Teasing Marcie, Pete said, "Where does a little bitty thing like you put so much food? You've eaten more than the rest of us combined!"
“Oh, Grandpa.”
"It's true! You've been really shoveling it in. One more bite of that pumpkin pie, and you're going to explode."
Marcie lifted another forkful, held it up for all to see, and with great theatricality, she moved it toward her mouth.
“No, don't!” Pete said, putting his hands in front of his face as if to protect himself from the blast.
Marcie popped the morsel into her mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "See? I didn't explode."
“You will with the next bite,” Pete said. "I was just one bite too soon. You'll explode . . . or else we'll have to rush you to the hospital."
Marcie frowned. “No hospital.”
“Oh, yes,” Pete said. "You'll be all swollen up, ready to bUTSt, and we'll have to rush you to the hospital and have them deflate you."
“No hospital,” Marcie repeated adamantly.
Jorja realized that her daughter's voice had changed, that the girl was no longer participating in the game but was, instead, genuinely if inexplicably frightened. She was not scared of exploding, of course, but evidently the mere thought of a hospital had caused her to go pale.
“No hospital,” Marcie repeated, a haunted look in her eyes.
“Oh, yes,” Pete said, not yet aware of the change in the child.
Jorja tried to deflect him: “Dad, I think we-”
But Pete said, "Of course, they won't take you in an ambulance 'cause you'll be too big. We'll have to rent a truck to haul you."
The girl shook her head violently. "I won't go to a hhhospital in a million years. I won't ever let those doctors touch me .
“Honey,” Jorja said, “Grandpa's only teasing. He doesn't really-”
Unplacated, the girl said, "Those hospital people will hhurt me like they hurt me before. I won't let them hurt me again."
Mary looked at Jorja, baffled. “When was she in the hospital?”
“She wasn't,” Jorja said. “I don't know why she-”
"I was, I was, I was! They ttied me down in bed, stuck me full of rmeedles, and I was scared, and I won't ever let them touch me again."
Remembering the strange tantrum that Kara Persaghian had reported yesterday, Jorja moved swiftly to forestall a similar scene. She put one hand on Marcie's shoulder and said, “Honey, you were never-”
“I was!” The girl's anger and fear burgeoned into rage and terror. She threw her fork, and Pete ducked to avoid being hit by it.
“Marcie!” Jorja cried.
The girl slipped off her chair and backed away from the table, whitefaced. "I'm going to grow up and be my own doctor, so nobody else'll stick rmeedles in me." Words gave way to a pitiful moaning.
Jorja went after Marcie, reaching for her. “Honey, don't.”
Marcie held her hands out in front of her, as if warding off an attack, although it was not her mother that she feared. She was looking through Jorja, perhaps seeing some imaginary threat, though her terror was real. She was not merely pale but translucent, as if the very substance of her was evaporating in the tremendous heat of her terror.
“Marcie, what is it?”
The girl stumbled backward into a corner, shuddering.
Jorja gripped her daughter's defensively raised hands. "Marcie, talk to me." But even as Jorja spoke, a sudden stench of urine filled the air, and she saw a dark stain spreading from the crotch down both legs of Marcie's jeans. “Marcie!”
The girl was trying to scream, but could not. “What's happening?” Mary asked. “What's wrong?”
“I don't know,” Jorja said. “God help me, I don't know.”
With her eyes still focused on some figure or object that remained visible only to her, Marcie began a wordless keening.
New York, New York.
The tape deck still played Christmas music, and Jenny Twist lay immobile and insensate, but Jack no longer engaged in the frustrating oneway communication with which he had filled the first few hours of his visit. Now he sat in silence, and inevitably his thoughts drifted back through the years to his homecoming from Central America. . . .
Upon returning to the States, he had discovered that the rescue of the prisoners at the Institute of Brotherhood had been misrepresented, in some quarters, as a terrorist act, a mass kidnapping, a provocation meant to spark a war. He and every Ranger involved were painted as criminals in uniform, and those taken prisoner were for some reason the special focus of the opposition's anger.
In a political panic, Congress had banned all covert activities in Central America, including a pending plan to rescue the four Rangers. Their release was to be arranged strictly through diplomatic channels.
That was why they had waited in vain for rescue. Their country had abandoned them. At first Jack had trouble believing it. When at last he believed, it was the second worst shock of his life.
Having won his freedom, home again, Jack was relentlessly pursued by hostile journalists and subpoenaed to appear before a Congressional committee to testify about his involvement in the raid. He expected to have a chance to set the record straight, but he quickly discovered that they weren't interested in his viewpoint, and that the televised hearing was merely an opportunity for politicians to do some grandstanding in the infamous tradition of Joe McCarthy.
In a few months, most people had forgotten him, and when he regained the pounds he had lost in prison, they ceased to recognize him as the alleged war criminal they had seen on television. But the pain and the sense of betrayal continued to burn fiercely in him.
If being abandoned by his country was the second worst shock of his life, the worst was what had happened to Jenny while he had been stuck in that Central American prison. A thug had accosted her in the hallway of her own apartment building as she was coming home from work. He put a gun to her head, hustled her into her apartment, sodomized and raped her, clubbed her brutally with his pistol, and left her for dead.
When Jack came home at last, he found Jenny in a state institution, comatose. The level of care she had been getting was abominable.
Norman Hazzurt, the rap**t who attacked Jenny, had been tracked down through fingerprints and witnesses, but a clever defense attorney had managed to delay the trial. Undertaking an investigation of his own, Jack satisfied himself that Hazzurt, with a history of violent sex offenses, was the guilty man. He also became convinced that Hazzurt would be acquitted on a technicality.
Throughout his ordeal with the press and politicians, Jack made plans for the future. There were two primary tasks ahead of him: First, he would kill Norman Hazzurt in such a way as to avoid any suspicion falling upon himself; second, he would get enough money to move Jenny to a private sanitarium, though the only way to obtain so much cash in a hurry was to steal it. As an elite Ranger, he was trained in most weapons, explosives, martial arts, and survival techniques. His society had failed him, but it had also provided him with the knowledge and the means by which he could extract his revenge, and it had taught him how to break whatever laws stood in his way without punishment.
Norman Hazzurt died in an “accidental” gas explosion two months after Jack returned to the States. And two weeks later, Jenny's transference to a private sanitarium was financed by the proceeds from an ingenious bank robbery executed with military precision.
The murder of Hazzurt did not satisfy Jack. In fact, it depressed him. Killing in a war was different from killing in civilian life. He did not have the detachment to kill except in selfdefense.
Robbery, however, was enormously appealing. After the successful bank job, he'd been excited, exalted, exhilarated. Daring robbery had a medicinal quality. Crime gave him a reason to live. Until recently.
Now, sitting at Jenny's bedside, Jack Twist wondered what would keep him going, day after day, if not grand larceny. The only other thing he had was Jenny. However, he no longer needed to provide for her; he had already piled up more than enough money for that. So his only reason for living was to come here several times a week, look upon her serene face, hold her handand pray for a miracle.
It was ironic that a man like hima hardheaded, selfreliant individualistshould have no hope but mysticism.
As he brooded on that, he heard Jenny make a soft gurgling sound. She took two quick, deep breaths and produced a long, rattling sigh. For one crazy moment as he rose from his chair, Jack halfexpected to find her eyes open, filled with awareness for the first time in more than eight years, the miracle having come to pass even as he had been daydreaming of it. But her eyes were closed, and her face was slack. He put a hand against her face, then moved it to her throat. He felt for her pulse. What had happened was not, in fact, miraculous but antimiraculous, mundane, and inevitable: Jenny Twist had died.
Chicago, Illinois.
Few physicians were on duty at St. Joseph's that Christmas, but a resident named Jarvil and an intern named Klinet were eager to talk to Father Wycazik about Emmeline Halbourg's amazing recovery.
Klinet, an intense wiryhaired young man, escorted Stefan to a consultation room to review Emmy's file and X rays. "Five weeks ago, she was started on namiloxiprinea new drug, just approved by the FDA."
Dr. Jarvil, the resident, was softspoken, with heavylidded eyes, but when he joined them in the consultation room, he too was visibly excited by Emmeline Halbourg's dramatic turn for the better.
“Namiloxiprine has several effects in bone diseases like Emmy's,” Jarvil said. "In many instances it puts a stop to the destruction of the periosteunl, promotes the growth of healthy osteocytes, and somewhat induces the accumulation of intercellular calcium. And in a case like Emmy's, where the bone marrow is the primary target of the disease, namiloxiprine creates an unusual chemical environment in the marrow cavity and in the haversian canals, an environment that's extremely hostile to microorganisms but actually encourages the growth of marrow cells, the production of blood cells, and hemoglobin formation."
“But it's not supposed to work this fast,” Klinet said.
“And it's basically a stoploss drug,” Jarvil said. "It can arrest the progress of a disease, put a stop to bone deterioration. But it doesn't make regeneration possible. Sure, it's supposed to promote some reconstruction, but not the kind of rebuilding we're seeing in Emmy."
“Fast rebuilding,” Klinet said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if to knock this amazing fact into his unwilling brain.
They showed Stefan a series of X rays taken over the past six weeks, in which the changes in Emmy's bones and joints were obvious.
Klinet said, "She'd been on namiloxiprine for three weeks without noticeable effect, and then suddenly, two weeks ago, her body not only went into a state of remission but began rebuilding damaged tissues."
The timing of the girl's turnaround coincided perfectly with the first appearance of the strange rings on Brendan Cronin's hands. However, Stefan Wycazik made no mention of that coincidence.
Jarvil produced more X rays and tests that showed a remarkable improvement in the child's haversian canals, the elaborate network that carried small blood vessels and lymphatics throughout the bone for the purpose of maintenance and repair. Many of these had been clogged with a plaquelike substance that pinched off the vessels passing through them. In the past two weeks, however, the plaque almost disappeared, allowing the full circulation required for healing and regeneration.
"No one even knew that namiloxiprine could clean out the canals this way,“ Jarvil said. ”No record of it. Oh, yes, minor unclogging, but only as a consequence of getting the disease itself under control. Nothing like this. Amazing."
“If regeneration continues at this rate,” Klinet said, "Emmy could be a normal, healthy girl in three months. Really phenomenal."
Jarvil said, “She could be well again.”
They grinned at Father Wycazik, and he did not have the heart to suggest that neither their hard work nor the wonder drug was responsible for Emmeline Halbourg's cure. They were euphoric, so Stefan kept to himself the possibility that Emmy's cure had been effected by some power far more mysterious than modern medicine.
Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Christmas Day with Lucy, Frank, and the grandchildren was fun and therapeutic for Ernie and Faye Block. By the time they went out for a walk (just the two of them) toward the end of the afternoon, they were feeling better than they had in months.
The weather was perfect for walking: cold, crisp, but without wind. The most recent snowfall was four days old, so the sidewalks were clear. As twilight approached, the air shimmered with a purple radiance.
Bundled in heavy coats and scarves, Faye and Ernie strolled arm in arm, talking animatedly about the day's events, enjoying the Christmas displays that Lucy's and Frank's neighbors had erected on their front lawns. The years slipped away, and Faye felt as if she and Ernie were still newlyweds, young and full of dreams.
From the moment they had arrived in Milwaukee on December 15, ten days ago, Faye had reason to hope that everything was going to work out all right. Ernie had seemed bettera new bounciness in his step, more genuine good humor in his smile. Evidently, just basking in the love of his daughter, soninlaw, and grandchildren was sufficient to burn away some of the crippling fear that had become the central fact of his life.
The therapy sessions with Dr. Fontelaine, six so far, had also been remarkably beneficial. Ernie was still afraid of the dark but far less terrified than when they left Nevada. Phobias, according to the doctor, were easy to treat compared to many other psychiatric disorders. In recent years therapists had discovered that, in most cases, the symptoms were the disease rather than merely shadows cast by unresolved conflicts in the patient's subconscious. It was no longer considered necessaryor even possible or desirableto seek the psychological causes of the condition in order to treat it. Long courses of therapy had been abandoned in favor of teaching the patient desensitization techniques that could eradicate the symptoms in months or even weeks.
Approximately a third of all phobics could not be helped by these methods and, instead, required longterm treatment and even panicblocking drugs like alprazolam. But Ernie had improved at a pace that even Dr. Fontelaine, an optimist by nature, found astonishing.
Faye had been reading extensively about phobias and had discovered she could help Ernie by digging up amusing, curious facts that allowed him to view his condition from a differentless fearsomeperspective. He was especially fond of hearing about bizarre phobias that made his terror of the dark seem reasonable by comparison. For example, knowing there were pteronophobics out there, people who lived in constant and unreasonable fear of feathers, made his abhorrence of nightfall seem not only bearable but almost ordinary and logical, as well. Ichthyophobes were horrified by the prospect of encountering a fish, and pediophobes ran screaming at the sight of a doll. And Ernie's nyctophobia was certainly preferable to coitophobia (the fear of sexual intercourse), and not a fraction as debilitating as autophobia (the fear of oneself).