Cole’s Law
by Philip J. Lees
“Now really, Mr. Cole,” the doctor said, “you must take less exercise.”
Cole shrugged, feeling the muscles ripple under the tight fabric of his shirt.
“It’s just a stroll now and again, doc.”
The doctor wagged an admonishing finger. “Well, I can see you’ve been overdoing it. You must learn to take it easy. And eat more carbohydrates—the three Ps, remember?—pizza, pasta, potatoes. You’ve got to keep that cholesterol up, you know.” He peered down at Cole as if examining some curiosity on a microscope slide. “How many beers do you drink a day?”
“Two or three. Maybe four.”
“Well try and make it a regular six pack. You need the electrolytes.” He stepped back and indicated it was time to get up. Cole sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the examination bed, feeling his carotid pulse surge to compensate for the change in posture. He flexed his shoulders, stretched his feet to the floor and slid off the bed carefully, resisting the urge to bounce on his toes. He felt so darn good!
The doctor was looking at him quizzically. “Are you feeling at all light-headed, Mr. Cole?”
Come to think of it, he was feeling a bit spacey. “Maybe just a little.” Dizzy spells were the reason he had come here in the first place.
“Smoke?”
“What? Oh, no.”
“Well you should. A pack or so per day will help with the hyperventilation.”
The doctor was scribbling on a pad. He tore off a sheet and handed it to Cole, who read: ‘PPP, beer, smoke’.
“That’s it? No medicine?”
“Medicine? What for? There’s nothing wrong with you. You just need to be less active and watch your diet. Instead of taking a stroll, turn on the TV, put your feet up. Drink a coffee, the caffeine will help you burn off some energy without doing too much.”
“I’ll try, doc.” Cole shrugged on his suit jacket and zipped up the front. “But it’s difficult. I like a walk in the evening. I know I mustn’t jog any more, but … .”
“Now let’s hear no more about that. You know very well that in your current condition a short walk has a greater effect than all the jogging you used to do. I repeat: you must learn to take it easy. No more than five minutes and no more than twice a week. Otherwise, I won’t answer for the consequences.”
As Cole was walking out of the door the doctor called after him, “Oh, Mr. Cole. Take the elevator. No stairs!”
Down in the street it was easy to distinguish the people who had breathed the space dust. They were the ones who walked across the sidewalk, choosing the shortest path between a building and their electro-car.
Cole found his electro where he had left it and slipped into the seat. He checked his mirror and pulled out into the electro lane. There wasn’t much traffic, but there never was these days. With nearly half the population keeping their movements to a minimum the streets had become more than adequate. He decided to stop by the precinct while he was in town. After all, he was still on the force, even though he, like many of his colleagues, was on semi-official, indefinite leave of absence. The still active cops were enough to take care of the still active crooks, but it would be good to swap insults with some of his cronies. It would be good just to breathe the air.
§
Cole got home towards the end of the afternoon. He had left the precinct when it became clear that, first, the cops on duty had other things to do than waste time chatting with him, second, that there was absolutely nothing for him to do there and third, that there was virtually zero chance of such an eventuality materializing in the near future, or indeed, ever.
In a fit of defiance he took the stairs to his second floor apartment instead of using the elevator. Contrition struck after he let himself in and he made himself sprawl out on the couch for half an hour while he read the newspaper he had picked up on his excursion.
The trouble was, he felt fine. The spores that had invaded the cells of his body kept him fit with practically no effort on his part. Just getting out of bed in the morning was all the exercise he really needed. Much more than that and he would look like Mister Universe within a couple of weeks. In the early days of the ‘infection’ the streets had been thronged with muscle bound individuals sprinting from block to block like Olympic athletes. But it couldn’t last. The human body could not sustain that level of activity on a regular basis. Cole slowed down after his partner died. Danny Okawa, falling to the ground as they chased a perp into an alley. Danny, lying shaking on the sidewalk as his chest filled with blood from a ruptured aorta. After that, it wasn’t long before Cole signed the papers that made him effectively retired and condemned him to an indefinite life of leisure.
The computer on the table in the corner chimed softly and an icon on the screen started to flash, indicating that somebody was calling him. He pulled himself off the couch and sat in front of it, slipped on the headset and clicked the icon with the mouse.
A window opened and a flickering random pattern of multicolored dots quickly dissolved into an image. It was the face of Pandora O’Reilly from upstairs. Cole had always made a point of knowing his neighbors, even though in this case it had meant little more than an introduction when he moved in and an occasional greeting exchanged in the elevator.
“Mr. Cole, I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Of course not, Miss O’Reilly.” For some reason she pronounced it ‘Oh really’ and Cole followed suit out of politeness, even though it sounded stupid to him. “Is there something you need?”
“I’m not sure. You are a police officer, are you not, Mr. Cole?”
“Well, technically, but I’m not working at present. The space dust, you know.”
“Yes, I know. It’s a trouble, isn’t it? Mr. Cole, I think I have a problem and I was wondering if you could help me with it.”
“If it’s something criminal,” Cole said, “you’d be better off calling the precinct. I don’t know if there’s much I can do myself.”
“I really don’t know. I thought of calling them, but it’s a little … awkward for me, so I thought I should ask you first. You see, I think something very strange may have happened.”
“I’ll be right up,” Cole said.
§
Pandora O’Reilly offered him a cup of tea but Cole, remembering the doctor’s advice, opted for coffee: plenty of sugar, plenty of cream. She was in her early thirties, plumpish, ash blonde hair tied back in a pony tail, quite pretty, but with a slightly vacant look in her eyes that set off a warning bell in Cole’s brain. After the beverages had been dispensed she sat opposite him in an armchair with a floral pattern cover and looked at him thoughtfully.
“Detective Cole, I think a part of me has vanished,” she said. Uh oh, Cole thought.
Something must have showed in his expression, because she continued hurriedly.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but you do hear of people having their organs stolen, don’t you?”
Cole, who had never heard of such a thing, nodded wisely.
“Well, I think someone has stolen one of my kidneys.”
“Have you checked with your doctor, Ms. O’Reilly?”
“Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first, seeing as you live right below me and all. I thought you might know something about it.”
“I’m afraid not. Ms. O’Reilly, I think you should definitely see your doctor before going any further.”
“Can’t I just tell you what happened?” In spite of her outward calmness, she was quite desperate, Cole realized, hearing the anxiety in her voice.
“Okay, go ahead.” He had nothing else special to do, anyway, and it might make a good story for the boys down at the precinct.
“Well, last weekend I was at a conference at the Plaza hotel, an astrology conference—I read horoscopes, you know.”
Cole didn’t know, but he nodded again.
“I stayed in the hotel over the weekend because it was more convenient and they’re so cheap now that most people aren’t traveling any more.” She hadn’t touched her tea—another sign of the stress she was under, Cole thought. He was beginning to be curious in spite of himself. Pandora O’Reilly sat with her hands in her lap, her eyes focused on a point about a meter in front of her as she concentrated on telling her tale.
“On Monday morning, yesterday that is, I woke up feeling weak and dizzy. The conference was over and I had to check out, so I came right home and went back to bed.”
“What time was that?” Cole asked, feeling he should show some professional interest. From long habit he still carried a notepad in his jacket pocket and he pulled it out.
“Around eleven in the morning.” Cole jotted the time down to encourage her, then looked at her expectantly.
“Well,” she continued, “I got up in the early afternoon—around two thirty,” she paused to give Cole time to write that down, too. “I was feeling a little better so I had a shower and I … I felt something on my back.” She seemed embarrassed, so Cole decided to be businesslike.
“On … your … back,” he said, scribbling on his pad. “And what was that, Ms. O’Reilly?”
She stood up suddenly, as if nerving herself for the moment, then turned and pulled up her blouse on the right side, tugging the mauve silk fabric free of her skirt waist and lifting it clear.
“This,” she said.
For a second Cole was distracted by the sight of the bare flesh, then he saw what she obviously intended to show him. About ten centimeters to the right of her spine, starting just above the border of her skirt and extending vertically for a hand’s width, was what looked like a scar.
“And you say this is new?” he asked. She nodded, still with her back to him.
“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” He was genuinely interested now.
“Please go ahead, Detective.”
Cole stood up and approached her. He squatted down until his eyes were on a level with the mark. It was a little paler than the surrounding flesh and appeared to be slightly raised. There was no sign of any stitches, but the wound seemed to have fused together along a geometrically straight line.
Without thinking he touched it with his finger. Pandora O’Reilly flinched at the contact but stayed as she was.
“Excuse me,” Cole said. He stood upright and noted a brief description of the scar on his pad while Pandora O’Reilly tucked her blouse in again. Only then did she turn to face him.
“You see, Detective Cole, I’m really not imagining it.” There was a note of reproach in her voice and Cole realized that he had not hidden his earlier incredulity as well as he had thought.
“Of course not,” he said hurriedly. “Now you’re sure you haven’t had any previous surgery that could leave a mark like this?”
She shook her head. “Definitely not. I’ve never had an operation in my life. And it’s not only the mark. I feel kind of … empty inside. I don’t really know how to describe it, but I just know there’s something missing.”
“Well, we’d better let the police surgeon have a look at you,” Cole said. He put his notebook away, clicked his pen closed and slipped it into the same pocket. “I’ll call the precinct and arrange it.”
“Oh thank you, Detective Cole. I feel so much better. It really helps that you’re a neighbor and all.”
Cole felt a little uncomfortable. “I’m not really on active duty,” he said. “Somebody else will handle the matter from here on.”
“Never mind. I appreciate your listening to me.” She smiled at him for the first time. “I’m very grateful, really. I’ll read your horoscope for you if you like. For free,” she added hurriedly.“
“Perhaps another time,” Cole said. “I’d better go and make that call.”
Outside her apartment he decided to take the stairs. Damn the doctor! It was only one floor, downstairs at that.
What had happened to Pandora O’Reilly, he wondered? Was she telling the truth or was she just crazy? The doctor’s examination should clarify matters. He was lost in thought as he turned the corner of the corridor that led towards the stairway door, which is perhaps why he was slow to react when the man jumped him.
Just beyond the corner he felt an arm go round his neck and a fist strike him in his side. Cole was paralyzed for a moment, but then his training clicked in and he let his knees bend, feeling the grip on his neck loosen as his body dropped. He forced his upper body forward, then straightened his knees again with as much force as he could muster. He was gratified to feel his attacker’s body fly over his head, just like it said in the manuals, then the compression at his throat stopped and the man landed on the carpeted floor in front of him.
The man rolled and was on his feet again in an instant. He was tall and skinny, one meter seventy, maybe seventy-five, around seventy kilos, Latino, shoulder-length dark hair, clean shaven, dressed in jeans and a loose black sweater with sleeves pulled up to reveal tattoos on his forearms. Cole noted all those details automatically, though he hadn’t even seen where the man came from. The man was between him and the stairs and shot a quick glance over his shoulder. As he did so, Cole made a grab for him, regretting that he didn’t carry a weapon any more, but the man twisted aside.
Cole was fast and strong, but clumsy. He had not practiced enough with his new body. Fortunately, his assailant appeared to be in similar condition. They lunged and dodged and circled, both off balance and stumbling in a parody of martial art.
After a minute or so of this, they stood facing each other, neither even breathing heavily, then the attacker turned his palms out, shrugged and strode away to the stairs. Cole could feel the carotid pulse marking time calmly in his neck. He knew he could catch the other man. His calf muscles flexed in readiness. Cole really should have followed him. He really should have chased the man, brought him down and taken him in. But Cole remembered Danny and stayed where he was, cursing himself for his trepidation. He stayed where he was until he couldn’t feel the pulse any more, then he turned and walked back to the elevator. Another time, my friend, he thought, another time!
§
“I don’t know what story she told you, Detective,” Stolz said, peeling off his latex gloves. His hands were white and almost hairless. “But she certainly only has one kidney. The right one is missing.” He dropped the gloves in a waste bin.
Cole had arranged for Pandora O’Reilly to see Stolz the previous afternoon but the doctor had been busy in the autopsy room all morning and only now had time to see him.
“You’re sure?”
Stolz gave him a look of withering scorn. “Of course I’m sure. It was obvious from the ultrasound.” He bent over a small washbasin, pushed down the lever on the faucet with his elbow and started scrubbing his hands under the stream of water using liquid soap from a dispenser on the wall.
Stolz was a tall man with a permanent stoop, probably from spending so much of his time leaning over cadavers. His watery blue eyes peered from behind large, square-framed spectacles.
“When do you think she lost it?” Cole asked.
“I couldn’t say, exactly,” Stolz said, pursing his lips in distaste at the admission. “The scar has healed well—too well, I should say—probably because of the heliospora.” Stolz was the only person Cole knew who didn’t call it space dust. “But the cavity itself has hardly contracted at all. Not long ago, I would think.” He shook the excess water from his hands and dried them off with a fistful of paper towels. “There’s still a lot we don’t know about you ‘supermen’.” The last word was vinegar in his mouth. “Your metabolism is quite different.” The towels followed the gloves into the bin. “I’ll tell you something else interesting, though, Detective.” He smiled like someone about to give away a dark secret and paused expectantly.
“What’s that,” said Cole, playing along with Stolz’ little game.
“She’s already started growing a new one.”
“What?”
“A new kidney.” Stolz was clearly pleased with the effect of his revelation. “It’s just a bud at the moment, but the vascularization pattern is already quite clear.” He squinted into the mirror over the sink and adjusted the few strands of hair that tried vainly to disguise his bald pate. “It will be interesting to see how long the process takes. One of the interns has started a book on it. Care to wager, Detective?”
“I don’t gamble,” Cole said shortly. That wasn’t true in general, but he wasn’t sufficiently cold-blooded to bet on something like this.
“Pity. We could use some more money in the pot.” Stolz slipped off his white coat and hung it on a peg. “Is there anything else, Detective? There’s a corpse on the freeway they want me to take a look at.”
§
Cole decided it was time he reported the business to Lieutenant Sanchez, so when he left the Coroner’s building he headed for the precinct.
“Hey, Ben, you gotta hear this one.” It was Kurt Hoffer. He and Cole had graduated from the Academy together and although they had never been partners they maintained a kind of friendship. Kurt faced the rigors of his job with a twisted sense of humor that Cole envied, but could not emulate.
“What’s that, Kurt?”
“We had a guy in here this morning, claimed someone had ripped off one of his balls.”
“Sounds painful,” Cole said.
“Naw, I mean stolen. Stolen one of his balls. Can you believe that?”
“Where did he say it happened?” Now that was an odd coincidence, Cole thought.
“Plaza Hotel. Some astronomers’ meeting or something.”
“Astrologers,” Cole corrected absently.
“Yeah, whatever. Guy was obviously a kook.”
“So you didn’t check it out?”
“Not likely. Took down the details and said I’d get back to him. You know how it is.”
Cole nodded. He knew how it was.
Cole realized that he had been slack. His disbelief of Pandora’s story had stopped him asking the questions he should have asked. He had to talk to her again. Better do that before he passed the case on to Lieutenant Sanchez. Once he did that, it would be out of his hands and it felt good to have a mystery to investigate again, if only for a little while longer. He wasn’t making excuses, he told himself, it was just a matter of doing thorough police work before he made his report.
§
“MISTER Cole, I’m very cross with you.”
Back at the apartment building, Cole had taken the elevator directly to Pandora’s floor and rung the bell. This time her reception was less friendly.
“Why? What’s the matter?”
She opened the door reluctantly to let him enter.
“I thought these things were supposed to be confidential.”
“Of course, Ms. O’Reilly.”
“Then how did that man find out about me?”
“What man?”
“The man from the hospital.”
“You mean the Coroner’s department?”
“No. The Huddermeyer Clinic. You mean you don’t know?”
Cole was bewildered. The Huddermeyer Clinic was an exclusive private hospital on the outskirts of town. Could Stolz have passed on the information to a colleague? No. There hadn’t been time.
“Ms. O’Reilly,” Cole said, “I assure you I haven’t spoken to anyone outside the department.” He gestured with a hand. “Now why don’t we sit down and you can tell me all about it.”
The man had called on her that morning, while Cole was down town. He had invited her to come in for some tests.
“Was he a doctor, then?” Cole asked.
“I don’t think so. He didn’t talk like one—if you know what I mean.” Cole nodded. Pandora wrinkled her mouth in distaste. “And he had a tattoo on his arm.”
“A tattoo?” Now that was interesting.
“Yes. His sleeve pulled back when he sat down and I could see part of it. I don’t think he wanted me to see it because he pushed it down again when he saw me looking.”
It took Cole a second to decipher this imprecise utterance. “Can you describe the man?” he asked.
As Pandora raided her memory for details it became clear that this was the man who had attacked Cole two days before. He had almost forgotten the incident, putting it down to just another oddity of city life. It had never occurred to him that there might be a connection between the assault and Ms. O’Reilly’s missing kidney.
“And who were you supposed to contact at the Huddermeyer Clinic?” he asked.
“Just a minute, I wrote it down.” She was wearing a beige pants suit today. She fished in a jacket pocket and pulled out a scrap of paper, handing it to Cole. There was a name, Dr. William Cunningham, and a phone number. Cole copied the information onto his notepad and handed the paper back to her.
“Ms. O’Reilly, I think it’s better if you wait until I’ve checked this out,” he said. “Let me just ask you a few more questions about your weekend at the Plaza.”
He obtained the details he should have got the first time. Who organized the congress? Had she been invited, or did she apply? How many people were there? And so on. Probably meaningless, but routine.
As he was leaving, he wrote the number of his mobile at the bottom of the pad, tore it off and handed it to her.
“If anyone else contacts you about this matter,” he said, “please let me know immediately.”
“Oh, thank you, Detective Cole.” It was ‘Detective’ again now, he noted.
“Call me Ben,” he said. “We’re neighbors, after all.”
This time Cole was on guard as he walked to the elevator, but there were no surprises today. He really should pay a visit to Dr. William Cunningham, he thought as he entered his apartment. His report would hardly be complete without it. He would have to talk to Stolz again, do some research. Then to the Huddermeyer Clinic. After that he could pass the case along to Sanchez with a clear conscience.
Cole had eaten only a light breakfast that day and now he was hungry. The three P’s, he thought, and sighed as he pulled a pizza from the deep freeze and popped it in the oven. He grabbed a can of Grolsch from the freezer, twisted the tab and flopped down on the couch to think.
§
The Clinic was far enough out to be close to the limit of the electro’s range and it was with relief that Cole parked and plugged it into the charger. The Huddermeyer Clinic sat in extensive grounds and the access road ran through a long stand of oak trees, leaves already autumnal brown. The entrance was a neoclassical portico, somewhat at odds with the austere modern lines of the rest of the building, Cole thought, but impressive nonetheless.
Stolz had told him what he knew about the Clinic, which wasn’t that much. Stolz knew nothing of Cunningham himself, but Cole accessed the New York Library of Medicine’s Medline archive through the Internet and found five recent research papers by that doctor. Four concerned tissue regeneration experiments in rats; the fifth was a speculative review of cloning, with emphasis on the possibility of organ culture. Even to Cole, a non-scientist, it was clear from the author’s tone in places that he was frustrated by the government’s long-standing ban on human stem cell research. Interesting.
He had spoken to Cunningham’s secretary and arranged an appointment, saying he was investigating a minor complaint against the Clinic, playing it down, saying that if he could talk to the doctor privately he was sure that the matter could be dealt with discreetly, et cetera, et cetera.
He was made to wait half an hour but Cole didn’t mind. It would take the electro at least an hour to recharge fully and he had no intention of setting off until it had done so. Finally he was ushered into Cunningham’s office.
This had obviously been designed to create an impression of calm opulence. The entire left wall consisted of bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes of medical journals. On the right were a series of Picasso prints, framed anatomical charts and a large light box for viewing X-rays. Between them was a picture window that took up the whole outer wall of the room and offered a view of the grounds. There was a tennis court down there and two people were playing, but Cole couldn’t hear the sound of the ball being struck, which meant that the window must be sound-proofed. Science, Cole thought, good taste, and above all, discretion.
There was a large chrome and smoked glass desk in front of the window and behind it sat Cunningham, Cole supposed, in a high-backed black leather swivel chair. The doctor smiled when Cole entered, but made no move to stand up.
“Detective Cole? Please sit down. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”
Cole walked to the indicated chair, feeling his feet sink into the thick pile gray carpet. He showed Cunningham his detective’s badge and sat. Once seated, he found he was on a slightly lower level than the doctor and it was hard not to be intimidated by the surroundings. To counter these psychological tricks Cole decided to say nothing, to wait for Cunningham to speak.
“So, what seems to be the problem?” Cunningham did not appear at all disconcerted by Cole’s silence—if, indeed, he even noticed—but launched immediately into a brisk bedside manner.
Cole looked the doctor over, mentally noting all salient details. Cunningham was a handsome man in his early fifties, Cole judged, with a shock of white hair that fell over one side of his forehead, giving his unlined face an almost boyish look. His somewhat portly midriff testified that he had not been one of those affected by the space dust. He wore a tailored charcoal pinstripe suit, with old-fashioned buttons down the front, and a conservative blue tie. A white coat, the uniform of his profession, hung in a corner, but Cole guessed that he donned it only when the occasion demanded it.
“We’ve had a complaint,” he said. “I suppose your secretary told you.” He shrugged. “A minor matter, I believe, but I thought if I could just see you briefly we could clear the whole thing up with no trouble.” He smiled at Cunningham, a smile that said that they were two professionals talking together, that they had a special understanding.
“And what is the nature of this complaint?”
“Before we go into that, doctor, could you fill me in on the kind of work you do here, just so that I can get an idea about the Clinic?”
“General surgery,” Cunningham said. “Mostly orthopedic and cosmetic. Sports injuries, accidental disfigurement, that kind of thing.”
Cole had his pad out and was making notes. “Any organ transplants?” he asked, without looking up.
“Occasionally. We have a fully qualified surgical team. Why?”
“Oh, it’s just that our plaintiff claims that someone from your staff approached him about organ donation. Some kind of commercial proposition, he said.”
“You mean buying spare parts?” Cunningham seemed amused by the idea. “I can assure you we don’t do anything like that here, Detective.” He picked up a pen from the desk and twiddled it in his fingers. “We don’t need to. We have full access to all the registered organ banks.”
“Well in that case,” Cole said, “I don’t think I need take up any more of your time.” He pocketed his notebook and stood up abruptly. “Thank you for your cooperation, doctor.”
“Any time, Detective, any time.”
As Cole reached the door he stopped and turned around, as if he had suddenly thought of something else.
“Oh, by the way,” he said, “there was one other matter.”
“Yes?” Cunningham glanced at his watch, obviously impatient for the interview to be over.
“Pandora O’Reilly’s stolen kidney. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you, doctor?”
Cunningham’s face froze for a second, the pen became motionless between his fingers.
“Detective Cole,” he said, “I’m sure I don’t have the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
“So it wouldn’t interest you if she was growing a new one. I thought you were involved with that line of research.”
“Is this some kind of joke, Detective?” Cunningham was in control of himself again, but for an instant he had been rattled, Cole was sure of that.
“I never joke when I’m on duty, doctor,” Cole said expressionlessly. “Ms. O’Reilly is missing a kidney and someone called on her this morning and gave her your name and phone number, suggested she should contact you.”
He walked back across the spacious office and as he did so he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket. Earlier in the day he had spent an hour on one of the precinct’s computers building a facial likeness of the man who had attacked him. He unfolded the printout and placed it on the desk in front of Cunningham. “This man, he said.”
Cunningham’s mouth opened, but he said nothing. He still gripped the pen between thumb and two fingers and there was white showing under the nails. That was enough for now, Cole decided.
“Oh well, it’s probably nothing,” he said. “Good day, doctor. Thank you again for your time.” He returned to the door and let himself out.
Cunningham’s office, naturally, was on the top floor of the Clinic. Cole hummed to himself as he rode down in the elevator. Now he had stirred things up and the case was about to break, he was certain. There was a moment in police work, unfortunately all too rare, when you looked the perp in the eye and you knew you had your man, and you knew that he knew you knew. Cole had just experienced such a moment. Now he was ready to report to Sanchez.
The elevator reached the lobby, there was a soft chime and the doors opened. Cole was still preoccupied, flipping through his notebook and mentally preparing the report he would write for the lieutenant. He vaguely registered the fact that people were blocking his way, no doubt waiting for the elevator themselves. When they did not move aside and let him exit, he looked up. It was his attacker from a few days ago, flanked by two burly orderlies in white smocks. Cole stabbed arbitrarily at the button for the fifth floor, but the doors responded too slowly. The three men crowded him back into the car and the orderlies grabbed his arms and pressed him against the back wall, while the one on his left pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. It all happened so fast. Before Cole could do anything the man with the tattooed forearms was sticking a syringe into the flesh just above his wrist. He hardly had time to struggle.
How could he have been so stupid? It was the first rule you learned in the Academy: always call for backup. And here he was, all on his own. He hadn’t even told anybody where he was going. Who did he think he was, James bloody Bond? His legs weakened, his vision blurred, he felt sick in his stomach.
After that there was nothing.
§
When Cole awoke he was in a hospital bed. He still felt woozy, but he struggled to sit up. It was then he found that his wrists and ankles were secured to the bed rails by sturdy, padded straps. A few seconds of effort told him he had no hope of freeing himself unaided. He settled himself back on the thin hospital pillow and tried to take in his surroundings.
It was a small, white painted room with a single print on one wall—a still life with flowers. There was one other bed, unoccupied, against the same wall as his own. There was a window, but the slatted blind was down so he couldn’t see out. There was one door, closed, that must have let out to the corridor, and another, open, that presumably led to the bathroom. Not that he could get there, which was soon going to be a problem. Between the two beds was a tall metal table, on which there was a jug of water and a glass. That was all. The sight of the water made him realize how dry his mouth was. It must have been from whatever they gave him to put him under.
All he could do was wait, so that’s what he did, trying to stay calm, his mind working to find a solution to his predicament. Eventually the corridor door opened and a nurse stuck her head in. Seeing he was awake, she left again and a few minutes later Dr. Cunningham appeared, together with Cole’s abductor.
“Mr. Cole, so you’re awake. Good.” Cunningham gestured over his shoulder. “You’ve already met my associate, Mr. Ramirez. Chico, say hello to Mr. Cole.”
“Hello, Mr. Cole,” Chico said, smiling unpleasantly.
“I know you want to stop me, Mr. Cole,” Cunningham said. “All of you do. All the petty bureaucrats who can’t see beyond what’s in front of them.”
Cole coughed to clear his throat. “Doctor Cunningham,” he said, “I’m sure I don’t have the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
If Cunningham recognized his own words from earlier, he gave no sign of it. Gone was the urbane bedside manner: in its place was the rant of a fanatic.
“You ‘supermen’,” the doctor snarled. “You think you’re better than the rest of us. Don’t try to deny it. Why should you take it easy, enjoy perfect health, while others suffer? You people carry a secret that could advance my research by ten years, help thousands, and they wouldn’t give me permission. Those fools at the FDA. They have no idea. Well I wasn’t going to let them stand in the way of progress. The space dust has given us the key to immortality. Immortality!”
Cunningham was quite mad, Cole realized. How had he missed it earlier?
“What about him?” he asked, nodding in Chico’s direction.
“Chico is on our side. He’s agreed to work for the cause.” Cunningham frowned. “Unfortunately, he slipped up. He was only supposed to recruit out-of-towners.”
“So why did he attack me in my apartment building?”
“What?” Cunningham shot Chico a sharp look and the latter shrugged. He obviously hadn’t reported that incident. Maybe he had just panicked when he saw Cole coming out of Pandora’s apartment.
“Anyway,” the doctor continued, “now you’re going to help us, too, Mr. Cole. After all, you have quite a few parts you can spare. And you can always replace anything we take out, isn’t that right?”
“Is it?” Cole forced himself to keep his voice conversational and not show the fear that he felt. “You tell me, doc.”
“It’s so easy for you,” Cunningham said. He sounded almost envious. “Your bodies regenerate so quickly. We don’t even need to stitch the incisions. Just press the tissue back together and it starts to heal immediately.”
Cole thought back to Pandora’s scar, straight and regular, with no sign of stitches, as if the skin had welded itself closed. And how had it healed so quickly? He should have thought of that at the time. But at the time, he thought ruefully, he hadn’t believed her.
“Yes, Mr. Cole, you’ll be quite a resource for us, you know. We’ll start in the morning. I prefer that you be fasted for the first procedure. Until then, what’s that phrase, Chico?”
“Hasta la vista,” Chico said.
“Yes. Hasta la vista Mr. Cole.” Cunningham turned to leave.
“Bathroom,” Cole said weakly. “I need the bathroom. And some water to drink.”
“Very well, you’re allowed water. I’ll send a nurse in to fit you with a catheter and she’ll give you a drink if you ask her.” He smiled craftily. “Our nurses have experience with delusional patients, so don’t get any ideas about talking your way out of here.”
Cunningham’s observation proved correct. After he and Chico left the nurse came in and administered to Cole as the doctor had said. It was infuriating to have to lie there, helpless, while she manipulated him like some anatomical model. She gave him a drink when requested, but ignored everything else he said. Before he even started he knew his position was hopeless. A patient in restraints, talking about stolen body parts. Either she was in on the deal and didn’t care, or she was not and thought him crazy. It didn’t matter. In desperation, Cole asked her three times to call the precinct, mention his name and ask to speak to Lieutenant Sanchez, but he had little expectation that she would comply.
“Undo my right hand for a moment,” he said at one point, foolishly, “and I’ll write you down the number.”
The nurse gave him a look and left.
Alone again, Cole lay there, his mind awhirl. There had to be a way out of this. They had taken his watch and he didn’t know how long he had been unconscious, but it had still been light outside when Cunningham left. He must have a good twelve hours. Long enough for a superman, he thought ironically. Then that gave him an idea.
§
In the end it took a lot less. It was still pitch dark outside when Cole got his right arm free. After that it was simple to undo his other bonds.
'Superman,’ he thought. ‘I’ll show you superman.'
He had started a sequence of ten minutes’ workout, followed by five minutes’ rest, as far as he could judge without a clock. ‘Workout’ meant flexing the muscles of his right arm and straining against the thick cuff, over and over again. If Cunningham was right about the speed with which his body could regenerate, maybe he could build up enough strength in that arm to break it loose. Time passed. He could feel his arm growing stronger and he added twisting to his movements. Eventually, not the cuff, not the shackle that secured it to the bed, but the aluminum rail itself began to give. It had not been designed to take such punishment.
At the first sign of lessening resistance Cole allowed himself to start hoping again. Unable to see in the darkened room, he slid his hand back and forth as far as he could, tugging repeatedly, until he found the weak point. Then he concentrated his forces there, twisting, pulling, pushing, not pausing to rest any more, until at last, with one mighty effort, he yanked at the rail so viciously that the fatigued metal snapped and the cuff and shackle came away so violently he almost punched himself in the jaw. He could feel that he had strained his shoulder, but that didn’t matter.
Removing the catheter was no fun at all, but he managed it. He found his clothes in the cupboard under the bedside table, so he slipped off the hospital robe and dressed himself before venturing outside. He was happy to find that his detective’s badge was still in his jacket pocket, where he had put it after showing it to Cunningham earlier.
The corridor outside was deserted. Now which way was the elevator? Cole picked a direction at random and set off. He went through a fire door and found himself in a hall. There was the elevator! His luck was holding. The progress of the number display above it told him that someone was ascending from the lobby. He glanced around for some sign of which floor he was on and saw a discreet number twelve behind a potted plant. The elevator display continued to advance: seven, eight, nine. It stopped at twelve and the doors opened. A figure emerged. It was Chico.
At the sight of him Cole was mad enough that he didn’t care any more. He charged at Chico, swung his newly developed right arm with all his might and caught Chico squarely on the cheek. Chico went down.
Cole clutched his shoulder, which after this last blow felt as though it had been wrenched from its socket, and grimaced at the pain. Not waiting to see whether Chico would get up or not he stepped into the elevator and punched the lobby button.
Downstairs, Cole stalked through the lobby with his right arm held in front of him like a sword. The night clerk at the desk was just emerging from a back room with a steaming cup. Cole marched right up to him and pulled out his badge.
“Police,” he said. “Open that door.”
There must have been something in his expression, for the clerk reached down immediately and pressed a button. Cole heard the entrance lock release.
“Thank you,” he mustered, “for being such a good citizen.” He turned away from the clerk’s bemused gaze and strode out into the chill night air.
§
It was over. Cunningham was in custody, Chico was in concussion, the Huddermeyer Clinic was closed temporarily pending inquiries. Cole’s electro had been where he had left it and once he reached the precinct things began to move very quickly.
Cole was troubled, though. With this new body of his, was he being selfish, as Cunningham had said? Would he really mind giving a kidney to someone who needed it? Or a testicle, or an eye? He could grow another one, it appeared. And another, and another. For how long? He shook his head. It was all too much for him to deal with right now.
Miraculously, Pandora O’Reilly’s new kidney, though still small, was already functioning, Stolz had told him. If she hadn’t had Cole for a neighbor the whole business might never have come to light.
“Thank you, Ben.” Pandora smiled. Her eyes were not vacant now. It must have been the shock she had suffered that made her that way before. Now her eyes were lively and twinkling. She really was rather pretty.
Cole smiled back at her. Why not, indeed? “Fancy some dinner later?” he asked. Then he remembered the three P’s. “Italian,” he added. “On me.”
- End -
© Copyright Philip J. Lees 2003