With a weary sigh, George dragged the body into a supply closet. Once inside, he tugged hard at the blade in order to release it from the throat area. Grudgingly, the corpse surrendered the weapon with a sucking pop. George closed the blade, pocketed it, and headed down the hall toward Michael's room.
When he reached the door, George tried to peek into the room through the shade over the door window, but it was pulled closed. Slowly, George turned the knob and pushed open the door. Like Janice Matley before him, George heard Michael's deep breathing and the violins from the cassette deck. George debated his next step and then made a decision. He would turn on the lights... He wanted to see what he was doing. Heck, the old nurse was certainly not going to mind and the rest of the floor was abandoned. A little illumination might help him along his way.
Besides, what was the risk? If Silverman woke up very unlikely anyway George would be all over him before his first flinch.
George's fingers found the switch and flicked it up. The light was bright, startling, but Michael did not stir. His chest continued to rise and fall at the same steady, undisturbed pace. Nothing surprising in that. But now, as George stepped toward Michael's bed, something surprising did indeed happen.
George heard the elevator door opening.
During the elevator ride Sara had concentrated very hard on something completely inane: which would she do first, slide the memo under the lab door or look in on Michael? As the elevator doors opened, she decided to slide the memo under the lab door first. She knew that if she looked in on Michael first and then went to the lab, she would crave a second peek on her way back.
Her leg ached like a bastard as she stepped out of the elevator.
She checked her watch. Reece would be another five minutes at least.
Good. She was really happy he had visited today. She could tell that Michael was thrilled too. Reece meant a lot to him.
They shared a special bond, one that only teammates Sara froze. Her eyes widened.
Oh my God... She stared down the hall in the direction of the laboratory.
The walls looked like some kid had finger painted them with red paint.
Only the texture was too thin for paint, too dark for ketchup, too syrupy for anything but blood.
Maybe somebody dropped a blood sample on their way to the lab?
Then how do you explain the tiny fact that the blood was splashed all over the place?
Maybe whoever it was tripped and the blood sample went flying all over the place and... And nobody cleaned it up? Good try, Sara.
Her heart pounded in her chest as another thought pushed its way through the confusion and into the front of the brain:
Michael.
She spun back toward the door to Michael's room and hobbled forward.
Her knees buckled in fear when she saw the door shade was illuminated.
Why is Michael's light on? Why the hell... For a brief second the light created a silhouette against the window shade. The brief image was as clear to her as those presidential cut-outs kids did in school during President's Week.
It had been the silhouette of a man.
Her leg felt anchored to the ground, but she dragged it along like an inanimate object. When she reached the door, she grabbed the knob and pushed without hesitation. She limped in, her eyes searching.
No one.
Her mind began to whirl aimlessly. There was no one in the room except, of course, for Michael. He lay sleeping. Or was he?
Yes, his eyes were closed, but there was something very strange, something so obvious and yet so subtly horrifying that she felt her chest tighten. She could not breathe. If Michael was just sleeping, then how come his face was upside down? How come his head was lolling at a strange angle. And most important, how come he was lying half off the bed?
From behind her came a voice.
"Good night, Sara."
She turned, but Sara never got a chance to see the man's face.
Wednesday, September 25
17.
"Dad?"
Dr. John Lowell turned toward his older daughter.
"Yes, Cassandra?"
She licked her lips nervously.
"Where are you going?"
"On a business trip.
"I'll be home tonight."
"Where?"
He put down his briefcase.
"Why are you so interested?"
"Just tell me where."
"Washington."
Cassandra closed her eyes.
"You're going to meet with them again, aren't you?" "Meet with whom again?" he asked, his voice a mixture of annoyance and fear.
"What are you talking about?"
"With Reverend Sanders, for one."
Silence. Then: "I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she replied.
"I was here when you met with him three days ago. I was hiding in your closet."
His eyes widened.
"You what?"
She moved closer to him.
"It has to stop. You have to tell the truth before there's more bloodshed."
"Cassandra, you don't know what " She stepped in front of him.
"Don't let him blackmail you any longer."
His face grew tight.
"Stay out of this. I know what I'm doing."
"How much more blood are you going to spill? How many people have to die before you put this to a stop?"
"Get out of my way. You are talking nonsense."
"Dad..."
"Move!" He pushed her harder than he had intended. She fell to the floor.
"Cassandra!" He sprinted toward her.
"Honey, I'm so sorry," he began.
"I didn't mean to hurt " She sat up, her eyes burning.
"Get away from me."
He backed away, his face twisted into a look of longing and anguish.
"I have to go now, honey. Please trust me. I know what I'm doing.
When I come home tonight we'll talk about it, okay?
Just trust me. I love you."
He turned and hurried out the door. Cassandra stood. She was still unsure about what she should do. This was, after all, her father not some evil monster. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation. She should give him the benefit of the doubt.
What doubt, Cassandra? What are you so afraid of?
Nothing. She would wait until tonight. She would listen to what he had to say first before jumping to any conclusions... No.
She grabbed her purse and headed out the door. It was time to tell someone before it was too late. But not Harvey. He would never be able to look at it objectively.
It was time to tell Sara.
So hot... Michael tried to stir himself to consciousness. It was no easy task.
His eyes felt stapled shut. His mind spun in figure eights.
Something was wrapped tightly around his mouth, making it hard for him to breathe.
He heard boisterous sounds all about him. Very noisy. Cars.
Horns honking. People shouting out like hot dog vendors at a baseball game. Loud rock music. Laughter. General chatter. He tried to concentrate on the sounds, tried to sift out some meaning in them, but he found it difficult. Some people were speaking English, no question about it, but others were talking in a foreign tongue that Michael's cloudy mind could not place. It sounded Chinese or something like that only more lyrical, more pleasant to the ear.
What the hell is going on?
He wondered if he was perhaps dreaming, if he was not still asleep. But how often did he dream of sounds with no vision?
No, he was awake. His eyes were closed. He was lying on a hard wood floor, his right ear numb from leaning against it. His whole body felt sore, as though he had been lying on this floor for a week, which, he surmised, was entirely possible.
He tried to sit up, but he fell back down upon the ground twice. His hands, he realized, were handcuffed together behind his back, pinning back his shoulder blades painfully.
After another failed attempt Michael managed to work himself into a sitting position. In the background he could hear someone shouting with a heavy accent, "Supergirl! Supergjrl! Come meet Supergirl! Time of your life!" With a struggle Michael's eyes fluttered and then opened. It took him another minute or two to focus and take in his surroundings. Small room. Barren. Dirty.