Cliff Ryder: Out of Time

Then the boy turned and exited so quickly and silently he might never have been there at all.

Nonchalantly, Alex took the package and walked through the beaded curtains at the rear of the building and entered the men’s room. Less than five minutes later he emerged wearing a bright red T-shirt with the Union Jack flag emblazoned across the front. His dark hair was tousled. The contacts were gone, returning his eyes to their natural blue color, and the makeup had been washed off his face, lightening his skin tone by several shades. He wore cheap mirrored sunglasses and in all respects now looked like a tourist rather than a native.

Without even glancing at the curtain, he entered the kitchen, crossed to the rear exit and slipped out into another alley. He was feeling better, and his thoughts had returned to the mechanical, clockwork efficiency of his art. There were streets at both ends of the alley. One was busier, and he chose it. He stopped just inside the mouth of the alley and waited.

Moments later, a brightly colored taxi rolled slowly by. There were religious icons on the dashboard, bright, reflective stickers on the bumpers and enough chains dangling from the rear-view mirror to obscure half the windshield. Alex saun-tered out of the alley, picked up his pace and raised his hand. The taxi was moving slowly, and the driver caught sight of him, pulling to the curb.

Alex slipped open the rear door.

He heard quick footsteps behind him and heavy breath. He didn’t turn. He slipped into the backseat.

“Airport,” he said softly. “Quickly!”

As the taxi rolled into traffic, Alex heard frustrated shouts behind them. Once again, the Chameleon had disappeared.

The taxi shot through traffic and rounded the first curve, nearly rolling up onto two wheels in the process. Alex had two lockers waiting—one at each end of the airport. Depending on what he saw when he arrived, he’d go to one or the other, change again, take his tickets and board a flight for the United States. He wanted a hot meal and a long nap. Maybe something stronger to drink than a cheap Mexican beer.

In his lap, his hand trembled, and he frowned, staring out into the growing darkness.

Three weeks later, Alex sat in the doctor’s office, trying to remain calm. He’d have better luck staring into the business end of a gun than staring at that damned clock. The door popped open, nearly sending him off his seat. The groan of new leather betrayed him, and he fought to relax his muscles, to sink casually back into the chair.

Under normal circumstances, Alex would be utilizing one of the doctors who had been specially selected to serve the agents of Room 59. But this wasn’t a normal circumstance and Alex wanted his situation to be private—at least until he could figure out what was going on and what to do about it. His mandatory time off after a mission was almost over, and he’d soon be sent out again. He needed to know what was wrong before that happened.

Alex had chosen Dr. Britton because he had a reputation for being discreet, he was one of the top in his field and he was close to home. He was also blunt and to the point, which Alex appreciated. As Dr. Britton stepped through the door, Alex’s eyes riveted on his face, he shifted the file folder from one hand to the other. That folder bore the fruits of a battery of tests. It held Alex’s fate.

“Sorry it took me so long.” Dr. Britton eased into his own chair; the wheels scraped across the plastic mat as he moved closer to the desk. “I had to take an emergency call.”

“No worries, Doc. It’s not like I have somewhere else more important to be.” Alex dry swallowed and recrossed his legs.

“Let’s see.” Britton sighed, licking one finger and turning quickly through the various lab results until he came to the one he wanted. “I’ll start with the good news. You’ll be happy to know that you’re in wonderful physical shape. Heart good, lungs good, muscle tone impressive. That’s all going to be a help to you with the bad news.”

Alex offered up a tight grin by way of reply and recrossed his legs. Patience eluded him.

“The bad news is that there is one problem and it’s a big one,” the doctor said.

He paused, Alex supposed, awaiting a response.

Alex gave none.

Dr. Britton nodded. “I’ll put this as simply as I can, then. No sense fooling around with it. Your MRI showed extensive lesions—we call them plaque—on your brain and spinal cord, and the fluid we took from your spine has elevated protein markers. You have multiple sclerosis, and based on the history you’ve given me, it’s very progressive.”

Alex felt the small lunch he’d eaten earlier rise into his throat, and his head spun. “MS. Like Muhammad Ali?”

“Not quite. Ali has Parkinson’s disease, which is also neurological, but has a different progres-sion. MS causes lesions on the brain and affects different parts of the nervous system based on where the lesions are occurring. Most forms of MS progress slowly, or more commonly relapse and remit, with recovery between. The symptoms are mild, often unnoticed at first, then build to larger problems over time.”

“Like, decades, right?” Maybe he had time.

Time to live, to work, to find a cure. Room 59 had access to all sorts of classified things. For all he knew, some government agency already had a cure that hadn’t been released to the public yet.

The doctor shook his head. “Not decades, Alex.

That’s not the form you have.Your tests indicate that you most probably have primary progressive MS.

Its onset is much more dramatic and, I’m afraid, it doesn’t afford you as much time before you get into some serious and often debilitating symptoms.”

“How long?”

Dr. Britton scanned his chart, avoiding looking up at Alex.

“Come on, Doc. Just give me the worst case and we can work back from there.”

“Alex, there’s just no real way to predict how MS is going to progress. Sometimes it can take quite a while before you run into serious problems, and then one day you wake up and can’t get out of bed. With the problems that you’re having now and the location and size of the lesions it could be as little as a few months, maybe less, maybe more.

It’s not a predictable disease.”

Alex’s face betrayed him. He could dodge bullets without so much as a tic, but this had thrown him into a spin. His grip on the arm of the chair loosened and he felt the tremors start again.

“Months.”

“I’m sorry, Alex. This disease isn’t something that I can give you a shot for—we can’t even predict with any accuracy the symptoms you’ll experience from one day to the next. Muscles spasms, tremors, pain, blindness—there are so many neurological possibilities.” He slid several prescriptions across his desk and sighed. “There are some medications that will help relieve some of the symptoms for a while. They will help lessen the spasms a bit, make the pain more tolerable. But the disease has a mind of its own. It’ll take its own course and have done with you when it damned well pleases.”

“What can I expect? I mean—” Alex didn’t know what he meant. He wanted the doctor to tell him he had years before he went shopping for a personalized license plate for his wheelchair. He wanted the doctor to guarantee him a few years before he became totally useless.

More paper slid across the desk, this time in the form of fat pamphlets. Alex took them without really looking at them.

“You can read these and they’ll give you a better idea of where you’re headed. There are also plenty of informative Web sites on the subject. Do some digging and you’ll get a handle on what’s known about the disease. We’ll want to repeat several of the tests in a month, especially the MRIs, and then again in six months if you’re still—”