Amanda's Eyes (8 page)

“Gee, thanks.”

“Ready to get this show on the road,
Amanda?”  Doctor Ramirez.

I turned my head toward the sound of
her voice as a flight of giant butterflies lifted off in my stomach.  “As ready
as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“You’ll be fine.  There’s no more
skilled ocular surgeon in the world than Doctor Klein.”

“He seems to know what he’s doing,”
I conceded nervously, remembering my interview with him a few days earlier. 
“He said he’s probably done a couple hundred of these transplant surgeries.”

“At least.  Aaron actually teaches
the procedure at Hebrew University.  Nobody does it better.”

“And it’ll be over in a tic,” said
Dennis.

“I thought the surgery took six
hours.”

“Six hours or six days,
you
won’t
know the difference.  You’ll be asleep.”

“Hm.”

“Did they give you the mild
tranquilizer I authorized?” asked Ramirez.

“I turned it down.  Wanted to keep
my wits about me as long as possible.”

“All right.  Well, we might as well
get going.  The two gentlemen who came in with me will bring you upstairs. 
I’ll meet you in the OR.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Mike Tindal, Ms. Gregson.”  His
voice was warm and friendly and thick with the Bronx.  “My partner’s name is
Hamid.  You let us do all the work, okay?”

“Okay.”

Strong hands under my legs and
shoulders, a quick lift and shift to the hover gurney.  “No sweat, right?” Mike
said cheerfully.

“You guys are pretty smooth.”

“Ready to take a spin?”

Not on your life
.  But I opted for a doughty, “Drive
on, McDuff,” reaching up to adjust my bonnet as the gurney started to float
toward the door.

“Sleep tight,” said Dennis.

“Try not to get in any trouble while
I’m gone.”

“Who, me?  I plan to sit right here
and moisturize my incredibly manly nose wart.”

“Wart?” murmured a new voice I took
to be Hamid’s.  “What wart?”

As Dad likes to say, it was all over
but the shoutin’.

Doc Klein popped into the recovery
room a few minutes after I woke up to announce the transplant had been a
complete success.  He didn’t expect any complications, he said, and aside from
a few bruises collected as I learned to get around without the viz program, none
had cropped up in the three weeks since.  The blinders were due to come off
tomorrow morning.

But that was tomorrow, and this was
tonight, and old Father Time was dragging his feet.  Since I couldn’t sleep, I
had no choice but to wait him out.  Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on
your point of view—I had plenty to occupy my mind.

This side of my September date with
destiny, it was easy to see I had led a charmed existence.  Smooth sailing,
baby, for thirty-two years.  Blessed with wealth, health, and a terrific family
to back me up, there hadn’t been much I had wanted that I hadn’t been able to
get.  I traveled whenever and wherever the spirit moved me.  Graduated from the
college of my choice and landed my dream job.  Had friends all over the world,
including a double handful I could count on through thick and thin.

Lovers?  A few.  But being on call
twenty-four hours a day, hanging out in precinct houses and seedy
neighborhoods, and working late six nights out of seven because you’re trying
to make deadline and be first with the story aren’t conducive to romance.  Plus,
men tend to get grumpy if they’re pillow talking in one ear, and a micro-bud scanner
squawks, “One eighty-seven on Geary,” in the other.

So far, nobody remotely resembling
Mister Right is on the horizon, but I’m not crying in my beer.  If he’s out
there, he’s worth waiting for.  If he’s not, I can always get a cat.

Either way.  As long as I can keep
doing my job.

See, I love my job.  I loved it when
I was chasing fire engines, and I love it even more now that I’ve graduated to
major crime.  One unlamented former boyfriend claims I’m married to the job. 
In all honesty, I can’t say he’s wrong, even if he is a jerk.

I’ve also been called an action
junkie.  Another undeniable truth.  Nothing lights my fire like that first
whiff of a story.  Pitting myself against perpetrators unknown—including, sad
to say, the occasional crooked cop, CEO, or politician—is the highest high I
know.  But that’s not the main reason I do what I do.  As corny as it sounds, I
do this job because I believe somebody has to speak up for the victims, lend a
helping hand (or give a hard shove) to the long arm of the law, and turn over
the rocks to expose the creepy crawlies of this world.  If you ask my opinion, the
work I’m doing is important and worthwhile, and I hope I’m making a difference.

But if the night of September fourth
taught me anything, it taught me the world has a way of grabbing you by the
throat when you least expect it.  I was cruising along as smooth as silk until the
Ferrymen entered the picture, and my life erupted in fire and blood.  Now life
and I never would, never
could
, be the way we were before the explosion. 
But if Hell’s Boatmen had hoped to get rid of me, their plan had backfired.

Not that the memory of that night didn’t
have the power to rock me.  Now that my memory was back, I woke up in a sweat
more often than not, heart pounding like a kettle drum.  The faces of Evander
Cuey and Sammy Michaels never left me.  I could still picture the mutilated
corpse of my informant.  I was a smidge less cocky and a lot more aware of the
price to be paid, and the chill of my close brush with death stuck with me like
a shadow.  Everybody says experience is the best teacher, but nobody tells you
how ruthless she can be.  Take it from me, an up-close-and-personal run-in with
pure evil will leave you in a world of hurt.

Unfortunately for the black hats, physical
and emotional wounds weren’t the only souvenirs I had taken away from our last
skirmish.  That explosion in the warehouse district ignited a short, hot fuse
in my gut.  I was more determined than ever to do whatever I could to bring the
Ferrymen down.  All the way.

Was I afraid?  Am I a moron?  Of
course, I was afraid.  The thought of a rematch turned my knees to tofu.  And there
was my family to consider.  Threats against my own life were daunting enough,
but would I be able to live with myself if the Ferrymen came after one or, God
forbid,
all
of my family members because of me?  I wouldn’t dodge the
question.  Denial wasn’t an option.  Either I went to war with my eyes wide
open, counting the possible cost beforehand, or I didn’t go at all.

Bottom line, I wasn’t sure I could
survive a strike against my family mentally intact.  But after hours of
agonized soul-searching, I reached an iron-clad conclusion.  I couldn’t let anything
stop me, not while Murder, Incorporated was still running rampant.

Knowing my family would agree took
the edge off my guilt.  Some, anyway.  Oh, the entire clan would argue both
themselves and me blue in the face when they found out I was headed back into
the fray.  But they would come around in the end, because Mom and Dad were the
ones who raised my brothers and me to believe the world can only work the way
it’s supposed to if we all watch out for one another.

When Dad was first elected to the
Northern Continental Assembly, he had a framed parchment hung on the wall of
his office directly across from his massive mahogany desk, where he would see
it while he worked.  He told us the quote from Edmund Burke was a reminder.  It
said, “All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do
nothing.”

Or as I like to say, when it comes
to standing for the right and against the wrong, nobody gets a pass.

I’ve never admitted it to a living soul,
but that quote is one of the reasons I became a crime reporter.  I wasn’t going
to turn my back on that guiding principle at this late date, simply because the
evil in question was armed and dangerous and knew my name.

Jack Eagan wanted me to drop out of
sight, and I would.  For a while.  During the next couple months I would give
myself a chance to heal and get back in shape physically.  I would regroup
psychologically.  But while I was at it, I would dig deeper for information I
could use against Hell’s Boatmen and come up with a strategy.  When the time
was right, I would warn my family, so they could take steps to protect themselves.

Then I would come out swinging.

“Curtain down, kill the lights!” 
Doctor Klein chuckled merrily.  “A small play on words inspired by the sizable
audience gathered in this room.  As a member of the Oxford University Drama
Society, I once imagined I would go into the theater.  That was before medicine
seduced me away from the footlights, of course.”

“Well, you certainly haven’t
forgotten how to make an entrance,” Dad drawled.

“Thank you.  It’s nice to know I
haven’t lost my touch.”  I heard footsteps approach the lounger where I sat on the
proverbial pins and needles.  “And how is our patient this morning?  Ready for
the grand unveiling?”

I nodded.  “More than.”

“All right, we’ll take it step by
step.  Blinds closed.”  I heard them hum quietly in response as Klein commanded
the lights to dim and continued, “We don’t want too much light.  In fact, I’ll
ask one of the family members to close the door.”

“I’ll do it,” said Jim.  Then, “I’m
sorry, this is a private room.”

“I know.”  Jack’s voice.  “My name
is Eagan, Counselor.  Jack Eagan with CIIS.”

“I see.”  Jim’s tone dropped a
degree or two below friendly.  “Well, you’ve come at a bad time, Agent Eagan. 
My sister can’t answer questions right now.  The doctor is about to remove the
bandages.”

“I’m not here to ask questions.”

“Why exactly
are
you here?”
Dad asked.

“I invited him,” I interjected.

“Why?”

“It’s complicated, Bri.  Look, I’ll
explain, I promise.  But can we please wait until
after
the bandages
come off?  I’m tired of dark.”

Mom jumped in.  “Of course you are. 
Please come in and close the door, Agent Eagan.”

“Thank you.”

“Apparently, I’m not the only one
who knows how to make a dramatic entrance,” said Doctor Klein.  “If this were
a play, I would have to say, ‘The plot thickens.’”  Without missing a beat,
he shifted gears.  “Nurse Baker, would you bring me that stool and the
instrument tray?  Thank you.  Now, young lady, I’m going to remove the
bandages, but that will
not
be your cue to open your eyes.  Do you
understand?”  I nodded.  “Good.  We’ll first cleanse the area—gently, of
course—to remove any dried discharge.  I’ll tell you when to open.”

“Okay.”

His touch was feather-light as he
gently peeled the adhesive away from my left cheek.  He worked slowly,
patiently loosening the edges before carefully lifting the patch from my eye. 
He repeated the painstaking procedure on my right eye.  Cool air kissed my
eyelids for the first time in almost two months.  They felt nearly weightless
without the dressings, and I had to fight a sudden urge to let them drift open.

Doctor Klein must have read my mind.

“Not yet,” he murmured.  “A little
more patience.  Gauze pad, please.”

The damp, chilly caress of the pad
felt heavenly.

“She appears to have healed nicely,”
Klein decided, delicately swabbing the area around my right eye.  “Do you
agree, Marisol?”

“Absolutely,” said Rodriguez.

“Another pad, please.”  He shifted
his attention to the left eye.  “There.  That’s good.”  His touch vanished. 
“All right, Amanda, listen carefully.  I’ll count to three.  When I say,
‘Three,’ I want you to open your eyes.  Don’t be concerned if your vision is
blurry for the first minute or two; that should clear quickly.  Do you have any
questions?”

I licked my lips.  “No.”

“All right, on three.”  You could
have heard a pin drop on a cotton ball as the doctor counted slowly, “One, two
....”

A million thoughts raced through my mind
in the breath between
two
and
three
.  Irrational fears that maybe
the transplant didn’t take.  Fleeting thoughts about how a few weeks spent in
darkness could seem like a lifetime.  Brief mental snapshots of cherished faces
taut with anticipation.

“Three,” said Klein.

I slowly opened my eyes.

And there was light.

It spilled softly between the slats
in the blinds, bathing the room in faint, cool early-morning-white and forming
a pale nimbus behind the head of the man seated on a low, wheeled stool
directly in front of me.  I put him a year or two on the far side of sixty.  Except
for bushy eyebrows and a small gray goatee, he was as bald as a billiard ball. 
He was dressed in a white lab coat over a dark shirt and slacks.  His rounded
features were gently blurred, almost as if I were seeing him through a gauzy
veil.

My gaze shifted to the petite woman standing
behind him, leaning toward me as she peered over his left shoulder.  Her eyes
were warm and dark under black, angel-wing brows.  Flawless complexion, full
lips, and a mane of black curls swept up on the sides and cascading down her
back.  If it hadn’t been for the scrubs and white lab coat, I would have taken
her for a model.  No wonder Kev wanted her number.  Doctor Marisol Rodriguez
was drop-dead gorgeous.

Right beside her stood a man who
could only be Dennis.  For once my mental portrait was close.  He
was
dark
and lean and looked dangerous, but he wasn’t as tall as I had imagined.  Around
five-eight, if I had to guess.  His hair was short and black.  When he realized
I was staring at him, he bobbed his eyebrows and grinned.

I grinned back, then turned my
attention to the two people standing a few feet to my right, their backs to the
bed.  Mom was leaning against Dad’s side, hands clasped nervously at her
waist.  The electric-blue silk of her jumpsuit contrasted vividly with his
long-sleeved red polo.  Dad had one arm around her shoulders, his hand absently
caressing her upper arm.  Had she always looked so tiny standing next to him?

My heart swelled.  Unable to take my
eyes off my parents, I offered them a wobbly smile.  “Hi, Mom and Dad.  Long
time no see.”

Mom released a sound that was
half-sob, half-laugh.  “Oh, Amanda!”

“That’s my girl,” Dad chuckled.

“Like I said, a tough nut.”

I tracked Dickson’s voice to his
position at the foot of the bed.  He was wearing his signature outfit:  black
suit, white shirt, black tie, and black five-o’clock shadow.  I couldn’t see
clearly enough to be sure, but his usual stern expression might have been softened
by the barest hint of a smile.

“Hey, Dickson,” I said, and he
nodded.

Next I transferred my attention to
the two beaming men flanking him.  Both Kev and Bri wore jeans, but where Kevin
wore a blue button-down shirt, Bri had opted for an unbelievably loud tie-dyed
t-shirt under a black windbreaker.

“Hi, guys.  Nice shirt, Bri.”

“I thought you would like it,” he
said, smoothing a hand down the front.  “I wanted to give you a chance to road test
those new peepers on something with a hint of color.”

Kevin arched a brow.  “You call neon
pink, fire-engine red, lemon yellow, and lime green a
hint
of color?  You
practically blinded
me
with that get-up.”

“Yeah, but you’re a pansy,” Brian
smirked, and I was so darned happy to be able to see that smart-aleck grin
again, I almost broke my own rule and bawled like a baby.  Thankfully, I chose
that moment to glance back at Doctor Klein.  He winked.

“Where did you pick up that relic,
anyway?” Jim asked, drawing my attention stage left.

Dressed in a beige crewneck sweater
and brown slacks, he leaned against the corner where the wall behind my lounger
formed a ninety-degree angle with the short stretch of wall that ran back
toward the door.  I couldn’t actually see the door from where I was sitting,
but I had groped my way around this room often enough to know where it was.

Jim’s arms were folded across his
chest, his head cocked in critical appraisal as he stared at Bri.  “Clearance
sale at the Smithsonian, right?”

“Uh-uh.  I found the instructions
online.”

“You
made
it?”

“Do I look like the crafty type?” 
Bri grinned like a pirate.  “Bambi took care of the hands-on stuff.”

“Blonde Bambi?” asked Kevin in
obvious disbelief.  “Long legs and an MBA from Rutgers? 
That
Bambi?”

Eyes dancing, Klein turned to face
the room and held up a hand.  “I hate to interrupt this extremely interesting
discussion, but I still have a few pesky medical details to take care of before
we can release your sister.”

“Of course, Doctor.”  Dad shot a
patiently amused glance at each of my brothers before turning back to the
surgeon.  “Please go ahead with your examination.”

“Thank you.  I’ll try to be quick.” 
He turned back to me.  “Now, Amanda.  How does the world look to you?”

“Better and better.  Coming into
focus pretty quickly now.”

“Excellent.”  He held up an index
finger.  “Please watch my finger.  Don’t turn your head as I move it, but
follow it only with your eyes.  All right?”  I nodded, tracking the finger as
he moved it up, down, right, left.  “Ah, yes,” he murmured, “muscle attachment
appears to be good, motor functions are normal.”  He lowered his hand and
picked up a slim, silver device from the instrument tray to his right.  “Please
look over my right shoulder.  Yes, like that.  Now keep your eyes steady, while
I scan the internal structures.”

He did a slow pass in front of each eye,
then poked the scanner’s minuscule touch screen.  Two colorful,
three-dimensional images materialized in the air between us, rotating slowly under
gentle flicks of the doctor’s fingers.

“Look,” said Bri.  “Anti-grav
eyeballs.”

Focused intently on the images,
Klein smiled.  “
Beautiful
eyeballs.  I should know, I made them
myself!”  He examined the images a while longer, then dabbed the screen again. 
The holograms vanished as he turned to me with a wide smile.  “As a matter of
fact, I would say those eyeballs are close to perfect.”

Doctor Rodriguez was smiling, too. 
“Congratulations, Amanda.”

“The only task remaining,” said
Klein, lifting a soft case from the instrument tray, “is to give you your
aftercare instructions.”  He reached into the case and pulled out a pair of
glasses with wire earpieces and smoky, rimless lenses.  He held them up.  “In
any light brighter than this, yes?”

“For how long?”

“Two weeks, at least.  After that,
you can try going without them.  If you experience sensitivity, wear them for
another week, then try again.”  He slipped the glasses back into the case and
handed it to me.  Next he picked up a white bottle.  “Your medication,
formulated to strengthen the
regenerated optic nerves.  Two drops in each eye, three times a day for two
weeks.”

“Got it,” I said, as he passed me
the prescription.

“Well, then.”  He slapped his knees
and got to his feet.  “My work here is done.”

I stood, too, offering my hand,
which he took.  “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said.

Patting the back of my hand with his
free one, he said, “If you want to thank me, take care of yourself.  Avoid explosive
situations.”

“
Amen!
”
Mom seconded with feeling.

“I’ll sure try.”

Doctor Klein moved over to shake
hands with Mom and Dad, and Doctor Rodriguez took his place.

“You’ve been a
terrific patient, Amanda,” she said,
then turned to Kevin before I could answer.  “I’ll see you later.”

“Pick you up at eight,” he agreed,
and nobody seemed surprised but me.

“How long has this been going on?”

Rodriguez gave me a very
un
-doctor-like grin.  “Since you told me he wanted my
number.”

“The patient is always the last to
know,” I decided with a sigh, then wrapped her in a quick, light hug.  “Let me
know if he gets out of line,” I murmured for her ears only.  “We’ll gang up on
him.”

“Deal,” she whispered, tossing Kevin
a smug smile as she followed Klein out.

“What was that all about?”

I turned to see my youngest brother
eying me suspiciously.  “None of your business.”

Mom shook her head, but she was smiling
ear to ear.  “Some things never change.”  Her smile softened as she crossed the
space between us to take both my hands in hers.  “Get dressed, Amanda Joy. 
We’re taking you home.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,”
said Jack, speaking for the first time since he had arrived and sparing me the
need to come up with a reply.

Dad drew himself up to his full
senatorial height.  “I beg your pardon?”

“She can’t go home yet, Senator.”

He had been standing by the door
where I couldn’t see him, probably trying to give the family as much privacy as
he could.  But now that push was about to come to shove, he moved into the
center of the room, giving me my first look at him.  He turned to face me, and
my breath caught.  Dennis was right.  It was easy to see how Jack Eagan got his
nickname.