Chapter 19
If you think you’re gonna get better, get over it, you won’t.
“I’m taking a shower,” she said while at the same time motioning me to keep quiet and follow her. I followed her into the bathroom. She flushed the toilet and turned the shower on full blast. With her voice covered by the sounds of rushing water, she told me in whispered tones that she was sure the room was bugged, and the only reason we were together was due to our captor’s hopes that we would say something useful to them. That’s when we hatched our plan.
It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but brilliance is largely a function of who is paying attention. If the morons were eavesdropping and bought our banter, then the plan was ingenious. Fingernail clippers are ingenious when it comes to personal grooming in comparison to, say, a chisel and hammer. Everything is relative. The plan, if you can call it that, was really very simple. We were going to role-play two spies talking about the secret cartoon, make that the “ secret documents,” that I had passed to the lioness at the restaurant. Naturally, when the goons had searched her room, they hadn’t found any secret plans. That’s why they had brought us together. As far as they were concerned, I knew something about the big secret and she presumably knew where the secret documents, no doubt on computer disks, were hidden. When I asked Lisa what we would do to ensure our escape, she replied in her mock Texas accent, “Well, Pilgrim, let’s kick some Russkie butt.” When I tried to pursue the matter, she shushed me quiet, and said, “We’ll play it by ear, just follow my lead.”
A few minutes later, we launched our operation with me asking a question, “Do you think these morons...” I couldn’t resist, “...know anything about the KY Jelly Neurotoxin?”
She frowned disapprovingly at me, “Of course they do. Why else do you think they have kept us alive. They want the data you brought on your neurotoxin studies, and we are the keepers of that secret.” She paused for a moment and hint of smile lifted her lips, “I’ll bet they don’t know that you are the brains behind that discovery. Wouldn’t they be surprised to know that you are one of the greatest scientific minds in the world! I’ll bet they just think you are some nerdy, little, disgruntled lab worker. Jokes on them.” She seemed to be enjoying herself. In spite of the bruises and abrasions, she exuded the same vibrancy and confidence that I noted the first time I saw her. She rattled on, “Your discovery will revolutionize how wars are fought, and how populations can be controlled. Just think what a government can do with your invention.”
I picked up the cue, “I don’t like to think of it as an invention. An invention is something that makes life easier, my discovery simply alters life. It changes a person’s cerebral neurophysiology, makes him malleable and docile.”
“You are such a genius, CB. Yes, it is amazing that a naturally occurring toxin can be modified with something as simple as rubbing alcohol and transfatty acids into a mind altering chemical.”
I’d been in an eighth grade school play and knew a thing or two about acting. The lioness was good at improvisation. I didn’t think I was doing too badly either. We had to be good, we were playing to a tough audience. If things were going according to plan, the audience should have been listening with rapt attention by now. It should have been clear to the slowest of the opponent’s team that they were dealing with more than just a couple of amateurs. It should be clear that the lioness had brought in a ringer of the highest order. With me, the developer of a super-weapon, they had hit the jackpot. They wouldn’t be canceling my show soon.
The lioness continued, “I think we ought to deal with them. For me, this is only a business. I have no allegiance to anyone but the highest bidder. I say we give them what they want. They will send you back to your laboratory with a nice “grant.”
“What about you?” I asked.
“I’m the best in the business. They won’t hurt me if they think they can buy my services.” She winked at me. “And, you will probably get a Nobel Prize for your research.” That whole scenario was about as likely as getting Razor Eyes to laugh at one of my jokes, but I played along. “Well, yeah, that would be nice.”
The lioness crawled onto the bed, rolled onto her back and purred, “CB, would you do that thing you do to my feet again. I’ve still got a bit of a headache.”
I rubbed her feet, carefully attending to all of the healing points. Unfortunately, nobody was pushing any of my points. I still had the ache in my gut that I had been carrying since Hillel had spotted the two thugs following me. If my intuition had any credibility, the guys that had been tailing me were Big Guy and Razor Eyes.
This was a bad situation, and bad situations often reminded me of Heath, a guy who could always, even in the best of times, find a bad situation. Heath, in spite of his uncanny success with women, wasn’t always successful. Regardless of how involved he was with a woman, he was always convinced that the most recent sexual experience was his last. He had more “last” sexual experiences than most of us have total sexual experiences. But, quality and quantity are two different things. He disliked being alone and powered by a healthy testosterone level constantly agonized if he weren’t sexually involved with someone. However, as soon as he got involved with a love interest, he would start worrying about when he was going to get dumped. So, not wanting to be without a lover, he would start working on a secondary love interest. This usually led to a conflict with his main squeeze, and sure enough he would get dumped. He was a master of the self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how good the situation, he could find a critical flaw. His cups were never half-full, even D-cups; they usually leaked like a sieve.
The cold I had been fighting lingered annoyingly close to my scheduled departure to Vienna. My entire body still ached, I couldn’t quite yet breathe normally. Heath, called to cheer me up. His idea of cheering someone up is to describe just how miserable someone else is, usually himself. Thank god he was a computer wizard instead of an M.D. He had no bedside manner. His idea of cheering me up was to say, “If you think you’re gonna get better, get over it, you won’t. Feeling well is just a trick life plays on you to make you less prepared to die.”
As I rubbed Lisa’s feet and listened to her purr, I almost felt peaceful. The ache in my gut wasn’t as sharp as it had been. It was ironic, in spite of the dire circumstances in which we found ourselves, I felt pretty good. At least I no longer had any cold symptoms. But, then again, maybe it wasn’t ironic. If Heath’s theory was right, that was life’s little trick to make me less prepared to die. The ache in my gut returned.