Invasive Procedures (31 page)

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Frank said, still holding the arm stiff at his side. “Let’s put some more distance behind us.”

“We’ve gone almost three miles,” Monica said. “We can stop long enough for me to look at it. You’re no good to us if you bleed to death.”

“She’s right, Frank,” said Byron. “Let her look at it. She’s a doctor.”

I’m a doctor myself, Frank wanted to point out. But he knew it was pointless to argue. They were right. Bleeding wounds needed immediate attention. Plus, his blood was contaminated. Every drop that dripped to the ground was like a seed of virus.

Frank stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute.” How could he be so stupid? He must be losing his mind. “You can’t look at this wound. You shouldn’t be near it. I might infect you.”

“It’s all right,” said Monica.

“No, it isn’t. You don’t know how virulent this is. You can’t risk my blood touching you.”

“I’m immune,” she said. “Wyatt and me both. Galen inoculated us when we he took us. He knew I’d be handing the virus, and he didn’t want Wyatt becoming infected either. Let’s not forget that that I’ve had my hands inside you. Your blood has been all over me. If I could be infected, I’d have been dead a long time ago.”

Frank hesitated a moment, then gave in, nodding for her to proceed.

She helped him out of the cape and suit coat. Frank was surprised that it didn’t hurt him nearly as much to move his arm now. He had thought it would be a painful ordeal to get undressed and had postponed the act partially for that reason. Yet now there was no pain. Only blood. And plenty of it. The sleeve of his white shirt was red from the elbow down.

The others gathered around him. “Gross,” Dolores said.

“You really cut it bad,” said Nick.

Frank thought so, too, and it startled him to see so much of his own blood; he hadn’t realized the cut was so deep.

“Sit down,” Monica said, opening the kit of medical supplies she had taken from the storage room and pointing him to a large rock by the trail.

Frank sat and the others surrounded him. Wyatt pushed his way to the front and stared at the red sleeve. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

“No,” said Frank, not looking at it. “Not really. I feel fine. Fit as a fiddle.”

Monica, who was putting on rubber gloves, stopped suddenly and looked at him. “What did you say?

“I said I was fine. Fit as a fiddle.”

“Why did you say it that way? Do you always say that?”

Frank wrinkled his brow. “It’s just an expression.”

Monica noticed all eyes on her. Even Wyatt looked concerned. She forced a smile and continued donning her gloves. “I’m sorry. It’s just something Galen said to me once.”

“Galen?” said Nick.

“When we first met. It’s not important.”

“Hell, yes, it’s important,” said Nick. “Maybe that chip thing is on already.”

Frank shook his head. “I told you. It’s just an expression. My grandfather used to say it.”

Nick still looked skeptical.

“A dead old man is not controlling my speech.” He turned to Monica. “Let’s get this over with.”

Moving quickly, Monica cut off the bottom half of the sleeve and exposed the wound, which was positioned above the elbow on the back of the upper arm. Instead of looking at it, Frank watched everyone else’s reaction. Nick and Hal both winced at first, but then their faces turned to wonder.

“Would you look at that?” Hal said with a whistle.

“Looks healed already,” said Nick.

Frank turned the arm over and saw that, sure enough, the wound had already sealed itself; a three-inch-long scar had formed across the muscle and stopped the flow of blood completely. It was still bright red, swollen, and sensitive to the touch, but it was not the gaping wound it must have been minutes before.

Monica wet some gauze with alcohol and cleaned the dried blood away.

“It’s true, then,” said Byron. “Everything you said about this virus. The rapid healing, everything.”

Hal clapped his hands together loudly. “I’ll be damned. The cut just up and healed itself like that.”

“How does it feel?” said Monica.

Frank bent his arm. “A little tight, but other than that, fine.”

“I should wrap it just in case.” She ripped open a packet of bandaging and got to work.

Hal squatted down beside her as she wrapped the arm. “Now, you’re a doctor, right? How long should it take a cut like that to heal, you think? Under normal circumstances, I mean.”

“Difficult to say. There’s no way of knowing how deep the gash was. But considering how much blood he lost, plus the fact that he cut through the triceps here, I’d say at least a few weeks. Not to mention plenty of stitches.”

Hal nodded vigorously, pleased by her response. “You hear that?” he said, looking back at the others. “A few weeks. A cut like that normally takes weeks.” He laughed. “And our man Frank here did it in less than ten minutes.” He patted Frank on the knee as if he had done something incredibly brave.

“I don’t understand,” Wyatt said.

Hal was all too eager to explain. “You saw how his arm smashed through that lamp, right? Bam! Glass everywhere.”

Wyatt nodded.

“Well, the glass cut through him, see? Deep. To the bone, maybe.”

“Don’t be so graphic,” Dolores said, “he’s just a boy.”

“A boy who asked a question, dipstick. So cork it.” He turned back to Wyatt, his face pleasant again. “So he cuts himself deep, right? But now look at it.” He pointed to the wound, even though it was already covered with bandages. “It’s healed and ready to go. Like magic.”

Frank got to his feet. “We’ve stopped long enough.”

Monica gathered her bag. “I should take your staples out while we’re stopped,” she said. “They’ve been in long enough. Everyone else had theirs removed before you woke up.”

Frank felt the line of staples down his chest. “It can wait. We’ll have time for it later.”

She didn’t object. “Come on, Wyatt,” she said, taking his hand.

Frank put the suit coat back on and threw the cape over his shoulder, then stuffed the bloody sleeve Monica had cut away into his pocket.

They got moving again, quickly returning to their old pace. Frank felt invigorated. He knew he should be winded after having tackled three miles, but each breath came to him easily and calmly, as if he had just awoken from a deep rest.

Wyatt trotted up beside him, not having such an easy time with it. His hair was wet with sweat, and his breaths were short and labored. “What’s your name?” he said.

“Frank.”

“It’s only fair if I know your name since you already know mine.”

“I suppose.”

Wyatt avoided a rock in the trail. “Are you really a policeman?”

“Not really, no.”

“Didn’t think so. So what are you?”

“A virologist. I study viruses.”

“Like a doctor?”

“Yes, like a doctor.”

“Mom’s a thoracic surgeon. That means she has to cut people’s chests open.”

“Yes, I know. All too well.” He allowed himself a glance back to see if Monica was listening. She wasn’t. She was near the back, struggling more than anyone to keep up. Wyatt had found his second wind, but Monica hadn’t been so lucky.

“My dad’s a doctor, too,” said Wyatt. “An orthopedic surgeon. That means a bone doctor.”

“Well, if I break my arm, I know who to call.”

“I only see him every other weekend, though,” said Wyatt. “He and my mom got a divorce.”

That caught Frank off guard. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Wyatt shrugged. “My dad had a girlfriend while he and my mom were still together.”

Frank didn’t know what to say to that one. This was getting uncomfortable.

“But I don’t think I’m supposed to know that, since my mom and dad don’t talk about it with me.”

Kids were amazing, thought Frank. No guile. They just say it like it is, even to a total stranger.

But Frank knew he wasn’t a stranger to Wyatt. Not anymore. In the hour or so since their meeting, Frank had somehow graduated to something else in the kid’s eyes. Something bigger. Now Wyatt was sticking close to him, doing everything Frank did, like hopping over a log or avoiding a root, even mimicking his walk. What was it? Respect, maybe? A sense of protection, of safety? The kid had undergone quite an ordeal in the past week, something that a lot of kids might never recover from. And now here was a man who could shoot the bad guys with a tranquilizer gun and lead them all charging through the woods toward safety. No, Frank was something different to Wyatt now. And for the time being, Frank didn’t mind.

Victor Owens drove north on the Pacific Coast Highway, his cell phone to his ear. After the appropriate number of rings a familiar voice said, “Hi. This is Dr. Monica Owens. I’m sorry I can’t take your call right now. I’m either with a patient or on the other line. If this is an emergency—” Victor slammed his cell phone closed and tossed it into the passenger seat. It wasn’t like Monica to neglect his messages. And over the past few days, he had left plenty. Yes, she was an ex-wife who believed she had plenty of reasons to hold a grudge, but that wasn’t Monica’s style, never had been. If Victor left a message, Monica called him back—maybe not right away; maybe she’d let him sweat it out for a day or so. But never longer than that. And now Wyatt’s school had called Victor asking him if everything was all right with Wyatt, explaining that the boy hadn’t reported to class in over a week and that repeated calls to Wyatt’s mother had gone unanswered.

Victor wasn’t sure if he should be angry or frightened. It wasn’t like Monica to pack up and take Wyatt on a vacation without first consulting Victor. They might be divorced and might not to see eye to eye on a lot of parental issues, but one thing they
had
agreed on was open communication—well, open concerning all things relating to Wyatt, anyway. The other aspects of their lives were their own business. Not that Victor suspected Monica of having
much
of a life outside of her career. She hadn’t had much of a life when they were married, for the same reason.

Victor turned north on Cahuenga and sped up the hill into Pacific Palisades. What did he have left to do, then, but to go and see for himself if Monica was home? Maybe she had left a note. Maybe someone had broken in and . . . Victor put the thought out of his mind. They weren’t harmed. Monica was too smart. And Victor had spent too much on that security system when they were married to let anything bad happen without raising an alarm.

The driveway was empty. Monica’s SUV wasn’t there. Victor wasn’t sure whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.

He parked his Mercedes at the curb, got out, and fished through his keychain for the key to the front door. To play it safe, he rang the doorbell first and was surprised when Rosa answered it almost immediately, a broom in her hand.

“Rosa.”

“Buenas tardes
, Mr. Owens.” She had a peculiar smile across her face that unsettled Victor.

“Where’s Monica?”

“Dr. Owens is not here,” she said, as placidly as if she were getting into a warm jacuzzi.

“Well, where is she? I’ve left her half a dozen messages, and she hasn’t called me back. I’ve called the clinic. No one there has seen her either.”

“Dr. Owens is not here,” Rosa said again.

Victor sighed irritably. Rosa’s poor grasp of English was intolerable. All she could respond to were simple, curt sentences. She probably didn’t even understand half of what he was saying.

He spoke slower. “Where’s Wyatt? Is he with Monica?”

Rosa considered this a long moment.

Victor was getting frustrated. She didn’t understand. “With,
with
,” he said with more urgency. “Do you understand the word
with
? Like, chili con carne. Monica
con
Wyatt?” He pointed two index fingers upward and then brought them together. Improvised sign language. “With. Monica with Wyatt?”

Rosa stared at him, still smiling—not amused just . . . smiling. “Dr. Owens is not here.”

“Dammit, you said that already. I’m asking about Wyatt now. I want to know where—”

“Wyatt is with Dr. Owens.”

Victor straightened, surprised by her sudden comprehension and a bit embarrassed that he had lost his cool. Rosa, however, didn’t seem the least bit fazed by his behavior. But why had it taken her so long to respond? It was like her brain was working on a time delay.

“Wyatt is with Monica? Where? Did she tell you where they were going?”

“Dr. Owens went to the master’s.”

Victor raised an eyebrow. “She went to the Masters? What, the golf tournament?” Victor was no golfer, but he hadn’t heard anything about the tournament in the news recently. Besides, Monica hated golf.

“Dr. Owens will be back in a few days,” said Rosa. “You wants I leaves her a message?”

“Are they on vacation somewhere?”

Rosa considered that. “Yes, vacation.”

Victor ran a hand through his hair, relieved. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Yes, please leave her a message. Tell her to call me immediately. She’s had me worried sick.”

Rosa opened the door further. “I get you tea or coffee?”

“No. I need to get back to the hospital. But please tell Monica to call.”

“I pass message,” said Rosa, the smile still frozen on her lips.

Victor thanked her and returned to his car. Rosa stood on the porch, the broom in her hand, watching him go. Victor glanced back several times as he drove away. Rosa was still there, giving him that same vacant grin.

Lichen awoke to find himself on the cement floor of the cabin basement. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and considered how he could have been so careless as to have fallen asleep on the floor. He yawned lazily, then spied Pine on the floor also, still sleeping. Suddenly the events came flooding back into his mind. He looked down at his stomach where four tranquilizer darts still protruded from the muscle of his gut. He sprang to his feet and pulled them out, tossing them aside.

“Wake up, Pine.” He gave the giant on the floor a stiff kick in the side. Pine stirred

Lichen ran to Wyatt’s room, and his worst fear became a reality. Wyatt was gone. Frank the vessel had tried to escape with the boy.