sitting
below, steeled my nerves then climbed into the van.
Ther6 were four other people inside; one driver and
three nervous scruffy-looking dudes sitting in the back.
The driver, a black man in a gray pinstripe suit and dark
sunglasses, was probably employed by Nathan Marshall,
which meant there would be four of us going under the
knife. Looking at the guys in the back was like looking
in the mirror: allwhite guys in their thirties dressed in
clean but obviously hand-me-down clothes. Every one
of them also had a littlebeat-up suitcase or knapsack sit
ting beside him. We all looked different of course; two
guys had beards, but we were basically the same—bums.
From just one glance I could tell they were also home
less, or, if not already Out on the street, they weren't far
from it. That made sense, though. It would have to be a
guy down on his luck to accept such an offer.
"Come on, fella," the driver told me. "Grab a seat,
the limo's already pulling away."
"Yeah, okay," I said, and since no one was sitting up
front in the passenger seat, I dropped my suitcase and
climbed up beside the driver. "Mind if I sit up here?"
"Don't mind at all. Hold onto your hat, though, 'cause
it's my ass if I lose track of the limo."
That said, he floored the pedal and we rocketed off
in pursuit of the rapidly fading limousine. He cranked
on the stereo and really loud jazz blasted out of the
speakers. The music was good, but way too loud for my
tastes. Conversation would be almost impossible, but
then again, that was probably a good thing and maybe
the sole reason for it. The driver leaned over and prac
tically had to scream in my ear.
"Relax, buddy, we've got a good three, three and a
half hour drive ahead of us."
He gave me a little wink and then turned his full atten
tion back on the road. Those were the only words I would
hear for the entire trip, which only ended up taking two
hours and fifty minutes according to the digital clock on
the dash. God knows where we were. Somewhere south
of Buffalo I guess* probably close to the southern border
of Western New York. I'd seen a sign saying we were near
Allegheny State Park and some small town named Mill-
haven, wherever that was. When the driver finally turned
down the music to inform us we were almost "home," as
he put it, I let out a nervous sigh of relief and stretched
my legs and back like an awakening cat.
Sure enough, within minutes the big white limo
pulled off onto a paved road marked PRIVATE and through
the trees in the distance I could just make out a huge
redbrick building. The road twisted and turned through
the trees for perhaps a mile until breaking dear of the
forest and: giving me my first good look at Nathan Mar
shall's estate.
I was disappointed, to tell the truth. It was a dirty
four-story rectangular building with what looked like a
tower room on the front left corner, A U.S. flag flew on
the peak of the tower, looking a bit tattered, like it hadn't
been lowered in twenty years. The rest of the building
was in disrepair also, looking more like a crumbling me
dieval castle than any state-of-the-art medical research
center I'd ever seen. Mind you, I'd never seen a state-of-
the-art medical research center so what did I know? I'm
not sure what I'd been expecting, but this ugly build
ing, this architectural monstrosity, sure wasn't it.
"Not very pretty, is it?" I said to the driver.
"You got that right, buddy, but don't let it fool you.
Doc Marshall is a hell of a surgeon and this place is
equipped with nothing but the best. You've heard that
expression, you ean't judge a book by its cover? Well,
that fits this place. You'll see."
The linvx pulled up to the huge double front doors
and we stopped behind it. .
"Everybody out," the driver said. "Oh, you two in
the back just hold on a sec and I'll get your chairs." He
gave me a slap on the arm and said, "Can you give me a
hand with their wheelchairs?"
"Ah,
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley