Creature

Chapter Fourteen

Linda Harris already had her book bag packed by the time the lunch bell rang. She'd been thinking about it all morning, but had finally made up her mind only fifteen minutes ago. She was going to skip lunch and go out to the hospital to visit Mark Tanner. She didn't have time, really, but her class after lunch was only a study hall, and she could always say she'd spent the time in the library. In fact, if she had to, she could get Tiffany Welch-who always spent that hour helping the librarian-to back her up. As the clanging of the bell faded away, Linda hurried out of the classroom and toward the wide staircase that led to the main floor. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Tiffany calling to her from the mezzanine above.

"Linda? Wait up!"

Linda hesitated, half tempted to pretend she hadn't heard, men thought better of it. "Hi," she said as the other girl caught up with her. "Look, I need a big favor. If I miss my study hall, will you tell Mr. Anders I was in the library?"

Tiffany's oval face reflected confusion for a moment, men her bright blue eyes took on a conspiratorial quality. "Where are you going? Are you cutting the whole afternoon?"

The eagerness in her friend's voice told Linda that Tiffany was considering coming with her, to Tiffany, practically anything was more interesting than school.

"I'm just going to the hospital," Linda said.

Tiffany's face brightened. "To see Jeff? I'll go with you."

"Why would I want to see Jeff?" Linda demanded, her eyes flashing angrily. "After last night, I hope I never see him again!"

The eager look faded from Tiffany's eyes. "Then who?" At last, the light dawned. "You mean you're going to see Mark?" she asked, her voice traced with scorn.

"Well, why shouldn't I?" Linda snapped.

"He's just such a… well, he's kind of a wimp, isn't he?" Tiffany said.

Linda's features congealed coldly. "Just because he isn't a sports nut like everyone else around here doesn't mean he's a wimp. He happens to be a real nice guy. And he doesn't go around jumping guys who are a lot smaller than he is, either."

Tiffany couldn't resist the opening. "Therearen'tany smaller guys," she said, "unless you go over to the junior high." Seeing Linda's eyes glitter with tears, she relented. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "And I'll cover for you, too. Say hi to him for me, okay?"

Linda nodded, then turned away and hurried out of the school building.

Twenty minutes later she came to the small county hospital and pushed her way into the waiting room. Except for a Chicano woman-her face pale and her eyes sunken and tired-the room was deserted. Linda looked around uncertainly for a moment, then went to ring the bell on the counter separating the reception area from the office.

"She's in Ricardo's room," the fragile woman suddenly said. "She's giving my son a bath."

Linda turned to face the woman, realizing who she was but not knowing what to say to her. Before she could say anything at all, Susan Aldrich appeared. "All done, Mrs. Ramirez," she said, then recognized Linda. "Well, hello. What brings you out here?" She glanced instinctively at the clock.

"It's lunch hour," Linda explained. "I thought I'd come out and say hello to Mark."

"Mark?" the nurse replied blankly, then understood. "Oh, you mean Mark Tanner. He's not here."

Linda looked at the nurse in confusion. "But they brought him in last night."

Susan Aldrich nodded. "And he left this morning, so I guess he must not have been hurt very badly."

Linda could barely believe it. She remembered the glimpse she'd caught of Mark last night as they'd moved him out of the emergency room, his face bruised and swollen, his chest swathed with heavy tape. "But where'd he go?" she breathed.

"Home, I suppose," Susan replied. "I could check if you want. He was already discharged when I got here this morning."

Linda shook her head. If she hurried, she still had time to get to the Tanners', say hi, and be back at school in time for her fifth-period class.

Sharon Tanner was just coming out of the house when Linda arrived. "Hi!" she greeted her. "You just caught me in time. I was going over to the hospital." She held up some magazines and a book. "Mark must be getting bored with TV by now, don't you think?"

Linda gaped at Sharon. What was she talking about? "B-But isn't he here?" she asked. "I was just at the hospital and they told me he was discharged this morning!"

Now it was Sharon who stared dumbly, her mind reeling with confusion. There must be some mistake-when she'd left the hospital, Dr.MacCallum had made it clear that Mark wouldn't be out until tomorrow, or this evening, at the earliest. "But that's crazy!" she protested. "Of course he's there. Whom did you talk to?"

Linda repeated what had happened at the hospital. As Sharon listened, her eyes darkened with worry, but she still clung to the idea that it was some kind of mistake. "Come on," she said to Linda, and turned back to the house. "I'm going to call the hospital and get this straightened out. My God," she added, forcing a brittle laugh. "They can't have lost him, can they?"

Five minutes later, when she finally got Dr.MacCallum on the line, she was no longer laughing. "But why wasn't I told?" she demanded. "I've never even talked to Dr. Ames!" She listened impatiently asMacCallum explained what had happened. "But it's all ridiculous," she protested when he was finished. "You said yourself there's nothing seriously wrong with him. And why would he need a sports specialist? He was beaten up, not injured in a football game."

"I don't know,"MacCallum replied honestly. "All I can tell you is that your husband's signature was on the release. I even matched it against the forms he filled out here last night, just to be sure. It never occurred to me that he didn't tell you this morning, or I would have called you myself."

When at last Sharon hung up, her worry of a few minutes earlier had been replaced with a hot anger. For her husband to have had Mark transferred to another hospital without even telling her-it was outrageous!

She dropped Linda Harris off at the school, feeling no better for Linda's assurances that Ames had been working with Robb almost since the day they'd moved to Silverdale, and that Robb was crazy about the program Ames had put him on.

"But that's not the point," she'd tried to explain. "I'm sure there's nothing wrong with it at all. It just burns me up that no one told me what they were doing with Mark, that's all!"

Linda scrambled out of the car and slammed the door.

"Tell Mark I'll come and see him after school," she called, but it was too late. Sharon's anger in firm control of the accelerator, she sped away from the school, the tires of her car shrieking in protest.

Mark lay in a haze, gazing glassily at a large television monitor that was suspended from the ceiling above his head. His ears were covered with a pair of headphones, and through the fog of drugs that clouded his brain, only the images on the screen and the sounds in his ears were real.

It was like a dream-a pleasant dream in which he walked along a shady riverbank, pausing now and then to watch the water tumble over rocks or a turtle bask in the sun on a log. Birds flew overhead, and their sounds, mixed with the soothing babble of running water, filled his ears.

A deer stepped out of a clump of aspens ahead, and Mark came to a halt, watching the animal as it grazed languidly on a clump of grass near the stream. Then other images began to flicker vaguely in his mind, images he couldn't quite see but which his subconscious nevertheless registered and remembered.

It was these images-the ones he couldn't quite see-that he would remember later. All the rest of it, the vision of the stream and the birds singing, would fade away.

As would the reality of what was happening around him, and to him.

He was still strapped to the metal table, but he was no longer in the examining room to which he'd been brought on his arrival at the sports center. Nor, in reality, were the straps necessary, for Mark had ceased struggling against them immediately after that first shot-the first of more than half a dozen he'd received in the few hours he'd been there. Mark's body, as relaxed now as his mind, was submittingnervelessly to the treatment it was undergoing. But they'd left the straps in place as they moved the metal table from room to room, more as precaution than anything else.

Mark's body, like RandyStevens's and JeffLaConner's on other, earlier days, was wired to an array of meters and monitors. An I.V. dripped into a needle taped securely to his upper right thigh, and another I.V. took a slow but continual sampling of his blood, a sampling that was being analyzed almost as quickly as it moved through the tiny capillary tube attached to the needle.

A scanner hovered above his body, moving slowly up and down the length of the table, feeding a constantly changing series of data to a softly humming computer which, as fast as the digitalized images were absorbed into its memory banks, expanded and exaggerated them, then fed them onto an oversized monitor.

Changes-drastic changes, even though they were imperceptible to the naked eye-had already taken place inside him.

The hairline fracture in his jaw had all but disappeared, and the cracks in his ribs were healing rapidly.

His bones, stimulated by the massive doses of synthetic hormones that had been dripping steadily into him since early that morning, had begun to respond, reproducing their own cells at an accelerated rate that had already added a sixteenth of an inch to Mark's total height, and nearly a pound to his total weight.

For nearly five hours Martin Ames had been overseeing Mark's treatment, watching for the slightest sign of an adverse reaction. So far everything was proceeding beyond even his own highest expectations. Though few people would even have known what to look for, Ames was able to watch the changes in Mark's body almost as they happened.

His lung capacity had increased slightly, as had the size of his heart. His blood pressure-somewhat high when he had been brought in that morning-was normal now, and Ames felt pleased as he noted that the compensations he'd allowed for Mark's emotional state just before his blood pressure was first measured had apparently been exactly precise.

Even Mark's brain showed minute chemical changes, changes that would soon embody themselves physically.

And yet, Ames knew, without the enhancement of the bank of computers, Mark would appear no different now from the boy he had been a few hours ago.

A soft electronic chime sounded, disturbing Ames's concentration, and he glanced up irritably. A blue light was flashing on the wall. Could it really have been five hours that he'd been in the treatment room, his aides surrounding the examining table and making continuous, minute adjustments to the chemicals dripping into Mark's body as he'd quietly issued a steady stream of orders? The strain in his muscles told him it was true.

"All right," he said, stretching his six-foot frame, massaging a knot in his right shoulder. "That's it for now."

Immediately, one of the aides stopped the flow into Mark's thigh from the I.V., and another slid the needle out of the vein, then swabbed the spot with a wad of cotton soaked in alcohol. It was a tiny needle, the mark barely visible in the center of a small bruise that would disappear within a few hours.

Other aides began removing the monitoring devices. One by one the screens went blank, all except the one displaying Mark's cardiovascular activity. That would be the last to be removed, when the final phase of Mark's treatment had been completed.

Ames watched the activity impassively. The session had gone perfectly. He was certain the prognosis for Mark Tanner was good.

Unless…

His mind shifted gears, and he thought of JeffLaConner, who had been in this same room only hours before, wired to the same equipment. He still didn't know what had gone wrong with Jeff. He'd been so careful, adjusting Jeff's treatment after the first signs that the boy was developing a reaction to the therapy. It hadn't worked; Jeff's condition had only deteriorated.

Somewhere there was an answer, and he was determined to find out what that answer was, to discover the miscalculation in the mix of hormones that had triggered the explosive response in JeffLaConner and all the others.

In the meantime, Mark Tanner, with his history of rheumatic fever and retarded growth, would provide more data, more knowledge, more progress.

As Jerry Harris had promised, Mark was a perfect experimental subject. And in the end, Ames thought, Mark might benefit from the experimental treatment as much as he himself.

Unless…

He put the thought out of his mind as the team of aides finished their work. The monitor above Mark's head had gone dark now, and the earphones had been removed from his head. The boy was stirring as the consciousness-suppressing drugs were filtered out of his bloodstream. In a few minutes he would awaken.

"Unstraphim before he starts struggling," Ames said as he stepped forward and took a hypodermic needle from the hand of his chief assistant. "We don't want any marks on him at all." Checking the needle carefully, he slid it into one of the veins of Mark's right arm, then pressed the plunger.

Almost as soon as the insulin hit Mark's bloodstream, the boy broke out in a cold sweat and his body shook with tremors.

The tremors increased. Abruptly, the dreamy look on Mark's face was replaced with a grimace of fear and pain.

The convulsions began then, Mark's body jerking spasmodically as he went into the third phase of insulin shock. Only when he had finally fallen unconscious and his body relaxed did Ames nod.

"All right," he said. "Take him in and get him dressed. By the time he wakes up, he won't remember a thing." A sardonic smile twisted his lips. "In fact," he added, "he'll probably feel better than he's ever felt before in his life."

At first Sharon Tanner wasn't certain she'd come to the right place. She'd driven the two miles out of town almost unconsciously, simply following the road as her anger-most of it directed toward Blake-grew within her. Why would he have done such a thing without asking her? It wasn't like him; wasn't like him at all. But even as her anger built, the rational part of her mind answered her own question. Had he sought her agreement, she'd have simply assumed it was one more step in his ongoing campaign to get Mark involved in sports, and automatically objected.

And she would have been right.

She braked the car suddenly and stared at the building off to the right. The sports center appeared more like a campus than a clinic, completely surrounded by well-kept lawns. But then, as she drew nearer, she realized that these weren't just lawns: they were playing fields, acres and acres of them. At least two football fields, a baseball diamond, and a hockey field. There was a track, too, with an infield that boasted an array of both high and low hurdles, a broad-jump track, and a high jump, as well as various exercise bars.

In the center of all this was what looked like a lodge, but between her and the building were a pair of closed gates. She pulled the car up to the gates, rolled down the window and pressed a button on a large metal box mounted on an iron post. A moment later a male voice scratched from a speaker within the box: "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see Dr. Ames," Sharon said, her voice a little louder than she'd intended. "My name is Sharon Tanner. I'm Mark Tanner's mother."

"One moment, please," the voice replied. The speaker went dead. The seconds ticked by, and after nearly a minute, Sharon wondered if she was, indeed, at the right place. She was considering what to do when the speaker came to life again; at the same time, the gates began to swing open.

"Just park in front of the building and come in the front door, Mrs. Tanner," the disembodied voice instructed her.

She took her foot off the brake and drove slowly down the drive, impressed with what she saw, even in spite of her anger. It was a graceful building, fitting well into the surroundings of the rising mountains, and whatever it was all about, it was obviously successful. She parked the car, hurried up the front steps and across the wide veranda, pushing through the heavy glass door into the lobby. A smiling woman who wore a lab coat open over a tailored dress was waiting for her.

"Mrs. Tanner?" the woman asked, then went on without waiting for a reply. "I'm Marjorie Jackson, Dr. Ames's assistant. Everyone calls me Marge. Won't you come with me?"

Sharon's lips tightened, but despite her urge to vent the anger that had been building inside her, she found herself obediently following Marge Jackson through the lobby and what was apparently a dining room, then down a hall into one of the building's large wings. "It seems awfully empty, doesn't it?" Marge asked, glancing back at Sharon. "But you should see it during the season. Last summer we had to feed the boys in two shifts!"

A minute later Sharon found herself being led into a suite of offices. Marge Jackson seated herself behind a desk. "I assume you're here to see"-she paused to glance down at a file on the desk in front of her-"Mark, isn't it?"

"I'm here for a lot more than that," Sharon replied, her voice cool. She was pleased to see Marjorie Jackson's smile fade uncertainly away.

"I beg your pardon?" she said. "I'm afraid I don't understand-is something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Sharon repeated, making no attempt to veil her anger. "Why should anything be wrong? I left my son in County Hospital this morning, and by lunchtime I find he's been moved. Nobody asked me-nobody even told me! And you want to know if something's wrong?"

Marge Jackson's uncertain expression gave way to one of genuine concern, and suddenly Sharon felt foolish. Whatever had happened, it obviously wasn't this woman's fault. Letting out her breath in an explosive sigh, she sank into a chair and apologized. As briefly as she could, she explained exactly what had happened. By the time she was done, Marge Jackson was nodding sympathetically.

"But how terrible for you," she said. "If my husband had done something like that, I think I'd kill him. But I'm sure it was just a mix-up, and I can tell you that everything's just fine."

"But why was Mark brought here?" Sharon asked. "It all seems so, well, so unnecessary."

"I'm afraid you'll have to talk to Dr. Ames about that," Marge replied. Her expression brightened and she nodded toward someone who had just come through the door. "Here he is now. Dr. Ames, this is Sharon Tanner, Mark's mother."

Sharon rose to her feet, surprised to find a genial-looking man in his mid-forties-with gray eyes that fairly twinkled as he smiled at her-extending his hand. She automatically accepted the greeting, only then realizing that subconsciously she had expected some sort of Machiavellian monster who had coldly abducted her son and would now make smooth excuses for what he'd done.

Ames ushered her into his office, offered her a cup of coffee, and after listening to her story, assured her it was his own fault. "I should have had Marge call you myself, just to make sure you knew what was going on. And call me Marty," he added. "Everybody else does, even a lot of the kids." He smiled, then leaned back in his chair. "Anyway," he went on, "you'll be glad to know that there's nothing wrong with Mark."

"I already knew that," Sharon told him. "Dr.MacCallum worked on him most of the night, you know."

Ames looked abashed. "I know, and I certainly didn't mean to imply that there's anything wrong with Mac. There isn't. In fact, he's a damned good doctor."

"Then why did my husband want you to see Mark, Dr. Ames?" Sharon asked, not yet won over.

Ames shrugged. "I suppose he just wanted a second opinion," he said. "And I assume Jerry Harris told him that my specialty is working with kids who have had physical and developmental problems."

Sharon was startled. So she'd been right, at least partially. Blake was, indeed, still looking for a way to overcome the residual effects of Mark's rheumatic fever. "And do you have an opinion?" she asked, doing her best to keep her voice neutral.

Marty Ames spread his hands noncommittally. "It's hard to say, really. But I've given him a complete examination, and I'm pleased to be able to tell you that there's nothing seriously the matter with him. In fact, given his early medical history, he's remarkably healthy."

Sharon felt herself relax. "Then when can I take him home?" she asked.

"No reason you can't take him home now," Ames said pleasantly. "I've given him some codeine to keep the pain in his ribs from bothering him. In a couple of days he should be as good as new."

Sharon stared at Ames. This was it? She'd built herself into such a fury, been so certain that somehow Blake and this doctor had cooked up some sort of scheme. And now…

"Tell you what," Ames said, standing. "Why don't I give you a tour of the place, show you what we're doing out here. By the time we're done, Mark should be all set to go."

"I don't really think I need a tour," Sharon began, but Ames held up a protesting hand.

"We kidnapped your son, remember?" he asked. "The least we can do is set your mind at ease."

To her own surprise, Sharon found herself obediently following Ames out of his office and listening intently as he gave her a tour of the facility and spoke about the summer program.

"What I try to do," he said as they entered a gym filled with equipment the like of which Sharon had never seen before, "is treat each of the kids as an individual. It's always seemed to me that to claim there's a single diet, or exercise regimen, or even medication that will work for every kid, is just plain nuts. And since almost every kid who comes here has a special problem of one sort or another, I try never to view them as simply kids. They're individuals, and have to be treated as such."

Sharon paused, staring at a stationary exercise bicycle that had a large screen curved around its front. "What on earth is that for?" she asked, pointing to the screen.

Ames grinned. "Ever used one of those things?" he asked.

Sharon nodded. "I tried one a few years ago. Bought the bike, used it about three times, and sold it. It was the most boring thing I've ever done in my life."

"Try this one," Ames suggested. Sharon hesitated, but then, curious, mounted the bike. To her surprise, she found that the handlebars were not stationary, but moved easily both left and right. Ames crossed to a small computer console and switched it on. "Like San Francisco?" he asked.

Sharon's brows arched. "Who doesn't?"

A moment later the lights dimmed in the gymnasium and the screen in front of Sharon lit up with a bright image of Market Street. She felt as if she were on the right side of the street, facing Twin Peaks, and cars were streaming in both directions. "Start pedaling," she heard Ames tell her.

Her feet began slowly turning the pedals, and to her surprise, the picture on the screen changed.

It was as if she were moving along the street itself.

"Speed up a little and move out into traffic," Ames instructed her. Frowning, Sharon increased the speed of her pedaling, then twisted the handlebars to the left.

The picture shifted, and she felt as if she were in the center of the right lane. She kept pedaling, then heard Ames telling her to turn right up Van Ness Avenue. As the handlebars turned in her hands, the image swung around and she could see the vista of the broad avenue stretching northward. She kept pedaling, watching the familiar scenery of the city unfold before her. She made several more turns, then finally brought the bike to a stop, feeling silly as she realized she had actually pulled it over to the curb again. When the screen went blank and the lights came up, she looked at Ames with awe.

"What is it?" she asked. "How does it work?"

"It's all done with computers," Ames explained. "Practically the whole city north of Market Street and east ofDivisidero is on a laser disk, and the handlebars control it. You can ride all over San Francisco, looking at anything you want. And it simulates the hills, too, so you never have to change the tension on the wheel yourself." He grinned at her. "Now I ask you, was that boring?"

Sharon shook her head. "It's great. I could have kept at that for a couple of hours."

"You and everybody else," Ames observed wryly. "Out here, the problem isn't getting the kids to exercise. It's getting them to stop." He glanced at his watch. "Well, that's about it. Let's go see how Mark's doing."

They started back toward the offices, but as they came into the main lobby, Mark jumped up from a sofa he'd been sprawling on.

"Hi, Mom," he said, grinning at her.

Sharon stared at him.

The bruises on his face looked much better, and where this morning his face had been pale, almost pasty, his cheeks were now tinged a healthy pink. His right eye was still a bit swollen, but he was able to open it, and the shiner glowing darkly beneath it seemed to be healing.

"Mark?" she breathed. "Honey, are you all right? Your chest-"

But Mark only grinned at her. When he'd bounded off the sofa, he hadn't felt a thing in his chest. "I'm fine," he said. "Marty gave me something for my ribs, and they don't hurt at all."

Sharon stared at him for almost a full minute. He looked better than she'd imagined possible.

It wasn't until half an hour later, when they were driving back through the village, that a sudden thought came into her mind.

After his morning at Rocky Mountain High, Mark was almost like the town itself.

Perfect.

Too perfect.