He immediately reached out and caught her by the arm. "What do you think you’re doing?"
"You tried to rape me you bastard, and I'm calling the police."
Quinn's eyes had death in them as they looked deeply into hers, and the tone of his voice was low and threatening, "I wouldn't do that. Not if you want Kirk to stay healthy."
"Your brother? Your making a threat against your own brother?"
"Where you're concerned, he's not my brother, he's my enemy."
She looked closely at his flashing eyes. He was insane, she was sure of it now. She pulled away, watching as his long dark shadow moved in her direction. She turned and began running toward the stairs to her room. When she got there she slammed the door closed, then locked it. Still feeling vulnerable, she looked around wildly and found a heavy chair. She dragged it along the floor and pushed it up under the doorknob. She sat cringing on the bed for a while until everything got quiet. Finally, she got up, hoping Quinn had gone to bed. She walked out on the veranda and drank in the cool air in large gulps. Then just as she was about to go back in, something caught her eye. She looked down and saw Quinn standing in a shadow looking up at her—the light of the full moon exposing a glinting madness in his eyes.
Dr. Vincent Wilder's expert hands cut, scraped, peeled, and shaped Kirk's face for five solid hours. The doctor knew it would be an exhausting job, a rigorous job, but he met the challenge head-on, and dug in, brought out, built up, and smoothed over until he began to see the results he was hoping for. When he had explained to Kirk that the surgery would have to be done in stages, Kirk almost changed his mind, and the doctor had to counsel him every step of the way.
It was touch and go for a while, but because of the doctor’s excellent skill, the impossible became possible, and now as he looked down at the perfectly formed face before his weary eyes, he knew it was a masterpiece. He had successfully taken the deep wounds that had ruined a man's life and scraped and cleansed them with his scalpel. He had cut out the ruined, the dead, the deformed, and restored and built up the good, solid, living, healthy tissue upon which this prisoner of darkness could rebuild his life. Instead of burying himself deep, he could rise up and live again. It was at times like this that Dr. Wilder felt like a god, and took great pride in knowing that with a few little additional cosmetic touches here and there, his skilled, trained hands had made Kirk Grayson's face better than it had ever been.
* * * *
Chyna turned when she heard the door open and a gurney, with Kirk lying on it, roll in. She gasped when she saw his head swathed in bandages. Dr. Wilder walked in behind the cart and put his arms around her shoulder. Chyna couldn't help it, but the sight of Kirk lying helpless, covered with bandages, brought tears to her eyes. She turned and buried her head in Dr. Wilder's chest, trying to muffle her sobs.
The doctor spoke very softly. "He's going to be all right, Chyna. The operation was an absolute success. If everything heals the way it should, and I have no reason to think it won't, then he'll be just fine."
Her frightened, tear-filled eyes looked up and asked. "What do you mean 'if'?"
The doctor shrugged. "If Kirk doesn't get mad and start pulling his bandages off before the healing is complete. You have to understand, he’s been through a lot, and living in bandages can be frustrating.” He looked down at her. “Almost like suffocating slowly. He’ll have an irresistible urge to tear them off, believe me.”
Chyna watched as the orderlies strapped Kirk’s hands down. “What are they doing?”
“His hands have to be strapped down while he’s unconscious, otherwise he could pull them off in his sleep. It’s just a precaution until he becomes used to them.”
“It seems so cruel.”
"Don’t worry, I've already warned him about it, so he's prepared."
"How long will it be, doctor?"
"To be honest, this is new territory for me. So much of what I have to tell you is not based on experience, but merely upon medical knowledge, which can vary in each case. First of all you have to keep in mind this was not just simple cosmetic surgery where a few laser cuts here and there takes ten years off someone’s face. I've had to cut so deep that the damaged side of his face has been practically reshaped. Usually bandages come off very quickly, but in Kirk’s case they’ll come off in stages. The scarring was very deep, and the whole bandage will have to stay on as long as the healing is intense. During that time his face will burn, so we have to keep his bandages changed, put a special oil on his face, and controlled doses of pain medication have to be given to him so he stays comfortable, but doesn't build up a dependence. As he heals, he’ll slowly graduate to a lighter bandage, and so on. He's young and very healthy, so we should be seeing some marked improvement after about ten to fourteen days.”
Chyna frowned.
“I know it sounds like a long time, but if he does better than we expect, it could be shorter. You've got to understand, to a person who has their head wrapped up continuously day in and day out, even a few hours can seem endless. And sleeping will be difficult at first. If Kirk does lose his temper and tries to tear them off, I won’t be at all surprised. Believe it or not, it has happened, and to someone wearing them for a much shorter period of time."
"When can he go home?"
"Unfortunately, that, we’ll have to play by ear. It will all depend on how well Kirk heals up. Aside from his pain, he’s weak right now, so we have to build up his energy level, pump him full of good, potent vitamins to give the healing process a good start. But we'll keep an eye on him, and if he seems to be doing well, he'll be home before you know it."
"I'm just so worried about him, doctor."
The doctor smiled down at her. "As long as Kirk knows you're waiting for him I don't see how he can keep from bouncing back.” He chuckled. “Do you know what he said just before he went under?”
“What?”
“Don’t touch the dimple, doc, Chyna likes it.”
Chyna laughed and cried at the same time. “Oh doctor, I love him so much.”
“I know, and as long as Kirk knows that, he’ll be fine. Keep in mind the healing process works better when the patient is in a good frame of mind. You know, not worrying about anything. It'll be important for you to be here as often as you can to let Kirk know everything is okay between you two. You know, talk to him about your future together. Tell him you love him. You'll be surprised what that'll do for his morale. It's probably the best medicine he'll receive. I wouldn't be surprised if in no time at all he'll be jumping out of that bed, ready to get started."
Chyna dabbed at her eyes, then smiled up at him. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
The doctor frowned. "You look tired, Chyna. He's going to be out for some time. Why don't you think about getting some rest."
"I wish I could, but a friend of mine died, and I have to hop a plane for New York. The funeral is tomorrow."
Chyna went over to Kirk's bed and looked down at him. Her heart ached. He seemed so helpless. She smiled at the funny looking holes, and leaned down and kissed his bandage, leaving a red lip print on it. She went back over to the doctor and asked him to show it to Kirk when he woke, then left—on a long, heartbreaking journey.
* * * *
Chyna was on a plane that same day to New York. She slept from the time she registered in the hotel until seven the next morning. She had breakfast in her room then hailed a cab to Reyna's funeral. When Chyna walked in she sat in the back, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. Unavoidable tears formed in her eyes as she heard the elderly, gray-haired minister speaking words of comfort. She tried, but couldn't keep the tears from flowing, and finally when it was over and she stepped up to view the body, she thought she was going to faint.
When she looked down into the lovely face of her former agent and friend, a flurry of happy, smiling faces paraded before her. She saw Reyna's raven hair blowing in the wind as they walked down Broadway chattering endlessly about men. Then Reyna's wild movements as she danced the twist at a 50's club in celebration of one of Chyna's books. It had hit the bestseller list. She would never forget Reyna's laughing face when they jogged through Central Park, then played in a spewing fire hydrant with a bunch of kids. Later that same day they had bought a hot dog from a street vendor, and Reyna laughingly threatened to put a bib on Chyna when she dribbled mustard down her chin.
Her eyes slowly shifted to Reyna’s hands, and noticed the long cuffs of the tailored blouse she was wearing. It was the kind she would have worn to the office. Her mind flashed backward to the day she had seen blood dripping from those wrists. Now they were clean, and covered just so. Even in death she looked tailored, business-like, as if she were going to rise up any minute and go to the office. Her eyes clouded over when she remembered the crumpled picture of herself smudged with Reyna's blood. Yes, she loved Reyna. Perhaps not in the same way that Reyna loved her, but still, she did love her.
Tears trailed down Chyna's face as she reached out, her hand moving lovingly along the smooth line of Reyna's face. But when she felt the cold, stiff skin she abruptly jerked it back, realizing in odd relief that the painted up body in the coffin wasn’t Reyna. They were burying an empty shell. Reyna was really gone.
Later, when the chapel was completely empty, an older woman came up behind Chyna and led her to an empty pew. "I'm sorry to intrude, but the press is outside. Will you be able to talk to them?"
"If I had gotten there just a little sooner, maybe I could have saved her."
"Now, now, don't start blaming yourself, dear. There's nothing anyone could have done." Just then someone was there with a glass of water. With a whispered, “Thank you,” to the bearer, the older woman pushed it in Chyna's hand. "Here drink this, it'll help. By the way, my name is Hilda Thurston. I work here, and I’m a great fan of yours."
Chyna smiled, then drank the water down quickly. When the glass was empty, she held it, looking at it curiously, her thoughts a jumbled mess of memories.
"What about the press? Can you handle them?" Mrs. Thurston asked, intruding on her thoughts.
"Reyna always told me to honor the press, so I know she would want me to."
The two women sat there a little longer while Chyna tried to get herself together. When she was ready, she nodded to Mrs. Thurston who led her out to the front where microphones of all shapes and sizes were pushed in her face. Chyna was dreading answering questions about Reyna, but for some reason the reporters seemed to be avoiding it. Could it be that the unthinking, cruel press was actually trying to spare her feelings?
"Ms. Marsh, do you have another book coming out soon?" Before she could answer one question, another would be yelled out.
"Ms. Marsh, what is the mystery surrounding your disappearance for a while?"
"Ms. Marsh, there are rumors that you've met someone, but he seems to be a man of mystery always staying in the background. Is there anything you can tell us about him?"
Chyna just naturally thought that all the questions she was asked would be about Reyna and their friendship. When it wasn't she was relieved and took a deep breath while she smiled into the cameras. No sooner had she felt that flood of relief course through her than the question came that stood out among all the rest.
"Ms. Marsh, can you tell us what Reyna Phillip's deep dark secret was? Everyone knows that you two were close. Was it mere coincidence that she died right after learning you were involved with a man? Ms. Marsh," the reporter continued, "Do you know
why
Reyna Phillips committed suicide?”
When the others heard his questions, there was complete silence. It seemed that in one short moment birds stopped chirping, engines stopped roaring, babies stopped crying, trains stopped whistling, and planes stopped flying. It seemed that the whole world stood still to hear her answer. Chyna looked down at her beautiful ring and twisted it around on her finger, thinking about the day she received it, and the crumpled picture of herself she would see in her mind for the rest of her life. She could still hear Kirk's words,
Did you know Reyna was in love with you?
Those words echoed over and over through her mind as she looked out at the eager faces reaching and clawing, each one of them willing to sell their souls for a scoop. It would be so easy. If she let this story out, the press would go crazy. Her books would be the hottest thing on the market. She could write her own ticket, and be set for the rest of her life.
She looked out at the sea of faces and smiled a dazzling smile for the rapid flash of the cameras. As she prepared to speak, no one moved. The crowd stood dead still, and with a strong, smooth voice she spoke into the microphones.
"Reyna, uh…Ms. Phillips was in love—" Hearing the electrified sound of her own voice echoing across the crowd of hungry, greedy faces she paused, not being able to go on. “—with her work," she finally whispered, still seeing the bloody crumpled up photograph swirling in her mind. “We were friends, that’s all." Refusing to say anymore, she spotted a taxi at the curb, and walked toward it. She felt the crush of the reporters around her, shouting voices, and microphones that were continuously pushed into her face just before she disappeared into the safety of a taxi.