Wild Cards VIII: One-Eyed Jacks Read online

  Finn spoke: “All 911 was sure of was some sort of wild-card activity at the Lex-Third Avenue station. And, I’m afraid, your reactions to the medics sort of spooked them. They figured they had a manifestation on their hands. Procedure in those cases is, everything comes to Blythe.”

  “You were on your way here anyway, right?” Scent chimed in.

  “Lucky me,” Cody agreed, but with a bite to her words. Scent chose not to take the hint.

  “That’s right, Major. If there was ever a right move to make, you made it. That’s luck in my book.”

  “The train, Finn.” He looked quizzically at her. “There was a transit officer,” she explained, “a woman, who helped me…”

  “Haven’t heard any reports, but there’s no reason why we should. I can run a check, though.”

  “Please, do. There was a … creature on the train. Looked like a joker, but…” She paused, shuddering at the memory. “I don’t know, I keep thinking there was a sense of something.…” Her voice trailed off and for a moment she felt lost, trying to sort images and memories that refused to stay still, conscious only of a need to run that bordered on panic.

  “Can I get out of here, please?” she asked. “And if possible, is there someplace I can tidy up before I see Dr. Tachyon?”

  “Residents have a crash pad, upstairs,” Scent said, not giving Finn a chance to answer, “where they grab some stray z’s when they’re runnin’ long shifts—I’ll take you.”

  “There really is trouble, Scent,” she told him as they rode the elevator up two flights.

  “Ain’t that the Lord’s gospel—careful,” he cautioned suddenly, but Cody was already in the process of a quick and nimble two-step over a body that looked made from limp spaghetti, spilling out of its chair and partially across the hallway. “Nice move.”

  “That touch, at least, I haven’t lost.”

  “If you’d been a guy, the NFL woulda been your fame an’ fortune.”

  There was no air-conditioning—the system had been overwhelmed by the summer’s murderous heat, Scent told her, and there simply wasn’t money in the budget for repairs—and the atmosphere was rotten. The sky outside the windows was only beginning to hint at the approaching dawn, heaven help them once the sun actually came up. New York, she knew, didn’t suffer summer gladly, and this August appeared worse than most.

  “Scent, something is out there.”

  “A lotta shit’s out there, Cody. An’ it’s all startin’ to come down—hard.”

  “Shiloh.”

  “That’s right, you were there. Yup”—he sighed—“Shiloh. Or worse. Here’s the hooch. It’s a mess, but that’s the way you docs seem to like, I guess.…”

  “When we’re young and broke and working ninety-six hours at a stretch.”

  “Break my heart. Anyway, you hungry after, I know a nice diner, coupla blocks’ walk, serves finest-kind breakfast.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Take care, Major.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. This is one I owe you.”

  Tachyon’s office, surprisingly, was nothing special, standard bureaucratic box with a view of the river and the Brooklyn waterfront. One wall of bookshelves full of medical texts, a pair of computer terminals on a table underneath littered with disks. Tachyon’s desk angled so he could look out the windows without turning his back on any visitor. It was an antique; she didn’t know enough to name the period or style, only that it was as magnificent as the small sideboard tucked into the corner behind it. The window was wide open, covered with a screen, with piles of documents stacked haphazardly on the sill. The sky was dark and a whisper of wind stirred the papers—storm signs, a nasty one, and she reacted instinctively, stepping behind the desk to shift the material to the floor below and lever the window partially closed. Made the room that much warmer, by cutting down the admittedly minimal circulation, but at least everything in it wouldn’t end up drenched. She hoped the rain would mean the end of the heat wave, but doubted it. Drought had scarred most of the country this summer, days of three-figure temperatures everywhere you went—there was talk up and down the Midwest of a return to the Depression dust bowl—and she knew firsthand what the weather had done to her beloved mountains. There’d been another report on NPR’s Morning Edition about the Yellowstone fires, memory filling her nostrils with the acrid tang of pine smoke.

  “I hope, Dr. Havero, this interview suits you as much as my office clearly does.”

  She jumped, taken by surprise, realizing that she’d sunk down into the chair behind the desk—automatically making herself at home—and cursing the fact that the door was to her right, her blind side. Began to stammer an apology, vetoed the thought, tried instead to pass the faux pas off with a shrug and a smile.

  The voice had the natural elegance of a classic noble vampire—which made her smile easier—and the man himself was everything his office was not, cut from a mold uniquely his own. She found herself looking down at him as they sidled past each other, exchanging positions. He was a head shorter. Her left hand went out in greeting—which was when her conscious mind twigged to what her unconscious had already registered, that Tachyon’s right arm ended at the wrist.

  He responded with a soft left-handed handshake, the slightest of smiles acknowledging and appreciating her courtesy.

  “A meeting I’ve been looking forward to, actually, for quite some time. Scent—I don’t know if you’re aware, but he’s the director of our Vietnam Veterans Outreach Program—has been singing your praises lo these many years.” He motioned her to take a chair. She’d seen pictures of him, of course, but on paper—and especially, the tube—it was easy to dismiss his eccentric costumes as just that, costumes, the man himself trivialized into a character from some tacky teleplay.

  “But I suspect,” he continued, “the anticipation is not quite mutual.”

  “Is it that obvious,” she replied, thinking deliberately loudly, or did you read my mind to discover it?

  In person, his appearance was no less outrageous, but far more effective. Living embodiment of an eighteenth-century aristo. Plum trousers tucked into gray suede buccaneer boots, ruffled green shirt beneath orange, double-breasted waistcoat, the effect actually enhanced by its contrast with the white hospital-issue lab coat that stood in for the burgundy frock coat hung on a corner rack.

  He motioned toward the papers she’d moved. “Much appreciated,” he told her, ignoring her inner and outer response. “It’s often far too easy to be overwhelmed by the clutter here. As you might have guessed, I am far from the most organized of souls. And good secretaries, especially in Jokertown, are damnably hard to find.”

  The pieces of his face didn’t fit together in any manner that might be considered classically handsome, yet the sum of the parts was undeniably attractive. The same description had often been applied to Cody. Though the end result in his case is, she thought, somewhat more delicate. A sling cradled his right arm, the stump swathed in fresh bandages, a recent wound. There’d been no hint of this in the letter he’d sent inviting her to New York. Wonder what I’ve missed fighting fires in the boonies? she thought. It also helped explain the fragility in his manner, she’d seen it herself too often in casualty wards. And she remembered her own reactions, coming out of anesthetic to discover her right eye gone.

  “That what you want from me?”

  “Hardly, given your résumé.” He looked quizzically at her. “Are you always this direct?”

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  A sudden shadow crossed the inside of his eyes and she knew somehow she’d slipped through his barriers, touched a memory as painful as her own. Her face flushed, with anger and resentment, and she didn’t bother masking her exultation at this small, trivial score. Who the fuck do you think you are, cock? she snarled silently, hoping he was listening. What the hell right do you, does anyone, have to pick someone else’s brain, goddammit, isn’t anything private anymore?

  “Truthfully,” he continued
, as though nothing untoward had happened, and Cody found herself admiring his damnable alien poise as much as she was infuriated by it, “I’d forgotten all about my letter in the press of recent events. I never expected an answer.”

  “Desperation has a way of overcoming even the most primal terrors.”

  “How clever. I only caught the one news broadcast. What exactly happened?”

  She shrugged. “I shot my mouth off, got my ass shot off in return.”

  “Uncomfortable.”

  “I should introduce you to my kid, he has exactly the same opinion.”

  “I’d like to meet him. I have a grandson myself.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. A true blessing, actually.” From the way he spoke, the faintest coloration to his tone, she wondered if that was as true as he obviously wanted it to be.

  “I’m glad for you.”

  “And I am still curious.”

  “Well”—she sighed—“after Chris was born, I packed in city life and headed for the high country. My folks left me their ranch—not really much as spreads go, nowhere near big enough to support itself, but heaven to live on—so I based myself there and hung out my shingle. Small-town GP, doing emergency surgery on the side. Figured there’d be the end of things. Until the fires.

  “They’re still burning. Last spring, hardly anyone knew what we were in for. Forest Service followed policy and let the lightning strikes burn uncontested. But the weather turned vicious—no rain, sun baking the woods tinder dry, winds whipping the flame front into firestorms. Alarm went out to damn near every fire-fighting outfit in the country. Indians handled the brunt of the work, about the best there are at this business.

  “You ever wonder, Doc, if your virus affects the inanimate substance of the earth itself? Some of those Indians do. You value your hide, steer well clear of Apaches and the Cheyenne. They view the world as a living being, as much so as humanity itself. They see what the wild card does to people, they wonder if it can twist—even murder—the planet the same way.”

  “That’s preposterous.” He was genuinely shocked. She barely noticed. She was in the center of a broad mountain meadow with a beaten crew—most so tired they couldn’t stand, much less run for their lives—staring in horror at a wall of flame two hundred meters away, where five minutes before there’d been a stand of magnificent timber.

  “Maybe. Fires sure seemed alive to us. Sneaky and intelligent, and vicious as a bear trap. Forest Service brought in some joker crews to handle the scutwork cleanup in the low-intensity areas. They should have been fine. Probably, in any other fire, any other summer, they would have. I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

  “How bad was it?”

  She met Tachyon’s gaze. “Backfire caught a joker team, tore ’em up pretty badly. I was running the aid station inside Yellowstone. Seven came in still alive. All critical, badly burned, but they had a chance. We bundled ’em all into a Huey and sent it to our main receiving hospital. They turned ’em away. Said they had no bed space. Bullshit, of course, we’d transferred half their patients precisely so there would be room for our casualties. But they were adamant, no admittance. Three other hospitals on our list, got the same response from each. Pilot had to bring ’em back. I was running an aid station—the whole point of our existence was to get our injured into the air and out to a proper full-care facility as fast as humanly possible. I didn’t have the staff, I didn’t have the equipment, to cope with anything more. Took ’em two days to die. For one, in the end, drugs didn’t help. He was screaming, like a baby—this high-pitched shriek, somehow he made himself heard even over the roar of the fire—I found myself once looking around for an ax or shovel, cursing myself for not having my gun handy. I wanted to smash that poor creature’s head in, just to shut him up. I lost it, totally, I think by then I was more than a little crazy myself. I found a network crew, gave ’em a live interview on morning television.”

  “I saw that. You were quite impassioned.”

  “Lot of good it did me. Hospitals had covered themselves perfectly. They hit back with loads of righteous indignation. By the time they were through, they’d made a plausible case it was my fault. All things considered, it wasn’t the best of times to take a stand for joker rights. I’d grown up there.” A softness had crept into her voice, an eerie echo of what she’d heard earlier in Tachyon’s, as though neither could still quite believe what had happened to them. “I’d made that place my home, it was where I raised my son—and five minutes on the Today show burned it up as completely as the North Fork fire did the Gallatin Range. Forest Service”—she made a face—“shipped me out on the next chopper. Got home, discovered my attending privileges at the local hospitals had been revoked. Within a week, I started losing patients. Within a month …

  “Sent out job applications, word got passed back that I’d been blackballed. I was a troublemaker, nobody wanted a thing to do with me.”

  “No one stood by you?”

  “You don’t know how afraid people are” of your damned virus, she finished silently.

  There was a twist to his eyes, a small, sad smile, a flash of pain desperately masked that told Cody he knew far more than he dared let on.

  “So,” he said softly, finally, “you’re here…” She filled in the rest: because you have no choice.

  “I’m a doctor, this is a hospital. And I need the job.”

  “I have doctors, Cody, I don’t need a doctor. I need my right arm.” He made a small gesture with it, and didn’t bother hiding the flash of pain in his eyes. There was a tentativeness now to his voice and manner that seemed to Cody like nothing so much as shame.

  “We Takisians are so proud a species. We promote an ideal, in thought and deed and self. Deformity is cast out. Yet now, as you see, I am deformed. As unworthy in flesh to hold my name and rank as I’ve proved myself so eloquently in deed. Perhaps my ultimate penance for bringing the wild card to Earth.”

  She said nothing.

  “I need someone I can trust to help me run this clinic.”

  “Why me?” she asked.

  “Mostly…” He paused a moment, and she wondered whose thoughts he was collecting, his own or hers. That was what made this so damnably infuriating—not knowing whether he was inside her head or not. And then she thought of what he might see—advertently or otherwise—hard as it was for her to deal with the nasty nooks and crannies of her psyche, how much worse for him? And she had just herself to worry about; he was privy to everyone’s secret selves. Might be a bit much, for even the most hardened voyeur. Then twisted herself back into focus, to catch what Tachyon was saying.

  “It was Scent who told me about you,” he said. “I am a proud man, Cody, but even I can’t deny anymore my need for help. Or theirs.”

  She sighed, taking refuge in the view out the window. The sky was more black than blue; the storm was about to break.

  “I don’t know,” she said finally.

  “Then why did you come?”

  “I thought…” What? she asked herself. A wayward gust filled the room, carrying a stale salt sea smell off the river, and before she was even aware she’d moved, she was on her feet, two steps toward the door, hand grabbing instinctively for the .45 tucked in the bottom of her purse.

  She couldn’t move. Stood like a dumbfounded statue, while Tachyon came out from behind his desk, violet eyes mixing shock and concern as he gently took the Colt from her hand, her purse from her shoulder. They went on the desk. Still frozen, she watched him pour a stiff cognac into a cut crystal snifter. Then, he released the mind lock.

  She didn’t fall—though she dearly wanted to—but didn’t hit him, either.

  She took a cautious sip; the cognac burned deliciously.

  “That encounter this morning must have made quite an impression,” he said quietly.

  “Seems so,” she agreed, trying to will her hands to stop shaking. “I gave as complete a description as I could to Dr. Finn.”

&
nbsp; “I saw. The joker you encountered isn’t in our files, but that’s hardly surprising.” It isn’t a joker, she screamed silently, don’t you understand?

  And said instead, as she set down the glass, “This was a mistake, Doctor, I think we both know that. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

  “Actually, I think you’re right. They’re lepers—aces as much as jokers, though too many think their powers make them somehow immune. More and more, it seems as though every hand is turning against them. People you know suddenly become total strangers, people you trust betray you—or, worse, believe you’ve betrayed them. The work we do here is as much psychological as physical; we can’t afford such ambivalence—and latent hostility—even on a member of the regular staff, much less my alter ego.”

  She started to say, “I know you’ll find someone,” but left the words silent in her throat, because she and he both knew they’d be a lie.

  She was almost out the clinic’s main foyer—painfully conscious that aside from the occasional staff member, she was the only person she saw with anything approaching a normal appearance, every so often catching a whispered curse and not-so-whispered taunt—when Scent caught up with her.

  “Sorry to see you didi mau, Major,” he said.

  “Win some, lose some, Scent. We should be used to that.”

  “This summer—after that fuckin’ convention—I feel like we’re bein’ fuckin’ overrun. Prob’ly makin’ the smart play, buggin’ out while you can.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, that ain’t why I’m here. The joker you ran into—I can’t say for sure since I can’t see to make sure, but I think they just brought it in, DOA.”

  “Where?”

  “Morgue.”

  “Can you show me?”

  No attendants in the body shop, only a single pathologist on duty, a nat, more than willing to give full vent to his anger at the city medical bureaucracy for sending him to this gulag. He knew of Cody, figured that made them kindred spirits; they both stood up to the system and got royally screwed. She figured him for a jerk, but wasn’t about to let on with him in a mood to help.