Part 9 (1/2)

Quinton's lips fell into a mocking half-grin. ”Well, yes. We've had complications with your husband's case. If you'll come with me.”

He ushered Molly into a cube of white-washed walls with a simple table in the middle. She'd been wringing her hands since the fountain, and only now, having sat down, did she tuck them in her lap. ”Where's my husband?”

”In a minute.” Quinton sat opposite her. ”As I said, we've had a problem.”

Molly blinked. ”Where's my husband?”

”Your husband canceled catastrophic recovery six months ago.”

Molly caught herself against the table edge. ”No...no...” Six months ago, she thought, we planned our trip...

”We see this all the time...CR is expensive. We start a regeneration immediately, timing being important to save the brain.” Quinton tapped his temple. ”The problem is...well, regeneration stops when such errors are found. The process is entirely automated. No insurance...well.”

Molly's face bleached as white as the room. ”Where is my husband?”

”The brain is intact, I a.s.sure you...but...”

”But?”

Quinton sighed. ”This is never easy. Here.” He held a small remote control toward one wall. The wall slid into the ceiling, revealing a gla.s.s pane and a parallel room on the opposite side, only the other room didn't contain a table and chairs. On the floor, something human but half-formed, a limbless torso, squirmed. Molly's first thought was of a great, hideous worm, but then the thing's head flashed to the open wall, showing a face the color of raw chicken. Roger's blue eyes blinked.

Molly stood, covering her mouth. ”Oh G.o.d...”

Quinton stepped next to Molly. ”Like I said, the brain is still intact. But-”

”You have to fix him. Use the accidental death money...or the pension...from the company.”

Quinton shuffled his feet slightly. ”We can't do that. The regeneration process, once arrested, cannot be restarted. His body-what's left of it-wouldn't survive the strain. There would be irreparable brain damage, not to mention the tissue.”

Inside the other room, the thing writhed and flopped toward them.

”Oh G.o.d, Roger.” Molly touched the gla.s.s.

”He can't see you, ma'am. It's a two way mirror.”

She nodded, wiping her damp cheeks.

”Legally, we don't have to inform the spouse. He's officially dead.” Quinton held up the remote. ”If there's no next of kin, we simply neutralize. We like to give spouses the option...only if you want to. It tends to help with closure.”

”Option?” Molly shuddered. ”There has to be another...what about prosthetics? Can't he speak?”

”His neuromuscular structure isn't sufficiently regenerated to support any prosthesis. He doesn't even have vocal chords at this stage. I'm not sure how he-it worked its way across the floor.” Quinton stepped to the table, laid down the remote, and moved to the door. ”Look, when you're ready, the blue b.u.t.ton.” He opened the door. ”The process is completely painless. If you don't feel like you want to...well that's fine, too. Just let the front desk know.”

”You can't do this to Roger!”

Quinton paused at the door. ”Roger no longer exists. He died this afternoon, crushed in one of the die-presses at his job. That thing has no legal rights. I'm sorry.”

Molly slumped to the floor. She pressed her palm against the cool gla.s.s, watching as the thing on the other side opened and shut the hole where its mouth should have been. Its blue eyes fluttered against the gla.s.s wall.

”Oh,” Quinton held the door open. ”Make sure stop by the receptionist's desk, either way. There'll be a few papers to sign.”

Chapter 44: Consultation.

The thing stoops as it lumbers through my door. The eyes blink, shades drawn over milky cue b.a.l.l.s.

It grunts.

Trudging toward me, it allows both hands-if you could even call the gnarled, wicked ma.s.s of flesh at the end of its arms hands-to drag the floor. The knuckles sc.r.a.pe the carpet, shhhhhk, leaving an oily trail. Blood? Something else?

Me: choking on my heart. My hands sweat.

The mouth opens, revealing rows of teeth like broken chalk, only green. It lifts its body onto a desk, hand/claws on the bottom, clacking against wood with yellow nails.

It grumbles. Kind of sounds like ”How's my kid doing?”

Chapter 45: Different Strings.

We found the other bas.e.m.e.nt during a summer rainstorm while visiting Grandma J. Neither of us could p.r.o.nounce Grandma's real name, her Polish name. We knew the 'j' made a 'y' sound. We knew she lived in a creepy house. We knew her backyard spanned three acres, an old corner lot on which Grandpa J, dead for ten years then, operated a service station. The station was gone, leaving a concrete slab. Weeds and unruly trees had conquered the three acres, knotting them in a mess of organic chaos.

Usually, we ran through the neighborhood with boys and girls who lived near Grandma, playing football or baseball in the quiet streets. Cloistered by the rain, Mother suggested we go to the attic and look for toys, some of the things she enjoyed as a child. Grandma's attic wasn't a pure attic, but an unfinished section of the second floor reached through a small door in the wall of one bedroom. Dust covered everything. Cobwebs threatened, but, in addition to a shared fear of spiders and birthday, Alice and I were curious. Curiosity trumped arachnophobia, especially for ten-year-olds. Grandma's attic held treasures. The centerpiece was the cedar chest.

We'd never opened the chest-a long, coffin-shaped box of polished cedar, but Alice pried back the lid that afternoon. We found Grandma's linens inside, yellowed to a dirty ivory over time.

Alice swept a tablecloth around her shoulders, and swooshed through the room. ”Look, I'm the attic ghost,” she said.

I pulled out the rest-napkins, more tablecloths, curtains-and found the door with a metal ring set at one end.

”What's this?”

”Huh?” Alice peered over my shoulder. ”A door. A trapdoor. Maybe it's a secret pa.s.sage.”

”There are no secret pa.s.sages.” I tugged the cold handle, and the door groaned open. A stairwell led down.

”See, dummy.”