Guinea Pig (7 page)

“So what did he give me?”

Will was amazed at how calmly the words seemed to slip off his tongue. As if it was nothing. But in the end he needed to be calm. He needed to ask the question. It was the only question that mattered.

Brad stared helplessly at him, and Will knew what he was going to say even before the words left his mouth. He didn't know. He'd assumed that everything was as it had been before. And in truth how was he to know? He just monitored the computers and set up the clinic. And one syringe full of clear coloured liquid looked much the same as another. His wife couldn't tell him either. She hadn't been there. And with the nurse still unaccounted for that left him back at the beginning with only one person who could tell him anything. Doctor Millen.

“Any idea where I can find Doctor Millen?”

Of course they didn't know that either. He saw the look of helplessness in their faces even before they started giving him the sorry details. They hadn't seen him since the clinic had collapsed into the sink hole. And since he had apparently been living in an apartment at the back of the clinic they didn't know where he was staying any more. They didn't even know if he was alive. If he was dead Will knew, he would never get his answers. But he might not get them anyway. Not if he couldn't find him.

“You could try his church.” Lisa spoke up unexpectedly and suddenly Will had hope again. Not much, but a little.

“Church?” He hadn't considered that the doctor was a religious sort – though it did perhaps explain some of the moral type questions he'd been asked. Maybe the doctor was religious enough that he had gone to pray. And maybe while there he'd spoken to some of the others. The priest perhaps. Maybe he'd even left an address where he could be found. It was something to hope for.

“The Church of The Ascendance over on Sunset. He's very devout.”

Devout? There was something about that word that struck a worrying chord in Will. Maybe it was just that he remembered all those strange questions the doctor had asked him about his faith. At the time it had seemed as though he was just checking on what sort of priest should come and visit him in the hospital if he needed a visit. Or if he had any religious objections to particular medical procedures. But when Lisa said the word something in the back of his mind clicked. He didn't know what. But he knew it was important. And he feared it. Occasionally people did terrible things in the name of religion.

“Thank you.”

Will knew he had to go. That he couldn't waste any time. He had to find the doctor urgently. He had to find out what had been done to him and these two could tell him nothing more. But as he hurried back to his bike he couldn't help but think he was wasting his time. That it was already far too late.

Over and over again Doctor Millen had asked him if he was certain he wanted to go through with the trial. He had repeatedly explained that he could back out. And now he knew why. The man had been feeling guilty for what he was about to do. He'd been wanting reassurance that what he was doing was consensual. Even if he'd lied to get that consensus.

He'd also told him repeatedly that it wasn't reversible. He'd supposedly been speaking about the gene therapy drug that the others had been given, but Will had a horrible feeling he'd also been speaking about whatever he'd been planning on giving him. Even if he found him Will knew there might be nothing he could do.

But what choice did he have?

Chapter Eight.

The church was empty when Will walked in, something that surprised him. In the midst of this crisis he would have expected a lot of people to be there praying. But maybe it didn't have a large congregation. After all he'd never heard of the church before. Not that that necessarily meant a lot. He hadn't been to a church since he'd arrived in America nearly seven years before. He felt uncomfortable in the strange houses of worship they had over here.

It was an odd place of worship he thought, for America. At least for Los Angeles. From what little he knew their churches were big flashy places with lots of star power. Especially in the cities. This church was more a traditional country church for a small community. In fact it reminded him very much of the churches he'd attended as a child in England. It had white wooden weather boards and a dark slate roof. It was a simple box like shape with a modest cross on the apex of the roof and half a dozen stained glass windows. And it was sited right in the middle of a small half acre of grass.

Inside it had a nicely polished wooden floor, a dozen simple wooden pews that would at most have sat forty, a lectern up the front where the vicar could stand and give his sermon, and a simple altar table covered with a cloth. And save for the electric organ and the lights there didn't seem to be a single concession to the twentieth century let alone the twenty first. Even the board where the hymn numbers for the service were displayed was just a plain wooden board on which the numbers would be slotted in place.

It seemed completely out of place in the city. Too humble for Los Angeles. In fact all it needed was a small graveyard outside with lots of small stone headstones slowly decaying in a field of long grass and he would have been back in his childhood.

His immediate reaction was that he liked it. It was for him what a church should be. A place of quiet reflection and prayer. A place where the harsh realities of the outside world had not intruded. And where a message could be spoken without it being packaged into sound bites, massaged for the media, commercialised and sold.

He was happy that it seemed to have survived the ice storm more or less unscathed. This part of town seemed to have been hit more lightly than elsewhere, so maybe it was that rather than the hand of God that had saved it. But either way he was glad it had survived.

He wasn't so happy that it was empty though. Three days after the ice storm when people were finally beginning to come out of hiding, he would have expected it to be full. There should be people seeking counsel and maybe solace. There should be people organising aid for the parishioners in need. It shouldn't be empty.

Still, there was nothing to do but see if he could find someone to talk to. Maybe after he'd said a prayer.

And he was beginning to suspect that the only hope he had was in prayer. Even if he found the doctor. So he walked down the aisle between the pews, found himself a seat in the front row and bent his head as he hadn't done in far too many years.

It felt good to pray. To clear his thoughts as best he could and simply let the moment wash over him. And it was important to remember that for all his worries and fears he was actually lucky compared to so many. No one he knew was dead or gravely injured, and the radio was reporting that the death toll from the ice storm was expected to cross three thousand by the end of the day. He wasn't injured either, and those numbers were already reported as being well into the tens of thousands. His car might be destroyed but no one had been in it at the time, and he still had a more or less habitable home to live in even if it did make some alarming noises whenever the wind blew. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions weren't so lucky. In fact against the terrible suffering out there the loss of a little body hair and a few bad dreams were nothing. In fact it was almost something he should be embarrassed to complain about. It was only that he didn't know what if anything else was coming, or what he'd been injected with that gave him any real reason at all to complain. That and maybe the fact that his stomach had been playing up for days. But that could simply be nerves.

Besides, if the doctor came here to worship, that surely meant he couldn't be completely wicked. Whatever he'd done, it had to be for some not completely terrible reason. It might even be for a good one. It might not be a scientific theory, but it held weight for him as he sat there with his head bowed. It had to.

On the other hand it had been a long time since he'd sat on a hard wooden pew, and his backside was telling him that a cushion or two would be very welcome.

“Welcome to the House of God.”

Surprised, Will looked up to see the priest standing in front of him, dressed in his cassock and hat despite the fact that there was no service on. It wasn't Sunday – was it? The hat though was what really surprised him. He'd thought that this was a simple country church like the ones he had grown up with as a child. Essentially an Anglican church. Maybe even a simple Catholic church though without the requisite artwork portraying the virgin mother and the saints. But the hat, that was Eastern Orthodox. And he wouldn't have expected to find an Eastern Orthodox church in Los Angeles. Nor would he have expected to find a black man as a priest in one of them. But maybe that was just his ignorance and prejudice at work.

The priest was a big man, African American by his accent, perhaps from one of the islands judging by his huge grin and big white teeth. He looked Caribbean to him. Instinctively Will liked him, just as he liked the church. Not because of his position as a priest or his words. Because of his easy smile. There was simply something about the priest that put him at ease.

“Father?”

“Pastor Elijah Franks. Now that the church has come to this fine land I find I prefer the title of pastor. It seems more fitting. Besides, it can be difficult being confused with our Catholic brothers.”

His grin grew broader and Will knew he was having a little fun. The rift between the Catholic faith and the orthodox offshoots was a thousand years old and it had been strained in the past. But these days the church was coming together. They needed to when their faith was being tested daily as the world turned in new and ever more difficult directions. And in the end for a Christian faith, whether you offered leavened or unleavened bread at the Eucharist or accepted the Pope as the head of the church was a relatively minor thing.

“Elijah? Isn't that an odd name for one of the orthodox church?” Despite everything else Will was suddenly curious. Elijah was old testament. A Jewish name. And it seemed very out of place.

“It's the name I was given by my parents and I quite like it.” Was he upset? Will didn't know. But he did know he didn't want to upset him.

“I'm sorry Pastor. I didn't mean to give offence. I'm Will Simons and I came because I need to speak with one of your parishioners.”

Was that the correct word he wondered? Did the Orthodox faith have parishes and parishioners? Or were they just their flock? Their congregation? “I was hoping you could either point me in his direction or get a message to him. If he's still alive.”

“Who?”

“Doctor Millen.” Will was embarrassed to realise that he didn't even know his first name. Only that it began with an R. That was what his name tag had shown. Doctor R. Millen. Maybe he should have paid more attention to the paperwork they'd sent him when he'd volunteered for the trial. There had been copious amounts of it after all. But in the end he had only seen one thing, and that was the ten thousand dollars. There was a lesson for him in that, much as he hated to admit it.

“Reginald? He's alive. He was here only a few days ago. Or maybe even the day before that. Then again it might have been before the ice storm. But I haven't seen him since. He didn't say much. Just came to pray. He said he felt the need after having survived the sink hole that claimed his work and killed so many of his colleagues.”

“Amen Pastor. It was pretty scary.”

Will could agree with that. But for the action of someone who had knocked him through the window he might not have survived it himself. It had been very close. And he still couldn't shake the strange idea that it had been the little old lady who had saved him, no matter how crazy that seemed.

“You know about that? You were there?” The pastor looked at him quizzically.

“Oh yeah. Doctor Millen was treating me when it happened. When the floor just suddenly up and moved. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.”

And though it probably wasn't expected or even asked for Will suddenly found himself telling the pastor his story of that day. Letting it pour forth. Everything from the experiment to the crater forming in front of him as he stood outside. It was the first time he'd really told anyone the complete story. His flatmates knew a little. The police knew a little more. His family knew nothing at all because they were back in England and he hadn't wanted to worry them. Besides, they hadn't known he'd been at the Fairview Institute, and if they ever found out they'd want to know why. Of course they knew about the ice storm and ever since then they'd probably been terrified, but there wasn't a lot he could do to ease their fear until telecommunications were restored. Until then some emails through his flatmate had to be their connection.

“You've survived two disasters in less than a week. You should give thanks.”

The pastor was staring at him slightly oddly. As if he was looking at some sort of freak. It made Will a little uncomfortable. Especially when he was feeling a little bit like one anyway.

“I have been. But I've also been caught in two disasters in less than a week as well. Maybe I should be wondering if someone up there is trying to kill me?”

And that was the other side of the coin. The dark thought that too often came to trouble him in his quiet moments. But what were the chances that he should be in two disasters in such a short time? Or that his dreams should keep whispering to him of more and worse coming?

“And what could you have done that would deserve such attention?”

“I have no idea.”

Which was the simple truth. But it didn't mean he was wrong. Not that he was going to tell the pastor that. The last thing he needed was for the man to think he was crazy. So he changed the topic before things became awkward and asked what he could tell him about the doctor's location.

“Well I don't have an address for Reginald. Just his old house. But he doesn't live there anymore. After his wife died he found it too hard. Too many painful memories. So I understand that he rents it out. He was living in the clinic where you were. There are several apartments attached to it for the attending doctors. But that's presumably gone too. If he returns though I can give him a message.”

And that Will realised, was probably the best he could hope for. It was actually probably better than he had any right to expect. “Can you tell him please to contact me urgently. It's about the trial. Something's gone wrong.”

“Wrong?”

Will showed him his arm even as he hunted for pen and paper to write down his contact details. If any of them were still working. “I used to have hair a week or so ago. And not just on my arms. My legs, the rest of my body. But it's all fallen out. Even the stuff where everyone is supposed to have hair.” He whispered the last uncomfortably. Somehow he didn't want to have to spell out the intimate details to a priest. It wouldn't have felt right.

“Oh!” The pastor smiled suddenly, finding a little humour in it. And in truth maybe it was a little funny – just not to him. “Still, that doesn't seem so bad.”

“I know. And if that was all it was I wouldn't really care that much. But the hair's not the problem Pastor. It was a DNA trial. They were putting genes in me to protect me from diseases. There weren't supposed to be any side effects. It would either work or it wouldn't. But now if the genes are de-furring me – if that's even a word – what else are they going to do? Even the stubble on my face is thinner than it used to be.”

Will carefully didn't tell the pastor that he knew he'd been given the wrong drug. He knew he couldn't. If that had ever got back to Doctor Millen he would have known he had been exposed. That it wasn't just a man concerned about side effects of the drug he'd been licensed to give. If the doctor hadn't run already, the moment he realised that he would likely be facing criminal charges he would. Criminal malpractice sprang to mind.