same ceiling Fd been looking at less
than six hours ago when Fd gone to bed a happy, con¬
tented man, with one question swirling around and
around in the storm building within my head: If Dr.
Marshall could he to us about his supposedly invalid
son, what else might he be lying about?
C H A P T E R T W E L V E
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the
day. Maybe so, but it's also the most nerve-racking, sit¬
ting around trying to keep a poker face while your hosts
know someone at the table knows far more than they
are telling.
"And how did you sleep, Mike?" Dr. Marshall's tone
of voice was light and jovial, but his eyes were dark and
intense.
He's knows that last nights intruder had to be one of us,
and he's smart enough to have it narrowed down to two
people. The greasy-haired guard saw someone running away
from room 301—running—and since Red Beard and Wheels
are confined to their chairs, they're off the hook. That leaves
either Bill Smith or me. He's sizing me up, testing the wa¬
ters to see if Til crack.
"Me? I slept fine. W h y ? " I answered.
"Oh, no reason. I'm j u s t glad Mr. Drake didn't dis¬
turb you too much, that's all. Sorry about him barging
in on you like that."
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders, reaching to
grab another blueberry pancake from the silver platter
in front of me. I wasn't hungry—I'd already eaten my
fill—but I needed a minute to think, and filling my face
was as good a way as any to avoid having to make con¬
versation. Luckily, I wasn't alone at the table. Besides
Dr. Marshall and Drake, all four donors were present,
I'd been wrong when I figured the other three party
animals would sleep the m o r n i n g away. I should have
known none of these bums would ever willingly miss
a free feed, nasty hangover or not. Concentrating on
pouring thick maple syrup over my pancake, I decided
to let them do the talking for a while.
Maybe I should j u s t confess it had been me in An¬
drew's room last night, confront the doctor about what
I'd seen in room 301 right here in front of everyone. If
Dr. Marshall had a valid reason for lying to us about his
imaginary son, let's hear it.
I wouldn't do it, of course: I wasn't that stupid. The
last thing I wanted to do was tip my hat a n d A o m e clean
with them. Why would I? They obviously weren't be¬
ing honest with me, so why should I be with them? N o ,
it would be far better—far smarter—to bite my tongue
and sit in the bush for a while. I needed to figure out
what game Dr. Marshall was playing, before I could
make my next move.
If telling us the sob story about Andrew was a harm¬
less ploy to make us feel better about donating our
limbs, fine. I could live with that. But if something else
was going on around here, something darker than the
rosy picture currently being painted for us, then I planned
on slipping out the back door as quiet as a mouse, disap¬
pearing before anyone caught wind I was on to them.
That was the real problem, wasn't it? Even seeing
what I'd seen, and knowing what I knew, I still had no
idea if things were on the up-and-up here. Had I walked
into a lucky gold m i n e , or stumbled into a sinister trap?
Should I stay here and take my chances, or sneak away
and miss out on all that money? Tough call, but seeing
as there was no way Dr. Marshall or Drake could know
which one of us had been in Andrew's room—they could
guess, but they couldn't be sure—it seemed safe enough
to stick around for a while. Safe, as long as I kept my big
mouth shut and my eyes and ears wide open.
Easier said than done, of course. W h e n I looked up
from my plate, Drake was staring at me hard enough to
make me bruise. Our eyes locked, and I could tell he was
trying to intimidate me, break me by staring me down.
It was going to work, too. I found it terribly hard to
maintain eye contact with this semicivilized Neander¬
thal, and I j u s t knew if I looked away
than six hours ago when Fd gone to bed a happy, con¬
tented man, with one question swirling around and
around in the storm building within my head: If Dr.
Marshall could he to us about his supposedly invalid
son, what else might he be lying about?
C H A P T E R T W E L V E
They say breakfast is the most important meal of the
day. Maybe so, but it's also the most nerve-racking, sit¬
ting around trying to keep a poker face while your hosts
know someone at the table knows far more than they
are telling.
"And how did you sleep, Mike?" Dr. Marshall's tone
of voice was light and jovial, but his eyes were dark and
intense.
He's knows that last nights intruder had to be one of us,
and he's smart enough to have it narrowed down to two
people. The greasy-haired guard saw someone running away
from room 301—running—and since Red Beard and Wheels
are confined to their chairs, they're off the hook. That leaves
either Bill Smith or me. He's sizing me up, testing the wa¬
ters to see if Til crack.
"Me? I slept fine. W h y ? " I answered.
"Oh, no reason. I'm j u s t glad Mr. Drake didn't dis¬
turb you too much, that's all. Sorry about him barging
in on you like that."
I nodded and shrugged my shoulders, reaching to
grab another blueberry pancake from the silver platter
in front of me. I wasn't hungry—I'd already eaten my
fill—but I needed a minute to think, and filling my face
was as good a way as any to avoid having to make con¬
versation. Luckily, I wasn't alone at the table. Besides
Dr. Marshall and Drake, all four donors were present,
I'd been wrong when I figured the other three party
animals would sleep the m o r n i n g away. I should have
known none of these bums would ever willingly miss
a free feed, nasty hangover or not. Concentrating on
pouring thick maple syrup over my pancake, I decided
to let them do the talking for a while.
Maybe I should j u s t confess it had been me in An¬
drew's room last night, confront the doctor about what
I'd seen in room 301 right here in front of everyone. If
Dr. Marshall had a valid reason for lying to us about his
imaginary son, let's hear it.
I wouldn't do it, of course: I wasn't that stupid. The
last thing I wanted to do was tip my hat a n d A o m e clean
with them. Why would I? They obviously weren't be¬
ing honest with me, so why should I be with them? N o ,
it would be far better—far smarter—to bite my tongue
and sit in the bush for a while. I needed to figure out
what game Dr. Marshall was playing, before I could
make my next move.
If telling us the sob story about Andrew was a harm¬
less ploy to make us feel better about donating our
limbs, fine. I could live with that. But if something else
was going on around here, something darker than the
rosy picture currently being painted for us, then I planned
on slipping out the back door as quiet as a mouse, disap¬
pearing before anyone caught wind I was on to them.
That was the real problem, wasn't it? Even seeing
what I'd seen, and knowing what I knew, I still had no
idea if things were on the up-and-up here. Had I walked
into a lucky gold m i n e , or stumbled into a sinister trap?
Should I stay here and take my chances, or sneak away
and miss out on all that money? Tough call, but seeing
as there was no way Dr. Marshall or Drake could know
which one of us had been in Andrew's room—they could
guess, but they couldn't be sure—it seemed safe enough
to stick around for a while. Safe, as long as I kept my big
mouth shut and my eyes and ears wide open.
Easier said than done, of course. W h e n I looked up
from my plate, Drake was staring at me hard enough to
make me bruise. Our eyes locked, and I could tell he was
trying to intimidate me, break me by staring me down.
It was going to work, too. I found it terribly hard to
maintain eye contact with this semicivilized Neander¬
thal, and I j u s t knew if I looked away
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