Rob Thurman - All Seeing Eye

“Not a big cabbage roll fan?” Allgood sat down opposite me as the table rocked on one uneven leg from the added weight of his tray.

“Vegetarian,” I said succinctly. The piece of white bread I’d been given on the side was rock-hard, but I slathered it with butter and ate it anyway. It wasn’t any worse than Cane Lake food. Wasn’t any better, either, but it wasn’t worse.

“Does that have anything to do with your…” He fished a small bottle from his pocket, poured a shot of foamy white liquid, and chugged it before finishing. “Talent?”

Quick. Always so quick. Like his brother had been. With the edge of my appetite less sharp, I began to shove piles of food back and forth with my fork. It was an old habit, one that had gotten my ears boxed but good in the Boyd days. After all, one shouldn’t waste the precious food that his lazy ass had nothing to do with putting on the table.

“It’s not like people,” I offered absently. “I don’t get clear memories, just fuzzy flashes. Nuzzling for milk, the falling rain on your back, the smell of wet hay.” I looked away from the ground beef on his plate. “The feel of a steel bolt punching through your skull.”

There was silence, then the sound of porcelain scraping the surface of the table as Allgood pushed his plate away. “What do you sense when you drink that?”

I looked up to see him indicate my glass of milk and almost smiled despite myself. “Warm sun and sweet grass.”

If I had a bad day, which, now that I ran my own life, was a helluva lot less than the old days, I sat on the floor with Houdini, placed a hand on his broad head, and soaked up endless doggy wonder. A full stomach, a well-chewed toy, a soft couch-through a dog’s eyes, that was a true glory that couldn’t be matched, the only heaven in existence. I missed the furball, missed him like crazy. I turned my attention back to my food and quickly cleaned the plate. I didn’t waste any more words on Allgood. He was the reason I was missing my dog, my carefully constructed life.

Either sensing my mood, which wasn’t hard to do, or too tired to make further conversation, he left me alone as I finished eating. Then we were off to retrieve my muddy shoes and make our way back through the swamp to my luxurious suite. If possible, it seemed smaller than it had before. A shoe box to cram me into as if I were a crow with a broken wing.

I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be nursed back to health or buried in the backyard.

“How’s your head?”

I sat on the bed and skinned off my shirt. “Fine,” I said shortly.

“Jaw?”

He did go on and on about the suddenly precarious state of my health. If I was a cat, he’d already be digging a hole in the backyard for my ass.

“You know,” I offered matter-of-factly, “the concern would be a helluva lot more sincere if you weren’t the cause of all this. Wonder what Charlie would say about how you’re treating his old roommate.” I didn’t say “friend.” I wasn’t that much of a hypocrite, not even to drive home the sharpest of points.

And sharp it was. Allgood’s knuckles tightened to the whiteness of bone on the doorknob. “Who knows?” he said in a voice empty and cold. “Perhaps you’ll get to ask him.” The door closed between us, and I was left to ponder the implications of that.

Could be it was the backyard for me after all.

The next day was spent with Dr. Mengele-at least, that’s what I expected, a military doctor with cold hands and frozen heart. When you’re the powerless guinea pig caught up in an experiment you can’t yet fathom, you don’t hold out much hope that the guy who sticks you with the needles is going to pet you first. I was wrong, on one count, anyway. Dr. M. Guerrera had warm hands, even through a snug set of latex gloves. She also had dove-gray eyes and a gentle curve of mouth, nude of lipstick or gloss. Black hair was caught back in a tight braid that fell nearly to her waist. It wasn’t the blue-black of Allgood’s but was streaked with a rich rust brown. Her skin was the same color as those streaks, only several shades lighter. She reminded me of my kindergarten teacher all those years ago. Miss Bethany had made us cupcakes, given us hugs, and matter-of-factly wiped up the blood that gushed from noses busted by monkey bars or playground brawls. Warmth and competence. Just what you want in a doctor.

Yeah, I’d have come over all fuzzy if not for the whole prisoner-against-my-will situation. Call me difficult, if you want. Smiling nurturer versus heartless jackbooted monster, it didn’t matter. She was still the enemy. And I’d be willing to bet it’d be a cold day in hell before a lollipop would follow any of what they planned to do to me.

Hector had roused me at eight A.M. and marched me straight to their medical facility. There was no stop at the cafeteria. Some of the tests would require a contrast agent injected intravenously, he informed me. Wouldn’t want to vomit chunks of leathery eggs or hunks of processed cheese should I have an anaphylactic reaction to that, now, would we? If I had good aim, damn straight I would want that. I would stuff down second helpings if that would contribute to the cause. But, as always, good old Hector was less than the picture of indulgent cooperation.

The facility itself was well equipped, even to the eyes of a typical layperson… me. The room was big enough for ten beds with space left over. I balked in the doorway at the sight of gleaming metal, starched sheets, and the sharp, tongue-coating smell of disinfectant. I’d never had a good experience in a place with those particular things, and I didn’t expect this time to be any different. Granny Rosemary had died in a place like this. She’d been Glory’s and my best hope-our only hope-of staying out of the system. But of course, she’d died because, hell, where would the punch line be without that, right?

At Mom and Tess’s funeral, she’d sat down in one of those cheap plastic folding chairs and never got back up again. Purple with flecks of foam on her lips, she’d been hauled away in an ambulance. She’d lingered for a day or two, but I never got my hopes up. By then, I’d gotten the message but good. You only had to pound it into my brain so many times before I made the connection. Hope was the candy in the pervert’s pocket, the stereotypical soap in the prison shower, the cheese in the trap. And life… well, life was what happened when you leaned in for a look.

“Mr. Eye.” Hector’s voice was patient in my ear but unyielding. “The tests are painless, I promise you.”

I was fairly certain I’d already driven my point home to my warden on the whole trust issue, and on top of that, my jaw hurt more than it had yesterday. In other words, talking was both pointless and painful at the moment. I settled on giving a scornfully disbelieving grunt, squaring my shoulders, and walking into the room. In short order, I was given scrubs to change into, after which an excruciatingly detailed medical history was taken, covering me and every relative I knew of. Then again, a medical history was attempted might be a better way of putting it.

I knew nothing about my real father. I hadn’t known him. He’d left town not long after he’d gotten my mom pregnant with me. I knew his name, and that was about it. Did he have diabetes or heart disease? Prostate cancer? Hypertension? Was he an all-powerful psychic with erectile dysfunction? Damned if I knew or cared.

Dressed in the pale blue scrubs given to me by a cute nurse who reminded me of Abby, I sat on the edge of one bed, with one hand holding ice at my jaw and gloves still firmly in place. Every answer I gave was clipped, short, and a little thick from my swollen jaw. Hector’s stone face had tightened perceptibly that morning when he’d opened the door to my room, and he’d immediately offered me more Tylenol. Apparently, I was a little less pretty than I’d started out yesterday. Dr. Guerrera had taken one look at me and disappeared into a back room, to return with an ice pack. I’d given serious consideration to ignoring it but decided in the end to let stubbornness take a backseat to pain this one time.