The Lost Island

35

His thirty minutes in the whirlpool bath was up. Using the powered platforms and the robotic arm, Eli Glinn raised himself with painstaking slowness — his narrow body dripping water perfumed by soothing herbs and oils — and transported the platform to his dressing alcove. It was the work of another difficult thirty minutes to dry and dress himself.

After the accident, Glinn had spent a great deal of time finding the kind of clothes that were most comfortable and easy to put on and remove. He had ultimately settled on warm-up pants of ultrasoft Persian cotton with an elastic waistband — tailored precisely to his needs by Jonathan Crofts of Savile Row — and mock turtlenecks one size too large. He now had several dozen pairs of each, and he used them as both daywear and nightwear.

The arduous process completed, he clicked the remote to extinguish the candles, lowered himself into the wheelchair, and rolled out of the bathroom, through his bedroom, and into the main living area. As was his custom, he maneuvered the wheelchair through the spare, cool-gray space to the massive window overlooking the Hudson. Glinn slept very little, and he often sat here for hours, reading poetry or simply gazing out over the landscape, his thoughts far away.

The monks used this secret alchemy and were able to heal themselves of “grievous wounds, afflictions, diseases and infirmities.” Was it really true? Was there a secret arcanum — or was it just another primitive legend, born of a crude and imperfect understanding of the world? Perhaps Brock’s skepticism was rubbing off on him.

But then there was the evidence of the skeletons. That was real.

His thoughts turned to Gideon and Amy. He felt a most disquieting mix of concern and uncertainty over the pair…and over the direction the project had taken. Their boat had sunk; they were marooned on the Mosquito Coast — and yet Amy had refused help. It was consistent with her Quantitative Behavioral Analysis. At the same time, they had not anticipated an attack from treasure hunters. They were in uncharted territory. Another item of concern lay in the team’s sat phone, which Amy had reported as being low on batteries. Ongoing communication with the two was of vital importance.

His selection of Amy for this project had been one of the more extensive and arduous headhunting tasks EES had ever performed — and the Quantitative Behavioral Analysis tests on her had proven most interesting. EES was in the business of failure analysis as a means of preventing failure — and her QBA had indicated that, during this mission, she would fail. Yet ironically, the failure would be vital to the mission’s success.

But that failure was not supposed to take place this early, or take such a form. Curious — and most disturbing. For the time being, however, Glinn realized he would simply have to take her report on faith.

His thoughts were interrupted by the low chiming of the telephone. Glinn glanced at the clock: five thirty AM. He pirouetted the wheelchair, reached for the phone.

“Yes?” he said.

“Weaver. I wonder if you could get down here. As soon as possible.” The technician’s voice was tight with anxiety — or, perhaps, fear.

“What is it?”

“It would be easier to show you in person, Mr. Glinn.”

“I’ll be right there.” Hanging up the telephone, Glinn aimed his wheelchair at the elevator and whirred slowly over the expanse of polished slate.