But, he'd already learned that some things didn't require careful planning. They just required doing, before you could think about them too much. There was nothing to be gained by trying to second-guess Steven Hylton. The only thing that would happen by delaying things was to give them time to see how guilty he was looking, and to let Jace get that much closer to dying. If Jace died anyway, it wouldn't be because he hadn't tried.
“Can you take me off the monitor?” Rick asked Phillip, hoping he looked the innocent picture of impatient good health that he was trying to portray.
“Why?”
Rick got a little worried at that one. It wasn't like Phillip to be so blunt.
“Because every time I turn over, it goes off. I'm not going to be able to get any rest,” he said testily.
Phillip smiled wryly. “Are you sure? I thought you might be planning on pacing the floors—or climbing the walls.”
Rick suppressed the nervousness that Rutgers’ last statement generated, but he could see that Phillip was looking at him curiously. Rick tried to think of a quip to counter his last remark, but nothing was forthcoming. Instead, he settled for a “If I were planning on pacing, I think I'd get some resistance from my bodyguards.”
Phillip thought about it for a moment. Something was wrong here, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. “I'm going to keep you on the IV.”
Rick nodded.
“But, I'll take you off the monitor—for now.” He examined the wound and smiled. “It's healing well from this angle, but I'm ordering a scan for later—just to make sure.” He checked the thermometer. “Your temp's been elevated most of the night. Your body's complaining about all that metal they pumped into it.”
“I feel great.”
“Uh-huh.” Phillip gave Rick's IV a final adjustment. As he was about to open the door, he turned back to look at Rick, a trace of suspicion narrowing his eyes. “If you had anything planned for today—anything at all—you'd tell me, wouldn't you?”
Rick's eyes widened. I must look guilty as hell, he thought. Aloud, he said earnestly, “I want to go see Jace later.”
Phillip nodded. “See ya, Rick.”
“See ya, Phil.”
Rick knew he had only moments before the last of the coffee was downed, and the last of the cigarettes extinguished. Without giving himself time for doubt, Rick pulled out the IV, and climbed out of bed. Dammit! He wobbled for a moment, surprised at his own weakness. For an instant, he wondered if he should just phone Sterner, and tell him what he needed.
In the next instant he dismissed it. Sterner was a policeman, and despite their developing friendship, he'd be reluctant to do something like this. It probably already violated his principles having Denaro's shit in his house. To ask him to use it would be tantamount to asking him to commit murder.
Rick fumbled the pillows into place, in the old campers’ trick. He had a feeling it wouldn't fool Johnson or Jamaal for a moment.
He yanked Johnson's coat off the back of the chair, and headed for the window. At the last minute he remembered the note, and tiptoed back, to pull the drawer open, so they'd find it. Then, before Rutgers had been gone sixty seconds, Rick climbed through the window, and skinnied his way along the ledge.
Chapter Nine
It was the last thing they would have expected. Hylton had stationed people on the fifth and sixth floors, in addition to the seventh, and everyone coming or going to the hospital was now passing through a checkpoint, even though they weren't aware of it. Anyone who didn't work for the DSO, or who wasn't a regular hospital employee, was suspect. With the involvement of FOCUS, Steven realised he didn't have to look only at strangers; he also needed to closely examine “friends".
Who else? FOCUS, Genetechnic, the Cliatso group. Word had filtered through that some radical religious faction was taking an uncomfortable degree of interest in the possibility of a mutant human—someone who was part man, part plant. The Devil's work. A potentially explosive situation, in more ways than one. Richard Lockmann was a perfect candidate for some fanatics who wanted to make a statement. Steven had a bomb squad on call.
Everything was organised to prevent entry, but Steven had never thought they might need to prevent an exit. Both their charges were too weak (he thought) to be of concern. When Johnson announced that Lockmann wasn't in his room, the first thing Steven thought was that someone had slipped through—and somehow spirited their patient away.
* * * *
Rick guessed that the DSO would have all the exits covered, including the roof. After all, that's how Genetechnic had taken him away before. As he shimmied along the building, he tried not to look down. He wasn't good with heights at the best of times and—let's face it—this wasn't the best of times. The only exit he could think of was the one Jace had taken—through the chute and into the dumpster. All he had to do was get to the top, and avoid being seen by any DSO agents stationed there.
What if the dumpster's not there? What if there are people working on the roof? He tried to remember what day it was. What if they weren't renovating the roof any more? The jumbled thoughts rattled his brain. Only the realisation that Jace was already in a coma, and the sun that tingled the skin on his face and shins, kept him going.
There were still two floors above him.
As soon as they found his note, they'd realise he'd taken himself off, and look for him on the outside of the building. He didn't have much time.
Crap! Why the hell did this have to be such a modern building? No fancy gargoyles or grill work. No old laundry chutes—that he knew about anyway—and—he peeked around the corner—no chute of any kind, construction or otherwise.
He felt so rotten that he plopped down on the ledge, and dangled his feet, ignoring the drop below him. He'd promised Jace he'd try, but this goof-up didn't qualify for a “try"—it didn't qualify for anything, except a promise that he'd get extra bodyguards. Rutgers and his other doctors would be furious with him, after all the effort they'd made to keep him alive, and Hylton would never trust him again. Even the note, with its attempt at light-hearted “relax—I'm okay", now seemed like a stupid thing to have done. For just a moment, as his foot wriggled and he inadvertently focused on the ground below, Rick was tempted to put an end to all the hassle—his and everyone else's. He fought the impulse, and leaned his head back against the cold masonry.
I'm depressed. He'd never had much time to dwell on himself, so depression had always been a rare emotion. Even the greyness he'd experienced during his month of being a lonely “mutant man” was light compared to the blackness and bleakness he was experiencing now. People had died to keep him alive. How many more? he wondered, thinking of Jace. Why is my life more important than theirs?
Because I'm of value to humanity.
That's what Hylton had told him. The reason they were protecting him. The reason everyone else wanted him. Because he was worth something.
It should have done something for his ego, but instead it left him feeling like it was all a sham. And a shame. All that “value” secreted behind layers of other people, until they could figure out how to make it work for the masses. That was the reason Rick went along with it: because the promise was there of some kind of salvation for humanity.
Only now it had shuffled down into some kind of mortal combat, where good people died to protect something that they'd never be around to see. He wondered whether that's all it'd be in the end: a battle for possession, with any humanitarian efforts caught up in sustaining his existence, instead of offering it to humanity as a whole. Maybe I should just take a dive, and then they can share out my parts. “Parts is parts,” my grandma used to say. A wave of hysteria made him giddy, and dots began to float before his eyes. Uh-oh, he thought, as a sense of self-preservation came to the fore. He forced himself to focus.
He couldn't kill himself—not here, not now. Rickardson, and the others like him, deserved better than that. But, someday—somehow—I'll see to it that theirs hasn't been a wasted effor
t.
He shuddered, and he realised how far his mind had been wandering. Dangerous, Rick, if you're going to sit around on ledges. The fever and weakness were getting to him. He didn't move yet, though. It was time for a little revitalisation, to chase the spectres away. A little sunshine on his skin, to energise his system.
He opened his coat, and lifted the hospital gown so the sun could bake his skin. Closing his eyes, he tried to find the rush of feeling that usually accompanied exposure to light. It was there, but sequestered, and it bothered him that he couldn't rely on the quickie burst of energy like he usually did.
It was enough, though. Enough to bring him to his feet. Enough to bring him into focus, so he could spot the stand of trees—their tall branches nearly brushing the side of the building. Enough so he could put it all in perspective. “Isn't that appropriate?” he mumbled, unaware that he'd spoken aloud. “Mutant plant-man saved by tree.” In a sudden moment of clarity, he realised that he was balanced on the ledge, laughing aloud. I'm delirious, he realised. He put his forehead against the building, and prayed for common sense to find him.
In the next moment he surrendered. Common sense wasn't going to get him anywhere, least of all off this ledge. He shuddered, and let the fever draw all his anxiety away. He was still chuckling when he launched himself into space, and latched on to the wayward branch that should have been pruned back many years before.
* * * *
Simon pushed his now-empty cart to another lab, and filled it once again. It was the fifth time he'd repeated the activity during the last hour. He peeled on another pair of latex gloves, and frowned over the wrinkly marks from the excess moisture. Either these techs had the wrinkliest hands in the world, or they'd discovered a cure for sweaty palms that he hadn't heard about yet.
It hadn't been accidental that he'd opted to impersonate a technician, rather than a visiting scientist. Technicians existed at that middle level that spurned resentment. They had the background and the training to be knowledgeable enough to recognise what was going on, and the longevity that often exceeded that of their esteemed not-quite-colleagues. Simon had already discovered that there were still those bastards around who treated techs like glorified rubbish collectors.
Resentment opened mouths. Bring out the dirt, and you knocked the wings off the most high. Simon's problem wasn't in digging up any dirt from his temporary cohorts—it was in rooting through it to discover the dirt he wanted. He'd found out some of it from Jules.
Jules had been working on Level 6 until two weeks ago. Then, they'd re-vamped the floor and brought in new people. Jules’ seniority should have assured him a choice spot, with an improved paycheque. Jules hadn't received either. Nor had he been informed as to why he'd been shifted. Jules had a case of double-resentment: anger chafed by a sense of ill-use, and an equally strong sense of insecurity. Insecurity was part of a tech's job—because no one realised or admitted how important they were—but, in Jules’ case, it was insecurity with a knife in the back.
As he wheeled his cart away, Simon was smiling. Jules would get his vengeance sooner than he knew. If Denaro's remains were on Six, then Simon intended to reward the man's unjust knife in the back, by giving his superiors a well-placed boot in the ass.
* * * *
Nyle Brentworth looked impatiently at the clock. He supposed he'd be what some would call a religious zealot. It didn't bother him—he rather liked the term. “Zealot” implied a certain level of fervour and dedication. If he were honest with himself, he'd have to admit that working for Genetechnic's Security had given him a means of justifying his strong urge to bully other people: to dictate their lives, control their actions, and exact righteous punishment on any who failed to meet his standards. Only, Nyle Brentworth was never honest with himself.
Now, it looked like he was going to be out of a job. Genetechnic's government funding had either been cut or re-directed—he wasn't in a privileged enough position to know which—and staff were beginning to clear out. The company wasn't a government affiliate, but the recent debacle with Denaro had caused most private backers to make discreet exits. Withdrawal of any government funding had just provided the finish.
Like most bullies, Nyle needed someone to blame. The government was too distant, and Genetechnic was the hand that had fed him. Denaro made an apt villain, only she was dead. Although Brentworth strongly believed in life after death, he also felt any power in the afterlife was reserved for the good and the righteous. In his mind, Dr. Caroline Denaro had been neither. The fact that her research had been supported, and even encouraged, by Genetechnic, bothered his conscience not a little. The hand of God had destroyed her, but the evil she'd initiated was now reaching out to destroy his life, and the lives of his fellow employees. No money, no employment. The money had been moved elsewhere, and there was one rumour that it was still being invested in her damned project. “Damned” because it had no right to exist in a God-given world.
It was because of the mutant. He'd lived, somehow, and Brentworth wondered if his existence was one of those evils sent to tempt mankind. In another rumour, Brentworth had heard that they were expending large amounts of manpower and resources to keep the mutant alive. That the temptation of altering the flesh in the goal of satisfying world hunger was the motivation. To Nyle, the idea of altering the flesh that God had bestowed on you was abhorrent.
Someone had offered him money. Cheaply—thinking they could buy him and his beliefs. It made him furious, but the fury was directed not at Samuelson, but at the source of his temptation. At the one called Richard Lockmann. His existence was an affront to the God-fearing people of this world.
Brentworth had taken the money, but he didn't intend to use it to hide himself or his grievances. His Security training had given him the skills, and his religious fervour had given him both the motivation and the justification for what he needed to do. Now, he had the funding to support his actions. Nyle Brentworth was going to save the world from the folly of Caroline Denaro's actions.
The thing that horrified him most was the knowledge that they'd frozen Denaro's remains. He'd never agreed with cremation, because it violated the tenets of his religion, but it had seemed the right way to go in Denaro's case. Now there were whispers that her research was about to rise from the dead. Brentworth wasn't about to let that happen. She needed to be destroyed.
As did the product of her research—the mutant named Richard Lockmann. Nyle's conscience didn't ache a bit as he planned Lockmann's assassination. It was just something that needed to be done. If the more avaricious of his fellow humans didn't praise him for it, his God would support his decision. Nyle knew he was going to heaven. If it took some violence and avenging justice on the way, then so be it. Nyle began his personal quest to find out where his victim lay.
* * * *
They'd been scurrying around the hospital for the last forty-five minutes, searching for him, or some sign of where he'd gone. As two of his agents crossed paths, nearly knocking each other down, Hylton was suddenly reminded of the stream of ants which had been steadily mounting an attack on his pantry. When he'd wiped half their numbers away, there'd been a panic in the rest, and they'd wandered aimlessly, seeking some idea of where they were supposed to be going.
It didn't help that word had filtered out to the hospital staff. They'd seen Rick frequently, so a lot of them were already aware of the congenial figure with the odd eyes. But, it had taken his heroic efforts in the elevator to focus their attention.
Everybody loves a hero. Hylton sighed. Lockmann had attracted far too much attention already, which had made his situation doubly dangerous. Everyone from FOCUS, to the President's mother, would know that he'd been injured.
It was why Hylton had tightened security. Now, he felt like a fool. Despite all his efforts, someone had circumvented every trap. It also bothered him to admit how much Lockmann's disappearance bothered him. It was like some younger brother had gone missing. Am I getting soft? he asked himself.
&
nbsp; He looked around at his people, and registered their very real expressions of concern. No, it wasn't only him. It was at least half his staff, too. The half who'd had personal exposure to Dr. Richard Lockmann. The remainder had been fed a diet of heroics and sacrifice in the face of danger. He sighed. They weren't doing much better.
He tried to figure out what it was. Lockmann was congenial, and pleasant. At first, Hylton hadn't trusted it—had thought it was a fake. Nobody could be that nice all the time. Maybe it came from being fed a constant diet of sugar. Even his anger took on an avenging angel quality that Hylton detested. Heroics weren't acceptable in his line of work. It was all a matter of positives and negatives: you evened the balance, but you didn't stick your neck out like that.
But now, he had people sticking their necks—and everything else out—to protect one Richard Lockmann. As though that “give-his-all” attitude had somehow inspired them all to act like idiots. It annoyed Hylton that Lockmann had gotten to him, too.
It had taken him a while to realise that Lockmann was for real. He was pleasant, because he felt he had nothing to be unpleasant about—and if he did, no one else deserved to be laden with either his depression, or his fear. He kept those emotions to himself. The man was intelligent enough to realise that the DSO people were just doing their jobs, and any frustration he felt needed another outlet. He didn't ride them for their proximity, or berate them for their intensity—much, anyway, Hylton thought with a smile, as he recalled the occasional caustic comment. Lockmann felt they deserved better than that.
Lockmann lost himself in projects, and had no sense of time. Most of his people found this amusing, but Hylton had a feeling this was where Rick vented a lot of his anger and despair: in long hours of focused attention, and dedication to detail, interspersed with the endless pacing and movement that his physical condition required. Hylton suddenly realised that if anyone had had to mutate, he was awfully glad it had been someone like Richard Lockmann. Someone who didn't have an overblown sense of self-worth, or a tragedian's view of his condition.
Light Plays: Book Two of The Light Play Trilogy Page 14