Camden's Knife, Page 2

  Guiding her to her love seat in the family room, he held her until she relaxed with her head against his chest. For a moment he tried to imagine what it would be like if their positions were reversed, but quickly shook the thought from his mind. She looked up and touched a finger to his cheek.

  “What am I going to do?” she moaned.

  Stonetree propped her up and looked her directly in the eyes, hoping his expression wouldn’t show the pain and fear evident in hers.

  “Okay,” he began.”There is no point in the two of us panicking. First of all, we don’t know that there’s anything to panic about. Secondly, if there is...” He hesitated. What if there was something to panic about? “If there’s something to panic about,” he concluded, “well, I guess we’ll have to panic about it together, right?”

  The nonsensical nature of his remark seemed to stun her at first, but then she began to laugh uncontrollably, shaking harder than before. He decided if they had to talk about it, maybe keeping it light would help. He waited until her laughter subsided, but before he could speak again, she excused herself to use the bathroom, muttering, “This is insane” before closing the door. It was just then that his transphone began to chirp, so he reached for it atop one of the cushions behind him.

  “David? David, how was the trip?” It was his pod’s admin assistant, Debbie Reed.

  “Oh, it was great. Lots of fun. I’m really beat, though. I could use another.”

  “Did you get to the Tower of London like I told you?”

  “Like I wouldn’t do anything you recommended.”

  “Wasn’t it Paradise on Earth? Specifically, the Jewel House?”

  “Little nicer collection of gems than Macy’s carries.” He paused.”Why’re you calling? Did I run out of vacation days?”

  “Well, according to my screen you took only a couple of days in January, no days in February or March, it’s the end of this month, and you have used up a total of eight…”

  “Make that nine,” he interrupted.”I’m not coming in today. That was the deal. Remember? Remember when I was walking out last week and you told me to have a good trip and I said thank you and you said I’ll see you next Friday and I said no you won’t…”

  “And that’s why I’m calling. I’m only a messenger.”

  They were going to do it to him again. They couldn’t leave him alone on his first day back from vacation, and didn’t understand that he just didn’t care whether they needed him for something or not.

  “Debbie, do you still have my stats up? Do you see how…better yet, tell me how many more vacation days I’m entitled to this year?”

  “Counting today or not?”

  “This isn’t funny, Deb. Climb off, all right?”

  “Well, I’m sure glad you came back with such a wonderful attitude. Wouldn’t the King have you over for tea?”

  He chuckled. If there was one person in the world who could be counted on to match him attitude for attitude, it was she. Still, he wasn’t in the mood to visit Southern United Enterprises, despite the fact that he’d almost planned on being down near the Plaza anyway. He loved the city on Fridays, the beginning of spring only making it better.

  “So how many days?”

  “Uh, if you don’t take off today, it looks like you have another 12 coming, and that doesn’t count the wonderful 14 paid holidays sweet SUE gives us all. Even the peons.”

  “Let’s do this the easy way. Make it an even 11, and I’ll see you on Monday. Thanks for calling. I know you miss me. Good luck and goodbye.”

  He switched off the trans and began to count the seconds backward from 15. The phone chirped at seven.

  “No, Deb,” he said as he walked to the sink with his cold cup of coffee.”I told you, vacation. Spell it with a capital V. Tell whoever wants me that I can’t be reached. Tell them I’m having mental problems.”

  “You do have mental problems.”

  “Well, tell them they’ve gotten worse. Okay, who wants me? Is it a problem with the quarterlies? Once they’re out of Division, it’s not our problem anymore.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does Wallace want to see me?”

  “I think Mr. Walker is out of the office until Monday.”

  “Well, Wallace is the boss, and if he doesn’t…”

  He caught himself. He realized he was starting to act as if it was important, whatever it was she’d called about.

  “Time out,” he continued.”I’ll take a breather. Who needs what?”

  “Trisha Lane called down here a couple of minutes ago and said that if it was at all possible, she wanted to see you before the end of the day.”

  “And you said?”

  “And I said that you were out of town and wouldn’t be back until Monday.”

  “And she said?”

  “She asked if I’d be talking to you.”

  “And you said?”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “And…”

  “And she said it was important, that I should get in touch with you and give you the message. Click.”

  “Is Riley around? Let me talk to him. Maybe he can see what she wants.”

  “I thought of that David, but he’s out. I think he’s sick again.”

  “Great. Uh, lemme think for a minute.”

  Without being able to talk to either Riley, the assistant vice president of the Finance Division, or Wallace Walker, the vice president, he was in a difficult position. Lane was arguably the most powerful of SUE’s three group vice presidents, controlling both Pharmaceuticals and Media, and was not known to take well to real or perceived insubordination. So why aggravate someone in an influential position? Still, it was only SUE.

  “I don’t know,” he said.”I’ve got a lot of things to take care of today. . .”

  Sharon walked back into the room, looking refreshed. She’d put on a bit of makeup and pinned her hair up as she typically did when she had something she wanted to get out of the way. He thought it was a good sign, so held up his index finger to indicate he’d soon be done with the call then motioned for her to get some fresh coffee.

  “So what do you want me to do?” Debbie asked.

  “Are you in the mood to lie for me?”

  “Anything for you. I’ve got a review coming up.”

  “If Lane calls back, tell her you couldn’t get in touch with me.” He hesitated.”Did she call or did her secretary call?”

  “She did.”

  “And what did she want, exactly?”

  “To see you today.”

  “Yeah, well, if she calls back, just say you couldn’t reach me. Riley and Walker are both out, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I’ll check back later. Did the guy ever call back about the Mustang?”

  “Is his name Hendricks?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He called on Monday and said to tell you it hadn’t been sold and if you wanted to see it, you should contact him before tomorrow.”

  “Did he leave his number?”

  “I asked, but he said you had it.”

  “Oh, it’s... no, it’s somewhere in my office. Okay, maybe I’ll be in. I don’t know.” He looked over as Sharon sat down at the table.”I’ll call back later. If Lane calls again, tell her you couldn’t reach me.”

  “As ordered.”

  “Bye.”

  He turned the trans off and walked to the table, sitting down beside her. She rubbed the side of her nose methodically, as if she were giving a signal. He did the same and they both laughed. He felt better, and she seemed to be herself for the first time since they boarded the jet at Heathrow Airport.

  “You think you’ve got it, don’t you?” he began.”Is that it?”

  She looked at him blankly, then toyed with her bracelet. Maybe he was mistaken. Was it possible there was something else wrong? She frowned slightly and looked out the window.

  “What do you think?”

  “Like I said before…”r />
  “I know, David,” she interrupted as she looked back and propped her chin on her hand.”You’re not a doctor, and the company only makes treatments for the symptoms, not cures for the damn disease. Is that about right?”

  He nodded, as it was the most he could offer or at that point, anyone could offer.

  Despite the fact that CYD was a national catastrophe that one couldn’t read a newsfeed or watch a news broadcast without hearing about, he rarely thought about the affliction. He used to worry about it a great deal and thought about it every day. The last time he remembered giving it any serious consideration was 14 months before on his thirty-third birthday.

  His Tourcam was clean, and he didn’t have a hint of primary symptoms. Nevertheless, he’d avoided the typically outrageous behavior a Sixer was supposed to engage in when the milestone was reached. He’d spent the day alone, not even mentioning it to his friends. As he studied Sharon’s face, he remembered how he’d scratched his head, wondering about fate and luck.

  He could imagine what was going through her mind. She’d entered what the psychiatrists called the realization phase without harming herself, which meant she was at least on the right track. The neutral phase would follow and would last, he guessed, a good month. But then she might shift into crisis.

  Crisis phase could be more dangerous than CYD itself, especially for women. The devastating effect of possible hair loss, combined with an already existent sense of doom, pushed hundreds of thousands of victims out on the wire each year. Many made at least one suicide attempt, usually employing whatever method was in vogue at the time. Those who failed were often maimed or scarred for life.

  Sometimes self-destruction wasn’t enough. Paranoia was a common secondary symptom during crisis phase, and oftentimes cruisers would take a suspected Sixer or two with them as they exited life. If suicide wasn’t in their plans, they’d sometimes go after someone else for practice or just to unload some anger. The bodyguard business was booming. He did a quick calculation. No, he couldn’t afford one.

  He wondered if she possessed the capacity to kill either herself or someone else. If exposure to negative behavior was a factor, she certainly wasn’t lacking. Both her younger sisters, the twins, torched themselves on the lawn at their parents’ house. Her friend Janet was raped and murdered by two cruisers before they piped themselves down the block. Three months before, a young customer at the shop discovered she didn’t have enough money to purchase a dozen cookies, so she pulled a wine bottle from her shopping bag and after smashing it against the counter, frantically slashed first her wrists, then her throat.

  Sharon stood and picked up her coffee cup. She took a sip, set it down then went to the refrigerator, returning with a bottle of orange juice and positioning it at the center of the table, asking if he wanted some.

  “I’ll drink yours if you don’t,” she offered.

  “It’s been about a week, hasn’t it?” he asked.

  “I figured you suspected, and I love you for not making it an issue during vacation. I really appreciate that. OcuGlaze can do just so much, and then you’re on your own.” She laughed and shook her head.

  “It’s not an issue now.”

  She went to the cabinet and brought back a large glass, which she filled to the top. She gulped half of it, then propped her chin again and gazed at him, her eyes filled with question marks. After a moment, she said, “Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I don’t know. Anything.”

  “I guess the first thing to do is get you in for a Tourcam.”

  “Already did.”

  He winced.”When?”

  “A couple days before we left.”

  “So you didn’t get results?”

  “They told me about a week. I told them I wasn’t in a hurry.”

  “Which one did you have?”

  “The whole shot. A T-three. I figured it was worth it.”

  “They’re doing quite a job with the residual reads,” he said enthusiastically.”It might be real good.”

  “Or it might not.”

  He leaned forward.”But it might. It hasn’t been more than a few days. You might be…”

  “A B-girl?” she snapped.”Lucky me! But I guess it beats the alternatives. I doubt you’d want your friends to catch you with a skinhead!”

  He recoiled at the term. Although an entire language had grown out of the CYD crisis and was part of everyday communications, some of the slang still made him cringe.

  “Sharon, don’t.”

  “What do you mean don’t’? I’ve got to get used to it.”

  “You might only be Class C,” he began.”That’s no big deal. You take the drugs for a while, they find a cure, and it’s over.”

  “And if I’m Class A?”

  “And if you’re Class A, you take the drugs for a while, they find a cure, and it’s over.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “Sharon, we could argue about this…Jesus! This isn’t an argument! We could talk about it until hell freezes over, but it isn’t going to change anything. And it won’t change us.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Come on.”

  He stepped away from the table, motioning for her to follow. She took his hand and they walked to the family room where they sunk again into one of the love seats, not speaking for a long while.

  When they finally continued their conversation, it concerned other topics. She wanted to check on things at the shop, see if her apartment was still in one piece, pick up the mail and go to the grocery store. He told her about the call from Debbie, wondered aloud about the Mustang, and said he might go into the city in the afternoon. Everything was as normal as could be, until she got up to leave.

  “I don’t want to call them; I don’t want to know. Not yet. Can we wait until Monday?”

  “Anything can wait till Monday.” He smiled as he pulled her close.”How do you feel? Aside from pissed off.”

  “You’re so sweet.” She paused.”Pretty good. A little tired. I might have a temperature.”

  He raised a palm to her forehead.

  “You feel okay to me.”

  “No, I’ve got a temperature. I’ve been taking it. About 99, 99.5. It wasn’t too bad this morning. Almost normal.”

  “That’s a good sign. We’ll wait till Monday. Stop at the drugstore and get some 700s. Better yet, I’ve got some 900s upstairs. Want some?”

  “I guess, if you’ve got ’em.”

  “And I’ve got a couple of Bradean-4 Injectors too.”

  “Those are pretty expensive. Where’d you get them?”

  “It was after the holiday promotions in December. They had cases of them sitting around up in Marketing. A guy I know, Boonie, I’d done a favor for him, he gave me a half dozen. I showed them to you, remember?”

  “When?”

  “You remember. It was just after you and Becky took over the store. Tina and Russ came over, and we had our first annual championship Standoff! Tournament.”

  If CYD was one of the darkest points of the past few years, Standoff! was one of the brightest. The board game was timed perfectly, its appearance famously compared to The Beatles surfacing shortly after the Kennedy assassination. It was a soothing dollop of pure entertainment, an ebullient diversion that increasingly distracted the American public’s attention from the seemingly inescapable tragedy around it. And it didn’t hurt that gaming experts agreed it was probably the most perfect gambling device ever conceived. Unlike its ancestors from Liverpool, however, Standoff! was home-grown, the creation of a cantankerous attorney from Manitowoc, Wisconsin, who also happened to be called uncle by another of America’s favorite diversions, pop singing sensation Peggy Quinlan.

  “Oh, yeah!” she said, returning his smile.”Tina was incredible! She really should have entered the Nationals.”

  “And we had the champagne...”

  “While they were here, and then after…

  �
��Now you’re catching my drift.” He laughed.”Your memory’s still there.”

  “Can we do that again?” she asked.”Maybe leaving out Christina and Russell and Standoff!?”

  “Anytime you want.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No, not tonight,” he said.”You’ve got your errands to run. Maybe over the weekend. How about tomorrow?”

  “Promise?”

  “Look,” he said with a bit of excitement, “you come over tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll drive out to see this guy Hendricks about the car and come back here and have a nice quiet evening.”

  “How quiet?”

  “Quiet enough that you’ll sleep well.”

  He trotted to the den and returned with two devices and the capsules. He carried the suitcase out to a limo and after agreeing to schedule another trip for the autumn, kissed her goodbye. As he stood on the edge of the street, watching her leave, he tried to organize his thoughts. There were a number of things he could do with the rest of the day, but only a few held any interest.

  After unpacking and throwing a load of clothes into the washer, he drained what was left in the coffeepot and perched himself on one of the kitchen counters, watching the second hand of the clock above the pantry tick around its face. It was close to noon. He wandered around the condo for 15 minutes, examining the plants, writing his initials in the light film of dust on the dining room table, and wondering how much Hendricks wanted for the Mustang.

  Sitting on the coffee table was the remaining Brad. It was smaller and lighter than the Bradean-2’s, maybe three quarters the size of a pack of cigarettes, despite its doubled capacity. Peeling off the cellophane wrapper, he pressed the injection button and the ready light indicated it was fully charged, the two high-pitched beeps confirming it.

  He flicked open the front cover and peered into the four small chambers. Instead of being the dark brown they turned after 30 or 40 uses, the barrels were enamel white. Maybe, he thought, getting cool would put the day into better perspective. He pushed the injection button a few more times, watching the green light flicker on and off, listening to the unit’s invitation.