Mouser
02-09-2007, 10:17 AM
"It's not serious. Keep it clean and try not to pull on the stitches. I don't know how, but it's healing nicely." Ray shook his head. "I still think you might wanna go to a doctor. It might get infected."
"No. They'll have to report it. It's the law." Steve examined his bandage in the bathroom mirror. "Besides. Just like you said. It's only muscle. No broken bones. No injured organs. I'll be okay in timeto report."
He put his shirt back on and looked Ray in the eye. "We can keep this between us, right?"
Ray's usual cockiness disappeared. For some reason he couldn't describe, he trusted Steve. They'd met only recently, and in the time since, he'd been involved in far too much violence, but it felt natural. "Okay. Let me know if the flesh around it changes color or if you get a fever. Keep it clean and change the bandages every day." He considered for a moment what else he might say, but couldn't think of anything. "See you later."
Steve couldn't wait for him to leave. He had lots to think about while his wound healed. He'd always been quick to recover from any injury, and he never scarred, even from thattime he'd fallen and gashed his head on a rock. He hadn't felt anything but a trickle of what he'd thought was water. His brother had laughed and pointed. His eyes teared up at the thought of his long lost brother. He touched his head where the injury had occurred, then shook it to push away the memory.
He had work to do.
The notebook. He opened the trunk full of books and notes, and took it out. Without putting it down, he carefully closed the trunk and locked both locks. He began reading through the words and phrases he had copied from the painting. It didn't seem to make any sense at first, but he made notes and began translating what he could. The Arabic was impossible until he got a dictionary out and started comparinmg it to the Hebrew and Greek texts. It was the same phrase repeated three times in each language, then moving on to another.
Like an incantation or a prayer.
Then there were all of the names. It didn't make sense to him.
He knew it would eventually come to him just before falling asleep or while he was running or some other fugue state. Whenever he had a problem like this, it always did. He looked at his watch and realized he'd been working for hours. His wound itched, and he needed to feed it something.
His headache told him he hadn't eaten enough at his last meal. He need to go to the nearest Scottish restaurant and hurry. He got up and winced at his wound as it flared from itching to intense pain. He couldn't take too much of the painkillers. Ray had told him they would thin his blood and slow down healing. He'd just have to tough it out, he figured.
As he walked, his thoughts went back to the little girl. She had made the painting, she had spoken Ancient Greek. Would she be able to tell him anything if they met again? Did she know where his brother was? If he was alive?
Would that woman visit his dreams again tonight? If she did, should he tell her about his suspicions? About the notebook? She was always full of questions for him, but she never answered his questions. Whenever she visited his dreams, he always woke up mentally exhausted and covered in sweat.
What was happening to him?
Why did that soldier identify him as a "command authority" and why did Ray and the others defer to him as though he knew what he was doing? Sure, his plans worked, but he was just lucky... Wasn't he?
What was next?
"No. They'll have to report it. It's the law." Steve examined his bandage in the bathroom mirror. "Besides. Just like you said. It's only muscle. No broken bones. No injured organs. I'll be okay in timeto report."
He put his shirt back on and looked Ray in the eye. "We can keep this between us, right?"
Ray's usual cockiness disappeared. For some reason he couldn't describe, he trusted Steve. They'd met only recently, and in the time since, he'd been involved in far too much violence, but it felt natural. "Okay. Let me know if the flesh around it changes color or if you get a fever. Keep it clean and change the bandages every day." He considered for a moment what else he might say, but couldn't think of anything. "See you later."
Steve couldn't wait for him to leave. He had lots to think about while his wound healed. He'd always been quick to recover from any injury, and he never scarred, even from thattime he'd fallen and gashed his head on a rock. He hadn't felt anything but a trickle of what he'd thought was water. His brother had laughed and pointed. His eyes teared up at the thought of his long lost brother. He touched his head where the injury had occurred, then shook it to push away the memory.
He had work to do.
The notebook. He opened the trunk full of books and notes, and took it out. Without putting it down, he carefully closed the trunk and locked both locks. He began reading through the words and phrases he had copied from the painting. It didn't seem to make any sense at first, but he made notes and began translating what he could. The Arabic was impossible until he got a dictionary out and started comparinmg it to the Hebrew and Greek texts. It was the same phrase repeated three times in each language, then moving on to another.
Like an incantation or a prayer.
Then there were all of the names. It didn't make sense to him.
He knew it would eventually come to him just before falling asleep or while he was running or some other fugue state. Whenever he had a problem like this, it always did. He looked at his watch and realized he'd been working for hours. His wound itched, and he needed to feed it something.
His headache told him he hadn't eaten enough at his last meal. He need to go to the nearest Scottish restaurant and hurry. He got up and winced at his wound as it flared from itching to intense pain. He couldn't take too much of the painkillers. Ray had told him they would thin his blood and slow down healing. He'd just have to tough it out, he figured.
As he walked, his thoughts went back to the little girl. She had made the painting, she had spoken Ancient Greek. Would she be able to tell him anything if they met again? Did she know where his brother was? If he was alive?
Would that woman visit his dreams again tonight? If she did, should he tell her about his suspicions? About the notebook? She was always full of questions for him, but she never answered his questions. Whenever she visited his dreams, he always woke up mentally exhausted and covered in sweat.
What was happening to him?
Why did that soldier identify him as a "command authority" and why did Ray and the others defer to him as though he knew what he was doing? Sure, his plans worked, but he was just lucky... Wasn't he?
What was next?