Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy

by N. D. Hansen-Hill

  The next time Rick opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was a crushed velvet sofa. Simon's. “Simon?” he asked, squinting his eyes away from the light. “How'd you know?”

  “One time, when you were drunk, you told me all about your version of ‘prowling the town’. You said it usually happened on windy nights, when the moon was nearly full.”

  Rick looked shocked. He didn't know what to say. Finally he managed, “That must have been a year ago. How could you remember that? You were drunk, too.”

  Simon shrugged. “Don't ask me. Maybe all that training Hylton's given me has paid off,” he said, a little self-derisively.

  “As much as you obviously admire the man, I'd rather he didn't find out about my little jaunt,” Rick said. He frowned as he remembered how fast Simon had responded to his problem. “I'm surprised I didn't see you.”

  “So am I.” Simon didn't elaborate, but Rick knew he was disturbed. As good as Rick's night vision was, he should have detected someone following him.

  “I have this tendency to get absorbed in things—” Rick offered, a little lamely.

  “That's an understatement.” Simon added seriously, “You're entitled to time alone, Rick. There's no way I'm going to tell anyone about this. Not a word to Hylton—or Jason.”

  Rick grimaced as he considered what Jace would have to say to his little daredevil antics.

  Simon studied Rick for a minute before smiling, a little regretfully. “But you have to admit we've got a problem here.”

  Rick nodded. “Me. Again.”

  “The only reason I intruded was because you needed help. Otherwise, you would never have known I was there.” He glanced at his watch. “We've got to get you back.” His eyes met Rick's. “The way I see it—if I tell you to call me when the urge comes on you again, you won't do it, right? Either that or you won't go out at all. Because that's at least half the problem—you take off when you need to get away.” He sighed. “I'd just like to keep you alive, Rick. Any way I can.”

  “It's the Big Brother Syndrome. I'm getting paranoid. Starting to feel like there're eyes watching me everywhere.”

  Simon dropped Rick a block from his house. “Can you get back in the way you left? Or do you need a distraction?”

  Rick shook his head. “No problem. Thanks.” He hesitated, then poked his head back in the window and whispered, “Next time, do you want me to warn you?”

  Simon didn't try to hide the way he was feeling. As much as he wanted to tell Rick “yes", he couldn't do that to him. It was such a small thing—these occasional “jaunts". He forced a smile. “No, Rick. Just be careful, okay?”

  Rick realised how much it went against Simon's instincts to say that “no". He also knew that—of all his friends—Simon was the one who'd understand best his need to have a trace of the “dark” side—and his need to harbour a few secrets. If someone had to accompany him on this kind of outing, he'd prefer it to be Simon.

  Besides, if Simon was so determined to keep him alive, the least he could do was oblige him a little. “I won't have to be too careful if you're there to watch my back,” Rick told him with a smile. “Or, better still, if you're close enough so I can ramble on about lights on the water, and the fascinating photoluminescence of some fungi.”

  “Oh, no,” Simon groaned softly. But Rick could see the relief in his face.

  Rick offered him a sickeningly sweet smile. “Oh, yes. Don't worry—I'll give you enough warning so you can bring a jacket next time. And maybe some paper, to take notes on my fascinating discourse.”

  “Like hell. Bye, Rick. See you tomorrow.”

  Rick grinned and disappeared through the shrubbery.

  * * * *

  “Lockmann was out last night.”

  “What d'you mean?”

  “Out. Wandering around town.”

  Chesner looked at him blankly. There must be a point to all this, but he just couldn't figure out what it was. “They don't seem to restrict his movements—” he began.

  “Even though Lockmann left, his guards stayed behind.”

  Chesner's gaze sharpened. “Are they getting lax?” It would make his job a lot easier if the DSO had let down their guard a little.

  “I don't think so.” Rob Samuelson handed Chesner some photos. “They've lost something from distance, but that's Lockmann.”

  “His heat signature's quite distinctive, isn't it?”

  Samuelson nodded. “It looks like he evaded the DSO. One of their men managed to pick up on it here—” He pointed to a second heat signature, somewhat darker than the first. “He tailed him for nearly two hours before Lockmann stopped.”

  “Why is Lockmann's signature duller here?”

  Samuelson shrugged. “Carlson thinks he was having some kind of metabolic crisis. His temperature dropped.”

  Chesner nodded. “Our reports say he's subject to crashes, where his whole system goes down. This overlap might mean the other man had to help him down to a car.”

  Samuelson nodded. “That's what Carlson thought, too. Here's the weird part, though.” He took another photo and laid it over the others. “Lockmann exited a vehicle here, and made his way back to his house alone.”

  Chesner frowned thoughtfully. “Are you sure the one who was tailing him was DSO? Could Lockmann have made a deal with someone else?”

  “We'll see if a close-up can give us the licence plate. That'll give us more information.”

  “Then find a way to set up some kind of early-warning signal—so we're alerted the next time Dr. Lockmann decides to take himself out for a stroll.”

  * * * *

  Jason smiled at Rick. “I don't know why Hylton insisted on this. He must've thought being back at work would drain your reserves.”

  Rick grinned. “I think he received some erroneous report about my first day back on the job.” He added wryly, “He probably wants you to do a mental evaluation while you're at it.”

  “I did hear something about ‘bouncing off the walls’.” Jason grinned. “But that was from Cole, not Hylton. He also said something about chocolate-flavoured okra. I didn't listen to him after that. Any problems to report?”

  “Only one.” Rick's eyes were twinkling.

  “What's that?” Jace asked seriously.

  “How the hell did I end up with you as my doctor? Do they really expect me to take anything you say seriously?”

  “Very funny. What about me? Don't you think I get sick of seeing your face?”

  “Hey—don't knock it. This tan of mine has the ladies falling in droves. I was with Cole a couple of days ago, and one of his dates actually looked at me.”

  “I hope you made sure Cole knew it,” Jason replied, grinning.

  “What d'you think?” Rick asked sarcastically.

  “Don't you have anything I can report to Hylton? No anomalies at all?” Jason smiled. “I want to make sure I can keep collecting my handsome bonus from him. Did you know I actually have some food in my house now?”

  “I'm just thinking about all the nice stuff I can buy now that I don't have to buy food.” Rick grew serious. “Isn't there anything I can eat, Jace? Sometimes I think my jaw muscles are going to atrophy from being out of action so long.”

  “Like some of those potato chips you ate with Cole?”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “Cole called me when you started throwing up. I told him to leave you to it.”

  “Experience is the best teacher?”

  Jason nodded. “Something like that.”

  Rick's eyes darkened with disappointment, but his smile never wavered.

  It suddenly made Jace angry that his friend had to be disappointed in even these little things, like sharing a meal with friends. Rick had already been through so much. “Why don't I check with Rodrigal, and see if he has any ideas? Hell, there's enough food out there with no nutrient value whatsoever. Maybe we can find something for you.” He smiled. “If all else fails I'll ask Cole. If anyone's an expert on junk
food, it's him.”

  “Hey, watch you don't insult him. He's gone big on health food now.”

  “Health food? Cole?” Jason sounded slightly shocked. “That's like saying the Pope's gone non-Catholic.”

  “Or Khadafy's embraced Judaism?”

  Jace nodded, smiling. “When I picture Cole and food, I always think in ecclesiastical terms. I used to say ‘chocolate’ was his favourite religion.”

  “You know Cole. It's not really quality—it's quantity. He should buy carob stock. He eats enough carob bars to boost the market all by himself.” Rick added, “By the way, those were health-food potato chips I ate. Otherwise, I wouldn't have touched ‘em.”

  “How reassuring. Maybe I should equip you with a stomach pump. Forced bulimia.”

  “Very funny.” Rick looked at him, noticing the fatigue rings under his eyes. Jason's hands were shaking slightly, and where they'd come in contact with his skin, they'd felt hot. “How are you doing, Jace? That flu bug still got you down?”

  Jason shrugged. “I've felt better.” He forced a smile. “Seeing how energetic you are sometimes makes me feel like a wet rag.” He rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced slightly.

  “Are we through?”

  Jason nodded. “Done.”

  “Good. ‘Cause I'm taking you to dinner.”

  “You have money?” Jason sounded only slightly less shocked than he had when he'd heard about Cole's health-food addiction.

  “Hey—I'm a working man again. I don't have any money yet, but I've got a credit card—that actually has some credit on it. If you're through with all this doctor stuff, lose the white coat and let's go.”

  Jason smiled tiredly. “On one condition.”

  Rick lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

  “One word about dung fungus passes your lips at dinner, and I'll rub your face in all the stuff you can't eat.” He shed his jacket and followed Rick out the door.

  * * * *

  “Someone named Lomax reported a malfunction in the video about a week ago. Their Security people checked it, but all Denaro's remains appeared to be accounted for. It wasn't until the coolant levels on the freezers were found to be functioning normally that someone noticed the high security tag. So they notified FOCUS.”

  “It's theirs now. Why the fall-out?” Hylton asked.

  “Because we're listed as accessories. After FOCUS chewed out the Security people, they ran the video themselves. Along with internal and external temperature readings. The temperature in the room dropped, while the freezer temp rose.”

  “Somebody had the freezer open, and didn't want anyone to see what he was doing.” Steven Hylton thought about Caroline Denaro and swore. “Fuck it all to hell! What'd they do—replace her parts with substitutes?”

  Jamaal sounded like he was choking. “It was more selective than that, Steven. FOCUS thinks they only took what they needed.”

  “Her head?” Steven asked in a whisper. He'd never forget that distorted visage if he lived to be a hundred.

  “Worse—her ovaries,” Jamaal replied.

  Chapter Four

  It was in his house when he returned from his dinner with Jace. At first, Rick thought it had been left by one of the DSO people, who'd come through on a safety inspection. “Inspections” were among the things he'd come to expect, and he'd much rather they do their “inspecting” while he was out of the house, than in it. They checked for bugs and video equipment, booby traps and bombs. At least it left him feeling that his private time could really be private.

  There was no way he could miss it. On the table, dead centre, like it had been placed on display. Quite the flashest-looking object in his otherwise secondhand-looking house.

  It was a book. Old, leather-bound, with gilt-edged, aged brown pages, and the title in script. For some reason, Rick found it slightly repellent. The ancient, mouldy scent invaded his nostrils, and made him reluctant to touch it. Rick finally forced himself to open it—to turn the first few pages.

  The rasping of the ancient paper gave Rick goosebumps. The title—as scarred as the gilt, and unreadable on the cover—seemed to jump out at him now.

  Spiritual Journeys: Life Outside the Body.

  It was inscribed, but not by the author. More like one might do with a special gift. The words were scrawled, in a shaky hand:

  To Richard Lockmann—may he learn to break the bonds that trap his spirit....

  He jerked away in horror—everything in him revolted at the hideous insinuation in the words. The tightening of his chest and gut initiated a gag reflex, and he bent over, retching helplessly. The old wounds, that Denaro had sliced into him weeks before, began to ache with the phantom agony of a missing limb.

  It took him a few minutes to get control over the panic. But he couldn't stop his brain from conjuring up those dreadful memories—Denaro hovering on the stairs; her rasping voice that never matched the movement of her so-called lips; her hand reaching out to enter his flesh...

  He shuddered, and in sudden fury, threw the book across the room. It slammed into the far wall, in an explosion of old glue and paper. Almost immediately, he heard running footsteps, and Gabriel Finlay was in the room, gun drawn, Jamaal at his back.

  “I dropped my book,” Rick said, feeling a little sheepish about the response he'd stirred. He didn't know how to explain the way he'd felt: the revulsion, the gagging. About the way he'd been startled by his own violent reaction.

  Finlay stared at him a moment longer, noting Lockmann's pallor, and the way he was shaking. Was this one of his sugar episodes about to happen? Finlay forced a smile, and shoved the gun back in its holster. Something was wrong here. He shot a quick look at Jamaal, who withdrew, phone in hand.

  “I drop books the same way,” Finlay admitted, looking at the mess. “Boring, huh? Give me a video any day.”

  Lockmann stood there silently, and Gabriel Finlay thought the best description for his state was numb—shocky. He resolved to stay with him until he found out what had gone wrong. “Rick? Is there anything—”

  Rick interrupted him. “Gabe?” he asked worriedly. “Did you put it there?”

  Finlay looked confused, and slightly startled. “What?”

  “That book.”

  Finlay shook his head. “Where'd you find it?”

  “It was on the table when I got back.”

  “It's not yours?”

  Rick shook his head. “It's about—out-of-body experiences. That's a subject I leave alone now,” he said, with a wry smile. “It reminds me too much of Denaro.”

  Finlay gave a theatrical shudder, then smirked at the ripped cover and scattered pages. “You didn't have to drop it so hard,” he complained. “What if it'd been a bomb or something?”

  With a turn of speed so typical of him, Rick quickly gathered the papers and chucked them gingerly into the bag Gabe supplied. “Fingerprints,” Gabe warned him. “Try not to add to the damage you've already done.” He sealed the bag, then told Rick, “I'm calling Hylton to send over a couple of extra people. Just in case.”

  Rick nodded, his gaze inadvertently lingering on the spot where the book had lain. “There's something else you should know,” he said, and his voice sounded choked. “It has my name on it.” His sharp crystalline eyes met Finlay's. “I don't think you'll be able to see it. It's in one of those shades only my vision can pick up. Could you have it checked?”

  Finlay nodded.

  “It's someone who knows a lot about me,” Rick said grimly. He turned away and began to pace nervously, adrenaline pushing his steps.

  Finlay hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to call Jace? Or Sheryl?”

  Rick gave him a pale smile. “Do I look that bad?”

  “Hey, look—green's one of my favourite colours.” The ruddy tones in Rick's skin had vanished, so that only the greenish cast of the chloroplasts was left.

  “I'm okay. I was just taken by surprise. Too many memories.”

  “Rick—”

  Rick stopp
ed his pacing, and turned to look at him again.

  Finlay was as serious as Rick had ever seen him. “I'd never have done anything like that to you. None of us would.”

  “I know. I was just hoping it was someone I knew,” Rick told him earnestly, “and that maybe I'd taken the inscription wrong.”

  “All I know, is if it'd been me, I'd have handled it the same way,” Finlay assured him. “Only, I wouldn't have wasted the effort on the wall. I would've have chucked the damned thing right through the window.”

  * * * *

  Jason rested his elbows on the sides of the sink and splashed water over his face and neck. He guessed from the chills that he was running a fever again, so he popped two aspirin in his mouth and gulped some water from the tap. Aspirin alternatives might work great in most cases, but there was nothing like the analgesic, fever-bashing properties of good ‘ol aspirin.

  He knew he was a fool to be popping any kind of pills in here. Substance abuse was an all-too-real problem, and anyone with any brains wouldn't take a chance on being caught downing any-thing. What one person claimed to be aspirin, another man could name as Valium. Jason didn't believe in leaving himself open to accusations—false or otherwise.

  Only I'm too sick to care. That was the truth. He'd rather be caught popping a few pills than urping his guts out. Or passed out on the floor of the john.

  He rinsed his face one more time, then stumbled over and sat down on top of one of the toilets, to wait out the aspirin. He leaned his head against the cool metal of the stall, and tried to stop the refrain from pounding in his skull. It was a nasty little tune, and when it played, visions of Caroline Denaro would ripple across the inside of his eyelids. No! he told himself. It's just the flu. You've had the flu before—

  When his shivering had faded to an occasional quiver, he pushed himself up and went back over to the sink. He smoothed down his hair, straightened his collar, and checked his watch. He just hoped that when Sheryl Matthews saw him, she'd attribute the glassiness of his gaze to bright-eyed enthusiasm. Chances were, he thought, she wouldn't look closely enough to notice any changes. Matthews was a great supervisor, but she saved most of her compassion for her patients. With her staff, Sheryl was staunch, professional, and objective. She'd stand up for any of them against egotistical bullies like Herbert Blaisden, but she made them work for their money and education, figuring that sacrifice was the best way of appreciating the value of what you'd learned and earned. Jason could both understand and appreciate her attitude—with one exception. That exception was Rick.