Season of Strangers (38 page)

His throat ached. He felt a gauzy robe draped around him, blinked and at last he could see. All ten members of the High Council stood in the chamber, forming a semicircle around him. They had come to observe the final stages of the first successful Unification that had lasted such a long length of time.

“Commander?” Calas Panidyne moved closer. “Commander Zarkazian, are you all right?”

He tried to speak, but the words lodged in his throat. He wasn't all right. He felt torn apart and it wasn't from the physical battering he had taken.

“Commander?” One of the ministers walked toward him, her robes floating softly out behind her. He couldn't remember her name. “What has happened to you, Commander?” She studied his features, reached out and ran her fingers over his face. They came away covered with wetness.

“That cannot be what it looks like.” He heard the note of awe in a second minister's voice. “It simply cannot be.”

“He's…
crying
.” A member of the group came closer. “There are pictures in the archives that show what it looked like.” But Val knew it couldn't be true. Torillians hadn't cried for ten thousand years.

“That's not possible,” Panidyne argued. “Tear ducts are nothing but useless glands. They evolved out of use eons ago.”

Val reached up and touched his face, felt the astonishing wetness. He thought of Julie and wanted to cry all over again.

The female minister gently touched his shoulder. “Something terrible has happened to him, can't you see? What is it, Commander? Can you tell us what happened?”

“Yes, Commander, please.” Another minister pressed forward, third council, one of the more aggressive members of the group. “When you were here before, we saw that you were different, that your time on Earth had changed you. Can you explain what has occurred?”

He wiped away the last few drops of wetness, thinking of Julie, of the grief still pulsing through him. Even as Patrick, he had never cried.

He looked at them with a face full of sorrow. “As you said, my time on Earth changed me. Part of me is human now. I believe it always will be.”

Silence fell over the group.

The female minister was the first to speak. “And what you are feeling…is that what made you cry?”

He nodded.

“What do you call such a feeling?”

“The emotion is known as grief. It comes from excessive sadness.”

“And this sadness arises because you had to leave?”

“Yes.”

“You aren't saying you wished to remain?” Panidyne seemed incredulous. “You're a respected, well-known scientist on Toril. Surely you wish to return to the life you led before.”

He only shook his head. It was useless and yet he could not stop himself from speaking the truth. “Toril is no longer my home. Another place calls out to me as no place ever has. Earth is where I wish to live. I believe I will die on Toril.”

Soft murmurs rolled through the small group of observers. There was not the slightest chance they would let him remain, yet at the look on the ministers' faces, a kernel of hope took root in his chest. He was afraid to let it grow, knew that it would only mean more pain.

Hope and fear. Emotions that only made him realize how human he had become.

They talked for a moment more, then Panidyne turned in his direction. “If we were to grant your wish and allow you to remain, you would lose your Torillian strengths. Your lifetime would be no longer than a human's. Your body would be susceptible to the same diseases, the same failings. Your children would merely be human.”

As Patrick he might have smiled. “I am aware of that.”

“And yet you wish to remain?”

“Above all things.”

Panidyne turned back to the members of the council. For long moments they discussed the pros and cons of such a move. “Perhaps, in some way,” Panidyne suggested, “we might later benefit from having one of our own on Earth.”

One or two disagreed but only briefly. The sight of the unexpected tears on his face seemed to be forever burned into their minds.

They spoke quietly among themselves, then Panidyne ended the discussion. “So then we are agreed?” He returned the look each minister gave him. When his attention returned to Val, there was an unreadable expression on his face.

“Our decision is to let you remain on Earth, Commander. Perhaps it is an unwise choice, but under the circumstances, all of us have agreed. However, if we are to rejoin you with the human, we must do so quickly. There is little time left to spare.”

Hope and joy crashed through him in thundering waves. He was almost afraid to believe it. The female minister urged him forward, toward the transporter he had arrived in, and the others fell in behind. The joy in him grew. He was going back to Earth. Returning to Julie. Going back where he belonged.

Patrick was going home.

T
he wail of the siren echoed off the buildings along the Boulevard as the ambulance wound its way toward Cedar Sinai Hospital. The traffic had been heavy, slowing the vehicle nearly to a halt, making the long journey seem to take forever. Julie heard the siren only vaguely. Sitting next to the gurney on which Patrick lay, her cheek pressed to his chest, her fingers clutching his hand, the world was a vague, distant blur. Her mind was gratefully numb, dull with grief and loss.

In a corner of the ambulance, one of the attendants stared out the window, giving her privacy for her sorrow. The ambulance attendants had exhausted every avenue in an effort to restore Patrick's heartbeat. Now he lay quietly on the gurney, each of them resigned to failure.

Julie almost felt sorry for them. It was hardly their fault Patrick couldn't be saved. In truth, he had died long ago.

Against her cheek, his skin felt cool, no longer warm and enticing. Still, she didn't move away. Soon he would be gone from her forever.

They had almost reached the emergency entrance to the hospital when a sharp beep sounded and Julie lifted her head. Another beep cut into the silence, then another. Several more echoed loudly through the speakers of the heart monitor.

“What the hell?” The attendant jerked to his feet, started toward the machine, whose wires were still attached to Patrick's chest.

“What…what is it?” Julie tried to make sense of what was happening, why the young attendant was madly shouldering her out of the way, but her mind was still too numb to comprehend.

“Get the paddles! His heart is trying to start up again.”

“No way,” said the second attendant. “Not after all this time.”

The first attendant grabbed the paddles of the defibrillator. “Stranger things have happened.” He was ready to go into action but his gaze stayed fixed on the heart monitor, which had set up a sharp rapid series of pulses, then begun an even throbbing that made a constant, high-low pattern across the screen.

“What's happening?” Julie asked, staring down at Patrick.

“His heart has started beating on its own.” The attendant grabbed the oxygen mask dangling near the side of the gurney. Julie gasped as Patrick's lungs sucked in a great breath of air even before the mask had time to reach him.

“Holy shit!” The attendant's eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets. “He's started breathing!”

“H-he's breathing? H-he's alive?” It was impossible. He couldn't be alive. Val Zarkazian was gone.

Which meant Patrick Donovan should be dead.

The attendant checked Patrick's pulse, found it growing stronger every second. “I've never seen anything like it. We tried everything we knew and we couldn't bring him back.”

Julie said nothing. She didn't understand what was happening and suddenly she was afraid. Patrick was breathing again. It looked as though he was going to live. But Val had sworn he wouldn't be returning. What if the man on the gurney wasn't Patrick. What if it was somebody else? Nothing seemed impossible anymore.

She waited tensely as the ambulance attendant worked over his patient, inserting a fresh IV, making sure the patient's condition was stable. All the while Julie sat in the shadows, afraid to believe yet unable to stop the aching hope that was building inside her chest.

Dear God, if all of us really are your children, won't you please help this one?

Perhaps He heard her, because a few minutes later, Patrick's eyes cracked open, an intense cerulean blue. For a moment he seemed uncertain where he was, and Julie held her breath, praying a miracle had happened—that it wasn't some horrible intergalactic joke.

Let it be him. Oh, dear God, please let it be him.

His gaze sought hers, caught and held. The harshness eased from his features and a corner of his mouth curved up. She grabbed onto his hand. He lifted it a bit shakily and pressed her fingers against his lips.

“I'm just Patrick now,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “And I'm eleven million dollars in debt. Will you marry me?”

Tears burned her eyes. Julie's heart crumbled inside her chest. It was Patrick.
Her
Patrick. No man had ever looked at her the way he did. She tried for a smile but her lips trembled instead. She finally forced the answer past the thick lump in her throat.

“Of course, I'll marry you. How could a woman say no to a man who has crossed a galaxy to be with her?”

His fingers tightened around her hand. “I love you,” he whispered as the ambulance rolled into the emergency entrance of the hospital. Then the doors flew open and a dozen white-uniformed medical personnel swooped into the rear of the ambulance.

He was grinning when they wheeled him away.

T
ony Sandini stood next to Vince McPherson in the locker room of the Chicago Health and Fitness Club. Vince had been playing a little racquetball while Tony indulged himself in a long relaxing massage. They had just finished a nice hot shower and were getting ready to go into the snack shop for something to eat.

“So what's the word on the Brookhaven deal?” Vince dried the back of his neck, then began to work on his curly dark brown hair. He was in good shape for a man in his late forties. He couldn't imagine letting himself run to fat like his friend Tony did. “That Bonham chick with the pension fund give the okay yet on the Westwind trust deed sale?”

Sandini grunted. “As a matter of fact that was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. The pension fund turned down the purchase. We got to find somebody else or give up and try somethin' different.”

“Something different like what? Wringing the money out of that stupid bastard, Donovan? If you recall, that's what I wanted to do in the first place.”

Tony dragged the towel back and forth across his beefy shoulders, shaking the thick slab of fat on his belly. “If this Westwind scam woulda' worked, we'd of all made a pot load of dough. The way things are going, it looks like we shoulda' done it your way.”

“You think Donovan went against us with the pension fund?”

“I don't know, but I gotta hunch he might have.”

Vincent pulled on his shirt, a nice white cotton knit, and began to fasten the buttons at the throat. “I hear the prick's back in the hospital. Another heart attack or something.”

“From what I heard, he's off the drugs and booze. Pretty-boy Donovan's probably screwin' himself to death.”

McPherson chuckled. “I hear Woody Nicholson's out on the Coast. Why don't we send him over to see Donovan, deliver a little
get well card
, if you know what I mean? Tell him to let Donovan know, in no uncertain terms, he's got ten days to come up with the money he owes us, or he isn't gonna like what happens.”

“Good idea. I'll take care of it myself.” Tony zipped his pants, then sucked in his belly to fasten the button at the waist. McPherson thought he could probably knock the eye out of a cat at fifty yards if that button ever came unsewed.

“You think Donovan'll be able to pay us?” McPherson asked, slamming his locker door.

“He'd better,” Tony said, his eyes suddenly cold. “If he doesn't, he'll be havin' another heart attack—and you can bet this one'll be fatal.”

 

Julie poured water into the paper cup on the table beside Patrick's hospital bed and handed it over.

“Thanks,” he growled, accepting the cup and knocking back the pills the stout nurse, Mrs. Fielding, commanded him to swallow. As soon as the “tyrant in white,” as Patrick called her, left the room, he sat up in bed and spit out the pills he had hidden beneath his tongue.

Julie laughed as he dumped them into the waste bin, swore an extremely earthy phrase, and fell back against the pillow.

“I realize you're grouchy and eager to get out of bed,” Julie said, “but you'll just have to struggle along for a couple more days. There is no way Dr. Cane is going to release you until he's sure you're going to be okay.”

“I'm in perfect health,” Patrick grumbled. “Every damn test I've taken has told them that, but they keep dreaming up something new.”

“They're just doing their job. Be grateful you've got health insurance.” A company plan Patrick had actually kept paid and Val had upgraded after he took over the company. His deductible was sky-high, but right now the policy was looking pretty good.

“Another couple of days and I'll be stir-crazy.”

“A couple more days and you'll be out of here.”

He grinned at that. Reaching out, he captured her hand, bent his head and kissed her palm. “When are we going to get married?”

Julie smiled. He had asked her every day since his return. So far they hadn't set an exact date. “How about the end of the month? Is that soon enough to suit you?”

“Tomorrow isn't soon enough to suit me and you know it.”

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I thought we could have a small wedding in your father's backyard. Just friends and family, maybe a small reception.”

“If that's what you want, it sounds perfect. Do you want to live in your house or mine?”

“Mine, if it's okay with you. I thought maybe, in a couple of years, we could sell the beach house and get something with a…a little more room.” She stumbled over this last and glanced away. They had never spoken of children. She had been on the pill since the first time they had slept together, but now things had changed.

Unfortunately, she wasn't sure how Patrick would feel about kids.

She wasn't even sure he would be able to have children.

“Are you saying what I think you are?” He laced his fingers through hers, gave them a gentle squeeze. “Are you talking about having offspring?”

Offspring.
Only Patrick. “It's all right if you don't want them. It doesn't change anything between us. I just thought…hoped…maybe…if you could…you might want a family.”

He said nothing for the longest time. Then he smiled and a faint dimple formed in his cheek “If I could? Why, Ms. Ferris. I thought I had proved that point a sufficient number of times, but if you wish to see further evidence—” He pulled back the covers, inviting her to join him, and Julie laughed.

“That isn't what I meant, you scoundrel, and you know it.”

He smiled at her. “I would love to give you children, Julie. They would be human in every way and I would do my best to be a good father, though it isn't something I know very much about.”

Julie leaned over and kissed him. “You'd be a wonderful father. You're kind and generous, you're loyal and caring. But would our children…? I would want some part of them to be yours, Val.”

She rarely called him that. She did it now to make a point. She loved him, not the man who was once Patrick Donovan.

“The children would be ours—yours and mine. We would make them so. Our teachings, our morality, our patience and love, that is what makes a child grow into a fine man or woman. Together we can give them those things.”

A lump rose into her throat. She loved him so much. She started to tell him so when a soft knock sounded at the door and Nurse Fielding pushed it open.

“He's right in here,” the woman said to the tall, bone-thin man who walked into the room as if he belonged there. He moved with purpose, his face hard-edged, his mouth little more than a gash in his narrow, slightly sallow face. It was visiting hours. The floor was open to anyone who might want to come, yet she didn't recognize this man who must have been a friend of the old Patrick's. And there was something about him, something of menace that sent an icy chill down her spine.

“You Donovan?” Ignoring Julie, the man walked—no, swaggered—farther into the room. He was dressed in black slacks and a plaid shirt. A navy blue windbreaker hung loosely from his narrow, bony frame.

“I'm Patrick Donovan.” He sat up straighter in the bed, his expression suddenly wary, and a knot began to form in Julie's stomach.

“Woody Nicholson's the name. I got something for you from your associates—Mr. Sandini and Mr.

McPherson. A get-well card of sorts.” Standing next to the bed, he whirled on Julie, slapped her hard across the face, jerked her against him and locked an arm around her throat.

Stunned, she gasped in a breath. “Let me go!” Struggling to be free of his choking hold, she felt the cold prick of a knife blade pressed against her throat.

“Leave her alone!” Patrick commanded. “It's me you want—this has nothing to do with her.” He was breathing hard, crouched on the edge of the bed, his hospital gown off one shoulder, his muscles corded with tension, but the knife at her throat held him still.

“Sandini said to tell you the pension fund deal fell through…but then you know that already, don't you?” A ruthless smile twisted his lips. “You've got ten days to dig up the money you owe. After that…” He squeezed Julie's throat and she clawed at the arm locked around her neck. “Well…you get the picture. Only next time it won't be her, it'll be you, and
you
won't be walking away.”

Nicholson let her go and Julie staggered backward, gasping for breath, her throat bruised and swollen.

“See you around,” the man said calmly, sliding the knife into its sheath beneath his jacket as he turned and walked out the door.

Julie didn't move and neither did Patrick, not until the heavy door swung closed, then he was out of the bed and pulling her into his arms. “I'm sorry. God, I'm so damned sorry.”

Julie shook her head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. None of this is your fault. You only did what you had to. We both knew there might be consequences.”

His face looked thunderous, his eyes a cold, savage blue. “I wanted to kill him. Before I came here, I never even knew what anger was. Tonight I wanted to kill a man.”

Julie reached up and cupped his cheek. “You felt helpless. You wanted to protect me. Under the circumstances, there is nothing wrong with the way you felt.”

His mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. “You're telling me I was only being human?”

Julie managed to smile, too. “I guess you could put it that way.” Patrick's smile widened, but Julie's slid away. “What are we going to do, Patrick?”

He sighed and together they sat down on the edge of the bed. “The only thing we can do, I guess. Find a way to come up with eleven million dollars.”

“Plus interest,” Julie added darkly.

“Plus interest.” Patrick tilted her chin with his hand. “Don't look so glum. Business has been better lately—”

“Since you've been running the company.”

He smiled. “Yes, I'm happy to say. Donovan Real Estate has assets—”

“
You
have assets.

“All right,
I
have assets. Somehow I'll find a way to raise the money.”

But deep in their hearts, both of them were afraid he wouldn't be able to come up with enough. And he only had ten days.

 

Patrick shut another cardboard box and taped it closed with a roll of packing tape. He carefully marked the contents
kitchen utensils
with a black felt pen, glanced to where Julie bent over the sofa, folding a stack of linens, and drew a happy face below the words.

“Ready for another?” she asked, walking toward him with another empty box. He was packing his things, carting them little by little over to Julie's beach house. They had decided not to wait until after the wedding to move in together. Both of them knew only too well how precious time could be.

“One more and we can start on the living room.” He reached for the empty box, but Julie dangled it just out of his reach. She laughed as he made a futile lunge for it, then let it drop a few feet away.

As she looked at him, her warm smile slowly faded, replaced by a far too serious expression.

“What is it, love?” He reached for her hand, pulled her down on the floor beside him. “Tell me what's the matter?”

“You know what's the matter. We've gone over every possible avenue we can think of and we still haven't come up with nearly enough money to satisfy Sandini and McPherson.”

“We've still got time. I've got an appointment with Beverly First National in the morning. Dan Witherspoon has become a friend. He'll help if there's any way he can.”

“Let me go to Owen. If he would loan you the money—”

“Damn it, we've talked about this. Owen Mallory is the last person in the world I'll ask for help.”

“I know you and he don't get along, but—”

“That is putting it mildly. The man is in love with you. I'm the last person he'd want to help.”

“You don't know that…not for sure. If I asked him, maybe—”

“No. That's the end of the subject. Owing money to Mallory would be worse than owing it to Sandini and McPherson. He wouldn't do it anyway—not even for you.”

She looked like she might argue. Instead she gave up a sigh. “Maybe we should talk to your father. I know we agreed not to bring him into this, but maybe there is some way he could help. I don't know much about his finances—”

“Neither do I. He was always somewhat guarded about his money, but I'm sure he can't afford anything as substantial as this. And even if he could, I wouldn't ask him. His health is extremely fragile. The strain might cause him to have another stroke.”

Julie shivered. He knew she wouldn't argue with that. She loved Alex Donovan. She wouldn't want to see him hurt. He settled an arm around her shoulders and drew her against him. Tipping her chin up, he outlined the bruise on her cheek. “Don't you understand? I don't want anyone else getting hurt.”