The Keys of Solomon (38 page)

He had little immediate family and none were close. No friends to speak of save one, and Elliott couldn't speak of him without facing charges of heresy and collusion with the Enemy. Besides, who would he tell? What could he say? One night he simply fell asleep and he was there. Tall with piercing dark blue eyes and a face chiseled from alabaster, he never gave his name, and Elliott never asked. It was enough that they had come together in this dream world. From the beginning, theirs was a relationship that defied rational explanation. He saw what Elliott saw, felt what Elliott felt, and knew what Elliott knew. Elliott's mind and soul were laid bare before this remarkable dream-man.

On the second nocturnal visit, or perhaps the third, the dream-man had reached out and caressed Elliott's face with a tenderness that suggested more. Yet Elliott turned away. Despite their obvious and undeniable mental and emotional connection, Elliott couldn't surrender himself to another man, not even in a dream.

Unwounded by rejection, the man had smiled and waved his hand in front of Elliott's eyes, instantly mesmerizing the assassin. When Elliott emerged from the stupor minutes later, the dream-man was gone, and in his place stood the most beautiful woman Elliott Glenn had ever seen. Of course, Elliott knew instinctively that this was the same person now draped in a different physical shell. Yet the new physical form melted away all of Elliott's former inhibitions. This time, when the dream man-turned-woman reached out to caress Elliott's cheek, Elliott didn't turn away.

The lovemaking was at once brutal and sensuous. Her appetites were diverse and insatiable. Elliott knew some might scoff at the notion of metaphysical sex, but whatever the term, it often left him exhausted throughout his waking hours and anxious for a return to the dream state. If she really was a dream, Elliott hoped he never awoke.

Tonight she came to him, just as she had every other night over the past three months. She floated across the dreamscape, smiling at him, sucking seductively on a finger, then using that finger to tease her bare nipples to erection. The dream shifted into a swirling miasma of color—soft pastels, then warm earth tones, and finally harsh angry hues of red, blue, and purple. Elliott found himself kneeling naked upon cool, crisp sheets. His dream mate lay beneath him and large tears welled in the corners of her almond-shaped eyes. Elliott was puzzled. He'd never seen her cry.

“What's wrong? Why are you crying?”

She sniffed and said, “I'm so very sad, my love. This may be our last night together.”

“Don't say that! Not ever! We'll always be together. Nothing can come between us.”

“Something can. Or rather, someone. And it's your fault. You brought them here and now they want to hurt me.”

Stunned, Elliott sat upright on the bed. “I brought them here? Who? What are you talking about?”

The woman reached up and stroked Elliott's face. The touch was both electric and hypnotic. “The boy and girl. You were supposed to kill them. Instead, you brought them here, and now they're going to hurt me. They'll send me away from you. Forever. Why did you do this? Wasn't I good to you? Didn't I please you?”

The Conner brats! But how could they hurt her? She's a dream.
My
dream, goddamnit! Maybe it's got something to do with the Offspring bloodline. I've seen more than enough to know there's something to it. Yeah, that's got to be it!

“Don't worry, baby. Nobody's going to hurt you. Nobody! I won't let them.”

She looked up from the bed, her golden eyes bright with hope. “You mean that? You won't let them hurt me? Even if it means you must kill them both? I mean, I could show you how, if—if you really mean it. It would be very easy for someone with a gun.”

“I'll take care of you even if it means I have to kill every son of a bitch in this whole goddamn complex, baby! Just tell me what I need to do.”

And she did.

*   *   *

Where … am I?
His eyes searched for the light. Nothing but cold, infinite darkness.
Am I dead?
His mind pushed back against a growing swell of claustrophobia. Something, perhaps a thick bandage, he thought, covered his face and obscured his vision. There was nothing wrong with his hearing, though. A series of soft beeps, unfamiliar, yet oddly reassuring, sounded near his head.
Dead people don't hear sounds, do they?
he wondered.

He sniffed loudly, as the sharp odor of raw chemicals irritated his nose.
Rubbing alcohol, maybe? And iodine. Hospital? Yeah, that's it. I'm in a hospital. But why?

He tried to blink but a firm pressure rested against his eyelids. With tentative fingers, he probed his face and head and decided his earlier assessment was indeed correct.
Thick bandages … several layers of gauze. Burns? Sutures? Both?
Maybe neither if the absence of pain was any indication, he decided.

So why the elaborate headgear?

He tried to remember how he'd come to be in this place, but his memories were full of spiraling black holes. What few remained were jagged fragments. He took a deep breath.

His arms and legs tingled as if awaking from a long sleep.
No pain in my chest or shoulders. Lungs seem free of congestion, so I haven't been lying here prone for very long. A day? A week? And where the hell is
here
anyway?

He flexed the muscles in his back and arms, then tested his legs. No pain, they were just a little shaky. He somehow knew the slight tremors would pass soon.

As he rolled onto his side, he was struck by a horrific headache and an intense bout of nausea. Lying still, he struggled to regulate his breathing. The sickness would pass. It always did.

How do I know that? Have I got some disease that causes me to lose my lunch every time I roll over? No, not a disease, but it is a permanent condition, and it means … means … Damn, I can't remember! But whatever it is, it's bad. Real bad. I know that much.

As the nausea subsided, he also felt a sharp sting in the hollow of his right elbow. There wasn't much he could do about the headache so he turned his attention to the arm. Probing with tentative fingers, he located the cause of his discomfort, the business end of an IV. Throwing the crisp sheets aside, he swung his legs from the bed to the floor and felt cold tile beneath his feet.

Good nerve conduction. Legs working fine. Now let's get a look at this place.

He searched for and found the thin strips of tape that held one end of the gauze in place. Carefully, he began removing the bandages. Minutes later, a large pile of discarded cloth lay at his feet and he felt cool air against the naked skin of his face. He ran his hands over the light stubble growing on his cheeks and chin.

He took a moment to survey his surroundings. The room was spacious, though furnishings were nearly nonexistent. Other than the old hospital bed, a single retro-style chair and a worn chest of drawers represented the only furniture. The walls, painted a depressing shade of beige, were barren. Not so much as a cheap print from Wal-Mart. And no windows. What kind of hospital room had no windows?

The room was windowless, though a thick rectangle of opaque glass passed for a window in the room's only door. He could see thick mesh wire embedded in the glass, an added security feature.
Where the hell am I? I'm … I'm … Wait a minute.

“
Who
the hell am I?”

His mind wasn't a total blank. Broken pieces of memory floated around in his head, but nothing that indicated who he was, where he was, or how he'd gotten here.

Sam glanced at the chrome IV pole that stood beside the bed. A digital medication dispenser was mounted on the pole. He read the label on the medication cartridge. Morphine 4mg Auto-Injector. The cartridge was half-full, but someone had clamped off the line.

Sam grasped the pole with both hands and rose from the bed on shaky legs. Cautiously, he made his way across the room to a stainless-steel sink. Above the basin, a small mirror made of highly polished metal was bolted to the wall. He stooped slightly and looked at his rippled reflection. He found himself looking into the battered face of a stranger. He supposed he should have been shocked, or at the very least, surprised. He was neither. He had always heard that amnesia was an extremely traumatic experience. Hadn't he always heard that? Regardless, he felt no panic, no fear. There was only a nagging irritation.

Sam dismissed the matter for the moment and surveyed his face, scalp, and neck. A wide strip of white tape covered the bridge of his nose. The left side of his face was a mass of purplish black, and his eye was swollen shut. He'd seen worse in his time. A damn sight worse. He couldn't remember when or where, but he knew it was so.

Looks like I'll live. Live. Live …

A broad-brush image flashed in Sam's mind. A mental picture of a woman, his mother, trapped inside a blazing coffin. Black, oily smoke clung to earth and sky. Explosions followed by tufts of ash and chunks of burning debris borne aloft by a suffocating desert wind. Men and women engaged in a desperate battle against an onslaught of horrific creatures filled with nightmarish malevolence. His sister taken by the monster known as Little Stevie …

The Enemy! Here!
The realization slammed into Sam with the force of a runaway truck.

“Kat! I've got to find Kat.”

Sam stood up and stretched, his stiff muscles already gaining strength. Looking at the crook of his arm, he frowned. He pulled the IV needle out and left it dangling from the end of the IV tubing. With the hem of his hospital gown, he applied pressure to the tiny puncture in his arm.

Feeling a draft as he lifted the gown, he said, “Need clothes.” Sam took a firm grip on the IV pole and steered it across the floor to the chest of drawers. Before he could reach the chest, the room's only door swung open. A broad figure silhouetted against the bright hallway light.

After a moment, a nurse stepped into the room. At least, Sam was fairly certain she was a nurse. He also conceded it could perhaps be a massive, bi-pedal bulldog in a white dress. At the sight of him, the woman's eyes narrowed, then widened with alarm.

“Uh, hello. I need clothes. Now.”

“Wha—what have you done with the bandages? And what are you doing out of that bed?” she demanded. Even her voice reminded Sam of his neighbor's Staffordshire terrier, back in Sun City.
If it looks like a bulldog, and it barks like a bulldog…,
he thought. And this bulldog is immune to the old Conner two-dollar smile.

“Oh! And why is that IV?… Oh, this is highly irregular! You've no business walking around in your condition. Now, be a good boy and get back into bed this instant!”

Sam shook his head and again started for the chest. “Sorry. Can't do that. I've got to find my sister. Where are my clothes?”

As Sam searched the drawers, he could hear the woman's indignant grunting and stuttering. He couldn't be sure, but if her muffled sounds were any indication, he figured her blood pressure was approaching critical mass. Abruptly, the door slammed and Nurse Fido was gone. Sam sighed, then finished his search of the chest. All the drawers were empty.

Well, ain't this a bitch!

Based on Nurse Fido's hasty retreat, Sam figured there were a couple of possible outcomes. First, someone might have the good sense to page a doctor, who would then come post-haste and explain why Sam was in a hospital, then take him to Kat. The second possibility was that Nurse Fido would summon some muscle, most likely a pair of ex–high school jocks– turned–hospital orderlies, who would manhandle his near-naked skinny ass back into bed.

Before Sam could finish the thought, the solid oak door swung back with sufficient force to loosen the hinges.
Ah, lucky me. Possibility number two just arrived.

Sam turned toward the door and saw a pair of husky thugs, both dressed in hospital greens and smiling with sadistic anticipation. Nurse Fido stood in the hallway behind them, her facial expression alternating between a scowl and a smirk. Sam spread his hands wide in supplication.

“Guys, I just want to find my sister. Back off.”

The largest of the orderlies, a barrel-chested, no-necked behemoth, came through the doorway with the only slightly smaller man on his flank. Sam backed up to the bed.

“C'mon, fellas, you really don't want to do this.”

“Then don't make us do anything you'll regret,” said the largest of the orderlies. “Climb back into bed and let Nurse Sheppard do her job. If you don't, we'll have to put the leather restraints on you.”

“Can't do that, man. Like I told you, I've got to find my sister.”

The second orderly smiled and said, “Don't say we didn't warn you, Mr. Conner, but we've got our orders.” Nurse Fido had stepped into the room and stood behind the orderlies. She was wearing a smug smile.

Sam grabbed the IV pole and held it in a two-handed grip like a chromed spear as he backed up to the bed. “Don't try it, man. I ain't in the mood!”

A familiar voice boomed from out in the hallway, “Stop!”

The orderlies froze and exchanged worried glances. A second later, Thomas Falco stepped into the room and pushed past the two men. Enrique DeLorenzo was close behind.

Sam expected the two men to try talking him into submitting to the orderlies. He was surprised when Falco took a position between Sam and the door, then turned to face the orderlies.

Falco said, “You're dismissed, gentlemen. Leave. Now.”

“Who in hell do you think you are?” said the nurse. “This is
my
infirmary and you've no authority down here.”

The orderlies looked uncertainly at each other. The larger of the two men turned to Falco, swallowed hard, and said, “We've got our orders.” As an afterthought, he added a hasty “sir.” Apparently, the goons in white knew Thomas Falco.