Creature

Chapter Twelve

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Frank Kramer asked. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. In the rear compartment of the station wagon JeffLaConner was still struggling against the handcuffs that manacled his hands and feet. His right ankle was swelling rapidly, and though the metal band dug deeply into his flesh, he was apparently oblivious to the pain of his injury. He was curled up tightly in the confining space behind the heavy wire mesh, but as Kramer watched, the boy suddenly wrenched himself around and his feet lashed out at the barrier itself. The mesh bulged slightly, but held firm. In Jeff's throat a strange, keening wail was building.

"Some kind of mental breakdown," DickKennally replied tersely. They were through the town itself now, and the road narrowed as they headed east toward Rocky Mountain High, where a few lights glowed dimly in the darkness. He grimaced as he heard Jeff's feet crash once more into the mesh of the barrier. Then Mitzi, sitting up on the seat between Kramer and Joe Rankin, began barking. "Can't you shut that dog up?"Kennally asked.

"It's better than listening to the racket the boy's making," Rankin replied sourly. Then, catchingKennally's glare in the rearview mirror, he laid a hand on the dog's bristling hackles. "Easy, Mitzi," he murmured. "Nothing to worry about."

Mitzi's barking subsided to a low growl, but as the station wagon gained speed and they left the town behind, Rankin could still feel the tension in the dog's muscles.

Kennallyslowed the car and made the turn into the narrow driveway that led to the sports center. He sounded the horn, but even as its blare momentarily drowned out Jeff's anguished wails, the gates were beginning to swing open.Kennally waited impatiently, then gunned the station wagon through the gap even before the gates had opened fully. As he sped through, an attendant signaled him to go around to the back of the building.

He braked to a stop in front of an open door. The harsh brilliance of halogen floodlights cut through the darkness, andKennally had to shield his eyes as he stepped out of the car. The others were on the driveway now, too, but Mitzi had remained where she was, her watchful eyes on JeffLaConner.

The white glare of the lights shone brightly through the car's windows, and the sudden illumination seemed somehow to have affected the boy, for suddenly he was lying still, his eyes clamped shut, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle-as if he were trying to escape the light.

Martin Ames, wearing a white lab coat unbuttoned down the front, only partially covering his flannel shirt, stepped out of the door and peered into the station wagon. His lips tightened into a grim line, then he glanced atKennally. "How bad was it, Dick?"

Kennallyshrugged, as if to belittle the struggle that had taken place on the hillside half an hour earlier. "Well, let's just say he wasn't too interested in coming with us," he finally answered. He gestured to the other three men. "Let's get him inside."

Joe Rankin carefully raised the station wagon's rear door.

Almost instantly Jeff twisted himself around and his legs lashed out. Rankin dodged away from the boy's flailing kicks, and with Wes Jenkins's help, pinioned his legs to the floor of the car. A moment laterKennally and Kramer had grasped Jeff's arms. With the boy still struggling to free himself, they carried him inside the building.

"In there," Marty Ames instructed, nodding to an open door a few yards down the hall. The four policemen carried Jeff into a small room, its white wallsshadowlessly illuminated by overhead fluorescent tubes. In the center of the room stood a large table with heavy mesh straps laid neatly across each of its ends. As two attendants moved the straps aside, the officers placed JeffLaConner on the table. The attendants, working quickly, bound Jeff's legs tightly to the table, immobilizing them. Only then didKennally remove the leg manacles.

The bruise on Jeff's sprained right ankle, swollen large now, had turned an ugly purple, and there was a deep mark where the metal of the cuff had cut into his damaged flesh.

"Okay," Ames said. "Let's get the cuffs off his wrists."

As soon as his arms were free, Jeff sat bolt upright and began flailing out at the men around him, his eyes glowering angrily in the bright light.Kennally and Jenkins moved in behind him, each of them grasping one of his shoulders, and managed to force him down, holding him still while his arms, like his legs, were secured to the table with the heavy straps.

Only when they were certain Jeff was immobile did the two men step back. Their foreheads were beaded with sweat, and Jenkins's arms were trembling with the strain of fighting against Jeff's strength.

"All right," Ames said. "I think we can take it from here." He moved to a small cabinet against the wall opposite the door and picked up one of several hypodermic needles laid out on its white enamel surface. One of the orderlies cut the sleeve of Jeff's shirt away from his arm, and Ames slid the needle expertly into a vein.

The drug seemed to have no effect whatever on the boy, whose eyes, wild and glazed, darted about the room as if still seeking a means of escape.

It wasn't until Ames had administered the third shot that Jeff's struggles finally began to abate. As the group around him watched, the strength seemed to drain out of him. Finally, his head dropped back onto the hard metal of the table and his eyes closed.

"Jesus," Frank Kramer finally said in the sudden silence that hung in the room. "I never saw anything like that before. And I hope I never do again."

Marty Ames met Kramer's gaze. "I hope you don't either," he quietly agreed.

Fifteen minutes later, after DickKennally and his men had left the sports clinic, Marty Ames went back to the examining room. The two orderlies were still in the small cubicle, one of them cutting away the last of Jeff's clothing as the other finished setting up a complicated array of electronic monitoring devices. As Ames watched silently, they began attaching sensors to Jeff's body. Only when they were done and Ames was satisfied that the equipment was functioning properly and that Jeff was in no immediate danger, did Ames finally start toward his office, preparing himself for the call he now had to make to ChuckLaConner.

He considered these calls the worst part of his job. But they were also part of the deal he'd made with himself five years before, when Ted Thornton had approached him about heading up the sports center Thornton had envisioned for Silverdale.

Thornton had seduced him, of course, as Thornton managed to seduce so many men, but in the moments when Ames was being completely honest with himself-moments that were becoming more rare as he approached the success that was now almost within his grasp-he had to admit that he'd been willing to be seduced. Thornton had promised him the world, almost literally. First, a lab beyond his wildest dreams, far beyond anything the Institute for the Human Brain in Palo Alto would ever be able to provide. Anything he needed, anything he wanted, would be provided.

Unlimited funds for research, and nearly total autonomy.

If he were successful, a Nobel prize was not out of the question, and certainly he would be able to write his own ticket, both professionally and financially.

Best of all, the project was a direct extension of his work at the Institute, where he had been working with human growth hormones in an effort to correct the imperfections of the human body.

It was Ames's theory that there was no reason why every human being should not possess an ideal body, no reason why some people should be undersized, or overweight, or prone to any of the myriad physical defects and weaknesses that plagued mankind.

Ted Thornton had recognized the commercial value of Martin Ames's studies and hired him away from the Institute, sending him to Silverdale. Immediately, the town itself had become his own private laboratory.

He'd limited his most advanced experiments to the children ofTarrenTech's own personnel. Thornton had decreed that early on, explaining that it was merely a matter of damage control: they both understood that things would go wrong; some of the experiments would fail. But when such things happened, Thornton wanted to be in a position to deal with the fallout immediately and effectively.

So far it had worked just as Thornton had planned. Most of the experiments had gone well. But when things had gone awry, when some of his subjects had developed serious side effects from his treatments-extreme aggression being the most common-Thornton had kept his promise. The boys were quickly and quietly taken care of in whatever manner Ames deemed appropriate, and their families were immediately transferred out of the area, with large enough promotions and raises so generous that so far no one had so much as whispered that the financial remuneration was nothing more than a payoff for the loss of a son.

His failures had been so few-only three in nearly five years-that Ames considered his program at Rocky Mountain High a complete success. Most of the boys had responded well to his treatments, and for some of them-Robb Harris, for instance-growth hormones had not been indicated at all. Which was perfect, for it meant that Jerry Harris was able to explain exactly what had been done to his son with complete honesty.

For JeffLaConner the treatment had been the norm- massive infusions of growth hormones-and until just two weeks ago it appeared Jeff was going to be a success. But now things had gone sour, for the first time since Randy Stevens-and Marty Ames had to make the onerous phone call. Quietly, he'd explain to ChuckLaConner that Jeff would have to spend a certain amount of time in an "institutional environment."

That was the phrase Ames had come to prefer. It allowed the boys' parents a vague hope that perhaps someday their children would be well again.

And perhaps, if Ames were lucky, it could be true for some of the boys. Perhaps he would find a way to reverse the uncontrolled growth and unbridled fury to which they fell victim.

Indeed, during the past few months he'd even begun to hope that there might be no more RandyStevenses, no more necessity for calls such as he was about to make. He was so close-so very close.

Perhaps tonight's call would, after all, be the last.

But of course, with experimental science, you never really knew.

Sharon sat quietly on a straight-backed chair next to the bed in which Mark lay sleeping. He looked younger than his sixteen years, and the bruises on his cheek, the bandage over his right eye, and the swelling on his jaw only made him look more vulnerable. Sharon was no longer certain how long she'd been sitting with him, how much time had passed since he'd finally drifted into a sedated sleep. His breathing, the loudest noise she could hear, sounded labored, and although she knew he felt nothing, she imagined she could feel the pain that each of his shallow gasps must be inflicting on his bruised chest.

Behind her there was a soft click, and she sensed rather than saw the door opening. A moment later she felt Blake's hands resting gently on her shoulders; automatically her own hands went up to cover his. For a moment neither of them spoke, then Blake's hands slipped away. "Don't you think we ought to go home?" he asked, moving around to the other side of the bed so she could see him.

Sharon shook her head. "I can't. If he wakes up, I want to be here."

"He's not going to wake up tonight," Blake replied. "I talked to the nurse just now, and she says he'll sleep through till morning."

Sharon sighed heavily. Her eyes left her son and she looked up at her husband. "It doesn't make any difference. I just want to be here for him, that's all."

Blake hesitated, then nodded. "I know," he said. "Tell you what. You stay here, and I'll go on over to theHarrises and pick up Kelly." He was silent for a moment, then added: "Walk me to the door?"

For a moment he thought Sharon was going to refuse, but then she stood up, reached down and touched Mark's cheek gently, and nodded. Neither of them spoke again until they had reached the nurses' station. The waiting room beyond was now deserted.

"How's he doing?" Karen Akers asked, looking up from the computer terminal mat glowed on the desk in front of her.

Sharon managed a wan smile. "Still asleep."

"You really should go home, Mrs. Tanner," Karen urged. "There isn't much you can do for him right now." Even as she spoke the words, Karen knew they would have no effect. After all, if it were her own son sleeping in the room down the hall, would she leave? Not a chance. "Tell you what," she said, not waiting for Sharon's reply. "I'll put on a fresh pot of coffee and bring you a cup when it's ready." Then she disappeared down the corridor to the small kitchen at the back of the building.

Sharon and Blake stood in silence at the door, then Blake drew her close, kissing her softly. "It's going to be all right," he assured her. "In a few days you'll hardly know anything happened to him."

Sharon nodded automatically, though she didn't agree. She knew that the sight of Mark lying on the stretcher, his face bruised and bloodied, would never leave her. As Blake was about to leave, a thought that had been lurking in the back of her mind almost since the moment she'd left the waiting room to take up her vigil at Mark's bedside suddenly emerged.

"Blake…" she said. "Do… do you know exactly what happened to the Ramirez boy?"

Blake hesitated, then nodded. "I saw the tape," he said, and braced himself for the question he knew was coming next, the question he'd been trying to answer for himself since he had first heard of the fight between Jeff and Mark.

"Well?" Sharon asked. "Wasitan accident? Or did Jeff deliberately hurt the Ramirez boy?"

Blake didn't answer for a moment, letting his mind rerun the cassette Jerry Harris had played for him the day after he'd begun working on the Ramirez case. "I don't know," he said at last. "It could have been. But there's the possibility it wasn't."

Sharon said nothing, but even before she kissed him once again and sent him on his way, Blake could see the shadow come into her eyes. Invariably that look meant that she had zeroed in on something and would now begin to examine it, worrying at it until she'd solved whatever her problem might be to her own particular satisfaction.

When he was gone, Sharon leaned against the heavy glass of the front door for a while. Then, her mind made up, she started back down the hall. But instead of returning to Mark's room, she let herself into the room across the way.

The room where Ricardo Ramirez lay, his body still held rigid in the grotesque mechanism of the Stryker frame, was nearly identical to her son's, and the similarities sent a chill through Sharon's body.

That's what could have happened to Mark tonight, she thought. She scanned the monitors over the bed, their green displays glowing eerily in the darkened room, the endlessly repeating patterns of Ricardo Ramirez's artificially sustained life forces crossing the screens with an almost hypnotic rhythm. Once again Sharon lost track of time as she stood silently watching.

What was happening inside the boy's mind? she wondered. Was he aware of anything? Was he dreaming, suffering from nightmares from which he could never escape? Or was he simply lost somewhere in a gray void, suspended from all reality, unaware of anything? She didn't know- couldn't know.

Perhaps no one could ever know.

"Mrs. Tanner?" Karen Akers's soft voice penetrated Sharon's reverie, startling her. "Are you all right?"

Sharon nodded. Turning away from Ricardo Ramirez, she stepped into the corridor, blinking against its brightness. "I-I just wanted to see him," she said, her voice quavering. "It's so horrible."

"And it could have been your son," Karen said, voicing the thought that had been so powerful in Sharon's mind a few moments before. "But Rick's not your son, Mrs. Tanner. And Mark's going to be just fine."

Sharon nodded, then forced a tiny smile as she gratefully took the mug of steaming coffee from the nurse's hands. "Of course he is," she said. She went back to Mark's room and once more took up her vigil next to his bed. But as the minutes slowly crept by, she found herself still thinking about Ricardo Ramirez.

She knew whatTarrenTech was doing for the boy, and until tonight had never thought to question the company's generosity and sincerity. Now she found herself wondering.

Her mind went back over the football games she'd watched over the past weekends, and she had an image of the Silverdale team trotting out onto the field like a troop of gladiators.

They were big boys-all of them-and now she recalled noticing, as each game began, how unevenly matched the opposing sides appeared to be. The Silverdale boys, towering over their opponents, easily overwhelmed them by the sheer force of their size alone.

And they played rough, too. No matter how far ahead the Wolverines might be on the Scoreboard, they never eased up, never stopped pressing their opposition, never waited out the clock at the end of the game.

She shivered in the darkness of the hospital room as she thought about it.

Big, strong, healthy boys.

And, apparently, dangerous boys as well.

For ifTarrenTech truly believed mat what had happened to Ricardo Ramirez was an accident, why were they so willing to pay any price in order to avoid a lawsuit against the school, or possibly even against theLaConners themselves?

Was it because a lawsuit, in the end, would turn onTarrenTech itself?

Suddenly Sharon Tanner was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

ChuckLaConner tried not to let his expression reveal his emotions as he listened to Marty Ames talking to him on the telephone. In the chair facing him from the opposite side of the fireplace, Charlotte was sitting straight up, her face ashen even in the orange glow of the fire burning on the hearth. When he at last hung up, she immediately spoke.

"What is it?" she demanded. "That was about Jeff, wasn't it? Is he in jail?"

At Ames's suggestion, Chuck had been careful not to reveal to whom he was speaking, and now he shook his head, at the same time rising to his feet. "He's not in jail," he told her. "He's had some kind of breakdown. Apparently he lost his temper completely this time, and they've taken him to the doctor." He moved out to the hall closet, with Charlotte following right behind.

"I'm going with you," she said. But to her unbelieving dismay, Chuck shook his head.

"Not now," he said. "They specifically asked me to come out alone. I guess-" he began, then stopped, unwilling to repeat to Charlotte what Ames had told him. "I guess it's pretty bad," he said at last. "They… well, they said Jeff might have to be in the hospital for a while."

Charlotte sagged against the wall. "And I can't even see him?" she whispered hoarsely. "But he's my son!"

"It's just for tonight," Chuck promised her. "They just want to get him calmed down a little, that's all." He reached out and touched Charlotte's chin, notungently, tipping her head up so she couldn't avoid looking into his face.

"It's going to be all right, sweetheart," he promised her. "We're going to get this thing straightened out. But you've just got to trust me. Okay?"

Her mind too numb to think clearly, Charlotte automatically nodded. It wasn't until she heard Chuck's car starting up a minute later that she slowly began to come back to life.

She and Chuck had been sitting by the fireplace for hours, ever since DickKennally had called, asking if Jeff were at home. Chuck had left for a while, then come back to assure her that Mark Tanner was all right, that his injuries weren't serious. She'd wanted to leave then, to go to the hospital herself, if only to apologize to Sharon Tanner for what had happened, but Chuck had refused to allow it. He'd gone to the hospital alone, while she waited anxiously, worrying about her son and the boy he had injured.

But she couldn't wait any longer. Now it wasn't just Mark Tanner who was in the hospital; it was Jeff, too. Only five minutes after Chuck left, she hurried out into the night.

She pulled into the parking lot of County Hospital ten minutes later, not even pausing to glance around for her husband's car before hurrying through the doors into the waiting room. From behind the glass partition Karen Akers looked up curiously, then, recognizing Charlotte, stood up and came out of the little office.

"Why can't I see him?" Charlotte asked without preamble, her voice trembling. "What's wrong with him that they won't let me see him?"

Karen stared at Charlotte in bewilderment. What on earth could the woman be talking about? "Wh-Who?"

"Jeff," Charlotte said. "Chuck said they took him to the doctor…" Her voice trailed off as she realized that the waiting room was empty and the building itself was totally silent. "Isn't my husband here?" she asked, but knew the answer even before Karen Akers spoke.

"There's no one here, Charlotte, except Mrs. Tanner. She's sitting with Mark."

Tiredly, her mind reeling helplessly, Charlotte sank down into one of theNaugahyde -covered chairs that lined a wall of the waiting room. She was silent for a moment, gathering her wits about her. "But he said-" she began, her voice taking on a note of desperation. And then she knew. They hadn't brought Jeff here at all-they'd taken him out to the sports center, to Dr. Ames, just like the last time, when Jeff had slammed her against the wall then stormed out into the night.

Somehow, the knowledge made her feel better. After all, Jeff had come home the very next day-not even come home, actually, but gone straight to school. And he'd been fine. Maybe Chuck was right.

She looked up at Karen Akers, feeling foolish. "I don't know what's wrong with me," she said, then saw the look of concern in the nurse's eyes, as if Karen thought she were losing her grip. Charlotte forced a lame smile. "I mean, I'm sure Chuck must have told me where they were taking Jeff. It-Well, I guess it hasn't been an easy night for any of us."

Karen Akers's expression cleared a little.

"How is he?" Charlotte asked then. "Mark Tanner, I mean?"

Karen hesitated, uncertain what to say. But as she saw the genuine worry in Charlotte's eyes, she nodded toward the corridor. "He's sleeping now. But if you want to peek in, I don't suppose Mrs. Tanner would mind."

Charlotte got to her feet and started down the hall, pausing next to the door to Ricardo Ramirez's room. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the hall and gently opened the door to Mark's room. It was almost dark inside; only a single, small night-light cast a soft glow from the corner next to the bathroom door. Mark lay motionless on the bed, and on the chair next to the bed, Sharon Tanner was nodding fitfully. Charlotte hesitated, and was about to back out of the room when Sharon's head came up and her eyes opened.

"H-Hello?" she asked tentatively.

"It's me," Charlotte whispered. "CharlotteLaConner."

Charlotte could see Sharon stiffen, and suddenly she wished she hadn't come into the room. But then Sharon stood up and came toward her. "I just wanted to see how he was," Charlotte said. "And to tell you how sorry I am…"

Charlotte's words trailed off, and to Sharon's surprise, she found herself feeling a pang of sympathy for the woman. She eased Charlotte out into the hallway, then pulled the door closed. "He's going to be all right," she said. Keeping her voice as neutral as possible, she asked, "Have they found Jeff yet?"

Charlotte swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "They took him out to Dr. Ames," she said. "He… I don't know what happened to him, Mrs. Tanner."

"Sharon," the other woman replied.

"Sharon," Charlotte repeated, pronouncing the name carefully, almost experimentally. "He-Well, I guess it was like the night he hit me," she said. "It's his temper. He just can't seem to control it anymore. Something sets him off, and he just blows up." She frowned, as if a distant memory were coming back to her. "Like Randy Stevens," she went on, speaking slowly now. "That's what he's like. Like Randy, before they took him away…"

Sharon stared at Charlotte. Randy Stevens? Who was he? She'd never heard the name before in her life.

ChuckLaConner stared dully at Dr. Martin Ames. They'd been sitting in Ames's office at the sports center for thirty minutes, while Ames had gone through the speech he'd rehearsed so many times, a speech carefully designed to accomplish both his own aims and those of Ted Thornton.

"Of course, I won't be able to release him," Ames had concluded, spreading his hands helplessly on the desktop. "We'll do the best we can to correct the chemical imbalance in his brain, but I'm not at all certain that anything will be effective."

It had taken a while for it to sink in, but now Chuck straightened in his chair. "But you said nothing could go wrong," he protested. "When I agreed to put Jeff into the program, you promised me-"

"I didn't promise you," Ames interjected. "I told you we were ninety-nine percent certain we had the compound perfected, but that there was always the chance there might be some side effects. And you understood that there were still some"-he hesitated, casting around for the right words- "some, shall we say, experimental aspects to the treatment."

Chuck rested his head in his hands. It was true, of course. He could remember the day three years ago when he'd first talked to Ames, and Ames had told him there was a good chance that Jeff could overcome the congenital deficiency that had plagued him almost from birth. It wasn't that Jeff was small-his size was perfectly normal, and always had been. But there was a brittleness to his bones that came close to turning him into an invalid, and almost from the day he'd learned to walk-and broke a leg in his very first tumble-he had been wearing a cast on one or another part of his body practically every day of his life. None of the doctors theLaConners had taken him to held out any hope at all. So when Jerry Harris had told him about Ames's program-a new process of combining vitamins with a hormone that could stimulate calcium production, Chuck had instantly agreed to try it. The worst that could happen would be that it would fail.

But it hadn't failed. Within a month Jeff's bones had almost miraculously begun strengthening. He'd shot up that summer when he was fourteen, and even during the awkward period while he was adjusting to his full stature, he'd broken no bones. Indeed, his skeleton-always looking so frail in the X rays Chuck had been shown from the very beginning-had taken on a solid look, the long bones thickening visibly, giving Jeff added weight and a degree of toughness he'd never before possessed. His shoulders, always so narrow when he was a little boy, had broadened, and along with the vitamin/hormone program, Ames had put him on an exercise regimen.

Until a few weeks ago there had been no reason to suspect that the treatment was anything but totally successful. But now…

Chuck rose to his feet, struggling to control his emotions. "Can I see him?" he asked.

Ames hesitated for a moment, then he, too, stood up. "Of course,*' he said. "But I want you to prepare yourself. He's under sedation right now and probably won't be conscious. Even if he is, he might not recognize you."

As they moved through the maze of corridors that made up the sports center, Chuck tried to prepare himself. But when at last they entered the clinic and Marty Ames opened the door to the room in which Jeff was still lying strapped to the metal table, Chuck felt a wave of nausea rise up in him.

His son was naked, his arms and legs still strapped tightly to the table. Every part of his body seemed to have sprouted wires, and there were I.V. tubes in both his forearms. But it wasn't the mass of equipment, nor even the straps securing him to the table, that staggered ChuckLaConner.

It was Jeff himself.

He'd changed in the past hours, changed so much that Chuck hardly recognized him.

His hands appeared to have grown.

His fingers were longer, and his knuckles stood out like twisted knots of wood. Even in sleep Jeff's hands were working spasmodically, as if trying to free themselves from the bonds that held them.

His face, too, had changed. His eyes had sunk deeper into their sockets and his brow jutted out sharply, giving him a faintly simian look. His jaw, always strong, seemed to be too big for his face, and now it hung slack, exposing his teeth and tongue.

His breathing was coming in strange rasps.

"My God," Chuckbreamed. "What's happening to him?"

"His bones are growing again," Ames said. "Only this time it seems to be out of control. It's starting with his extremities-his fingers and toes, and his jaw. If we can't get it under control, it will spread to the rest of his body."

ChuckLaConner stared at the doctor, fear naked in his eyes. "And then what will happen to him?" he asked.

Ames fell silent for a moment, then decided there was no point in keeping the truth from Jeff's father. When he spoke, his voice was clinically cool.

"And then he'll die."

A silence fell in the room, disturbed only by the dank rasping of Jeff's labored breath. As Chuck stared hopelessly down at his son's distorted face, Jeff's eyes suddenly opened.

They were wild eyes, the eyes of an animal.

And they glinted with a rage ChuckLaConner had never seen before. His face ashen, his whole body suddenly seized by an icy chill, ChuckLaConner shrank away from his own son.