by Peter David
“I never go there, Sheriff,” said Arcane.
“Yeah, well, anyways, this feller—Dugan’s his name—spins this wild yarn about comin’ out here nearby your property and runnin’ across this giant leech thing. Claims it got two of his pals . . . sucked ’em dry right there on the spot.”
“On the spot, you say?” Arcane asked, looking thoughtful, as if the concept of a leech creature were new to him.
Beaumont had a small pad he was consulting his notes from, and he glanced at it for verification. “Well, he says it, anyway. Also claims he was himself pulled,” and he gave the words what he fancied to be a dramatic reading, “from the jaws of death by something that sounds to me like the man from Mars.”
Arcane raised an eyebrow. “A man from Mars?”
“It’s a planet, y’know,” said Beaumont helpfully.
“You don’t say.”
A security woman, Tasha Pointsetta (“Points” for short), clad in a tight, form-fitting black uniform, her brunette hair falling about her shoulders, served the sheriff a Dr Pepper. Beaumont looked her up and down and clearly liked what he saw both ways. “Thanks, honey. Got yourself a reg-u-lar Playboy mansion ’round here, don’t’cha, Doc.”
“Things are not always what they appear, Sheriff,” said Arcane, ignoring the bristling Tasha. “For example, the most striking woman on my staff—no offense, Miss Pointsetta—would be Dr. Lana Zurrell. And she is a highly trained scientist, one of the world’s leading specialists in the construction of human genes.”
Beaumont laughed coarsely. “If she’s anything like this one . . .”—he chucked a thumb at Points—“she can get into my jeans anytime.”
As Beaumont snickered, Points reached toward the outstretched thumb, clearly ready to break it. Arcane, however, raised a silent, dissuading finger, waggling it slightly to indicate his disapproval. Annoyed, Points turned and left.
Arcane forced a polite smile. “You’re a regular stand-up comedian, Sheriff. Tell me . . . was there any evidence of swamp mud found on this man?”
“He was covered with it,” said Beaumont, forcing himself back to the subject that had brought him there.
“I’ll tell you what happened. These men probably lost their way, fell into the bog, and all died—except for Dugan.”
“But, dang it, how does that explain this guy’s wild story?”
Arcane stood slowly and began to circle his desk as if trying to put together a reasonable explanation for unreasonable events. “He was submerged. The supply of oxygen to his brain was cut off and . . .” He paused and then snapped his fingers. “. . . And he hallucinated about giant leeches attacking him. Fortunately, at the last moment, he discovered a root and pulled himself to the surface. He saw the moss-covered tree, continued to hallucinate, and imagined the man from Mars. He then ran screaming into town like a madman.”
Arcane stopped his pacing and stood there, hands spread, as if he’d just completed a gymnastic feat. Beaumont nodded thoughtfully and then flipped his notebook closed. “That sure makes sense . . . more sense than the crazy story. I suppose I should thank you. You may have saved me a couple thousand hours worth of investigation.” He paused and then his eyes narrowed, curious to see Arcane’s reaction as he added, “Of course I’ve still got to perform a search of the property, you understand.”
From seemingly nowhere, Gunn materialized, the unlit cigarette still dangling from his mouth.
Look around all you wish, fool, thought Arcane; you’ll never find any of the secret elevators down to the lab where the serious experiments are being done. Out loud he said, “Certainly,” and waved in Gunn’s direction. “Mr. Gunn here will show you around.”
Beaumont grinned lopsidedly. “I’d much prefer one of the ladies.”
“Of course,” said Arcane. He gestured, and Gunn stepped aside.
Beaumont turned, the grin still on his face, and then it froze there as he looked up, and up.
The woman towered over him, massive and powerful, her lip in a perpetual sneer. She clapped a hand on his shoulder, and he lost all feeling in it.
“Uh uh uh,” said Arcane scoldingly, “take good care of him.”
The female guard nodded once and walked off, Beaumont in tow. The moment Beaumont was out of earshot Arcane turned quickly toward Gunn and said, “Holland is alive in the swamp.”
At first, so unexpected was the statement, Gunn thought he was talking about the country of Holland. Then he understood. “It’s not possible,” said Gunn calmly, lighting up the cigarette. “My men combed very inch of that swamp.”
“Well, comb it again. And you’re not looking for a human being. You’re looking for a plant.”
Gunn snickered at that. “Maybe he married an avocado.”
“Yes, and moved to California,” said Arcane impatiently. “Just find Holland.”
Suddenly the walkie-talkie hanging from Gunn’s belt beeped. He unclipped it and put it to his ear. As he did, a bookcase in the study suddenly slid aside as Drs. Zurrell and Rochelle stepped out of the hidden elevator.
Even as the bookcase slid closed, Arcane turned on them with barely contained fury. “That was utterly brainless. What if the sheriff were still sitting here?”
“Sorry,” said Rochelle.
“Sorry. You can keep your sorries. What I need is—”
“Hey, Doc . . . Holland will have to wait,” said Gunn quickly. “There’s a cab at the gate with a woman in it. She claims to be your stepdaughter.”
Arcane’s eyes widened. “Good God! Abigail!”
Arcane crossed quickly to the large bay window and looked out.
For a moment he thought it was Abby’s mother stepping out of the cab. His breath caught. Then slowly he composed himself, turned, and said, “Dr. Rochelle . . . I’ve just been hit by an idea. Should Abigail have the same genetic code as her mother, I think we could be in business. Don’t you agree?”
Rochelle looked at Lana in confusion. Why was Arcane talking as if Abigail’s presence were a surprise, when in fact Arcane had orchestrated the entire plan that had brought her down?
Because, he realized, that was the way Arcane was. Possessor of secret knowledge, esoteric. He certainly endeavored to live up to his name.
All right. He, Rochelle, could play that game, too, “Yes, indeed,” he said.
“Have a blood sample taken from her.”
“How do we do that?” asked Rochelle.
Arcane took a step toward him, his eyes narrowing almost to invisibility. “You find a way.”
“Yes, sir,” said Rochelle in a small voice.
Then Arcane turned and draped a friendly arm around Lana. “Lana, I want you to make sure Abigail is taken care of beautifully. She must be considered as our prized possession.”
And Lana, for no reason she could immediately determine, felt a wave of jealousy toward Abby. She couldn’t even form the words. All she could manage was a curt nod.
The cabbie refused to go through the gate. And the guard wouldn’t leave his post to help her. So it was that Abigail Arcane hauled her bag from the cab and, drenched with sweat, watched the cab speed away out of sight into the marsh.
She stepped through the large iron gate, and it slammed shut behind her.
For a moment . . . there was something.
A gentle feeling . . . as a butterfly on a leaf . . . a mind brushing against mine . . . someone . . . or something . . . that is at harmony . . . with nature.
Only a moment . . . and then it vanished . . . as if it fell . . . into a great and dark pit.
I have lost it . . . and suddenly . . . I no longer feel whole.
7
Abby toted the bag all the way to the steps leading up to the elaborate porch before the last of her strength gave out. She dropped the bag and an instant later dropped down next to it, certain she was about to collapse altogether from heat prostration.
“Abigail!”
She looked up, knowing the voice before she saw the owner.
&
nbsp; He looked more like a reptile than he ever had as he trotted down the steps toward her. What in the name of God had her mother ever seen in the guy?
Just behind Arcane trotted another man, a man with a short beard who looked like a thug. He smiled at her the way a fox smiled at a rabbit.
Arcane embraced her, and she felt herself shrinking inwardly. “What a wonderful surprise,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ve grown. You look marvelous.”
And you look like death warmed over. “Well . . . how ya doing?” she asked, stepping back from him and forcing a smile. She glanced over the exterior of the house, her eyes settling once more on Gunn before taking in the other half-dozen guards she suddenly realized were lurking in the woodwork. “Nice place.”
If he noted the sarcasm, he didn’t show it. “Yes, a remarkable example of antebellum architecture, don’t you think?”
Now Abby saw two other people, both in lab coats, step out onto the porch. A man and a woman. The woman looked like the classic ice bitch. The man reminded her of the kids she’d known in grade school who liked to pick the wings and legs off flies.
“Please, let’s go inside. Mr. Gunn . . .”—he addressed the thug—“please bring my daughter’s . . . my stepdaughter’s,” he amended, anticipating her correction, “bags.”
Gunn nodded curtly and took the steps down two at a time. He grinned at Abigail, and she got the distinct impression that whatever he was thinking when he looked at her, it didn’t involve her being clothed.
Now Arcane was gesturing toward the two lab-coated people. “Let me introduce you to some of my collaborators.”
As Abby approached them she saw more clearly the insignia on their coats. It seemed to be a stylized A, and perched atop it was an eagle or some bird of prey, its wings outstretched. Abby could easily imagine herself caught in the bird’s talons.
Dammit, you’re trying to make peace with the man. Stop seeing threats everywhere you look.
“This is Lana Zurrell,” he was saying. “Dr. Zurrell. She’s my right hand. Doctor, this is my stepdaughter, Abigail.”
Abby forced herself to put out a hand. Lana let it simply dangle there as she said icily, “Hello.”
Battle lines are clearly drawn, thought Abby.
“And this is Dr. Rochelle.”
Rochelle immediately took the proffered hand, and his whole body seemed to be trembling with excitement. “An extreme pleasure,” he said.
“Brilliant man,” Arcane said. “Does wonders with genetics.”
“Your stepfather and I hope to be able to reverse the aging process!” burbled Rochelle.
“Yes . . . reverse completely,” said Arcane, and he sounded extremely annoyed. Nevertheless he quickly brought back his air of pleasantry as he said, “Now, Abigail, this is your home. I want you to be comfortable, cozy, and happy. Get yourself settled, and we’ll have dinner together tonight.”
“Of course.”
He squeezed her hand affectionately. “Lana will show you to your room.”
Lana looked singularly unenthused about the assignment, but she merely nodded her head slightly and gestured for Abby to follow her. Abby took one last glance around as she entered the house and saw Arcane standing in a relaxed pose next to Rochelle.
Weird place, she thought.
The moment she was gone, Arcane turned and struck Rochelle.
The scientist fell to the ground, clutching at his split lip. He tried to stammer out a question.
“We hope to be able to reverse the aging process?!” Arcane stood over him, trembling with fury. “What were you thinking? Were you thinking?”
“Lana—”
“Lana what?”
Rochelle spat out blood. His words already sounded thick and uncomfortable. “She said if Abby asked, that’s what I should say. That it was close enough to the truth so I could make it sound convincing. I’m not good at lying. You know that.”
“But she didn’t ask, did she?”
“Well . . . no . . .”
“You said it so quickly, unasked, that it looks like we’re covering up something here.”
“Well, we are—unnnhh!” Arcane had just kicked him in the side. He rolled over, nursing his ribs.
“Not . . . one . . . word,” he said, each word hanging sizzling in the air. “Just keep your damned mouth shut, or so help me I’ll take surgical staples and attend to your mouth myself. Understood?”
Rochelle managed a weak nod as Arcane turned from him in disgust and strode into the mansion.
Abby walked into the room and turned slowly, staring in disbelief. With its elaborate canopy bed and ornate, carved furniture, it looked like a room Scarlett O’Hara would have been comfortable in.
Gunn preceded her, carrying the bag, and Lana followed her. To make sure I don’t make a break for it? she wondered.
Gunn threw the bag on the bed, turned, tossed off a mock salute, and strode from the room. Lana trailed a finger along one of the dresser tops, checking for dust she knew would not be there. “This should be satisfactory.”
“It’s very pretty,” said Abby, and then she turned and directed her next remark at Lana, “like everything my stepfather owns.”
Now, why did I say that? she wondered. That’s really catty. I’m not like that. It’s like this place brings out the worst in me.
Lana, utterly nonplussed, replied, “Your stepfather has excellent taste.”
Abby sat on the edge of the bed, trying to appraise Lana. “He’s kind of strange, isn’t he?”
“Dr. Arcane is a great man, a genius. Sometimes you have to indulge greatness.”
Good God! That’s almost word for word what my mother used to say about him! What is he, a hypnotist?
Abby’s eyes narrowed. Let’s see if I can get a rise out of her. Maybe break through whatever spell he’s cast.
“Is that your job here?” she asked coyly. “To indulge him?”
“My job,” Lana said, bristling, “is to assist your stepfather in any way I can. He is an exacting man, as I’m sure you’ll see, and one who demands obedience from those around him.”
“Why is it I think you enjoy that?” Abby said, toying with a strand of her hair.
“We have a unique relationship.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
Lana took a step forward, apparently seething inside. “You are a rude girl who barges in unannounced on a very busy man and disrupts his important work.”
Direct hit. “Important work? So I’ve heard.”
“I gave up my post at the world’s foremost genetics research center to work with your father on a great humanitarian project.”
Abby gaped at her incredulously. “Are we talking about the same man?” Now she rose from the bed and walked toward Lana. Her voice took on a hard, bitter edge. “You can call my stepfather a lot of things, but I doubt ‘humanitarian’ is one of them.”
“You don’t know him as I do.”
They were now almost nose-to-nose, and in a low, angry tone, Abby said, “I know he screwed up my childhood.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, neither backing down. Then, abruptly, Lana Zurrell dropped her gaze and said, “Will you be staying long?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I think,” and this time she sounded almost withdrawn, “if you have any more questions, you better ask Dr. Arcane.”
She turned and strode quickly out the door.
Abby stood there, shaking her head. She had definitely gotten some sort of reaction out of Zurrell. The problem was, she wasn’t exactly sure what the reaction was.
She went back to the bed, picked up the bag, and started to unpack it. As she did she became aware something was missing . . . something gnawing at the back of her mind, something that by its very absence was making her edgy and uncertain.
Then she realized what it was: plant life. There were no plants, not only in the room, but throughout all of the house she had thus far seen. Usually large houses like this
had potted plants, ferns, something.
She’d never been to the mansion before. Arcane had always come to visit her and her mother in California. Although Abby’s mother had been captivated by him, Abby had always felt overwhelming revulsion. When, after several years, Abby’s mother had married Arcane and moved down to the Louisiana compound, Abby had steadfastly refused to visit. It had been her greatest frustration in life that she had never managed to convince her mother of the pure evil in the man.
Yet now here she was, in the house of her enemy . . .
And where were the goddamn plants? It wasn’t just in the house, she realized. The entire exterior grounds—and they were not inconsiderable—had been paved off. Not so much as a blade of grass grew anywhere. The only trees that existed were beyond the perimeter.
She looked out her window at the darkening sky. The trees formed a ghostly skyline in the distance, and beyond that, she saw a mountain peak, towering tall and majestic. Its craggy surface had more personality to it than any of the walking zombies in the mansion.
She sighed deeply and finished her unpacking. When, a short time later, a security guard brought dinner up to her room, offering Arcane’s excuses that he was feeling under the weather, she was actually grateful.
She pulled out a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and sat down to read. She couldn’t help but notice there were no greens on her plate.
Lightning danced an electric pirouette of death across the night sky.
At night the mansion looked far more like a prison compound than a genteel Southern household. Security guards slowly patrolled the grounds, on the watch for everything and anything.
From his bedroom window, clad in a silk dressing gown, Arcane stared out at the swamp, like a monarch surveying his domain.
Except . . .
He knew whose domain it was.
Somewhere out there, Holland was lurking, planning and plotting.
It had been several years since their previous encounter. Several years since he, Arcane, had come staggering from the swamp. His body had been misshapen, transformed into that of a beast from the bowels of hell. He had been mortally wounded, his life pouring out of a chest wound inflicted on him by Holland.