He continued with his tasks. Connecting the second bag to the line. Drawing medications into syringes. She could only look at him mutely as the ventilator pumped air into her lungs. Her muscle function was beginning to return. Already she could wiggle her fingers, could shrug her shoulders. A drop of perspiration slid down her temple. She was sweating with the effort to move. To regain control of her body. A clock on the wall read eleven- fifteen.
Tarasoft had finished laying out the tray of syringes. He heard the sound of the door open and shut again, and he turned. 'The boy's loose,' he said. 'They're still hunting him down. So we'll take the liver first.'
Footsteps approached the table. Another face came into view and stared down at Abby.
So many times before she had looked across the operating table at that face. So many times before, she had seen those eyes smiling at her above a surgical mask. They were not smiling now.
No, she sobbed, but the only sound that came out was the soft rush of air through the ET tube. No…
It was Mark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Gregor knew that the only way out of the ship's aft section was through the blue door, and it was locked. The boy must have gone up the spiral staircase.
Gregor peered up at the steps, but he saw only curving shadows. He began to climb, the flimsy staircase ringing with his weight. His arm still throbbed where the boy had bitten him. The little bastard. This one had caused trouble from the start.
He reached the next level and stepped off the staircase, onto thick carpet. He was now in the living quarters of the surgeon and the surgeon's assistant. To the aft were two private cabins with a shared head and a shower. At the forward end was a well-appointed saloon. The only way out of this section was back down the staircase. The boy was trapped.
Gregor headed aft first.
The first cabin he came to was the dead surgeon's. It stank of tobacco. He flicked on the light and saw an unmade bed, a locker with the door hanging open, a desk with an overflowing ashtray. He crossed to the locker. Inside he found clothes reeking of smoke, an empty vodka bottle, and a secret stash of pornographic magazines. No boy.
Gregor next searched the surgical assistant's cabin. It was far more orderly, the bed made, the clothes in the locker neatly pressed. No boy in here either.
He glanced in the head, then started towards the saloon. Before he reached it, he heard the noise. It was a muffled whine.
He entered the saloon and turned on the lights. Quickly his gaze swept the room, taking in the couch, the dining table and chairs and the television set with its stack of videotapes. Where was the boy? He circled the room, then stopped, staring at the forward wall.
The dumbwaiter.
He ran to it and pried open the doors. All he saw were cables. He slapped the Up button, and the cable began to move, groaning as it lifted its burden. Gregor leaned forward, ready to snatch hold of the boy.
Instead he found himself staring at the empty dumbwaiter. The boy had already escaped into the galley.
Gregor headed back down the staircase. This was not a catastrophe. The galley was already secured. Gregor had started padlocking it every night, after discovering that the crew was sneaking food out of the pantry. The boy was still trapped. Gregor pushed through the blue door and started across the walkway.
'I'm sorry, Abby,' said Mark. 'I never thought it would go this far.'
Please, she thought. Please don't do this…
'If there was any other way…' He shook his head. 'You pushed it too hard. And then I couldn't stop you. I couldn't control you.'
A tear slid from her eye and trickled into her hair. Just for an instant, she saw a flash of pain in his face. He turned away.
'It's time to gown up,' said Tarasoft. 'Will you do the honours?' He held out a syringe to Mark. 'Pentobarb. We want to be humane about this, after all.'
Mark hesitated. Then he took the syringe and turned to the IV pole. He uncapped the needle and poked it into the injection port. Again he hesitated. He looked at Abby.
I loved you, she thought. I loved you so much.
He pushed the plunger.
The lights began to dim. She saw his face waver, then fade into a deepening pool of grey.
I loved you.
I loved you…
The galley door was locked.
Yakov tugged again and again at the knob, but the door would not budge. What now?The dumbwaiter again? He scurried back to it and pressed the button. Nothing happened.
Frantically he glanced around the galley, considering all the possible hiding places. The pantry. The cupboards. The walk-in refrigerator. All of them offered only temporary concealment. Eventually the men would look in all those places. Eventually they would find him.
He would have to make it difficult for them.
He looked up at the lights. There were three bare bulbs shining overhead. He ran to the cupboard and plucked out a heavy ceramic coffee cup. He threw it at the nearest light.
The bulb shattered and went dark.
He fished out more cups. Three throws, and the second bulb shattered.
He was about to aim at the last bulb when his gaze suddenly fell on the cook's radio. It was set in its usual place on top of the cupboard. His gaze followed the radio's extension cord as it trailed down to the countertop, where the toaster sat.
Yakov glanced at the stove and spotted an empty soup pot. He dragged the pot off the burner and carried it to the sink. He turned on the faucet.
A radio was playing at full volume.
Gregor pushed open the galley door and stepped inside. Music blasted away in the darkness. Drums and electric guitars. He felt for the wall switch and flicked it on. No lights. He tried it a few more times, but nothing happened. He took a step forward and his leather sole crunched on glass.
'The little bastard's smashed out the lights. He's going to try and slip by me in the dark.
Gregor pushed the door shut. By the light of a match, he inserted his key in the lock and turned the deadbolt. No escape now. The match went out.
He turned to the darkness. 'Come on, boy!' he yelled. 'Nothing's going to happen to you!'
He heard only the radio blaring away, drowning out any other noise. He moved towards the sound, then paused to light another match. The radio was sitting on the countertop, right in front of him. As he switched off the music, he noticed the meat cleaver lying on the countertop. Beside it lay scraps of what looked like brown rubber.
So he's got his hands on the cook's knives, has he?
The match flickered out.
Gregor took out his gun and called out: 'Boy?' Only then did he notice that his feet were wet. He lit a third match and looked down.
He was standing in a pool of water. Already it had soaked into his leather shoes, certainly ruining them. Where was the water coming from? In the wavering light of the flame, he scanned the area around his feet and saw that the water had spread halfway across the floor. Then he saw the extension cord, the end sliced off, one coil glistening at the edge of the pool. In bewilderment he scanned the length of the cord as it snaked across the floor and looped upwards, to a chair.
