40

After they swapped for another morning routine, Mordecai Ob frowned as he settled into Eduard’s home-body. With an expression of distaste, he flexed the sore, weakening muscles. “Eduard, you feel like crap. If you can’t maintain yourself better, I’m going to have to get a new caretaker.”

“Sorry, sir. I’d hoped it would get better by now. Is it possible that something you’re—”

“It’s your problem, Eduard, not mine,” Ob said with a scowl. “It’s hard for me to do my own work when I’m in a body that feels this bad.”

“If you’d like, sir, I can swap back.” Eduard watched the man closely for his reaction. Maybe I should just keep your precious body for myself and run off. Leave you stranded in mine, whatever it is you’re doing to it. “Should I make an appointment for a deep-level medical scan to identify what’s the matter?”

“No, no.” The Bureau Chief shooed him out of the study. “You’ve got a long workout to do, and I have an important teleconference meeting that requires absolute privacy here. Don’t disturb me.”

Eduard departed, trying to hide the flare of suspicious anger in his eyes. Ob sealed the door to his sanctum and switched off the lights. Sunshine filtered through the leafy screen of hibiscus vines that covered the window. The world seemed dim and dreary again, especially after he’d seen Garth’s triumphant success, and he needed more inspiration.

Using borrowed trembling hands, Ob popped open the bottom desk drawer to reveal a case of glasgel capsules. Eduard had been his addiction receptacle for months now, but the young body-caretaker was nearing the end of his usefulness. Ob didn’t dare let him consult a competent medical professional, since a deep-level scan would detect the residue of the illegal drug, and then there would be too many questions.

Ob had reconfigured the capsules himself, increasing the dosage. Eduard’s body had grown so accustomed to Rush-X that he needed more and more of the drug to achieve the full effect. Eduard had lasted longer than his three predecessors, but the body had reached its limits—a larger amount would be quite dangerous, even for someone who had already tolerated so much Rush-X.

Once again Ob shuddered at what might have happened had he used the drug in his own body, instead of surrogates like Eduard. Since there was a chance he might still get caught, he had already used the resources of his Bureau authority to set up Eduard to take a fall. He had even planted several capsules of Rush-X and related paraphernalia in the caretaker’s quarters, which Ob would conveniently “find,” if necessary.

Now, he withdrew the fragile capsule and held it in his fingers, anticipating how the dissolvable glasgel would break and the vibrant fluid dribble under his tongue. He raised it to his lips.

The videoscreen on his desk rang, demanding his attention. The priority tone was so loud and sharp that Eduard’s jittery fingers nearly crushed the capsule. Regaining his composure, Ob hid the Rush-X from view and activated the receive-call button. His mouth was very dry.

Inspector Daragon’s image stared back at him, attentive and expectant. “Sir,” he said without waiting for a response, “you and I had our regular caseload meeting scheduled for this morning. I’m out at Bureau Headquarters, but I understand you’re working at home today? Would a teleconference discussion suit you instead?”

Ob controlled his surprise, taking special care to keep the capsules hidden. He had been so focused on the morning’s drug fix that he’d forgotten entirely. “I apologize for not being there as promised, Daragon. I’ve been very busy and needed to handle several urgent matters at once.”

“I understand, sir. I can be as concise as possible.” His voice was calm, his demeanor indisputably professional. Ob wondered what he had done to engender such loyalty in the young Inspector. Daragon Swan was probably the best of the lot, the finest achievement the BTL could hope for.

It shamed him to realize how far from the mark he himself had fallen.

Daragon summarized his cases, updating him on the Bureau’s progress in numerous fugitive hunts and investigations. Ob pretended to listen, fighting to keep a mask of interest on his face while the back of his mind clamored for the drug. He felt the slick capsule in his sweaty fingers.

Would Daragon never finish? Why did he take on so many cases, and why did he have so damned much progress to report?

Finally Daragon summed up, then hesitated. Impatient, Ob blurted, “Is there something else, Inspector?”

“Sir, you’re not looking at all healthy. Eduard’s body seems to be experiencing some sort of illness. Perhaps he should see a specialist?”

Ob stiffened. “I am sorry to inform you, Inspector, that your friend isn’t working out very well.” He raised a hand, palm up, to cut off any excuses. “He exercises well and does his job, but unfortunately he just doesn’t take care of his home-body with the same dedication, and I have to deal with this discomfort during my workday.” He looked somberly at the screen. “I’ve given him every possible chance, but I believe he has problems that neither of us suspects.”

Daragon frowned. “I understand, sir. Still, I’m very concerned about Eduard’s health—”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t put up with it anymore. I have already advertised for his replacement. I should have a new personal caretaker in a few days. I do hope Eduard recovers from his personal problems, but I’ve simply got too many vital Bureau duties to allow this kind of distraction to go on any longer.”

Daragon swallowed his reaction, torn between wanting to please Ob and wanting to protect his friend. He nodded crisply. “I had counted on him to do better than this. I hope you aren’t upset with me for bringing Eduard to your attention.”

Ob couldn’t have asked for a better outcome or reaction. “It was nothing you could have predicted, Daragon. Your friend Garth has been an exceptional find, exactly what I hoped. But with Eduard, well . . . sometimes people just let you down.” He reached for the screen controls. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have important matters before me.”

“Yes, sir.” Daragon dutifully signed off.

Ob opened his mouth and slipped in the glasgel. His jaws cracked down—releasing the blessed flood of liquid creativity, exuberance, and sense of wonder, to soar through his system.

 

While he jogged, Eduard wished the exhilarating feeling would never stop. Ob’s muscles were so strong, so well conditioned. The way his own body should have felt. What is he doing to me?

Teresa had suggested that he simply walk away from what was obviously a worsening situation. But he had been stubborn, trying to uncover what was going on. Soon, he wouldn’t have any choice.

The night before, Eduard had stumbled out of his apartment and fallen to his knees in the cool air as the wind rustled the tall blue spruces. He coughed and dry-heaved on the walkway. As he huddled on his hands and knees in the darkness, he’d looked over to the gardener’s brightly lit cottage, quiet and peaceful. Eduard considered going to talk to Tanu, but he simply felt too bad. He couldn’t present himself like this.

Now, though, wearing Ob’s home-body, he was reminded of the way a healthy human being should feel. He ran along the extended jogging course, past his second wind, beyond the “wall” where he ceased to concentrate on what his muscles were doing.

The Samoan gardener stepped in front of him and gestured for him to stop. Eduard barely snapped out of his trance in time. He stumbled to a halt. The look of concern on Tanu’s face shocked him.

“Eduard,” he began, then seemed at a loss for words. “This has gone on too long. I must . . . must show you something.”

Astonished, Eduard sucked in a quick mouthful of air. “What changed your mind?”

“I saw you last night, how sick you were.” He swallowed hard, and his huge neck seemed barely able to contain his Adam’s apple. “This isn’t right. It’s not what you agreed to do. I watched the others, and I did nothing. But not this time. In a few days, you’ll be gone, and Mr. Ob will have a new caretaker . . . and he’ll do this all over again.” His brown eyes were large and sad.

“A new caretaker?” A jab of fear ran down Eduard’s spine. “But I’ve done everything that bastard—”

“You have done more than you know. You are my friend, Eduard. I don’t want to see you go. I don’t want to see you die.” Tanu gestured for Eduard to accompany him. They crept along the side wing of the house, staying out of view of the windows and moved to Ob’s private offices.

The brick walls were overgrown with thick hibiscus, and the heady perfume was nauseating in its sweetness. Tanu put a finger to his lips as they approached the main window in Ob’s study. The Samoan hung his shaggy-maned head in sorrow and disappointment.

Heart pounding, Eduard crept up to the window and parted the leaves.

Inside the private office, behind a locked door, the Bureau Chief sat at his desk, complacent about security precautions. In Eduard’s body, he leaned back with his eyes glazed and milky. His hands were spread out, tapping fine tremors on the desktop. A thin line of spittle ran down his chin.

In an open case on the desk, Eduard saw individual capsules of a milky substance. He remembered the terrible squid-and-cleaning-fluid taste in his mouth. “You son of a bitch.”

The pieces dropped into place. Rage seethed deep inside him, and he wanted to smash through the window to grab the man by the collar. All along, the Bureau Chief had known full well what was wrong with Eduard, why he felt so awful. And he’d blamed Eduard anyway.

Ob had been riding his addiction, risking nothing for himself. Sandor and Janine and Benjamin—the previous trainers. Eduard was next in line, to be completely used up. Ob would then find a new caretaker, his next victim—a fresh body to addict and destroy. And Eduard Swan would probably vanish, just like the others, erased by the capabilities of the BTL.

He drew back from the study window, his face red. Eduard had been the perfect patsy. Trembling, he stepped away from the vine-covered glass, before he could betray his presence.

Tanu frowned. “There’s still time for you to get away. Run, now.”

But Eduard couldn’t think of fleeing in Mordecai Ob’s body. The Bureau Chief with all the resources of the BTL would stop at nothing to get his own form back before Eduard could talk.

Instead, his thoughts grew vengeful, his outrage greater than when he had gone to avenge Teresa at the Sharetakers’ enclave. Ob’s deeds were worse, more malicious, even than Rhys’s.

Disturbed, Tanu shook his shaggy head, as if he could tell what Eduard was thinking. “I won’t swap with you this time. You can’t use my body to kill.”

Eduard brooded in silence. This was more personal. This required something more . . . appropriate. “I’ll take care of this problem myself,” he said, his voice a grim icicle. “In my own way.”

No problem.