which would have been un- like any she had ever seen were she not suddenly and absolutely convinced that she had been there before — many times before.
Screens, electronics, and speakers were on every wall. In addition, there was a glass cabinet of medications. The focus of the room was the chair Luis had described — plush leather with a number of segments that were all adjustable. Hanging down over the elaborate setup, on a heavy adjustable steel arm, was a thick, square, full-head helmet made of some sort of metal. Attached to it was a smoky black plastic visor. Several cables, dangling down from the ceiling, were connected to each. Natalie pictured herself clearly, being transferred from a stretcher to the chair. She imagined, no, recalled, the helmet being slipped into place, and the visor being pulled down.
Virtual reality. Natalie was certain of it. The room was set up to create and implant situations that had never really happened. And since her scar, X rays, and diminished pulmonary function were all quite real, the scenario that resulted in her surgery had to have been what was manufactured.
Fourteen minutes.
Natalie rushed to the desk, which was strewn with papers and letters, all of which were addressed to Dr. Donald M. Cho at either a post office box in Rio, or one in New York City. She folded several of the more interesting looking ones and stuffed them into her pocket. Then, one letter caught her eye. Actually, it was a fax to Cho, written in English, from Cedric Zhang, Ph.D., Psychopharmacologist, Audio-Visual Implantationist.
Transfixed, despite the crush of time, Natalie read the note.
Dear Dr. Cho:
I was so pleased to learn how successfully you have adapted my methods for the implantation of virtual scenes into the minds of your subjects. As you have discovered, the potential for my theories and equipment is limitless. We are clearly geniuses, you and I, and are now in possession of a technique that can quite literally change the world. Over a short course of treatment, witnesses can be programmed to testify that they saw or did not see whatever we wish. Agents and soldiers can relent in the face of torture, and give out implanted information they absolutely believe is true. The modifications you have made and tested, especially the addition of electrodes that produce legitimate sensations of pain, heat, and cold, are brilliant. I suggest we meet at your earliest convenience after your return to New York.
With deepest respect,
Cedric Zhang, Ph.D.
Seventeen minutes.
The circle of confusion was beginning to close. Natalie knew now that she had never been shot. The last real thing that happened to her was the injection into the base of her neck. The recurrent nightmares were nothing more than glitches in the system created by a Dr. Cedric Zhang and modified by Dr. Donald Cho. She still had questions, piles of them, but some of the most disturbing ones had just been answered. Somewhere in the room, she felt certain, was a DVD or film of some sort showing, from her point of view, the attack and ultimately the gunshots that brought her down — gunshots that had never happened except through the lens of a camera.
Nineteen minutes.
Clutching her flashlight, her pockets stuffed with hastily folded papers, Vargas's gun in her waistband, she flicked off the light and slipped out into the corridor. It was foolish to have stayed so long. If she was caught now, she almost certainly would crumble under the weight of torture and drugs, and give them Luis Fernandes. It had been selfish and foolish of her to stay.
Crouching lower than the windows, she sped down the corridor toward the entrance to the dining room. She had just reached it when the main door to the hospital opened. Without looking back to confirm her impression that it was Santoro, Barbosa, or both, she dove to her right into the family lounge area and flattened herself behind a sofa. The gun was partially pinned beneath her, but she dared not move to get at it. Moments later, the two men entered the room. They were speaking rapidly — too rapidly for Natalie to pick up everything they were saying.
Winded from her dash, and certain the men could hear if they but listened, Natalie pulled her shirt up over her mouth and breathed into it, forcing herself to pause for a few seconds after each breath. She pushed herself tightly against the back of the sofa as they walked past, less than ten feet away. From what she could make out, they were angrily trying to sort out who might have taken a shot at the hospital's security electronics. Once, she heard Luis's name, but she had no idea of the context.
The lights in the dining room were still off, but she could see both men clearly, and she knew that if they turned in her direction, they could see her as well.
Please, no…Don't look…Don't look.
Barbosa was an absolute bull, short and solid with a surprisingly high-pitched voice. Santoro was as she remembered — smooth, slightly built, with glasses and a prominent forehead. He motioned the policeman to the lounge, and to Natalie's horror, Barbosa sank down onto the sofa behind which she was hiding. Fortunately, her breathing had begun to slow, and the policeman's respirations, by virtue of his size, were grunting and noisy. Natalie pressed her shirt even more firmly against her mouth. There was no way she could move to get at her gun.
'Who would dare shoot at us?' the bull asked.
'Probably whiskey,' Santoro responded around words Natalie couldn't make out.
She had drawn herself into a fetal position. Barbosa's backside, through the sofa, was no more than a foot from her. The large pistol in her waistband drove painfully into her already injured hip.
Go. Please go.
There was more conversation, which Natalie could not completely decipher. Then finally, after what seemed an eternity, the two men stood.
'Tomorrow will be fun,' Barbosa said. 'I like this place when there is action.'
'There should be plenty of that very soon.'
'Tell me, Xavier, have you heard anything from Vargas? He was due here late today.'
'Nothing.'
'Must be another woman. Single, married, young, old, virgin, whore, willing, reluctant. They dot his landscape like cow plop. I tell you, Santoro, someday, one of those women is going to be the death of him.'
CHAPTER 31
They see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave.
Moving as little as she could, Natalie waited for two more agonizing minutes before she stretched out and, with no little difficulty, crawled to the pantry. Half expecting to be surprised by someone, she made her way back through the tunnel, past the pool, and into the forest, wondering if Luis would still be waiting for her on the hilltop north of the hospital. As best she could recall, she retraced her steps around the building, and then started up a rather steep incline. After a short while, perhaps halfway up the hill, she gave in to the altitude, her hip, the slope, and the tension of the past hour, and sank to the ground, hungry for air.
Luis had probably gone back to the village anyway, she reasoned, suddenly feeling immeasurably sorry for herself. The whole business of the hospital at Dom Angelo had been nothing but a scam — an organ-theft operation with a high-tech component thrown in. It had been her misfortune to have flagged down the wrong cab at the Jobim airport. As usual, pure and simple evil was purely and simply about money. An O-positive lung? Well, you're in luck. We're running a special on those this week. Next week, livers. The quartet of military policemen, now a trio, were into gemstones and organs — emeralds and kidneys, opals and lungs. Pay for one, pay for the other. Disgusting.
Natalie pushed herself to her feet and trudged upward, not really caring if she met up with Luis or found Dom Angelo or not. At the top of the ridge, with no sign of Fernandes, she turned and gazed back downhill at the hospital, glowing beneath the spotlights and what was now the first blush of dawn.
