“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
My phone began to ring. I eased Melody onto the floor and put a cushion under her head. Then I ran back to the kitchen for my phone. It had slid across the floor, under the kitchen island. I dropped onto my knees and grabbed for it.
The guy was more awake now. It must have finally hit home that there was something serious going on.
He sounded very pleased with himself.
“We have someone in Chelsea. He’s not Field Ops but he has a flask. His name is Paul Silverman. He thinks it’ll take him ten, fifteen minutes. He’s on a bicycle.”
“Tell me you mean motorbike.”
“Bicycle,” he said again.
“Jesus . . . I mean . . . just tell him to hurry, OK?”
“He’s already set off.”
I went back to Melody. Still on the phone, I gave a thumbs-up, mouthed, “Help’s coming.”
“Mr. Copeland,” said the man in the office. “We’re also obliged to call 911.”
“Well, call. Don’t ask me, I’m busy.”
“Mr. Copeland—”
I hit end call. Fifteen minutes. Would she last that long? She was breathing heavily. Her brow shone like oil. I brought the cup to her again and she said, “You’re trying to make me sick, aren’t you?”
I nodded.
“Won’t work.” She took a breath. It strained. She had been cold, icy cold, but now I felt the heat radiating off her. “Listen,” she said. “Listen . . .” I leaned closer. “He’s all through me. Everywhere. Thing you gotta do—you gotta amputate.”
“What?”
“You gotta amputate—from the neck down—”
She began to laugh and when that turned into choking she rolled on her side and I slapped her back again. She rolled back, sucking in air, gasping for it. She said my name again. I took her hand. Then I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped her brow.
I felt the heat right through the cloth. It was like the thing was cooking her, every system on overdrive.
“It hurts . . .”
“We’ll get you out of this. There’s someone coming. Help’s on the way. Special equipment. We’ll put things right. Don’t worry. Don’t . . .”
If only I’d had a pack with me. The flask, the cables . . . But you don’t expect to do a retrieval, just like that, do you? Here in New York City?
She tried to drink again. The liquid trickled down her chin, soaking her blouse front. Her lips moved, but when I leaned close, she made no sense. Random syllables, nonsense words. Glossolalia. Talking in tongues. There was a smell in the air, a taste in my throat like bad avocado.
Then her skin began to ripple.
I saw it in her face and hands, little movements, like a flickering of light. I hesitated before touching her again. Her skin was very soft, almost like velvet. It stilled where I touched it, but the movement went on all around, and continued when I took my hand away. It was like a breeze skimming across her. Her breathing was now very harsh. Her mouth was open. It sounded like the air was tearing out her throat.
I talked to her. I tried to calm her, soothe her.
I wasn’t very good at it.
Several centuries went by.
And then a buzzer sounded, and I looked up.
Someone was at the door.
Chapter 10
The Cable Guy
Paul Silverman was thirtyish, a stocky, unshaven white guy in an army shirt and jogging pants. He had two bulging plastic bags from D’Agostino’s. I hoped they weren’t both full of groceries.
He was sweating. He was red in the face. When he bent to put the bags down I could see the moisture shining in a kind of surf-mark, just under his hairline.
“I could have given you my shopping list,” I said.
I opened the bags. The first was full of cables, neatly coiled and tied. There was a console in there, too, a kind I hadn’t used since my apprentice days. In the other was the flask. Again, it was an old design—ten years, at least.
“Does this stuff work?”
He shrugged.
I said, “Got a screwdriver?”
He was dragging his bike in through the door but he paused, reached in his pocket and produced a wallet with a half a dozen little screwdrivers. The guy was prepped, at least.
“I don’t leave home without them.”
“Good. Take the plug off the TV, or anything else. Put it on this.” I showed him the power lead for the console.
Melody suddenly shuddered, gave a long, sobbing howl. Silverman stiffened. I don’t think he’d even realized she was there. “Jeez.” He went across to her. “Have you called 911? She’s hot, she needs ice, what’s wrong with her?”
“Hey,” I said. “Just fix the plug, OK?”
He looked at me, his face scrunched up, confused, scared, maybe even hostile.
I said, “Don’t touch her. Do exactly what I say. This is her only chance of getting through.”
He bit his lip, nodded quickly.
I said, “What department are you?”
“Department . . . ?”
“Registry, right?”
“What makes you think I’m Registry?”