The Owl Keeper (14 page)

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admiration. "Maxwell!" she trilled. "Come out of your room, you have a visitor!"

Max waited a few moments, then yelled down, "I don't need a doctor! I'm not sick!"

"Just a moment of your time, Maxwell." Dr. Tredegar materialized at the bottom of the stairs, his red and white blazer glimmering in the dark. "Hurry!"

Max shuffled down, mulling over the conversation he'd just heard, and joined them in the parlor. Sliding into the rocking chair, he barely glanced at Mrs. Crumlin, planted in her favorite doily-covered armchair. The doctor, slender as an insect, was perched on a wicker footstool.

Judging by their serious expressions, this was a meeting of some significance. Maybe at last, he thought, they were going to level with him about his injections. It was about time.

From the porch came a desperate bark. Through the window Max could see the shaggy black dog straining at its leash.

"Perhaps you should put that animal out of its misery, Dr. Tredegar," said Mrs. Crumlin.

The doctor flashed a sharklike smile. Max noticed that his square yellow teeth needed a good brushing. "Excellent hunter, that hound. Very quick at catching owls."

Picturing his silver owl, Max felt the words stab at his heart.

"The reason I've come today," began the doctor, clicking open his medicine bag, "is because you need an extra boost, Maxwell. Your twelfth birthday is approaching, as is your apprenticeship. Since you are growing older, you'll require higher doses of medicine to stabilize your condition." His eyes darted back and forth

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behind his tinted lenses. "I'm stepping up your injections to twice a week."

Higher doses of
what?
Max clenched his hands to stop them from shaking. "I want to know about side effects," he said. "What are they?" He had never before questioned anything the doctor told him.

Dr. Tredegar lifted an eyebrow at this. "None at all."

"What's the medicine you're giving me?" demanded Max boldly. "I want to know the name!"

The doctor riffled through his bag. "The serum combines various medications," he said in a testy voice. "The name is of no importance." He waved his hand dismissively and busied himself with the InjectaPort.

Mrs. Crumlin threw Max a warning look. "We haven't time for silly questions."

Max knew Dr. Tredegar was hiding the truth from him and he was sick of it. "Why are you giving me so many injections? I want to know!" Angry, he leapt out of the rocker. "Why don't you tell me the truth?"

Mrs. Crumlin clucked her tongue. "Let's not get hyperfrenetic, Maxwell, it won't do to get agitated." She sat him back down, a little too roughly. "He's been poorly lately, Doctor, not at all himself."

"Perhaps a sedative?" murmured Dr. Tredegar, his lips twitching.

Alarms buzzed inside Max's head. Why had the doctor asked Mrs. Crumlin about desserts and cocoa drinks? He thought back to all the mugs of hot cocoa, the bitter cakes and muffins he'd eaten over the years. The tablets for headaches and fevers, the home remedies for upset stomachs. Was Rose right? Were they

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slowly poisoning him, killing off his memories? He just couldn't figure out
why.

"Arm at the ready," ordered Mrs. Crumlin.

Out of habit, Max obediently thrust out his arm.

Dr. Tredegar held up the InjectaPort. "Rick rack ruin--"

Mrs. Crumlin joined in: "Over before--"

The doctor crept forward on tiptoes. "You can say--" His sour breath reminded Max of Mrs. Crumlin's pickled slugs.

The InjectaPort was inches away from Max's arm. He stared at the bubbling liquid and, remembering the bleeding skræk, felt sick. Crimson-

"No!" shouted Max, leaping up, knocking into the floor lamp. "I don't want you jabbing me, you needle-happy old man!" He kicked the lamp. "You're lying, both of you, you're trying to control my brain!" Losing his temper was something he'd never done before. With spiteful glee, he kicked again.

The lamp swayed precariously and fell, crashing onto the card table. The table collapsed, sending Mrs. Crumlin's jigsaw puzzle into the air. With a kind of perverse satisfaction, Max watched 1,001 puzzle pieces go flying all over the room.

"Maxwell!" shrieked Mrs. Crumlin, red blotches creeping up to her chin.

Whenever Mrs. Crumlin became agitated, she always broke out in hives. Serves her right, thought Max, the ridiculous old bat.

"What have you done, you little fool!" snarled Dr. Tredegar, not at all his usual pleasant self. "Mrs. Crumlin spent hours on that dome puzzle!"

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"I know what you're giving me!" yelled Max. "It's genetically engineered blood!"

The adults froze, staring at him with open mouths.

"And this!" He pointed to his neck. "You said my sun mark was a birthmark! That's a lie! It's a tattoo and the High Echelon put it there!"

Mrs. Crumlin and the doctor exchanged glances that he couldn't quite understand.

"Someone is feeding you misinformation," said Dr. Tredegar, eyeing Max warily. "Whom have you been talking to?"

Blood rushed to Max's head. "You think I don't know anything!" he shouted, voice cracking. "Well, I know plenty!" Of course, he only had his suspicions. Sorting this out was like trying to piece together one of Mrs. Crumlin's giant jigsaws.

The doctor made a grab for his arm. "You're not going anywhere," he snarled, steering Max into the nearest chair. "Sit!" His insectile fingers dug into Max's shoulders as he pushed him down.

Max looked up in surprise. Today he was seeing a new and startling Dr. Tredegar, not the mild-mannered gentleman he had known for years. He struggled to get away, but the doctor held him in a rock-solid grip.

Mrs. Crumlin sat down across from Max, clasping her pudgy hands. "The sun mark means you have been selected by the High Echelon for a most important job. That is why they sent me to be your guardian."

I knew it, he thought, glowering at her. Mrs. Crumlin was a puppet hired by the High Echelon. Still, he was confused. If the government hated Night Seers like Rose said it did, why had a

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guardian been sent to protect him? Even more mystifying was why the High Echelon would care about some kid whose granny was a rebel and kept banned books in her house.

"Why is there a creature with the same tattoo as me?" he blurted out.

There was a stunned silence from the adults.

"Don't say skræks aren't real!" he cried. "I heard you talking about them just now!"

Unruffled, Mrs. Crumlin turned to the doctor. "I think I know what this is about, Dr. Tredegar. You see, there is a runaway child in town and I daresay our Maxwell has made a new friend." Her eyes narrowed to thin slits. "I knew you were keeping something from me, Maxwell Unger."

"I wasn't!" he yelled. "I don't know any runaways!"

"Lying will get you nowhere fast." Mrs. Crumlin heaved a great sigh. "Very well, Phineas, let the boy go." She smoothed her dress and the apron over it. "The authorities have granted me permission to discuss Maxwell's future."

Max felt Dr. Tredegar relax his ironclad grip.

"Until this week I had orders to keep silent," she began. "Now I can talk about your apprenticeship, which is linked to the government's exciting new defense strategy."

Max went rigid. Were they going to make him a Dark Brigadier? The thought of wearing a mask, goggles and the High Echelon's standard-issue cape, and marching in lines and shooting rifles at owls revolted him.

"I won't join the military!" he shouted. "I hate uniforms! I'll go AWOL!" He wasn't sure what AWOL meant, but he knew it wasn't good.

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"Let me finish!" she snapped. "You will be training a special attack animal to defend our domes and keep the borders safe."

Max flashed back on the plague wolf with its spiky fur, sharp teeth and foaming mouth. "Train
wolves?"
he asked shakily, going cold all over.

"What nonsense! Wolves have been extinct for decades," replied the doctor, his voice tense.

Liar, thought Max, but he said nothing.

Face flushed, Mrs. Crumlin leaned forward. "Foolish child, I'm talking about a creature with superior fighting talent, designed by the smartest scientists in the world. It attacks, destroys and always wins because it has
no fear."

Her last two words were like a blow to the head.
"Skæks!"
whispered Max. A deep and profound terror flooded his body, and his stomach turned. "I--I--" he stuttered. "I won't do it, those things are disgusting! It's not in my nature!"

"Oh, but we have medicine to alleviate your fears," said Dr. Tredegar reassuringly. "And we have ways of changing
your
nature as well," he added darkly.

Max could hardly breathe. He had no doubt that at last they were telling him the truth, but he didn't want to hear it.

"What works in your favor, Maxwell," said Mrs. Crumlin, "is that these creatures have no eyes." She smiled uncertainly. Her pale, doughy face reminded Max of an underbaked cookie.

"Attempts were made to graft eyes onto the skræks," explained Dr. Tredegar. "But the transplants failed. Unfortunate, that."

Max felt his stomach twist at the memory of the squirming body, the torn wings, the
missing eyes.
"No!" he screamed. "I won't do it!"

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With a fierce cry of despair, he doubled over. How could this possibly be his destiny, training gene-spliced mutants to kill?

"The High Echelon selected you years ago, Maxwell, when Project Skræk was in its infancy. You were considered perfect for the role," twittered Mrs. Crumlin. "They were looking for a smooth stone amid the broken ones, a tabula rasa, as it were, untainted by civilization, a child of the Prophecy, plucked from a state of naïveté." Her eyes shone feverishly. "That would be
you,
Maxwell. For the High Echelon decrees there can only be one Skræk Master."

"You're out of your mind!" he cried, his voice at once disgusted and incredulous. What was all this talk about stones and prophecies? Mrs. Crumlin was obviously delusional. Maybe she'd listened to too many episodes of
Flamingo Valley.

"When everyone from Cavernstone Grey moves into the domes, you will move in with the skræks." Mrs. Crumlin clasped her hands to her bosom. "You'll need to familiarize yourself with them, of course, learn their ways and so forth. I've no doubt you'll adjust in time. And of course you will be given hardworking assistants."

"The word
skræk
comes from old Danish," said the doctor with a wink. "Translated, it means
fear."

Max stared at him, appalled.

"Skræks are rather unpleasant creatures, I'll grant you that," chimed in Mrs. Crumlin. "Still, they are a marvelous experiment, genetically designed to protect us from radicals, traitors, runaways and the like. They will hunt our enemies down and, if necessary, exterminate them."

Max's stomach did a double flip. He didn't need anyone to explain the meaning of
exterminate.

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"Of course, their main objective will be to seek out and destroy any remaining silver owls." Her voice struck a gleeful note. "No one will be safe in this country until each and every one is eradicated."

Max stiffened. They wanted him to kill the things he loved most? Was this their plan, to twist his love of silver owls into something hateful and repulsive?

"The High Echelon thinks of everything--including the no-fear gene." Mrs. Crumlin's tone was falsely soothing. "These injections will make your Transmutation much easier. No fear, Maxwell, think of it. And your conscience will be crystal clear. No feelings of guilt at all."

Max looked at her, stunned. He would be no better than a robot, without thought or emotion. And the no-fear gene--that was the one Rose had told him about, the gene they were selling on the black market!

"I won't!" he shouted. "You can't make me!"

Ignoring his outburst, Mrs. Crumlin continued: "The Transmutation takes place the day before your twelfth birthday, just before midnight. The timing could not be more perfect."

"No!" bellowed Max.

"Let's get on with this, shall we?" growled the doctor. "Steady the boy's arm, Mrs. Crumlin."

Max looked up to see Dr. Tredegar skulking toward him with the InjectaPort. No way, he told himself, I'm not letting that lunatic near me anymore.

The doctor took another step and Max leapt out of the chair. "Get away!" he screamed, and raced out of the room. Before they could nab him, he bolted upstairs.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

[Image: Max and the owl.]

Max turned the key in the lock and dragged a chair against his bedroom door. Tears streaming down his face, he dove beneath the quilt.

Okay, so Mrs. Crumlin and the doctor had finally come clean and told him the truth. But what good was truth when they were sneaking no-fear genes into him and gearing him up for a life of killing things and living with mutant monsters? They were planning to change him, perhaps in some irreversible way--and the thought terrified him.

It was clear that they had been plotting behind his back for years.