“Either that or you’re masturbating again.” Well, you remember what Oliver Wendell Holmes once said.” “Please, let’s stick to the sub-”
“A law student approached him-he was in his eighties-and asked him, Justice Holmes, you’re the wisest man in America, can you tell me when a man stops masturbating?’ And Holmes said-” “-You’ll have to ask someone older than I.’ Peter, stop babbling. You’re not eighty-five, you’re thirty-five, and I’m not in the least embarrassed-” “Okay. of course it was a wet dream. Haven’t had one of those since I was peeing straight up in the air.” “Was she attractive?”
“Was who?”
“The girl in your dream. Anyone we know? I assume you didn’t have an orgasm dreaming of Madame Curie.” The hell of it was, he felt like he did know her. As if he had a dream about her before many times, but had forgotten everything when he woke up. And now suddenly she had surfaced again. But this time he was remembering her during his waking hours. In fact, he felt he couldn’t have forgotten her if he tried. Some fragmented image of her emerged either in the front or the back of his mind for most of the day. “You ought to be careful,” Beatrice said wryly. “You don’t want to have another stroke.” “No, I think this is good for the circulation,” replied Peter with a smile. Afterward, with Peter in the shower, Beatrice placed a call to Wolfe. “How’s our patient doing?” Wolfe asked.
“Horny as a toad,” Beatrice said. “What are you putting in his orange juice?” Wolfe’s answering laugh had, as always, a touch of the grotesque. “Not a damn thing. His glands are pumping away, his vascular system’s unclogged. He’s a stellar example of the male body in its prime! It means he’s healthy, which is terrific news for us. And for you specifically,” he went on hastily. “It’s time to count your blessings. You would have been devastated by his loss. Instead you have a new husband, a stunning breakthrough in genetics and a man functioning to his full capacity, happy once more in his work.” “Off and on.”
“He’s bound to have his doubts. He’s got an enormous adjustment to make. He’ll be just fine.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” she said, but secretly she didn’t think God was listening anymore. If He was, she was beginning to feel, there might well be hell to pay some time soon.
An hour later Peter was on the treadmill in the medical lab, wired to heart and lung monitors by Emilio Barrola. Gradually Barrola increased the machine’s incline, adding more and more stress to Peter’s system. The problem was that Peter wouldn’t limit himself to rapid walking. Despite Barrola’s protests, he soon broke into a trot. His heart seemed to handle the added stress without any trouble-no arrhythmia, no extra systoles, and nothing that could be traced to clogged cerebral vessels. Barrola was tempted to throw caution to the winds and simply marvel; the prior day’s test, an ultrasound Doppler of the carotid arteries, had indicated that the flow of blood to Peter’s brain had vastly improved. But there was no reason to tempt fate-Peter had been saved from certain death to perform mental, not physical, miracles. And so over his patient’s objections, Barrola switched off the treadmill. Nevertheless, Peter’s excitement remained high. Buoyed by the days results, he dressed hurriedly and reported to the lab, where his team awaited him eagerly-especially Rosemarie Wiener. Braless, brushing his arm with her breasts as they all crowded around him at the blackboard, she clearly was offering herself. Peter wondered whether Rosemarie was the Angel of Eros, transformed by his dream into a vision of perfect happiness. Not a chance, he decided. As a matter of fact, the notion had clung to him all day that his dream woman and her attributes were real. He knew she was a fantasy, but it gave him a thrill just to think of her as real, a thrill that seemed only to accelerate his genius. “My father was employing the Purcey Protocol for this procedure,” he told them, as the chalk flew and Rosemane’s eyes sparkled. “That was the foundation of his work until his death, so we’ll continue that way. However,” he said, luxuriating in the flood of ideas coursing through his brain, “let’s experiment with gamma rays doing the switching of the core generator. And let’s reverse the circuitry polarity of the epsilon switches. According to my calculations that should greatly enhance transmission rates at the same time it cools core temperature. If this proves to be true, the overheating problem will be solved and we’ll have nearly twice the power in the strike beam.” Day after day. he continued with a string of plans, theories and instructions for the realization of the new version of the hammer. By week’s end, it was clear to the team that Peter Jr.’s proposals were not only as stunningly original as his father’s, but practical as well. The brainwork for the new weapon, now code-named Grand Slam, moved toward completion at a pace that elated Oscar Henderson. Peter Jance had become his own brilliant successor. It was time to begin the first stages of actual construction. Even Wolfe was dazzled. Later that night, as Peter and Beatrice moved toward their separate beds, Peter, for the first time, felt how heavy a burden this newness must be for her. He noticed she took pains to change into nightclothes out of his sight, and had slipped into bed while he was brushing his teeth. “I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I?” he said. “Oh, I don’t know.”
“That’s a yes. I’m sorry. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself. And in getting back to work.” “Can’t blame you for that.”
She had been sleeping on a small folding cot. Peter went over and sat on its edge. Beatrice looked up at him with a wan smile. “It’s still me, Beatrice.”
She nodded. “It’s just going to take some getting used to.” “I still love you.
She didn’t answer, but her eyes welled up with tears-not at his words, but at his obvious need to say them. She could count on the fingers of one hand the times they had actually reassured each other of their devotion, and the word “still” had never come into it. Love went without saying. To speak was to lie. “I know you do,” she said. He caressed her hair. He could smell her breath. It was a bit stale, but even so he eased in beside her. “I don’t know if this is right,” she said. “How could it not be?” he asked.
He took her in his arms and kissed her. Beatrice felt the warmth of his lips, the remarkable fullness, the warm hardness of his belly and the ever-warmer prod from further down. She giggled nervously, “How about it?” he whispered. “You game?” “I’m not that old,” she said quietly.
“You’ll never be old to me.”
“Won’t I?”
“No, ” he said firmly. “You’re wonderful, B. The loveliest woman in the world. An angel.” “In that case . . .” she said, looking up at him from a well of sadness and love and understanding. Gently he lowered himself toward her, and she turned out the light.
8
PUERTO RICO
Within three hours of getting the fax confirming IslandMan’s e-mail Message, Elizabeth left Zurich. She was able to hook a seat on the 10:20 A.M. Swissair flight to Boston and arrived at almost the same hour, local time, as when she had left. Despite her American passport, she was detained and searched by customs, evidently because she had no luggage except for her shoulder bag. The search revealed a change of underwear, a T-shirt from the Brussels Film Festival and a pair of jeans. “Traveling kind of light,” remarked the customs officer. “Just a spur-of-the-moment trip, I guess.” They took her to a curtained-off booth where she was subjected to a full-body search by a bright-eyed female agent with big hair. “Back in the U.S.A.,” Elizabeth said sourly. The woman’s head came up.
“We could X-ray you. Make you take laxatives.” “Why would you want to do that?” Elizabeth demanded. She was ready to throttle this woman. “We’ve found as many as thirty condoms full of heroin in people’s intestines. How long have you been in Switzerland?” “I’ve lived there five years.
“Nature of your business?”
“I’m a model. Helvetica International Agency.” If customs checked, she knew, they’d be told she had been fired for trying to have a corpse exhumed. They’d probably lock her in a room and throw away the key. Instead the agent took a step back. Apparently being a model carried some peculiar weight with her. “My daughter’s tried to get into modeling,” she said. “Maybe you could help her.” “I could try,” said Elizabeth, sensing an easy out. “She’s got the three Bs. Beauty, brains and business sense. I’ve read that’s what it takes now.” “How old is she?”