The Speculist

Chapter Six

Part I

Chapter Six

Fourth chamber was — what?

Reuben awoke with a start, looking into the light. It wasn’t right; it should be farther away. As he was calculating where the light should be, he realized that he was not there any more. He had moved, or been moved, to this new place.

He blinked, trying to get the light into focus. He would often awaken disoriented, uncertain whether he was still lying on that floor, still surrounded by enemies — which meant he needed to be thinking about how to get her out of danger, and how to save his own life— or whether he was someplace else, which meant that he didn’t.

Other times, he would not wake up. He would be in a dream place, crowded with faces and voices. All were familiar, but he couldn’t quite place any of them. She was there. He would strain to identify her. She was not the woman he had lost; nor the woman who had been in danger. He could never quite focus on her face. But she was so kind. There was so much comfort in her presence.

She would take his hand in hers and whisper the truth: everybody dies.

Reuben blinked again and looked around. He remembered his surroundings as he took them in. He was lying in bed; there were curtains, white, on either side of him; the wall directly in from of him was a pale green color. This was a hospital room.

He remembered, now. He had been there for several days. At least that.

This was good news, however many times repeated. It meant that he had managed to get out of the game alive. Relief enveloped him: it was over. Then the next wave of questions began, as they always did. What about her? Ksenia. If he had somehow managed to make it out alive, then surely she had. But he couldn’t remember how.

He lay that way for a long time, fading in and out of consciousness, never completely able to shake the delirious fear — Who has the gun? — that would grip him just as he drifted off or just before he awoke. Sometimes he would wake up at night, with the room completely dark, and it would take him longer to put it together. A nurse would appear from time to time and change his IV or make other adjustments. Once in a while, she would give him a sip of water, for which he was extremely grateful. And he would try to tell her thank you in Russian, but he couldn’t remember how to say it; and then he would try to tell her in English, and would realize that he couldn’t quite speak.

He also had images of a doctor, who came in much less frequently and changed the dressing on his head and shoulder. These impressions were fuzzy, and he realized in a more lucid moment that they must increase the drug dosage before the doctor came.

So he was drugged. Of course he was. Maybe for the pain; maybe for other reasons. Not that he minded. The drugs had apparently taken care of that.

It became a routine. And whatever else Reuben knew about himself and his life, he knew that he liked having a routine. This one was easy to get used to. He would awaken afraid and disoriented. Then he would begin to remember. The nurse came often; the doctor, rarely. This continued for quite some time — maybe days, maybe weeks, it was hard to say — before he began to notice some changes. He was not waking up disoriented as frequently. He was remembering from day to day that he was in a hospital. And he was beginning to hurt: only a little at first, but gradually it grew worse.

Then one morning, the nurse gave him a sip of water. She was plump, he noticed for the first time, and probably about 45 or so. The hair peaking out from under her expertly placed nurse’s cap was reddish. He took the water, and afterwards said "Thank you."

"You’re welcome," she replied, in lightly accented English. And then added, "Don’t talk."

"What’s your name?" he asked

"Olga," she said, fluffing his pillows. "No more talk. We are glad to see you are feeling better. But don’t talk, not until after you see the doctor."

She came back a while later with the doctor. Reuben had never seen him while in such a lucid state. He was also on the heavy side, with dark hair and sharp features.

"Mr. Stone," he said. "Olga tells me that you are beginning to feel better."

"The truth is," Reuben answered, finding speech to be a greater effort than he expected "now that your drugs are wearing off, I feel worse.."

The doctor nodded sympathetically.

"Yes. I hope you understand that we kept you sedated only for your own protection."

Reuben tried to shrug; then winced.

"You see? Mr. Stone, you have suffered some very serious trauma. I don’t know if you can remember any of that?"

"Yes, I can. Most of it. May I have another drink of water please?"

Olga responded with another sip from the yellow plastic cup. It felt good on his throat.

"I have some questions for you, doctor."

"Only a few today." The doctor reached behind one of the curtains and produced a stool with rolling legs. He sat down. "What would you like to know?"

"I had…I have a friend who was also there. Where I got these injuries. I need to know whether she’s all right."

The doctor frowned and glanced at Olga. She shrugged.

"I can’t tell you," he said. "We wouldn’t know about that. You have friends who are eager to see you. I will allow one of them pay you a brief visit tomorrow, and another the next day. I’m sure they can tell you about your friend."

"Well…" Reuben thought for a moment. "Are any of these friends who want to see me women?"

"I’m afraid not. Two men. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more."

Reuben sighed with exasperation.

"Okay, then I have another question. What is this place? And who are you?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Stone. I am Dr. Chevlenko, and I believe you have already met Olga. This is a private clinic, a small private clinic. We are not far from the city of Moscow."

"Does the clinic have a name?"

"It does not."

Reuben sighed again. It was hard to talk, and frustrating not to get answers.

"Do you expect me to believe that WorldConneX put me here?"

The doctor chuckled.

"Mr. Stone, I see that you are a suspicious man, nearly as suspicious as a Russian. No doubt this is a great aid to you in your work, whatever that might be. If one were asking questions, one might seek to know how a man as cautious as you appear to be ever came to such great harm. Yes?"

Reuben didn’t respond.

"In any case," Chevlenko continued, "you can believe what you wish about who has placed you here and how the accounts are being settled. Once again, that is a question for your friends, not for me."

He stood up.

"Wait," said Reuben. "Fine. There’s something you can tell me. What happened to me?"

The doctor sat down again and looked at his clipboard.

"What do you remember?"

"Just about everything you have written there, I guess. I took a blow to the small of the back. I took another one to my shoulders and neck. And I had a gunshot to my right shoulder. Did you have to remove the bullet?"

"No, it passed through. Do you know what else happened to you?"

"No." He thought about it for a moment. "Wait. Something to my head? I banged it on the floor. And there was a burn from a cigar?"

"Yes. The bump on your head was not too severe, and there was also a very nasty burn. But you sustained another head injury as well."

Reuben thought back, piecing together scattered images of the bizarre duel.

"I see," he said, after a moment. "He got me. So what, the bullet grazed my head?"

The doctor looked at Reuben sympathetically. He tapped the closed end of his pen on the clipboard a couple of times, pondering the question.

"You must pardon me," he said after a moment. "Sometimes my English is less than perfect."

"It’s been perfect so far," Reuben said. "Why are you stalling? What happened to me?"

"Well, when you describe a bullet ‘grazing’ one’s head, I’m afraid you have an image of something substantially less severe than was actually the case. It might be more accurate to say that the bullet passed through your head, just as the other one did your shoulder, though I must add that this was to a much lesser extent than what occurred there. Still, much more damaging in its own right."

Reuben nodded, considering this.

"Um, what about my brain?" he asked.

"Only a superficial injury, it seems. The bullet entered here," he placed a finger an inch or so above his own left eye, "and exited here," he moved his finger leftwards and around to the edge of the temple, a distance of maybe three inches. "I’m afraid the bullet broke off a piece of your skull in this area and we have had to replace a section of your forehead."

"I see," said Reuben. "What you’re telling me is that I got lucky."

That was the trick, after all, to winning in roulette. A wave of exhaustion washed over Reuben. He no longer wanted to talk.

Dr. Chevlenko shrugged.

"I would hesitate to describe as ‘lucky’ a man in the condition you were in when they brought you here. But in fact, had there been even a slightly different entry point or angle of the bullet, I doubt that you and I would be talking right now."

"Are you sure about my brain?" Reuben noticed that his speech was slurred. He didn’t want to talk any more, but this was important. "Never heard of a superficial brain injury."

The doctor looked him in the eye.

"Perhaps I chose my words badly. I can see no reason to expect that the injury to your brain was severe, but the brain is always a mystery. And I will tell you frankly that I am no expert. However, it is quite encouraging to see you awake and talking. Over the next few days, we will work on getting you back on your feet. We’ll know soon enough whether there is any particular reason for concern."

"But you don’t…think there is." That was it; he was finished talking.

"Not at present." Chevlenko stood up. "What’s important now is that you rest. If you need anything, Olga or Maria will be checking on you regularly."

He returned the stool to its place behind the curtain.

"Good night, then, Mr. Stone."

He turned and to leave, followed by Olga. On her way out the door, the nurse set the room’s light to the dim setting. The message was clear; he should sleep.

But there was a lot to think about. It seemed that his desperate Russian Roulette strategy had worked. Roughing the stork up had surely contributed to the thug’s inability to fire an accurate shot. That had saved Reuben’s life, but he still had no idea how he got from there to here. Or what had happened to Ksenia.

He was certain that he didn’t get up and fire at the stork after taking a bullet in the head; so he had, in fact, not "won" the game. He couldn’t imagine the Czar being overcome by a generous impulse and letting them go. Something had happened. He tried to remember. In the moment just before he was hit, there were sounds coming from outside, and voices. He tried to isolate the last thing he saw or heard. The last time he saw Ksenia’s face.

It was all a blur. A thick, warm blur.

It was later.

Reuben glanced up, and slowly realized that he had been asleep. The doctor was once again standing at his bedside. Only it was a different doctor, older.

"Hello, Reuben," he said.

Reuben tried to answer.

"Don’t," said the older doctor. "They’ve given you a sedative so that you’ll sleep. It might be hard for you to talk. I’ll be here in the morning and we can talk then."

Reuben tried to nod.

"I just wanted to look in on you. They said you were feeling better, and I wanted to see for myself."

Reuben couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. But he felt reassured, almost safe, seeing this man. He liked this doctor, who was really not a doctor at all. Reuben had known this man for a long time. Forever. He couldn’t think of what his name was, or even who he was. But it was there.

"Good night then," said the old man. "I’ll see you in the morning.

Reuben closed his eyes. That was it.

The old man.

He awoke to a crisp "good morning" from Olga and brilliant light. She had pulled the curtains back, revealing additional beds on either side, empty, and a window to his right through which daylight was streaming. The window looked out over a white field of snow with trees in the distance. The sunshine was dazzling on the snow.

"Good morning," Reuben managed. He smelled something good. Food. He was struck by a wave of hunger, then nausea, the hunger again. He shakily lifted his hand to where he could see it and realized both that he could lift his hand and that the IV tube had been removed.

"Yes," said Olga. "It’s gone. Now let’s see if you are ready to sit up."

Olga took hold of a remote control; the bed slowly raised Reuben to a more or less sitting position. This was much better. He could feel his mind clearing.

"How soon can I get out of this bed?"

Olga smiled.

"Maybe tomorrow; maybe later today. The doctor will decide. But now you will try some breakfast."

She swung an arm-tray in front of him. It was mounted on a pole next to the bed that also had, Reuben noticed, a control panel for the bed and an intercom for calling the nurse. The tray would serve as his table.

The other nurse, Maria, entered the room carrying a small breakfast tray. She was younger than Olga, and thinner. She placed the tray in front of him and removed the cover from the plate. Reuben thought he might faint from the smell. It was two small pieces of toasted rye bread with butter, a poached egg, and a sliced tomato. There was also orange juice and water.

Reuben dug in. He noticed that the china and silver, as well as the preparation of the food, reflected a higher standard than he would expect from a hospital. But this was, after all, a private clinic and — then he remembered. The old man. He had put him here.

"How is your breakfast?" Olga asked him.

"Great. I don’t suppose I could get some coffee?"

She looked disapproving.

"You Americans and your coffee. Tea would be much better for you, you know."

"Fine," he said, agreeably, "tea it is." Then he added, as casually as he could. "So do you know whether Mr. Keyes will be coming to visit this morning, or later?"

"I don’t know," she said. "He may be busy this morning. We shall see."

So he had not dreamed it. Not only was the old man there, he was going by his actual name.

Michael Forrest Keyes had always been the old man to Reuben; his father had called him that. At a remarkably young age, Julian Stone had built a lucrative shipping business in his home town of Kingston, Jamaica. When he was 25, he took a trip to New York, where he wangled a meeting with Keyes — shipping was one of the old man’s many business interests — to propose a joint venture in South America. The two men had never met, although their interests had sometimes overlapped, and sometimes been at odds with each other.

Keyes took an instant liking to Stone and to his proposal. Before the meeting was through, he had purchased the ambitious Jamaican’s company and hired him on. Julian Stone was to work for Keyes for the rest of his life, in a position that would be given a number of different official titles over the years, but he would always be referred to by his employer as simply the brains. For his part, Stone began calling Keyes the old man the day he accepted the job, although Keyes was himself at the time barely 40.

The name had stuck and had, in fact, been passed on to the next generation.

The old man was an enigma. He had amassed a great fortune over the years in shipping, oil, and precious metals. The arc of his success was almost anachronistic, a story befitting an industrialist in an earlier, grander, more heroic era. Keyes was famously charismatic and a notorious individualist; he viewed his fortune not as a means of fame, but rather a license for reclusiveness and eccentricity. He had an extensive collection of private jet aircraft, yachts, and personal rail coaches. And he had a renowned fascination with the paranormal, with a particular interest in UFOs and lost ancient civilizations.

Olga brought Reuben his tea, and whisked away his breakfast. His initial appetite notwithstanding, he had managed to down only a few bites before beginning to feel queasy. The tea was supposed to be able to settle his stomach, but it seemed to be having the opposite effect.

Reuben looked around the immaculate and well-appointed room, and thought of the old man. There was a time, many years before, when Reuben had sworn that he would never need the old man’s help again. And that even if he did need it, he would never accept it. But he was young, then, and angry. He considered the room. And Olga. And the food. Whatever this place was, it was a far cry from what he would have expected a Russian hospital to be. It was downright luxurious. More importantly, he sensed that he was much safer from the Czar and his men here than he would have been in a hospital.

In case they were still looking for him, which he didn’t know.

He took another sip of the tea and thought that maybe it was doing the trick after all. But he didn’t want any more. He swung the arm back out of his way, and thought about sitting all the way up. There were rails raised on either side of the bed, and Reuben could not figure out how to lower them. He fussed with them for a while, until he began to feel a little tired and dizzy. He lay back on his pillow.

There would be time for that later. Maybe what he needed now was some more sleep. He was about to close his eyes, when there was the sound of someone at the door. Reuben looked that way and was surprised to see not one visitor, but two.

Posted by Phil at March 1, 2004 12:00 AM | TrackBack