"Reach down! Pry them up! It may be the death lock."

"No. Hes alive ... but barely, I think. His lips move, but theres no sound. His eyes also, though I doubt he sees us."

"The hands are free!"

"Lift him up. Grab his shoulders and pull him over. Easy, now!"

"Mother of G.o.d, look at his head!" yelled the crewman. "Its split open."

"He must have crashed it against the plank in the storm," said the brother.

"No," disagreed the skipper, staring at the wound. "Its a clean slice, razorlike. Caused by a bullet; he was shot."

"You cant be sure of that."

"In more than one place," added the skipper, his eyes roving over the body. "Well head for Ile de Port Noir; its the nearest island. Theres a doctor on the waterfront."

"The Englishman?"

"He practices."

"When he can," said the skippers brother. "When the wine lets him. He has more success with his patients animals than with his patients."

"It wont matter. This will be a corpse by the time we get there. If by chance he lives, Ill bill him for the extra petrol and whatever catch we miss. Get the kit; well bind his head for all the good it will do."

"Look!" cried the crewman. "Look at his eyes."

"What about them?" asked the brother.

"A moment ago they were gray-as gray as steel cables. Now theyre blue!"

"The suns brighter," said the skipper, shrugging. "Or its playing tricks with your own eyes. No matter, theres no color in the grave."

Intermittent whistles of fishing boats clashed with the incessant screeching of the gulls; together they formed the universal sounds of the waterfront. It was late afternoon, the sun a fireball in the west, the air still and too damp, too hot. Above the piers and facing the harbor was a cobblestone street and several blemished white houses, separated by overgrown gra.s.s shooting up from dried earth and sand. What remained of the verandas were patched latticework and crumbling stucco supported by hastily implanted pilings. The residences had seen better days a number of decades ago when the residents mistakenly believed Ile de Port Noir might become another Mediterranean playground. It never did.

All the houses had paths to the street, but the last house in the row had a path obviously more trampled than the others. It belonged to an Englishman who had come to Port Noir eight years before under circ.u.mstances no one understood or cared to; he was a doctor and the waterfront had need of a doctor. Hooks, needles and knives were at once means of livelihood as well as instruments of incapacitation. If one saw le docteur on a good day, the sutures were not too bad. On the other hand, if the stench of wine or whiskey was too p.r.o.nounced, one took ones chances.

Tant pis! He was better than no one.

But not today; no one used the path today. It was Sunday and it was common knowledge that on any Sat.u.r.day night the doctor was roaring drunk in the village, ending the evening with whatever wh.o.r.e was available. Of course, it was also granted that during the past few Sat.u.r.days the doctors routine had altered; he had not been seen in the village. But nothing ever changed that much; bottles of scotch were sent to the doctor on a regular basis. He was simply staying in his house; he had been doing so since the fishing boat from La Ciotat had brought in the unknown man who was more corpse than man.

Dr. Geoffrey Washburn awoke with a start, his chin settled into his collarbone causing the odor of his mouth to invade his nostrils; it was not pleasant. He blinked, orienting himself, and glanced at the open bedroom door. Had his nap been interrupted by another incoherent monologue from his patient? No; there was no sound. Even the gulls outside were mercifully quiet; it was Ile de Port Noirs holy day, no boats coming in to taunt the birds with their catches.

Washburn looked at the empty gla.s.s and the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the table beside his chair. It was an improvement. On a normal Sunday both would be empty by now, the pain of the previous night having been spiraled out by the scotch. He smiled to himself, once again blessing an older sister in Coventry who made the scotch possible with her monthly stipend. She was a good girl, Bess was, and G.o.d knew she could afford a h.e.l.l of a lot more than she sent him, but he was grateful she did what she did. And one day she would stop, the money would stop, and then the oblivions would be achieved with the cheapest wine until there was no pain at all. Ever.

He had come to accept that eventuality ... until three weeks and five days ago when the half-dead stranger had been dragged from the sea and brought to his door by fishermen who did not care to identify themselves. Their errand was one of mercy, not involvement. G.o.d would understand; the man had been shot.

What the fishermen had not known was that far more than bullets had invaded the mans body. And mind.

The doctor pushed his gaunt frame out of the chair and walked unsteadily to the window overlooking the harbor. He lowered the blind, closing his eyes to block out the sun, then squinted between the slats to observe the activity in the street below, specifically the reason for the clatter. It was a horse-drawn cart, a fishermans family out for a Sunday drive. Where the h.e.l.l else could one see such a sight? And then he remembered the carriages and the finely groomed geldings that threaded through Londons Regent Park with tourists during the summer months; he laughed out loud at the comparison. But his laughter was short-lived, replaced by something unthinkable three weeks ago. He had given up all hope of seeing England again. It was possible that might be changed now. The stranger could change it.

Unless his prognosis was wrong, it would happen any day, any hour or minute. The wounds to the legs, stomach, and chest were deep and severe, quite possibly fatal were it not for the fact the bullets had remained where they had lodged, self-cauterized and continuously cleansed by the sea. Extracting them was nowhere near as dangerous as it might have been, the tissue primed, softened, sterilized, ready for an immediate knife. The cranial wound was the real problem; not only was the penetration subcutaneous, but it appeared to have bruised the thalamus and hippocampus fibrous regions. Had the bullet entered millimeters away on either side the vital functions would have ceased; they had not been impeded, and Washburn had made a decision. He went dry for thirty-six hours, eating as much starch and drinking as much water as was humanly possible. Then he performed the most delicate piece of work he had attempted since his dismissal from Macleans Hospital in London. Millimeter by agonizing millimeter he had brush-washed the fibrous areas, then stretched and sutured the skin over the cranial wound, knowing that the slightest error with brush, needle, or clamp would cause the patients death.

He had not wanted this unknown patient to die for any number of reasons. But especially one.

When it was over and the vital signs had remained constant, Dr. Geoffrey Washburn went back to his chemical and psychological appendage. His bottle. He had gotten drunk and he had remained drunk, but he had not gone over the edge. He knew exactly where he was and what he was doing at all times. Definitely an improvement.

Any day now, any hour perhaps, the stranger would focus his eyes and intelligible words would emerge from his lips.

Even any moment.

The words came first. They floated in the air as the early morning breeze off the sea cooled the room.

"Whos there? Whos in this room?"

Washburn sat up in the cot, moved his legs quietly over the side, and rose slowly to his feet. It was important to make no jarring note, no sudden noise or physical movement that might frighten the patient into a psychological regression. The next few minutes would be as delicate as the surgical procedures he had performed; the doctor in him was prepared for the moment.

"A friend," he said softly.

"Friend?"

"You speak English. I thought you would. American or Canadian is what I suspected. Your dental work didnt come from the UK or Paris. How do you feel?"

"Im not sure."

"It will take awhile. Do you need to relieve your bowels?"

"What?"

"Take a c.r.a.pper, old man. Thats what the pans for beside you. The white one on your left. When we make it in time, of course."

"Im sorry."

"Dont be. Perfectly normal function. Im a doctor, your doctor. My name is Geoffrey Washburn. Whats yours?"

"What?"

"I asked you what your name was."

The stranger moved his head and stared at the white wall streaked with shafts of morning light. Then he turned back, his blue eyes leveled at the doctor. "I dont know."

"Oh, my G.o.d."

"Ive told you over and over again. It will take time. The more you fight it, the more you crucify yourself, the worse it will be."

"Youre drunk."

"Generally. Its not pertinent. But I can give you clues, if youll listen."

"Ive listened."

"No, you dont; you turn away. You lie in your coc.o.o.n and pull the cover over your mind. Hear me again."

"Im listening."

"In your coma-your prolonged coma-you spoke in three different languages. English, French and some G.o.dd.a.m.ned tw.a.n.gy thing I presume is Oriental. That means youre multilingual; youre at home in various parts of the world. Think geographically. Whats most comfortable for you?"

"Obviously English."

"Weve agreed to that. So whats most uncomfortable?"

"I dont know."

"Your eyes are round, not sloped. Id say obviously the Oriental."

"Obviously."

"Then why do you speak it? Now, think in terms of a.s.sociation. Ive written down words; listen to them. Ill say them phonetically. Ma-kwa. Tam-kwan. Kee-sah. Say the first thing that comes to mind."

"Nothing."

"Good show."

"What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

"Something. Anything."

"Youre drunk."

"Weve agreed to that. Consistently. I also saved your b.l.o.o.d.y life. Drunk or not, I am a doctor. I was once a very good one."

"What happened?"

"The patient questions the doctor?"

"Why not?"

Washburn paused, looking out the window at the waterfront. "I was drunk," he said. "They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk. I could have gotten away with one. Not two. They see a pattern very quickly, G.o.d bless them. Dont ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability."

"Was it necessary?"

"Was what necessary?"

"The bottle."

"Yes, d.a.m.n you," said Washburn softly, turning from the window. "It was and it is. And the patient is not permitted to make judgments where the physician is concerned."

"Sorry."

"You also have an annoying habit of apologizing. Its an overworked protestation and not at all natural. I dont for a minute believe youre an apologetic person."

"Then you know something I dont know."

"About you, yes. A great deal. And very little of it makes sense."

The man sat forward in the chair. His open shirt fell away from his taut frame, exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach. He folded his hands in front of him, the veins in his slender, muscular arms p.r.o.nounced. "Other than the things weve talked about?"

"Yes."

"Things I said while in coma?"

"No, not really. Weve discussed most of that gibberish. The languages, your knowledge of geography-cities Ive never or barely heard of-your obsession for avoiding the use of names, names you want to say but wont; your propensity for confrontation-attack, recoil, hide, run-all rather violent, I might add. I frequently strapped your arms down, to protect the wounds. But weve covered all that. There are other things."

"What do you mean? What are they? Why havent you told me?"

"Because theyre physical. The outer sh.e.l.l, as it were. I wasnt sure you were ready to hear. Im not sure now."

The man leaned back in the chair, dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation. "Now its the physicians judgment that isnt called for. Im ready. What are you talking about?"

"Shall we begin with that rather acceptable looking head of yours? The face, in particular."

"What about it?"

"Its not the one you were born with."

"What do you mean?"

"Under a thick gla.s.s, surgery always leaves its mark. Youve been altered, old man."

"Altered?"

"You have a p.r.o.nounced chin; I daresay there was a cleft in it. Its been removed. Your upper left cheekbone-your cheekbones are also p.r.o.nounced, conceivably Slavic generations ago-has minute traces of a surgical scar. I would venture to say a mole was eliminated. Your nose is an English nose, at one time slightly more prominent than it is now. It was thinned ever so subtly. Your very sharp features have been softened, the character submerged. Do you understand what Im saying?"

"No."

"Youre a reasonably attractive man but your face is more distinguished by the category it falls into than by the face itself."

"Category?"

"Yes. Youre the prototype of the white Anglo-Saxon people see every day on the better cricket fields, or the tennis court. Or the bar at Mirabels. Those faces become almost indistinguishable from one another, dont they? The features properly in place, the teeth straight, the ears flat against the head-nothing out of balance, everything in position and just a little bit soft."

"Soft?"

"Well, 'spoiled is perhaps a better word. Definitely self-a.s.sured, even arrogant, used to having your own way."

"Im still not sure what youre trying to say."

"Try this then. Change the color of your hair, you change the face. Yes, there are traces of discoloration, brittleness, dye. Wear gla.s.ses and a mustache, youre a different man. Id guess you were in your middle to late thirties, but you could be ten years older, or five younger." Washburn paused, watching the mans reactions, as if wondering whether or not to proceed. "And speaking of gla.s.ses, do you remember those exercises, the tests we ran a week ago?"