The Blood Artists
- Автор: Хоган Чак
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: William Morrow
- ISBN: 978-0-688-15622-0
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «The Blood Artists». Краткое содержание книги:
“That’s a generous way of putting it. But who needs romance when you’ve got adventure?”
“What about work?”
“A part-time job. With full-time hours. I guess I’m between careers, too. Or between unemployments. Can I ask you a question about these hormone pills?”
Dr. Freeley was placing stickers on the thin tubes of blood. “Yes?”
“Any side effects? Drowsiness, for example? I’m sleeping all the time.”
“There shouldn’t be.”
“Or my inhaler? Confusion, maybe? Paranoia?” The flicker of interest in Dr. Freeley’s eyes made Melanie retreat. “Should I worry about operating any heavy equipment?”
Dr. Freeley said, “You seem concerned.”
“Oh, no. I guess I’m just between lives.”
She held Melanie with a flat, probing gaze. “Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll get you some orange juice.”
She carried off the tray of blood tubes. As soon as the door closed, Melanie grabbed the side of the bed and rolled off. Her shoes clapped against the floor, legs wobbling as she reached out for the examining room counter and pulled herself to it. She swiped the metal basin with her finger. Her fingertip turned gray with cotton-fine dust. An unused examining room sink. No name on the office door. The different receptionist every visit. The always empty waiting room. Melanie turned and reached back for the bed, waveringly, hoisting herself back on top of it just as Dr. Freeley returned.
Melanie slurped the juice rudely. This was after sniffing it.
Dr. Freeley monitored her blood pressure until satisfied. “Two weeks, then,” she said. “For another look. A full examination this time. Then we’ll decide.”
“What if it’s some virus?” Melanie said.
Dr. Freeley looked at her closely. “Some what?”
“A virus. Causing my ovarian rust.”
“We know exactly what it is.”
There was nothing in Dr. Freeley’s face, but instead of backing off again, this time Melanie pushed forward. “I was reading about this hospital in South Carolina,” she said, “Some outbreak there that killed all the patients.”
Dr. Freeley now seemed impatient. “As I understand it, those patients were diagnosed with Waterhouse-Friderichsen syndrome. Classic acute meningococcal meningitis caused by a bacterium, not a virus. Sudden fevers, neck stiffness, dizziness, a coma within hours, kidney hemorrhaging, and then death. Do you think you have that?”
“You know a lot about viruses.”
“One has to these days.” Dr. Freeley slowly folded her arms. “We’re not heading toward another episode, are we? You trying to check yourself into a clinic, claiming phantom symptoms of some exotic disease?”
These words shamed Melanie. She was much better than that now.
“Things are happening to me,” she said quietly, all at once. “I can’t explain them.”
“What things?”
“People. Watching me. On my way to work. Different places.”
“First of all,” Dr. Freeley said. “Who?”
“I don’t know. My mail too, I think. My phone. I was jumped on my way over here.”
“You were what?”
“No, it was okay. One of the people following me around saved my life.” Then Melanie thrust out her arms for her gynecologist to see. “Pinpricks,” she said. “Small ones, other than yours. None right now, but sometimes I find them — as though I’ve been jabbed, as though...”
The look on Dr. Freeley’s face stopped Melanie.
“I’m not just being paranoid about this,” she insisted. “Honestly — it’s not like my life is so empty that I have to make things up. I mean, my life is empty, but I would never...” She trailed off. As she shook her head, chemically ruined hair shimmied around her ears. “And then, sometimes, after it happens — after I wake up — I feel as though I’ve been handled.”
“Handled?”
“Tampered with. Examined.”
Dr. Freeley watched her with a silent concern that became intimidating. Melanie was starting to feel the table beneath her, and was again aware of the music playing faintly. The blood loss; she couldn’t believe what she had been saying. She recalled the gray dust in the sinks and realized she should shut up.
She had never told anyone about having survived Plainville, and by merely considering turning loose this great secret, Melanie realized how truly desperate she was for help — and she was scared.
She talked her way out of the office somehow, not able to think clearly again until she was on the street outside the clinic and trying to figure out which way to go. She eyed the patients coming and going from the lobby, scanning for familiar faces, but soon gave that up. She watched the sky for falling pianos as she, picked her way along Harvard Avenue toward work. Ninety-eight percent of the time she was so careful. So why was it that these 2-percent screw-ups continued to define her life?
Blossom
Maryk awoke from his cascade slumber wearing yesterday’s clothes. He felt depleted. The cascade was like the digestive torpor following an unimaginably heavy meal.
He sat up on his office couch with his head in his hands. Freeley entered behind a knock. She was used to his cascades. He had only to tell her the cause.
“Pearse,” he explained. “Most of the night.”
“How bad is he?”
“Improved. But don’t look so disappointed. He’s dying all right.”
Maryk rose and crossed to his desk chair. His office was a small room on the top floor of Special Pathogens Building Fifteen. His black bag rested on a windowsill and his tablet sat alone on big desk. There was no printer. Paper was unsanitary. It was a vector and if handled improperly could break the skin and even breach some gloves.
Freeley’s auburn hair was tied back. She wore a beige blouse and cream pants and there was a quiet strength evident in her confident manner and relaxed hands as she stood between Maryk’s desk and the door.
“You’re here to update me on Lancet,” he guessed.
She began. “First, I went through the possessions we kept from his condo and did trace pulls. Nothing there. I ran a laser over all contact surfaces, such as the knobs on the front door. The outside handle was covered with Lancet’s prints, while the inside appeared to have been wiped clean. Faint prints remain on the inside door face, however, and are Lancet’s.”
Maryk stopped her there. “What do you know about fingerprints?”
“From various texts. Lancet’s fingertips had some very distinct whorls. It’s simple enough if you’ve got an argon-ion laser.”
“Of course,” he said. Nothing Freeley did could surprise him. “So if an unknown got inside the condo, they were invited in.”
“So it would appear. Still, there was no sign of any struggle, and Reilly and Boone did indicate some level of depression on Lancet’s part.”
“That’s their opinion,” Maryk said. “Go on.”
“Bathroom floor mat. One partial sneaker impression, common tread, flat and narrow, unisex brand. Size nine for men, eleven for women. Lancet was a nine, but this is a modem tread and doesn’t match any vintage pairs in his closet. I followed up with a rather unscientific weight experiment, having different people step on the same mat and then measuring their impressions. Best estimate: one hundred ten to one hundred twenty pounds. I ran it a few times to be certain. Lancet weighed one-fifty-seven.”
Maryk was feeling revived now. “What would a one-hundred-and-fifteen-pound person be doing in Lancet’s bathroom?”
“Running hot water. I found an unridged smudge consistent with a gloved palm on the faucet handle. We pulled the traps and treated them with a chemical and it came up as Lancet’s blood. This means nothing — he could have cut himself shaving months ago.”