Creature (20 page)

“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 Dick Kennally 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 Chuck LaConner.

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 of TarrenTech’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 Jeff LaConner 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 Chuck LaConner 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 Randy Stevenses, 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 the Harrises 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 that 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.
“Was
it an 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 what TarrenTech 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 if TarrenTech truly believed that 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 the LaConners themselves?

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

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

* * *

Chuck LaConner 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, not ungently, 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 Dick Kennally 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.