Veil

Chapter 24

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Veil, his long hair tied up beneath the Mamba's camouflage cap with his leather strap, began making his way back across the width of the valley, heading for the river. He chafed at the slowness of his pace, but knew that he could not go faster without risking detection; he had to mimic the tracking maneuvers of the Mambas and hope that he was not identified by someone on high ground with powerful binoculars.

He paused to eat the last of the beef jerky; he forced himself to eat all of it; he would now need all of his dwindling reserves of energy for an unknown period of time. Although he was still free of symptoms, and even though he knew he could be risking convulsions from an overdose, he took three of the brown pills—as much for the strength they would give him as to prevent withdrawal symptoms. Then he went on.

The sound of soft chimes was with him constantly now. However, this music of peril was not clear and close behind his eyes, but muffled and welling from somewhere deep in his soul. The chimes were not for him.

Veil feared he was already too late.

It was dusk by the time he reached the riverbank, the rising moon obscured by clouds scudding across a dull copper sky. He walked upstream until he found what he was looking for— a log jammed between two boulders. Using the Mamba's machine pistol like a crowbar, Veil freed the log, then wrapped his arms around it from the side and let the log carry him out into the swift-moving current as he clasped the machine pistol between his knees.

If there were any Mambas tracking along the riverbank, Veil did not see them; more important, they did not see him, for in what seemed a very short time, he was closing on the brightly floodlit area that extended thirty yards beyond the concrete wall spanning the valley and marking the boundary of the Army compound. Peering over the top of the log, Veil could see two uniformed soldiers on top of the wall, each armed with a machine gun and scanning the river on both sides of the wall.

He was operating on three key assumptions, Veil thought as he sucked in a deep breath, released his grip on the log, and let the churning current carry him under. One, the Army was far more concerned with keeping intruders out than keeping them in; two, the fast flow of the river at the end of its journey to the sea was, in itself, a deterrent to covert movement upstream; therefore, three, the barrier extending below the surface—and there had to be one—would not be heavy-duty.

He would either be proved right, Veil thought, or disproved dead. There was no going back.

Gripping the machine pistol in his left hand, he pulled with his right and kicked, angling toward the bottom. He could see nothing in the icy darkness and had to rely on touch alone. Rested, relaxed, and after hyperventilation, Veil could hold his breath under water for almost two and a half minutes. In his present situation he guessed that he had close to two minutes before he would be forced to return to the surface— probably to be machine-gunned on sight. Or he could choose to drown, a notion he considered not without some irony in view of how desperately he had craved a drink only the day before. Except that this drink would kill him.

His fingers touched heavy netting, the most suitable choice for a barrier since it could be lowered to release heavy debris. Veil had the Mamba's Bowie knife but made an instant decision not to waste time and air trying to use it to cut through the netting, which would almost certainly be wire-reinforced and very difficult to cut through with anything but wire clippers. Instead he pulled himself along the bottom of the relatively shallow river until he touched what he had been hoping to find—a strip of concrete that served as a footing in which to anchor the net with wire grommets set in steel rings.

The pressure in his lungs was building.

With the current pressing him into the net, Veil planted his feet on the concrete on either side of the grommet. Using touch to guide him, he threaded the barrel of the machine pistol through the grommet. With the end of the barrel firmly set on the concrete, he grabbed the stock with both hands and exerted a steady, backward pull.

Nothing happened. The grommet held firm.

Veil relaxed his grip, then tried again, pushing with his legs and pulling with all his might, afraid that at any moment he would feel metal bend, or snap at a weld. After a few seconds he detected slight movement. He pushed the barrel through the grommet even further, then yanked with all his strength.

The grommet gave, and a ten-yard section of netting suddenly billowed downstream, carrying Veil with it.

Veil let go of the machine pistol, turned in the water, and pushed off the bottom, knifing upward at an angle that he hoped would bring him to the surface beyond the floodlit area on the other side of the wall.

He came up in cool night, near the bank. He half expected to hear shouts of alarm and warning, or automatic-weapons fire; but the only sounds that came to his ears were his own hoarse gasps and the rushing water. He sucked in air, rolled on his back, and let the current carry him downstream.

Exhausted, his mind and body drained by his continuing ordeal, Veil was almost swept down the channel that branched off from the waterfall and emptied into the sea. At the last moment Veil recognized the danger, rolled over, and knifed under water to reduce the drag of the water. He pulled, kicked, corkscrewed to his left, and surfaced in the somewhat calmer channel that ran past the waterfall. Gasping for breath, light-headed and knowing that he was dangerously close to losing consciousness, Veil dragged himself up on a rock shelf at the foot of the towering cliff he had dived off to begin his journey into the Army compound.

Above him was the hospice, and the steel cords supporting the cable car cut across the night sky to link the hospice to the main Institute complex on top of the mountain across the valley. Like an umbilical cord linking mother to child, Veil thought—except that in Jonathan Pilgrim's mind the hospice, a base camp for a desperate search, had always been the mother; the Institute was just an excuse for Pilgrim to probe the nature of the place where his soul had journeyed at the time of his death.

Veil sprawled out on the rock shelf and rested until his breathing became normal. Then he took a series of deep, measured breaths and tried to relax and marshal his energy. When he began to shiver with cold, he rose and ran in place in an attempt to generate body heat. He considered stripping off the wet jumpsuit, but decided that, even wet, the cotton provided needed insulation against the chill night air.

With the cold in him temporarily beaten back, Veil began moving along the face of the cliff, exploring its stone surface with his hands. The cliff appeared impossible to climb, yet one or more Mambas had periodically come through the mountain caves to penetrate and spy on the compound. Even Mambas didn't fly, and Veil was certain there had to be a relatively easy route up to the hospice.

He found it fifteen yards from the waterfall—steel pitons driven into crevices in the rock face. He grabbed the first piton and began to climb up the vertical wall.

Halfway up he suddenly began to tremble and cramp.

Unwilling to release the pitons with either hand to fumble for the pills, unsure of his remaining strength and equilibrium, Veil pressed his body against the rock face and waited. Fortunately, the spasms turned out to be relatively mild and passed quickly. Fighting dizziness, he completed the climb to the top.

He rested on the edge of the cliff for a half minute, then ran to Sharon Solow's office. He found Perry Tompkins absently swinging back and forth in the swivel chair before the computer terminal. The huge painter's head snapped around as Veil burst into the office, and his coal-black eyes glinted with excitement and pleasure.

"So?" Tompkins said, raising one eyebrow slightly. "Did you have a good time?"

Veil smiled thinly. "Not really. I don't think I'll go back, and I definitely will not recommend the place to my friends."

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Tompkins asked seriously.

"I think so—at least part of it. What are you doing here, Perry?"

"Playing light in the window. We figured this would be the first place you'd come to when you got back—if you got back. You caused quite a commotion when you disappeared. Pilgrim and Dr. Solow knew you had to be in the Army compound, but they didn't know what to do about it. Whatever son of a bitch is in charge down there sealed the place off. He wouldn't even talk to Pilgrim on the phone."

"Where's Sharon?"

"Up in the hospital with Pilgrim. He's been shot."

Veil tensed. "Bad?"

"Bad, but he's alive. At least he was alive the last time I called, which was fifteen minutes ago. The surgeons took a bullet out of his chest."

"Does anyone know who shot him?"

"No. Pilgrim is still unconscious."

Tompkins sprang to his feet as Veil headed for the door. "Veil! Before you go up there, let me get you some dry clothes! You're freezing to death!" "No time, Perry."

"I'm coming with you!"

"No," Veil said firmly. "I have something else for you to do. I want you to round up all the people in the chalets, patients and Lazarus People, and get them someplace safe."

"What? Why?"

"I'm not sure why. I just have a bad feeling, Perry."

"Where can I take them? It would take hours to get them all across to the other mountain."

"No! I don't want them over there."

"Then where do I put them, Veil?"

Veil shook his head in frustration. "I don't know. Just tell everyone to be on the alert for anything unusual; I want everyone to be careful. Don't give a reason. I don't know the reason."

"There isn't anyone's feelings I'd trust more, my friend— and I do consider you my friend. I'll do what I can."

Veil nodded, then turned and hurried out of the office. He ran up the steep trail leading to the hospital, grew dizzy, and staggered the last fifty yards. He half fell through the swinging doors at the entrance—into Sharon Solow's arms.

"Veil, oh, Veil," Sharon murmured, cradling his head, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, his mouth. "When Perry called ... I thought you were dead."

He had to get up, Veil thought as he fought against a furry darkness that threatened to envelope him, had to somehow keep going. His enemy was on the loose, and that enemy was unpredictable as well as deadly. There was no time to rest now.

But he couldn't take his arms from around the woman, couldn't take his lips away from the sweet-smelling, wheat-colored hair that fell across his face. He had been afraid that he was going to die without ever having told her that he loved her. Yet he couldn't tell her now; he could only hold on.

And drift away.

But not far away. He could not afford to pass out, he thought, even as his vision blurred and he experienced a nauseous, spinning sensation. He felt as if he were paralyzed, lying in a dark room where disembodied hands stripped him of his clothes, then wrapped him in something warm. There were voices—some near, some far away—but he could not understand what they were saying. Once, lips that he knew were Sharon's kissed him lightly on the mouth. More than anything else he longed to sleep, but he constantly fought to stay awake. There was so little time left; perhaps none at all.

If only he could see; if only someone would turn on the lights, open a window in the room, speak to him slowly so that he could understand. . . .

"You're incredible," Sharon said.

Veil jerked his eyes open, started to roll over, and almost fell off the hospital gurney. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge, then slumped forward as he experienced another attack of nausea and dizziness. Sharon steadied him, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and resting her head on his chest. His wet clothes had been stripped from him and taken away, and he was dressed in a warm blue sweat suit. His feet were bare.

"How long have I been out?" Veil murmured as he clung to Sharon, running his fingers through her hair and kissing her scalp.

"All of an hour and a half. And you haven't really been out; you've been fighting it all along. You must think you're King Kong; no, you are King Kong. You've been dehydrated, sunburned to a well-done turn, and a blood test showed traces of what must have been a ton of some strange combination of amphetamines. God knows what you've been through, Veil, and you're still on your feet—or trying to get there." She paused, squeezed him. "The doctors wanted to give you something to knock you out. I said no."

"Thank you."

"I know you have things you must do."

"Yes."

"Veil . . . Veil, I was so afraid you were dead."

Veil gently pushed the woman away, then got down from the gurney. He swayed for a moment but steadied himself. Sharon came back into his arms.

"And I was afraid I was going to die," Veil replied softly. "I wondered why, because I'd never been afraid of death before. Then I realized that, until I met you, I'd never really understood all that life could be. You've become life to me, Sharon. You're an adventure I wish to experience, a journey I want to take. That's why I was suddenly afraid to die."

"Taking life for granted ties our tongues, Veil, as well as our hands."

"Yes."

"You've certainly untied both my tongue and my hands."

Veil smiled, kissed her forehead. "So I've noticed."

"You once invited me to tango with you on the edge of time. I should have taken the time we had then."

"Everyone has to do things in his or her own time. To face death doesn't mean that living should be rushed."

"Will we dance when this is over?"

"Yes."

"I wish there were time now, Veil. There are things I want to say to you."

"And I to you. But there isn't time."

"Not even for explanations?"

"Especially not for explanations. I have to go to Jonathan."

"I know." Sharon sighed, buried her lips in his neck for a few seconds, then abruptly broke away and gripped his hand. "Come with me."

Pilgrim lay on a hospital bed in the Emergency Care Ward. A sheet covered him to the waist, and his chest was heavily bandaged. A tube led from a needle in his arm to a bottle of clear intravenous fluid suspended from a rack beside his bed. His color was good, his breathing regular, and on his face was an expression of quiet rapture.

"When did it happen?" Veil asked quietly.

"Early yesterday morning."

After he had escaped from the cage, Veil thought. "Here or on the other mountain?"

"The other mountain. He was working late in his office, probably trying to figure a way to get you out of the Army compound. The gunman must have taken him by surprise. One of the security guards heard shots and went running. He found Jonathan on the floor."

Not quite by surprise, Veil thought. His enemy would be a crack shot. Pilgrim had undoubtedly heard a chiming sound inside his head, had just enough time to react and save himself from an instant kill. "Is he going to make it?"

Sharon frowned and absently brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. Veil glanced at her, and for the first time saw past her stunning beauty to the fatigue that had soaked into her bones and was pulling at her flesh. "I don't know," she said in a hoarse whisper. "The doctors don't know. They say it's up to him."

A young orderly entered the room pushing a cart on which was a tray of food, a pot of steaming coffee, and a small paper cup with two pills in it, one purple and one blue. Veil tossed the pills across the room into a wastebasket, then poured himself coffee and drank it down. The hot liquid seared his mouth, but at the same time filled him with a warm, satisfying glow that pushed back his fatigue. It was the second most delicious drink he had ever tasted.

"I've seen a few wounded men," Veil said around a mouthful of steak and mashed potatoes. "Considering the fact that he took a bullet in the chest, Jonathan looks in fairly decent shape."

"He was lucky," Sharon replied in a tight voice. "The bullet missed his heart and lungs. It ricocheted around his rib cage and came to rest without nicking any vital organs."

Veil took another mouthful of steak and potatoes, washed the food down with a second cup of coffee. "And?"

"With a long rest and proper care, he would recover."

Veil detected the note of deep concern in Sharon's voice, turned to her. "Would recover?"

Sharon did not answer, and she would not meet his gaze.

"Is he still under anesthetic?"

"No. That wore off hours ago." Now she looked at Veil, and tears glistened in her silver-streaked eyes. "Veil, he just refuses to come back."

Veil pushed aside the cart and went to Pilgrim's bedside. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out and gently touched the other man's shoulder. "He's there, isn't he?"

"Yes," Sharon replied simply as she wheeled over a portable electroencephalograph and attached electrodes to Pilgrim's temples. She turned on the switch; instantly the spiked EEG pattern associated with the Lazarus Gate appeared on the green cathode tube monitor.

Veil swallowed hard, found that his mouth was dry. "Bring him back."

"I'm afraid to authorize any kind of treatment, Veil. Look at the lines; look how strong they are. Jonathan is actually controlling his own state of consciousness. We're sure that he could live if he wanted to; I believe he could also will himself to die. I'm afraid that if I try to pull him back, he'll simply let go. I won't take the chance."

"But why—?" Veil swallowed the rest of the question. He knew the answer, and he voiced it. "He's waiting for me, Sharon."

The woman nodded slowly. "I know. I was afraid to admit it to myself, but it's the only explanation."

"Send me to him."

"No!" Sharon said sharply, bitterness creeping into her voice. "Jonathan has no right to do this!"

"Send me to him."

"I can't!"

"I don't believe you."

"Jonathan brought you to the Institute because you'd been painting pictures of . . . whatever that place is where he's gone. Can't you get there yourself?"

"Sharon, I painted those pictures from dreams—and I'm not exactly sleepy at the moment. Even if I were, I'm not sure what would happen under stress. Also, even if I could reach that state of dream-consciousness, there's no guarantee that I'd end up where Jonathan is. I've never been tested, so we don't know what my EEG looks like when I'm in that dream state. Jonathan is at the Lazarus Gate. It seems I've only been beyond; I've never seen any gate of light, never flown through an ocean of blue. I need to go where he is, and the only way to do that is for you to manipulate my consciousness until my brain-wave pattern matches his. You told me it was theoretically possible."

"He's been in love with death ever since the plane crash. Now he wants you to love her too."

"That's not true. You sound jealous."

"If I lose you because of Jonathan's madness, I assure you that what I'll be feeling will be a little stronger than jealousy."

"He has something to tell—or show—me."

"Then let him come back and tell you!"

"He can't, or he won't. I have to go there."

"Now you sound as crazy as Jonathan! Don't you understand? You can't go to him! There is no place to go. All the Lazarus Gate represents is a nerve spasm, a bit of brain chemistry changes in an instant of time before death. The fact that Jonathan has found a way to freeze that instant doesn't change the fact that it's all an illusion. Two people can't occupy the same place, in either space or time."

"We won't know that unless I try to occupy the same place. This is what my invitation to the Institute was all about from the beginning. It's one of the reasons Jonathan insists that I come to him—or at least make the attempt."

"Veil, don't you understand that I'd virtually have to kill you?"

Suddenly Veil found himself laughing. He stepped forward, took Sharon in his arms, and hugged her. "Come on, Sharon. I'm half dead already. Sending me the rest of the way shouldn't be all that difficult. I really do have to see if it's possible to have a chat with Jonathan where he is. He won't have it any other way."

Sharon pushed him away with both hands, then slapped him hard. When there was no response except for a sudden, cold glint in his eyes, she slapped him again. When she went to hit him again, Veil grabbed her wrist and held it.

"You have no right, Veil! You have no right to ask me to kill you!"

"But I am asking you," he replied in a voice that had grown as cold as his eyes. "But you won't be killing me. You'll be bringing me to a state near death. Then you can bring me back."

"There's no guarantee, Veil! It's never been done!"

"I'm not asking for a guarantee. How could you put me under to the necessary degree? Answer me!"

"Drugs, I suppose," Sharon answered in a small voice. She was unable to take her eyes away from Veil's. "Maybe with the right mix of anesthesia, something paralytic." Tears welled in her eyes, and she choked back a sob. "Veil, you seem so different. I'm afraid of you."

"What about the brain-wave pattern? How could it be manipulated? Answer me!"

"More drugs," Sharon whispered, "combined with low levels of electricity."

"And bringing me back?"

"High-voltage electric shock. Perhaps. Maybe, Veil."

"Can you do it yourself?"

Sharon quickly shook her head. "No, Veil. It's ... so complicated. At the very least I need to consult with an anesthesiologist and a neurologist. Then I'll need—"

"No! You're lying. You're a physician, and you've studied the problem; you're probably the only person who's studied the problem from a medical viewpoint. I'm betting you've done detailed computer simulations of exactly this situation. I'm betting you know, at least in theory, exactly what mix of drugs and anesthesia to use, as well as the proper levels of electricity. Am I right?"

Sharon closed her eyes to shut Veil out, but she could not hold back the truth. "Yes . . . but only in theory. Veil, I can't understand why you want to do this thing."

"I've already explained—"

"It's a madman's explanation."

"I'm not asking you to agree, and I don't have any more time to waste."

Sharon took a deep breath, slowly exhaled it, and opened her eyes. "I won't do it," she said simply. "Jonathan is insane;

I understand that now. You're insane for wanting to try what amounts to a stupid stunt that could kill you, and I'd be insane if I agreed to help you. I'd also be a criminal. I study death, Veil; I don't cause it."

"So be it," Veil said, releasing his grip on Sharon's wrist, turning and heading for the door.

"Veil, where are you going?!"

He wheeled around in the doorway. His tone was calm, distant, and very cold. "You won't do it, fine. This is a hospital. I'll find somebody around here who will."

"There isn't anyone else."

"There isn't anyone else who can control it, but I'll damn well find somebody who'll put me close to death. You once said I was a dangerous man, and now you say that you're afraid of me. Well, I assure you that I can be downright terrifying if I have a mind to be. I'm going to stop the first person, man or woman, in a white coat I come to. I absolutely guarantee you that in fifteen seconds or less that person will be absolutely delighted to put me in a very deep coma. After that I'll just have to take my chances."

Tears streamed down Sharon's cheeks, dripped on the floor. She tried to speak but could only manage to sob and shake her head.

"Are you saying you'll do it?"

Another sob, then a trembling nod.

"Good," Veil said curtly as he walked back into the room and stabbed a finger in the direction of a telephone on Pilgrim's bedstand. "Get whatever you need. Put me at the Lazarus Gate for fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking for. Then try to get me back." Veil paused and breathed a silent sigh of regret as Sharon turned her back on him and walked to the telephone. "I don't suppose there's any way to lock this room up?" he asked softly.

"No." Sharon's voice was strangely muffled, as if she were holding her hand over her mouth.

"Anybody with a gun?"

"Not that I know of. No."

He thought about asking if there were any personnel who would act as guards, then decided that it would be unfair to both Sharon and the "guards," who would be ineffectual, in any case, against the threat he was afraid of. "All right, Sharon," he said evenly. "Let's do it."

Sharon, moving like an automaton, picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number. As she spoke, Veil experienced a sudden, almost overwhelming, sense of loss. He'd had no choice but to act the way he had, he thought, not only to force Sharon to do his bidding, but to free her of guilt in the event he died as a result of that bidding. That realization did not make him feel any better, for he now felt there was an unbridgeable distance between himself and the woman he loved. Sharon was only a few feet across the room, but he had pushed her clear to the other, dark side of his life, and he feared he would never be able to call her back; even if he survived the attempt to reach the Lazarus Gate and Jonathan Pilgrim, he had erased their future time together. He doubted whether they would ever dance.

His words and actions had been necessary and could not be taken back, Veil thought as he settled himself down on the floor in a corner of the room. He crossed his ankles, rested his wrists on his knees, and let his chin drop down on his chest. Then he began to take deep, regular breaths. He knew that more words could not heal the rupture in trust and feeling he had just caused. Now there was nothing to do but wait for the necessary chemicals and apparatus to be brought, nothing to do in the meantime but meditate and search for a calm center in himself in preparation for a journey through no time and no space, around infinity, to the Lazarus Gate.