Creature

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sharon could see the Rocky Mountain High campus now. It was only a quarter of a mile ahead, but the large building in the center of the lawns and playing fields was clearly visible, and as she approached it, Sharon found herself wondering how she could ever have thought that it looked like anything but a prison. Now that she was certain that something evil was happening within its rustic-looking walls, the lodge had taken on a forbidding look that sent a chill down her spine.

She slowed the car and turned up the side road that led toward the sprawling grounds of the sports center, telling herself that the eerie feeling she suddenly had of being watched was only a trick of her imagination. Against her will she found herself looking around, examining every tree she passed, searching for signs of a sophisticated security system. And yet she knew her observations were futile, for if, indeed, a system of cameras and alarms guarded the premises, surely it would have been designed to be totally invisible.

She slowed the car even more as she approached the gates, resisting her impulse to turn around and go back to town. But even if she did, what could she say? An image of herself striding into the tiny Silverdale police department came to mind. She could picture the skeptical looks of guarded incredulity on the officers' faces as she tried to tell them she was certain her son had been made the victim of some kind of medical experimentation. At best they would dismiss her as a crank; at worst they'd consider her deranged. And so she drove on, passing through the gates and starting along the drive toward the lodge itself.

Glancing into the rearview mirror, she saw the gates swing slowly closed behind her. For an instant a wave of panic threatened to engulf her. Had she come here only to become a prisoner?

She told herself it was ridiculous, that the situation couldn't be nearly as serious as she was letting herself imagine it. And yet, as she parked Elaine Harris's car in front of the lodge, left the keys dangling in the ignition, and mounted the steps to the wide veranda, she had to fight down the urge to turn and run away.

She touched the front door almost tentatively, only realizing as it started to open that she'd half expected to find it locked. When she stepped into the lobby itself and saw that it was deserted, she felt her senses heighten, her nerves begin to tingle.

Danger.

She sensed danger all around her.

But nothing in the lobby had changed since the last time she'd been here.

The same comfortable sofas and chairs were arranged in groups on the polished hardwood floors, and in the immense hearth, a fire had been laid. A few magazines were scattered on the top of the large burl coffee table that separated two of the sofas. Rocky Mountain High still looked for all the world like the lobby of a resort hotel.

Except that nobody was there.

She walked through the lobby to the dining room, her heels echoing loudly on the bare floor, then turned left and headed toward the suite of offices that belonged to Martin Ames.

The feeling of being watched-of having her every movement closely monitored-increased. Twice she found herself glancing back over her shoulder, anticipating seeing someone behind her, moving up close to her, ready to seize her.

But the corridor remained empty, and then she was standing at the closed door to Ames's office. She hesitated a moment, reached out and twisted the knob.

She pushed the door open.

Marjorie Jackson glanced up from the phone. As she recognized Sharon, an expression of surprise came into her eyes. She stopped dialing and dropped the receiver she was holding back in its cradle.

"Well," she exclaimed a little too brightly. "I guess I can stop trying to track you down, can't I?"

It was the last thing Sharon had expected to hear. She stared at Ames's assistant, nonplussed. "Y-You've been trying to reach me?" she asked.

Marge Jackson pursed her lips sympathetically. "You must have already heard about Mark," she said.

Sharon recovered then and nodded tersely. "I want to see him," she said. "And I want to know why he was brought here."

The smile faded from Marjorie Jackson's lips, and her brow creased fretfully. "Oh, dear," she said. "I-I'm not certainyoucan see Mark right now. I believe he's in treatment with Dr. Ames. If you'll just let me check-" She reached for the phone again, but Sharon cut her off.

"What kind of treatment?" she demanded. "No one here has any right to treat my son without my permission. The school had no right to send him here, and you have no right to treat him."

Mrs. Jackson seemed stunned by the cold anger in Sharon's voice. "Mrs. Tanner-I-I'm not sure what to say. Perhaps there's been some mistake."

"The only mistake," Sharon said, her voice harsh, "was my husband letting Mark get involved at all in whatever's going on out here."

"But he's ill, Mrs. Tanner," Ames's assistant began again, licking her lips nervously. "We're just trying to help him."

"Is that what you believe?" Sharon flared. She glared at the woman. "Well, let me tell you that Mark was perfectly fine until he came out here. Now where is he?" Her voice rose and she leaned forward, bracing herself on the assistant's desk. "I want to see my son," she said once more. "And I want to see him this instant! Do you understand me?"

Marge Jackson's demeanor changed. Her look of sympathy congealed into officiousness and she rose to her feet. "I understand that you're upset," she said, her voice stern. "And you have a right to be. If my son were ill, I'd be upset, too. But you do not have the right to storm in here making demands that are impossible to meet. We're trying to help your son-at the request of your husband-and if you will calm down, I'm sure Dr. Ames will be able to explain everything to your satisfaction. But he cannot attend to both you and Mark at the same time, so I would suggest that you make up your mind right now what is more important to you-having your questions answered or having your son cared for?"

Sharon took a step backward. Her tone, as well as her words, had pierced Sharon's armor of indignation. She suddenly felt uncertain of herself. What if she were wrong?

As she stood staring at the assistant, trying to judge the sincerity of the woman's words, the silence that had fallen over the office was broken by a faint scream.

Sharon stiffened.

And then it came again, louder this time.

Like a wild animal howling in the night.

Sharon froze, remembering Kelly's nightmare and the sound she had heard drifting through the early morning darkness as she'd opened her daughter's window.

The sound of an animal howling in the night.

She spun around and strode to the door, her mind made up. She knew Mark was here, knew she had to find him. The sound she'd just heard hadn't come from an animal at all.

It had come from a human being.

Or at least something that had once been a human being.

As she stepped into the corridor, two white-coated attendants appeared on either side of her, seizing her arms.

"No!" She tried to jerk free, but knew she had no chance. Both of them were far larger than she was, and their hands closed tighter, digging into her flesh like bands of iron.

My God,itis a prison, she thought as one of the guards gagged her and both of them hustled her along the corridor. It was a prison, and now she was a prisoner.

She knew now that it had indeed been a mistake to come here.

But she also knew it was too late.

Blake Tanner sat staring at the computer terminal in front of him, but his mind refused to focus on the columns of figures that covered the screen. Finally he leaned back, stretched, stood up and walked to the window. He gazed out at the mountains rising to the north and east, their jagged, forbidding peaks covered with snow. In another couple of weeks the skiing season would begin. It had been years since he'd taken the time to go skiing in California, and he was looking forward to it now. In fact, on the coming weekend he might take Mark shopping and get him outfitted for the winter sports ahead.

Mark.

His son had been on his mind all morning. Indeed, he'd gotten little sleep the night before as he'd lain restlessly on the sofa in the den, his head propped up at an awkward angle by the hard pillow that had never been intended to serve as anything more than an armrest. But it was more than the discomfort of the sofa that kept him awake, for despite the stance he'd taken with Sharon, he was beginning to worry about his son, too.

That morning he'd once again gone over the material waiting for him the morning after Mark had been beaten up, when Jerry Harris had first suggested putting his son under Martin Ames's care. And this morning all the data he'd reviewed still looked totally innocuous.

There was a lot of theoretical work, speculating on the relationship between vitamins and hormone production within the human body, and even more data-not all of which Blake had understood-that purported to demonstrate the factual basis of the theorizing. All of it, this morning as well as when he'd first studied it, seemed totally harmless.

Too harmless?

He tried to reject the question but found he couldn't. For if the compounds being administered to Mark were truly as innocuous as the data made them out to be, how could the changes in Mark have taken place so quickly and been so radical?

Nor was it simply a matter of the physical changes- perhaps, if there'd been nothing more, Blake could have accepted them at face value. But the personality changes?

About those Blake wasn't nearly so comfortable, despite the assurances he'd made over and over to Sharon that their son was merely going through the normal vacillations and inconsistencies of adolescence. Indeed, as the night had worn on, he'd begun to wonder whom he'd truly been trying to convince: his wife or himself.

This morning, his eyes heavy with lack of sleep, he'd tried to study Mark as the boy gulped down his orange juice and gobbled a bowl of cold cereal before departing for school, but he still wasn't convinced he'd actually seen anything.

Perhaps, after the argument with Sharon, he'd only imagined that Mark's features looked coarser and his eyes sunken. For a moment he'd thought that Mark's fingers looked oddly oversized, too, but he decided that was ridiculous and dismissed it from his mind.

And yet…

The intercom buzzed, rousing him from his thoughts. He turned away from the window, returned to his desk and pressed a key beneath a flashing light. "Tanner."

"It's Jerry, Blake. Can you come over to my office?"

Though the words were innocent enough, there was something in Jerry Harris's voice that made Blake frown. "Problem?" he asked.

There was an empty silence for a moment, then the speaker in the intercom crackled to life again. "You might say that," Harris finally replied. "Just get over here, will you?"

Blake released the switch and saw the light go out. Leaving his computer screen still glowing with the report he'd been staring at all morning, he headed for the door to the corridor, then changed his mind and went toward his secretary's office instead. As he came out of the inner office, Meg Chandler glanced up at him. "Shall I hold your calls or forward them?"

"Hold them, I guess," he said. Then: "Anything going on this morning?"

The young woman shrugged. "Nothing that I know of. Why?"

Now it was Blake who shrugged. "Who knows? Harris just called me and he sounds sort of…" He hesitated, searching for the right word. "I don't know-sort of funny."

Meg shook her head. "Don't ask me. One thing that's not in my job description is to know what's going on in Jerry Harris's mind."

"Remind me to revise your job description, then," Blake observed darkly as he left the office to go to the suite next door.

Jerry Harris's secretary waved him directly into the inner office, and when he entered, Harris himself waved him to a chair. His voice dropped as he quickly finished the phone conversation he'd been involved in. When he finally turned to face Blake, his eyes were grave.

"I'm afraid we do have a problem," he said. His eyes met Blake's, and suddenly Blake was certain the problem concerned his son.

"It's Mark, isn't it?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

Harris nodded. "I'm afraid he got sick at school this morning," he said. "He's at the sports center right now, and Marty Ames is taking care of him."

"Sick?" Blake echoed. "But-But he was fine this morning." He glanced at his watch. It was barely ten-thirty. "Christ, I only saw him three hours ago! What's wrong?"

Harris took a deep breath, then stood up and came around his desk. He leaned against it, gazing down at Blake. "I'm afraid something's gone wrong with his treatment," he began.

Blake felt a sudden chill. "I-I'm not sure I understand," he replied.

Harris's hands spread in a gesture of helplessness. "I'm not sure I can explain it to you precisely," he said. "As I told you, Ames is doing experimental work and-"

But Blake didn't let him finish. He was on his feet now, his eyes sparkling angrily. "Now, just a minute, Jerry. You told me that what he was doing was perfectly harmless."

Harris shook his head doggedly. "No, I didn't. I said there was an element of risk to it. Slight, yes, but there."

Blake's jaw tightened. "All right," he said, regaining his composure. "Let's not argue about that right now. What's wrong with Mark, and why were you told even before I was?"

Harris's tongue ran nervously over his lower lip. "I guess Ames thought I should be the one to break it to you."

Blake sank back into his chair, his face ashen. His voice desolate, he whispered, "He-He's dead, isn't he?"

Harris took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "Not yet," he said, and saw the tension in Blake ease slightly. "But I'm not going to tell you it can't still happen. In fact," he went on, "you're going to have to prepare yourself for that possibility."

Blake stared up at Harris. "No…"he breathed. "You told me-"

Harris's voice turned cold. "I told you there was an element of risk involved," he said heavily. "And it was you who signed the releases allowing Ames to treat Mark. Nobody forced you."

The words struck Blake like a series of blows. So Sharon had been right all along that something was wrong with the sports center, that whatever they were doing out there wasn't nearly as harmless as Harris had claimed. "Sharon," he said out loud, "I've got to talk to her."

He started to get to his feet, but Harris stopped him with a gesture. "She's at the sports center now, Blake."

For a split-second Blake felt relieved. At least she was there, at least she already knew. Then he realized that Jerry Harris had spoken in the same icy tones he'd used only a moment ago. Before he could say anything else, Harris continued.

"She's out there trying to make trouble." His eyes fixed on Blake. "When we talked about this, you told me there'd be no trouble from Sharon. You assured me that she'd go along with what we're trying to do here!"

Blake's mind reeled. What the hell was Harris talking about? Was he only worried about the company's project? And then, with terrible clarity, he realized that that was exactly the case. He'd been used, manipulated into allowingTarrenTech to use his own son as a guinea pig. But it wasn't possible. The others-

And then he understood.

"JeffLaConner," he breathed. "That's what happened to him, too, isn't it?"

Harris offered a single nod. "Chuck knew the risks, and he knew the payoff." As Blake stared mutely at him, his tone softened. "And this doesn't have to be the end of the world for you, either, Blake. The company is prepared to take care of Mark. If he survives, everything will be done for him. And for you and Sharon, and Kelly, too, life can go on. You'll be transferred, of course, and there will be a major promotion, with a pay raise in keeping with"-he hesitated, groping for the right word-"well, let's just say that although your raise can't possibly compensate for"-he hesitated again, then pushed on-"for your loss, I think you'll find that it's surprisingly generous. And, of course, there will be stock options."

Blake gazed at Jerry Harris, hardly able to recognize him. Was this really the man he'd known for more than a decade and had thought of as a friend? Did he really think that any amount of money, any kind of job, could ever begin to assuage the guilt and loss he would suffer for the rest of his life? It was impossible-incredible! And then he realized that Harris was still speaking.

"… we'll take care of Sharon, too, of course, in the event you aren't able to make her listen to reason. I'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but-"

Take care of Sharon.

Kill her.

That was what the words meant. The translations were battering at his mind now; all the true meanings of the euphemisms he'd heard from Jerry Harris over the past weeks.

"New compound…"

That meant experimental medicine. Hormones?Drugs?Vitamins! How could he have been so stupid!

"We can help Mark…"

That one was easy: we can change your son into someone else. We can make him whatever you want him to be.

"Of course, there's always a slight element of risk."

Your son might die.

"We'll take care of him."

They'd taken care of Ricardo Ramirez, too, but it hadn't kept the boy alive. And Harris had already told him Mark was going to die.

"We'll take care of Sharon."

We'll kill her. If you can't make her listen to reason, if you can't convince her to keep her mouth shut and be happy with a fancy job for you and unlimited money-for he was quite certain the money would indeed be unlimited-then we'll kill her.

Suddenly it all closed in on Blake, and a cold fury, only made more intense by the knowledge that he was as much responsible for what had happened as anyone else, coursed through him. He rose to his feet, staring at Jerry Harris.

"What the hell do you think I am?" he demanded. "Do you really believe I'll trade my son for a raise and a promotion? Do you really think I'll just stand by and let you kill my wife and son? I thought I knew you, Harris, but I don't know you at all!"

Blake shoved Harris aside, slamming him hard against the desk, then jerked the door open.

In the outer office, waiting for him, were two uniformed guards. Their guns were drawn and trained steadily on him.

"I'm afraid we're not going to be able to let you go anywhere, Mr. Tanner," one of them said.

Mark woke up slowly, his mind rising grudgingly from the black depths of unconsciousness. For a few minutes the disorientation was total, then fragments of memory began to come back to him.

The terrible headache he'd suffered during his first class of the day.

Going to see the nurse, with Linda Harris walking beside him, supporting him when the blinding waves of pain threatened to knock him to the floor.

The rage that built in the nurse's office.

Then the terrible confines of the heavy restraints the three attendants had put him in.

He knew where he was now-they'd brought him to the sports center.

He opened his eyes a crack, and for a second was certain that he must be dreaming, for there was heavy wire mesh all around him, fastened to a framework of iron pipes.

He was in a cage.

His eyes popped wide open then, and he swung himself upright, letting his feet drop to the concrete floor of the small cubicle. He was sitting on a bare iron cot that held no mattress whatsoever, and his muscles felt stiff from the cold of the metal. He was still wearing the clothes he'd put on that morning, but his jeans felt tight, and his shirt, one arm ripped almost completely away from it, had lost most of its buttons.

The upper portion of his left arm felt sore. He rubbed it for a moment before noticing the twin punctures where the two needles had been placed, and the shallow cut where the broken needle had been removed.

His shoes felt too tight, and he bent down, loosened the laces, kicked them off and flexed his toes.

Then he heard a sound.

He glanced around, and for the first time saw the rest of the large room in which he was held captive. There were more cages, lining one entire wall, and in the cage two down from his own he saw a strange creature staring back at him. Its lips, stretched taut over enormous teeth, were working spasmodically, and a strangled sound bubbled ominously from its throat.

Mark frowned. It looked almost like some kind of ape, but it wasn't like any ape he'd ever seen before. Then, as the sound issuing from its throat began to take form, he felt a chill.

"Maaaarg…"the creature uttered. Then again, a little clearer this time. "Maaarkhh!"

Mark staggered back. It wasn't possible, and yet as he gazed at the creature and it stood up to reach out to him, its full six-and-a-half feet rising up from the floor where it had been crouching, he realized it was true.

He was staring at what had once been JeffLaConner.

A scream of horror rose in Mark's throat, but he stifled it before it managed to escape his lips. His mind was working furiously now, and he was remembering more.

The fits of rage.

Like Jeff had had, before they'd finally taken him away that night.

The strange changes he'd seen in his own face just last night.

His hands rose to his face and he traced his features with his fingers. They felt different now. His brow was jutting forward, and his nose seemed to have changed, too. And his jaw…

He ran his tongue over the suddenly unfamiliar contours of his teeth. They felt large-too large for his mouth.

Then he looked at his hands.

His fingers, long and thick, seemed to splay out from his enlarged knuckles, and where before his skin had been smooth, tufts of hair were now sprouting on the backs of his hands.

His fingernails, thicker than they should have been, were curving downward, almost like claws.

Panic welled up in him, and again he felt the urge to scream. But again he stifled the urge as his eyes flicked wildly around the room, searching for a means of escape.

That was when he saw what had once been Randy Stevens, no longer in the least recognizable as human, huddled in the corner of one of the cages, chewing obsessively at one finger while his eyes darted aimlessly from one place to another.

Then Mark looked up and saw the television monitor suspended from the ceiling, beyond the confines of his cage.

He recognized the image on the screen at once, and this time an enraged scream rose in his throat before he could contain it.

The image on the screen was that of his mother.

She was sitting on a straight-backed chair, a look of abject terror on her face.

As Mark stared at the image, his maniacal howl rose once more, echoing off the tiles that lined the room, bouncing back at him again and again, then becoming lost in the sounds of his next high-pitched shriek of fury.

The door at the end of the long narrow room flew open and three men hurried in. One of them was unreeling a fire hose and another carried a cattle prod. The third man waited nervously by the door, ready to open the valve as soon as the hose was straightened out.

The first attendant jabbed the cattle prod through the wire mesh of the cage, but before he could trigger it, Mark snatched it from his hands, jerking it into the cage, then shattering it against the side of the cot.

"Get the goddamn water on," he heard the attendant shout. As the hose bulged with the pressurized water of the fire system, Mark hurled himself against the gate.

The mesh bulged out, but held.

Then water spewed from the nozzle, and as the attendant struggled to control it, Mark grasped the wire mesh with both arms and began to shake it, hurling his full weight back and forth. He felt the mesh give slightly, and redoubled his efforts. Finally, as the full force of the jet of water struck him, the mesh gave way, the entire panel covering the cage door coming loose from its frame. Bellowing with rage, Mark threw the mesh aside and plunged through the opening, his hands reaching out to grasp at the nearest attendant. The man screamed as Mark picked him up, his scream cut short as Mark smashed him to the floor. The attendant's head struck the concrete with a crunching noise and immediately a pool of blood began to form around his skull.

The stream of water hit Mark full on the chest then, and he staggered back, his balance momentarily lost. Then, as if spurred on by Mark's own action, JeffLaConner hurled himself against the door of his cage, too, the force of his greater weight enough to burst the mesh from its stays. The attendant with the hose tried to scream a warning, and for a moment the jet of water strayed from Mark. Instantly, Mark threw himself on the man, his right arm snaking around the attendant's neck, then jerking backward. There was a sharp popping sound from the man's spine and he went limp in Mark's grasp. The third attendant froze, stunned into total inaction by what had happened. An instant later, as he realized his danger and tried to slam the door of the room, JeffLaConner leaped past Mark, his fingers closing around the man's throat. While Mark watched, Jeff lifted the man off the floor, shaking him like a rag doll, then spun around, slamming the attendant against the hard tiles of the wall. Dropping the man to the floor, Jeff disappeared out of the door to the cage room.

Mark paused for a moment. All his instincts told him to follow Jeff, to escape while he could! But then his eyes caught a glimpse of Randy Stevens and his mind suddenly cleared. He reached down and ripped the key ring loose from the belt on the body at his feet. Working quickly, he shoved one key after another into the last of the locked cages, until one turned and the door swung open. Leaving the keys where they were, Mark scuttled after JeffLaConner.

In the cage, Randy Stevens gazed blankly at the open door for a few moments, then his eyes focused slightly and he shuffled forward, slowly stepping across the threshold. He paused by the body of the dead attendant for a moment, poking experimentally at the flaccid corpse, then moved on to the man JeffLaConner had slammed against the wall.

That man lay on the floor, his spine shattered, unable to move anything below his waist. He was moaning softly and his fingers were working spasmodically at the floor as he tried to drag himself toward the door.

Randy studied him curiously for a moment, then reached out and jabbed at the man with one finger.

The man screamed in agony, his face turning pale as the blood drained out of it.

Chuckling insanely, Randy repeated the jab, then repeated it once more. As each jab produced its scream, Randy's giggling increased, as did the pace of his mindless game of torture.

It wasn't until the man fell silent-overcome by his pain to the point where he passed out-that Randy at last lost interest in the hideous sport.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, he shuffled slowly out the door.

His head weaved from side to side as he looked first in one direction, then in the other. Finally, mindlessly, he drifted away down the hall, snuffling softly as he tried to follow the scents of JeffLaConner and Mark Tanner.

But of course, it had been months since Randy had been capable of putting names to anything, human or otherwise.

For Randy, the transformation from human to beast had long since been completed.

Now, in the manner of the creature he had become, it was time for him to expand his territory.