The squeaks stopped suddenly. Jake caught a whiff of sweat, strong and a little greasy—so it was a man in the chair. Jake pictured the guy pausing to reach up and wipe the sweat from his face. What a simple act. How many times had he done that himself over the years, never thinking about it, certainly finding no pleasure

  IHO F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  in it? Did the guy out there in that chair think, Well, at least I can still use my arms?

  No. He didn't think that. He thought, Damn this chair.

  Jake realized he was smiling into the darkness. Smiling though he didn't think it was funny . . . something he'd been doing more and more. He did not like it, but he couldn't seem to stop. Well, tomorrow, when Angel kept her promise, he'd stop.

  His sense of smell awakened, Jake picked up other odors—sweet Keri lotion from the next room; a hint of perfume, strong, like old women wear. A trace of cigarette smoke prickled high up in his nose, probably some orderly snatching a few pufFs in the stairwell. The tobacco smell made him think of Mrs. Nacht. He pictured her sitting silently on her rocker, smoking, pausing every now and then to lean forward and cough.

  Mom.

  An arid chuckle escaped him.

  And there was Sarge, sitting on the big kitchen chair, cleaning and oiling the Garand MIC with the Lyman Alaskan 2.2 hunting scope. Jake could almost smell the thin scent of the gun oil. Come over here J son, I want to show you something.

  Why did he call me son.> Jake wondered.

  He felt a sudden, burning impatience. Come on, morning. Come on. Angel.

  He tried to picture what was going to happen, how it would go down when he asked Angel to keep her promise. The picture would not come clear and that made him uneasy. Maybe his old pal paranoia was trying to tell him something—that Angel wasn't going to show. She'd know what day it was as surely as he did.

  What if she took off and he never saw her again.> Wouldn't be a damned thing he could do about it. Running away from her promise would make her feel like a rat, but she'd probably prefer that to murder.

  She'll be here, Jake told himself. She's not the type to run.

  He went over in his mind what he would ask her to do. Claviceps cyaniduSy the heart poison, was out. He'd never had a chance of

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  getting any. Even if the pharmaceutical employee on the computer Net wasn't snowing him, even if the man had his own private stock, he'd never mail a lethal poison, untraceable at autopsy, to some stranger just because the guy claimed to be a writer doing research. Working on the problem had helped pass time, but that was all.

  Still, in the end, the computer had provided the solution. Jake felt himself grinning again. He sucked his lips in and bit down on them, holding them in place until the urge passed.

  The shadows stopped moving on his curtains. The hospital settled into the deep silence of the late shift. Jake thought about Fredo . . . Mr. C . . . Danziger. The familiar anger came, enough to warm him, make him wish he could push back the sheet. The smell of gun oil came to him from memory again, fragrant as incense. Odd, how a word like incense could have two conflicting meanings. Incense the noun—with a tip of the hat to the computer's CD-ROM dictionary—was something the priest burned to give scented smoke during worship. But as a verb, incense meant "to anger." How many people knew that.> Or that the term for his former profession—"assassin"—derived from the word hashish, because in the eleventh century the followers of Hasan ibn-al-Sabbah used to smoke the stuff" before making murder raids on their enemies.^ I've learned a lot in the past four months, Jake thought.

  But not how to stay alive.

  After a long time, he dozed.

  Clinking dishes woke him—the nurse's aide with his breakfast. Bright sunlight streamed through now open curtains.

  A nice day for dying.

  Jake's first impulse was to tell the aide to take the breakfast away. He wasn't hungry. Then he realized eating might give him an edge. When the current coursed through his body, it might make him vomit. Then, even if the shock didn't kill him, he could choke to death.

  He let the aide feed him ever^ spoonful of the oatmeal, ever'

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  bite of toast. He sucked up eight ounces of orange juice and eight of milk through the bent straw. He tasted nothing. As usual, the aide chatted with him. He calibrated his responses carefully. Later, with her perceptions colored by knowing he was dead, she would say, "Come to think of it, Mr. Nacht did seem depressed this morning."

  But he mustn't make her think it now or they might watch him more closely.

  After she was gone, Jake turned on the computer and stared at the screen. He gripped the stick in his mouth and rotated it between his teeth until the notch he'd chewed near the end was facing down. He let the notch settle onto the slight metal lip on the tray stand. By working the stick backward into his mouth, he was able to drag the heavy tray an inch closer. He heard its casters squeak under the bed. Angling the stick slightly, he clamped down with his teeth and scrabbled at the lip of the tray again. He drew it in another half inch toward him. Sweat started up at his hairline.

  After fifteen more minutes, the stick was at an extreme angle. The tray had moved three inches, but, with the stick angled so sharply to the side, he could no longer get enough purchase. He'd practiced for two weeks, and this was still the best he could do. Though he'd expected it, he felt a weary disappointment. No way around it—he needed Angel. She'd have to put the computer monitor next to his face and make it look like he'd pulled it down there.

  No problem, Jake told himself. The thought that she might have helped me will never enter their minds. To suspect that, someone would have to lie here and try it himself, day after day, for as long as I did. And no one's going to do that. They're going to accept the obvious, that the severely depressed and determined Jake Nacht was able to build up enough strength in his jaws to pull the tray to him and drag the computer monitor over. And fate made it fall so that the power cord was close enough to his face to bite.

  He'd wait until Angel was gone to chew through the cord, of course.

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  One more big shock. Did you feel that, Jake?

  Not for long.

  Jake allowed himself to relax. The sweat had barely dried on his face when Angel came in.

  "How are you doing this morning.^" Her smile was forced, but he thought he detected something else in her expression, too—a suppressed excitement. Odd.

  "I'm ready to go." His voice sounded oddly hoarse.

  She gazed at him, the beautiful gold-flecked eyes turning shiny.

  Damn, Jake thought. He rolled his head away, so he wouldn't have to see her cry.

  The bed sagged a litde under his shoulder as Angel settled on the edge beside him, and he could not stop himself from looking at her again. "Would you say I've tried.>"

  She blinked and brushed a finger across the corner of one eye. "You know you have, Jake."

  And he realized it was true. Somewhere along the line, faking it had become really trying.

  And still he could not move so much as his index finger.

  "Angel, I'm sorry, but I want out."

  "No."

  He felt a cold rush of dread. "You can't go back on your word."

  Tears began to roll down Angel's face. He groaned, overwhelmed with misery, feeling like the world's worst bastard. But he couldn't stay trapped in this useless flesh just to keep a woman from crying.

  "Come on, don't do that. It's wrong to be sad. You'll be giving me what I want."

  Her tears increased, pouring down her cheeks. Her face was rigid and he knew she was battling for control. A woman like Angel didn't cry easily. Her shoulders twitched with a suppressed sob.

  "Oh, Jake. Is it so easy to think of leaving me? Don't you feel anything for me?"

  Jake stared at her, astonished. "Of course I do. Don't you know that?"

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  Angel bit her lip and blotted gently at the tears. "What do I mean to you, Jake?"

  He hesitated, unsure what she wanted. Months ago, he'd put the same question to Caidin, and now Angel was bringing it back to him. Did she want him to say that he loved her.> Didn't she know he couldn't love anyone.> It was too late for that, had been for a long time.

  But he did feel something. If he were a whole man, he would like to be with her every day. He would watch after her, keep her from harm. They would laugh and joke and do things together. He would get her anything she wanted that was within his power. When she got grass on her shoes at a picnic, it would be with him. But he did not love her. Love was not for Jake Nacht.

  "Why are you so afraid?" she said softly. "I can say it, even if you can't. I love you, Jake."

  Jake felt his heart race suddenly. He felt a powerfiil urge he'd schooled himself never to permit again—to jump up and cavort around the room. He groaned a second time, unable to help himself This could not be. Angel in love with him was even more incomprehensible than him in love with Angel. How could she love a man who was bedridden, unable to move? He could never take her for a drive, never climb into bed with her, never hold her in his arms. How could she see him lying here day after day and not grasp that?

  "What about your boyfriend?" he asked before he could stop himself What did it matter? This could never be.

  "What about him? I've dated lots of guys, Jake. None of them ever looked at me the way you do. None of them listened to me the way you do. You can tell what I'm thinking, read what I'm feeling. Not only can you, you do it, all the time. Jake, a man isn't a body. That's just the wrappings. A man is what you find inside. And you are the man I want."

  "You're just saying that so you won't have to kill me." Realizing what had just popped out of his mouth, Jake grinned despite himself.

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  Angel laughed, wiping at a tear.

  Stop this, Jake thought. Now. You are not what she thinks she sees. You have killed seventeen men. And you want to kill three more. You fall asleep every night lining up their heads in the crosshairs of an imaginary rifle.

  "If you knew the real me," he said, "you wouldn't love me."

  Angel gave him a knowing half smile, more enchanting than Mona Lisa's. "1 do know the real you. Whatever it is you think you've done that's so terrible, those days are behind you."

  Right, Jake thought. I'm all done doing anything.

  "Angel, it's impossible. Love is a physical thing, too. And I can't give you that."

  "Oh.> You've still got a tongue, don't you.>"

  Jake felt himself blushing.

  "Jake, you can give me physical love. But I can't give it to you— not at this point, anyway. Is that the problem.^"

  "Don't be siUy—"

  "I am not being silly. Think about it. Have you had any . . . desire for me.> Physical desire .>"

  Jake felt a horrible, gray dread setding over him. He would rather do anything than talk about this. But he could see she needed the answer.

  "Angel, I don't know how it is for a woman. But for a man, physical desire happens in two places at the same time—the head and . . . down there." He motioned with his chin. "Have I wanted you.> Yes. You're so beautiful in every way, what man wouldn't want you.> But I want you the way a very old man would—with my memory. I remember how it felt to get hard for a woman. I could give you the words for it. But remembering and talking aren't the same as feeling and doing."

  Jake stopped, seeing pity in her eyes. It galled him. He fought the urge to turn away again. He ached to die. Why couldn't she understand that.>

  Just then, something she'd said registered: Not at this pointy anyway.

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  Ij4 F. PAUL WILSON AND STEVE LYON

  He looked at her, frustrated. "Angel, you've got to face it. My condition is permanent ..." He trailed off. She was smiling. Why was she smiling.>

  "Maybe not," she said.

  "What do you mean, maybe not.>" Jake felt an irrational surge of anger. "What the hell do you mean, maybe not.>"

  Angel got off the bed. "Wait here, Jake."

  "Is that supposed to be funny!^ Angel, come back here. Don't you run out on me, damn it, you promised ..." He realized she was gone. His heart was pounding again, thumping the mattress so hard that the bed trembled.

  Maybe not.

  Jake's mind whirled.

  Maybe not, maybe not, maybe not . . .

  Angel walked back in. He saw that she was carrying a small box. A dusty, grain smell, not unpleasant, wafted ahead of her.

  Angel opened the box and took out a white rat. "His name is Jake," she said. "I named him that when he first came on the study."

  "What study.>"

  The rat squirmed out of her hand and ran up over her breast, perching on her shoulder. It nuzzled her ear. Jake found himself envying the rat.

  "So what's the plan.>" he said. "You going to transplant my brain into Jake junior's body.>"

  Angel laughed. "Notice anything fiinny about the way he moves.>"

  With an effort, Jake controlled his impatience. "No. He pawed your breast and now he's kissing your ear, which is just what I'd like to do. I'd say he has real good moves but needs a little polish in his manners. So what's the point.^"

  "The point," Angel said, "is that six weeks ago, Jake the rat couldn't move anything but his whiskers. He had a ninety percent severance of his spinal cord. He was a 'permanent, nonreversible' quadriplegic."

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  Jake felt a rush of vertigo, the bed seeming to spin beneath him as the world changed before his eyes. He locked his gaze on the rat, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The bed stopped spinning, but now he seemed to float, an ecstatic sensation so alien it was almost frightening. After a second, he recognized the unfamiliar emotion: joy!

  "Angel . . . wait a minute now, are you . . . God, I can't believe . . ."

  "I'm not putting you on, Jake. I wouldn't do that."

  "Jesus, Angel!" Shifting his gaze to her face, he was still hyper-aware of the rat crawling along her shoulder. "What is this.> You come in here knowing it's day zero and let me go through my whole spiel about wanting to die. Then all that about leaving you and don't I care anything for you.> You cry, as if it were really going to be my last day on earth."

  "You mean you've changed your mind.>" Angel asked inno-cendy.

  "Don't change the subject!"

  "I cried because you've been through so much. And I brought up . . . that other first, because I knew if I told you about the rat right away, I'd lose the chance to learn how you really feel about me.

  Jake tried to sort back through what he'd said to her. Had he told her he loved her or that he couldn't love her.> Whatever, it was gone—wiped out by the rat. There it sat on her shoulder, his salvation, grooming its whiskers with rapid but fussy motions of its tiny paws. It stopped and peered back at him. He felt the most incredible, warm lightness flowing through him. His heart was floating on a lake of gold. He wanted to grab Angel and kiss her. Hell, he'd even kiss the rat. "You want to know how I feel about you.>" he asked.

  "I love you. Angel, of course I love you!"

  She gave him a half smile. "Sure, you say that now. If this works, you're going to love everybody for a while."

  Not everybody, Jake thought. It took him a second to dredge

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  Fredo's face into his mind, center it in the crosshairs. No, think about Fredo later.

  "Angela!"

  Jake recognized the voice from the hallway, and then Dr. Graham hurried into his field of vision and snatched the rat from Angel's shoulders, putting it quickly back in the box. He glared at her. "What are you doing.>"

  "I'm solving two problems at once," Angel said.

  Graham gave her a blank look. "Angela.^ You can't just take a rat from the lab. When I saw one was missing, I was frantic." He sounded incredulous and wounded.

  Jake felt a deep inner satisfaction as the missing piece of the Dr. Graham puzzle dropped into place. The guy had been doing research on healing severed spinal cords. And he'd had a big success. That's why he kept looking at me like I might be the goose that laid the golden egg, Jake thought.

  He cleared his throat. "Good morning. Doctor. When can you operate .>"

  Graham's eyes widened; then he frowned fiiriously at Angel. "You didn't!"

  "Don't be mad. Uncle Joe. I had to."

  Uncle Joe.^ Jake thought. Christ, this woman is almost as good at keeping secrets as I am.

  "What's the problem, Doc.> You're a genius. You made the rat walk again. Now I'm volunteering."

  Dr. Graham stared at Jake with a mixture of dismay and greedy speculation so comical Jake had to laugh. Graham rubbed at his thinning hair, making it stand up.

  "No. It's out of the question. You have no idea what's involved." He shot Angel another black look. "How much have you told him.>"

  "Everything."

  "Mother of God!" Graham pulled at his hair, turned in a half circle, stared at the ceiling. He muttered under his breath. "If you weren't my only sister's daughter ..."

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  Jake felt himself starting to bristle. He did not like the man's tone with Angel. With an effort, he kept his voice calm.

  "So, what's the problem, Dr. Graham.^"

  "What's the problem.^ What's the problem? Wh2it isn^txhc prob-lem.> This research has to be kept absolutely secret until I have a clear success. If this gets out—"

  "I know how to keep quiet."

  Graham eyed him, and Jake thought he saw distaste in the man's eyes. "Do you.> You've been practicing, have you.>"

  "Uncle." Angel's voice was low but sharp.