In Your Dreams (14 page)

         
Fine. He’d open the discourse. Maybe throw her off-script. “Where’d Xavia go?”

         
“She’s with her Elder Counselor, same as you.” Verity laced her fingers
together and propped her chin on her clasped hands. “Do you know why you were
summoned here?”

         
Yeah, right. First rule of interrogation: let the perp fill in the blanks to
figure out what he knew. Give him the rope to hang himself. Not gonna happen.
Sean looked her dead in the eye—literally. “Nope. Not a clue.”

         
Her fine eyebrows arched in twin half-moons. Picking up his clipboard from the
table, she jerked her fingers in his direction. “Come closer. I want you to see
something.”

         
He shifted his legs to the floor and pulled the captain’s chair toward her.
Onscreen, Xavia sat on a sunny flower-laden porch, steely-eyed and
steely-boned, arms folded over her chest. “You told me you wanted me to get
close to him. I assumed that meant being able to use whatever talents he had to
my own advantage.”

         
“You assumed no such thing,” a bass voice admonished. “You both knew you had no
authorization for such an act. The two of you discussed which one would take
the fall, if you were caught.”

         
She glanced at her manicured nails. “So if you know all that, why ask me? Seems
like you already have the answers. Forget the interrogation. If you’re going to
punish me, go ahead. I saved that child’s life. Whatever you dish out to me was
worth it.”

         
Sean looked up. “Hey. What does she mean about getting close to me?”

         
“Never mind that. Why did you do it, Sean?”

         
“Do what?”

         
“Use Isabelle Fichetti to interfere with Nicole Zuniga’s attempted suicide.”

         
“To save a life. What would you have me do? Sit there and watch that poor kid
sleep herself here when Isabelle could make a phone call and change her fate?”

         
“Your sensory link with Miss Fichetti was not intended for that purpose.”

         
Ah, so there really was an intention behind his screwy circuitry. Score another
point for his suspicious nature. “Then, what was the purpose?”

         
“You’ll find that out in time.”

         
Bastards. Still keeping secrets, still manipulating souls. When Sean thought
back to all the times Luc had tried to tell him the Board was against them, not
for
them. How often he’d insisted the Elders set up tests for schmucks
like them to fail. But, no. No matter how long he’d been here, Sean always
wanted to believe his actions had merit, that what he did here mattered. If Luc
were here now, he’d laugh so hard the walls would shake. Everything the Elders
and the damned mysterious Board did was a test, a game where only they knew the
rules. Luc had always known that. Sean had always debated. He was a naive fool.

         
“Okay, then.” He leaned back in the chair, arms folded behind his head—as if he
didn’t give a damn what she thought. Because, honestly? He didn’t. “Why did
Xavia’s counselor tell her to get close to me?”

         
“That, too, will be revealed in time.”

         
They just had to keep pulling strings. He rose to his feet. “I guess we’re done
here.”

         
“Sit, Sean.”

         
“No, thanks. I have to get back to Isabelle. Make sure she’s all right.”
          “Sit.” The single
syllable, spoken in her usual mellifluous voice, commanded obedience.

         
He sat.

         
“Isabelle’s fine,” she told him after he’d complied. “Which is more than I can
say for you at the moment.”

         
“What do you mean?”

         
“The Board has ruled that, in convincing Miss Fichetti to call Nicole’s mother,
you showed a lack of responsibility to your offender. She is still too fresh
from her own suicide attempt and could be susceptible to suggestion. By
involving her in another offender’s case, you displayed a reckless disregard
for her fragile nature.”

         
Was that what the Board thought of Isabelle? That she was fragile? Ha. He’d
have to tell her that next time they talked. She’d spit venom and blister the
sidewalk.

         
“Not to mention the obvious issues that might have arisen should she explain to
anyone how she knew of Nicole’s situation,” Verity added, her lips twisting in
a moue of distress. “We have, therefore, decided to restrict your access to
her.”

         
He stiffened. Now, she had his undivided attention. “In what way?”

         
“In the same way as all other probation officers. Moving forward, we will
expect you to limit your communication with her to the hours when she’s asleep.
All mental telepathy will remain in her dreams. You will not leave this realm
in order to spend time with her, no matter what the situation. Nor will you
discuss with your offender what happens here or why you’re no longer able to
come and go as you please. Is that understood?”

         
In other words, they were going to cut him off from Isabelle except for dreams,
but not allow him to explain why. Cute. “Fragile” Isabelle would think he’d
abandoned her—like her mother, like her ex-husband, like her agent and all
those Hollywood phonies—he’d have no way to contradict her assumption. “What if
I don’t comply?”

         
“You’ll condemn not only yourself to punishment, but Xavia, as well.”

         
Christ. Who came up with this shit? The Board, the supreme ruler here, had to
be some kind of demented old despot. Genghis Khan, Tamerlane, and Ivan the
Terrible rolled into one.

         
While Verity glared at him, he managed a curt nod. Disappointment settled
inside him, but he refused to let her see any change in emotion on his face.
Instead, he stole a page from Xavia and studied his nails before glancing at
the cruel woman across the table, his banal mask in place. “Are we done now?”

         
“Go. “ She sighed and waved a dismissive hand. “But, Sean? Be very careful.
Your insubordination has placed you dangerously close to reaching the end of
our patience.”

         
He rose again, headed to the back door that, in life, would lead to the narrow
patch of dirt yard between his parents’ house and the neighbors’, but now
gained him access to Sherman and the exterior of the auditorium.

         
“Ditto.”

         
Once in the midst of the crowds again, he struggled to process all the info
he’d just gathered. Between what was said and what wasn’t said, he had a lot to
digest. As he meandered through the queue of the walking dead—those who’d yet
to be processed—a dark head with hair cropped short caught his eye. The kid.
Again.

         
This time, he planned to follow. Find out what he was doing here.

         
He turned in the kid’s direction, gaze pinned to the lanky figure striding away
until someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he whirled to face the concerned
look in Sherman’s wizened eyes.

         
“Let him go, Sean. For your own sake, as well as Xavia’s. Don’t pursue him.”

         
“What the hell does that mean?”

         
Sherman shook his head, his expression solemn. “Don’t ask. Just heed my words.
Please.”

         
“Forget it.” Sean shook him off. “There’s a reason he’s here and a reason I
keep seeing him. I need to find out what those reasons are.”

         
“You’re assuming he knows.”

         
“Are you telling me he doesn’t?”

         
“I’m telling you there are forces in play that you don’t know about. Please,
Sean. Don’t. Do. This.”

         
“Sorry, Sherman. I have to.” But when he turned around again, the kid was gone.

         
“I know it sounds scary, but gamma knife treatment is not a surgery at all.”

         
Isabelle sat across from Dr. Regalbuto in the neurosurgery office suite,
fingers gripping Justin’s hand tight enough to crush his bones.

         
Behind the doctor’s shiny bald head, a corkboard held pinned photos of smiling
patients, some with thumbs-up, others held in loved ones’ embraces, all happy
and healthy-looking. Did she dare think she might join that wall of joy someday
soon?

         
“We use gamma radiation in targeted doses to attack the tumor and nothing
else.”

         
She tore her gaze and hopes away from the corkboard to gauge the doctor’s
expression behind his watery blue eyes. He had his hands—steady hands that held
her very life—spread wide over his immaculate desk blotter. The entire
consultation room reflected a sterile organization she’d come to appreciate in
the man. Aside from the photographs, no knick-knacks or personal items
cluttered the shelves; not a speck of dust marred the polished wooden
furnishings. Every leather-bound book stowed in the floor-to-ceiling shelves
stood in an even, regimented line.

         
She liked that the doctor seemed so...meticulous. She wouldn’t want a sloppy
brain surgeon. “How do you...how can you be sure you won’t miss and fry my
frontal lobe?”

         
If her question insulted him, he didn’t show any reaction. The neurosurgeon
remained in professionally placid mode. He didn’t even blink. “The radiation is
actually quite focused. Here. Allow me to explain…” He lifted a plastic figure
of a person’s head, the left half sliced away to show a cross-section of the
brain, placed it on his desk, and used his pen to poke at the center top. “Your
tumor encompasses this area here. Because of all the healthy tissue surrounding
the tumor, gamma knife is the best option to get at the malignant cells without
damaging that healthy tissue.”

         
“You said the tumor is deep?” Justin asked.

         
“Yes,” Dr. Regalbuto replied. “Which adds to the delicacy of the situation. At
first glance, we had assumed the malignancy was all surface, but the more
recent images we’ve taken show us a series of glioma penetrating nearly to the
cerebellum.” He pointed his pen about four inches down on one side, to a
garlic-bulb-shaped red blob near the bottom rear of the plastic head. “This complication
had us rethinking the original resection Isabelle and I discussed at her
initial consultation. I’d like to give you the details about the procedure, if
that’s all right.”

Isabelle
nodded her permission, and Justin added his own, “Yes, please.”

         
“On the morning you’re admitted, you’ll be administered a mild anesthetic—just
four local shots. Here.” He pointed to one side of the plastic forehead, then
the other. “Here.” Turning the figurine around, he pointed to two spots on the
back of the head. “Here and here. We’ll then attach a lightweight frame to your
head.”

         
“Attach?” Isabelle gripped Justin’s fingers tighter, and he sucked in a sharp
breath, but didn’t let go. “How?”

         
“They’re screwed against your forehead and the back of your skull. That’s what
the locals are for,” the doctor replied, too unperturbed for her peace of mind.
“It’s relatively painless. No drilling, no incisions, I promise. Once the frame
is in place, we’ll bring you in for another MRI to work off the most recent
image we can get. This MRI will be uploaded into a computer in the radiosurgery
room. Your surgical team, including myself, a radiation oncologist, and a
physicist—”

         
“A physicist? Like...” She swallowed a lump that might have been her heart.
“...a
nuclear
physicist is treating me? Am I in any kind of danger? I’m
not gonna wind up radioactive or start glowing in the dark, am I?”

         
Dr. Regalbuto offered an indulgent smile, as if he understood her dread or had
heard that specific fear thousands of times before. “Dr. Willard is a
medical
physicist. He’s part of the surgical team, one of the best in the field, and
will help us pinpoint exactly where the rays need to go to do the most damage
to the tumor. Once we’ve collected all the data, we’ll attach a helmet like
this one to the frame on your head.” He showed a photo of what looked like an
enormous space-age colander. “This keeps the tumor immobile while we’re
blasting the gamma rays.”

         
Her imagination pictured some laser light show inside her skull, and she
winced. “Will it hurt?”

         
The doctor shrugged. “Some patients experience pressure when the frame is first
applied, but it’s a momentary discomfort. During the rest of the procedure, you
shouldn’t experience any pain.”

         
“What about my hair?” She released her death grip on Justin and, with trembling
hands, ran her fingers through the blond ends. “Is it all going to fall out?
And will it grow back?”

         
“There might be some hair loss, but it’s minimal.”

         
“And the recovery time?” Justin interjected.

         
“I’ll want to keep her overnight, based on the intricacy involved in her case,
but that’s just a precaution. After that, she’ll be ready to go home. I assume
she’ll be staying with you after the procedure?”

         
“Yes, mmm-hmm.” Justin nodded.

         
Oh, good. The triple acceptance
. Nice to know her best friend was so
totally on board with this bizarro treatment plan. Especially since she was
still skeptical. She didn’t care what good ol’ Doc Hollywood here said. “Gamma
knife” sure didn’t sound painless to her.

         
“That’s good,” the doctor said. “We prefer she not be alone. Not that we expect
any complications, but it’s always better for a patient to have someone close
by, just in case. One of the team’s nurses will review her aftercare with you
both before she’s released.”

         
Just in case. Just in case, what? She wanted to ask, but Justin beat her to the
punch, posing his own version of the question. “Should we be worried about
anything?”

         
She shot him a scathing glare. Worried? Him? No. The worst thing that would
happen to him is she might expire while lying on his five-hundred-dollar
sheets, requiring a full makeover of that hideous pink bedroom. No great
tragedy.

Her?
Hell to the yeah. She had
a lot
to worry about.

A
thousand what ifs buzzed in her head. What if she had a seizure? What if the
procedure didn’t work? What if he missed and hit her healthy tissue? What if
she wound up in a coma due to some screwup? What if the radiation hit one of
her old silver fillings and set her mouth on fire?

         
“The procedure is fairly simple, and since there’s no actual cutting, there
shouldn’t be any complications,” Dr. Regalbuto said before her imagination
could conjure up other worst case scenarios. “But, again, we’ll know more after
the procedure. Any other questions?”

         
Yeah. The Big One. “What are my chances?”

         
Aha. The perfect professional veneer finally cracked as Dr. Regalbuto frowned.
“There’s always a chance of failure or success in every procedure. I can’t
stress enough that your particular tumor is fairly large and invades deep into
the brain. I
will
say your chances are significantly better if you
undergo the gamma knife rather than not.”

         
“Meaning...?” Justin probed.

         
The doctor glanced at Isabelle. What? Now she had the answers? Just because
she’d read the pamphlet he gave her at her last visit didn’t make her an expert
in the field.

         
Then again, she did know the answer. Knew what the good doctor didn’t want to
say.

         
So, okay. She’d tackle this one. “Meaning, if I don’t have the gamma knife
thingy, I’ll be dead before next Christmas.”

         
Justin’s jaw dropped, and he whispered a choked-up, “No.”

         
“Yes.” She sighed. Cripes, she could practically see him planning her funeral
in his head already. And knowing Justin, he’d begun with the guest list, trying
to figure out how to get people who didn’t really know her to attend. He bit
his lip, and she swallowed a sob. Which was better? Having someone who cared
enough to go into emotional overdrive at the thought of her pending demise? Or
having no one so she didn’t have to see the pain of her loss in his
expressions?

         
His teary eyes narrowed in her direction. “I don’t care what you say. You’re
definitely going through with this gamma knife thingy.”

         
No matter how many times they’d discussed this, he still didn’t want to face
the truth. “All this procedure does is buy me time, Justin,” she murmured in a
pacifying tone. “It’s not a cure. Not in my case.”

         
Clutching the desk’s edge, white-knuckled, he pulled his chair closer and
veered his attention to the doctor. “How much time?”

         
“That’s hard to say,” Dr. Regalbuto admitted. “I’ve known some patients with
similar...circumstances...who’ve lived up to seven years after the procedure.”

         
Hope lit up Justin’s eyes, but Isabelle pulled him back into her reality. “Or
it could do nothing for me and I can still be dead within the year.”

         
The doctor nodded. “Unfortunately, that’s true. We’ll have a better idea on
your prognosis as we monitor your progress after the procedure. But let’s think
positively for now. A healthy outlook is just as important as any treatment
plan we develop.”

         
Justin cleared his throat. “When do you plan to do this...knife thing?”

         
“Gamma knife. I’d like to schedule the procedure before the end of the month.
The sooner, the better.” The doctor nodded at Isabelle. “Okay?”

         
With two pairs of eyes boring into her, she squirmed in her cushy leather
chair. Like she had any choice.

She
stifled another sigh and folded her hands in her lap. No choice. Little chance.
Not much hope.

“What
do you have open next week?”

~~~~

         
“What’d they tell you?” Sean slapped the sunny yellow orb against the wall,
watched it rebound toward Xavia.

         
She side-stepped and sent the fireball sizzling back. “Same as they told you,
I’d imagine. That we had no business using your sensory link to Isabelle
Fichetti for our own agenda.”

         
“Yup.” He returned the orb with ease—and just a hint of spin.
Let’s see her
return that missile.

         
“And I’ve been placed on probation. How ironic is that? The supervisor of the
Afterlife’s Probation Department is on probation.”

         
“That’s my fault,” he replied. “I’m sorry I dragged you into my mess.”

         
“It’s not your fault. Not your mess. I dragged you into my mess with Nicole. So
we’re equally at fault.”
Wham
! Another slam toward the wall by Xavia.
This time, the ball zipped into a corner, boomeranged upright, and collided
with the ceiling where it shattered into a rainfall of sparks. She oohed as she
watched the light show, then turned to Sean with an apologetic shrug. “Whoops.
Your point, I guess.”

         
“No, that’s just a fault. Two of those equal a point—except when it comes to
the Elders. Then it’s one fault and you’re out. My serve. Again.”

         
She crouched, gaze fixed on the wall. “Go.”

         
But he didn’t form a new orb. Instead, he relaxed his stance. “Can I ask you
something?”

         
Straightening, she faced him. “What?”
          “During the meeting with
my EC,” he said, “she showed me a bit of what was going on in your meeting with
Ukiah.”

         
“Uriah,” she corrected.

         
“Yeah. Right. Anyway, you were telling him that you used my sensory link
because you were ordered to get close to me or something.”

         
A guarded look fell over her eyes. “Uh-huh...”

         
“When were you told that and why?”

         
Her lips tightened into a grim line.

         
“If you’re worried about insulting me, don’t sweat it. I stopped caring what
the Elders thought of me a long time ago. Just spit it out. I can take it.”

         
“The first time was during my consultation before they transferred you to
Probation. Your arrival in my department caused a huge stir.” She ducked her
head, gaze pinned to her feet. “Which probably explains why I gave you such a
hard time when you first showed up. Uriah really had me on edge.”

         
“Why? What’d they tell you about me?”

         
She shook her head. “It’s not what they told me about you. It’s what they
wanted me to
do
about you. I already told you most of my staff handles
ten times the caseload you’re carrying on any given day. That in itself is odd.
But you were assigned Isabelle and no one else, and Uriah stressed that you’d
prove difficult, but I was to stand my ground with you and basically give you
hell. His exact words were, ‘Hold his feet to the fire at every turn.’ What do
you think he meant by that?”