Afterward, when he was asleep, Angel gendy eased his now-leaden hand from her thigh. Tuning out his soft snores, she wondered if she should break Uncle Joe's rule and tell Jake about his attending's spinal cord research.

  She knew most of what there was to know about it, having put in several hours a day in Uncle Joe's lab. The latest set of rodent trials had been running for over a year; she'd done the anesthesia on each rat, made daily observations, and kept the protocols straight. On the plus side, the approach was highly promising in theory. But so far the rats themselves had not provided the slightest reason to hope. Uncle Joe's three previous studies had ended in failure. However good the theory, she hadn't seen any evidence yet to indicate this time would be different.

  No, the rule was a good one. Jake was not the type to trust in

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  theories, and even if she did succeed in raising his hopes, what would happen when those hopes began to fade? He'd be more depressed than before, and in the bargain would lose trust in her. That trust was all that was keeping him going, and she must do nothing to undermine it. All the rehab in the world could not restore Jake's spinal cord, and he knew that, but the commitment he was pouring into the effort could regenerate his severed will to live.

  And she must see that it did, because if Jake kept on giving it his best, and the four months ended, and he still wanted to die, could she betray his trust.> Could she really look him in the eye and tell him the deal was off?

  November

  As he was about to sign on to the Internet, Jake felt a warning prickle at the nape of his neck. Keeping the "stick" firmly gripped in his teeth, he rolled his head to the side—winning back that simple ability had added a whole new dimension to his existence— half expecting to see Angel standing beside the bed. But no, the room was empty.

  Just a touch of paranoia—Angel never sneaked up on him.

  Morning light poured through the window, an amber sea teeming with dust-mote fish. A section of the wall blazed in the sunlight, releasing the faint, fruity smell of paint. Out in the hall, where his hearing liked to go without him, the last of the breakfast trays trundled away on creaking carts.

  Angel couldn't sneak up on me if she tried, Jake told himself No one else walks quite like her . . .

  He closed his eyes, strangely weighed down by the thought. He knew the light, crisp tread of her feet, yes, and the smell of her skin, her laugh from far down the hall, the whisper of her nylons against each other as she moved around his bed, like another man might know the downy feel of her cheek, the contours of her lips—

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Jake's jaws ached suddenly. Easing his grip on die stick, he let the tip setde against the sheet. The important thing, the thing he should be thinking about, was that, even though Angel wouldn't sneak up on him, she was surely aware by now of how much time he was logging on the computer. She'd promised that no one would monitor his screen from another station, but she had other ways to keep track. Nurses and aides darted in and out all day. Asking to have his privacy curtain drawn didn't help—light from the screen gave the curtains a blue flush, especially at night, and they could probably hear the stick tapping out in the hall. And Dr. Graham, popping in at unpredictable moments, had seen him working on the computer several times.

  An odd duck, Graham. He'd pick up a hand and bend it back and forth. Can you feel this, Mr. Nacht.> No. This.> No. Never called him Jake, never much expression on the guy's face. Dr. Graham did not particularly like him, that was clear. Or maybe he was just one of those guys with no personality. Sometimes there'd be a look of speculation, almost greed, in his gaze.

  Like I'm the goose that might lay the golden egg, Jake thought. Other times, he treats me like a side of beef

  Not yesterday, though. Graham had seemed to be really paying attention, the "golden egg" look staying on his face for the whole visit.

  What^s he up to?

  Jake hated mysteries, had learned the hard way how much it could cost if you didn't figure out what was really going on inside people. But he couldn't begin to guess what movie was playing inside Graham.

  Hell with that. What mattered was that Graham not pop in when he was surfing the wrong part of the Net. Fine for the nurses and Graham to see him using the computer. And by all means let them tell Angel. She'd feel good about that—more evidence he was trying.

  As long as Angel didn't know what he was trying.

  He couldn't blow it now. Nine weeks gone; he was more than

  I

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  halfvay to his goal. Anotiier six and he'd be out of here, away from the ripe paint smell, the floating dust motes, the eternal, fixed-camera view of the world he was coming to loathe with an aching, helpless desperation.

  Gripping the stick firmly between his teeth, Jake tapped keys, trying to get to the right section of the Net's bulletin board. Instead, he found himself stumbling through the day's news summaries. Baseball scores, stock prices, politics. . . .

  Frustrated, he poked with the stick, tr)^ing to remember the command he wanted. As the screen continued stubbornly to scroll through the news, a familiar name leapt out at him. Of its own accord, the stick fi-oze the screen on a story in that day's New York Times: Weingarten Blames NRA.

  Jake felt a sudden burning itch along the nape of his neck where the bullet had plowed in. Anything Whiny said had to be bullshit and he was not about to waste his time on it . . .

  On the other hand, he had nothing but time.

  Jake scanned the article—Senator Weingarten theorizing to the Times reporter that the hysteria fostered by the NRA over antigun legislation was responsible for the attempt on his life two months ago. "The gun nuts know I'm their fiercest enemy," Senator Weingarten said. "They wanted to silence me. They sense a wavering on the part of some people. I'm just one senator, a public servant, and yet, if they could shut me up, maybe the gun lobby in this countr}^ could get a better foothold. But the assassination attempt hasn't intimidated me one bit. I'll go on fighting crime, and I'll do it just as I always have: not by trampling the public's right to privacy and fi*ee speech, but by taking the guns off the streets."

  Yeah, Jake thought dryly. Whiny has seen the light. Whiny is back in line. Thanks to me, Jake thought.

  Fur^ surged through him, so strong he could almost feel it lifi:-ing him from the bed. He embraced the rage, clenching his teeth, feeding it with images of Fredo's smug face.

  He imagined leaping from the bed, running down the hospital corridor to get a gun and kill them all, starting with Fredo. Jake

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  could almost feel the tiles slapping his bare feet with cool, stinging blows, doctors and nurses turning, astonished at this miracle. In his mind, he ran past them, clinging to the hem of his rage, knowing if he lost it even for a second he'd slump to the floor in a helpless tangle, his arms and legs useless again. . . .

  Drawing a deep breath around the stick, Jake let go of the fantasy. Hate was powerful, maybe the most powerful thing in the world, but it could not raise him off this bed, any more than happy thoughts could make Peter Pan fly.

  Jake steadied the stick with his teeth and put it back to work, poking keys with slow deliberation until finally he made it into the section of the Internet called "Writers Corner."

  Too bad Dr. Kevorkian didn't have a home page. Hey, Dr. K, I need a consult. Stat.

  Signing in, he started tapping out the message he had composed in his mind during the night:

  Am writing a medical thriller. Need the naem (backspace, backspace) n-a-m-e of a poison that causes death from heart failure. Must he undetectable at autopsy —

  Jake froze, hearing the familiar energetic tread.

  "Ready to work.>"

  Angel, already through the door—he'd become so engrossed he hadn't processed the sounds! Jake stabbed desperately at the key on the top row, missed, tried again. Sweat stung his eyes, making the screen blur.

  "What's that.>" Angel asked.

  Panic closed his throat. If she saw his message, she'd understand in a flash and two months of daily effort on her useless damned hand "exercises" would be down the drain.

  "Hey, I like it."

  Relief swept him. He'd managed to switch screens. He gazed at the monitor with her as she read the quote: "It's easier to act yourself into a new way of thinking than to think yourself into a new way of acting." She eyed him speculatively. "Very Zen. Where did you find it?"

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  "Just something I read in a psycholog}^ book once." He kept his voice offhand, not overdoing it. She was smart, and if she thought he was conning her, she'd be doubly on her guard.

  "You're sweating," Angel observed.

  "It's hot in here," he growled. "All that damned sunlight." He knew he was permitted a little grumpiness—in fact, she seemed almost to encourage it sometimes. Seeing her face relax a fraction, he knew it had been the right touch. The little victory failed to cheer him. Though manipulating her was a game he had to win, he found no pleasure in it.

  Maneuvering the stick, Jake exited from the network, turned the power off, and carefrilly deposited the stick into the slot in the foam cube so that he could reach the bit again when he was ready.

  "You're getting good with that."

  "I'd prefer opposable thumbs, but I'll take whatever I can get."

  "That's the spirit."

  "So what's today's shocking episode.^"

  "Same as yesterday's, I'm afraid."

  Turning to the door, she waved the tech in. He pushed the cart with the video monitor and biofeedback machine into the room. Angel kept up a patter while the tech, a big guy named Mustaf, slipped the electrodes on. Today Jake imagined that he could feel the cuffs sliding over his fingers. Or maybe it wasn't imagination. Angel had said he could expect some returning sensation. As usual, Mustaf didn't look at him or speak to him, hooking him up with quick efficiency and heading out with a wave at Angel.

  "Is he that talkative with the other patients.^" Jake asked.

  "Actually, he's usually pretty friendly. I think he may be a litde afraid of you."

  "Of me or of being paralyzed.^"

  "Of you. You feel helpless, I know. But that's not the way people see you—"

  "Give me a break, Angel—" Careful. Jake gave her a strained smile to cover his irritation. "In case you haven't noticed, I can't make a fist. And I couldn't have whipped Mustaf on my best day."

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  Her face remained serious. "He doesn't think you're going to sit up and punch him, but he sees something in you that scares him."

  Jake couldn't quite read her tone. What was this> That's not the way people see you. "Are you talking about Mustaf or yourself?"

  Angel returned his gaze. "I'm a little afraid of you, yes."

  Jake felt a sudden stillness inside himself, deeper even than the paralysis. He'd had this same eerie feeling once before, when a target had turned and looked straight at him through the scope. Even though he'd known the man wasn't really seeing him four hundred yards away, it had made his spine crawl. And now Angel seemed to be looking at him, really looking, seeing inside to what he really was. That must never happen. If she knew he had killed seventeen men, she might run from this room and never come back. He needed her right here every day for the next two months. Their deal had to go through, it had to.

  "Don't get me wrong," Angel said. "I like you. I enjoy being with you, talking to you. You have a good sense of humor, great courage. You've been working hard, doing everything I've asked of you and more. But a part of you is always hidden, and that's the part that scares me. I don't know what that part could do, what it's capable of"

  Jake's anxiety eased, but only a litde. "I'm just a guy, a security guard who thought a weekend in the big city would be fun."

  "Are you snowing me, Jake.> Is your trying all an act.>"

  Jake went cold. "That's not fair. Angel. Trying and acting are the same. Remember those words on the computer screen? Well, I'm trying to act my way into a new way of thinking—that's what our deal was all about. So don't ask me if I'm acting. Yes, I'm acting—I'm doing. I promised I'd try hard and I'm tndng hard."

  "Are you making it, Jake.>"

  He could hear the fear in her voice now. What should he say.> Not yes, or she'd throw it back at him later. But he couldn't say no, either. The deal was four months, and Angel wouldn't kill him a dav sooner—if she killed him at all.

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  "I don't know," Jake lied.

  "It's just that I get the feeling your main worry in life is whether I think you're trying, and if that's true, then it's because you still want to die. You've made up your mind and nobody or nothing can change it."

  "You're thinking too much. Angel. Stop analyzing and just work with me, all right.>"

  "At the beginning, when the shock and panic were at their worst, I could understand you thinking you wanted to die. But since we made our . . . deal, I haven't seen the slightest sign of depression or anger in you."

  "Do you want me to brood.^ Fly into rages.>"

  "It might be just what you need. Our deal is that you tr^, not that you hide all your feelings. That's not human, Jake. Anger and depression are normal for quadriplegics after the shock and panic wear oft. But not you. You look and sound so strong. You give every appearance of a man enjoying life again. If you are, great. But if you're not—and I honesdy can't tell which it is—that kind of control, that airtight capacity to deceive^ is . . . scary."

  "Angel, please. I'm not trying to deceive you."

  She held his gaze a moment; then her eyes faltered away. He felt the guilt again, and it annoyed him. What, after all, did he owe this woman.^ She had no right to expect him not to deceive her, if that's what it took. It was his life he was fighting for—the right to end it, which any normal person with the use of his arms and legs had. If she couldn't understand that, it was her problem.

  All the same, he wished he could take her hand.

  "Angel," he said gentiy, "you're getting way ahead of yourself. This is today. We've got almost two months before either of us has to face whether I'll want to die. Neither of us knows the answer to that question today, and it's pointless to jaw about it."

  She gazed at him a moment longer, then nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry. Let's get to work."

  As she plugged the leads trailing from his fingers into the biofeedback machine, Jake assessed what had just happened. Kind of

  F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  encouraging, actually. If she didn't mean to keep up her end of the deal, why worry about whether he was still determined to die?

  Angel squeezed dollops of electrode paste onto the back of his neck and slipped the disc-type leads into place between his skin and the pillow. She flipped on the monitor and a green line snaked across the screen. At once, small tremors spiked along the line— evidence, according to Angel, of neurological activity in the spinal cord below the point where the bullet had gone in, small firings from the nerves in his neck, mostly. Angel adjusted some knobs below the screen, tuning out the impulses until the line went smooth.

  "Ready?"

  "Ready," Jake answered, watching the screen.

  The green line took a sudden jump, and he knew she'd applied current to one of his fingers. Clearly, the nerve impulse was making it past the rupture in his spinal cord to his brain. The cord had been severed almost through, but the ten percent that remained, holding the cord together, did provide a small passageway for impulses. So why couldn't he feel the shocks? When he'd asked Angel, she'd given him a confusing litde lecture about the brain. Apparendy, the brain itself had no pain receptors. What it did do was interpret the pain registered in other parts of the body. The monitor proved that at least some of the shock impulses from his fingers were making it to the brain, but apparendy not in enough force for the brain to notice and interpret them.

  No pain, no gain.

  "Did you feel that?" Angel asked hopeftilly.

  "Nope."

  "Let's try the middle finger."

  "Hit me."

  The line on the monitor jumped; Jake felt a very slight tingle in the middle finger of his right hand. "Hey!" he said. "I felt that!" Hope rushed through him. Three weeks on the new machine, and this was the first time he'd felt anything. . . .

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  And then he reminded himself that it didn't matter.

  Angel grinned at him. "Wonderful! Okay, again."

  "Yes! Just a very faint tingle." He kept enthusiasm in his voice.

  "Try and increase it. Watch the screen."

  He stared at the screen, for the first time in weeks not having to fake his concentration. He watched the little spikes, timing them. He focused his mind on making the rhythmic spikes bigger. Nothing happened.

  "Again."

  He gritted his teeth, willing the spike to broaden. Come on, he thought. For Angel.

  The spike edged up another millimeter. He could feel the tingle a little more strongly.

  "Jake, that's terrific. You're doing it!"

  He grinned back at her.

  They kept at it for another thirty minutes. He got the spike to broaden by almost three millimeters.

  "All right," Angel said. "That's enough for today." She gazed at him, her eyes luminous. She was so happy, it made him feel good, too. She slid the tray table with his computer back into place and stood a moment, looking down at him. "You did fantastic," she said.

  "I did, didn't I.>"

  She picked up his hand and kissed it. He kept the smile on his face until Angel had left the room.

  Nice as it had been to see her pleasure, this changed nothing. Jake knew from reading the computer's on-line encyclopedia that the most he could hope for from this new biofeedback training was to be able to feel pressure exerted on his fingers or palms, to be aware when someone moved his hand without having to look at it. Possibly, he might be able to move his fingers just a bit.

  Maybe, if Fredo ever came to see him, he could flash him the bird.