Hunter (50 page)

"No more secrets," Hunter said, facing Hamilton squarely. "I know what it's looking for. And I know you could have stopped the killing at any time. But you didn't."

Hamilton displayed rare surprise.

"You are an exceptionally astute individual, Mr. Hunter." For a moment, he appeared to regard Hunter with awe. "Yes, exceptionally astute. What was your first clue that it was searching for something? It could have been wreaking vengeance, you know. Moreover, it could merely have been exercising animal savagery against the only populations that its diseased human mind could recall. And yet...your certainty is complete. You know, indeed, that it was searching and, even, what it was searching for. But how? Would you tell me? I am most curious."

Even without looking for it, Hunter saw a shadow on the floor adjacent to a large computer terminal. But there was no sound. And he tried to follow the almost imperceptible shifting with peripheral vision because he didn't know whether it was Chaney or Bobbi Jo or the creature.

There was always a chance the military might have missed something, some hidden tunnel or gateway that wasn't recorded on the blueprints. His toes curled slightly down within his moccasins as he tensed, preparing to move in any direction at a split-second's warning. And in the short pause he decided to tell Hamilton what the scientist so badly wanted to hear, buying precious time, finishing the charade.

"It was at the research station," Hunter said, with the faintest shadow of a mocking sneer. "That was your first mistake."

Hamilton stared. "Yes? Well, what was there to find? Our sanitation team, and this is no empty boast, are quite thorough about removing evidence, ensuring our secrecy. We use them all over the world for a number of situations. And they thoroughly swept the station long before you arrived."

"I know," Hunter said, unimpressed. "And they did a good job; there was nothing to find. And that was their mistake, Doctor. They did too good a job. And in the wrong places."

"What do you mean?"

"It's the same with men as with animals, Doctor. Nothing moves in the world, anywhere, without leaving a sign—a trace of itself. The same rules apply in civilized environments." Hunter searched for the shadow, saw
nothing. "This creature attacked the station, the soldiers, and he left traces of himself. Then he attacked the personnel, the lab techs, and left more traces. Tracks, claw marks, blood that told me where he was going, where he'd been, what he was thinking. And then he attacked the installation it-self, leaving even more traces. All of it like pages in a book. Everything that happens is told in the tracks, or in the pages. All you have to do is know how to read them."

"Yes," Hamilton responded, "I follow your reasoning. But that still does not explain how you deduced that the creature was searching for something
, which I myself find quite fascinating.”

"It's just like I said, Doctor. Every room in every installation told a story." Hunter paused. "Except one."

Hamilton seemed to perceive it.

"The vault," the scientist said simply, with a faint smile.

"Yeah. The vault. The only chamber that that thing didn't destroy. And yet it destroyed everything else. So there was a page missing from the story." Hunter caught a glimmer of response in the doctor's eyes. "It's fairly simple to follow a track, once you know where to begin," he continued. "So after I searched the vault and didn't find any traces of the creature, I knew something was wrong. So I searched it again, and found some lines where your crew, probably wearing biohazard suits, had worked the most diligently at sanitation. I suppose you know where that would be."

"Oh, yes." Hamilton smiled, clearly enjoying the endgame. "At the refrigeration module."

"Where your crew removed every trace of its entry," Hunter continued. "And I wondered: why remove traces of this thing's entry into that one chamber while ignoring what it did throughout the rest of the complex? And the answer seemed fairly obvious."

Hamilton almost spoke, some fevered dimension of his personality taking pleasure in this spirited contest of intellects, but with visible effort he restrained himself.

"So I located the module's manifest and ran an inventory, and I located all of the serums that were supposed to be there," Hunter continued, allowing Hamilton the juvenile pleasure of finishing.

"Except one," the scientist contributed magnanimously.

"Yeah. Except one."

"HD-66." Hamilton shook his head, a slightly satisfied smile.

"Exactly. Which didn't mean much to me at the time. But I knew it would mean something sooner or later. Then, when the third facility was destroyed, it was the same thing. HD-66 was missing from the serum module with the area swept clean. No traces, no tracks. Another missing page. So I knew that this entire scenario somehow revolved around HD-66. But, still, I didn't know what it was. I didn't even know enough to run it past the professor because it was just numbers on a page. Its existence had been erased." Hunter stared evenly. "Sometimes by erasing tracks, Doctor, you make them more visible."

Undaunted, Hamilton beamed. "And yet, Mr. Hunter, despite your amazing deduction, you were still unenlightened as to the specific purpose, and salient characteristics, of HD-66."

"At the time." Hunter opened his eyes wider. "But with what I've seen, I believe I understand, at last."

"Really?" Hamilton was openly amazed. "Well, why don't you tell me? Because, as much as I would like to believe you, I find it an incredible suspension of reason to imagine that you could somehow deduce the purpose of a substance that you have never seen or studied. In truth, the only means by which you could understand the properties of HD-66 would be through a diagramed molecular synthesis. Which, of course, you do not possess."

"There are two ways to understand something, Doctor. You can know the thing itself. Or you can understand the world around it."

Hamilton seemed abruptly lost.

"I don't quite ..."

"It was you, Doctor."

Hesitation.

"You say it was I?" Hamilton repeated. "How so?"

"Your pride was your downfall, Doctor. Your arrogance. Your self-righteousness. Your greed. Your self-serving satisfaction of your dreams of grandeur. Your maniacal pursuit of scientific glory at the expense of human dignity."

Hunter could determine by the furrowed brow and utterly confused expression that the eminent Dr. Arthur Hamilton was dumbstruck. He decided to end the mystery.

"While you were sleeping last night, Doctor, you weren't the only one in your rather opulent bedchamber. The fact is, I was with you for quite some time."

For the first time, fear was visible in the scientist's pale eyes.

"Yeah, I was there," Hunter repeated calmly and matter-of-factly. "And I searched the entire room, but I didn't find any solid clues. You're quite disciplined at leaving all research materials in the laboratory."

"Yes," the scientist acknowledged, recovering from the shock of Hunter's unknown intrusion. "I am, indeed. And what did you find during your nocturnal skulking, Mr. Hunter? There is no documentation whatsoever in my personal quarters."

"That's what I mean." Hunter almost smiled, but restrained the impulse. "But it's like I said, everything leaves a trace of where it's been, where it's going, what it's thinking. And you're no different from the rest of us. A person just has to know how to read the signs."

"And what was this trace of the truth that you keep mentioning with such obscurity?"

"You, Doctor."

Slight surprise glimmered in the narrow eyes.

"Please elucidate," he said.

Hunter half-laughed. "Like I said, I already knew a great deal. I knew that you had somehow created this thing—a creature that once belonged on the earth, but doesn't anymore. And I knew that it was searching for the rest of the serum. The only question left to answer was why." A pause. "After searching your room, I was about to leave when I noticed the book you'd been reading before you'd fallen asleep."

There was concentrated remembrance, and then the scientist slowly nodded. "Yes," he mused, a thoughtful pursing of the lips. "Heart of Darkness. How observant."

"One of my habits."

"Of course." He laughed with a mocking mirth. "But, please, continue. I am fascinated with your deductive abilities and am well on my way to genuine admiration."

Hunter sensed the shadow glide another few inches. It appeared to be slowly working a path through the computers and desks to a flanking position on the guards.

"So," he added, "I saw that you were reading Heart of Darkness. Joseph Conrad. And that was curious to me, considering the gravity of our situation. Because usually, in times of crisis, a man will focus his entire energy and attention on the situation until it's resolved. Especially a man such as yourself. A man consumed with his work, and with himself. So I picked it up and paged to a well-worn section that had a single sentence underlined. And in that entire book it was the only sentence emphasized. I know, because I checked." Hunter recited from memory: " ‘
The mind of man is capable of anything because everything is buried inside it – all the past as well as all the future
.' "

Hamilton's smile was approving. "And then you knew."

"Yeah, I knew," Hunter said, with no tinge of pride. "I had decided a while back that HD-66 was a serum. But for what, I didn't know. Just like I didn't know why the creature wanted it so badly. All I knew for certain was that it wasn't going to stop until it found it. And then, with that, I understood why."

Hunter, although he was virtually unarmed and outnumbered, controlled the atmosphere now with the straightforwardness of his will, his utter lack of fear, and his unflinching moral courage in the face of insurmountable odds. He could read their reluctant respect in their posture and silence, though he knew it would not alter their intentions for him. He finished his thought.

"That thing out there, which you're responsible for, wants to remember all that it was because its past is somehow genetically remembered in its DNA coding," he concluded. "But the serum that transformed your colleague wasn't only imperfect, it was incomplete, wasn't it?"

Hamilton shrugged. "It was
...experimental. At that stage, we were still fundamentally unaware of what, exactly, we were dealing with."

"I know. So, not only did the experimental formula transform your friend into something that was neither animal nor man, the DNA had insufficient coding to fully restore the creature's genetic memory." Hunter was so confident of his reasoning that Hamilton's assertion, or a dispute if it had come, would have meant nothing at all. "Its genetic memory is and always has been incomplete, and it knows that. So it wants the part of itself that's missing. And whatever remains of your colleague knows where to find it. And that's why it's been destroying the research facilities. It's searching." He shook his head. "Yes, Doctor, it wants HD-66, its own heart of darkness, so that its cellular memory will be restored. It wants the serum so that the transformation is absolute."

Hamilton stared for a moment, a condescending grin spreading slowly, before he clapped his hands. "Bravo, Mr. Hunter!" He laughed. "And I had categorized you as a base wild man filling an inconsequential existence with inconsequential thoughts. But you have truly astounded me— a rare pleasure for a man such as myself." He nodded curtly, dropping hands to his sides. "I congratulate you. This was a remarkable intellectual accomplishment."

Despite the steel reasoning required to assimilate all he had learned into a definitive explanation, despite the haughty harassment of Hamilton, despite the finely focused attention of the guards, Hunter had not failed to follow the shadow of the still-unknown intruder as it maneuvered into position behind the masked soldiers. He knew from the lack of overt aggression that it was not the creature; the beast used no subtlety in attacking. So he felt certain that it was someone from upstairs. But whether that person intended to assist him, or not, remained a mystery.

"And now"—Hamilton turned his head to the guards, nodding curtly—"I am afraid that—"

Hunter moved.

Exploding in a violent movement not telegraphed at all, he leaped forward and collided hard with Hamilton to take them together over a computer dais—a wild and twisted tangle of arms and legs—to the other side. Paper and laboratory materials scattered chaotically at the impact and reckless descent, and Hunter was first on his feet, volcanically heaving the scientist around as a shield, his Bowie knife already at Hamilton's throat. Before Hunter spoke a single word Hamilton's upraised hands halted the onrushing guards.

"Stay where you are, you fools!" he bellowed, suddenly graceless. Hunter was amazed he had swung the situation around with a single dynamic move. He pushed the old man forward, hoping to control the situation by ruthlessly taking advantage of their temporary confusion and emotional shock.

Then the large figure of Brick erupted on the far side of a bookcase— the soundless shadow Hunter had followed so long.

The big man held the large, double-barreled Weatherby in both hands with pistols and grenades and extra ammo attached to his brown vest. A leather bandoleer of huge bullets was slung from shoulder to hip, and in a flashing glance Hunter registered yet another rifle—some kind of semiautomatic—slung across his back.