F. Paul Wilson - Bloodline

"I said, it's good to see you awake," Abe repeated.

The prof gave him a weak, lopsided smile. "Three-twenty-nine." The words slurred like someone at the end of a long bender.

Abe looked at Jack across the bed and muttered. "Three-twenty-nine? What's with these numbers already? I ask him a question, he gives me a number."

"Numbers are all he's said since he came to," said an accented female voice.

Jack looked toward the door and saw a heavyset nurse with coffee-colored skin approaching. She stopped at the foot of the bed.

"Is this usual after a stroke?" Abe said.

She shook her head. "First time I've seen it, but Doctor Gupta didn't seem too surprised."

"That's his neurologist, right? The one I spoke to. Where is he?"

"Down the hall. He should be here soon." She grabbed the small tent made by the prof's right foot and wiggled it. "Can you feel this, Peter?"

He gave her a watery stare. "Forty-nine."

"See?"

The prof was obviously responding to questions, but why with numbers instead of words?

Creepy.

A lean, dark-skinned man with a Saddam mustache strolled in carrying a chart.

"I am Doctor Gupta." His voice was high pitched, with a lilting Indian accent. "Which one of you is this man's son?"

Abe seemed to be in a trance, staring at the prof. When he didn't answer, Jack pointed to him.

"He is."

Jack wondered how Dr. Gupta could buy that fiction. Hard to imagine a less likely father-son pair.

Abe shook himself. "What? Oy. Yes. I'm him." They shook hands. "Tell me about this stroke."

"It's worse than a hemorrhagic stroke, I am afraid, although that would be serious enough. Your father has a brain tumor. That is what hemorrhaged."

" Gevalt !" He turned to the prof. "You never told me!"

"It's not exactly a brain tumor because it didn't originate there. It's metastatic from a lung mass which is in turn metastatic from a renal carcinoma. At least that is what we assume because his right kidney was removed not too long ago. Where would we find his medical records?"

Abe looked flustered. Jack knew he'd kept in touch with his old professor but this was obviously all news to him.

Jack jumped in: "But why is he speaking in numbers? I've heard of speaking in tongues, but—"

"The damage reached the Wernicke's area on the left side of the brain and thus has caused a form of receptive aphasia."

"Want to try that again in real-people talk?" Jack said.

"His speech is preserved but the content is garbled. He is most likely not understanding what we say to him."

Abe waved a hand at the prof. "But always with the numbers—why?"

"Ah, that is most interesting." Gupta seemed excited beneath his blase surface. "What numbers has he spoken to you?"

"Forty-nine just before you came in," Jack said.

Gupta jotted something on the chart cover.

Abe added, "One-sixty-one and three-twenty-nine before that."

More scribbling as he muttered, "Fascinating . . .fascinating.""

"Not so fascinating," Abe said, his face darkening. "More like tragic."

"Ask him something."

Abe shook his head, so Jack leaned over the man and touched his hand.

"Doctor Buhmann—where's the Compendium ? It's not in your office. Did you hide it somewhere?"

The prof looked up at him. "Ninety-one."

"Yes!" Gupta muttered as he scribbled.

Abe's fury seemed to be growing.

Jack pulled out the Xerox of the Kicker Man and held it up.

"Why did you copy this?"

The prof's eyes widened. He raised his shaky left hand and pointed at the figure.

"Six-five-fifty-nine! Two-seventeen!" He snatched the sheet from Jack's hand and stared at it adoringly. "Seven-ninety-one!"

More scribbling by Gupta. "Amazing!"

Abe took a step toward him. He had mayhem in his eyes.

"Enough already! What's going on?"

"Multiples of seven! Every number he says is a multiple of seven! Seven-ninety-one is one-thirteen times seven. Two-seventeen is thirty-one times seven. One-sixty-one is twenty-three times seven. Six-five—"

"We get it," Jack said. "So what?"

Gupta looked up with bright eyes. "I have never heard of such a thing. I'll have to do a search to see if it's ever occurred before."

Jack could see visions of publishing a paper dancing in his head.

"But what are you doing about it?" Abe said.

"We have excellent speech pathologists on staff. I've already ordered a consult."

"What's that going to do for his cancer?"

"I have an oncologist coming in later, but renal cancer at this stage…" He shook his head.

Abe looked heartbroken.

Gupta said, "Tell me, he is a professor, yes?"

Abe nodded.

"Of mathematics?"

"No. Linguistics."

Gupta frowned. "Odder. One would expect—"

"Odd you want? Try this: All those numbers he's multiplying by seven are prime."

Gupta stared. "You are sure?" He looked down at the chart cover and checked through the list. "Yes, I believe you are right! Oh, this is marvelous, simply marvelous!"

He turned and hurried from the room, leaving Jack and Abe staring at each other.

"All prime numbers?"

Abe nodded. "And all multiplied by another prime."

The creep factor had just doubled.

They stood and watched the prof stare adoringly at the Kicker Man. His eyes shone like Gawain contemplating the Holy Grail.

5

Jack pulled his big black Crown Victoria out of the Upper West Side garage where he kept it for a monthly fee that equaled a mortgage payment in some states. He headed east through the fading light.

Three messages left with Michael Gerhard's office voice mail had sparked no callback. Haifa dozen calls to his house had gone unanswered as well. Add to that the stuffed mailbox and maybe Mr. Gerhard was on vacation.

And maybe not.

Whatever the reason, a knock on his door was called for, which meant a trek out to Flatlands.

Swell.

The Flatlands section lay on the far side of Brooklyn. Not even a subway stop out there. He had to drive. And driving anywhere in the city lately made him crazy.

Ten miles and forty minutes later he was driving past Gerhard's house on Avenue M. It stood midway along a line of detached, two-story, cookie-cutter houses that must have been depressingly identical when built half a century before, but changes in siding and different plantings over the years afforded them a modicum of individuality. The area had been farmland in the old-old days but was purely residential now.

Jack slowed as he passed…

The place looked dark and empty except for one lighted upstairs window. Maybe a security light, but Jack would have expected one downstairs as well.

He found a parking space two blocks past and walked back. He'd dressed in construction-worker casual for the trip: flannel shirt, jeans, and six-inch, steel-toed Thorogrip Commando Deuces.

He skirted a puddle on the front walk and stopped on the steps before the door. The place looked like it once had sported a front porch, but that had been enclosed for extra living space. He was raising his hand to knock when he noticed the steps were wet. Hadn't rained in days. He bent and touched the weather stripping along the bottom of the door… worn… with water leaking through from inside.

Something wrong here.

Ya think?

His instincts urged him to turn and run—not walk, run —back to his car and get the hell out of here. But a need to know made him stay. He promised himself if he could find an easy way in, he'd take a quick look and then be on his way. If a break-in was necessary, he'd skip it and go home.

He pressed the doorbell button and heard it ring inside. He didn't expect an answer but you never knew. As he rang it again he turned the doorknob and gave a push.