he set on the table by a tray filled with surgical instruments. He continued to work on an area of her head, doing something that made it tingle. And she felt wonderful, peaceful, totally relaxed.
"Now, I'm going to hold your hand. When I let go, the date of your birth will disappear from your mind. The more you try to remember that date, the further it will be pushed away until it's completely lost to you." Jim released her hand. "Try to find your birthday and it's gone. Allow it to go. Now it's gone, isn't it?"
HIDDEN DOORS, SECRET ROOMS Page 16