Mind Games (25 page)

“Fuck you! I’ll tell you why, because of that stupid fucking story you told about your ASN patient, and it made me unduly aware of some muscular weakness in my ankles. So I walked on my heels all day yesterday to test it. Now my feet hurt like hell. And they’re weak.”

I contort my face as I attempt to wipe this image from my mind.

“But that would be natural for anybody’s feet after a day like that. A person
without
ASN would have sore feet after a day like that, wouldn’t they?”

I’m awash in too many possibilities of how to answer. Would a sympathetic nurse buy time? Or would a stern nurse be better? I would know the answer if I weren’t so drugged up. The Alchemist presses the knife down. “It’s not a symptom of ASN to have sore feet after walking on your heels, is it?”

I hold my breath.

“Because I don’t have ASN, do I? And you know it.”

There it is.

I close my eyes, feeling something like gratitude as the complexity flows away. The Alchemist wants what any hypochondriac wants: for the disease to be ruled out. That’s his Holy Grail. It’s the Holy Grail for all of us. But once I rule it out, I’m done. My Scheherezade moment, I think.

I swallow. I cannot laugh and mess this up. “How long did you walk on your heels?”

“Don’t fuck with me!”

“I need to know. How long and how far?”

“No, this is a trick. I don’t know why I’m even asking you. You’ll say anything.”

I shift under him, trying to relieve pressure from my painfully prickly right leg. “Listen here, and listen good.” I’m going for stern nurse. “You can take away my freedom, you can change my outfit, but you will never,
never
take away my dedication to my profession.”

He seems to be considering this. “If you fuck with me …”

I wait, trying my best to look stern during the long silence.

“Fine,” he says. “I walked around the house on my heels for maybe an hour straight. I even made breakfast on my heels. It would cause pain the next day to anybody, right?”

I try to look thoughtful, wishing fervently he hadn’t included the detail about making breakfast on his heels.

“What?” he demands. “Why are you making that face?”

“I’m sorry, nothing. You work out, right?”

He nods.

“Did you experience muscle weakness before I said that stuff at the card game?” I’m reasonably confident that he won’t recall.

“I think it started before that … nah, it’s just my imagination.” He shifts his weight in a way that makes him heavier. “ASN is just my imagination.”

I fight to retain my focus. “You experienced some muscle weakness and toe numbness, that’s what I’m hearing.”

“Shut up. I know I don’t have ASN.”

I’m losing him. “Do you know the difference between
perceived
muscle weakness and
clinical
weakness?”

“Don’t know, and don’t care.”

“It’ll help you in the future, as a sort of reference point.
Perceived
weakness is a rubbery feeling, and it can have good days and bad days.
Clinical
weakness comes from the muscle tissue and the nerve endings dying, and that sort of weakness doesn’t have good or bad days.” I’m supplying him with a negative visualization here. “The point is to learn to tell those things apart. Clinical weakness will get so bad that eventually you can’t unscrew lids or even hold a glass. You say you had no problem walking on your heels … until the next day …” I look away. “Have you noticed any muscle twitching?”

“Muscle twitches can be a lot of things.”

I take this as a yes. I’m getting clearer, thanks to my concentration abilities—and to that pathogenic knife. “Regular twitches are fatigue. ASN twitches are caused by dying muscle tissue. Your twitches—do they feel more like dying nerves, or more like fatigue?” The thing here is that twitches never feel like fatigue, even though that’s what they are. He furrows his brow; he’s worried again, but it’s not enough. I need to zing him. It’s here I get my brain flash. “Have you been tested for Sargasso’s sign?”

He narrows his eyes. “I know I’ve heard of that.”

“It’s an abnormal toe reflex that indicates motor neuron damage. Get somebody to do it for you. It’s when the small toe extends and points sideways as the ball of the foot is stimulated. This would be your indicator to rule it out.”

“Sargasso’s sign rules it out?”

“If the toe doesn’t respond that way, yeah, we can pretty much rule out ASN.”

He regards me warily; then he slides off me and sits
next to me on the bed, legs straight in front of him. I try not to show my relief as the blood flows back into my limbs. He bends forward and pokes at the ball of his right foot with a pen. “Like this?”

“You can’t do it to yourself.”

“You’re just trying to get me to untie you.”

“No, I’m telling you what’s what. I’m being helpful.”

“Yeah, to help yourself right out of here.”

I move my limbs to get the blood back into them.

“Sargasso’s test. You’ve performed it?”

I ignore him and practice this focus exercise Packard taught me where you retract your awareness away from everything and imagine your mind in a tiny box, and then you expand it back out. I need to have total focus here.

“What would you do?”

I keep on doing the exercise. Plus, I don’t want to seem too eager to do the test.

He grabs my face by my cheeks. “Answer me!”

“Ow,” I say. “Fine. I would have you lie down and relax your muscles, and I’d need one hand free to poke specific reflex points on the balls of your feet.”

“You just want me to untie you.”

I look at him like he’s crazy—a look I perfected in high school. “One hand. What do you think I’d do? Honestly, one hand? I can barely focus thanks to your drugs, and you have the knife. But fine. Why should I give a crap? I’m sure you’ll get your diagnosis soon enough.”

Minutes later he’s lying in bed next to me, the opposite way, angled so his head is at the far corner and his feet are near my shoulders. Three of my limbs are still attached to the bed frame, but I have a hand, and that’s all I need. Now I just have to touch his repellent energy dimension.

His toenails are dreadfully long. “Hold on.” I touch his right ankle.

He jerks away. “What are you doing?”

“Positioning and palpating your ankles. That would also help us rule this ASN business out.” Now I’m going for stern yet motherly nurse.

“You’ll be sorry if you’re fucking with me.” He gives me back his ankles, sitting, watching me. I grasp one and try to push out to his energy dimension, only to recoil. Damn!

I think about Simon’s technique of plunging in with total acceptance.

I can’t. It’s too dangerous, too horrible.

Steeling myself, I push my awareness out slowly, the old way. Nausea. Repulsion. I’m running out of time, and I’m getting tired of fighting the urge to laugh.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“You have to lie back,” I manage to say. “You’re using your ankle muscles to stabilize yourself, and it’s obscuring your true musculature.” He complies, and I move my hand to his other ankle. “Stay still. This might be good news.”

“Hurry up.”

“I need to position your feet.”

Again I consider Simon’s trick. What if I spelunked into his energy dimension and couldn’t climb back out, like Packard warned? But really, what do I have to lose now?

I take a deep breath.
You’ve been here; you know him
, I tell myself.
Surrender!
I squeeze my eyes shut tight and let go—every muscle, every thought. I just surrender and open my heart.

And suddenly, whoosh! The otherness of him drops away; it’s like the earth falls out from under me, all my points of reference gone. I’m falling into him, and it’s the easiest thing in the world. I find myself surrounded by his need and fear, even shame. But it’s not awful, just crowded; it’s like a reunion of the old and the familiar,
and I’m conscious of tears in my eyes. It’s just me, all me. I get a hit of the hopelessness with which he wakes up in the morning, and the way he experiences rain and wind, and the way women upset and frighten him. I’m getting disoriented, panicky, unsure where he ends and I begin.

Burn the hole, I think, reducing my focus to an image of a fingertip deep inside him. I focus, focus, focus, and burn, and the hole opens, and this immense heat and darkness rushes out of me, on and on—there’s so much of it. He stiffens as my fear floods him; I feel it around me, heating my core. I’m in him, but not of him, I realize. I have only a vague sense of which way is out, and before I get a chance to panic, I throw all my trust to my instincts and rush in that direction.

I know the instant I clear him. I’m alone again—with a breezy finger feeling and a cool, calm head—energized and peaceful at the same time. Even a little sparkly.

Connor’s eyes are wide open. “What—?” he whispers, unable to formulate a question. He plops his head back. I wouldn’t say he’s out, more in a kind of stupor, eyes closed, breath uneven. Did the drug charge pass through the zing? I’m thinking it did, because I’m perfectly alert.

He’s also relaxed his grip on the knife, but it’s too far for me to reach. I don’t have much time. I grip the bed sheet and jerk it toward myself, and the knife hops a little. Not helpful. Another tug jumps the knife closer. I’m rousing him, but I need that knife. I tug and pull, and once it’s close enough, I stretch, nearly dislocating my shoulder to grab it.

Quickly I slice the rope that connects my hand to the bed frame and then the rope that goes from my ankles to the bar at the foot of the bed.

Just as I’m scooting off, he comes to life and grabs the end of the rope that still binds my ankles together and
pulls. I try to kick him away, but he won’t let go, so I roll toward him and I stab his forearm—once, then again as he grabs at me. Blood. He lets go, surprised. I scramble off the bed, hop backward. He’s pulling himself up.

“Don’t you move,” I yell, like I’m in command. Though I’m not confident I can take him, even with a hunting blade. Especially with my feet still bound together.

He regards me with glassy eyes. Fear eyes, like an old man. He’s experiencing inexplicable waves of fear—my fear—and it makes him hesitate long enough for me to grab my stun gun off the wall and pump him with enough electricity to light a carnival. He crumples onto the bed. His breathing goes jerky, then calms.

Quickly I cut the ropes off my ankles and rip the last bits of fibrous tape from my wrists. Now that I’ve zinged all my fear into him, I feel like a glorious giant. The urge to laugh is gone, too. I grab my phone and activate the GPS function, one eye on Connor. Now the closest disillusionist—or disillusionists—will come. Plus Strongarm Francis. I have a feeling it’ll be a while.

I find Connor’s rope and duct tape, and feverishly bind him up—tape, rope, and more tape, just as he did me. No use reinventing the wheel. His arm’s still bleeding; I hadn’t meant to hurt him so much. I bandage it expertly with a ripped piece of bed sheet and duct tape. A real nurse couldn’t have done better.

I can’t believe how excellent I feel for what I just went through, like I’m humming at a higher mode than usual. I wouldn’t be surprised if I could fly, or lift up a car. I shouldn’t feel this good, but of course I zinged out an unheard-of amount of fear and darkness.

My eyes fall on a pile of familiar-looking material. My clothes! I’m excited, but when I go over, I discover that they’re in shreds, like he cut them right off me. Even my panties. Even my jeans! Creep.

I do find a costume box with the rest of the nurse’s outfit inside—old-fashioned white stockings with a seam running up the back, ruffly panties, white high-heeled shoes, and even a fake stethoscope. Just like a man to ignore the accessories. I discard the stethoscope, but I put on the rest of the stuff; then I examine myself in the mirror. My long dark hair glows in the lamplight, and my eyes shine. The nurse’s hat is crooked, so I unpin it, reposition it on the top of my head, and fasten it in place. Then I wet a finger and clean a blood spot off my cheek. The dress is pretty bloody, but that seems appropriate for a nurse’s dress. And a nurse’s dress is appropriate for the job I have to finish here. I turn to the Alchemist.

“What is it?” he asks, eyes half-open.

“What is what?” I ask.

Fear eyes. He jerks against his restraints in explosive movements, rocking the bed and the frame. If the bed collapses, he might get free. I didn’t think of that when I was tied up. I grab the stun gun, but my knots seem to be holding, and eventually he stops. I go to sit on the bed next to him and he jerks around some more, trying to scare me, but I know he can’t get me now.

“Tell me,” he says.

“Where are we, Connor? Are we out by Branlock?” I always hear of people having hunting cabins in Branlock.

“Surrey Springs.”

Surrey Springs is a rural area maybe an hour north of Midcity, maybe thirty miles from where I grew up. We played them in high school. I look over at my phone, thinking about calling Cubby or Packard, but I don’t want to divert power from the GPS beacon function. Or does that not matter? I wish Francis had explained things better.

“Tell me about the Sargasso test,” he says. “Was it muscle atrophy or not?”

Ominous sigh. “We’ll need to run more tests to say conclusively whether it’s ASN. It wouldn’t be my place as a nurse to make that diagnosis.”

“What diagnosis?” He jerks his arms. “Did the Sargasso’s test indicate ASN?”

“It wouldn’t be proper for me to say for certain.” Every hypochondriac knows this is just a pernicious form of yes. He looks pale. “Don’t worry,” I say. “If it’s ASN, there are palliative measures that can be taken.”

“Palliative?”

“That’s right.” This is what the nurse in an old vein star article had said. I hated her for it.

“Hell if I’m going to any doctor.” He pulls and jerks again. One of the ropes looks longer. Is a knot loosening?

“You understand why you need to be restrained, don’t you? You tried to attack me. You need to relax.”

“What if the ropes make my muscles atrophy more?”

“Atrophy is an internal process, not external.” I sit up on the bed next to him and lean back against the metal bars of the frame. I have to finish destabilizing him tonight. “Connor, have you experienced any weirdness swallowing? New sensations?”