by John Saul
His breathing was coming in strange rasps.
“My God,” Chuck breathed. “What’s happening to him?”
“His bones are growing again,” Ames said. “Only this time it seems to be out of control. It’s starting with his extremities—his fingers and toes, and his jaw. If we can’t get it under control, it will spread to the rest of his body.”
Chuck LaConner stared at the doctor, fear naked in his eyes. “And then what will happen to him?” he asked.
Ames fell silent for a moment, then decided there was no point in keeping the truth from Jeff’s father. When he spoke, his voice was clinically cool.
“And then he’ll die.”
A silence fell in the room, disturbed only by the dank rasping of Jeff’s labored breath. As Chuck stared hopelessly down at his son’s distorted face, Jeff’s eyes suddenly opened.
They were wild eyes, the eyes of an animal.
And they glinted with a rage Chuck LaConner had never seen before. His face ashen, his whole body suddenly seized by an icy chill, Chuck LaConner shrank away from his own son.
13
Mark Tanner’s eyes flickered, then came open. For a moment he wasn’t certain where he was. Sunlight was pouring in a window, and he instinctively raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
A spasm of pain wracked his body, and he dropped his hand back to the bed, closing his eyes once more. Slowly, his mind began to clear, and in bits and pieces the events of the previous night came back to him.
He was in the hospital. He remembered it now—remembered the fight with Jeff that really hadn’t been a fight at all. Remembered the ride in the ambulance with his mother crouched on the floor next to him, acting like he was going to die or something.
Remembered the doctor—what was his name? Mac … MacSomething, working on his face. He winced at the memory of the sharp pain when the needle pierced his skin. Then they’d X-rayed him, and finally, mercifully, he’d been put to bed and allowed to go to sleep.
His eyes still closed against the brilliance of the sun, he began experimentally moving his limbs. It wasn’t too bad, really. His chest hurt whenever he moved his arms, but not too badly, and if he was careful not to take really deep breaths, he could hardly feel his cracked ribs at all.
His jaw was sore, and he touched it gingerly, then moved it. That, too, wasn’t so bad. Just sort of like a toothache. Finally, steeling himself against the pain in his ribcage, he raised his hand once more and brushed his fingers over the bandage on his forehead. Then, at last, he opened his eyes again.
Or, anyway, he opened his left eye. His right eye would hardly open at all, and when he saw nothing but a red haze through it, he let it close again. Finally he turned his head and looked around.
His mother, her head nodding on her chest, was slumped in a chair next to his bed, but even in her sleep she seemed to feel his eyes on her. Abruptly, she came awake and quickly straightened up.
“You’re awake,” she declared in a surprised voice that made Mark wonder if she hadn’t expected him ever to wake up at all.
“I guess I am,” he admitted. “You been here all night?” She nodded. “I didn’t want you to wake up and be frightened.”
Mark groaned inwardly. Did she think he was still a baby? He tried to raise himself up, but fell back as a sharp pain shot through his chest.
“Try this,” Sharon said, handing him the controls for the bed.
Mark experimented for a moment, then the head of the bed rose slowly until he was half sitting up. The pain in his chest eased and he managed a weak grin. “I guess I didn’t come off very well last night, did I?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she told him. “And if Jeff LaConner thinks he’s going to get away with this—” She broke off her sentence as the door opened. Mac MacCallum strode in, picked up the chart suspended from the end of Mark’s bed, scanned it quickly, then shifted his attention to the boy himself.
“How are you doing this morning?” he asked as he picked up Mark’s wrist and took his pulse. “Sleep okay?”
“Never woke up at all,” Mark replied. “How long do I have to stay here?”
MacCallum’s brows arched. “Already got a taste of the food here, did you?” he inquired dryly. When Mark only looked faintly confused, his tone turned more serious. “I’d say until tomorrow, just offhand. It doesn’t look like any-thing’s seriously the matter with you, but it won’t hurt to keep you around for a day, just so I can keep an eye on you.” He nodded toward the television suspended from the wall opposite Mark’s bed. “How’s a day off from school with TV thrown in for nothing extra sound?”
Mark shrugged. “Okay, I guess. What happened to me? I mean, what’s wrong with me?”
Briefly, MacCallum summarized the list of injuries. “From what I understand,” he finished, “you got off lucky. Jeff LaConner’s a big fellow, but he seems to have messed up your looks more than your innards.” He turned to face Sharon. “I’ve already gone over his X rays and other tests, and unless something shows up today, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t go home tomorrow. Maybe even this evening.”
“What sort of something could show up today?” Sharon immediately asked.
“Nothing terribly serious,” MacCallum assured her. “But if there happens to be kidney damage—which I don’t think there is—blood could show up in his urine. Frankly, I’m not expecting anything. And if I were you,” he added, “I’d be thinking about going home and getting some sleep myself. Mark’s going to be dozing on and off until noon, and there’s no use your sitting here any longer.”
“I want to be here,” Sharon insisted.
“Go home, Mom,” Mark said. “All I’m gonna do is lie here.”
Sharon was about to protest, then realized that MacCallum was right. She could feel her exhaustion in almost every fiber of her body, and her back was stiff from sitting up in the hard chair all night. She stood up. “Okay,” she agreed. “But if you need anything, or want anything, call me. All right?”
“Sure,” Mark replied, then flushed as she bent over to kiss his cheek.
As she followed MacCallum out of the room, she heard the television go on. Smiling ruefully to herself, she walked with Dr. MacCallum into the waiting room, thanked him once more for all he’d done for Mark, and called Elaine Harris to come and pick her up. Then, while waiting for Elaine, she recalled her conversation with Charlotte LaConner. Her brow creasing into a deep frown, she hurried after MacCallum, catching up with him just as he was going into his office.
“Dr. MacCallum,” she said, “did you ever have a patient named Randy Stevens?”
MacCallum glanced at her sharply. “Randy Stevens? What did you hear about him?”
Quickly, she told him about Charlotte LaConner’s visit to the hospital the night before. “The way she was talking,” Sharon said, “it sounded like something was wrong with Randy.”
MacCallum nodded. “I remember him, of course. He was the biggest star the football team had a year or so ago. Almost another Jeff LaConner. And I guess he could be just as mean, too. But then the Stevenses moved away. I think his father got transferred to New York or something.”
Sharon hesitated, puzzled. “But you never treated him?”
MacCallum’s lips tightened. “No one ever asked me to.” He seemed about to say something more, but the intercom buzzed loudly and a disembodied voice demanded MacCallum’s response to a phone call. Feeling vaguely dissatisfied by what the doctor had told her, and somewhat distracted by the interruption, she thanked him for his time, then hurried out of the hospital. She didn’t notice the twin station wagons with ROCKY MOUNTAIN HIGH emblazoned on their sides pull into the hospital driveway as she got into Elaine’s car.
Dr. Martin Ames, his eyes rimmed with red, emerged from the first of the two wagons. Waving to the occupants of the other car to stay where they were, he strode into the waiting room of County Hospital. He paused near the receptionist’s window, inclining his head
toward the hall that led to MacCallum’s office. “He in?” The nurse glanced up from her work, recognized him, and nodded.
A moment later Ames tapped at MacCallum’s door, then let himself in as the other doctor called a cheerful, “Come on in.”
MacCallum’s expression registered a degree of surprise as he recognized Ames, but with a smile he gestured him into the chair opposite his desk. “What brings you out so early?”
Ames reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope, which he laid on MacCallum’s desk. “Mark Tanner,” he said. “I understand he’s fit to be moved?”
MacCallum frowned as he picked up the envelope. “Sure he is,” he replied. “But I’m afraid I don’t understand …” He pulled a single sheet of paper from the envelope, and his frown deepened as he read an order, signed by Blake Tanner, transferring Mark from County Hospital to the small clinic housed within the sports center. “What’s this all about?” MacCallum asked, his gaze shifting from the paper to Ames. “Jeez, Marty, I was going to release the boy tomorrow.”
Ames shrugged, his features twisting into a sympathetic grimace. “Search me, Mac. All I know is, I got a call from Jerry Harris out at TarrenTech late last night, asking me if I’d mind taking the case. And you know me—when Jerry Harris calls, I answer. So this morning, one of their guys showed up with that. And here I am.”
“But there’s no point to it,” MacCallum protested. “There isn’t anything seriously wrong with the boy. A few bruises and a couple of cracked ribs.”
“Try telling that to a worried father,” Ames replied. “Anyway, there’s the order. Unless he’s not fit for a ten-minute ride, it isn’t up to either one of us.”
“Unless you refused the case,” MacCallum pointed out dryly, but knew even as he said it that he was wasting his breath. Even if Ames wanted to—which MacCallum suspected he didn’t—Martin Ames would be a fool to jeopardize the generous underwriting of Rocky Mountain High that TarrenTech provided each year by refusing to do a favor for Jerry Harris.
And Martin Ames was no fool.
“We’ll get things started,” MacCallum said. Sighing, he picked up the phone.
Robb Harris approached Phil Collins’s office with trepidation. He’d been worried ever since his English teacher had handed him the note halfway through the hour, instructing him to report to the coach during the break before second period. He was almost certain he knew what it was about—Collins was going to want an explanation of his part in the fight last night. But when he entered the office, Collins only told him to take a seat, something he never did if he was going to chew you out. His nervousness giving way to curiosity, Robb dropped his book bag onto the floor and sat down.
“How do you feel about taking over as quarterback?” Collins asked.
Robb stared at him. What was he talking about? Nobody could replace Jeff LaConner. And himself? He wasn’t even on the offensive team. All he’d ever played was defense.
“LaConner’s out,” Collins told him. “At least for now, and maybe for the rest of the season.” He chewed at his lower lip for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to tell Robb. But in fact he’d made up his mind an hour ago—the best way to spread the word was by telling one of the kids. “I guess you know what happened last night. Anyway, Jeff’s in pretty bad shape. I hear he may wind up in a hospital for quite a while.” He didn’t have to specify what kind of hospital he was talking about; his tone of voice made it clear.
“Wh-What happened to him?” Robb asked. “Did he just crack up?”
Collins shrugged. “How would I know? I’m a coach, not a shrink. Anyway, I’ve been going over the line-up, and your name came to the top of the list. Not that I think you’re ready,” he added deliberately as Robb flushed with pleasure, “but I can’t move anybody else from the positions they’re already playing. And your passing’s not bad, all things considered.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, sizing Robb up. “How about last night?” he asked finally. “I heard you were involved, too.”
Robb’s shoulders moved dismissively. “Jeff took a swing at me, but it wasn’t too bad.”
“Well, why don’t we let the computers be the judge of that,” he said.
Five minutes later, stripped down to his gym shorts, Robb met Collins in the tiny exercise room off the boys’ gymnasium. Despite its small size, it was packed with a large variety of workout equipment, all of it attached by a series of cables to a small computer on a desk in one corner. Robb began a familiar routine of exercises, ones he’d performed hundreds of times before, quickly moving from one machine to the next. Here, his progress was monitored by the movement of the machines themselves, rather than of his own body. Though he knew the measurements taken were nowhere near as exact as the ones the machinery at Rocky Mountain High were capable of, it was still always interesting to see the results which came out on a series of graphs and charts the printer spewed forth at the end of each session.
Fifteen minutes later he was done, and a moment after that the printer came to life, chattering madly for nearly another full minute. At last Collins tore off the printout, studied it for a moment, then handed it to Robb. “Not bad,” the coach commented. “But not really great, either.”
Robb looked at the graphs and found that while he’d done as well as ever on most of the routines, his bench presses were off from his norm, as were his leg lifts. The vague ache in his jaw, where Jeff’s fist had connected with him the night before, told him what the problem was. He looked up at the coach, who was already scribbling a note on a pad of paper.
“This’ll get you out of classes for the rest of the day,” Collins told him. “I want you to go out to the center and let Ames look you over. If you’re going to play tomorrow, you’ve got to be in top condition.”
Grinning happily, Robb Harris returned to his locker, dressed, and headed to the bike rack behind the gym.
“What’s this all about?” Mark asked from the backseat of one of the station wagons. There were orderlies on both sides of him, and though his chest ached a little, the pain wasn’t really too bad. But he felt crowded, and wondered why both the orderlies had gotten into the car with him. The other station wagon, ahead of them, was occupied only by its driver.
“Your dad just wants me to have a look at you, that’s all,” Dr. Ames told him from the front seat.
“But why?” Mark pressed. He’d been trying to get a straight answer out of Ames since the doctor had first come into his room half an hour after his mother had left. He’d introduced himself and told him he was being transferred to Rocky Mountain High. It still didn’t make any sense to Mark—Dr. MacCallum had said he’d be able to go home tomorrow morning.
“I think your dad wants me to recommend some exercises for you,” Ames told him now. “And I have a vitamin complex that might help you get over your growth problem.”
Mark frowned. His father hadn’t said anything to him about it at all. “When did he come up with that?” he asked. And then, of course, he knew. Last night, after the fight, when he hadn’t even been able to run away from Jeff LaConner. Still, if his folks had decided to send him out to the sports center, why hadn’t his mother told him about it? His eyes fixed on the back of Ames’s head. “Does my mom know about this?”
As if feeling Mark’s eyes on him, Ames turned around to give the boy a friendly smile. “Your dad, as I understand it, would like you to be able to defend yourself, and I assume your mother feels the same way. And since I understand you’ve started exercising on your own,” he added dryly, “I’m also assuming you’re getting a little tired of being the smallest kid on the block, too.”
Almost in spite of himself, Mark found himself laughing. He had to admit it was true—well, he didn’t have to admit it to Dr. Ames, but he’d already admitted it to himself. And his dad must have figured it out, too, even though he’d tried not to make a big deal out of what he was doing.
He leaned back in the seat then, and tried to relax, bu
t still felt crowded by the two orderlies on either side of him. It was almost like they were taking him to prison, he suddenly thought, and were afraid he might try to escape.
When they came to the high gates protecting Rocky Mountain High from the rest of the valley, the image of a prison grew stronger in his mind. “What is this?” he asked. “A sports center or some kind of concentration camp?”
He heard Ames chuckle in the front seat. “Actually, it does look sort of like a prison, doesn’t it?” he heard the doctor say. “But it’s to keep people out, not in. We have a lot of valuable equipment out here and a lot of programs we’d just as soon not let anybody else in on.” He turned and winked at Mark then, and Mark thought he understood. It was like TarrenTech, and all the other companies in Silicon Valley that spent half their time trying to keep their new ideas from being stolen and the other half trying to steal everybody else’s stuff. To him the whole thing had always seemed kind of dumb. After all, everybody eventually found out what everyone else was doing anyway, didn’t they?
The gates swung open and Mark gazed curiously at the big building that housed the center. It looked nice—like a lodge, not a hospital. Then he remembered what Robb Harris had told him about it.
“How many kids come here in the summer?” he asked.
“Almost fifty this year,” Ames replied, grinning at him. “Of course, we don’t give them the full benefit of everything we know. If we did, the home team might get some competition.” He paused, gazing speculatively at Mark. “You interested in football?”
Mark shook his head. “Not really,” he admitted. “In fact, I’ve always thought it was kind of stupid.” The car he was in passed the front of the building and drove toward the rear while the other car pulled up near the main entrance. “Where are we going?”
“Around in back,” Ames replied. “We’ll go in through the garage.” A few seconds later the car pulled up to a pair of imposing metal doors, then the doors swung slowly upward. As soon as they were open, they drove inside. The doors closed behind them with a heavy metallic clang.