PROLOGUE

 

August 12, 1978

The fire started quietly on that Friday night in August when his life changed forever.

At 2:00 A.M., twelve-year-old David Reel, sat up in bed with such suddenness that he felt overwhelmed with a sense of fear. He had no idea what had awakened him, but guessed it was some noise or movement.

Had something touched him?

He stayed still, holding his breath, and stared straight ahead, listening. At first he was disoriented, but as his mind took in his limited field of vision, he remembered he was in his own room. At about the same instant that he realized where he was, David perceived it was the middle of the night. And he smelled smoke!

David, and his best friend, Sam, were having their weekly get together, and it was Sam's turn to be the guest.

Sam and his younger sister, Molly, lived across the street with their aunt Lyla. She had taken them after an auto accident, which killed their parents, spared the two children. Lyla was as good a mother as any child could ask for.

David's mother raised him alone. Ten years earlier, they'd reported his father lost in action in Hanoi. The boys felt a common bond since they both lacked a father, and in Sam's case, a mother as well. Despite this, he and Sam remained optimistic, always dreaming that they would both have a new father some day.

Now, as he awoke in the middle of the night, the house that always evoked hope and reassurance for David, suddenly seemed like an ominous place. David felt himself inexplicitly paralyzed by a sensation of acute terror. His mouth was dry. He attributed this to fear, as he continued to lie perfectly still like a wary animal, his senses straining for any disturbance.

David had often felt the same way after awakening in the night from a bad dream. If he didn't move, perhaps the monsters would go away.

The smell of smoke began to overwhelm him.

David felt his terror become panic. Now he was certain something terrible was happening. He had to get help.

He couldn't see much of the room, especially since the only illumination came from a small floor-level night-light behind his bed. All he could see was the indistinct juncture of ceiling and wall. Silhouetted against it was the shadow of his baseball bat and glove.

Yanking his head off the pillow, David bounded onto the floor and instantly felt the heat beneath him. With the door closed, smoke streamed under it and began to surround him. Sam was asleep on the other side. David ran to him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Sam, get up."

Sam's eyes opened. They quickly widened when he saw the smoke. "What's happening?" he screamed.

"The house is on fire. We have to get out of here!"

"Out the window," Sam said. He leaped out of bed and pushed the lower window up.

David looked out the window. Flames rushed up the side of the house with lethal purpose. "We can't get out that way."

Running to the door, noxious fumes choked him as the carpet began to melt under his feet. He managed to grab his shoes and get on the bed just as the molten carpet burst into flames. The smoke was now as thick as stone and a low rumble got louder every second. It was if the Gates of Hell had opened up and swallowed the house.

David crouched down by the door and heard his mother scream.

"Mom." His voice surprised him with its weakness. He'd intended to yell, but only a hoarse whisper came out. At the same time, his head felt tremendously heavy, requiring all his strength to keep it upright.

He looked back for Sam, but his room was a solid gray curtain. David grabbed the door knob, then instantly pulled back his hand in a rush of pain. The seared flesh sizzled.

"Mom," he screamed.

Somehow he organized his thoughts enough to find a shirt. He covered the knob and tried to turn it. Finally, with horrendous effort, he yanked it open and staggered out the door. He tottered a few steps and went down to his knees, choking, coughing hard, wheezing with panic. He crawled toward the stairs. The heat was suffocating and David felt a new surge of fright: he would burn alive before he could get out.

"Sam," he yelled. David felt certain he was dead. The heat exacerbated the pain in his already scorched hands and his knees burnt from the carpet that had now turned to lava.

Panic and desperation filled David's consciousness, but he tried to focus his thoughts. He had to get to his mother. There was a ringing in his ears, a sense of revolving, nausea.

Then blackness…

* * *

Charlie Goodman could see an inferno had already fully engulfed the Reel residence by the time his fire company arrived. The flames so hot they threatened neighboring houses. They went to work with the hoses and got the fire under control enough to send in men to look for survivors. No one expected any.

The gruesome remains of the first body were burned beyond recognition. It was a small body and would take dental records to identify it. The second victim, a woman, and perhaps the most tragic of all, was barely alive. Her hair was burned away, and her face was like some skinned animal. It was a sin she had survived.

When Charlie Goodman found the boy in the back yard, he was in such a state of shock that at first he could not speak and was too dazed to even cry.

"My mother…Sam? Where are my mother and Sam?" he begged in a stricken voice that would haunt Charlie for years. "I couldn't save my mother

Fire engines and emergency vehicles choked the narrow street, red lights revolving, ambulance radios crackling with excited voices. When the final piece of roof collapsed, a cry of dismay arose from stunned neighbors, gathered in a knot across the street. Unable to believe Hell, had landed on Gilbert Road. Final masses of dark smoke billowed above them, then floated westward like a dark shroud.

* * *

One lady held a small child and stood back from the crowd. She didn't want the child to see it. She herself was in a state of shock.

Sam's aunt Lyla, and his five-year-old sister, Molly.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

Twenty Years Later

Dr. David Reel's BMW sedan rolled to a stop in front of the Twinbrook Industrial Center. The parking lot sat nearly deserted, a patchwork of shadows and evenly spaced pools of light from the halogen street-lamps. Inside sat David Reel's lab.

Sighing, he paused a moment to think about his week. Despite the pride the lab evoked, he realized he had some mixed feelings about his success. In his heart David was a surgeon, yet driven by the memory of his mother and the suffering she had endured, he had become more of a scientist and less doctor. Even his patients had noticed; his office time had become increasingly scarce.

Growing skin from discarded fetal tissue was an idea David had conceived while still a pre med. student at the University of Maryland. His minor in biochemistry provided him the background he needed to test out his hypothesis while still pursuing his dream of becoming a plastic surgeon. David spent countless hours in the school lab while his roommates pursued more typical collegiate pastimes. He was happy to sacrifice his social life in the name of science. He knew there had to be a better way to do skin grafts, and if he could find it, no one would have to suffer as his mother did.

Now, at age thirty-two, after many years of postgraduate biomedical research, some of it involving live animals, he had finally succeeded. With a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, he had invited Paul Gallo to his lab tonight. He was ready to unveil it to the public, but he wanted to see the reaction of an individual first. And David knew Paul would appreciate what he was about to show him. What plastic surgeon wouldn't? Also, David could trust him. That was of paramount importance.

Nonetheless, David felt anxious. To his surprise he did not experience the same sense of triumph he'd enjoyed during his initial discovery when he had marveled at the power of science and his own creativity. Instead of jubilation David felt a sense of growing unease. It had started a week earlier while contemplating the final phase of his work. The effect was the same every time he thought about it: perspiration appeared on his forehead and his heart raced. He had to inhale deeply to calm himself.

The sudden appearance of headlights in his rear view mirror jarred David out of his depressing reverie.

Paul Gallo pulled in next to him and stepped out. He was a short stocky Italian who combed his thin hair like Julius Ceaser. He still wore his hospital surgical scrubs. Even the paper mask dangled around his neck.

Though Paul had become an indubitably faithful friend, it had not started out that way. When David first opened his practice, Paul was already a well-respected plastic surgeon in Washington. He considered David a competitor, although David always felt there were plenty of breast implants and rhinoplasties to go around. As David started to dedicate more time to research, however, Paul turned out to be indispensable. He had handled many referrals, giving David more time to spend in the lab. He often told Paul if it wasn't for his help, his success would have taken longer.

David stepped out and grasped Paul's outstretched hand.

They greeted each other enthusiastically.

"Glad you could make it, Paul."