a new life with my family again. I hated lying to my
only friend, but I just didn't feel right about telling
him the truth. Maybe I thought he'd laugh and call me
a fool, or maybe I thought he'd want to come along. I
don't know. My plan was to come back and get him once
I had my money. He deserved better than this. Puck-
man, on the other hand, I told nothing, not even good
riddance. I wouldn't be coming back to his rescue.
Fuck him.
The sound of an approaching car caught my atten
tion and I looked to my right to see the white limo
headed my way. A maroon-colored van followed closely
behind it and I was surprised to see both vehicles pull
over and stop near me. The passenger door at the back
of the limousine opened and I walked around the car
ready to climb in. Drake stepped out of the car, holding
his hand out to stop me. He looked bigger than I re-
membered* meaner, and far more like the hired muscle
he really was, wearing an all-black jogging suit with
white running shoes.
"Whoa there, Mike," he growled. "Where doyou think
you're going?"
I was confused. "I'm coming with you, aren't I?"
"Not in the limo you're not. Why should you get
special treatment? Get in the van. You can ride to Dr.
Marshall's estate with the other guys."
• Other guys?
I looked back at the maroon van parked ten feet away,
but the windows were tinted dark enough I couldn't
make out anyone inside. I looked back at Drake.
"What do you mean, ride with the other guys? Other
people are selling their arms, too?"
"When did I say you were the only one?"
"I don't know? I guess I just pre—"
"Look, Mike, I don't have time to explain all this.
We're already late, so get in the van. Dr. Marshall will
explain everything when we get there, okay?"
Drake climbed back into the limo and slammed the
door. I Was about to re-open it and ask another craes-
tion, but I heard the door locks engage, putting an end
to that idea. I was still confused, but I didn't have much
choice except walk to the van and do what I was told.
It was a fairly new Dodge Caravan, and the big slid
ing rear passenger door opened just as I was reaching
for the handle. I took One last look at the Carver Street
Bridge and the hovel of a place I'd called home sitting
below, steeled my nerves then climbed into the van.
Ther6 were four other people inside; one driver and
three nervous scruffy-looking dudes sitting in the back.
The driver, a black man in a gray pinstripe suit and dark
sunglasses, was probably employed by Nathan Marshall,
which meant there would be four of us going under the
knife. Looking at the guys in the back was like looking
in the mirror: allwhite guys in their thirties dressed in
clean but obviously hand-me-down clothes. Every one
of them also had a littlebeat-up suitcase or knapsack sit
ting beside him. We all looked different of course; two
guys had beards, but we were basically the same—bums.
From just one glance I could tell they were also home
less, or, if not already Out on the street, they weren't far
from it. That made sense, though. It would have to be a
guy down on his luck to accept such an offer.
"Come on, fella," the driver told me. "Grab a seat,
the limo's already pulling away."
"Yeah, okay," I said, and since no one was sitting up
front in the passenger seat, I dropped my suitcase and
climbed up beside the driver. "Mind if I sit up here?"
"Don't mind at all. Hold onto your hat, though, 'cause
it's my ass if I lose track of the limo."
That said, he floored the pedal and we rocketed off
in pursuit of the rapidly fading limousine. He cranked
on the stereo and really loud jazz blasted out of the
speakers. The music was good, but way too loud for my
tastes. Conversation would be almost impossible, but
then again, that was probably a good thing and maybe
the sole reason for it. The driver leaned over and prac
tically had to scream in my ear.
half hour drive ahead of us."
He gave me a little wink and then turned his full atten
tion back on the road. Those were the only words I would
hear for the entire trip, which only ended up taking two
hours and fifty minutes according to the digital clock on
the dash. God knows where we were. Somewhere south
of Buffalo I guess* probably close to the southern border
of Western New York. I'd seen a sign saying we were near
Allegheny State Park and some small town named Mill-
haven, wherever that was. When the driver finally turned
down the music to inform us we were almost "home," as
he put it, I let out a nervous sigh of relief and stretched
my legs and back like an awakening cat.
Sure enough, within minutes the big white limo
pulled off onto a paved road marked PRIVATE and through
the trees in the distance I could just make out a huge
redbrick building. The road twisted and turned through
the trees for perhaps a mile until breaking dear of the
forest and: giving me my first good look at Nathan Mar
shall's estate.
I was disappointed, to tell the truth. It was a dirty
four-story rectangular building with what looked like a
tower room on the front left corner, A U.S. flag flew on
the peak of the tower, looking a bit tattered, like it hadn't
been lowered in twenty years. The rest of the building
was in disrepair also, looking more like a crumbling me
dieval castle than any state-of-the-art medical research
center I'd ever seen. Mind you, I'd never seen a state-of-
the-art medical research center so what did I know? I'm
not sure what I'd been expecting, but this ugly build
ing, this architectural monstrosity, sure wasn't it.
"Not very pretty, is it?" I said to the driver.
"You got that right, buddy, but don't let it fool you.
Doc Marshall is a hell of a surgeon and this place is
equipped with nothing but the best. You've heard that
expression, you ean't judge a book by its cover? Well,
that fits this place. You'll see."
The linvx pulled up to the huge double front doors
and we stopped behind it. .
"Everybody out," the driver said. "Oh, you two in
the back just hold on a sec and I'll get your chairs." He
gave me a slap on the arm and said, "Can you give me a
hand with their wheelchairs?"
"Ah, sure, I guess."
We went to the back of the van, removed two rickety
old chairs, and helped the two bearded guys into them.
I was shocked to see that both were missing one of their
legs, although not the same one. I hadn't noticed that
"when I'd climbed into the van. I had to ask.
"Jesus, guys, don't take this the wrong way, but both
of you have already lost a leg. Don't you need both of
&n
bsp; your arms to get around?"
"Yeah," the red bearded guy missing his left leg an
swered. "What's that got to do with anything?"
"Well, everything. If you're already in a wheelchair,
how can you sell your arm? You won't be able to push
yourself around. Not very easily anyway."
I had a brief image of a frustrated one-armed/one-
legged man trying to cross a street in his wheelchair, go
ing nowhere but around and around in circles.
" Whatareya talMngabout,mister? "the brown-bearded
man said. "I'm here to sell my left leg, not my arm. Like
you said, I need my arms."
"Me too," Red Beard said. "Only I'm selling my right
leg. I don't got no use for it anyway. May as well take the
cash, right?"
Wait a minute, Mike. What's going on here?
I turned to the other man standing quietly over by the
front door. "What about you? What are you selling?"
"My left arm. That's what I thought you guys were
selling too. It doesn't matter though, as long as we all
get our money."
I guess he was right. It didn't really matter. It just
caught me off guard for a moment, that's all
"I suppose. It's just a bit of a surprise," I said. "Two arms
and two legs. I mean; I know this place looks like Fran
kenstein's castle but nobody told me we were here to sup
ply the parts for Dr, Marshall to build a body."
It was an attempted joke but looking around at each
other, this creepy place we were in, and thinking about
what I'd just said, nobody laughed—nobody at all.
Jesus H Christ!
What was I getting myself into?
PART THREE
T H E CASTLE
C H A P T E R S E V E N
Drake opened the massive door leading into the medi
cal center, and hurried the four of us inside. I helped
push Red Beard's chair, while the limo driver aided the
other wheelchair-bound man. Once we were all inside
the building and clear of the door, Drake told us to stay
put while he checked to see if they were ready for us.
The moment he walked around the corner, the Hmo
driver hurriedly said good-bye and exited through the
front door, leaving us alone.
There was n o t h i n g to do except stare at each other
and wait for Drake to come back. The hallway we were
in was made entirely of concrete;, including the floor,
with a set of stairs leading up to our left. The ceiling
towered fifteen feet above our heads and even though
sound would probably echo quite well in here, no one
said a word and it was as quiet as a tomb. So quiet, irwas
making me nervous, so I took the initiative and intro¬
duced myself.
"The name's Smith " the other nondisabled man said—
the man donating his left arm. "William Smith, but I'd
rather you call me Bill."
"Hey, imagine that, I'm a Bill too," said the brownbearded man missing his right leg. "Bill Tucker. Just so we
don't get confused, most people back home called me
Wheels, on account of this chair and all."
We all agreed W h e e l s would do just fine.
Red Beard's name was Sinclair Anderson. I think I
preferred calling him Red Beard and when I jokingly
mentioned this to him he smiled and said that was all
right with him.
"Lot's of people call me Red. You can t o o , M i k e , if
you'd like."
"Sure," I said. "We're in this crazy adventure to¬
gether, and who better to have on an adventure than a
pirate, huh? Red Beard it is."
Together, we laughed and it seemed to break the ten¬
sion a little. Everyone was uptight and nervous about
what we were getting into, but at least we were approach¬
ing it properly, with a sense of humor. It felt good to
laugh; we needed it. Soon we were kidding each other
about what we should do with all the money once this
was over. I also learned that I'd been right with my
original assumption: all four of us had been living on
the street before accepting Drake's offer.
Only for a moment did I pause to wonder how this
Dr. Marshall could possibly be willing to shell out eight
million dollars to us four misfits of society. Didn't that
sound like a little too much money to just toss away?
Maybe—
My mind started to think things through, but then
Drake reappeared and yelled at us to get a move on. I
might have continued with my train of thought but
when we followed him around the corner, what lay ahead
made me gasp out loud and forget all about any linger¬
ing doubts I may have been harboring.
The featureless concrete hallway opened up into a lav¬
ishly decorated four-story, glass-roofed atrium. A highly
polished emerald-green marble floor spread out across
the grand expanse of a room measuring seventy-five
feet aeross, and what had to be damn near sixty feet
high. To our left was a long cherrywood reception
desk, a stunning depiction of a flock of doves skillfully
hand-carved along its length. Luxurious black-leather
couches and chairs were artistically spaced out around
the room, along with several glass display cases filled
with statues, paintings, and other valuable treasures.
My eye was particularly drawn to a display of jewelencrusted swords lying on a carpet of ancient gold coins.
All the seating and displays faced the north wall,
drawing my eyes to where a massive ten-foot-high fire¬
place was cut into the colorful fieldstone wall. On ei¬
ther side of the fireplace, twin fifty-foot-high tapestries
were hung, both gloriously depicting the rising sun
majestically suspended over the tips of two godlike
outstretched hands.
I'd never been in a room quite like it. It was simply
incredible—breathtaking in its beauty compared to the
building's shabby, crumbling exterior. Earlier, I'd com¬
pared this place to a medieval castle rather than a med¬
ical center; seeing this immense fireplace and the
exquisitely woven twin tapestries only intensified my
initial impression.
What would all this extravagance cost? This doctor must
be loaded!
This room alone would have cost a fortune. Maybe
eight million for us losers wasn't as big a deal as I'd
originally thought.
Drake led us through the atrium, past the reception
desk, and into a smaller room, which at first glance I
mistook for a movie theater. There were five rows of
ten high-backed seats arranged in a semicircle sloping
down toward a large white projection screen. Beside
the screen, on the right-hand side, was a raised wooden
pulpit with an attached silver microphone available
for someone to address a crowd. This room was obvi-ously a conference room of sorts, where m e e t i n g s ,
media interviews, and video presentations could be
held.
"Everyone grab a seat," Drake barked. "Dr. Mar¬
shall will be here in a minute to go over everything
with you. If you have questions, this will be the time to
ask them. There's room for the wheelchairs at the end
of each row. You other t w o , sit anywhere you'd like."
I helped Red Beard get settled at the end of the third
row of seats, then plopped down in the same row a
couple of chairs in. Wheels rolled down the wheelchair
ramp to the first row, while Bill Smith took a seat at the
back on the far side of the aisle.
"Good enough," Drake said. He peeked out into the
atrium, smiled, waved at somebody, then walked down
the wheelchair ramp to the front of the room. "Well,
no big fanfare or anything, 'causeI'm no good at speeches,
but it's time you guys met the man responsible for
bringing you here today. It's my pleasure to introduce
you to the most brilliant man I've ever known. Treat
him right or I'll break your heads. Anyway" he ges¬
tured to the doorway, "Dr. N a t h a n Marshall."
Drake was right; he certainly wasn't much of a
speechmaker, but I suppose that introduction was as
good as any. I turned, as did everyone, just as N a t h a n
Marshall entered the room. I doubt I was the only one
surprised to see a man sitting comfortably in a blue
metal wheelchair with shiny chrome wheels, his legs
concealed beneath a thin yellow wool blanket. Taking a
quick glance at Bill, Red Beard, and W h e e l s , it was ob¬
vious none of us had known the good doctor was dis¬
abled. N o t that it really mattered—it just wasn't how I'd
pictured him in my mind.
He was just as handsome as Drake had alluded, with
thick wavy black hair crowning his thin, regal-looking
face. He had to be at least sixty years of age, but looked
remarkably younger if you didn't study him too close. It
was his eyes, I think—powerful, piercing blue eyes that
glimmered with just a hint of green. His skin was quite
pale but not from sickness; it was probably because he
spent so much time indoors.
He was casually dressed in a dark blue pullover
sweater with the sleeves bunched up around his elbows.
The yellow blanket hid his legs, but below that he was
wearing brand-new white Adidas runners. His legs ap¬
peared to be thin and somewhat wasted away, but his
upper body was very well developed. Dr. Marshall obvi¬
ously spent countless hours in the gym despite his dis¬
abilities. All eyes were on him as he slowly made his way
down to the podium.