On Broken Wings (27 page)

"Pretty good, I guess."

He chuckled again. "I think I'll let Rolf Svenson brief you in the rest of the way. He runs the Simulation Software end of things, and you'll be reporting to him. My job is mostly to make sure everyone has a desk and no one runs out of pencils."

He rose and headed out of the office, plainly expecting her to follow. She scurried after him, afraid to lose sight of him amid the endless rows of identical gray fabric walls.

It took a fair walk to reach Rolf Svenson's cubicle. The cube was filled with books, papers and odd bits of electronics and analysis equipment in no discernible order. Svenson himself was a tall, gaunt man of about fifty, with a bony face and a fringe of gray-blond hair. He gave no sign of recognition as Morrison approached. He was staring into the screen of the terminal before him as if it were the face of his only true love.

I wonder if I look like that.

"Rolf? Ground control to Rolf Svenson..."

Svenson sat up and turned toward them with a jerk. His expression was sheepish, as if they'd caught him in an embarrassing position. It was a relief after Morrison's toothy display.

"What's up, Roger?"

"You have a new sidekick." Morrison introduced the two with the same overdose of false bonhomie he had troweled onto Orloff and Christine. She knew that if she had to endure the man much longer, she'd be thoroughly sick of him before lunch. Thankfully, he seemed to be as eager to depart the cubicle slums and return to his palatial office as she was to be rid of him. Svenson seemed to have been cut from a different bolt of cloth.

When the project manager had headed back to his lair, Svenson lifted a pile of papers from what turned out to be a metal guest chair and gestured to her to sit.

"How do you feel about research projects like this one?"

Why do they keep asking me that?

"Sounds interesting. What have you got for me to do?"

"Well, we're on the simulation end of things. Another group, Tactical Systems, does the flight software for the planes. It's our job to produce a simulated theater of battle for them, so that they can 'fly' their software for test and evaluation purposes, right here on the ground. Have you done any pattern recognition work?"

"Yeah, some."

"In two-D?" He peered at her.

"No, just bit patterns."

He shrugged. "It was really too much to hope for. We're one of maybe a dozen places in the world that does it, and the only place in the Northeast. Let me give you the fifty-cent tour."

He described the project and its components for the next half-hour. Christine listened with concentration. If she was fated to work here, she was going to give it her best.

At the conclusion, he sketched out a set of rules for extracting what he called a visual signature from a two-dimensional intensity array and for trying to match it against a collection of stored signatures within a set of tolerances and a tight time frame. She was already imagining data structures and relations among them as he wound down.

"So how long do you think it would take you to design and code an approach to that?"

She thought hard for about a minute.

"I'd like to play with it for a little bit. Can you wait for it until tomorrow?"

He leaned forward to peer into her eyes again.

"Yeah, I can wait till tomorrow. Let me show you your cube."

He rose and led her to a vacant cubicle. It was equipped with the unvarying sheet steel furniture. A personal computer of familiar appearance sat on the desk. Otherwise, it was empty.

"Home Sweet Home." He waved in mock affection.

"Thanks, I've got one already."

He laughed. "It's not really so bad. At least we each have our own machines. Oh, by the way, this is a casual office. You don't have to dress up or make up that way every day. Relax and try to enjoy yourself."

"Thanks, Rolf, but I'm comfy this way. It doesn't bother you, does it?"

He stepped back a pace and looked her up and down.

"Whatever floats your boat, Chris. I've had to work next to women with spiked purple hair and pins through their noses. Men, too, come to think of it. You won't hear any complaints from me."

He's okay.

"Rolf, could I ask a favor?"

"Certainly."

"Could you stop by at five and help me find the exit? I sort of misplaced it while I was being walked around."

He chuckled. "No problem. What about the ladies' room?"

She gave him her best smile.

***

Louis was at the front gate in her car when Svenson dropped her off there at five. The dog was lying across the back seat, occupying all of it.

"How was your day?"

She seated herself in the passenger seat, faced straight forward and put her purse in her lap. "Better hurry home."

"What? Why, Chris?" He whipped the Chrysler through a U-turn and began to accelerate rapidly.

She turned slowly toward him and let her smile spread across her face.

"Because we've been apart for nine hours, which felt a hell of a lot more like nine years, and what I want to do to you just now is probably illegal out here in the open. Might upset the dog, too."

Louis pulled off the accelerator and laughed. The dog leaned forward and flicked his tongue at the side of Louis's face.

"His name is Boomer, Chris. He's a Newf."

"A what?"

"A Newf. Short for Newfoundland. Best damn dogs in the world. Smart, loyal, affectionate, and not a mean bone in their bodies. I saw a Newf pull a drowning swimmer out of the Hudson River once. Wasn't his master, either. Guy was a total stranger."

There was a funny rasp in his voice. She looked a little more closely at his face. He was flushed from the collar line to the top of his ears.

Well, how often do you have a day like this one? He's probably as excited about it as I am. He sure sounds it.

She turned to examine the dog. His skull was broad and his muzzle short, like a bear's head. His coat was glossy and appeared to have been recently brushed. He seemed to be smiling at her. He was drooling all over the back seat.

I hope that stuff cleans up.

"So he's ours now?"

Louis nodded. "Since eight this morning. I took him to the vet. He's got a bruised right thigh, but otherwise he's in top condition. Three years old, a hundred and forty pounds. Comes of good stock, too. You should spend a lot of time with him, let him get to know you."

He turned the car onto Alexander Avenue. She reached back to rub Boomer's head. The dog stretched to meet her hand and basked openly in the attention.

Louis Redmond, rescuer of strays. Arf, arf.

"Do you know how to take care of a dog, Louis? Because I sure don't."

"Fear not, fair maiden. There's this marvelous invention called 'the book.' " There was that rasp again, accompanied by a tremor this time. Was he shaking? "I picked up a couple for you this afternoon. But Newfs are tolerant dogs. You have to go way wrong before they even notice it."

Boomer was licking her hand. The sensation was ticklish and endearing.

"Okay."

"Want to hear something funny, Chris?" If you ignored the rasp, the flush, and the tremor that she saw running up both his arms, he appeared radiantly happy and at ease with the world. "You asked me this morning what I was going to do while you were at work, remember?"

"Yeah."

"I was going to go down to the county pound and adopt a dog. The biggest one they had."

His voice was beginning to fade in and out, as if he couldn't tell how loudly he was speaking. She began to wonder whether he'd caught a bug.

"That asshole saved you a trip."

"He surely did. I guess my luck is in."

The Chrysler lurched into their driveway. Louis threw open the door, bounded out of the car, and collapsed.

Boomer shrieked and began to pummel the window.

====

Chapter
26

Louis woke to darkness. The blinds and curtains had been pulled closed over both his bedroom's windows. Christine lay beside him. They were both clothed, and covered by a single light blanket. She was clutching him hard enough to leave bruises. He tried not to move.

"Chris? What time is it?"

She rose onto an elbow. He saw only the outline of her head, and was grateful for it.

"Thank God." She emitted a shaky sigh. "It's a little before eleven."

"AM or PM?"

"PM. Louis, what happened?"

Choose your words carefully, chum. She's sharp.

"I don't remember clearly. Mostly just that I had a spasm of some sort. Did you get me in here by yourself?"

"Well, of course. You're not that heavy."

"No, but a limp body's a lot for one person to handle." He tried to sit up. She pressed him back.

"Let me up, Chris, I have to pee."

"Helen and the Father are downstairs."

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she called in the cavalry!

"How long have they been here?"

"I called them as soon as I had you inside. I didn't know what else to do."

"It's okay, Chris. Where's Boomer?"

She pointed toward the foot of the bed. Louis followed her finger to the outline of a large black canine head. He chuckled.

"Hard to see him in the dark."

"He wouldn't leave your side. They drool a lot, don't they?"

"Yes, they do. Why?"

"You came close to drowning in it."

He chuckled again. "No wonder I feel like I've had my face polished."
This could be a problem in the making.
"Chris, my wetting the bed isn't going to improve things. And we should go downstairs and see to our guests."

"Louis, why wouldn't the Father let me call an ambulance for you?"

"Because he's known me a long time. I've had some odd occasions before. Nothing ever came of them."

He was treading on the edge of fiction, but he had no better choice.

She allowed him to rise. He patted Boomer's head, then made straight for the bathroom. After he'd relieved himself, he stared into the mirror, examining his face.

For more than a month he'd been fighting down random tics and twitches, mostly in his legs. Recently they'd started to battle him for the control of his arms. They had escalated in intensity, slowly, but without reversal. Several times a day for the past week, he'd found a limb or a digit doing something other than what he'd intended.

This spasm had been nothing he could override or abate. It had felt like a massive blast of electric current, shooting from the base of his spine directly into his brain. The memories of his postoperative pain were pale in comparison. He remembered falling, but not striking the ground.

Miles told me it would be like this when my time was up. I can't have more than a few days left.

Another jolt like that could be it for me. It could stop my heart or my breathing for good. I must have tumors the whole length of my spine by now. At least my face hasn't been affected much yet.

Am I ever going to tell her? There's not a lot of time left to decide.

When he tried to imagine breaking the news to Christine, his thought processes stopped dead.

Whatever I do, I'm going to die. And if I can't tell her that I'm going to die, how can I actually go ahead and do it?

The face in the mirror showed some strain. Both his eyes were tinged with red. Under each was a new pocket of slightly saggy skin. If he watched long enough he could see the skin dance in tiny random currents. Now and then one of those currents ran a little distance down his cheek. The muscles along his jawline were tight, too tight. He tried to relax them, but with little success.

Stare into it as he might, that face had no answers for him.

***

Helen and Father Schliemann rose from the sofa when Christine's footsteps sounded on the stairs. The young woman's face was expressionless.

"He's awake. Seems to be okay."

"Did he say anything, sweetie?" Helen said.

Christine shook her head. "Something like 'shit happens.' "

Helen caught Father Schliemann's wince out of the corner of her eye.

"Well, yes, it does, but it happens for a reason." She turned to the priest standing beside her. "Do you know anything about this, Father?"

The old priest grimaced. "I couldn't begin to explain it, dear. He seems perfectly healthy."

Which means nothing.

"Will he be coming down to join us?"

Christine nodded. "Give him a minute to get presentable. You know, put on a flannel shirt he hasn't slept in."