Part 10 (1/2)

Kelly Wickstrom sat up on the bench of the Nautilus and groaned dramatically. ”Jesus, what a body I'll have when I get out of this place.”

”Don't change the subject,” McNeely said.

”Aw, s.h.i.+t, nothing to speak of. I had one about snow, I think.” He grabbed the chinning bar and pulled himself up.

”Oh? Skiing snow or ghouls of the white waste snow?”

”Just . . . unh . . . snow.” He dropped back down.

”Don't ask questions while I'm chinning, okay? I lose my count and end up doing extra.”

McNeely laughed. ”It couldn't hurt. You've still got a little tire there. He pointed to Wickstrom's middle.

”Tire? Bulls.h.i.+t.”

”Check the mirror.”

”Okay. Maybe bicycle tire.”

”Got to leave those smoked oysters alone, Kelly.”

”h.e.l.l, I never knew I liked smoked oysters before. They really that fattening?”

”Most sh.e.l.lfish are,” said McNeely, climbing onto the stationary bike. ”Lots of cholesterol. Choke your heart and make you h.o.r.n.y.”

”I better knock it off then. I don't need that.” Wickstrom's expression changed slightly. ”Only woman in this place is spoken for. Shame Neville's such a wacko. I wonder how she puts up with him. I mean, she seems so nice, not what you'd expect from someone who's super rich.”

”a.s.sholes come in all shapes and colors. So do saints. Not that Gabrielle Neville's a saint, but she's . . . good? Is that the word? She seems like a good woman. Kind, intelligent, not obsessed with herself like her husband.”

”I noticed that,” Wickstrom said. ”When we first got here. He was acting like a king and she was showing us where the towels were.” He laughed. ”You can always trust a woman who shows you where the towels are!” His expression softened. ”She's beautiful too.”

”That she is.”

”I think c.u.mmings has the hots for her.”

”I think you're right,” agreed McNeely. ”He's as smarmy a type as I've ever seen. If he got invited to the White House, he'd probably make a pa.s.s at the First Lady.” McNeely increased his speed on the bike until his legs were a blur.

”Jesus, George. Your legs'll get so big, you won't be able to get through doors.”

McNeely laughed and slowed the machine to a stop. ”Don't know about you, but I'm ready for a shower. I don't know why Neville didn't put a sauna in here.”

”Yeah.” Wickstrom smiled slyly. ”Cheap son of a b.i.t.c.h.”

The door to the gym opened suddenly, revealing Seth c.u.mmings. He was wearing a pair of trunks and a sleeveless T-s.h.i.+rt that seemed too small for him. There was a hint of a smile on his face as he eyed the two men. ”I didn't know there was anyone here,” he said. His voice was carefully controlled, the way some men get when they've been drinking, but McNeely smelled no liquor on c.u.mmings's breath.

”We're just leaving,” Wickstrom said. ”You'll have the place to yourself.”

”I just might at that,” c.u.mmings said. Then he looked at McNeely as though he shared a great secret with him. ”You're sure I'm not interrupting anything, Geo?” He leered.

He p.r.o.nounced the name Gee-oh, and it shook McNeely, rattled him with the knowledge that c.u.mmings knew more about him than he'd thought, and that there was no way in which c.u.mmings could have known.

McNeely was called Geo by only one person in the world. It was a lover's term that Jeff used only when he and McNeely were alone. Yet c.u.mmings had just used it as well, and accompanied it with the unspoken yet crystalline suggestion that something was going on between McNeely and Wickstrom.

McNeely glanced at Wickstrom and saw him glaring at c.u.mmings, a pink flush creeping up his cheeks. McNeely spoke quickly. ”Not interrupting a thing, Seth. I hope we didn't sweat things up for you too much.”

c.u.mmings merely smiled in a way that made McNeely want to push a fist in his face.

”Come on, Kelly,” McNeely said, moving to the door. ”Let's grab a beer.”

They were halfway down the hall to the lounge before Wickstrom's temper let him speak in a tight voice. ”What the h.e.l.l did he mean, George?”

”About what?”

”That crack about interrupting anything.”

”I think he meant to suggest that we were gay.”

Wickstrom barked a bitter laugh and shook his head. ”That guy is nuts, George. He's stone cold crazy. I bet he's great fun in his gym in the city. Probably thinks that everyone who exercises with a buddy is queer. What's wrong with him?”

”Cabin fever. Or maybe he wishes we were all gay so he could get some action.”

”Why doesn't he go pound it or something?”

McNeely laughed, then stopped as a strange look came into his eyes.

”What's wrong?” asked Wickstrom at the door to the lounge.

McNeely didn't answer right away. Then he shook his head. ”Nothing. Let's have a beer.”

But there was something, and McNeely strained to think just what it was. There had been something very different about c.u.mmings. He had seemed less furtive and more confident, but it was not his change in manner that alarmed McNeely as much as something else. A physical change perhaps.

Yes. That was it. As he sat back in the easy chair and let the ale slip down his throat, he pictured Seth c.u.mmings standing there in the gym door looking at him. But c.u.mmings hadn't been looking up at as steep an angle as he had before when talking to McNeely.

”Back in a minute,” McNeely said, and walked down the hall to the gym, where c.u.mmings was doing upright rows with free weights. ”Sorry,” McNeely said, glancing about the room. ”Thought I left my towel in here. Kelly must've picked it up. Keep pumping.” And he was back in the hall again, but not before he'd verified what he had suspected.

c.u.mmings was growing. He'd been about five feet eight when McNeely had seen him before. But now, in low gym shoes, he was standing at least five ten. And what's more, the Adidas T-s.h.i.+rt c.u.mmings was wearing was stretched across the shoulders and rode a half inch above his waist, as if it were a size too small.

It made no sense. They couldn't have been there long enough for c.u.mmings to exercise his muscles out of his clothes, and even if he had, he couldn't have grown two inches in height.

In the gym Seth c.u.mmings smiled at the door through which McNeely had just left. Geo. The name had slipped so easily into his head, along with the thought-McNeely is a f.a.ggot. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he knew, as though McNeely's mind were an open book. Even in the few seconds when McNeely had returned to the gym (Looking for a towel? Bulls.h.i.+t!), c.u.mmings had a.s.sessed his real purpose-to see how c.u.mmings had changed physically.

He looked down at his body. It was true. He was changing. He wasn't sure when he'd first noticed it himself, but it must have been only a short time after the Master spoke to him in his room.

The Master had promised him strength, and apparently it meant physical strength as well as the strength of mind and will he would need to do the Master's bidding.

To do his bidding. c.u.mmings chuckled at the phrase. It sounded so ancient, so replete with the suggestion of serfdom. He had never thought of himself as a serf of any man's. But the Master was different. In a way he was like c.u.mmings himself, a part of him that he had never known existed, something inside that sang of strength and glory and power, of honor and fame and blood.

Blood. Where had that come from? What did blood have to do with any of it?