The Shells Of Chanticleer (23 page)

“So I have to do this?”

“Yes, you do. Come on, it’ll be okay. We don’t have time to talk. Just follow along. We’ll tell you what you need to do,” he said, with an encouraging smile.

We silently left the office and walked down the hallway together. I thought that Sebastian had smiled at me and spoken to me just like my old friend, and I felt my fears about him start to fade a little, my aloofness unsustainable face to face. It was actually nice to have a staff member on my side, even though he hadn’t exactly been up front about it to begin with. I lobbed a weak smile at Sebastian just to test the waters, and he smiled back at me immediately.
Maybe this will be all right,
I hoped.

I looked through the front door of Summer Hall and saw a grey box van that looked like an ambulance but without any medical markings idling outside the front door, its driver at the steering wheel poised and ready. The rest of the team was standing alertly in the dim lit lobby.

“Let’s go,” Miss Clarice commanded, and she waved us on. We walked silently up the double staircase to the third floor, a team of darkly clad bodies passing noiselessly by the closed doorways until we got to Aria’s room at the end of the hall. I was grateful it was nowhere near my room.

Miss Clarice paused for a moment. Then with her gloved hand she deftly turned the doorknob. It clicked open and she pushed the door until it rested fully against the wall. The team followed Miss Clarice into the room quickly. I was last so I could barely squeeze myself in the dark room to watch what happened.

Sprawled on the bed, Aria inhaled deeply but didn’t stir. Two staff members were unfastening the corners of her sheets while the other team members formed a human stretcher with their hands. She was lifted by her sheets and placed very gently onto their outstretched arms. Moving as a synchronized team, she was quickly taken from her bedroom. I followed behind, closing her door quietly. Moving together easily, the human stretcher carried her swiftly down the flights of stairs and then through the lobby to the waiting van. No one saw a thing.

The back doors of the van were thrown open and Aria was laid gently onto a stretcher that was fastened into the van’s interior and securely belted in. I jumped into the van along with everyone else, and when we were buckled up the signal was given to go. I looked at the other faces in the van with me and wondered if they thought it odd that I was there with them. If they did, they didn’t act like it. They all stared ahead, emotionless. I let out a nervous giggle.

It was pitch dark outside but I recognized the utility road that led to the museum. As we pulled up, a large garage door opened in anticipation of our arrival. We drove into a well-lit receiving dock that was chilly and smelled of fuel. Immediately, the team jumped out of the van. I stood to the side and watched as the stretcher was disengaged. Then out came Aria, still dead to the world, on the stretcher. Her eyes were closed, her arms tucked in at her side.

“Steady, boys,” ordered a muscular man who seemed to have taken charge over the expedition. His arms were as well built as Sebastian’s. Then it dawned on me.
Sebastian is just as strong: he must participate in these nocturnal raids all the time.
I stood out of the way as the stretcher was lifted carefully up a short set of stairs and through an open metal door into the building. I followed them up the stairs. The team was loading Aria into an adjacent freight elevator.

Sebastian said, “We are taking her up to the tank. Go with Miss Clarice to the control room.”

I scurried away after the rest of the group.

The control room was a buzz of activity. A large window looked onto the transparent tank, which was filled to the brim with clear, still water. I looked up to the catwalk that Bing had shown me before, watching for the door to open with Aria. Miss Clarice and the rest of the team stood up against the wall, observing silently and out of the way. I joined them there.

A whole team that I did not recognize was in charge now, except for Bing, whose presence in front of one of the monitors surprised me, but only momentarily. In the center of it all was Crispin Sinclair, wearing a headset with a small microphone. I flattened myself as much as I could against the back of the wall by reflex, again aware that I did not want to catch his eye but he was too busy to notice me.

I watched the door to the catwalk anxiously and in a minute saw it swing open. The team walked in, slowly maneuvering the heavy stretcher through the door. As soon as it cleared, they gently lowered the stretcher onto the catwalk. I saw the team members bend down, unbuckling the straps and harnesses that secured Aria. She didn’t move, no matter how much she was jostled.

The tall man with the muscular build stood at attention, looking down at the control room. Crispin was standing still, his left hand leaning on his walking stick, his right arm up in the air.
This must be some kind of signal,
I figured. The technicians were seated, their faces lit up by the digital glow of the computer monitors.

“Gentlemen,” Crispin said, “Are the systems ready?”

Each technician responded affirmatively.

“Initiate the scanning programs,” Crispin stated, his hand still held high.

The technicians pounded a series of codes into their keyboards until every monitor displayed a three-dimensional model of a human form.

Crispin spoke into the headpiece again.

“Let’s go,” he said, and he dropped his arm.

The signal given, the team lifted Aria on her stretcher and walked it to the rim of the tank. Slowly and precisely, they tilted the stretcher on an angle. Aria slipped feet first into the ten-foot tank of water, barely making a sound as her body went under.

I watched through the window in amazement as she sank into the water and then floated up perfectly upright in the center of the tank. Her eyes remained closed and her hair floated up away from her scalp. I could see her image displayed on the computer monitors as the laser strobes scanned her figure up and down, generating long strings of numbers into the computer. The technicians talked quietly as Aria floated peacefully in the brimming tank.

Sebastian said, “Pretty cool, huh?” I hadn’t noticed him slip back in, but I looked up and saw that the team and the stretcher were back down from the catwalk and were now standing at the entranceway to the control room. I could feel him standing right behind me and I forgot that I was supposed to be mad at him.

Watching her floating visage, I whispered, “Are you sure she doesn’t feel anything?”

Sebastian whispered back, “Does she look like she feels anything?”

“No,” I replied. She looked happy, her eyes closed, her face free of her usual anxiety.

Suddenly a beeping sound emitted from the monitors and Crispin smiled. “All set,” he said. Then, into the microphone, he instructed, “Pull the drain.”

I whispered, “What is going on?”

“They are draining the tank. They’ll go in and get her when the water is gone.”

I watched as the water trickled down steadily. Aria floated down with the water until she crumpled on the floor, a wet rag doll oblivious to the wildest night of her life. Opening a side door to the tank, the muscular men placed Aria’s soaking body back on the stretcher.

Miss Clarice shooed us out of the control room and told me to follow her. We went down the hall to a bright room and waited inside. In a minute Aria was brought in and taken off the stretcher and laid out on a waiting table. The men left the room and immediately Miss Clarice and the other staff women were aiming high voltage dryers at her hair and body to remove the moisture from her wet clothes and hair.

“Hurry,” she ordered. “Don’t dawdle. We have fifteen minutes. You shouldn’t need more than that.” With surprise, I saw that in ten minutes Aria was perfectly dried, no wet spots on her clothes, and not a single strand of wet hair. I touched her myself to make sure.

Miss Clarice went to the counter and came back with a small tin tray. On it was a lancet, wrapped in plastic, and alcohol pads in packets. She approached Aria, and taking her hand, quickly swabbed the tip of her middle finger. Ripping open the packet, she took the lancet and pricked the soft cushiony tip of Aria’s middle finger, collecting the blood that oozed out into a clear plastic test tube. She squeezed Arias finger and shook it a little until a few more drops fell out. She wiped Aria’s finger again with a fresh pad and then handed the tube off to a team member.

“There you go,” she said, and the team member promptly exited the room.

The door opened and the stretcher was brought in to load her up. Sebastian grabbed my arm and said, “Come with me. You can see the shell being made. I will take you home separately.”

Miss Clarice overheard and nodded her agreement.

I went with Sebastian further down the hall. In the prep room was a life size mold of what looked like Aria. It had been fashioned exactly to measure from the numbers generated by the scanning lasers. Clear intravenous tubing led from a large vat of liquid into the mold.

“It’s just like the hospital,” I murmured, thinking of the clear tubes pumping medicine into my lifeless shell-like body in the hospital.

“It will start flowing soon,” Sebastian said. “They were just waiting for the blood drop.”

In a minute a yellowish clear liquid flowed through the line and began seeping into the shell form.

“There’s a steel base inside, you know, like a skeleton, so she can stand up,” Sebastian explained.

“Why does it need blood?”

“For verisimilitude. It makes it really a little part of you. But it gives the skin an unnatural, yellowish tint. Crispin likes it anyway.” We watched and Sebastian continued, “It takes about a half an hour to fill and harden the mold. When it’s done we pop off the mold and then we do the hair and makeup and put the clothes on.”

“Hair and makeup?” I asked.

“Sure, the shell needs eyelashes and eye color. The lips need to be reddened and the teeth painted white. Then there are fake nails to apply and hey, do you want to go down to the wig room where they replicate the hair?”

“Okay, why not?” He was acting as if we never fought.

Two doors down was a smaller workroom. A plump middle-aged woman wearing heavy red lipstick was unspooling strands of what looked like raven-black hair.

“Hey MJ, how are you tonight?”

“Doing great, sweetheart. Who is this?” A smile lit up her whole face.

“I’m Macy,” I said. “I’m just watching.”

“I told her she might like to see the hair. You’re such a magician, MJ. You know we all think so.” Sebastian rubbed her back affectionately.

“Well, I do my best,” she said. “So, Macy, is it? The computer sends me the dimensions. I take a basic wig form of that same hair color, be it brown or blonde or black – we do a pretty close job at matching. I have to style the hair, or cut bangs, however they wear it. Then I put the wig on the head form, here, and I lift up the hair, like this and I spray it with Lifting Definer.”

She took a large aerosol can, and holding the hair up and away from the scalp, unleashed an aerosol assault on the wig for about five minutes, covering the hair with a sticky layer of transparent spray, working the can under and over, catching every strand. When she was finished it was straight, hard to the touch, floating hair.

“There we go,” she said, standing back to appraise her finished product. “Go ahead and see what it feels like,” she encouraged me.

I stepped forward and ran my hand along the stiffened hair and I laughed.

“This is really really strange.”

“That’ll last for years!” MJ said proudly, petting her finished effort. “Just beautiful! Now I’m off to deliver it to the make up room,” she said, and she lifted the head form with the floating hair from the table and headed to the door.

“Take care sweetheart,” she winked at Sebastian. “Macy, come again sometime. It gets lonely down here and I love the company.”

“I will,” I promised. It seemed polite to agree.

“After they glue on the hair, we throw on her clothes and she’s finished. It’s really simple. I think they’ll show her off tomorrow.”

I yawned. Then again. “Hey, Sebastian?”

“Yes?”

“I’m really tired. Can I go home now? I can always see her finished shell later, can’t I?”

“That’s a good sign, Macy,” said Sebastian. “It’s hard to want to sleep when you are frightened, and it looks like you are halfway asleep right now.”

“I agree,” I said. “I don’t think I’m going to ping about the shells that much anymore. I think this evening cured me.”

We walked out the front door of the museum to the same black sedan that Bing had used to drive me to Sinclair’s. I stripped off the navy blue staff jacket and leggings and threw them in the back seat. I could barely stay awake while Sebastian drove me back through the early morning to Summer Hall. We were both quiet and didn’t talk until the car pulled up in front and then it was Sebastian who finally broke the ice that had formed between us.

“I think we need to talk about what you found out about me,” he said, looking away, his eyes focused on the dashboard.

Here it comes,
I thought, reminding myself to stay calm, to act nonchalant, no matter how much it hurt. “Alright,” I encouraged him. “You can go first.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “We can take turns. So, let me just start out by saying that I stayed away from you because I thought that was what you wanted, but this is getting silly. I hope you understand that I couldn’t do my job and be as upfront with you as I wanted. It’s my fault you found out and got hurt. I’m sorry about that,” he said, finally looking me in the eye.

I took a few seconds to process his apology, but before I could respond he blurted out, “Are we going to be okay? Can you get over it?” There was pain in his eyes I hadn’t seen before.

He had asked me if we were going to be okay—in his eyes we were still together and he was leaving it up to me. Relief poured over me. I peeled his hand away from where he was gripping the steering wheel and cradled it in my lap. I had been right that my heart would be able to tell immediately how he felt about me. Forgiveness was instantaneous.