Creature

by John Saul

  “Just park in front of the building and come in the front door, Mrs. Tanner,” the disembodied voice instructed her.

  She took her foot off the brake and drove slowly down the drive, impressed with what she saw, even in spite of her anger. It was a graceful building, fitting well into the surroundings of the rising mountains, and whatever it was all about, it was obviously successful. She parked the car, hurried up the front steps and across the wide veranda, pushing through the heavy glass door into the lobby. A smiling woman who wore a lab coat open over a tailored dress was waiting for her.

  “Mrs. Tanner?” the woman asked, then went on without waiting for a reply. “I’m Marjorie Jackson, Dr. Ames’s assistant. Everyone calls me Marge. Won’t you come with me?”

  Sharon’s lips tightened, but despite her urge to vent the anger that had been building inside her, she found herself obediently following Marge Jackson through the lobby and what was apparently a dining room, then down a hall into one of the building’s large wings. “It seems awfully empty, doesn’t it?” Marge asked, glancing back at Sharon. “But you should see it during the season. Last summer we had to feed the boys in two shifts!”

  A minute later Sharon found herself being led into a suite of offices. Marge Jackson seated herself behind a desk. “I assume you’re here to see”—she paused to glance down at a file on the desk in front of her—“Mark, isn’t it?”

  “I’m here for a lot more than that,” Sharon replied, her voice cool. She was pleased to see Marjorie Jackson’s smile fade uncertainly away.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—is something wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Sharon repeated, making no attempt to veil her anger. “Why should anything be wrong? I left my son in County Hospital this morning, and by lunchtime I find he’s been moved. Nobody asked me—nobody even told me! And you want to know if something’s wrong?”

  Marge Jackson’s uncertain expression gave way to one of genuine concern, and suddenly Sharon felt foolish. Whatever had happened, it obviously wasn’t this woman’s fault. Letting out her breath in an explosive sigh, she sank into a chair and apologized. As briefly as she could, she explained exactly what had happened. By the time she was done, Marge Jackson was nodding sympathetically.

  “But how terrible for you,” she said. “If my husband had done something like that, I think I’d kill him. But I’m sure it was just a mix-up, and I can tell you that everything’s just fine.”

  “But why was Mark brought here?” Sharon asked. “It all seems so, well, so unnecessary.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to Dr. Ames about that,” Marge replied. Her expression brightened and she nodded toward someone who had just come through the door. “Here he is now. Dr. Ames, this is Sharon Tanner, Mark’s mother.”

  Sharon rose to her feet, surprised to find a genial-looking man in his mid-forties—with gray eyes that fairly twinkled as he smiled at her—extending his hand. She automatically accepted the greeting, only then realizing that subconsciously she had expected some sort of Machiavellian monster who had coldly abducted her son and would now make smooth excuses for what he’d done.

  Ames ushered her into his office, offered her a cup of coffee, and after listening to her story, assured her it was his own fault. “I should have had Marge call you myself, just to make sure you knew what was going on. And call me Marty,” he added. “Everybody else does, even a lot of the kids.” He smiled, then leaned back in his chair. “Anyway,” he went on, “you’ll be glad to know that there’s nothing wrong with Mark.”

  “I already knew that,” Sharon told him. “Dr. MacCallum worked on him most of the night, you know.”

  Ames looked abashed. “I know, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply that there’s anything wrong with Mac. There isn’t. In fact, he’s a damned good doctor.”

  “Then why did my husband want you to see Mark, Dr. Ames?” Sharon asked, not yet won over.

  Ames shrugged. “I suppose he just wanted a second opinion,” he said. “And I assume Jerry Harris told him that my specialty is working with kids who have had physical and developmental problems.”

  Sharon was startled. So she’d been right, at least partially. Blake was, indeed, still looking for a way to overcome the residual effects of Mark’s rheumatic fever. “And do you have an opinion?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice neutral.

  Marty Ames spread his hands noncommittally. “It’s hard to say, really. But I’ve given him a complete examination, and I’m pleased to be able to tell you that there’s nothing seriously the matter with him. In fact, given his early medical history, he’s remarkably healthy.”

  Sharon felt herself relax, “Then when can I take him home?” she asked.

  “No reason you can’t take him home now,” Ames said pleasantly. “I’ve given him some codeine to keep the pain in his ribs from bothering him. In a couple of days he should be as good as new.”

  Sharon stared at Ames. This was it? She’d built herself into such a fury, been so certain that somehow Blake and this doctor had cooked up some sort of scheme. And now …

  “Tell you what,” Ames said, standing. “Why don’t I give you a tour of the place, show you what we’re doing out here. By the time we’re done, Mark should be all set to go.”

  “I don’t really think I need a tour,” Sharon began, but Ames held up a protesting hand.

  “We kidnapped your son, remember?” he asked. “The least we can do is set your mind at ease.”

  To her own surprise, Sharon found herself obediently following Ames out of his office and listening intently as he gave her a tour of the facility and spoke about the summer program.

  “What I try to do,” he said as they entered a gym filled with equipment the like of which Sharon had never seen before, “is treat each of the kids as an individual. It’s always seemed to me that to claim there’s a single diet, or exercise regimen, or even medication that will work for every kid, is just plain nuts. And since almost every kid who comes here has a special problem of one sort or another, I try never to view them as simply kids. They’re individuals, and have to be treated as such.”

  Sharon paused, staring at a stationary exercise bicycle that had a large screen curved around its front, “What on earth is that for?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

  Ames grinned. “Ever used one of those things?” he asked.

  Sharon nodded. “I tried one a few years ago. Bought the bike, used it about three times, and sold it. It was the most boring thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  “Try this one,” Ames suggested. Sharon hesitated, but then, curious, mounted the bike. To her surprise, she found that the handlebars were not stationary, but moved easily both left and right. Ames crossed to a small computer console and switched it on. “Like San Francisco?” he asked.

  Sharon’s brows arched. “Who doesn’t?”

  A moment later the lights dimmed in the gymnasium and the screen in front of Sharon lit up with a bright image of Market Street. She felt as if she were on the right side of the street, facing Twin Peaks, and cars were streaming in both directions. “Start pedaling,” she heard Ames tell her.

  Her feet began slowly turning the pedals, and to her surprise, the picture on the screen changed.

  It was as if she were moving along the street itself.

  “Speed up a little and move out into traffic,” Ames instructed her. Frowning, Sharon increased the speed of her pedaling, then twisted the handlebars to the left.

  The picture shifted, and she felt as if she were in the center of the right lane. She kept pedaling, then heard Ames telling her to turn right up Van Ness Avenue. As the handlebars turned in her hands, the image swung around and she could see the vista of the broad avenue stretching northward. She kept pedaling, watching the familiar scenery of the city unfold before her. She made several more turns, then finally brought the bike to a stop, feeling silly as she realized she had actually pulled it over to the
curb again. When the screen went blank and the lights came up, she looked at Ames with awe.

  “What is it?” she asked. “How does it work?”

  “It’s all done with computers,” Ames explained. “Practically the whole city north of Market Street and east of Divisidero is on a laser disk, and the handlebars control it. You can ride all over San Francisco, looking at anything you want. And it simulates the hills, too, so you never have to change the tension on the wheel yourself.” He grinned at her. “Now I ask you, was that boring?”

  Sharon shook her head. “It’s great. I could have kept at that for a couple of hours.”

  “You and everybody else,” Ames observed wryly. “Out here, the problem isn’t getting the kids to exercise. It’s getting them to stop.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s about it. Let’s go see how Mark’s doing.”

  They started back toward the offices, but as they came into the main lobby, Mark jumped up from a sofa he’d been sprawling on.

  “Hi, Mom,” he said, grinning at her.

  Sharon stared at him.

  The bruises on his face looked much better, and where this morning his face had been pale, almost pasty, his cheeks were now tinged a healthy pink. His right eye was still a bit swollen, but he was able to open it, and the shiner glowing darkly beneath it seemed to be healing.

  “Mark?” she breathed. “Honey, are you all right? Your chest—”

  But Mark only grinned at her. When he’d bounded off the sofa, he hadn’t felt a thing in his chest. “I’m fine,” he said. “Marty gave me something for my ribs, and they don’t hurt at all.”

  Sharon stared at him for almost a full minute. He looked better than she’d imagined possible.

  It wasn’t until half an hour later, when they were driving back through the village, that a sudden thought came into her mind.

  After his morning at Rocky Mountain High, Mark was almost like the town itself.

  Perfect.

  Too perfect.

  15

  “It doesn’t matter what you thought, or what Jerry Harris told you,” Sharon insisted. “I’m your wife, and I’m Mark’s mother. You had no right simply to make a decision about Mark without even telling me!”

  They were in the small sitting room area of the master suite. On the hearth, a fire was slowly dying. Blake had lit it when they’d come upstairs an hour before, for that afternoon a cold front had moved in from the north and a light snow was falling outside. But Sharon was oblivious to both the snowfall and the fire, her eyes fixed angrily on her husband. “Don’t you even understand what I’m saying?”

  Blake shrugged tiredly. It seemed to him that the argument had long ago become circular, but once more he reiterated what he’d already told her three times: “You’ve already admitted that nothing terrible happened to him out at the center. In fact, all things considered, he looks pretty damned good. And you were exhausted this morning—you’d been up all night and you wouldn’t have been thinking straight.”

  “But you still—” Sharon began.

  “Enough!” Blake said. He’d been pacing the room, finally pausing at the window to watch the snow float to the ground outside. Now he turned to face her, his jaw set firmly in an expression that told her his patience had run out. “For Christ’s sake, Sharon, what do you think I intended? It’s not like I was trying to do something terrible! Jerry just suggested I have Ames look him over, and it sounded like a good idea! If I was wrong, I was wrong, and I apologize. But I wasn’t wrong!”

  “Can’t you keep your voice down?” Sharon asked, her own dropping to a harsh whisper. “We don’t have to tell the whole neighborhood we’re having a fight, do we?”

  It was a mistake. Sharon knew it was as soon as she’d uttered the words. Blake’s jaw tightened and his eyes glinted with anger. “No,” he said, “we certainly don’t. In fact, we don’t have to have a fight at all. I’ll see you later.”

  Before Sharon could say anything else, he was gone. She listened as he stamped down the stairs and the front door slammed. From the curved window of the turret she watched him walk away from the house, his shoulders hunched, his head down. He was walking quickly, and she was certain she knew where he was going.

  To the Harrises, where Jerry would assure him that he had indeed done the right thing, whatever his wife might think.

  She turned away from the window and added a log to the fire as if the gesture itself would put a period to the fight. She wasn’t being fair, she chided herself. If Jerry thought Blake was wrong, he wouldn’t hesitate to say so.

  She curled herself up in a small chintz-covered chair in front of the fire and tried to sort her thoughts out rationally, firmly putting aside the anger she felt over Blake’s failure to consult her before sending Mark out to Marty Ames.

  Overall, she had to admit that Blake was right—certainly the doctor had done Mark no harm; indeed, from all appearances, he had done him a lot of good.

  And from what Mark had said on the way home, Ames hadn’t really done all that much. In fact, in retrospect she found herself chuckling at Mark’s exasperation when she’d pressed him for details as to precisely what had happened at the sports center.

  It wasn’t any different from asking Kelly what had happened at school on a given day.

  “Nothing” was her daughter’s invariable answer, as it had been Mark’s when he was the same age.

  Finally, as she’d driven him home that afternoon, he’d turned to her with a teenager’s scorn for his mother’s silliness clear in his eyes.

  “I keep telling you, Mom, nothing happened at all,” he insisted. “Dr. Ames checked me over and gave me a shot of codeine for my ribs, and then I did some exercises. That was all.”

  “Exercises?” Sharon had echoed, glancing at him doubtfully out of the corner of her eye. “My God, Mark, you’ve got three cracked ribs. It must have hurt like—”

  “It didn’t hurt at all,” Mark interjected, not about to admit to his mother that he’d actually passed out for a minute while working on a rowing machine. She’d go nuts and put him to bed for the rest of the day. Besides, it hadn’t been any big deal. He’d just opened his eyes, and one of Marty Ames’s assistants had been grinning at him. For a moment he’d wondered what had happened, then his memory had come back to him in bits and pieces.

  He had no idea that those memories were only the ones carefully and subliminally planted in his subconscious during his long hours on the metal table in the treatment room. Of that ordeal he had no memory at all.

  Sharon had finally dropped the subject as she turned into their driveway and pulled the car into the garage. Chivas, lying sleepily by the back door, had gotten lazily to his feet. As Mark got out of the passenger seat of the car, the retriever barked joyfully at the unexpected appearance of his master. He’d bounded forward, his tail wagging, then suddenly stopped.

  His tail dropped and the fur on the nape of his neck had risen slightly as an uncertain growl bubbled in his throat.

  “Hey, fella, don’t you recognize me?” Mark asked. He squatted down, and Chivas, dropping low to the ground, had slunk forward, sniffing warily at Mark’s outstretched hand.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Sharon asked.

  Mark reached out and scratched the dog’s neck, then grinned up at his mother.

  “I’m supposed to be at school, and I bet I smell really weird after a night in the hospital. I probably smell just like the vet’s office, and you know how he hates that.”

  Sharon had all but forgotten the incident until dinnertime, when Mark, who had been closeted in his room most of the afternoon, had come down to the dining room table. Throughout dinner Sharon noticed that Kelly seemed unusually subdued. Several times she caught her daughter eyeing Mark surreptitiously, her expression puzzled. It wasn’t until the two of them were alone in the kitchen, washing the dishes, that Sharon finally asked Kelly about it.

  “I don’t know,” Kelly had said, gazing up at her mother through serious-looking
eyes. “He just looks sort of different, I guess.”

  “Well, of course he does,” Sharon replied. “He’s got a black eye and a bad cut.”

  “I don’t mean that,” Kelly protested. “It’s just the way he looks. He’s just not the same.”

  That was the real reason behind her argument with Blake, Sharon decided now, as she sat staring into the fire. She’d tried to tell him about it, tried to explain what had happened with Chivas and what Kelly had said after dinner, but he’d brushed it all aside.

  “Of course Mark’s different,” he’d said. “He got beat up and bandaged up, and even if the injuries didn’t change him, you can bet the fight did. You don’t get pounded the way he did without it changing you inside.”

  “But it’s not inside,” Sharon had insisted. “Chivas saw it, and Kelly saw it, and I think I can see it, too. He’s just not the same as he was.”

  In the end she hadn’t been able to put her finger on just what it was about Mark that had changed, and finally she’d given up trying to make Blake see what she herself couldn’t describe. If the truth be known, she finally admitted to herself, perhaps there really was nothing at all. Perhaps she wanted to see something, simply to justify her anger toward Blake for having sent Mark to Ames without talking to her about it first.

  She took a deep breath and stood up, making an almost physical effort to shake off the last vestiges of her anger and her vague, indescribable misgivings. Certainly Mark had seemed perfectly happy all day, and not the least concerned about his hours at the sports center. If anything, he had actually enjoyed them. So why should she keep on fretting?

  She poked at the fire, settling the burning log well back against the fire wall, then arranging a screen on the hearth. Going downstairs, she saw Kelly standing at the living room window, gazing wistfully out at the snow. Reading her mind, Sharon smiled at her daughter. “Want to go for a walk in it?” she asked.

  Kelly’s eyes glowed eagerly. “Can we?”