Paul, finally knocked out by the drugs, didn’t stir. Frik turned on a light. Seconds later, Arthur came into the house.
“Frikkie, I’ve just sent Saaliim to get some more things. I need you to tell me exactly what happened. By the way, you look like hell.”
Frik realized that he hadn’t done anything to clean himself up. “Like I told you, there was a fire. I—”
Arthur was already standing beside Paul. He pulled back the sheet exposing the black splotches where fire had seared the skin. “My God. If you’re up to it, hand me my bag.”
Frik handed him a medical bag that looked more like an oversized attaché. “We have to talk,” he said.
“Let me check him first. I’ll listen to what you have to say later.”
Arthur checked Paul’s vitals. “His pulse is thready. His breathing’s ragged at best.”
Frik ventured closer. To his astonishment, Trujold had opened his eyes. Clearly, he was struggling to say something, but what emerged from his scorched lips was little more than a series of croaks. He seemed to be saying “Anny.”
“He’s trying to say Manny,” Frik said. “Manny carried him out of the flaming building.”
“Easy, Paul,” Arthur said. “Don’t try to speak.” He motioned Frik to follow him out of Paul’s earshot. “He’s a mess. Chances are he’s not going to make it. His only hope is to be moved out now.”
“No.”
“Excuse me? Paul needs things I can’t do for him here.”
Frik glanced over at Paul. He had closed his eyes and seemed to have fallen unconscious again. “Listen to me, Arthur,” he said. “We’re talking about the man’s life.” Arthur’s harsh whisper held both contempt and anger.
“You have to know there’s a reason I didn’t take him straight to Mount Hope,” Frik said. “Not onlya reason, but one that’s more important than Paul or you or me.”
“I must move him to the hospital right away, Frik,” Arthur said. “And I should take a look at you, too.”
Frik shook his head. “We found something, Arthur. In the deep test drilling area. I wanted to hide it, but Paul had already—”
Arthur looked over at Paul.“Found something?”
Frik nodded. He described—as best he could—the indescribable, and watched Arthur’s eyes narrow. This had to be a strange night for him. Flying here, seeing both of them burned, now this. Frik anticipated a barrage of questions, but when he’d finished, Arthur only asked, “Where is it?”
Frik shook his head. “That’s the point. I thought I had it. I thought I was bringing the device out of the lab. When it started melting in the heat, I knew most of it was only a goddamn replica Paul had made. Only one piece of the real thing was left. It’s right over there.” Frik nodded in the direction of a side table. On it, under a lamp, sat the one piece of the artifact Frik had. It reflected the artificial light with an unnatural eeriness. From the confused look on Arthur’s face Frik concluded that he sensed it too.
Saaliim came into the room with some ice and glasses and a small pitcher of water. Arthur grabbed the bottle of Lagavulin and poured himself a few fingers’ worth.
“Tell me…what did you plan on doing with the…whatever it was?”
Frik moistened his lips and looked over at Paul. Best-case scenario, the man regained consciousness long enough to disclose the whereabouts of the fragments to Frik—and then died. If he lived, the truth would come out. Or at least Paul’s fantasies of the truth.
“What were you going to do with this incredible device?” Arthur asked again.
“If I couldn’t figure out how to replicate it…control it? I was going to hide it. For as long as I could,” Frik said.
As if he had heard Frik’s words, Paul groaned slightly. An intake of air. Arthur walked over to him, looked at Paul, then at Frik. “I must move Paul now. There’s nothing more I can do for him here. Have Saaliim call for an ambulance.”
At that moment, Frik’s assistant returned to the room. “I took the liberty, Dr. Marryshow, of ordering Oilstar’s medevac chopper. It should be here shortly.” His words were punctuated by thethump thump thump of the emergency helicopter approaching.
Frik said, “Most efficient of you. Thank you, Saaliim,” but his words lacked true conviction, and the younger man averted his eyes.
Arthur turned back to Paul and rechecked the burned man’s vitals. The thumping outside became a torrent against the side of the house, and then quieted.
Two EMS techs ran into the room pushing a gurney. Frik watched them gently shift Paul from the small daybed.
“Careful,” Arthur said.
The techs looked from Arthur to Frik. One asked, in accented English, “You ’kay, Mr. Van Alman?”
Frik nodded.
“Get him on the chopper.” Arthur indicated Paul. “I’ll be right out.” The tech nodded, and they wheeled Paul out.
“Frikkie, you need medical attention too. You need to come with us to the hospital.”
Frik poured another scotch. “Arthur—I want our club to find those pieces. The Daredevils.”
He turned toward his old friend. Arthur’s face showed consternation, even anger. “I have a patient to deal with, Frik. We’ll have to have this discussion another time.”
“But—”
Arthur cut off Frik’s response by turning on his heel and walking through the door. Over his shoulder he called out, “If Paul has any relatives, I suggest you contact them.”
Frikkie downed the scotch and reached for the bottle. As he sank back into the cushions of his leather sofa, the torrent of noise outside returned. Small twigs and leaves battered the windows and walls of the house as the medevac chopper took off.
Frikkie snapped awake at the sound of the telephone. His first sensation was pain, searing, aching pain. He reached for the bottle of Lagavulin and knocked it over, but nothing poured out. Empty.
“Master Frik, you’re awake.” Saaliim’s voice was soft and full of concern. “Dr. Marryshow is on the line.”
“What time is it?”
“Half-four. Should I bring you the phone?”
Frik waggled his head to try to clear it. It took a few moments for all of the previous day’s events to return to him. “Yes,” he said at last. “Also some coffee and anything you can find for this pain, short of morphine.”
As Saaliim left, Frik tried to stand. A wave of nausea passed over him and he dropped back onto the leather sofa he’d been sleeping on. His left hand was a mass of pain. His mouth tasted as if he’d washed down the embers of a campfire with a bottle of whiskey, which he supposed wasn’t far from the truth.
Suddenly the receiver of a telephone appeared in front of him. He picked it up and croaked, “Hello, Arthur?”
“You don’t sound good, Frik.”
“I’m fine if you discount the pain, and the aftereffects of a bottle of scotch. The important question is, how’s Paul?”
There was a pause on the line, and Frik knew the answer to his question.
“He died twenty minutes ago.”
“Damn it. Wasn’t there anything you could do?” As soon as he’d asked the question, Frikkie knew it was a mistake.
“Had he been brought straight to a hospital instead of your house, maybe. But—”
That line of discussion wouldn’t get them anywhere, so Frik cut in, saying, “His wife died years ago, as did his parents. Saaliim is trying to locate Paul’s daughter.” The smell of fresh coffee wafted into the study.
“I think I’ve got that taken care of,” Arthur said. “Manny stopped by to see how Paul was doing. He just left. He said he can get a message to…Selene, right?”
Frik inhaled deeply of the comforting coffee aroma. “Yes. Selene. She’s not particularly fond of me. She’s one of those environmentalists.” Saaliim returned with a cup of coffee and a Vicodin. Frikkie washed down the pain pill with a swig of the liquid, which his assistant had cooled just enough with the addition of milk.