18. Cartwright: Seeing the Beast

Teresa Cartwright was damned tired by the end of her day.

_Four primary regens in one day -- who the hell made up that schedule?_ she groused to herself. _Well, at least I didn't have to listen to any of them *scream,* like yesterday._

It was the part of her job she liked least. Yesterday was actually the first time anyone had refused the bit since she'd joined the staff.

_Oh well,_ she thought ruefully. _The Tarsins seem to *excel* at surprising convention._

They weren't at all what she'd thought at first, she reflected. She'd assumed they were just like the other clients who came to this glorified dive, a rough frontiersman and a prostitute whose bond he'd purchased. She'd seen them in the waiting area after they'd arrived, and they'd certainly looked the part there, but...

When she'd gone into their room for the first time, they'd been sitting quietly on the bed, holding hands. That was anew one. Often the "husbands" didn't stick around at all, and if they did it was to get in one last "quickie" before the treatments

started. She'd walked in on several couples _enflagrante delicto_ before, but never one displaying genuine affection.

She'd since then come to the conclusion that Rebecca Tarsin was no hooker. After treating hundreds of that profession's veterans, she knew when she was seeing one, and when she wasn't. The story there was very different. It wasn't her job to ask questions, of course, but she couldn't help the natural curiosity that had drawn her into medicine to begin with.

Sometime in her past, Mrs. Tarsin had been shot. The mark of the entry wound was almost-invisible on her back, but the lurid scar on her abdomen made a good deal of her story quite clear. The damaged parts of her digestive tract had been regenerated long ago, but not her reproductive system, which was areal puzzler. Why wouldn't everything have been done at once? Even if she'd been a young child when it happened, it would have been no more expensive to do the both as to do one only.

It was none of her business, but oh what a tantalising puzzle it was.

Then, of course, there was the newspaper. She'd picked it up on her way out of Rebecca's room the other night, and that same incorrigible curiosity had prompted her to open up the crumpled section. The picture inside had startled her.

Was Rebecca Tarsin related to Audrey Kowalczyk? The two of them looked a lot alike. They could be sisters, frankly, based on the photo. Certainly she seemed to have had a very strong reaction to the article. Another tantalising puzzle.

The door to her office opened behind her. She turned around, annoyed. She _hated_ it when people barged in without knocking.

Her stinging comment about rudeness died on her lips unuttered. Colin Tarsin was standing in the doorway and he looked _furious._ She was suddenly aware again of how _big_ he was, how dangerous he might be.

He closed the door and flipped the lock before he began stalking toward her.

"We need to talk," he snarled.

"Certainly, Mr. Tarsin. What about?" Her voice, unfortunately, betrayed her unease.

"You told Rebecca," he growled, "that there were no pain killers that she could take during the regen process. I just found out that there are _three_ that are approved for use with regenerative work! What the hell kind of shit are you trying to pull?"

Well, this accusation, at least, wasn't new. She managed to compose herself enough to answer.

"First of all, Mr. Tarsin, the _least_ expensive of those

medications costs one thousand New Francs per dose--"

_"I would have paid it!"_ His hands slammed down on her desk and she recoiled from the savagery in his face.

Silence descended on the room. Dr. Cartwright found herself unable to look away from him. As she watched, his face became composed again, although the look of sarcastic anger wasn't much more reassuring than the pure rage it replaced.

"So what's the second reason?" he asked snidely.

"Sorry?" She blinked at him.

"What's the next reason for you making Rebecca suffer like that?"

She sighed, rubbing at her forehead. "There isn't one. Nobody's ever made it past the first reason before. They never want to pay for the meds. I stopped even _asking_ years ago." She closed her eyes. "I'm sorry," she added softly.

"That girl has gone through more traumatic shit in her life than _anyone_ should have to experience," he told her after a moment. She could hear a strange tone in his voice. Caring. Longing. How long had it been since she heard any of the clientele here sound like that? Simple answer: Never.

She opened her eyes to meet his. The last traces of savagery were gone from his face, but his gaze on hers was still intense.

"I don't want her to feel _any_ more pain," he told her. "If she needs pain killers, _you give them to her._ I don't care what they cost. I'll pay it."

She found herself nodding, feeling terribly guilty. She hadn't felt this way in years, not since the debacle that had cost her her license to practice in legitimate clinics.

After a moment, Colin Tarsin sighed and turned to leave. As his hand reached for the doorknob, he stopped and turned back. "What would it cost to get the scars removed?"

"The scars?"

"Yeah. I know she hates them. How much? _Including_ keeping her from suffering?"

Cartwright frowned, considering the damage she had seen.

"It wouldn't be more than five thousand New Francs. Skin regens are easy."

"Do it. And she'd damned well better not feel any pain during it."

She met his gaze point-blank suddenly. Her curiosity had taken over, and she had to ask, even if obliquely. "This is a lot of outlay for someone you already own, isn't it?"

He answered her with a humourless bark of laughter. "You've got it all backwards, doc. _She_ owns _me._ She always has."

He turned and unlocked the door, stepping out without another word. Dr. Cartwright found herself staring at the door long after he left.

Who the hell were those two? Why the hell had they come to this dive? The man obviously had a _lot_ more money than the prospectors who came here, and the woman was definitely out of her milieu. So why not go to one of the legitimate clinics? The kind where it was actually _customary_ to offer the expensive pain killers?

Why here? Who the hell _were_ they? _What_ were they?

She'd been staring into the eyes of a killer for a moment, there, or so it had felt. God, maybe it was just the article she'd read, but she could swear...

She could swear that, despite the hair and beard, when Colin Tarsin had shouted at her, the savagery in his face made him look almost exactly like the serial killer in the paper. For one horrible moment, she'd felt like she was face-to-face with Richard B. Riddick himself.