4
“Oh, shit!”
Hank had come down to the subcellar to check on Darryl. He hadn’t turned on the lights, just followed the cold blue glow. The dots and lines he’d seen yesterday were gone. Or maybe not gone, simply invisible without the assistance of absinthe. If getting tanked on that stuff was what it took to see them, he’d skip a second look. He’d felt terrible this morning.
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw that Darryl’s legs were no longer sticking out. His feet, shoes and all, were now entirely within the thing.
He turned at a sound behind him and saw Drexler strolling in from the stairway.
“I came to check on our friend,” he said, smiling as he approached, “but I see you’ve beaten me to it.”
Hank pointed at the Orsa. He hated that his hand shook, but he couldn’t help it. This was . . . he didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be good.
“Look at that! It’s sucked him further inside.”
Drexler stopped and stared. He looked surprised for an instant, then composed.
“Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it. If the Orsa is going to cure his whole body, it must have access to his whole body. Don’t be concerned. Just a normal part of the process.”
“I thought you said this had never been done before.”
“Yes, I did say that, but there are writings on the subject. Have no fear: Our friend is being cured.”
As Hank turned away and resumed staring at the Orsa and the man trapped within, he wondered how much of that was bullshit.
“Our friend? Don’t pretend you ever liked him. You made it pretty clear he got on your nerves.”
Drexler stopped at Hank’s side. “That is true, I suppose. But now I harbor only good feelings about him.”
“Yeah? And what do you think Darryl’s feeling?”
“I have no idea. Since he appears unconscious, I would assume he feels nothing.”
Hank continued to stare at Darryl’s still form. He hoped that was the case. He felt somehow responsible for the guy being in there. If he came out cured of AIDS, then good. He could be annoying at times, and had got himself infected in a really stupid way, but he didn’t deserve AIDS.
He recalled a strange remark Drexler had made yesterday while they’d been staring at the dots and lines. He glanced at him.
“Yesterday you mentioned a word I’d never heard before—fin-something—in connection with Darryl. What were you talking about?”
Drexler looked suddenly uncomfortable. “Nothing. Forget I mentioned it.”
That wouldn’t be hard, since he barely remembered it, but Drexler’s discomfort piqued his interest. He had a feeling the man never would have mentioned it if not for a snootful of absinthe.
“No can do. You said it about one of my Kickers, so I need to know what it means.”
“It’s nothing. Just an ancient word for the healing process our friend is going through.”
“Bullshit. You said it was some sort of contingency plan.”
Drexler looked even more uncomfortable. “I said nothing of the sort. I must have said the Order has contingency plans to aid the One, and you misinterpreted.”
He was lying. Hank resisted the urge to take a poke at him, knock him down, dirty up his white suit, maybe work him over with his own fancy cane. Instead he replayed that scene from yesterday . . . they were standing closer to the Orsa, checking out the dots and lines . . . talking about Opus Omega . . . and Drexler had mentioned . . .
“Fhinntmanchca,” Hank said as it came back to him. “That was what you said.”
Drexler looked pale now. “Excuse me. I’ve used up today’s allotment of idle chatter.”
He turned and strode away.
Fhinntmanchca, Hank thought. He needed to find out what that meant, but hadn’t a clue as to where to look. He’d try to Google it, but he didn’t even know how to spell it.
He stared at the Orsa. What did it mean? It had something to do with Darryl. But what?
He had an uncomfortable feeling he’d be finding out soon enough.