Free Panacea by F. Paul Wilson Page A

got the job done.
    He owed Chet big-time. Which reminded him …
    â€œHey, Mom,” he said, walking—walking!—into the kitchen. “Can we call Chet at—?”
    â€œI already did, honey.” She held the phone with her finger poised over the keypad. “I called his work and they said he didn’t show up today. They wouldn’t give me his home number.”
    Oh, no. “You didn’t tell them what happened, did you. Remember Chet said not to mention him if—”
    â€œI remember. I did tell them you wouldn’t be in today, though.”
    â€œWhy not?” He wanted to see Chet. If he wasn’t in now, he’d come in later.
    â€œBecause I want you to see Doctor Sklar.”
    â€œAwww. I wanna ride my bike.”
    â€œOh, no. You’re not ready for that yet.”
    â€œAm too!”
    â€œDon’t talk back to me. We’ll let Doctor Sklar decide. I’m going to call him right now and have him see you. And I’m not going to be put off. He’s going to see you today .”
    As she started punching in Dr. Sklar’s number, Tommy sidled toward the laundry room. Not a room, really, just a short hall that led to the garage. He heard her start to argue with the receptionist about getting an appointment.
    Good. With all her attention fixed on the phone, she wasn’t watching him. He pulled his jacket off a hook and slipped into the garage. As he closed the door behind him he reached for the overhead door button—but stopped himself just in time. Mom would hear it and come running.
    He pulled on his jacket and wriggled his bike from behind the plastic garbage cans. His folks had wanted to give it to some charity but he’d cried so hard they backed off. He loved this bike, and giving it away … that was like giving up hope he’d ever ride it again.
    Tommy had never given up hope. And now look at him: back on his feet and ready to roll.
    He eased his bike out the rear door into the backyard. Staying close to the garage, he wheeled it around the side to the driveway. It took effort to swing his leg over the rear tire, and he almost fell. But he caught himself and got settled on the seat.
    He took it slow down the asphalt driveway and wobbled as he turned onto the sidewalk. His balance seemed a little off at first, but he soon got the hang of it. His legs were weak—astrofeet?—and he had to work extra hard on the pedals, but by the time he reached the end of the block he was flying like someone who’d never been off his bike—nothing like someone who’d been stuck in a wheelchair yesterday.
    He wished this was a Saturday instead of a school day. He’d zip over to Eddie Roe’s house and show him that the old Tommy was back and they could go biking together again. Maybe he’d head over there anyway. Leave him a note for when he got home from school. He imagined Eddie’s face when he read that Tommy Cochran had ridden by for a visit.
    He made a hard left off the curb and didn’t see the truck until its horn blasted in his ear.

 
    5
    Deputy Lawson, as was his wont lately, had shown up at the morgue looking for information on the second grower. Gowned and bootied, he’d arrived, manila folder in hand, just as Laura was finishing the postmortem.
    â€œMe again,” he said, adjusting his surgical cap around his ears. “I’m very interested in this guy.”
    Yes. Phil. Again. She hoped he wasn’t interested in her as well, because he was destined for disappointment.
    Not her type. Sooooo not her type. The neck popping only made it worse. The thought of spending the rest of her life hearing that dull pop! every few minutes …
    â€œWell, did you find a—?”
    â€œDon’t ask.”
    â€œAw, no.”
    â€œAw, yes. As healthy as can be.”
    She felt his frustration, because it mirrored her own. She’d just finished dictating her preliminary