Reflex (20 page)

He used both hands to roll to a sitting position. His head throbbed heavily in response. He touched his closed eye briefly. His cheek and brow were swollen and there was a crust of blood where the skin had split under his eyebrow.

His ribs hurt, too. He lifted his shirt and found a dark purple and blue bruise on his left side.
She kicked you more than once.

He checked the tape border and found he wasn't in the box. He nearly fell the first time he stood but managed to stagger to the bathroom door in a kind of controlled perpetual forward stumble. Lean forward to the point of falling, step, repeat, repeat, repeat.

He found that with only one ankle manacled, he could stand in the shower as long as he kept the confined foot up on the bathtub edge.

He didn't try to undress until he was under the streaming water, then he ripped the Velcro side seams apart and rinsed the worst of it away. Washing in handcuffs was a problem especially when he lifted his arms to wash his hair and face. His ribs screamed and he managed to wash his head only by hunching it down to the hands rather than raising them.

With the blood washed away, his eyelids came unstuck on his right eye and he was able to open it, though narrowly. He washed carefully, working over every inch of his body. He left the clothes for later. Even though his usual sense of pollution was still making him want to scrub and scrub and scrub, his head and ribs would not support the activity.

He toweled dry carefully, especially around his head, but despite the light touch, the towel came away bloodied. When he looked in the mirror his face was lopsided, the right brow and cheek puffed out. The split in his brow had reopened under washing but only seeping blood. He took a wad of toilet paper and held it there as he shuffled to the bed and lay down.

He thought about the screw in the mattress but knew that the handcuffs would make it very difficult to retrieve.
And what good would it do me, anyway?

Well, I could cut my throat.

It seemed that every time he fell asleep, they'd put him in the box. Despite the discomfort of his ribs, he started to pull the bed over but the computerized speaker said, "No. Hold it. We have a reason for doing this."

Davy paused and stared impassively at the mirror.

The voice went on. "We're trying to make sure you don't have intracranial bleeding."

"A little late to be taking so much care, isn't it?" For a second Davy felt guilty, because he'd started the current conflict, but he stopped himself quickly.
Don't go there.
They
started it when they snatched me. When they killed Brian. When they stuck this thing in my chest.

"Perhaps," said the voice. "Since vomiting is often a post-concussion symptom, we're concerned."

"Did I vomit again, after she kicked me?"

"Ah. So you remember her kicking you?"

"Oh, yes. And she kicked me again after I was unconscious."

The voice was silent.

Davy lifted his shirt and showed the bruise.

"Well, yes, she did," the voice admitted. "But not in the head."

"You're lucky I can still teleport. You should consider that the next time you turn her loose. All this effort would be wasted, wouldn't it?"

The voice was silent for a moment. When it came back, the computerized scrambler had been turned off. "Yes, it would be very aggravating. Get some rest. We won't bother you before morning." The voice was a mature baritone. "Perhaps it's time we had a little chat."

They brought him fresh Velcroed scrubs, an icepack, ibuprofen, and the key to the handcuffs. After he had dressed, the hook-nosed, red-haired man came in and supervised two women as
they
mopped the floor and changed the bedding and towels. They talked to each other in what Davy thought was Portuguese and as they departed with all the dirty laundry, including the soiled clothing from the bathtub, he said the only phrase he knew,
"Muito obrigado."

They looked at him owlishly, ducked their heads, and said,
"De nada,"
before scurrying out. The redhead backed out the door in their wake, still watching Davy until the door completely shut.

As well you might.

The floor was barely dry when a butler in black tails, gray waistcoat, and pinstriped trousers pushed a silver tea service into the room. Two maids, in knee-length gray dresses with white eyelet collars and cuffs, carried in a table and a starched white tablecloth. They left and two footmen came in, each carrying a heavy formal dining chair. The table was set up at the limit of the chain, one chair inside that circle, the opposite chair beyond.

As the footmen left, they held the door for a man Davy had never seen before.

"How do you do?" The man's voice was the unscrambled one from the loudspeaker, the voice that had suggested a "chat." He was wearing a suit that was so clearly not off-the-rack that Davy couldn't begin to estimate its price. His shirt was so white that it hurt Davy's eyes. He was in his late forties or early fifties, clearly very fit. His dark brown hair was simply cut, his temples receding somewhat. He cocked his head as he waited for Davy's answer, and his nose and chin and large, slightly lined forehead made Davy think of a vulture. For all of that, he was a handsome man.

In answer, Davy touched the swollen side of his face. "I've been better," he said.

"I expect so. Do sit."

The butler held Davy's chair from the left, so it wouldn't tangle with the chain. Davy sat and thanked him before facing back to his host. "And you are?"

"Lawrence Simons, Mr. Rice. This is one of my houses." Simons sat before the butler could get around to that side of the table, so the butler turned to the tea service instead, placing cups, plates, cloth napkins, and silverware on the table.

"And is Miss Minchin also one of yours?"

He looked puzzled for a second. "Ah, you mean Hyacinth." He chuckled. "Hyacinth was not amused when one of her colleagues explained Miss Minchin's role in
A Little Princess.
Ms. Pope
does
work for me. For certain jobs she's invaluable." He gestured at Davy's face. "Not all things, though."

Davy narrowed his eyes. "She's a murderer."

Simons raised his eyebrows and said mildly, "Well, yes. Why did you think I employ her?"

The butler didn't miss a beat. "Lemon or milk, Mr. Rice?"

Davy sat still, chilled. "Milk, please," he said after a beat. "Two lumps."

"Three or four if you count your face and ribs," said Simons, laughing briefly.

The butler handed Simons his tea without asking his preference, a thin slice of lemon floating in the cup. He put the three-tier dessert tree within reach of both and said, "Will there be anything else, Sir?"

Simons shook his head. "No thank you, Abney."

Davy held his cup between his hands, savoring the warmth.

The door closed behind the butler and Davy said, "What do you want, Mr. Simons?"

"Ah. Where to begin?" He looked meditative and touched his tongue to his lips, a quick darting motion. He tilted his head again. "The scones, I think." He took a pastry from the bottom tray. "May I recommend the clotted cream?"

Davy's head still hurt abysmally but he'd also emptied his stomach recently.
Little Mr. Bulimia.
He tried an unadorned scone, chewing slowly and carefully. "I wasn't referring to the tea, Mr. Simons."

"Of course you weren't. Just my little joke. As to what I want, well, I want your services—your unique and undivided services."

Davy observed, "Normally these sorts of arrangements are handled with an offer of salary... not surgery."

"You'd be surprised, Mr. Rice. Quite surprised. In my sphere these things are often handled by ways other than salary. Addiction, for instance. Fear of exposure. A favor for a favor. Sexual gratification." He held up one hand and flipped it over, palm up. "Gunpoint."

Davy put his cup down. "Clearly we move in different circles." He wasn't hungry or thirsty anymore. "Surely money is easier, even cheaper in the long run? Why didn't you try me with money?"

"Several reasons, but the biggest one is that I didn't think it would work." Simons crossed his legs. "I know how much you're already paid by the NSA, and with that very comfortable compensation you have set very specific limits as to what you'll do for them. You don't have enough... need. Yes, enough
need
for money to work. Your scruples are too fine, your needs too small. After all, what's to keep you, with
your
abilities, from taking anything you want?" He smiled pleasantly. "We needed something more compelling."

Davy did not reply to this. He had better manners than Miss Minchin but he was
much
scarier.

"This is not to say that I'm unwilling to compensate you for cooperation. We don't have to use
just
the stick. There's room for carrots, too." He gestured around. "Your quarters, to start with. I see lots of room for improvement. We have a private beach, too. I don't see why you couldn't have access, provided certain measures were taken."

"What sort of measures?" Davy said.

"Well, I've been quite busy and my involvement in this project has been at a remove. But now that I'm on site, I don't see why you need more than two-tenths of a second to react to a warning. I've timed several of your reactions—you don't need much time at all. And, without so much time on your hands, you're less likely to get into... mischief."

"You mean my encounter with Miss Minchin—that is, Hyacinth?"

"Yes, Hyacinth. No, that's not the mischief I had in mind." Simons shook his head. "I appreciate that encounter. It gives me a
much
better idea of your capabilities. But scaring the boys in the booth—" he turned and gestured at the one-way mirror—"that's mischievous." He faced Davy again. "And companionship. We could arrange for some sort of conjugal visit from your wife."

What about my wife?
Davy thought about denying Millie's existence but if they knew how much the NSA was paying him, they knew about Millie, too. "I think not. You'd have tried to use her as a control, already, if you had her. And I'm not doing anything that would put her in your power."

Simons eyes crinkled. "Delightful. I deal with so many stupid people—you wouldn't believe it. So refreshing. Well, the visits don't have to be from your wife—someone of the same physical type, or perhaps
not
the same type, since you've been together, what, ten, eleven years? You might want a change."

"I'll pass."

"Well, there's Hyacinth. She has a bit of a crush on you."

"You are
too
kind. Really. No, thank you."

Simons chuckled. "All right. Perhaps her sexual attentions can be saved for the
stick
side of the equation. However, access to video, books, television, anything within reason—I'd be willing to provide these things for a little cooperation."

"And what would that involve, this cooperation?"

"Just some tests, initially. Nothing invasive. We'd like to know something of what you can do. I know, for instance, that distance is not an issue—you've been know to jump people all over the world for the NSA. And that you can transport anything you can pick up."

Davy didn't correct him. He could take almost anything he could physically
move,
he didn't necessarily have to lift it from the ground. "I can hardly travel when this—" he tapped his chest—"keeps me here."

"That device keeps you where we choose. But we can choose other places—even an entire range of places."

We? Curious choice of pronoun. Perhaps he isn't the top of this food chain.

Simons raised his voice. "Would you come in, Dr. Conley?"

After a moment a gray-haired man wearing a lab jacket, glasses, and flannel slacks came through the door. He was the older man from the observation room, the man Davy had seen only for an instant.

Dr. Conley nodded to them both and said, "Good afternoon, sir. Mr. Rice."

Ah.
He had been the man in scrubs who'd come in with Miss Minch—Hyacinth, when they'd reprogrammed the implant. The glasses were the same, the voice was the same.

"Dr. Conley would like to do some evaluations of your ability. Some—what did you call them, Dr. Conley?"

"Benchmarks, sir."

"Yes. Benchmarks. They don't involve anything more exotic that letting him take some measurements and watching you exercise your talent. In return, I'll improve your living conditions."

Davy blinked suddenly, his eyes burning.
Gratitude? I'm feeling
gratitude?! He deliberately recalled Brian's face in the rain, the horribly neat round hole over Brian's unseeing right eye.
This man aimed Hyacinth the way Hyacinth aimed the gun.

He poured more tea from the pot, concentrating on keeping his hands steady and his face still. He added the sugar and poured the milk and clamped his teeth together behind a slight smile.

I won't kill for you. I won't put others in your grasp. And, at the first opportunity I get, I will destroy you and your entire organization.

He stirred the tea in the cup. "All right. I suppose we can give it a try."

Two hours later Davy felt like Sara Crewe in
A Little Princess
when, after being reduced to months of servitude by the perfidious Miss Minchin, she awakes one morning to find that someone has turned her cold, bare, drafty loft into a luxurious palace.

And look what trouble
that
caused.

He sat off to one side, still wearing the ankle restraint, while a series of liveried servants removed his hospital bed (and the hidden screw) and replaced it with a king-sized four poster. In quick succession they also brought a large Turkish rug, a standing wardrobe, a bureau, a leather recliner, and an elegant writing desk with chair. Most of the furniture was satin-finished oak with heavy brass pulls and was maneuvered with the difficulty of very heavy furniture.

The headboard of the four poster and the drapes from the canopy hid the sheet of plywood screwed to the wall. An entertainment center and a wall-mounted flat-screen TV covered most traces of the broken and dented Sheetrock where Davy had flung the blond man into the wall. And the rug and the bed covered most of the taped lines on the floor. The table from the tea service had been cleared and set with its pair of chairs against the wall by the bathroom door.