Chen puffed. “Dead on the scene. His wife is alive, but just barely.”
“Any kids?”
“No.” Chen glanced down at the sheet. “But Karen Wilner is five months pregnant.”
Ahead, the nurse with the crash cart disappeared behind a drawn curtain. Chen followed, Lash at his heels.
The space beyond was so crowded that at first Lash could not see the bed. Somewhere, an EKG was bleating out a dangerously fast pulse. There was a torrent of voices, talking over each other, calm but urgent.
“Heartbeat’s at 120, out of sinus tach,” a woman said.
“Systolic’s at 70.”
An alarm sounded abruptly, adding its drone to the babel.
“Hang more plasma!” This voice was louder, more insistent.
Lash slipped along behind the blue-garbed figures, back against the curtain, working toward the head of the bed. As he squeezed into position between two racks of diagnostic equipment, Karen Wilner finally became visible.
She was like alabaster, so pale Lash could see an incredible tracery of starved veins around her neck, across her breasts, down the sweep of her arms. Her blouse and bra had been cut away, and her torso swabbed clean, but she was still wearing a skirt and it was here the whiteness ended. The fabric was soaked through with blood. Twin IVs, turned wide open, were notched into her inner elbows: one of plasma, the other of saline. Below these, tourniquets were placed around her forearms, and doctors were at work, trying to suture the ruined veins.
“We’ve got vasospasm,” said a nurse, one hand to the patient’s forehead. Karen Wilner’s eyes remained closed, and she did not respond to the pressure of the nurse’s hand.
Lash slipped in closer, knelt down beside the motionless face.
“Ms. Wilner,” he murmured. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“What are you doing?” the nurse demanded. “Who is this guy?”
The bleat of the EKG machine had slowed to a lazy, irregular rhythm. “Bradycardia!” a voice called. “Pressure’s down to 45 over 20.”
Lash drew closer. “Karen,” he said, more urgently. “I need to know why.
Please
.”
“Christopher, move away,” Dr. Chen warned from the far side of the bed.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open; closed; opened again. They were dry and even paler than her skin.
“Karen,” Lash repeated, placing a hand on her shoulder. It felt like marble.
“Make it stop,” she said, the words more breath than voice.
“Make what stop?” Lash said.
“That sound,” the woman replied, almost inaudibly. “That sound in my head.”
Her eyes slipped closed again, and her head lolled to one side.
“We’re losing her!” a nurse cried.
“What sound?” Lash said, bending closer. “Karen,
what sound
?”
He felt a hand land on his shoulder, pull him back. “Away from the bed, mister,” said an orderly. His eyes glittered black above the white gauze of his mask.
Lash retreated between the racks of equipment. The EKG was now droning a high, incessant note. The nurse scrambled forward with the crash cart.
“Charged?” asked Dr. Chen as he took the paddles.
“One hundred joules.”
“Back!” called Chen.
Lash watched Karen Wilner’s body stiffen as electricity coursed through it. The driplines hanging from the IV racks whipsawed violently back and forth.
“Again!” Chen cried, paddles raised in the air. For a moment, his gaze met Lash’s own. Brief as it was, the glance said everything.
With one final, searching look at Karen Wilner, Lash turned and left the emergency bay.
TEN
T his time, when Edwin Mauchly ushered Lash into the Eden boardroom, the table was full. Lash recognized some of the faces: Harold Perrin, ex-chairman of the Federal Reserve Board; Caroline Long of the Long Foundation. Others were unfamiliar. But it was clear the entire board of Eden Incorporated was assembled before him. The only person missing was the company’s reclusive founder, Richard Silver: although the man had rarely been photographed in recent years, it
“Any kids?”
“No.” Chen glanced down at the sheet. “But Karen Wilner is five months pregnant.”
Ahead, the nurse with the crash cart disappeared behind a drawn curtain. Chen followed, Lash at his heels.
The space beyond was so crowded that at first Lash could not see the bed. Somewhere, an EKG was bleating out a dangerously fast pulse. There was a torrent of voices, talking over each other, calm but urgent.
“Heartbeat’s at 120, out of sinus tach,” a woman said.
“Systolic’s at 70.”
An alarm sounded abruptly, adding its drone to the babel.
“Hang more plasma!” This voice was louder, more insistent.
Lash slipped along behind the blue-garbed figures, back against the curtain, working toward the head of the bed. As he squeezed into position between two racks of diagnostic equipment, Karen Wilner finally became visible.
She was like alabaster, so pale Lash could see an incredible tracery of starved veins around her neck, across her breasts, down the sweep of her arms. Her blouse and bra had been cut away, and her torso swabbed clean, but she was still wearing a skirt and it was here the whiteness ended. The fabric was soaked through with blood. Twin IVs, turned wide open, were notched into her inner elbows: one of plasma, the other of saline. Below these, tourniquets were placed around her forearms, and doctors were at work, trying to suture the ruined veins.
“We’ve got vasospasm,” said a nurse, one hand to the patient’s forehead. Karen Wilner’s eyes remained closed, and she did not respond to the pressure of the nurse’s hand.
Lash slipped in closer, knelt down beside the motionless face.
“Ms. Wilner,” he murmured. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“What are you doing?” the nurse demanded. “Who is this guy?”
The bleat of the EKG machine had slowed to a lazy, irregular rhythm. “Bradycardia!” a voice called. “Pressure’s down to 45 over 20.”
Lash drew closer. “Karen,” he said, more urgently. “I need to know why.
Please
.”
“Christopher, move away,” Dr. Chen warned from the far side of the bed.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open; closed; opened again. They were dry and even paler than her skin.
“Karen,” Lash repeated, placing a hand on her shoulder. It felt like marble.
“Make it stop,” she said, the words more breath than voice.
“Make what stop?” Lash said.
“That sound,” the woman replied, almost inaudibly. “That sound in my head.”
Her eyes slipped closed again, and her head lolled to one side.
“We’re losing her!” a nurse cried.
“What sound?” Lash said, bending closer. “Karen,
what sound
?”
He felt a hand land on his shoulder, pull him back. “Away from the bed, mister,” said an orderly. His eyes glittered black above the white gauze of his mask.
Lash retreated between the racks of equipment. The EKG was now droning a high, incessant note. The nurse scrambled forward with the crash cart.
“Charged?” asked Dr. Chen as he took the paddles.
“One hundred joules.”
“Back!” called Chen.
Lash watched Karen Wilner’s body stiffen as electricity coursed through it. The driplines hanging from the IV racks whipsawed violently back and forth.
“Again!” Chen cried, paddles raised in the air. For a moment, his gaze met Lash’s own. Brief as it was, the glance said everything.
With one final, searching look at Karen Wilner, Lash turned and left the emergency bay.
TEN
T his time, when Edwin Mauchly ushered Lash into the Eden boardroom, the table was full. Lash recognized some of the faces: Harold Perrin, ex-chairman of the Federal Reserve Board; Caroline Long of the Long Foundation. Others were unfamiliar. But it was clear the entire board of Eden Incorporated was assembled before him. The only person missing was the company’s reclusive founder, Richard Silver: although the man had rarely been photographed in recent years, it
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