Soulminder (32 page)

“Okay,” Nic said cautiously. He hated the good news/bad news game. “What’s the bad news?”

“It looks like you might have had some physical traumas in your past,” Woods said, scrolling to another page and swiveling the screen around toward him. “A couple of serious breaks in your arms—one each in left and right—plus a lot of smaller fractures in your fingers.”

Nic glanced at Dr. Blanchard, sitting quietly beside Rosabel across the room. “So, what, I got run over by a bus or something?” he asked.

“If you were, you walked in front of at least three different busses,” Woods said. “It looks like the injuries extend over at least a couple of weeks. Possibly longer.”

“What about soft tissue?” Blanchard asked. “Any scars or torn muscle fibers?”

“I haven’t checked that yet,” Woods said. “I only spotted the breaks because they’re obvious on the CT scan.”

“Let’s check now,” Blanchard said, standing up. “Is the exam room still available?”

“I think so,” Woods said, frowning. “Protocol is to finish the biochem analysis before we move on to a full physical.”

“I’m aware of that,” Blanchard said. “We can do the physical while the computer chews through the biochem data.”

“I’m not sure I’m authorized to do that.”

“You are now,” Blanchard said firmly. “I suggest you check my status.”

“All right, but the protocol standard is pretty high-level,” Woods warned, punching some keys. “I don’t know anyone who can—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Yes, ma’am,” she said in a suddenly subdued voice.

“Come with me, Sergeant,” Blanchard said, gesturing to Nic. “Dr. Woods, please set the biochem scan for a Level Two analysis, and then join us.”

“Thank you,” the disembodied voice came from behind the glare of the audition room lights. “We’ll be in touch. Next?”

And with that, it was over.

Lydekker felt numb as he walked through the lot toward his car. So that was it. Thirty seconds’ worth of reading, and then they’d tossed him out like some amateur from Bakersfield summer stock. They hadn’t asked him to do a second passage, hadn’t asked him to stick around—and he knew for a fact that at least two of the hopefuls
had
been asked to stay—hadn’t even asked him to read opposite one of the other actors or staff. A single, thirty-second monologue, and it was over.

And from the highs of yesterday’s skiing adventure and his early morning dreams, the world had dropped straight into the tank.

For a while he just drove aimlessly, too depressed and listless even to bother cursing out all the idiots on the road. The sky was covered with gray clouds, the perfect background for his mood, and the city seemed even dirtier than usual. Finally, for no particular reason, and with no particular purpose, he pulled over and parked.

To his surprise, he found himself half a block from the Walkabout USA office.

The same woman was manning the front desk. “Good morning, Mr. Lydekker,” she greeted him. “How was your ski trip?”

“Fine,” Lydekker said, forcing himself to be polite despite the woman’s gratingly cheerful smile. “What else have you got?”

She took the abruptness in stride. “Most anything you want,” she said, keying her computer. “We have motocross, waterskiing—”

“I just did skiing, and I can do motocross on my own,” Lydekker cut her off. “What else?”

She studied his face. “Most anything you want,” she repeated, reaching past her computer and doing something out of his view. “The only question is how exciting you want the experience to be. And how dangerous.”

Lydekker frowned.
Dangerous
? Someone else was providing the body for these little stunts, after all, bodies whose owners knew that some total stranger would be running them. Just how much risk were these people willing to take for whatever Walkabout paid them?

“
Dangerous
might be the wrong word,” a new voice suggested from Lydekker’s left.

Lydekker turned to see a middle-aged man in an expensive suit standing just inside the hallway in that direction. “Excuse me?” he said.

“I think
daring
would be the better term,” the man said. “Daring in all senses of the word.” He gestured behind him. “If you’d like to step into my office, perhaps I can elaborate a bit.”

Lydekker hesitated. But really, why not? It wasn’t like the day—and maybe his whole life—wasn’t shot to hell anyway. “Sure,” he said. “Lead the way.”

The physical took another hour, and was easily the most thorough check-up Nic had ever had.

And in the end, they still didn’t have any answers.

“There’s definitely some residual soft-tissue damage,” Woods said when she was finally finished. “Most of it’s borderline microscopic, and a lot is clustered around and through various neural groups.” She shot a hooded look at Blanchard. “Most of it wouldn’t even be noticed unless you were specifically looking for it.”

Blanchard nodded, not bothering with any I-told-you-so looks. “What’s the timeframe look like?”

“Like the broken bones, it seems to have occurred over several weeks,” Woods said. “More recently than the fractures, of course, since the fractures have completely healed.”

“How long ago?”

Woods shrugged. “The bones, probably three to four months. The nerve damage could be as recent as two weeks.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Rosabel said. “What kind of injuries take a month to happen to you?”

“Maybe he was a skydiver or motorcycle racer,” Nic suggested. “Not a very good one, either.”

“There’s one more thing,” Woods said. “There are indications around the nose, cheeks, and eyes that the person had some work done. Probably during the period between the broken bones and the neural damage.”

“What kind of work?” Nic asked.

“Precision work,” Woods said. “It would seem to be … ?” She looked at Blanchard, as if afraid to finish the sentence.

Blanchard finished it for her. “Plastic surgery.”

Nic frowned at Rosabel. “Plastic
surgery
? What, on
this
face?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” Rosabel said. But her voice sounded uncertain.

Nic looked back at Blanchard. The woman’s eyes were narrowed, and there was something in her expression that sent a chill up his back. “Doctor?” he prompted.

“You could be right about him being a bad motorcycle racer,” she said. “Someone like that could end up needing a little reconstruction somewhere along the line.”

“But you don’t think that’s the case.”

“No,” she said flatly. “I don’t.”

“Then what?”

Blanchard exhaled a long breath. “I have a thought,” she said. “But I’d rather not say anything more until I’m sure.”

“Is Nic in danger?” Rosabel asked anxiously. “I mean … if the man got into a fight with someone … ”

“I don’t think he’s in danger, no,” Blanchard hastened to assure her. “But you might want to stay close to your hotel for the rest of the day. You’re going to be in town another day or two, right?”

“We’re here until the end of the week,” Rosabel said, still sounding tentative. “Unless you think we should leave.”

“No, please stay,” Blanchard said. “There are some things I want to try to track down, and I’d like you here in case I find something.”

“Can you at least give us a hint?” Nic asked.

“I’d rather not say anything until I’m sure,” Blanchard said. “Trust me: I
will
get to the bottom of this.”

Nic looked at Rosabel. But there didn’t seem to be anything more to be said. At least, not now.

Later, though, Nic was pretty sure he would have a
lot
to say. And not all the words would be polite. “Fine,” he said, turning back to Blanchard. “But make it fast. If this guy was a vain wild-eyed klutz, I want to know it. Preferably before
I
walk in front of a bus.”

It was, Lydekker reflected, about the last thing he’d expected.

At the same time, considering the cesspool that was Southern California, it was practically inevitable.

“Drugs,” he said flatly.

“Not just drugs,” the man assured him. “I’m not talking the pedestrian stuff here—hey, you can get those anywhere. That’s why they’re called pedestrian. I’m talking about designer drugs: the best, brightest, most brain-spinningly powerful stuff on the planet.”

“And of course they’re perfectly safe?” Lydekker asked with just the right edge of mocking irony.

“What do I look like, a used-car salesman?” the man countered. “Of course they’re not safe. That’s why
you
don’t take them. You just borrow the body of the guy who does.”

Lydekker shook his head. “This can’t possibly be legal.”

“Well, see, that’s the real beauty of it,” the man said, grinning slyly. “In point of fact, it
is
perfectly legal. At least your part and our part is. We’re not selling illegal drugs, and you’re not taking them. The guy we hire for the switch—well,
he’s
in a boatload of trouble if he gets caught. But so far he hasn’t. And it’s obvious why he needs the money. It’s really a win-win for everyone.”

Lydekker thought about it. The whole thing was about as twistedly insane as anything he’d ever heard.

But in its own way it made sense. In fact, it made way too much sense.

And he
was
feeling pretty low. A little boost, especially when there was absolutely no danger to himself, might be a good way to burn off an afternoon.

“Well?”

Lydekker squared his shoulders. On the other hand, this wasn’t something you jumped into without taking time for thought and consideration. And, more importantly, without checking the relevant laws and statutes. “I’ll think about it,” he said, standing up. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem,” the man said. “When you’re ready, we’ll be here.”

More to the point, Lydekker reminded himself as he headed back to his car, while there might be occasional roles out there for skiers, there were a
lot
of roles for junkies, ex-junkies, and about-to-be junkies. This might just give him the precise edge he needed.

Besides, he’d heard a lot about some of these designer drugs. Business interests aside, this kind of experiment could be interesting.

The nightmares came back that night, as tense and frightening as they had the night before.

But this time, Nic was ready. Not just for the emotional impact, but with his mind cleared and geared to try to grab onto some of the details instead of letting them blow away in the wind.

Despite Rosabel’s insistence that he’d been shouting in a foreign language, he’d assumed that the dreams would be his typical post-return stuff: images of heat and fear, death and flying bullets, and most especially the IED that had cost him the use of his legs.

To his surprise and dismay, the dreams were totally different. And in a way, even more horrifying.

“I was in a small room,” he murmured to Rosabel as he lay on his back, feeling cold sweat running down the side of his face onto his pillow. “Sitting or lying down, I couldn’t tell which. I couldn’t move my arms or legs. There were bright lights in my eyes, and a bunch of men moving around the room behind the lights. Some of them were laughing.”

He paused, searching Rosabel’s face for some clue as to how she was taking this. But her face was a mask. “Go on,” was all she said.

“They were laughing,” he said, closing his eyes. For some vague reason he felt uncomfortable seeing her watching him. “And then two of them came into the light … and hurt me.”

“How?”

“Every way they could,” he said, a fresh wave of horror rippling through him. “With needles, and knives, and—” He broke off. “Every way they could,” he repeated. “And I couldn’t move at all.”

“And then you woke up?”

“Yes,” he said. “But not until … ” He opened his eyes. “This guy”—he touched his chest—“this guy, Rosabel, was
tortured
.”

For a long moment neither of them spoke. “We have to tell Dr. Blanchard,” Rosabel said at last. “Or someone at the VA. Someone has to be told what happened.”

“Maybe,” Nic said slowly. “But that’s the problem. What
did
happen?”

“I thought you said he was tortured.”

“He was,” Nic said. “But who was torturing him? Terrorists? The mob? Some sadist serial killer? A foreign government?
Our
government?”

Rosabel stared. “You’re not serious.
Our
government?”

“I don’t know,” Nic said, rubbing at his eyes. Suddenly, his whole body felt prickly. “All I know is that everything seems gray these days. There’s no black and white anymore; no good guys in white cowboy hats. Maybe there never were.”

“Of course there were,” Rosabel said fiercely. “There still are. We just have to find them.”

“Maybe,” Nic said. He took a deep breath and looked at the clock. “But we’re not going to find them at four in the morning.” He forced a smile. “They’re all sleeping the sleep of the virtuous, you know.”

Rosabel gave him an equally forced smile. “I guess we can wait until morning to go hunting.”

“Yeah,” Nic said soberly.

He only hoped all the good guys were indeed sleeping the sleep of the virtuous, and not the sleep of the long-since dead and gone.

By eight in the morning Lydekker had made his decision. By ten he was at the Walkabout office, filling out the paperwork.

By noon, he was stumbling down an alley in the body of a junkie.

The alley was a frightening place. It was filthy and fetid, reeking of vomit and urine and hopelessness. The body he was in was even worse: wracked with sores, itching with fleas or lack of hygiene or both, dizzy with hunger and lack of sleep.

But Lydekker didn’t care about any of it. Even as he stumbled along, whatever his host had taken just before the transfer began to take effect.

It was the most powerful, most exhilarating experience he’d ever had. His day of skiing paled in comparison with this new and blazing light. The best meal of his life—the most exquisite lovemaking—the emotional high of his first acting award—all of it was nothing. All that mattered, or would ever matter, was the serene, glorious magic that had ignited his body and lit up his mind.