When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [61]
“You’re very welcome.”
Max stopped beating her wings and dropped to the floor. I measured her from head to toe. I was trying to regain my composure.
“Fifty-seven inches,” she piped up.
Right. She was exactly four foot nine. Her arms and legs were slightly disproportionate; the legs were longer. The ring and pinkie fingers of both hands were partially fused, but it wasn’t noticeable unless you looked closely. There was tiny webbing between her toes.
These adaptations allowed her to use her hands and feet as a kind of rudder mechanism in lieu of a tail. There was also some feathering down the back of her legs. That would help in flight, too. Provide more rudder.
Her neck was very flexible. Her reflexes were much, much better than mine—or anybody else’s. Her distance and peripheral vision were acute. No, they were extraordinary. She was superior in almost every way—the best of humans, the best of birds.
As I’d already suspected, her feathered wings were perfectly jointed. Blindfolded, I’d have thought they belonged to a large bird that did some serious long-distance soaring; hawks, for instance, or birds that fish the ocean. Was Max part human, part hawk? How, how, how had this happened?
I put my tape measure to a wing tip and, without my asking, Max spanned her wings.
“One hundred and ten inches,” she said with pride. Her soft voice had a rustling sound, like wind blowing over dried cornstalks.
“Thanks,” I said. “A little over nine feet of wingspan.” Biggest wings I’d ever seen on an eleven-year-old girl.
I asked Max to please lie down on the bed. I palpated her abdominal cavity, got a fix on her organs, which were in the expected places, but small.
Again, this was logical and understandable. Flight was only possible if the wings could lift the body. So, strong chest muscles, small organs, and, unless I was way off the mark, her bones would not only be lightweight and hollow but also very strong in order to cope with the considerable stress of flight.
A perfect design, I thought.
She had been designed, hadn’t she?
“Are you going to give me a pelvic?” Max asked.
She’d been given pelvic exams? I was shocked, but I didn’t allow my discomfort to show.
“No,” I said. “I’m not.”
“Oh. Well, I can tell you, anyway,” she said, putting on her pants. She grinned. “I’m oviparous.”
Oviparous, indeed. That explained why Max had no breasts. If reproduction were possible, she wouldn’t be delivering live offspring. And she wouldn’t be nursing them.
Her babies would hatch from eggs.
Chapter 63
MY THOUGHTS at this point in the physical exam were flying fast and furious. I felt as if my head had actually taken off and gone into permanent orbit. I had been aching for the chance to find out who or what this magical creature was. Now that I had examined her, I could hardly absorb what I had learned. She was supergirl, wasn’t she?
A perfect design.
But who was the designer? Or designers?
I needed an X-ray machine. I needed blood analysis equipment. I needed medical and zoological experts to help me interpret the data. I had more questions now than ever before.
“So tell me, where do you come from, Max?” I said, as I put my stethoscope back in my medical bag.
She gave me one of her mischievous smiles. “A cabbage patch,” she said. “I was left there by a stork.”
Then her green eyes narrowed. “How come I have wings and you don’t?” she asked.
“I don’t know. That is the big question, though.”
Max looked hurt. Did she think I was lying to her? Withholding? From the sudden pained look on her face, I could see that she’d really wanted me to give her a good answer. “They” had kept her in the dark about herself, hadn’t they.
“I’m going to try to find out,” I said. “Give me some time. This is all new and overwhelming to me. Please, trust me a little, Max.”
“I trust no one,” she snapped. I saw a spark of anger, bitterness, and a lot of hurt in her eyes.
Had she been living with medical researchers? Young people?