Creature

Chapter Five

CharlotteLaConner knew that Chuck wouldn't approve of what she was about to do, and she was equally certain that he would find out about it. In Silverdale, after all, everyone always knew what everyone else was doing. Not that she particularly objected to the close scrutiny of a small town, she reflected as she put the final touches to the quarterly expense report she was compiling for the R amp;D Division. It was just that every now and then-times like today-she would have preferred a little more privacy.

She pressed the enter key on her computer, waited until the machine announced that the expense report had been successfully transmitted back into the main tank of theTarrenTech computer, then logged off for the day.

Charlotte had been working for only a few months, part of an experiment the company was conducting that, if successful, would allow women in Silverdale to work part-time at home. For now, the experiment was limited to the wives of men working for the company; only one man was participating-BillTangen, whose wife Irene, was a pharmaceutical expert, working full-time while Bill took care of their baby daughter. For Charlotte, the program was working out perfectly. She discovered she liked working alone and got far more done in the space of a few hours than she'd ever accomplished while working full-time in the division offices. This morning, however, she'd found it hard to concentrate, and after finishing the expense report, she decided to call it a day.

It was Rick Ramirez who had been preying on her mind all morning. Indeed, the injured boy had never really been out of her mind. Not that his name had even been mentioned yesterday. Silence had fallen over theLaConner household since the angry scene when Jeff had stormed from the house.

Neither Chuck nor Jeff would discuss it with her.

And that, Charlotte now realized, was what bothered her the most. Her husband and her son had clearly put the terrible incident out of their minds as though nothing at all had happened. But she herself had been unable to escape the image of the Fairfield player lying hurt on the field, and had awakened this morning determined to go to the hospital to see how he was doing.

But why did she feel so guilty about it? What on earth could possibly be wrong with visiting an injured boy?

She could almost see Chuck gazing at her with that look of his, the look that told her he couldn't fathom her thought processes, and that, therefore, there must be something wrong with them. And she could hear him, too, his voice taking on what she thought of as his "logical tone."

"But don't you see? If you go to the hospital, it's as much as admitting that Jeff was somehow responsible for what happened. And even if he were responsible-which he's not-it would still be a mistake. The lawyers could make hay with something like that."

Or was it Chuck's voice she was hearing? Was that really what he'd say, or was it how she herself felt, deep inside?

It didn't matter. Right or wrong, she was going.

Thirty minutes later, forcing herself not to glance around to see who might be watching, she pushed through the doors into the lobby of the small county hospital and stepped up to the counter. From behind the glass Anne Carson smiled at her, then rolled her eyes and pointed meaningfully at the phone she was cradling against her ear. Several times, as Charlotte watched, Anne opened her mouth to say something then closed it again as the person at the other end apparently went right on talking. Finally, though, Anne wearily put the phone back on the hook and slid open the glass panel that separated the waiting room from the office.

"Charlotte! What brings you down here?" Concern spread over her face. "You're not sick, are you?"

Charlotte shook her head. "I… well, I wanted to find out how the Ramirez boy is. From Fairfield?"

"Not good, I'm afraid," she said, then forced a small smile. "He's in room three, down the hall." She hesitated, then understanding Charlotte's distress, said, "It's against the rules, but you can look in on him if you want to."

Charlotte's step slowed as she moved down the corridor, and she came to a complete stop in front of the half-open door to the boy's room. At last, steeling herself, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. There were two beds in the room, but only one of them was occupied. Covered only with a light blanket, his head held rigid in a metal brace, his eyes closed, Rick Ramirez had a strange stillness about him that told Charlotte instantly that he was not merely asleep. She stepped forward and stood beside the boy, gazing down into his face. A lock of curly black hair lay over one eye, and Charlotte instinctively reached out to brush it back.

"Don't touch him," a soft but urgent voice said behind her. Gasping with surprise, Charlotte turned to see a pretty young woman, no more than thirty, coming out of the bathroom that connected this room and the next. "Please," the woman went on. "I can do it." She moved to the bed, and Charlotte stepped aside. Gently, her hand barely caressing the boy's cheek, the woman carefully moved the lock of hair. Then she looked up, her dark eyes meeting Charlotte's. "Who are you?" she asked.

"CharlotteLaConner," Charlotte replied. "I-my son is JeffLaConner. He was in the game-"

Instantly the other woman's eyes flashed with anger. "I know who he is," she said. "He's the boy who hurt my son. I am Maria Ramirez," she added, the words sounding to Charlotte almost like a challenge.

Charlotte swallowed, struggling to control her emotions. "I-I just came to see how your son is." She spoke softly, her voice little more than a whisper. "Is he going to be all right?"

Maria Ramirez's eyes glistened with tears, but when she spoke, her voice was perfectly controlled. "No," she said. "He's not going to be all right. He may never walk again." Though she saw Charlotte recoil from her words, Maria went relentlessly on. "He might not even live, Mrs.LaConner. Your son might very well have killed my boy."

Charlotte closed her eyes, as if the gesture might shut away the reality of Maria Ramirez's words. But when she opened them, the slim Chicano woman was still staring at her. "Is-Is there anything I can do?" Charlotte whispered. "Anything at all?"

Maria Ramirez shook her head. Charlotte moved forward then and reached out as if to touch the woman, but Maria shrank away from her. Silently, Charlotte turned to go. But when she was at the door, Maria spoke once more.

"Make him stop, Mrs.LaConner. Make your son stop playing that game. If he doesn't, he'll hurt someone else."

Charlotte turned back and nodded. "I will, Mrs. Ramirez. You can be very certain of that. Jeff has played his last game."

But as she walked out of the hospital and into the bright glare of the high, noonday sun, Charlotte wondered whether or not she would be able to back up her words. In the twenty years she'd been married to Chuck, she had yet to win a major argument. Inevitably his logic won out over her own emotionalism.

Blake Tanner had spent the morning touring theTarrenTech facility with Jerry Harris. At almost every turn his amazement had increased.

When he'd arrived that morning, he'd been surprised at the apparent lack of security in the building, but Jerry had quickly disabused him of that notion.

"The television cameras have been tracking you since you came within a quarter of a mile of the shop, he explained. "A description of your car and its plate number is already in the memories, and it also did a match to a photograph of you. In addition, we have a whole series of perimeter alarms buried in the ground around the building, and backup systems in case anyone is smart enough to get around the main system. Not that we've ever had a problem," he added, a note of smugness coming into his voice. "In all the years we've been here, there hasn't been so much as a single attempt to breach our defenses."

Jerry Harris spoke as thoughTarrenTech were a fortress and he its commanding officer. And as they began their tour of the building, Blake saw that the comparison was apt. Deceptively small when viewed from the outside, the building extended four floors below ground level. "No point alerting anyone as to how much we're doing here," Jerry had pointed out, chuckling softly.

They'd gone first to the software section, where a group of top programmers, all of them casually dressed, were working at computer terminals or whispering quickly to each other in the strange programming language that Blake had never been able to comprehend. "We have an Artificial Intelligence unit working here," Jerry said in reply to Blake's inquisitive glance. "We're far ahead of the guys in Palo Alto and Berkeley, but of course they don't know it. In fact, as far as they know, we're only working on a new operating system to compete with Microsoft."

Blake nodded. He'd heard the rumors himself and had already begun working on marketing strategies.

"Except," Jerry went on, smiling broadly, "it's a bunch of bullshit."

Blake gaped at him, and his boss laughed out loud.

"Do you think Ted Thornton's dumb enough to go up against Microsoft on their own turf? We started the rumor ourselves, and managed to get it going really well by sending a few guys to Berkeley and Palo Alto." His eyes fairly glittered with pride and amusement as he told the story. "The reason they wanted out ofTarrenTech, supposedly, was that they were bored with operating systems and wanted to get into A.I. So we now have our men in both places, and no one has caught on yet."

Blake shook his head in wonder. They moved on then, wandering through a maze of laboratories. One of them was experimenting in superconductors, concentrating on ceramics, and others were experimenting with new forms of bubble technology. Finally, they entered the pharmaceutical labs and at last encountered a security guard. Though he didn't ask them for any identification, he watched carefully as they donned lab coats and covered their faces with masks.

"Of course, this isn't much protection if anything's loose in here," Jerry said, "but it's better than nothing. And our containment has been about as good as it can get. In five years we've never had a bug get loose. Not even within the lab itself."

"Bug?" Blake asked, hesitating at the door. "What's going on in there?"

Jerry's smile was hidden by his mask. "Research. The big push right now, of course, is AIDS, but we're involved in a lot of other things, too. And you don't have to worry about AIDS-in the conditions here, it would be next to impossible for you to be exposed to it. Come on."

He opened the first of a double set of locked doors; as soon as they had stepped inside, the doors automatically closed behind them, sealing them in the antechamber. A moment later the second set of doors was released. Then they were in the lab itself. Jerry did his best to explain what was going on, but when the talk began to involve DNA and genetic engineering, Blake was lost.

"And now," Jerry Harris announced nearly an hour later, after they'd left the labs and returned to the first floor, "we come to my personal favorite part of the whole installation." He pushed open a door and they stepped into a long, sky-lit room, with cages along one wall. "The animal room," Jerry said, his voice taking on a note of excitement that went beyond anything Blake had heard before that morning. He grinned like a kid. "I must come in here at least three times a day," he said. They walked slowly along the row of cages. At almost every one of them Jerry stopped to murmur to the mice, rats, or guinea pigs. When they came to a cage full of white rabbits, Jerry opened the door and carefully lifted one of the animals out. He cradled it gently in his hands, and Blake was instantly reminded of his own son. Jerry seemed to read his mind.

"It was Mark who got me started. I always liked Robb's guinea pigs, but there's something about rabbits that always gets to me. I guess they always seem so friendly or something."

Blake's brows pulled together in a puzzled frown. "But they're lab animals, aren't they?"

Jerry's eyes clouded for a moment, then cleared. "I guess I just try not to think about that," he said quietly. "I try not to get too attached to any of them, but sometimes, well-" He broke off suddenly and put the rabbit back in the cage. "Come on," he said. "Let's go take a look at the monkeys."

They moved to the end of the room where, in a large cage well equipped with rings, bars, and branches of trees, a small troop of spider monkeys chattered amongst themselves. As they approached, the monkeys fell silent, their wary eyes gazing suspiciously at the two men for a long moment, until, as if satisfied about something, their attention shifted back to one another and they returned to their grooming and murmuring.

"They recognize people, you know," Jerry said quietly. "They were looking to see if one of us was the lab tech. They always know that that means one of them is going to be taken away and not brought back. I've been thinking of having someone different do it each time, but I'm afraid if I did, the troop might become frightened of everyone."

They watched the monkeys silently for a few minutes, then Jerry Harris turned away. "Well, back to the grind, I suppose," he sighed.

They were no more than five steps from the big cage when they heard a loud screech of pure animal fury and both men spun around to see a large male-almost a third larger than any of the others-reach out and grab one of the smaller males around the neck. Its eyes glittering with rage, the larger one sank its teeth into the smaller one's shoulder, and then, as the smaller one began to scream in agony, the larger animal began shaking it.

Blake stared at the two monkeys in shock, but Jerry Harris instantly reached out and hit a button on the wall. A loud bell began to ring, the doors at the far end of the room flew open, and three attendants came running toward them.

"The hose!" Harris called. "Bring the hose!"

While two of the attendants advanced toward the cage, the third wheeled back and disappeared for a moment. When he returned, he was clutching the nozzle of a fire hose that snaked out behind him.

The smaller of the two monkeys was already dying, blood spurting from the torn artery in its neck. But the bigger one, apparently oblivious to the crimson fluid with which it was being drenched, kept shaking the body of the smaller one.

Finally, the attacker dropped the limp body of its victim to the floor of the cage. Grasping the now-dead creature by its feet, he began swinging it around, maniacally smashing its head against the bars of the cage.

Fighting down a wave of nausea, Blake turned away from the gruesome spectacle, but Jerry Harris, his face ashen and his jaw tight, kept watching, directing the activities of the three attendants.

"Turn on the water," he shouted. "He'll drop it as soon as you hit him."

The blast of water nearly knocked the attendant who was holding the nozzle off his feet. But as Harris had predicted, the large monkey, still screaming with rage, dropped the corpse of its victim. Immediately he was pinned against the bars at the far end of the cage.

While the attendant with the hose kept the animal immobile with the pounding stream of water, another quickly fired a tranquilizing dart into the raging creature. Not more than three seconds later the large monkey slumped to the floor.

"Jesus," Blake breathed when it was all over. "What the hell happened in there?"

Harris hesitated a moment while he seemed to regain control of himself. As the attendants began the work of herding the rest of the troop into the sleeping quarters behind the main portion of the cage so they could remove the bodies of the two fallen monkeys, he took Blake's arm and drew him toward the door.

"It happens sometimes," he said, his voice quavering. "Something happens to an animal when it's kept in a cage. It might seem perfectly normal for years, but then, all of a sudden, it can just go berserk." He glanced at Blake. "Haven't you ever seen the big cats pacing back and forth in a zoo? Especially in the small cages? Well, I don't think they're just exercising. If you ask me, they've just gone completely psychotic. They'd be better off dead."

They were back in Jerry Harris's office before Blake spoke again. "If you feel that way," he said, "then how can you stand to know that every one of those animals back there is going to die in our labs?"

Harris managed a thin smile. "It's my job," he said, a trace of bitterness apparent in his voice. "And I keep telling myself that the research we do, and the lives we might save, are worth what we're doing to the animals."

Blake thought about it for a moment, then slowly nodded. "And what am I doing out here?" he finally asked. "From what I've seen, you don't need a marketing man at all."

Apparently relieved to have the subject changed, Jerry Harris tossed a file across his desk to Blake. "You're going to be doing a lot," he said. "You're going to know every facet of what's going on out here, and even if you don't understand the technology-which I don't, myself-you're at least going to know what we're trying to do. You've always been good with people, Blake, and whether you agree or not, that's what marketing is all about. Showing people why they need what you have. Out here, of course, you'll be doing a lot of what you might call public relations as well. And you can start with that." Harris nodded toward the file, and Blake picked it up. He opened it curiously, and was surprised to find that it was a medical file.

It was the file on Ricardo Ramirez.

Puzzled, Blake Tanner gazed questioningly at Jerry Harris.

"TarrenTechwill be picking up every one of the medical costs for that boy," Harris told him. "Whatever he needs- surgeons, specialists, physical therapists-the works."

Blake smiled cynically, certain he understood. "On the theory that it can't cost more than a lawsuit," he commented. But to his surprise, Harris shook his head.

"There won't be any lawsuit," he said. "No grounds. It was clearly an accident." He leaned back and put his hands behind his head. "We're in a unique situation here, Blake," he said. "Silverdale was a tiny town when we arrived.TarrenTech came in and changed everything. Essentially, we rebuilt the town from scratch, right down to the schools and library. There was some opposition at first, but we asked the people who were here to trust us, and they did. And we've never failed in that trust." He pointed to the file in Blake's hands. "Legally, no one in Silverdale is responsible for what happened to that boy. But that isn't going to help him, is it?"

Blake shifted in his seat, feeling suddenly embarrassed about his own cynicism of a moment ago. "No," he agreed, "I don't suppose it is."

Harris's voice took on a heavy note of authority. "So as far as I personally, and this company as an entity, are concerned, since the accident happened here, we have a moral responsibility. Ricardo Ramirez will be taken care of, and there will be no cutting of corners. Whatever he needs, he'll get, and for as long as he needs it. If it comes to the worst, the company is prepared to set up a permanent annuity for him." Once again his eyes met Blake's. "His mother says Rick intends to be a doctor when he grows up. He has the grades for it, and he seems to have the drive as well." He paused for a moment, then went on. "Keep that in mind when you start thinking about how to set up a trust. I should imagine a boy like Rick would have treated his mother pretty well, all things considered. In the event that he can't, we will."

Blake Tanner blinked. The implications of what Jerry Harris was saying could be enormous. "Have you talked to Ted Thornton about this?" he asked.

Harris smiled thinly. "I didn't have to," he said. "It's Ted's policy. And it's a policy," he added, "that I happen to be in one-hundred-percent agreement with.TarrenTech made this town. We are, one way or another, responsible for everything that happens here. And we don't shirk that responsibility."

When he left Harris's office that morning, Blake Tanner had a new respect for the company-and the people-he worked for. Silverdale, he was beginning to suspect, was not simply going to be a new step in his career.

It might very well change his life.

Mark Tanner found himself walking home alone after school. He had waited in front of the building for Linda Harris for twenty minutes, and when she hadn't shown up, he'd finally wandered around to the back. Just as he'd rounded the corner of the building, the door from the boys' locker room had flown open and the football squad, dressed in practice gear, had trotted out onto the playing field. He'd called out to Robb Harris, but either Robb hadn't heard him or had chosen to ignore him. He was about to call out again when the coach appeared and Mark realized that perhaps neither had been true. For as the coach had approached the squad, all of whom were standing in a neat formation, he had suddenly stopped and glared at one of the boys in the rear rank.

"Fifty push-ups!" he'd shouted. "Now!"

As Mark watched, the boy had immediately dropped to the ground and begun pumping his body up and down. It wasn't until he'd already completed ten of the push-ups that Mark realized what the boy's infraction had been.

He'd waved to one of the girls on the drill team, which was already in the midst of its practice session on the next field. "Holy shit," Mark whispered to himself. He started to turn away, then heard Linda calling his name. Looking up, he saw her waving to him.

"Hi," he said as he walked over to where she was standing with three other girls and two boys. "I was sort of looking for you."

"Cheerleading practice," Linda told him. "And then I have to go over to the library. Want to wait for me?"

Mark shook his head. "Can't," he said. "Mom needs me to help her with the unpacking." He hesitated. "Do you practice every day?"

Linda smiled and shook her head. "Just three days a week, and once during the evening before a game." Their eyes met for a moment, and then, feeling himself reddening, Mark turned away.

"Well, see you tomorrow, I guess," he mumbled.

He didn't see Linda smiling after him, nor did he see JeffLaConner, who had paused on the football field for a moment, staring speculatively in his direction.

Instead of going directly home, Mark decided to walk down Colorado Street to the shopping district, look around for a few minutes, then cut back over to Telluride Drive. He walked slowly, gazing at each of the houses as he passed, his mind already framing the ornate Victorian-style buildings in the lens of his camera. Almost every one of them, he decided, was worth a picture.

Calendar shots, that's what they looked like.

He filed the idea away, wondering what you did to sell pictures for calendars.

A quarter of an hour later he came to the small collection of buildings, all facing on a little square, that served as Silverdale's downtown section. Like the rest of the town, the commercial area looked like something out of another century. It was a series of free-standing buildings, most of them of wood-frame construction in a style that reminded Mark of a western movie. Wooden sidewalks, raised above the narrow, bricked street by a couple of steps, connected the buildings, and there was a large parking lot laid out behind the Safeway store. The street itself seemed only to be used by pedestrians and a couple of dogs that lay sunning themselves in the middle of the road. Mark stopped to scratch one of the dogs. When he looked up, he saw a camera shop, the nameSpaldings emblazoned in bright blue letters over the door. The shop was small, tucked into the narrow space between the drugstore and the hardware store.

It was then the idea came to him.

If he had a job after school, there was no way his father could insist that he go out for sports.

Straightening up, he tucked his shirt neatly into his jeans, then walked into the camera store. From behind the counter a friendly-looking man with gray hair and wire-framed glasses smiled genially at him.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked.

"Are you Mr. Spalding?" Mark asked.

The man nodded. "None other. And who might you be?"

"Mark Tanner," Mark replied. "I just moved here, and I was wondering if maybe you needed some help. Just part-time, after school and maybe on weekends."

Henry Spalding's brows arched skeptically. For a moment Mark was certain he was going to be turned down flat. Then, to his surprise, Spalding cocked his head thoughtfully. "Well, actually, I've been thinking about some help. Ski season is coming, and that always brings some people around. Then there's Christmas, and whatnot." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But it's evenings I'd need."

Mark thought quickly. What difference did it make? If he was working in the evenings, he'd have to do his studying in the afternoons. "That's okay," he said. "That would be perfect."

Spalding disappeared into the tiny office at the back of the store and returned with a crumpled and stained job-application form. "Well, why don't you fill this out, and then we can talk," he said, handing the application to Mark. As Mark fished a pen out of the bottom of his book bag, Spalding regarded him speculatively. "What team are you on?" he asked. "You look kind of small for football. Tennis, maybe? Or baseball?"

Mark shook his head, not looking up from the form. "I'm not on any of the teams," he said. "I'm… well, I guess I'm a lot better at photography than I am at sports."

Suddenly Mr. Spalding's hand appeared in Mark's line of sight, pulling the application back.

"Not on any team?" he heard the man asking, and looked up to see Spalding gazing quizzically at him.

"N-No," Mark stammered. "Why?"

"Why, because it makes all the difference in the world," Spalding told him. "This is Silverdale, son. Here, we support our teams. And that includes making sure they get first pick of the part-time jobs." Then, seeing the look of disappointment in Mark's eyes, he tried to soften the blow. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give the school a call tomorrow and sort of see what's what. Maybe nobody on the teams will want the job here. And if they don't, then you can surely have it yourself."

Mark bit his lip and managed to thank Henry Spalding before he picked up his book bag and backed out of the little shop. But as he started home, he knew that there would be no job for him at Spalding's camera shop.

After all, he'd overheard one of the boys in his photography class talking that morning about looking for a job until baseball season started.

As he turned onto Telluride Drive, Mark began to wonder if maybe he wasn't wrong about Silverdale after all. A week ago it had all seemed so exciting.

Now it didn't seem exciting at all.