Creature (37 page)

Or at what had once been her son.

Jeff was still barely recognizable as having once been human. Indeed, it was still possible to recognize his blue eyes peering out from their sunken sockets. His face was twisted now, and his jaw had grown heavier. His teeth, protruding from his mouth, had forced themselves out of alignment as they grew, and now he could no longer close his mouth at all.

His shoulders had broadened grotesquely, and at the ends of his arms, which now hung below his knees, his hands had grown into massive clubs out of which sprouted the gnarled, twisted claws that were his fingers.

It was from Jeff’s throat that the hideous sounds of rage were boiling forth. As Charlotte watched in paralyzed horror, he hurled himself from one side of the cage to the other, tearing at the mesh until his fingers bled.

Ames pushed the wheelchair closer. Suddenly Jeff caught sight of his mother for the first time. A howl surged up from the depth of his torso as his eyes fixed on her, blazing with uncontrolled fury. As the roar of pure rage resounded through the room, bounding off the tiled walls to assault Charlotte from every direction, Jeff threw himself toward the front of the cage. There was a narrow gap there, a small hatchway through which attendants could slide a bowl of food. Jeff’s right arm snaked through the tiny space.

His hand closed around Charlotte’s throat, his long fingers completely encircling her neck, the claws that were his fingernails digging deeply into her flesh.

She tried to scream once more, but this time her entire throat was closed by the pressure of Jeff’s grip and no sound came out at all.

And then, with a sudden jerk of his wrist, Jeff snapped his mother’s neck.

Ames stared at the spectacle before him in silence for a moment, then reached out and pressed a button near the door. Immediately an alarm sounded. A few seconds later three attendants burst into the room, only to stop dead as they saw Charlotte’s body, still held tight in Jeff’s hands.

“Jesus,” one of them whispered. “What the hell—”

“I couldn’t stop it,” Ames broke in. “She pushed herself toward the cage, and he just grabbed her.” Then his voice grew angry. “Don’t just stand there like idiots—get the hose!”

Instantly, one of the attendants pulled a fire hose from its rack on the wall, expertly flipping the kinks out of it as another twirled the valve that would release the torrent of water.

It took two of them, gripping the nozzle together, to keep it under control and aim it at Jeff.

The stream of water struck him in the chest, and for a moment he seemed surprised by what had happened. He looked up, bellowing with rage, then released his mother’s neck and staggered back a step. Then both his hands closed
on the wire mesh and he braced himself against the force of the water, screaming mindlessly at his tormentors. While the first two attendants concentrated on keeping the nozzle trained on him, the third wrestled Charlotte’s body back into the wheelchair and pushed it quickly out of the room.

Martin Ames followed after the chair. As soon as they were away from the furious cacophony, he said, “Get her into dissection immediately. I want her pituitary and adrenal glands within five minutes—the rest can wait.”

His mind already concentrating on how he might use Charlotte LaConner’s organs, he turned away and strode down the corridor toward the lab.

   Sharon had just finished dressing when the chime of the door bell drifted up the stairs. She hurried down to the small entry hall, determined to get rid of whoever it was as quickly as possible. But when she opened the door and saw the ample figure of Elaine Harris standing on the porch, she hesitated.

“Elaine! My God, it’s not even eight-thirty yet. I was just on my way—” Then her words broke off. What was Elaine doing here? Before she could ask, Elaine told her.

“I wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help,” she said, offering Sharon a look of sympathy.

Sharon looked at her in confusion. “I—I’m not sure what you mean.”

“It’s all right, Sharon,” Elaine went on, stepping inside the house and closing the door behind her. Her voice dropped slightly. “Linda told us what happened last night.”

“Linda?” Sharon echoed, her confusion growing.

The smile faded from Elaine’s face, replaced by a look of concern. “You mean Mark didn’t tell you he came over and talked to Linda last night?”

Sharon shook her head, her mind numb. What had Mark told Linda? And what had Linda told her parents?

Within two minutes she knew, and her heart sank. Whatever
was going on, she was certain that TarrenTech was behind it, and that meant Jerry Harris, if not Blake, too. In the time since she’d heard about Mac MacCallum’s death, she’d begun to wonder if it was possible that even Blake had allowed himself to become involved. She’d wanted to reject the idea, but as she thought about it—thought about his unwillingness to discuss what Ames was doing at the sports center, and his outright hostility when she’d told him she wanted to pull Mark out of the place—she’d begun to wonder.

About Jerry Harris, though, she had no doubts at all.

“Jerry promised to get in touch with Marty Ames this morning,” Elaine went on. “I’m sure that whatever’s happened to Mark, it isn’t anything serious.”

“Like nothing ‘serious’ happened to Jeff LaConner?” Sharon blurted out. She wished she could retrieve the words as a dark look flashed in Elaine’s eyes. But a second later Elaine was shaking her head sadly.

“Jeff was never very stable,” she said, and Sharon felt a chill as she realized that Elaine was almost parroting what Blake had told her only a couple of days ago. “I suppose he inherited it from Charlotte. But that doesn’t have anything to do with Mark, does it?”

Sharon bit her lip, determined not to say anything more to Elaine. “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose it does.”

When she remained silent, Elaine looked uncomfortable, as if the visit hadn’t gone quite the way she’d hoped it would. Her eyes darted around the foyer, as if she were looking for something but wasn’t sure what, then came back to Sharon. “You were going somewhere,” she said, and left the words hanging as if waiting for an explanation.

Sharon’s mind raced as she searched for something plausible that wouldn’t arouse any suspicions in Elaine. And then she knew what she had to do. “Actually,” she said, managing a rueful smile, “I was just about to hike out to TarrenTech to get Blake’s car.” She glanced up toward the second floor. “I’m afraid most of Mark’s room is going to have to go to the dump, and I’m damned if I’ll start dragging a bunch of
ripped-up bedding through the streets of Silverdale. I’ll look like a bag lady!”

For a split-second she was afraid Elaine didn’t believe her, but then the other woman smiled. “Tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you just walk home with me, and you can borrow my car. I’m not going to need it today.”

Sharon breathed a silent sigh of relief and agreed that Elaine’s idea certainly beat hiking all the way out to Blake’s office. She put on a coat and left the house, not bothering to lock the door.

Aside from the fact that there was no real need to lock doors in Silverdale, Sharon had just made up her mind what she was going to do, and it occurred to her that there was no point in locking a house she had no intention of ever coming back to again.

For as soon as she got Elaine Harris’s car, she was going to the high school to pick up Mark, then to the grade school to pick up Kelly.

And then, without telling anyone at all where she was going, she intended to drive away from Silverdale and never come back again.

23

The headache began during first period.

It crept up slowly, and for a while Mark hardly noticed it at all; it was nothing more than a slight throbbing at the base of his skull. But as the hour progressed, the pain inched up the back of his head, and when the first sharp pang struck, Mark flinched, his head coming up and his eyes widening with surprise. The math teacher, Carl Brent, happened to be looking right at Mark when it happened. He paused in his lecture.

“Do you have a question, Mark?”

The flash of pain was already ebbing, and Mark shook his head. Brent frowned, then went back to his lecture.

The next pang was stronger, and as it drove straight into Mark’s skull, he bore down on the pencil he was holding until it broke with a sharp snap. Carl Brent’s frown deepened and he gazed at Mark uncertainly. The boy’s face looked pale. “Is something wrong, Mark?”

Mark hesitated. The pain was easing, but not as quickly as the first quick stab. “I—I just have a headache, that’s all,” he said. He leaned over to pick up the broken pencil, and as blood rushed into his head, a sickening wave of pain
came over him. For a second he thought he might throw up. He straightened up quickly, but already his forehead was beaded with sweat. He wiped it away, then scrunched down in his seat.

He rummaged in his book bag for a pen, and tried to concentrate on the lesson, but then his vision blurred and everything in the room seemed to be tinged with red. And as Carl Brent went on with his lesson in plane geometry, a tiny flame of anger began to burn deep inside of Mark.

The third wave of the headache made Mark’s whole body break out in a cold sweat, and suddenly he was afraid he was going to have an attack of diarrhea. He felt dizzy, and finally bent his head forward, as if trying to duck away from the pain.

“I think maybe you’d better go see the nurse, Mark,” Carl Brent said. The rest of the class had turned to look at Mark now, but he made no move, and finally Brent spoke again. “Mark, did you hear me?”

Mark swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat, and managed to nod. He stood and took a step up the aisle. Another wave of searing pain slashed through his skull, and he had to put out a hand to steady himself against the wall.

Instantly, Linda Harris rose from her seat and went to him, instinctively glancing at the teacher.

Brent hesitated, then nodded. “Go with him.”

“It’s okay,” Mark mumbled. “I can make it. It’s just a headache. It’s no big deal.” The flame of anger inside him burned brighter.

Brent said nothing, but looked pointedly at Linda, who took Mark’s arm.

“Come on,” she said.

Mark’s eyes met hers, and a pang of sudden fear shot through Linda. Mark’s eyes—sunken even deeper than they’d been last night—seemed to bore into her. For a split-second she had a horrible feeling he was going to strike her. Then his eyes cleared and he winced as yet another wave of pain broke over him. Saying nothing, he started once more toward the
door, Linda beside him, clutching his left arm to give him a little extra support.

   Verna Sherman heard the door to the waiting room of her office open, and called out for whoever was there to come straight into her office. She quickly finished putting a final notation in the file she was updating, then put it to one side as Mark Tanner, leaning heavily on Linda Harris, lurched inside then sagged into one of the chairs, cradling his head in his hands.

Verna felt her stomach tighten as she saw Mark. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen that strange look in the eyes of one of the boys. She reached for the phone and punched in the intercom code for Phil Collins’s office. As soon as she heard his voice at the other end of the line, she told him to come to her office right away. “It’s Mark Tanner,” she said. “It looks like we have a problem. He … well, he looks just like Randy and Jeff did when they first started getting sick.”

She put the phone back on the hook, then stood up and hurried around the desk. She laid a hand on Mark’s forehead, but quickly withdrew it as he flinched away from her touch. She picked up one of the thermometers arrayed on the shelf above her sink, automatically swabbing it with cotton soaked in alcohol. “Headache?” she asked.

Mark nodded. Another wave of pain was cresting in his head, and he was unable to speak.

“It just started a few minutes ago, Miss Sherman,” Linda told her. “M-Maybe he needs some aspirin.” Even as she made the suggestion, Linda was certain that whatever was wrong with Mark, aspirin wasn’t going to help. “Is he going to be all right?” she asked anxiously as the nurse tried to slip the thermometer into Mark’s mouth.

Instantly, Mark’s hand came up and knocked Verna Sherman’s away. The thermometer clattered to the floor and
rolled beneath the desk. Linda gasped, but Verna waved her away.

“Leave it,” she snapped as she reached down to retrieve the thermometer. Then, sensing the lash of her own words, she spoke again, more gently. This wasn’t, after all, Linda’s fault. “It’s all right. I can take care of him now. Just go on back to class.”

“But—” Linda started to protest.

Verna shook her head. “I can’t take care of both of you,” she insisted. “I’m sure Mark will be fine, but not if you and I waste time arguing. All right?”

Linda still hesitated, but as the nurse turned back to Mark, kneeling next to him now and reaching tentatively toward his face, she decided she’d better do as Miss Sherman had told her. As she started out of the office, she heard the nurse speaking to Mark, her voice low, her words carefully enunciated.

“Now, Mark, I’m going to look at your eyes. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend. Do you understand?”

Frowning, Linda turned around in time to see Mark, his eyes once again glowing oddly, staring at the nurse, finally nodding his head so slightly Linda almost missed it. Carefully, almost warily, Linda thought, the nurse reached out and tried to tip Mark’s head toward the light.

Once again Mark’s hand flashed up, striking the nurse painfully on the wrist.

Linda was about to go back into the inner office when a voice stopped her. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of this.”

Linda, surprised, spun around to see Phil Collins, his breath coming quickly, as if he’d been running, standing just inside the door of the waiting room. Without waiting for her reply, he hustled her out into the hall, firmly closing the door behind her. As Linda started slowly back to her classroom, she heard the inside door close as well.