"Yes."
Jim looked over at Dr. Neas. "It's done. Somnambulism. She's ready." He then took a sterile scalpel and slowly sliced into the meaty part of her left hand. "What do you feel?" he asked.
"A light tingling sensation."
Jim nodded and Richard began handing Neas the instruments as he called for them. About an hour into the surgery, she watched Neas pick up the hypodermic and Richard immediately filled another from a sealed vial.
"What do you feel?" Jim asked.
"A light tingling sensation."
Richard stepped around the table and took hold of Jill's hand. Using a fresh scalpel, he repeated the procedure Jim had done just before the surgery began, slicing into the meaty part of her hand. "What do you feel?"
Her response remained the same as before.
After wiping her hand with a cotton ball soaked in Betadine, Richard took a straight scalpel from the tray. He looked at Jim, at Dr. Neas. "You'll feel a light tingling sensation," he said softly.
"Yes."
"You can't bleed."
"Can't bleed," she responded.
"You're completely relaxed. Nothing can change that until I say so." He then brought the scalpel down, slicing into his sister's hand once again. There was blood, but only a minute amount. Richard held her hand up before her eyes. "What do you feel?"
She gave the suggested response.
Jim stepped up and took over. "In a moment, I'm going to ask you to make the tingling sensation go away. But the only way you can do that is to make the cut go away. Do you understand?"
"I understand. I make the cut go away."
"Okay," Jim said. He took in a deep breath, his eyes locked on the gash in her hand. "Jill, I want you to make the tingling sensation go away."
Her eyes narrowed, then widened – the whites had gone a pale shade of pink. Her eyelids fluttered. "Can't."
"Try."
Her nostrils flared, her eyes went out of focus. "Can't."
Neas, who had been at the head of the table for the past hour, bustled his way to where Jill could see him. He pulled the surgical mask from his narrow face and leaned down until his warm, sour breath played against her cheek. "For every second that passes, the tingling sensation is going to become more and more painful. Within a minute, it'll be absolutely unbearable. The only way to stop it is to heal the incision."
He took an alcohol solution and poured it directly into the cut on her hand.
"No," she said weakly. "No!" Her teeth clenched against the pain. Her expression twisted into a grimace. Eyes closed, she shuddered uncontrollably. Her shoulders started flinching, and the muscles tightened. Her blue eyes, which brimmed with tears, rolled back in her head. She had lost the state of hypnosis and fought to get it back, fought to believe the pain wasn't there. Lip snarling, saliva dribbling from the corners of her mouth, she screamed violently, writhing on the table. Richard tried to steady her, his gloved hands grasping her knees, but he couldn't hold her. Her legs started thrashing, bucking on the table.
"Stop it!" Jim yelled. "My God, stop it! You never handle a patient under hypnosis this way. Never!”
"It's getting worse, Jill," Neas said coldly. "You're the only person capable of putting an end to the pain. It’s getting much worse!"
Her arm swept through the air. Her hand grasped wildly for anything to cling to, grabbing Neas by the shoulder, fingers digging into the old doctor's muscle until he let out a scream and yanked back.
Then all at once, she stopped. Jill went into a state of total relaxation. Her breathing slowed to normal. Richard watched in amazement as the heart monitor dropped from two hundred ten to seventy‑four beats per minute in the blink of an eye. Likewise, her blood pressure stabilized: One-ten over seventy.
"Jill," Jim said, dropping a hand on her shoulder. "Honey, how do you feel?"
"Warm."
He picked up her hand, turning it to examine the gash from the scalpel. A small trace of blood had smeared across her palm. All three of the scalpel cuts, however, were gone. He quickly grabbed her other hand, just to make sure he’d not somehow mixed them up. Both hands were free of injury.
"We did it," he whispered, jaw dropping. "We did it," he said again, a smile sweeping across his face. "By God, we actually did it!"
"We're not through yet," Neas reminded him. "Or have you forgotten the reason for this procedure? The suggestion of pain worked for her hand. Let's see if it'll work equally well in fighting the disease that’s taken over her lymph glands."
"You can't do that," Jim stated. "It won't work. All you'll manage to do is wake her."
"Stop the negative suggestions and watch me," Neas said. He turned to Richard. "Ready the EEG. I want a printout on this."
CHAPTER 28
Mel looked at her, grinning. "Please, do go on. Haven’t heard such a whopper since last I’d seen John’s dear ole uncle. You’re an excellent liar."
Jillian held her tongue for several lengthy moments, eyes narrowed, mouth agape, simply staring in Mel’s direction in disbelief of his rudeness. The man was goading her. She turned briefly, watched John nod as if prompting her to continue, then put on a smile of her own as Mel’s grin turned to laughter.
Jillian said, "Pain receptacles became triggers, stimulating a normally sluggish area of the brain that is literally capable of miracles. When injured, I can greatly speed up an already accelerated healing, by focusing on the pain. Or, I can create a sense of pain through self-hypnosis."
"So," Mel said, sitting forward, "now you're claiming that the FBI is trying to put a lid on it. The FBI – are you sure?"
"They're trying to kill me. At least two of the three doctors involved are dead. I've been running ever since."
Mel scratched the whiskers on his chin as he turned to John. "John, this is ludicrous. I can’t believe you’d drag me out here with a story like this. How long have you known this woman?"
"They've been here, Mel, looking for her."
Mel shook his head as if to clear the confusion. "You’re fucking with me, right?”
"I think you know me better than that."
Mel hesitated as he examined the serious expressions on John’s and then Jillian’s faces. "Okay, let’s just say you’re not putting me on. Let’s assume everyone here has a good grasp on his or her own sanity. How exactly do you propose for me to help?"
John and Jillian exchanged worried glances. Then John said: "We need you to locate Dr. Neas. He may still be alive. And he's probably the only person capable of understanding what’s actually going on inside Jillian, and reversing the procedure."
"What do you mean by 'reversing the procedure?' If your friend here wants to die from cancer, she can get all the cigarettes she needs from the fucking store."
Again, a worried exchange of glances. This time, Jillian spoke: "Whatever it was that they did to me...it's still going on."
"Elucidate."
Jillian stood up and, seeing the skeptical glimmer in Mel's dark eyes, she went into the bathroom, returning a moment later holding a thin razor blade between a thumb and forefinger. She set the blade on the nightstand long enough to roll up her sleeve. After showing Mel the inside of her wrist, she brought the razor down, cutting deeply enough to slice an artery and draw a steady pumping of blood. Mel jumped back, and shot a desperate look at the doorway as if contemplating a quick dash back to England, while Jillian dropped the blade on the nightstand and pressed her hand over the wound for all of ten seconds before letting go.
Grabbing a tissue from the dispenser on the nightstand, she wiped away the blood and held her unmarred wrist out for Mel's inspection.
Mel stepped closer, carefully, his eyes first lighting on the blood-stained razor blade resting on the nightstand. He moved even closer, eyes widening then focusing on the woman’s wrist. The moment of realization stuck hard, and sent him pacing back and forth, scratching his head, dropping his head back to stare up at the ceiling, scratching his chin, scowling, grinning, cheek twitching. He stopped, facing Joh
n, who now held the woman's hand. "This. Is. Not. Fucking. Possible."
John found himself smiling. Two weeks ago, he'd been in the same position as Mel was in now. "Are you not the same man who once said nothing is impossible?" he goaded. "Seems to me, you are. I do remember you using those words, Mel."
"But not in this day and age, John. It's not possible. Fifty years from now – perhaps. I'd sooner believe there's a god, than this. But I've seen it with my own eyes. I've got to be dreaming. I have never been more impressed in my life." He hiked up the legs of his jeans, hunkering down on the floor at Jillian's side until he sat on the heels of his scuffed boots. Grinning, he said: "Marry me, dear lady and together we'll rule the world."
"There's more," John said. He then told Mel about the nightmares.
The three of them sat in silence for a good five minutes. Mel, fidgeting with his pocket again. John, staring down at his hands. Jillian, shaking her head lightly from time to time. John got up and asked if anyone cared for a drink. Mel wanted whiskey, but John had none. The only alcohol in the house not lethal in moderation was the cognac left over from New Year's Eve. Half a bottle at best. And that was exactly what John brought into the room on a tray with three glasses.
Mel did the honors, first pouring for the lady, then John, not bothering to pour a glass for himself, but claiming what remained in the bottle.
After taking a hardy swig from the bottle and wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Mel said: "If you want my advice, forget about finding Neas and go where they’re least likely to expect. Let’s broaden the canvas a bit, shall we? Leave the country."
John set his glass on the nightstand, empty. "Mel, would you care to live for a thousand years, dreading what may happen in your sleep each and every night?"
"To live a thousand years...damn straight, I would. I'd walk a mile barefoot every day on a bed of broken glass, if it guaranteed my immortality." He eyed Jillian, lips smacking as he rubbed the dark whiskers on his chin. "You don't know how fortunate you are. You’re living every man’s dream. Count your blessings and leave the country. There's no way to find Neas. If the FBI hasn't found him, we can't find him. Chances are, he's dead, anyway. I can get you out of the country in a week, perhaps sooner. Before the FBI alerts the CIA of a possible move to the other side of the Atlantic, you’ll be a completely different person. Even with new identification, though, it would be wise for you and your daughter to travel separately."
"No," Jill said. "Valerie and I won't be separated. Not even for an hour. Anything could happen."
"Jillian," John said. He reached for her hand; it felt cold, clammy. "He's right. They'll be looking for a woman travelling with a young girl."
"No."
John said, "Mel, is there any way for you to access FBI files by computer? If nothing else, perhaps they'll give us some insight. Neas may have given them information that could help Jillian."
"Listen, John, peeking into classified files isn't as easy as it once was. Times have changed and I haven't kept up with them. Even with the proper password, they have technology – and have had it for some years now – that would shut me out. There's a program that, once the site is entered – not logged into, mind you, but by just bringing on the site – immediately traces the IP, giving a complete history of whomever is at that address. Log in, and satellite photos of the location are taken, vehicle registrations run, etc. In other words, in order to access their computers, I'd need much more than a password and username. Who knows what else. Even then, it would be a tricky deed. Security is becoming more and more sophisticated. Especially in this country. It's different here in The States. I'm sure they have equipment and programs I've never heard of. We're talking about the FBI, not a fucking database at a bank. I'd have to wing it. If I were lucky enough to be invisible and call up the right file, but failed to enter the proper clearance code, I'd be locked out. They'd know something was wrong, they'd know exactly where to find me, and I'd be fucked."
"But can you do it?" John persisted.
Jillian sat on the edge of her seat.
Mel fidgeted with his pocket. Then all at once, he ripped it clean off. A scattering of rolled lint fell to his lap. "Will you look at that?" he said, holding up the black square of material that was once a pocket. "Damn, I hate these cheap clothes."
"Mel?"
"It'll take some time. No promises." Mel frowned, looking more like a boy than a man. The color had drained from his whisker-mottled face. John had never seen the man look more sober, more worried. And as Mel raised one arched brow he added: "I'll expect you to pay my funeral expenses, though. You will do that for me, John, won't you?"
Jillian shook her head – no. Enough people had died already.
John's eyes narrowed considerably. He nodded, but not in acknowledgment of anything that had been said. No. He acknowledged defeat. And as he gazed into Jillian's eyes, he knew she too would not expect Mel to lay down his life. He shook his head, clearly frustrated, which was when Mel cut loose and bellowed laughter.
"Got you," Mel said, grinning wildly. "Oh, don't look so bloody serious. It was only a joke. You fell right into it." He shook his head. "I'll tap a few sites, scan the headlines until I find a piece on the FBI. There's sure to be names of some of the top brass. I'll run a few of those names up, get a little background information on them, a few addresses, and voila, I'm as good as in – if you don’t mind a little B and E. Better yet, to expedite this, I know a man who can do that for me in half the time. Sure is going to be fun. Haven't broken into a house or office in a good many years. It ought to be interesting. I will, however, expect you to pay all expenses. Airline tickets, lodging, camcorders, auto rental, solicitor fees should it come to that, hospital bills, that sort of thing. I'll deduct it from the thirty American K you sent, and give back the rest."
"I'll pay you for your time and effort," John offered.
"Fuck no," Mel replied. He swallowed hard, scared shitless, still grinning. "Just call it my contribution to the world. Who knows, a virus here, a virus there, a few bogus directives, and all the files and hard copies containing info on Jillian could be destroyed." He hoped. "Certainly beats sitting at home, watching it rain."
He took another swig of Remy Martin, and then positioned the bottle between his thighs. "Of course, Jillian, you'll still need to leave the country, regardless of what I find. Computer files can be erased, but the memories of those who've been chasing after you can't. Your Agent Brewster will still be after you. We need to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to find you, so it’s time we broaden the playing field by adding another continent. I suggest you allow Valerie to accompany me back to Hammersmith. Should John attempt to leave the country, t'would be like waving a red flag in front of Brewster's face, which means you'll have no escort when it's time for you to leave.
"If you love your little girl, and I suspect you do, you'll make the right decision; she'll be much safer travelling without you. There’s no time to mince words, here, Jillian. If you're too much of an over-protective, selfishly doting and smothering parent to do this, I must know now. I'm not about to put my neck on the chopping block only to have you back out at the last minute."
The part that bothered her most was the separation from Valerie. But Mel had made a point, a very valid point. Brewster wanted her, and anyone caught with her was as good as dead. "I appreciate your position and your candor. As much as I hate it, you’re right. I'll do it."
"Good girl. A couple more questions. Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure that it's the FBI who are after you, and not the police or some other government organization?”
"I saw Brewster's credentials," John said. "He's FBI."
"Last question. And then I'll want you to write down some personal information. How, exactly, does this nightmare become real?”
Jillian turned to John, anxiety etched on her face. The question in her eyes was: How much should I tell Mel? She watched John nod, as if to prod her for a full account, despit
e John’s prior denial of the truth.
Jillian returned her attention to Mel, heart pounding in her throat. "It’s my fault. I cause it. Dr. Neas realized that in a hypnotic state, the healing process could be speeded up to an even more astounding rate."
"Healing process?" Mel repeated, his tone reflecting the glimmer in his eyes. "I’d hardly call that talent of yours a ‘healing process.’ It’s not cell renewal; it’s freaking creation. But point taken."
Jillian continued. "The deeper the trance, the more powerful and possibly even unlimited the ability becomes. Being in a hypnotic state is basically the same as being asleep…with one major exception: The hypnotic state is a controlled state. And so, with REM being a very deep state, and with the pain in the nightmare triggering this ability for creation, and with my subconscious mind basically running amok…I create that…that thing. It’s a part of me."
"No," John argued. "That’s where you’re wrong. It’s not a part of you. It’s a dream. A nightmare. The misfiring of synaptic nerves."
"Okay, okay," Mel said, holding up his hand. "I get the picture. But I have one more question. Do you have any idea what drug Neas used during the surgery? What I’m getting at is this: drugs eventually wear off. So I’m thinking it has to be more like a vaccine – something that desensitizes you to certain organisms. Or, perhaps even a toxin. Or perhaps even a retrovirus."
"I don’t know if it was a drug or a vaccine. I really have no idea," she replied. "Neas discovered that several small areas of the brain worked together in a counter-productive way. He told me – jokingly – that God, as an after-thought, must have made it that way when He realized humans didn’t deserve immortality. Carl didn’t go into the details, which I probably wouldn’t have understood anyway. He basically put those areas out of commission, saying that the brain would then reroute itself, which brought about this…ability."
She watched as Mel opened his mouth to speak, only to pause, as if considering what she’d just said. His eyes shifted away from hers, and an uncomfortable silence fell between them.
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