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His fine black brows drew together in a frown. “Give me a break, will you? So I’m a little washed out. I haven’t had a chance to catch any rays lately.”
He started across the street, but Julie caught his arm. “This is serious, Patrick. Your face is so pale it’s practically blue. Something’s wrong. Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“More problems with the Rabinoff closing. I thought maybe you could help.” She stopped him the minute they reached the curb on the opposite side of the street. “Patrick, your health is more important than any closing. Something is seriously wrong with you. For once in your life, please, will you listen?”
He stopped in the alley outside The Grill, a nearby restaurant that was a local haunt for movie higher-ups: producers, directors, agents, a few hopeful starlets and a lot of hangers-on. “I’ve got a little heartburn, okay? I’ll be fine just as soon as I eat.”
Julie’s face turned nearly as pale as Patrick’s. “You’re having chest pains?”
“Heartburn. That’s all it is. I took some Maalox tablets. In a few more minutes, they’ll kick in and I’ll feel great.”
“Patrick, listen to me—” She took a deep breath, terrified he wouldn’t, since he never had before.
Before she could finish, Patrick swayed and leaned against the wall, one hand flat against it, the other sliding up the lapel of his coat, stopping somewhere near his empty breast pocket. His breath seemed to catch on a heavy gasp of air, and his eyes looked suddenly frightened.
“Julie…” The words passed through lips that were dry and the same pale color as his face.
“Oh, my God!”
His legs turned to rubber. He swayed and slid down the wall, coming to rest slumped over at the bottom. Beads of perspiration popped out across his forehead and dampened the black hair at his temple.
“Somebody help us!” Julie looked frantically toward the people passing by on the sidewalk just a few feet away. “Please…somebody call 911!” A few heads swiveled in their direction, but no one ran into the alley or even started walking their way.
Julie fumbled with her purse, finally found her cell phone and made the call herself. She was shaking by the time she finished.
She forced a note of calm into her voice. “Take it easy, Patrick. Help is on the way.” She didn’t know if he could hear her, but it gave her a feeling of being back in control. Up ahead, the valet in front of The Grill had just hopped into a big white Mercedes-Benz and driven away.
No help there.
She didn’t know CPR. For years she had been going to take a class, but there never seemed to be enough time. Leaving Patrick on the sidewalk, she raced to the shiny brass doors of the restaurant, pulled one of them open and rushed inside.
“Please, you have to help me,” she said to the dark-haired maître d’. “Patrick Donovan’s on the sidewalk outside. I think he’s having a heart attack. Is there someone here who can do CPR?”
“I know Patrick,” the man said. “He’s too young to be having a heart attack. It’s probably just gas or something.”
“It isn’t just gas! You’ve got to help us! Patrick may be dying!”
He went into action then, telling her not to worry, hurrying toward the paging system and asking if there was a doctor in the house. Julie raced back outside. By now a small crowd had gathered. She shouldered her way toward a man in a navy blue suit leaning over Patrick’s now unconscious form.
“A-are you a doctor?”
“No.” The slender man stood up and backed away. “I’m a stockbroker. But I checked for a pulse and I couldn’t find one. I don’t think he’s breathing.”
Julie swallowed past a growing lump of fear. “Do you know CPR?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Is there anyone here who does?” When no one in the small, worried crowd answered, she steeled herself. She had seen it done, but she had never tried it. Still, someone had to do something and fast. “Well then,” she said, forcing a note of authority into her voice. “Get out of my way so I can get to work.”
They wouldn’t let her ride with him in the ambulance. She wasn’t his next of kin, after all, and he still wasn’t breathing on his own. His heart had not responded to her clumsy efforts at CPR and the ambulance seemed to have taken forever to get there.
Julie drove like a woman possessed all the way to Cedar Sinai Hospital. She hadn’t called Patrick’s father yet, afraid the news might cause Alex to have another stroke. Better to wait, see what the doctors had to say.
Better to pray that Patrick was still alive when she got there.
On trembling legs, she shoved through the glass doors into the reception area and hurried toward the information desk, stopped at the counter, afraid to ask, afraid she already knew the answer.
She had called Babs on her cell, had found her at the office, which wasn’t too far away. Now the sight of her friend’s purposeful, no-nonsense strides as she pushed through the front doors into the lobby gave Julie a shot of courage. She took a slow, bracing breath and worked to calm her thundering heart.
With a small silent prayer, she turned toward the desk and spoke to the gray-haired receptionist, who looked at her over the top of her gold-rimmed reading glasses.
“May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m here to inquire about a friend…Patrick Donovan. They just brought him in.” The woman began to search the names on her computer screen while Julie stood tensely, running her tongue over her trembling lips.
“How is he?” Babs asked when she reached Julie’s side.
“I-I don’t know yet.” They both turned to stare at the woman.
“His condition is listed as stable,” she said, the age lines around her mouth puckering unbecomingly. Too many years in a job where it was all too easy for people to become merely numbers. “He’s been taken to intensive care, but he can’t have visitors, only immediate family.”
“We are immediate family,” they both said in unison, then looked over at each other and grinned, light-headed with relief. At least he was still alive.
“I thought you said he was a friend,” the woman reminded her tartly, her rheumy eyes suspicious above the rim of her glasses.
“Well, he is,” Julie agreed. “But he’s also our brother.”
The receptionist eyed her with suspicion, but one hard look from Babs and she pointed a bony finger down the hall.
“Take the elevator up to the third floor. Follow the signs. They’ll tell you where to go from there.”
“Thanks,” Julie said as they walked away, thinking it was time she called Alex, but first she wanted to speak to the doctors.
Babs pushed the elevator button. “At least he isn’t dead,” she said with her usual bluntness.
“He nearly was.” Julie nervously plucked a speck of lint from the front of her pink linen suit. “His heart had stopped and he wasn’t breathing. I was afraid he wasn’t going to make it.”
“It’s the damned drugs and booze. We’ve both been telling him for years that one day it would kill him.”
“Maybe now that this has happened, he’ll listen. Sometimes a close call with death can make a person change.”
Babs flashed her a look of disbelief. “Don’t get your hopes up, honey. Nothing is going to change Patrick Donovan. Between his motorcycle races and his skiing, he’s had half a dozen close calls. He hasn’t changed a lick and this time won’t be one bit different.”
Julie knew she was right, but it still hurt to admit it.
Patrick would always be Patrick.
Yet the memory of him lying on the sidewalk, of his pale, waxen face and blue, bloodless lips—the terrible thought of him dying—was enough to make her heart pump painfully again.
Five
Commander Valenden Zarkazian lay quietly beneath the clean white sheet on the hospital bed, listening to the beeping sound of the heart monitor attached by wires to his chest. The curtains were drawn so that only a sliver of light fed into the darkened room, dimly illuminating the stark white walls and dull gray linoleum floors. He was lying on his back, his mouth and nose covered by a plastic oxygen mask, his arms resting limply at his sides. A needle dripped clear liquid into a vein in his wrist.
He was glad for the quiet, the undisturbed moments to gather his thoughts and come to grips with where he was and what he was feeling.
To discover exactly who he had become.
It was the oddest sensation, lying there in the darkness, one that, with his limited information, he hadn’t completely expected. His body lay still but his thoughts were in turmoil. His mind was a jumble of information, his senses bursting with memories, images, and sensations—both tactile and internal—the forces so powerful they nearly overwhelmed him.
It was easier to deal with the physical aspects of his incredible journey, the weight of a body influenced by Earth’s heavy gravity, the pulsing of a heart inside the cage of his chest, the in-and-out motion of air rushing to and from his lungs. Those things he had expected. He had been studying the human form for years; he was well prepared for the physical transition he would make.
It was the invasion of the mind, the onslaught of memories and emotions he was ill-prepared to deal with, the meshing, the mixing, the overwhelming oneness he felt with Patrick Alexander Donovan.
The astonishing fact was, in a way he hadn’t expected, he actually was Patrick Donovan. He knew everything Patrick knew, every thought he’d ever had, every fear, every need, every wish. He knew the man’s strengths as well as his failings. He knew the depth of his depravity as well as the heights of his goodness.
Fortunately, considering Patrick’s somewhat weak, self-destructive personality, it was Val Zarkazian who was now in control.
It was Val’s strength of will, Val’s sense of purpose, Val’s set of values that would rule Patrick Donovan’s heretofore misused mind and body.
He settled his head against the pillow, feeling the slick white smoothness of the case, smelling the stringent hospital odors, and trying not to think of the prickle of pain in his wrist where the intravenous needle pumped fluid into his body. Instead he let himself absorb the memories, the experiences that had been the sum total of Patrick Donovan’s life.
Val knew most humans had not been born into the privileged existence Patrick had, yet from the images he received of the boy’s lonely childhood, he wondered if other, less advantaged children were not far better off.
He wondered about Patrick’s father, the man Patrick had loved so much, a man too busy after the death of his beloved wife to pay attention to his only son. A man Patrick had always admired, yet also resented. A man who in the past few years had tried to reach out to him. Unfortunately for Patrick, by then it was too late.
He wondered about the mother who had died when the boy was ten years old, at the stepmother, a society woman, a beautiful “social butterfly”—to quote one of Patrick’s own thoughts—who dressed him up in blue blazers and showed him off to her friends, who bought him dozens of expensive toys, but abandoned him to a nanny until he was big enough to be left on his own.
Big enough to get into trouble. Big enough to turn to sex and drugs.
Val wondered about the former. On Toril, the planet he came from, generations were perpetuated by test tube births. Male and female were paired genetically, then linked together after their maturity to form a loosely regulated, monogamous family unit. There was no such thing as sex, not in the sense of the physical linking that Patrick had apparently enjoyed so much.
Drugs Val understood. He was a scientist, after all. He knew their debilitating effects, the totally destructive power the misuse of drugs could unleash. In that regard, there was no need for experimentation. Only a need to repair the damage to Patrick’s ravaged body that the drugs, alcohol, and off-and-on smoking had caused.
Val stirred restlessly on the hospital bed. Now that he was here, there was so much he wanted to do, so much to see, so much to experience. There was nothing he could do to hurry things along; he couldn’t afford to alert them to the fact that this Patrick was somehow different than the Patrick he was before. The change would have to be gradual. Believable. Allowing Val to emerge, to become an acceptable part of Patrick without destroying the essence of who Patrick was.
It would happen all in due course, he told himself. Patience had been a virtue he had tried hard to cultivate, yet already he found himself straining at the bit, as Patrick would have said, itching to be free to get on with his work. Patrick’s body had been physically repaired, the massive damage to his heart had been undone at the moment of Unification. By a physical weakness, an instant of good fortune for Val, and Patrick’s own reckless nature, the perfect vessel had been provided for him to continue his work.
It was the chance he’d been waiting for.
The chance of a lifetime.
Val clenched his hands into fists, testing the dexterity, feeling the smooth glide of muscle between skin and bone. Careful not to disturb the needle in his wrist, he held them up in front of his face to survey the long, dark, tapering fingers, the short, blunt, neatly manicured nails. It was one thing to know Patrick’s thoughts, another to experience exactly what a human male was feeling.
There was so much ahead of him. So much to learn, so much to explore. Of chief concern was the Ferris female. In the next few hours, he would search Patrick Donovan’s memory banks for every thought, every recollection of the woman the man had ever had. Soon he would begin, but not yet.
Instead Val closed his eyes and willed his turbulent thoughts to rest. He would start with something else, something that would help his host’s battered body regain the strength it needed. Something he could do right here in this quiet, barren room. He would begin by experiencing the phenomena humans called sleeping. He closed his eyes and allowed the sensation to begin.
Alexander Donovan gripped the sides of his wheelchair as it rolled down the busy corridors of Cedar Sinai Hospital pushed by Nathan Jefferson Jones, the big ex-football tackle who served as his male nurse. The pair made an odd combination, Alex thin and frail with a leonine mane of snowy hair; Nathan, brawny, bulging with muscle, his head completely shaved and as shiny and black as a bowling ball.
While Alex was left-brained and fixated on work even after the stroke his stressful life had caused, Nathan lived for the moment, always smiling, cheery in the face of nearly any adversity. Keeping Alex going when he sometimes so badly wanted to just give up and let the good Lord take him away.
“There’s Julie, Mr. D.” Nathan pointed down the corridor. “I figured she’d be waiting right there, in front of Patrick’s door.”
Alex shifted in his wheelchair, relaxed a little when he saw the small, red-haired figure beside the door to his son’s hospital room. Things were always better when Julie was around.
“Alex! I’m so glad you’re here.” She hurried toward him, walked over and hugged him hard. He could only hug her back with one arm, but it felt good to absorb her warmth and reassuring strength.
“How is he? Have you seen him yet?” The words came out a little slurred, since one side of his mouth didn’t move, but Julie had grown used to his affliction and easily understood.
“I peeked in on him as soon as they would let me, but Patrick was sleeping. Babs was here with me until just a few minutes ago. She had to leave for an appointment but she stayed until the doctor came. He says the news is all very good.”
“Thank God,” Alex said, his bent frame sagging with relief. Standing next to his chair, Julie absently rubbed her temple. Alex frowned, worried she might be getting another of her recent migraine headaches.
She smiled, but it looked a little forced. “How about you? Are you okay?”
“By the time you called, Patrick was already out of danger. I suppose I should be angry that you didn’t call me sooner, but I know why you did it, and my doctor would probably argue you did the right thing.”
“I didn’t want to upset you any more than I had to. I did what Patrick would have wanted me to do.”
Just then Dr. Manley, the cardiologist who had been caring for Patrick, walked up, a slight, dark-haired man wearing spectacles and a long white lab coat. “You’re Alex Donovan, Patrick’s father?”
“That’s correct. And this is Ms. Ferris, a close family friend.”
“Ms. Ferris and I have already met,” the doctor said.
“What can you tell us, Dr. Manley? What has happened to my son?”
“First let me say that your son can look forward to a full recovery. I want you to know that right from the beginning so that as we speak, you won’t be unduly upset.”
“I understand your concern for my health, Doctor, but Julie has already spared me the worst of it. Now if you will, I’d like you to tell me exactly what you know.”
The doctor glanced down at the papers on the clipboard he held in a pair of elegant, long-figured hands. “At exactly 11:45 a.m. this morning your son suffered a massive myocardial infarction. We believe it was drug-induced, a toxic reaction that usually occurs from an overdose, but in this case was caused by an accumulation of drugs taken over a number of years in smaller, but still harmful doses.”
He glanced down at the chart. “The drugs produced hemorrhage and cardiac arrhythmias. Cardiac dysfunction occurred, causing damage to the ventricle and the adjacent portion of the inter ventricular septum, which at first we believed might be too extensive to repair, or that by the time we were ready to operate, it would be too late.”
The doctor studied a note on the paper, then looked up. “Fortunately, once your son reached the hospital and we began our series of tests, we discovered the damage to the wall of the heart was minimal. The electrocardiogram showed surgery wasn’t necessary after all.”
Alex said nothing for the longest time, but his insides felt knotted up inside him. He had known about Patrick’s drug use for years, but his son had never been an addict. Alex had tried to convince himself Patrick would eventually mature, assume more responsibility, and outgrow his fascination with alcohol and drugs. Obviously, that hadn’t happened.
Alex felt defeated in a way even his stroke had not accomplished.
“How long will he have to stay in the hospital?” he asked.
“A couple of days. He’ll need to take it easy after that for several weeks—and he’ll have to stay off drugs.”
“Of course,” Alex replied automatically. But in his heart, he knew his wayward son never would.
