Creature

by John Saul

  He’d been surprised to find Jerry Harris, together with his wife and kids, sitting with the Tanners when he’d arrived. Harris tried to explain what had happened, but even as he listened to Jerry’s words, he found himself watching Sharon Tanner. Her eyes were flashing with barely suppressed anger, and several times she seemed about to interrupt Harris. Each time, her husband stopped her. Finally, after Jerry had sketched the situation for him, Kennally turned to Linda Harris.

  “Can you tell me exactly what happened?” he asked, his voice gentle.

  Linda shrugged helplessly. Her face was pale and her cheeks stained with tears. “I don’t know what happened,” she said unhappily. “We were just walking down the street on the way to my house, and Jeff came out from behind a bush. It—Well, it was almost like he was waiting for us. At first we didn’t think anything about it. But then we saw his face—” She stopped talking and her whole body shuddered violently.

  “His face?” Kennally repeated. “What about it?”

  Linda struggled to find the right words. “He—I don’t know. He just looked crazy. His eyes were all glassy, like he didn’t really know who we were. It was Mark who figured out he was coming after us. We got scared and started running, but Jeff caught up with us right away.”

  “Why?” Kennally asked bluntly. “Why was he mad at Mark Tanner? What did he say?”

  Linda shook her head. “Nothing. He didn’t say anything at all. It was—well, it was really spooky. He just jumped Mark and started beating up on him.”

  Kennally chewed thoughtfully at his lower lip. “You were dating Jeff, weren’t you?” he asked.

  Linda hesitated, then nodded. “But that was over weeks ago. Jeff was mad at me when I told him, but he got over it. He’s been fine ever since.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” Robb Harris interjected. Until now he’d been silent, sitting quietly by his father. When Kennally looked at him questioningly, Robb tried to tell him what had happened at the pep rally earlier. “It was weird,” Robb concluded a couple of minutes later. “It’s like Linda said—his eyes were kind of glassy and he was just staring at them like he wanted to kill them or something. Then all of a sudden he was fine. In the locker room afterward he was acting like nothing had happened.”

  Kennally’s brows knit into a deep frown. At first, listening to Jerry Harris, he’d thought maybe the fight had been nothing more than a squabble between a couple of schoolboys. But now … He sighed heavily, and finally turned to face Sharon Tanner, who had called him as soon as she’d gotten to the hospital—exactly as she had promised Jerry Harris. “You’re sure you want to press charges?” he asked, though the expression on her face answered his question clearly enough.

  To his surprise, Sharon’s eyes reflected a degree of uncertainty. “I—I didn’t say that,” she said. “But I certainly think you ought to talk to him. I’m willing to listen to his side of the story, and then we can decide what to do. But if what Linda and Robb say is true, certainly something has to be done about him.”

  Kennally reluctantly nodded. He liked Jeff LaConner—always had. It was a shame to have to pick him up tonight. Saturday, after all, was a game day, and without Jeff playing …

  Still, Kennally had no choice. Letting himself into the small office adjoining the waiting room, he first called Chuck LaConner, who told him that Jeff wasn’t home yet. Briefly, Kennally told Chuck what had happened and heard LaConner curse softly.

  “How’s the Tanner boy?” Chuck asked a moment later.

  “Don’t know yet,” Kennally replied. “MacCallum’s still working on him.” His voice dropped and he turned away from the window to the waiting room. “If I were you, Chuck, I’d get down here pretty fast. Mrs. Tanner’s mighty upset, if you know what I mean.”

  There was only the slightest pause before Chuck LaConner replied that he’d be at the hospital within minutes.

  Next Kennally called the police department, and when Wes Jenkins answered, filled him in on what had happened. “Call some of the boys,” he said. “We’re going to have to go out looking for him.”

  “Any idea where he might have gone?” Jenkins asked.

  “Not really. But it shouldn’t be too hard to track him. We know which way he headed after the fight.” Kennally finished issuing his instructions to the night sergeant, then left the hospital. But he drove only a few blocks before pulling into a deserted parking lot illuminated by the soft glow of a phone booth in one of its corners. Stepping into the booth, he dialed the department number once again.

  “Wes? Me again. One more thing—tell the boys that if they get hold of Jeff LaConner, I want him taken out to Ames at the sports center.”

  “Ames?” Jenkins replied. “How come? The LaConner kid sick?”

  Kennally hesitated. “Dunno,” he said finally. “But I just have a feeling, okay? I’m gonna call Ames right now, and if there’s any change, I’ll let you know.”

  He hung up, then fumbled in the inside pocket of his jacket for the small book of unlisted phone numbers he always carried with him, on duty or off. Flipping through it, he squinted at a number, then dropped another quarter in the phone. A sleepy voice answered on the sixth ring.

  “Yeah?”

  “Dr. Ames? It’s Dick Kennally. From the police department. Sorry to have to call you so late.”

  Instantly, all vestiges of sleep drained out of the doctor’s voice. “What is it?” he asked. “Has something happened?”

  Kennally talked steadily for five minutes, even consulting his notebook to be sure he’d forgotten none of the details. “I’ve already told Jenkins to bring the LaConner boy out there if we find him. I can change that, if you think it’s best.”

  “No,” Ames said immediately. “You did the right thing. I’ll get a team ready to admit him, and keep me posted. And Dick?” he added.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful,” Ames told him. “From what you said, it sounds like Randy Stevens all over again. And if it is, Jeff LaConner should be considered very dangerous.”

  Kennally was silent for a moment, then grunted and hung up.

  Did Ames really think he was telling him anything he didn’t already know?

  Even now, nearly a year after it had happened, he could still remember the night Randy Stevens cracked up. It had been a quiet night in Silverdale, at least until around eleven o’clock, when Kennally had gotten a call from the Stevenses’ neighbors, reporting a disturbance. It had struck Kennally as odd, since in the two years the Stevenses had been in Silverdale they had never been anything less than model citizens. Randy, indeed, had been the boy other Silverdale parents always pointed to as a role model for their own children. Handsome, polite, an A student—Randy had been the star of the football team as well.

  And never caused so much as a hint of a problem for either his parents or anyone else.

  But that night something had snapped in Randy, and when Kennally arrived at the Stevenses, a small crowd of frightened onlookers had already gathered around the house.

  Inside the house it was apparent that a major fight was taking place.

  When Kennally forced his way in, he found Phyllis Stevens, her face bleeding, sobbing on the sofa in the living room. In the den, Tom Stevens and Randy were struggling on the floor.

  Except that it wasn’t really a struggle, for Tom was sprawled on his back, doing his best to fend off a rain of furious blows as his son straddled him, pounding at him mercilessly.

  Kennally had known instantly that this was no simple fight, no argument between father and son that had gotten out of hand. For there was a look in Randy’s eyes—a cold emptiness—that told Kennally that Randy wasn’t even aware of what he was doing.

  His mind was gone and he was simply lashing out at whoever was at hand.

  It had taken three men to subdue the boy, and he was finally taken away from the house strapped to a stretcher. At Tom Stevens’s request, Randy had been taken to the sports center and put under the care of Marty Ames.


  The next morning Randy was transferred to the mental hospital at Canon City.

  Though such a thing had never happened before in Silverdale, Marty Ames had explained that it wasn’t all that uncommon. Randy, after all, had always been too perfect, meeting his parents’ every expectation. But along with those expectations there had been pressure, and Randy never allowed himself to vent that pressure. And so, finally, he turned on his parents, his emotional structure collapsing in a shambles.

  He had tried to kill them.

  He had almost succeeded.

  And now, tonight, Kennally could see the parallels between Randy Stevens and Jeff LaConner quite clearly. Overachievers, both of them.

  Neither of them ever in any trouble, neither of them ever showing signs of problems.

  When Randy had finally blown, he’d come close to killing his own father.

  Would Jeff have actually killed Mark Tanner tonight? Kennally didn’t know, but he suspected he might well have done exactly that, given the chance.

  So he would, indeed, take Ames’s advice, and consider Jeff LaConner extremely dangerous.

  It promised to be a long night.

  Mac MacCallum smiled encouragingly at Mark Tanner, who was lying on his back on the examining table. The boy’s chest was heavily taped, but Mac had assured him that none of his ribs was actually broken. Four of them, however, were cracked, and MacCallum had warned him that they would hurt for a while, especially if he laughed, coughed, or sneezed. Now he was working on Mark’s face, carefully stitching up the cut over his right eye. “Only a couple more stitches and we’ll have it,” he said. “How’re you holding up?”

  Mark winced as the needle penetrated his skin once again. “Okay,” he said between his clenched teeth. “Next to Jeff, this is a piece of cake.”

  Mac said nothing more until he’d taken the last stitch, tied off the thread with a neat surgeon’s knot, then covered the stitches with a bandage. Mark started to try to raise himself to a sitting position, but MacCallum stopped him.

  “Just lie there. I want to take some more X rays.”

  “How come?” Mark asked. “Nothing’s broken, is it?”

  “Not that I can see from the outside,” MacCallum agreed. “But judging by what happened to your face and your ribs, it seems a good idea to take a look.” In fact, MacCallum was almost certain the boy’s jaw had sustained a hairline fracture, and there was still a strong possibility of internal injuries, particularly to the boy’s kidneys and spleen. He washed his hands, then picked up Mark’s chart and began writing instructions on it. When he was done, he handed the chart to the night-duty nurse, Karen Akers. “Can you handle all that?”

  Karen glanced quickly down the chart, then nodded. Disappearing into the corridor, she returned a moment later, wheeling a gurney in front of her. Holding it steady next to the examining table, she helped Mark transfer himself. Mark winced at almost every motion, but when he’d finally made it, he forced himself to grin at the nurse. “See? Nothing to it. I could run a ten-K if I had to.”

  “Right,” Karen replied dryly. “But the question is, can you hold still while I take your picture?”

  MacCallum followed them into the corridor, but as they turned right toward the X-ray room, he took the other direction. A few seconds later he entered the waiting room where the Tanners and the Harrises were waiting. In the far corner he also recognized Chuck LaConner.

  “Is he all right?” Sharon asked anxiously.

  MacCallum glanced once more at Chuck LaConner, then turned his attention to Sharon. “All things considered, I’d say he doesn’t look too bad.” He detailed the stitching and bandaging he’d already done, summarizing Mark’s injuries in the most reassuring way he could. “Of course,” he went on, “I’ll want him to stay the night, just so I can keep an eye on him. He’s in X-ray right now, and we’ll know a lot more after we see the results of those.” Raising his voice, to be absolutely certain that Chuck LaConner would hear what he said next, he added, “Frankly, considering what happened to him, he’s in pretty good shape.”

  Sharon’s eyes clouded. “Considering what happened?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

  “Considering it was Jeff LaConner he ran up against,” MacCallum said heavily. “The last boy who came in here wasn’t so lucky.”

  “Now wait a minute,” Chuck LaConner interrupted, rising to his feet and taking a step toward the doctor. “Everybody knows what happened to the Ramirez kid wasn’t Jeff’s fault.”

  The color drained from Sharon’s face, and her eyes shifted quickly between LaConner and her husband. “Rick Ramirez?” she asked, her voice hollow. “The boy who’s in a coma?”

  MacCallum nodded briefly.

  Sharon’s legs suddenly felt weak, but she refused to allow herself to drop back onto the sofa. Even angrier now, she turned to Blake. “I thought you told me the Ramirez boy was an accident victim,” she said, a note of uncertainty in her voice, as if she were trying to put something together in her mind.

  “He was—” Blake began, but MacCallum interrupted.

  “He may have been,” he corrected.

  Chuck LaConner’s eyes were blazing now. Before he could say anything, however, Sharon Tanner whirled on him, furious. “Is that what you want us to say happened to Mark, too?” she demanded. “That Jeff accidentally beat him up? And what about your wife?” she added, her voice bitter. “Was that an accident too?”

  Blake stared at his own wife in bewilderment. “His wife?” he echoed. “Honey, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about Jeff LaConner,” Sharon said, her voice harsh with anger, “Mark’s not the only person he beat up, you know.” She turned again, her eyes fixing on Chuck LaConner once more. “Or are you going to claim that was an accident, too?” she demanded.

  LaConner seemed to pull back. “He didn’t mean it,” he said, but his voice was defensive. “He was upset that night. It was the night he and Linda broke up—”

  “He hurt me that night, too.”

  Though she’d uttered the words softly, almost apologetically, Linda Harris, who had been sitting quietly between her father and her brother, suddenly had the attention of everyone in the room.

  “He hurt you?” Jerry Harris asked. “Honey, you never said anything.”

  “I—I guess I just didn’t think it was very important,” Linda replied, her voice trembling. “I mean, he didn’t really hurt me. He was just real mad, and he started shaking me. But … well, when I yelled at him, he stopped.”

  “And you never told us?” Elaine asked. “Darling, it must have been awful for you!”

  “I guess I just didn’t want to get him in trouble. He got sick that night, and afterward he seemed … well, he seemed okay, I guess.”

  “Well, he’s in trouble now,” Sharon Tanner stated. “I don’t suppose I’m going to make myself very popular in Silverdale, what with Jeff’s being a big football hero and all that,” she said, making no attempt to mask the sarcasm in her voice. “But even if none of the rest of you will do anything about it, I intend to make as much trouble for Jeff LaConner as I can.” She turned to Blake. “We’re going to press charges against him,” she said. “It sounds to me like Jeff thinks he can do anything he wants as long as he’s the star of the team. Charlotte as much as told me so herself, the day after he slammed her against a wall.” She turned back to Chuck now, her eyes challenging. “That is what happened, isn’t it, Mr. LaConner?”

  LaConner hesitated, then nodded.

  “Then that’s it,” Sharon said quietly. “It sounds to me like Jeff needs to be locked up for a while, and allowed to think things over.”

  “And that’s what’s going to happen to him, honey,” Blake reminded her. “As soon as the cops find him.”

  “Will it?” Sharon asked. “Or will he just be given a little slap on the wrist and sent out on the football field to try to kill someone else?”

  Her words silenced everyone in the waiting room. When Karen A
kers appeared a few moments later to tell MacCallum that the X rays were finished and Mark was back in his room, no one had yet spoken another word. But as Blake rose to follow Sharon down the hall to their son’s room, Jerry Harris put a hand on his arm and Blake paused for a moment. His eyes met Jerry’s, and he could almost read his boss’s mind.

  “I know,” he said, his voice tired. “If Mark were in any kind of shape, this wouldn’t have happened. He might not have been able to beat Jeff, but he at least could have defended himself.” He’d been thinking about his conversation with Jerry almost from the moment he’d seen Mark lying helpless on the lawn an hour ago. Now his mind was all but made up.

  Jeff LaConner crouched behind a large boulder. He had run blindly at first, racing from the darkness of one backyard to the next, pausing only briefly to cast a wary glance into the streets before dashing across to take shelter once again in the comforting shadows of the darkened houses.

  He’d come to the edge of the town, then moved along the riverbank until he reached the footbridge. It was the wailing of the ambulance siren that finally made up his mind, and he’d hurried across the bridge and started up the path into the hills.

  He was having no trouble seeing, even though the moon was no more than a quarter full, and he moved easily, fatigue from the fight he only dimly remembered dissipating as he loped along the trail. At last he’d come to the boulder, and with an almost animal instinct, crouched low against it, his back pressed close to the stone. There he’d waited, and watched.

  For a long time nothing happened, and then he’d seen a police car moving through the streets, disappearing toward the county hospital a half mile out of town. After a while the patrol car had come back, stopping briefly in a darkened parking lot. Then it began moving again, and a moment later another car joined it.

  He was certain he knew where they were going, and was not surprised when they came to a stop on the now nearly deserted block where the fight had occurred.