The Hundredth Man by Jack Kerley Page A

doesn’t cut it. This work is simply unacceptable. I need to see some goddamn improvement.”
    I’ve never enjoyed hearing someone getting tongue-lashed; it dredges up too many childhood memories. I felt as stricken as if the words were for me. Clair’s voice continued as I backed slowly from the door.
    â€œThen there’s the matter of sick days. How many are you planning on taking this year? Six? Eight? Two dozen? It’s inconsiderate at best. When you’re not here—or when you’re late, more often than not, it seems—it throws my scheduling on its ass. No, I don’t want to hear lame excuses, I just want you to . . .”
    I heard the sound of dismissal in Clair’s voice. Footsteps approached the door from within. I tiptoed a dozen feet down the hall. The only refuge was Willet Lindy’s office; his lights were off and I figured he was gone for the day. He often arrived before six a.m., left by three. I leapt into the office.
    Lindy had a wide window to the hall, the blinds three-quarters open. I flattened against the wall and heard the footsteps approach. I watched Ava Davanelle stop in front of the window and push tears from her eyes with trembling fingers. Her face was gray. She squeezed her hands into white-knuckle fists and held them beside her temples. He body began to shake as if her soul were being shredded by white-hot pincers. I watched, transfixed by the depth of her agony. She shook until a ragged sob wrenched from her throat and she grabbed her stomach and ran to the ladies’ room.
    The door slammed like a shotgun blast.
    Ava Davanelle’s misery left me breathless. I stared into the empty hall for a dozen heartbeats, as if anguish had been painted across the air, and I could not believe the intensity of its coloration. I crept breathless from my hidey-hole, escaping toward the front entrance, and passed Clair’s half-open door.
    â€œRyder? Is that you?” she called. I turned around, affected nonchalance, and stuck my head through her door as I’d done a dozen times in the past.
    She said, “What are you doing here?” No venom in her voice, it was her usual no-nonsense tone. I smiled awkwardly and held up the report.
    She nodded. “The prelim. I forgot. It’s been one of those days.” Clair paused, thought. “Was this your first procedure with Dr. Davanelle?”
    I nodded. “My maiden voyage.”
    She slipped on her lanyarded reading glasses and peered into a fileon her desk, frowning at some errant tidbit of information. “Davenelle’s good,” Clair said, nodding to herself. “Got a couple areas that need improvement. But she knows her stuff, a keeper. Have a good day, Ryder. Stay out of trouble.”

C HAPTER 6
    T hree stacks of photographs rested on his green Formica tabletop: one large, one modest, one small. The only other items on the table were chrome shears and a magnifying glass. The air was hot and windless but he didn’t feel it. Nor did he hear the roar of trucks a quarter mile distant on I-10, or the whine of jets approaching or departing Mobile’s airport. He was working with the pictures and they demanded relentless attention.
    They would change the universe.
    The largest stack, pushed to the table’s farthest edge, were the Culls, upside down so he didn’t have to look at them. Emaciated twigs or fat as hogs, matted with hair, or puckered with scars. The Culls were disgusting liars and he always washed his hands after touching their pictures.
    Why had they applied for the position ? Couldn’t the Culls read? His instructions, sixty-seven words drafted over three weeks, had been exceptionally precise.
    Centering the table was a smaller stack of photos, the Potentials. Chests broad and pink. Hillocks of bicep, globes of shoulder. Stomachs flat as skimboards. But all had minor flaws: a strident navel, or puckered nipples. One had distractingly large