Ground Zero Part 9

8.

Dawn Pickering stared down at the Jackie Ona.s.sis Reservoir in Central Park and felt one of her berserk moods coming on.

She didn't know if being three months pregnant had anything to do with it, or just the fact that she was totally a prisoner in this apartment. Not just an apartment-a beautiful apartment with every imaginable amenity. Beyond beautiful. A Fifth Avenue penthouse duplex overlooking Central Park. But a gilded cage. She wanted to smash its walls.

She rubbed her swelling belly. She'd popped a few weeks ago and was showing. She realized it was a relatively small b.u.mp but it made her feel like an elephant.

Back in May she'd sneaked out and landed herself in terrible trouble. She lived with daily reminders of those days. But she'd gone for a good reason-to abort the baby. She'd never wanted this baby, especially after learning the father's-Jerry's-true ident.i.ty. And now, as the weeks pa.s.sed, she was getting closer and closer to the point of no return, where she wouldn't be able to get an abortion.

And it was making her totally crazy.

All Mr. Osala's fault. He said he'd been hired by her mother to protect her and so he kept her locked up here. For her own good, he insisted. Because Jerry was out there, looking for her, looking for his child, and as long as she carried that child he would never hurt her. But if he ever learned that she had aborted his baby ...

No argument that Jerry was a totally dangerous guy, but she couldn't have this baby! but she couldn't have this baby!

Didn't anyone understand that? She was only eighteen. She couldn't spend the rest of her life in hiding. That would be like seventy or eighty years.

She wanted to throw a knife at somebody.

She turned away from the window and walked past the hot tub, the pool, the gym equipment, and went downstairs toward the living quarters. She was just stepping out of the stairwell when she saw Gilda the housekeeper leaving Mr. Osala's suite. She knew from chitchat with the older woman that Mr. Osala had a bedroom, an office, and his own bath in there-the reason she hardly ever saw him on the rare times he was home.

She noticed that the latch didn't catch as Gilda pulled the door closed behind her. Dawn had long wanted a peek inside, but the door was always locked and Gilda would never let her in-the "Master" totally valued his privacy.

Fine. But he'd taken charge of her life and she deserved to know a little more about him. She had only his word that Mom had hired him, and Mom wasn't around to confirm or deny the story.

Dawn felt her throat tighten. G.o.d, how she missed her. If she could have just one more day with her ... even ten minutes ...

She shook it off and waited for Gilda's solid form to bustle around a corner. Then she tiptoed to Mr. Osala's door and slipped through. She checked the k.n.o.b to make sure it would turn, then closed the door behind her. The windows were shaded, so she felt along the wall till she found a light switch.

Shockingly bright overhead fluorescents flared to life, intensified by the stark white of the bare walls. Totally bare. Not a photo, not a painting, not even a scratch or nail hole to suggest that anything had ever decorated them. A big, plain mahogany desk dominated the room, sporting a computer monitor and nothing else. A black leather office chair and a filing cabinet completed the furnishings.

This was it? This was his office? She'd expected dark paneling, lush carpeting, and all sorts of memorabilia.

She moved to the next room and found more bare white walls surrounding a neatly made double bed with a light beige blanket but no spread. Two large armoires dominated the room. She opened one, then the other. Both were racked with expensive suits.

Strange.

But then, Mr. Osala was a strange man.

Clothing appeared to be his only extravagance-that and the rest of the house. But as for his personal quarters, he lived like a monk. And he'd chosen rooms with no view of the park. Not that it would matter with the heavy shades on the windows.

She smiled. Might be evidence that he was a vampire, except she'd seen him standing in full sunlight. So it had to be a privacy thing.

Dawn wandered back to the office area and pulled open one of the desk drawers for a peek. She spotted a driver's license and what looked like a college ID. She reached- "The Master is a man who values his privacy."

Dawn gasped and looked up to see a thick-bodied woman with gray, bunned hair standing by the door.

Gilda.

"The door was open." She felt her face redden as she slammed the drawer shut. "I was just curious."

"You are trouble," the older woman said in accented English-Eastern Europe somewhere. "You have been trouble since the day he brought you here."

She had been warm to Dawn in the beginning, but then Dawn had made her escape and Henry, Mr. Osala's chauffeur, had suffered for it. Gilda and Henry had been friends. Now Henry was gone, and with him, Gilda's warmth.

"I totally don't mean to be. I'm just so bored. bored. Can you understand that?" Can you understand that?"

She nodded. "Of course I can."

Good. Maybe Gilda was mellowing a little toward her. Dawn needed an ally here. Mr. Osala's new driver was totally unreachable. That left only Gilda.

She didn't know why she was afraid of Mr. Osala. He'd never threatened her, hadn't punished her for disobeying him. He saw to her every comfort, gave her everything she asked for except freedom and communication with the outside world-no phone, no Internet, which meant no Mys.p.a.ce or Face-book. She was totally cut off from everyone she'd ever known. He said that was to protect her from giving away her location. Maybe so, but it seemed totally extreme.

And there were times ... the way he looked at her ... no l.u.s.t or anything like that, just sort of ... calculating. She would have totally preferred l.u.s.t. She could handle l.u.s.t.

She had this feeling sometimes that he wasn't saving her from from something so much as saving her something so much as saving her for for something. something.

She stepped closer to Gilda and looked her in the eyes.

"Then you won't tell Mr. Osala about this?"

The woman's dark eyes flashed and she smiled, revealing her gapped teeth.

"Of course I will."

9.

It took a lot of wheedling, but the hospital finally agreed to allow Eddie a peek at Mount Sinai's latest Jane Doe.

Jack had never been particularly enamored of hospitals, but after Gia and Vicky's ordeal earlier this year, he'd developed a definite aversion. The last time he'd seen the inside of one had been May when he and Abe had visited Professor Buhmann after his stroke. Right here at Mount Sinai, in fact.

The old guy had moved on to a nursing home, and then last month he'd matriculated to the Great Lecture Hall in the Sky. A grieving Abe had dragged Jack to the memorial service.

"They say she's still unconscious," Eddie said.

They stood in a foyer as he waited for security to escort him up to the floor.

Jack nodded. "Figured that."

After all, she wouldn't still be listed as a Jane Doe if she could tell them her name. Jack and Eddie used to play Master of the Obvious as kids. He wasn't going to bring that up now.

Visions of Gia and Vicky inert in their beds with tubes running in and out of them flashed through Jack's brain.

"If it is her, how are you going to prove you're related?"

Eddie shook his head. "d.a.m.ned if I know. They asked me if I had a picture of her. Are they kidding? Who carries a picture of his sister? Do you carry a picture of Kate?"

"No. But maybe I should."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, Jack. I'm sorry. I heard about Kate. I should have said something. She was a ... a wonderful person. And your dad. That was the most bizarre d.a.m.n thing. My condolences. I would have said so earlier except ..."

"Don't give it another thought. Let's think about Weez. You have a key to her place, right? If Jane Doe is Weezy, you could match it up with a key in her bag."

"Except this lady's bag was stolen from the scene of the accident."

"Swell."

"Yeah," Eddie said. "What kind of person sees somebody knocked down by a car and the first thing he thinks of is s.n.a.t.c.hing her purse? I'm glad I live in Jersey."

"Right," Jack said, feeling suddenly defensive. "Like that would never happen in Newark or Paterson."

A uniformed security guard arrived then.

"This won't take long," Eddie said as the guy guided him toward the elevators. "All I need is a peek."

"If it's her, you let me know ASAP and I'll come up."

He hoped not. Under any circ.u.mstances it would be kind of strange to reconnect with Weezy after all these years. But Weezy in a coma ... he couldn't bear the thought of that unique, bright mind with the power cut off.

As an elevator swallowed Eddie, Jack wandered around to kill time. He found a Starbucks Kiosk and was going to grab a coffee of the day when he realized one of the patrons-a skinny, s.h.a.ggy-haired guy-looked familiar from the back. He wandered closer and recognized Darryl. As he looked up Jack quickly turned and wandered away. He wondered what Darryl was up to. He'd noticed a Band-Aid in the crook of his arm. Blood tests? He didn't look happy to be here. In fact, he looked d.a.m.n scared.

10.

Darryl wondered why that bearded dude had been staring at him, then decided he didn't care. He'd looked kind of familiar. Like maybe he'd seen him around the Lodge. Another sick Kicker? Well, who cared? Wasn't going to be able to care much about anything until he got the results of those blood tests.

Weird how they'd told him to wait right here for the results. Whoever heard of getting test results right away?

This had to be real serious.

He had to say he was impressed with Drexler's suck. He'd made his call and next thing Darryl knew he was on his way uptown to a big-time specialist. He'd been ushered right through Dr. Orlando's office and into an examining room. He'd spent fifteen seconds, tops, with the doctor, a bald, round-headed fat guy in a white coat who reminded Darryl of Dr. Honeydew on The Muppet Show. The Muppet Show. He popped through the door, took one look at the rash, rattled off a bunch of medical gobbledygook to his a.s.sistant, and disappeared. Next stop had been the lab where they sucked out some blood, and then here to wait. He popped through the door, took one look at the rash, rattled off a bunch of medical gobbledygook to his a.s.sistant, and disappeared. Next stop had been the lab where they sucked out some blood, and then here to wait.

Why here? Darryl wondered why he wasn't cooling his heels in Dr. Orlando's office. He'd noticed INFECTIOUS DISEASES on the door. That was good, right? Infections could be cured.

"Mister Kulik?"

It took Darryl a second to respond. No one hardly ever used his second name. He was just Darryl to folks. He looked up and saw the doc's skinny, red-haired a.s.sistant. Her name tag read B. SNYDER PA.

"Doctor will see you now."

Darryl started shaking as he rose from the chair.

"He's got results? What do I have?"

"The doctor will tell you."

"Hey, if you know-"

"He wishes to discuss this with you himself."

He shook all the way to the office. The walk, the elevator ride-blurs. Eventually he found himself sitting across the desk from Dr. Orlando.

"Well, Mister Kulik," he said as he stared at the printout in his hands, "the stat labs confirm what I knew the instant I saw your skin lesion."

"You mean the rash? What is it?"

"Kaposi's sarcoma."

"What's that?"

"A form of cancer a.s.sociated-"

"s.h.i.t!" Darryl would have leaped from the seat if his legs would have held him. "I got cancer?"

"Yes, but we can keep it under control by treating the underlying cause."

"Which is?"

"AIDS."

It took a while for the word to sink in, and when it did, Darryl felt like he'd turned to stone.

"What?"

"Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, Mister Kulik. Your HIV test came back positive."

He said it like a sandwich guy telling him they were out of ham but he could have turkey instead.

"But-but-but queers get AIDS!" he blurted when he found his voice. "I ain't queer!"

"We prefer the terms 'h.o.m.os.e.xual' or 'gay,' Mister Kulik. And indeed you need not be h.o.m.os.e.xual to catch HIV. Heteros.e.xual transmission occurs, but the majority of HIV-positive heteros.e.xuals I see are the victims of contaminated syringes. Are you a drug addict or do you have a history of drug abuse?"

"No way. Never."