A tent had been set up, and from it protruded a radio antenna. Michael was flattered. They’d gone to a hell of a lot of effort for him, not to mention risking their lives.
“I tried to get him to come, damn it!” Bauman suddenly walked out of the tent. “I think he went crazy! How was I to know he was about to snap?”
“You should have made him come! God only knows what they’ll do to him now!” A second figure stalked out, following Bauman. Michael knew that voice, and when he sniffed the air he caught her fragrance: cinnamon and leather. Chesna wore a black jumpsuit, a holster and pistol around her waist, her blond hair hidden beneath a black cap and her face daubed with charcoal. “All this work, and he’s still in there! And instead of him, you bring this thing!” She motioned angrily at Lazaris, who emerged from the tent placidly chewing on a biscuit. “My God, what are we going to do?”
A wolf could smile, in its own way.
Two minutes later a sentry heard a twig snap. He froze, questing for movement in the dark. Was there someone standing by that pine tree, or not? He lifted his rifle. “Halt. Who’s there?”
“A friend,” Michael said. He dropped the twig he’d just broken and came out with his hands upraised. The sight of a naked, bruised man emerging from the forest made the sentry shout, “Hey! Someone come over here! Hurry!”
“What’s all that damned noise!” Chesna said as she, Bauman, and a couple of others rushed to the sentry’s assistance. Flashlights were turned on, and they caught Michael Gallatin in their crossfire.
Chesna stopped abruptly, the breath shocked out of her.
Bauman whispered, “How the hell…”
“No time for formalities.” Michael’s voice was raspy and weak. The change, and the eight-mile run, had tapped the last of his reserves. Already the figures around him were blurring in and out of focus. He could let himself go now. He was free. “I’m… about to pass out,” he said. “I hope… someone will… catch me?” His knees buckled.
Chesna did.
TEN – Destiny
1
His first impression upon awakening was of green and golden light: the sun, shining through dense foliage. He thought of the forest of his youth, the kingdom of Wiktor and the family. But that was long ago, and Michael Gallatin lay not on a pallet of hay but on a bed of white linen. The ceiling above him was white, the walls pale green. He heard the song of robins and turned his head toward a window on his right. He could see a network of interlocking tree branches and slices of blue sky between them.
His mind, even with all the beauty, found the emaciated corpses in the mass grave. That was the kind of thing that, once viewed, opened your eyes forever to the reality of human evil. He wanted to weep, to cleanse himself of that sight, but his eyes wouldn’t let the tears go. Why weep when the tortures were already done? No, the time for tears had passed. It was time now for cold reflection, and a gathering of strength.
His body hurt like hell. Even his brain felt bruised. He lifted up the sheet and saw he was still naked. His flesh resembled a patchwork quilt, rendered in shades of black and blue. His wounded thigh had been stitched up and painted with iodine. Various other cuts and punctures on his body-including the stab wounds inflicted by Blok’s dinner fork-had been treated with disinfectant. The kennel filth had been scrubbed off him, and Michael figured that whoever had done the job was deserving of a medal. He touched his hair and found that it had been washed, too; his scalp stung, probably from an astringent lice-killing shampoo. His beard had been shaved off, but there was a fresh rough stubble on his face that made him wonder how long he’d lain in an exhausted slumber.
One thing he knew for certain: he was famished. He could see the slats of his ribs, and his arms and legs had gotten thin, the muscles wasted. On a small table beside his bed there was a silver bell. Michael picked it up and rang it to see what would happen.
In less than ten seconds the door flew open. Chesna van Dorne came in, her face radiant and scrubbed of its commando charcoal, her tawny eyes bright, and her hair in golden curls around her shoulders. She was a beautiful vision, Michael thought. He was hardly distracted by her shapeless gray jumpsuit and the Walther pistol in its holster around her waist. Following behind her was a gray-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in dark blue trousers and a white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. He carried a black medical bag, which he set on the table beside the bed and unsnapped.
“How are you feeling?” Chesna asked, standing by the door. Her expression was one of businesslike concern.
“Alive. Barely.” His voice was a husky whisper. Speaking was an effort. He tried to sit up, but the man-obviously a doctor-pressed his hand against his chest and eased him back down, which was about as difficult as restraining a sickly child.
“This is Dr. Stronberg,” Chesna explained. “He’s been taking care of you.”
“And testing the limits of medical science at the same time, I might add.” Stronberg had a voice like gravel in a cement mixer. He sat on the edge of the bed, produced a stethoscope from his bag, and listened to the patient’s heartbeat. “Breathe deeply.” Michael did. “Again. Once more. Now hold your breath. Let it out slowly.” He grunted and took the instrument’s ear cups out. “You’re wheezing a bit. Low-grade infection in the lungs, I think.” A thermometer slid under Michael’s tongue. “You’re fortunate you keep yourself in such good condition. Otherwise twelve days in Falkenhausen on bread and water might have left you with much worse than exhaustion and congested lungs.”
“Twelve days?” Michael said, and reached for the thermometer.
Stronberg grasped his wrist and pushed it aside. “Leave that alone. Yes, twelve days. Of course you have other ailments as welclass="underline" a mild case of shock, a broken nose, a severely bruised shoulder, a bruise on your back from a blow that almost ruptured your kidneys, and your thigh wound was close to contracting gangrene. Lucky for you, it was caught in time. I had to clip some tissue, though; you won’t be using that leg for a while.”
My God! Michael thought, and he shivered at the idea of losing his leg to a knife and bone saw.
“There’s been blood in your urine,” Stronberg went on, “but I don’t think your kidneys are permanently damaged. I had to insert a catheter and drain off some fluid.” He removed the thermometer and checked its reading. “Low fever,” he said. “At least you’ve cooled off since yesterday.”
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days,” Chesna said. “Dr. Stronberg wanted you to rest.”
Michael could taste bitterness in his mouth. Drugs, he thought. Antibiotic and tranquilizer, most likely. The doctor was already preparing another syringe. “No more of that,” Michael said.
“Don’t be an idiot.” Stronberg grasped his arm. “Your system’s been exposed to such filth and germs you’re fortunate you don’t have typhus, diphtheria, and bubonic plague.” He jabbed the needle in.
There wasn’t much he could do about it. “Who cleaned me?”
“I hosed you down, if that’s what you mean,” Chesna told him.
“Thank you.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t want you infecting my people.”
“They did a fine job. I’m indebted.” He remembered the smell of blood on the forest trail. “Who got hit?”
“Eisner. He took a bullet through the hand.” She frowned. “Wait a minute. How did you know anyone was hit?”