Nurse Peterson comes in the door and stops. Her mouth slakes for a second at the music and then her jaw sets. I think, The Iron Maiden, again and then I get a mental whiff of something else. Pain mixed with anger. I follow her eyes to the CD player then grab my note pad. “You and Aileen were good friends, weren’t you.”
“Yes,” she says.
“You’re not happy to see her CD player and music here, are you?”
“No.”
“When Ulla brought it, I wasn’t happy about it either. She assured me that Aileen would have approved.”
Her eyes cloud over. She walks to the player and ejects the CD. “Why would she think that?”
“Maybe it was because she knew that Aileen and I had a special connection.”
She places the CD back in its case and then holds the case so I can see the back. The name, Marie, is written across the top in big black letters.
“Oh!” I say. I write, “I didn’t know it was yours. Wonderful music.”
“Do you mean special connection in the fact that you slept with her?”
“Does anyone here not know about that?”
“I doubt it.”
I consider that for a few seconds and then write, “That’s not the special connection I’m referring to. That was a mistake I will be paying on for a very long time.”
“I’m sure.”
“Did you know that she was a bit of a psychic?”
“She told me once but I never believed her.”
“She was. I have the same ability, only a lot more powerful.”
She gives me a doubtful look. “Let’s begin.”
I sit in the chair and prepare for the coming pain. She doesn’t believe me. Why do I care? Because she has power over my pain? On my pad I quickly write, “Do you miss your children?” I don’t know how many she has or their ages–my hunch is young–but I can sense in her aura an intense motherly emptiness. They are somewhere far away and she hasn’t seen them for a while. I start to write something else but she takes the pad and pencil from my hands and puts them out of my reach.
“Let’s get this over with,” she says firmly.
I close my eye and wish I had taken the pain medicine before we started.
It’s just as bad as last time. I’m lying on the bed again. I’m glad it’s getting dark because even the indirect light through the windows hurts. I place a towel over my face but the weight of it hurts. I try to focus my mind away from pain, but the pain is just too much to overcome. I don’t want any more of Nurse Peterson’s sessions. Whatever she’s trying to accomplish, I don’t think it’s working, unless it’s to torture me. That part is working just fine.
It’s an eternity before I have the impression that the pain is decreasing. I begin feeling the fuzziness and choose to go with it, let it carry me into some mindless oblivion and then into sleep.
When I awake, it’s 2:02. I consider staying where I am for another five hours or so, but what if I wake up in pain again? Right now I’m pain-free so I should take advantage of it. I carefully roll to the edge of the bed and then wait out the spin in my head. When things settle I begin to push to my feet when the white wisp of . . . of . . . of Aileen glides into the bedroom and then into the bathroom.
Hallucination or dream, I think, yet I watch for her to return with a towel to hang over the camera. Instead she comes straight out and walks right up to me. Saying nothing she lets her nightgown drop to the floor and then pulls my head to her breast. She is soft and warm. I breathe in her femaleness and then pull away to look up at her face. It’s not Aileen. It’s Tanya!
“Payback time!” she says with an evil grin and then grabs my head and starts grinding my face against her bony chest. My pain center is firing white and red stars and I’m trying to force myself away but her grip is too tight. “How does that feel, big boy?” she laughs.
I try to scream but whatever comes out is muffled in the flesh of her. When I begin to smother I hook my hands up under her armpits and shove. She falls straight back onto the floor and I onto the bed. I’m now completely blinded by the pain. I fear she is going to return and jump on me, hurt me some more, slap me like she did Aileen. I scramble across the bed, grabbing the pillows as I go and get tangled in the covers. I expect to feel her on top of me any second, slapping and punching at my face. I wasn’t this scared in the snowstorm with the sabre-toothed cats circling us. Suddenly there is no more bed and I fall to the floor, taking the blanket, sheet and pillows with me. I hurt too much to move anymore. I lie and wait whatever punishment she intends to bestow upon me.
Chapter 36
When I open my eye again seconds, minutes, maybe hours have passed. I make out the window in the dark and nothing beyond. It’s a dark night. The pain has gone. I don’t want to move for fear it will return. I understand that what just transpired was a nightmare. Any rational person would understand that immediately. The question is, am I rational? Am I dreaming right now that I’m lying on the floor, cold because I’m only partially covered by the covers?
Eventually the cold and discomfort overcome my fear of the pain and I untangle my limbs from the sheet and blanket. When I rise to my feet the pain surges and then eases off. I check to make sure there is not a woman lying naked on the floor on the other side of the bed and then rearrange the bed covers and slip back in to get warm. The clock displays 2:35 and I am wide awake.
At 3:05 I give up on sleep, dress in something warm and go out to my laptop. I close the document I created to test the printer, drop the resultant sheet of paper into the trash, put on Eric Clapton and go start a pot of coffee. By the time the coffee is ready I’ve printed the chapter headings and paragraphs. I place that into a folder which I then stack with my research notebooks. I fill the biggest mug I can find with coffee, slip a straw into my pocket and go out the door.
Navigating in and out of the elevator and opening doors with my hands full and with only one eye is a bit more of a challenge than I thought it would be. I spill the coffee twice by the time I get off the elevator. I expect everything to be quiet, to not see a soul, but that’s not the case. Merwin Boggs stops mid-stride when he sees me through the glass. I raise the coffee mug in greeting and then go into the library where I spill the hot brew one last time and then drop my file of chapters. They scatter across the floor. I wish Boggs hadn’t seen me. I don’t want to talk to anyone and I’m sure he’ll be in to check me out, even if for no other reason than morbid curiosity.
I barely have the papers picked up and am wiping coffee off of several of them when he comes through the door. “My God, Man! You look as bad as I imagined. What are you doing up and around? Hell, man! Why are you even here? You should be in a hospital somewhere.”
I didn’t bring my notepad and I don’t feel like making conversation in my notebooks. I don’t feel like making conversation at all. “Wook,” I say and point to my stuff.
“Work! Whatever you think you have to do, it ain’t worth it.”
I flip to the last page of one of the notebooks, and write, “Why are you still here?”
“I don’t sleep well.”
“No. Here at Sans Sanssabre?”
He takes my pencil and writes, “The big V has me by the balls.” He pauses for a few seconds and then writes, “I owe him.”
“He bought you.” My psychic impressions are flowing suddenly.
“You might say that. I’d do it again in an Australian minute.” A dozen heart beats later he adds, “He saved my son’s life.”
The secret I sensed when we spoke in the foyer. “And now he owns you. How long?”
“Since the beginning.”
I write nothing. I give him my best questioning look which I’m sure he can’t see past my rainbow face and one eye.
“William, my son, was seven when it was discovered he had a brain tumor,” he says softly. “The doctors said it was inoperable. I had just come off the success of cloning a kangaroo and was invited to speak before a small group in Chicago, which
under the circumstances I would have turned down except I saw it as a chance to get another opinion on my son from an American doctor. We made the arrangements, a dozen phone calls, and managed to get him looked at in the week before the symposium. The prognosis was worse than that in Sydney. The tumor had grown. If it weren’t for my wife I would not have gone to the symposium. She said we had to stand strong.”
He pulled his fingers through his hair. “I remember being up on that stage trying to deliver my speech and seeing only my wife and boy curled up together in the far back row, the bandages about his small head stark in the dim light. Afterwards, Vandermill introduced himself to me. He wanted to know more about my cloning research but I was not in a state of mind to talk shop. I told him so and when he asked me why, I blurted it all out, practically cried on his shoulder. That was the beginning of where I am now. As you know, Zach, Vandermill is a very rich man. His money bought my son’s life. He found a surgeon who agreed that the operation was possible.”
A tear runs down his cheek. He wipes it away self-consciously. “Sorry,” he says. “William is a teenager now. I hardly know him having seen him only once or twice a year since. I’m an occasional visitor who sleeps with his mother.”
He stares off into the distance. I sense his concern is that he might not be the only occasional visitor that sleeps with William’s mom.
“But he is still alive and active just like any other child. He plays soccer.”
What a price to pay. Would I do it? Would I sell my soul for the life of one of my children, and give my wife up to another man? I think of Merwin’s words, “In an Australian minute.” And then I think about the fact that I’ve probably done just that. I voluntarily sold my soul to my dream and gave up my family. I doubt Tanya has been seeing another man, but I wouldn’t blame her too much if she had. I certainly don’t know my girls very well anymore. Where are they now? If Tanya’s sister and mother are in Denver, who’s taking care of the girls, and what are they thinking? How much have they been told? Do they know that their mother is on the verge of death and that if she does live she’ll probably be wheelchair bound for the rest of her life? Do they know that their father will be half blind and scarred for the rest of his life? What is Tanya thinking in her waking moments? She has asked for me. Is that so she can poke out my other eye or does she want me by her side?
I did it just like Boggs. I sold my soul to Victor Vandermill for Tanya’s life.
The silence is long as we stare at the other’s feet. He clears his throat and says, “So, I understand your wife is in a bad way.”
I nod and write, “Broken back.”
“Yes. Punctured lung, too, I understand.”
I nod again and write, “Something was applied to our frostbite–a formula of Zitnik’s.”
“Yes, yes. A wonderful thing, if it ever finds the light of day.”
“Why would they keep it a secret?”
“Because neither Jacob nor Mr. V will give up the rights to it.” He glances toward the camera and then picks up my pencil. He writes, “Jacob said he would destroy it rather than let Vandermill have it.”
“Why would it be Vandermill’s?” I write. “It’s Zitnik’s invention.”
“Vandermill claims that anything Jacob does while under the employment of Sans Sanssabre belongs to Sans Sanssabre.”
That’s true, just as everything I write belongs to Sans Sanssabre. Zitnik probably has no legal leg to stand on. But, as the inventor, he does have the power to keep it from being manufactured. He can destroy any record of the formula. “Vandermill is correct in that,” I write.
“I know,” he says. He writes, “Jacob has some plot going.”
“Oh!” One of the few words in my vocabulary that’s understandable. I change subjects. “Where were the ladies taken?” I write.
“Mister V has a huge mansion on the Northern California coast. He says they are there only until things blow over here.”
“Has the sheriff been back?”
“No. Mister V has managed to keep it all quiet.”
“So Aileen goes the way of Lester. They just disappear.”
“Mister V has powerful friends.”
If he can create fake birth certificates, I imagine he can create fake death certificates as well, and any scenario he wants to lead to those deaths. The thought gives me the shivers and I think back again to when I agreed to his offer in exchange for my writing the book. In between the lines of his words were, “Do what I want and you and Tanya won’t have any unexplained fatal accidents.”
I take the pencil. “I ask again, why are you still here? After this many years you have certainly paid off the debt.”
“Remember Doctor McCully?” he writes. I nod. He continues. “That was no accident. Do you think everyone stays here because they like it? Not in an Australian minute. He has a hold over everyone.” Again he looks toward the camera. He adds, “He gave me my son’s life. He can just as easily take it away.”
I look at his words and then into his eyes. He’s scared as hell, and having confirmed my gut suspicions, he’s scaring me.
He rips the page from my notebook, crumbles it up and stuffs it into his pocket. He leans in close to me and whispers, “I’ll shred it and flush it.” He then slaps me on the shoulder and says at normal tone, “It was good talking to you. We ought to get together some time over a little brew.”
When he is gone I sit for a long time in thought. Will Vandermill always have a hold over Tanya and me? Will we forever be one of his puppets? What’s the big deal about writing this book? Is this to be his way of announcing to the world what he has done? Does he have some need to become famous over this? Whatever it is, the thought of being his puppet creates a knot in my stomach.
I force my mind back to my reason for coming to the library. I am his puppet and the only thing I can do is what he wants me to do. After all, I remind myself, this is what I was hired to do. I’m not really a puppet. I’m a paid writer. I have a contract. The knot eases. I sort through the chapter headings and get a focus on what I’m looking for, and then scan the bookshelves, pulling off a variety of essays and papers as well as a couple textbooks on genetics. With my arms full, I return to my apartment.
It’s nearly 7:00 a.m. when the pain killer starts wearing off. I’m into the flow and don’t want to stop, but my fear of facing the pain forces me to put everything aside and go get the tablets Nurse Peterson left. This time she also left a pestle with which to grind them into powder. I mix that in with a very small amount of juice and quickly suck that all down. By then the pain is enough that I don’t want to return to the writing. I shut down the laptop and go to bed. Just before I fall asleep, which surprisingly comes rapidly, it occurs to me that although they didn’t give me an Internet connection, they did give me my phone. I can dial up through my Dallas provider.
Chapter 37
Death occurs as decreed by the tiger God.
–Spell of the Tiger
I’m angry with myself for sleeping so long. Nurse Peterson is miffed as well because she decided to go with my suggestion and do the therapy at noon and 10:00 p.m. and then came in and found me asleep at 12:15.
“I thought this was your productive time,” she said when she roused me out of bed.
“I was up until 7:00 a.m.,” I wrote. “Besides, I’m a sick man. I need my rest to heal.”
She’s right, though; the morning is my best time and I slept through it. I also wanted a dose of medicine well before she started in on me again, which I didn’t get until one minute before. At least I did get it. Now it’s nearly 2:30 p.m., and I’m finally back at my computer after lying in the dark with the drapes pulled, waiting for the pain to ease to a manageable level.
I stare at the icon on Rebecca’s Web page and wonder if Vandermill knows it’s there. At this point it probably makes no difference. I click on it and discover that it’s no longer a hyperlink. It’s just a small picture on Rebecca’s page. So, Tanya didn’t remove it, but sh
e did remove the link. Smart girl. And then I remember that I already knew that. I’m losing my mind. I navigate out to catalog.com and check if my files are still there. They are. I delete the one telling Rebecca to get her mom, rename my journal, f1.gif, and move it into the graphics folder. I figure that is about as good a camouflage as I can give it. Unfortunately if something happens to both Tanya and me no one will ever find it and catalog.com will eventually close the account and delete it. I’ll have to think on what else to do with it.
I’m also worried about all my files—my research and writings prior to coming to Sans Sanssabre—which are still stored on the laptop. Granted, I do backups onto CDs, but they are stored in the bag with the computer. Once I’m done with Vandermill’s project I’m certain he will either confiscate my computer or wipe the hard drive and then destroy my backup CDs.
I backup my writing folder and then go to work.
I’m getting tired of the cloak and dagger stuff with the people of Sans Sanssabre. I just want to finish and leave. To finish I have to be alert. That means lower dosages of pain medicine or getting off of it all together, neither option I wish to choose. If I had my druthers I would be on full dosage all the time and to hell with the book. I’d happily float around in la-la land until my face was totally healed. My need to get to Tanya is what drives me to work on the book, however that only happens in the several hour window between la-la land and total wear off. Unfortunately it’s in that window that the nurse of torture shows up. I’m also finding that the medication is making me sleep too long, often past my window.
It’s on my fourth day since returning to the apartment that I feel as though I’m beginning to turn a corner. My face is now only light green with a few splotches of purple. I can move my tongue around and actually say words, and have begun eating some with a spoon. I have no desire to chew anything, although there is a churning yearn for something more tangible than soup, yogurt and Jell-O. Ulla began making something she calls shakes, which are very good. “A nutritional drink,” she says. It’s fruit juice with Soya and protein. I start that on the second day. This morning she added a banana and blended that with a handful of nutritional supplements. Whatever is going into these things I’m going completely on trust. I’m feeling better and seem to be healing quickly, and the shakes are delicious.
Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy Page 31