Tampa Burn

THIRTY-THREE

After what seemed like an eternity spent pacing, her mind checking and rechecking the information she had, Dr. Santos felt the boat slow, then something loud bang against the steel hull. After just a couple of minutes, though, the banging stopped, and the ship gained speed again.

That was around 10:30 P.M.

About an hour later, maybe 11:20, she heard slow, heavy footsteps outside, and the metal door clanked again, then swung open.

The surgeon expected to see the terrifying fat woman. Instead, it was the man who’d abducted her, face still wrapped in bandages.

From inside holes in the bandage, his, wild, wide eyes stared out at her. He seemed to be grinning, too. Showing big, bony teeth as he shook a bottle of capsules, and said, “Guess who just got his drugs delivered? So, if I start taking this anticonvulsion stuff, how long before my trig-eee-minal neural-gia says bye-bye?”

The woman was terrified, but she forced herself to sound calm; take her time, as if in control. “It depends on your own body chemistry, to a degree. It could be a day or a few days. It could be a couple of weeks. Do you want to discuss your dosage?”

She was thinking: If I can make him dependent on me in some small way, he won’t be able to rationalize hurting me.

The man was wearing baggy pants and a nylon-looking Hawaiian shirt. She watched him slide the medicine bottle into his pocket. Now he had his hands at his face, unwrapping the bandage as he walked toward her.

He looked even more gigantic than she remembered.

“No, Dr. Valerie, we can talk about pills later. Once you get done, I might not even need the fuckin’ stuff.”

She said, “You mean… because of your face transplant? Is that what you’re talking about? I can do that for you. I really can-if you need it. But not here. Not like this. Take me back to my office, and I’ll give you my full attention. I’ll make you a personal project. You have my word.”

Dr. Valerie could see patches of curly blond hair now as he unwrapped the bandage. The top of his head looked like a human skull over which melted wax had been globbed onto bleached skin, and there was dense scar tissue on his forehead.

He replied, almost as if flirting with her, “Come on now, famous lady. Never try to con a con man. We’re not gonna talk about pills, and we’re sure as hell not returning to the States. I’ll send you back, though, all safe and sound. But only if you cooperate.”

She could now see scar tissue on a crinkled ear, and then one wide, wild blue eye that, because it was lidless, looked as isolated from the rest of his face as a small blue planet.

She stared as he continued, “Nope. What I want you to do, is come see the little operating room I got fixed up. Then get ready to go to work. Tonight. Because our donor’s about ready. And like you said in your e-mail, human skin goes bad real quick down here in the tropics.”