COSMOS magazine

Tuesday, May 6

Wayne woke early, screaming again. The roar of his terror jolted Fern awake. "Oh dear God! Somebody help me! Please! Dr. Ruther—"

Her heart thundered, hearing his raw-throated distress. "Wayne? Honey, it's okay. Listen to me, honey. You're safe at home in bed." Fern wanted to put her arms around him, but she'd learned not to touch him when he was like this, he got so crazy, lashing out at her.

He moaned, turned to her. She felt his warmth, smelled the familiar odour of his night-time breath. "Just another one of your dreams, honey."

Without a word, he rolled away from her, stumbled to the bathroom, slammed the door. Lately the nightmares had taken him nearly every night. Wayne would never admit it, but Fern knew he was afraid to go to sleep. He'd stay up till all hours watching TV, reading magazines. Wouldn't talk about what was happening to him. 'It's nothing," he'd say. 'Everybody has bad dreams."

Not like these. Not this bad.

The toilet flushed. Wayne came back in, giving Fern the adorable little boy look that could always soften her up, even in the middle of their worst arguments. Gotta be firm now, she reminded herself. "Sweetheart, we need to talk." When he opened his mouth to protest she shushed him. "I mean it, Wayne. Seen yourself in the mirror lately? You look like one of the walking dead. You haven't been sleeping more'n two or three hours a night for months." Me neither, she thought.

He stopped smiling. "I'd a thought you'd give me a little sympathy, 'stead of this whiny complaining shit."

"Wayne, your nightmares wake me up too. I can hardly keep my eyes open at work." Better be careful. Don't want this to turn into a fight before I even tell him—

"You think you're tired?" he said, "What do you think I feel like?"

"You're right, honey. It's you I'm worried about. We need to do something."

"Aw come on, Baby."

"No, Wayne." She put her hand firmly over his. "I want you to let me finish what I have to say. I do love you, Wayne. That's why I want you to talk to Dr. Pritchett." She held her breath, waiting for the explosion. "Dr. Nathan Pritchett. He's a psychologist."

"What!" Wayne was furious. "Fucking shrink started all the trouble."

It took her aback. "What do you mean?"

"I don't—" Frowning, he shook his head. "Nothing."

Don't give him a chance to start yelling. "Listen, Wayne, Linda met Dr. Pritchett at a—"

"That dyke?" Wayne had never met Linda, but that didn't keep him from hating her. From the moment Fern quit her job as secretary for Clyde's Auto Repairs and started working at the Radisson, Wayne had accused her of trying to climb above her breeding. He seemed to prefer her as a mousy little country girl.

"We're talking about you, honey, not Linda. About us. If you don't get help, Wayne, I'm going to—" She swallowed. "I'm going to have to move out." There. She'd said it. Trembling a little, Fern waited for the yelling to start. Or maybe he'd just stalk out and slam the door. "I've made an appointment," she added tentatively.

Wayne sat down heavily on the edge of the sofa, knees apart, arms hanging limply down. "Cost a damn fortune."

"No, listen." Eagerly, she said in a rush, "His clinic just opened up recently. They're offering a discount to attract customers. I already put it on my Mastercard, Wayne." She paused, took a deep breath. "Honey, I really want you to go."

Friday, May 9

A week ago, Jill had postponed Alex's promised birthday dinner until tonight, and her son had seethed in resentment ever since. At least she'd keep faith with the boy tonight.

The intercom buzzed, making her heart sink.

"Mr. Flory wants the research on the Blick case. And the petition. Asap."

With an effort, Jill put her son out of her thoughts. This case was critical. Flory would go ballistic if she gave it less than her best. Or, more to the point, if that damned fool strutting rooster Preston Bowie screwed it up for her. Jill pulled together all her files on the latest Blick initiative. Inspired by growing public sentiment against genetically modified foods, BlickPharm had agreed to fund a special project for Nature Forever, the international environmentalist organization. Nature Forever did not want to jeopardize their not-for-profit status with IRS, so they could not be directly involved in political activities. Starting with education and publicity, the project would culminate in an anti-genetic-engineering petition to be presented to Congress. That did verge on activism. So their star lawyer, Preston Bowie, had flown down from Washington D.C. to delegate the task of preparing the first draft of the petition.

Back then, Jill had been in awe of this world-famous environmental advocate, the darling of TV and radio shows. The reality was bleak. Preston was an alcoholic womaniser who did little of the real work himself.

I'm damned if I'll let them mess up my plans for Alex again, she told herself fiercely.

Really, though, drawbacks and all, she was lucky to be doing meaningful work. The salary wasn't all that terrific, considering the hours she put in, and she had less and less time to spend with her son. Still. Blick Enterprises Incorporated was, after all, the major Texas client of Allen, Hoffman and Flory — the reason the firm had an Austin office at all. BEI did much of its business through BlickPharm, a wholly owned subsidiary. It felt good to be working at last for an upright firm, one that was doing well by doing good. When Bruce Blick had inherited the company from his father, sales had been less than two million per year. Bruce had seen the Green movement coming and launched a line of all-natural healthcare products, increasing sales to more than six hundred million over a five year period. Although the company also produced conventional drugs, including a popular antidepressant, they stood vigorously against animal testing, bovine growth hormone, and human genetic engineering.

Garden scents drifted in through the open French doors, along with a whiff of tobacco. Clothile was talking to one of the paralegals on the balcony, taking a cigarette break. Their muted voices made a pleasant background music. One of the enjoyable features of working for Allen, Hoffman and Flory was this sense of belonging to an extended family, something she'd never known as an only child. Like Alex.

Using the petition Preston had given her as a model, Jill keyed on to the screen:

PETITION SEEKING IMMEDIATE ACTION BY CONGRESS TO PROHIBIT EXPERIMENTAL MODIFICATION OF HUMAN DNA—

"...found out he was flat broke. Can you believe it?" Clothile shrieked with laughter.

Pursuant to the Right to Petition Government Clause contained in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution—

"...didn't get the loan and may have to move out of her house..."

...the legal, social, and ethical implications of human genetic modification must be considered...

A phone rang. After a moment Clothile said, "Just a moment, I'll get her." She walked in carrying the cordless phone, paused. Jill tensed. "It's Cindy from Alex's after-school care," Clothile said soberly. "Something's happened to Alex."

Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgod. She snatched at the phone. Please, not another broken bone. Last year her son had jumped exuberantly from a high playground swing. His fractured arm had taken forever to heal and the itching under the cast had almost driven Alex crazy.

Cindy seemed on the verge of hysteria. "Ms. Shannon, Alex had some kind of seizure."

"What?" Jill couldn't take it in. A what? "Is he okay? Can I talk to him?"

"He's unconscious, Ms. Shannon. He lost control of his bowels and bladder. Dennis is trying to clean him up. Can you come right away?"

No. No. Oh dear God, no. "Yes. Okay, thank you." Heart pounding, Jill barely saw the anxious faces of Clothile and the paralegal in the outer office. Dazed with terror, she grabbed her car keys and fled down the stairs.

Friday, May 9

The automatic chime sounded to announce the arrival of Nathan Pritchett's client. He took a last look around his low-rent Houston office, moved the rug slightly so it completely covered the missing vinyl floor tiles, straightened one of his framed diplomas. The frame rattled faintly against the cigar smoke-stained wallpaper; his fingers were tremoring. Breathe, breathe.

The Serenity Holistic Health Clinic was in the Blue Bayou Shopping Center, which had not been noteworthy even when it was new and clean. Now, with several store fronts empty and papered over or boarded up, the suburban strip mall was a hair's breadth away from decrepit. Its star tenant was the B & K Laundromat. Serenity Clinic was two doors down, between Kat's Kraft Korner and a vacant shop.

Okay, Nathan told himself. It's not great, but at least I can pay for it. Affordable rent had been at the top of the priority list when Nathan set about planning his new practice, his comeback from disgrace. He'd resigned himself to financing it with personal credit cards at obscene interest rates, plus a $1,000 loan from his brother. For the first couple of months, though, it'd be touch and go. Maybe too damned risky. What the hell. Here he was. Nathan checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothed his hair, touched his left wrist with his right hand to trigger his calming anchor, and glided into his eight-by-eight waiting room.

A brown haired man of medium height was examining an array of aroma therapy oils and self-help books in the display case by the front door.

"Mr. Elliot? How do you do?"

The man turned quickly, dropped the bottle of healing oil he'd been holding. It bounced on the uncovered floor but failed to break. Jesus, Nathan asked himself, what am I doing stuck in this asshole of a place? Doing penance, he answered. Paying for my fucking sins, literally.

Elliot's face was square, masculine, almost handsome. He did not smile as he bent down to retrieve the bottle. Nathan took it from him, slipped it back into the rack.

"Is it all right if I call you Wayne? I'm Dr. Pritchett."

Wayne nodded, audibly sniffing the air. Nathan held out his hand. He liked to shake hands with new clients. Friendly physical contact tended to create the first link in a bond of trust between psychologist and client. Especially the women. Wayne was hesitating. Nathan saw that the last two fingers on his right hand had been badly injured. The pinky was almost entirely gone. Nathan withdrew his hand. "Won't you come in?" He motioned Wayne toward the consultation room, locked the entrance door. Wayne eyed the locked outside door apprehensively.

"I like to keep the front door secured unless I'm expecting someone," said Nathan, ushering Wayne in. He squared up a copy of Awakening the Genius Within: Eleven Steps to a More Powerful Mind sitting ready on his desk. "Kind of a rough neighbourhood. Please. Sit down."

Wayne guardedly took in the brown leather recliner and the straight-backed wooden chair. Nathan liked to give his clients a choice. The kind of chair a person chose said something about his personality. Interesting: Wayne sat down uneasily on the wooden chair, rubbed his feet back and forth on the rug. Nathan decided on manly candour.

"Let's get right to the point, shall we, Wayne? You've come here to humour your wife, right? I know you'd much rather be doing just about anything but sitting here talking to me."

The man jerked his head up; mouth and eyes relaxed a bit.

"Well, doc, I don't guess there's all that much you can do to help me. But Fern paid good money for me to come here, so..." He seemed to be casting about. Nathan watched, nerves trilling. The man looked like a bomb waiting to go off. He picked the book up from his desk, passed it across.

"I think this might interest you."

Wayne took Awakening the Genius Within with his good hand, flipped the pages too quickly to be reading anything. Clearly on the brink of bolting. Shitload of anxiety there. Fitted with what the wife had said about the nightmares. "Take it home with you if you like, run through some of the early exercises. I think you'll find them helpful. Give it a try, anyway." Nathan rose. "We're done for now."

"Uh..."

"It'll give us something to talk about next week. Don't worry. Since we're cutting this session short, I'll give you an extra half hour next time. Or whenever. You can decide."

"That's it?" Wayne looked vastly relieved.

"Unless there's something you'd like to talk about." With an effort, Nathan kept his voice casually unconcerned.

"Can't think of anything." Wayne edged toward the door.

"See you next week, then."

Wayne walked away, clutching the book protectively against his chest. Gritting his teeth, Nathan wondered if he'd be back.