Part 41 (1/2)
”He's selling the stock because he was disgusted that you and Wallaby are in a deal together,” Byron said. ”He predicts that you're going to buy them in less than a year, and he doesn't want any of his money going to that. Nothing personal, Billy. It's Locke he's angry with.”
Touche, William thought, ironically pleased that Jones's speculation was right on target. He dabbed his forehead with a fresh tissue. ”Byron, I'd like to make a proposition.”
”Shoot.”
”I'd like to have a look at what you are working on. When you are ready, of course.”
”Hmm. I like that idea, Billy, but I don't know if Petey would feel the same way.”
”Byron, listen to me,” William plunged on, pulling out all stops.
”The Wallaby announcement is meant as a temporary solution. We want to come out with our own system that will do everything the Joey can, but more.”
”Billy, you don't sound so good. Are you all right?”
”No, Byron. I'm not. I'm asking you for a favor, from one old friend to another. Let me have a look at what you're working on.”
”Well, since you put it that way, let me see what I can do. I think I can get Petey to agree to let you have a peek.”
”When?”
”That I don't know. A little while. He needs some time to himself to take care of some personal business.”
”Fair enough,” William said, and said good-bye.
He glanced out the window at the World Trade Center. This may be the best way, he reasoned. After all, the portable system stationed before him had been invented by Jones. And even if his plan to acquire Wallaby had worked, wouldn't he have been plagued with worry over Jones's next step?
Perhaps this time, he pondered as he gazed out the window, he would get the strategic ally he had been after all along. Peter Jones.
Peter stared absently at the clock mounted high on the yellow cinderblock wall. Following the second hand's ride around the dial, he mused at how as a boy he used to watch the clock in school, the thin red line sliding silently past the bold black numerals, inching painfully closer with each agonizing second toward the end of the school day. Would this baby ever have the opportunity to watch the second hand sweep the dial in a schoolroom?
He had been sitting at Stanford Hospital for hours. His neck and back were sore from sleeping on the hard plastic furniture, and now, staring at the clock once more, he willed the thin red line to go slower, for each precious second offered more hope, life, for this unborn baby.
His baby.
At first Peter had not wanted to believe the doctor, insisting that there had been a mistake, a mix-up, that he was just a friend of Ivy's, and it couldn't possibly be his baby. But the doctor relayed to Peter, from Ivy, that she had been with no one else in more than a year before Peter, and no one after. The doctor offered to conduct a simple blood test that would settle the matter, but Peter decided against it.
He knew Ivy was telling the truth. It was his baby, and he prayed that it not be delivered. Not just yet. It needed more time.
Dr. Chen, the resident physician caring for Ivy, said the chances of survival for the twenty-eight-week infant were roughly ninety to ninety-five percent.
Peter could not believe this was happening to him. It was not something he asked for or wanted. Not like this, anyway. He had a.s.sumed (hadn't he?) that she had used some sort of protection.
In the past, he and Kate had never worried about birth-control.
With Kate it was neither an issue or a possibility.
He thought back to their night together, her desperation. He also recalled the indications of her drug usage. The doctor warned him that she was very weak, and had admitted to taking drugs during the pregnancy. The birth would be difficult and extremely dangerous for her, considering her overall poor health. Presently the physician was attempting to prevent the premature birth by administering medication that could r.e.t.a.r.d labor, to allow the baby its final eight weeks of development in the womb.