by John Saul
Sharon shrank back slightly, dazed by the intensity of the anger in Mark’s voice. Then her own temper flared. “Don’t speak to me in that tone of voice, young man,” she snapped. “And no,” she plunged on, suddenly deciding to get it all out right now, “it is not all right with me! It doesn’t take two hours for the simple examination you keep describing and then twenty minutes on a rowing machine.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed. Why was she picking on him? He hadn’t done anything. But that’s what she was always doing. Always watching him, like he was doing something wrong, and staring at him over meals, as if he was some kind of freak! A tight knot of anger burned in his stomach, and his fists clenched at his sides. “What do you care what I’m doing out there?” he demanded, his voice harsh. “You just want me to quit going out there, don’t you? You want me to go back to being a wimp!”
Sharon glared at her son, her whole body trembling. This wasn’t what she’d envisioned at all. She’d wanted to sit down with Mark and talk this thing out, explain her worries and listen to his explanations of what was happening to him at Rocky Mountain High. But now they were facing each other down, and Sharon realized that if she backed off, she would lose whatever control she had over her son. “You’re right,” she said. “I do want you to stop going out there. I don’t know what Ames is doing to you, but you’re not the same boy you were a month ago. And I don’t like what I’m seeing.”
“You don’t like what you’re seeing,” Mark mimicked, his voice rising and falling in an abrasive singsong. His vision clouded slightly and he seemed to be seeing his mother through a reddish haze.
A nearly uncontrollable urge to strike out at her rose up from somewhere in the depths of his subconscious, and he took a half step toward her.
At his feet, Chivas growled softly, his hackles rising as his body stiffened. His eyes fastened on Mark, and his tail, held high a moment ago, dropped toward the floor.
“That’s it!” Sharon exclaimed. “You can go up to your room and stay there until you’ve decided to apologize to me!” She paused for a moment, but Mark didn’t move. “Did you hear me?” she demanded.
Mark felt a quick surge in the tension within his body. Every one of his muscles seemed to be tingling, and in his mind he heard a tiny voice whispering to him, demanding that he release the pent-up energy inside him.
With a strangled sound rasping in his throat, he took a step forward. But before Mark could move any closer to his mother, Chivas sprang at him. With an angry snarl, his lips drawn back to expose his fangs, the big dog hurled himself at his master’s chest. Mark stumbled backward, staggered by the weight of the big retriever. His arms flew up to protect himself, and his hands closed around the dog’s throat.
Sharon froze, her eyes wide as she stared at the spectacle before her. Mark’s eyes seemed to have glazed over, and his jaw was clenched so tight, the tendons in his neck stood out. His fingers, trembling with fury, tightened around the dog’s throat. Chivas, held now a foot above the floor, was struggling to loose himself from his master’s grasp.
“Mommy,” Kelly cried out. “Mommy, what’s Mark doing? Make him stop!”
But there was nothing Sharon could do. It felt as if her feet were rooted to the floor. Still, she reached out toward Mark. “Stop it!” she shouted. “For God’s sake, Mark—you’re killing him!”
Mark felt his fingers tighten around the dog’s throat, and as if from far away he could barely make out a voice calling to him to stop. But his entire concentration was focused on the dog now. He felt it wriggling in his grip, felt its forepaws clawing weakly at his chest. Then, as he continued to squeeze tighter, the clawing stopped and all he felt were a few faltering twitches.
Then nothing.
His vision began to clear. Suddenly he was staring into Chivas’s face. The dog’s eyes, bulging in their sockets, seemed to be staring at him, and its tongue lolled limply from the side of its slackened jaw.
“Ch-Chivas?” he asked, his voice choking with emotion. His eyes left the dog, then, and fixed on his mother, who was staring at him, her face ashen, her eyes reflecting shock.
In the corner, near the back door, Kelly was huddled on the floor, crying.
Then Mark’s tears overflowed as he stared helplessly at the lifeless body he still clutched in his hands. The strength drained from his fingers, and Chivas slid to the floor, sprawling out almost as if he were only asleep.
“I—I’m sorry,” Mark wailed. “I didn’t mean it!” Turning away, unable to face his mother or his sister, he shambled out of the kitchen and stumbled up the stairs to his room. He slammed the door behind him, then stood still, leaning his weight against the closed door, his breath coming in rough, choking gasps.
It wasn’t possible—he couldn’t have killed Chivas. He couldn’t have!
But he knew he had.
The dog had attacked him, so he’d killed it. But that wasn’t true, either, not really. Chivas had only been trying to protect his mother.
His mother!
He could remember the rage now, remember the blinding fury that had risen inside him, overwhelming him, driving him on to want to hurl his fist at her, smashing it into her face.
His mother!
It wasn’t possible.
Choking back a sob, he stumbled toward his bed, then paused as he caught sight of himself in the mirror on his closet door.
His hair, limp with sweat and matted down against his scalp, framed a face he could barely recognize.
His eyes seemed to have sunk deep within their sockets, peering out suspiciously from beneath the ridges of his brow.
His jaw seemed thicker and his lips were twisted slightly, giving him a sullen look.
“Nooo …” he wailed softly. “That’s not me. That can’t be me.”
And suddenly the rage was on him again. His fist clenched, and he pulled his arm back then smashed it into the mirror with all the force he could muster. The mirror shattered, jagged lines flashing out in every direction from the point of impact. “Nooo,” he sobbed once again. He staggered back and for a moment was unable to tear his eyes from the distorted image in the broken mirror. But at last he turned away, lurched toward the bed. He tore at the bedclothes, stripping them away with a single furious wrench, then grabbing the thick coverlet with both his hands and ripping it a quarter of its length before throwing it aside.
His eyes, glittering with rage, darted around the room, searching for something else to destroy.
When he finally collapsed on the bed half an hour later, his anger at last spent, the room was a shambles.
Feathers from an exploded pillow covered everything and still floated in the air. His clothes, hurled mindlessly from the closet and the bureau, were scattered over the floor. The clock was smashed, and a lamp, its shade crushed, lay in one corner.
But the rage within him at last was quiet.
The tension in the house was almost palpable. Finally, Sharon threw aside the magazine she’d been holding in her lap, unread, for the last twenty minutes. “We have to talk about this,” she said, her eyes fixing on Blake, whom she was certain was no more involved in his television show than she had been in her magazine.
“I’m not sure how we can talk about it, when you won’t even let me talk to Mark,” he replied. Though his voice was even, there was an edge to it that made Sharon wince.
“You weren’t there,” she said. “You can’t possibly understand what happened.”
“He killed Chivas,” Blake told her. “He looked like he was going to take a punch at you, and when Chivas went after him, he killed him. Isn’t that about it?”
Sharon knew he was right, and yet even as he spoke the words, she wanted to cry out to him that it was something else entirely, that Mark hadn’t been himself, that it was as if some furious stranger had taken over Mark’s body.
But she’d already tried to explain that to him.
He’d come home from the office a few minutes after Mark had disappeared into his room, listened in shock
as Sharon had brokenly explained what had happened, then buried Chivas in the backyard, with Kelly looking on, her body shaking as she tried to control the sobbing that had overcome her when she realized Chivas was dead.
He’d already started up the stairs to deal with Mark when Sharon had stopped him. “Leave him alone,” she pleaded. “He’s as horrified about what happened as you are.”
Blake had stared at her in bewilderment. “He tried to take a swing at you, and killed his own dog, and you say he’s horrified? I say he needs a good talking-to, if not a whipping!”
That’s when she’d tried to explain what had happened, tried to explain that from the moment Mark had come home that day, there was something different about him, something more than the changes that had been taking place over the last few weeks. “There was a look in his eye,” she said. “And when I told him I don’t want him going back to Martin Ames, he just went crazy.”
Blake had stared at her then. “You told him what?” he echoed.
“You heard me,” she’d said, her voice dropping, unwilling to have Kelly—who’d gone up to her own room after announcing she didn’t want any dinner—overhear what would probably develop into an argument.
She’d been right. It had gone back and forth as she’d prepared dinner, and when finally she and Blake had sat alone at the table in the kitchen, it had continued. Finally Blake pushed his plate aside and tossed his napkin onto the table.
“I don’t get it,” he said. “You don’t have any idea of what Ames is doing, but you’re convinced that it’s some kind of terrible experimental program that’s turning our kids into monsters. And you won’t let me discipline my own son, even after what he did this afternoon.” He’d stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was uneven. “What the hell do you want me to do, Sharon?”
She had looked up at him pleadingly. “I want you to agree that he won’t go back to Ames until we know what’s going on out there. And I don’t want you to start punishing him for something I’m absolutely certain he didn’t intend to do.”
Blake had regarded her speculatively for a moment. “And how are we going to do that?” he asked, his voice cool. “Am I supposed to go out there and confront Ames? Tell him you think he’s some kind of modern Mengele and demand to see all his medical data? Hell, I wouldn’t even understand whatever he might tell me!”
“But you understood enough to let him start medicating Mark, didn’t you?” Sharon demanded, her voice bitter.
That’s what had set Blake off. “Yes, I did, damn it!” he exploded. “And it hasn’t hurt Mark at all. He’s in better shape than he’s ever been in. I should think you’d be pleased about it.”
She’d almost told Blake about the mice then, but had quickly changed her mind. It wasn’t so much that she’d stolen them from his own company, but that in his present mood he only would have mocked her further, then demanded to know what she’d done with the mice. And if she told him she’d given them to MacCallum …
She shuddered inwardly, remembering his rage a year ago when he discovered a program he’d been about to market had been leaked to a competitor, who’d cloned it—with a few improvements—and then beaten TarrenTech to the marketplace.
Since dinner they’d barely spoken to each other, but the tension of the argument, heightened by Mark’s failure to emerge from his room at all, still hung over them.
“All right,” she sighed. “We won’t talk about it, then. Good night.” She stood up and started out of the room, Blake’s eyes following her. But it wasn’t until she was at the door that he spoke.
“You want me to come with you?” he asked uncertainly.
Sharon turned back to face him. “I never thought I’d hear myself saying this, but if I can’t talk to you, I certainly have no desire to sleep with you. Maybe you’d better stay down here tonight.”
Blake made no reply at all as she left the den and started up the stairs.
She paused outside Mark’s door, as she’d done twice before that evening. As before, she could hear no sounds from within, yet she was certain he wasn’t asleep. Indeed, she could almost picture him lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, his hands folded behind his head. Should she leave him alone, or go in and try to talk to him?
After hesitating, she tapped softly at the door. For several seconds there was no answer. Then she heard Mark’s voice. “It’s not locked.”.
She twisted the knob and pushed the door open, gasping at the sight of the wreckage. Clothes, bedding, feathers—the chaos was everywhere. The dresser drawers were scattered around the room, and the lamp still lay in the corner where Mark had flung it. She bit her lip, forcing herself to ignore the damage. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice gentle. She moved to the bed, where Mark was sprawled facedown on the bare mattress. As she touched his shoulder, he rolled away and lay on his back, looking bleakly up at her.
“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “It—It was like there was someone else inside me. I didn’t want to hit you, Mom. I—I just couldn’t help myself.”
Sharon’s eyes closed for a moment and she felt them sting with hot tears. “It’s all right, darling,” she said, her voice quavering.
Mark sat up straight and shook off the hand she had once more extended toward him. “It is not!” he said. “It’s not all right at all. I killed Chivas, Mom! I killed my own dog!” His own eyes filled with tears then, and he wiped them away with the back of his hand. “What’s wrong with me?” he demanded.
Once again Sharon tried to reach out to him, but he swung his feet off the bed and stood up. As he looked down at her, she saw again a strange light in his eyes—the same dark glow of fury she’d seen in the kitchen earlier. “M-Mark?” she asked. “Mark, what’s happening?”
Mark backed away from her. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “It—Mom, it’s starting to happen again.”
Sharon was on her feet now, too. “What, Mark? What’s happening?”
But Mark only shook his head and edged toward the door. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ve got to get out of here!”
“Mark, wait!” Sharon pleaded, but it was too late. He was already out of the room, then she heard him pounding down the stairs. By the time she got to the top of the stairs herself, he was at the hall closet, rummaging in it for a jacket. He stared up at her briefly, his eyes burning. Then he was gone, the front door slamming behind him.
A moment later Blake emerged from the den, peering up the stairs at his wife. “What the hell’s going on around here?” he demanded. “Was that Mark?”
Sharon nodded. “Something’s wrong with him, Blake,” she said. “When I went in, he was all right for a minute, but then he just went crazy again.”
Blake’s brow furrowed. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing!” Sharon exclaimed. “I just wanted to tell him that I wasn’t angry at him, to let him know I love him. And he was so unhappy. Blake, you should have seen him! And then all of a sudden …” She struggled for a moment, searching for the right words, then gave up. “I can’t even describe it,” she said. “He said it was like having someone else inside him.” She sank to the top stair and buried her face in her hands. “Oh, God, Blake. What’s happening to him? I’m so scared. So terribly, terribly scared.”
Blake climbed the stairs quickly and took Sharon in his arms. “It’s going to be all right, baby,” he crooned. “He’s just going through a rough period, that’s all. And he’ll grow out of it. You’ll see.”
Behind him there was the soft click of a doorknob, then Kelly was standing in the hall, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She came over and put her arms around her father’s neck. “What’s wrong with Mark?” she asked. “Is he sick?”
“No,” Blake told her, circling her waist with his free arm and drawing her close. “Nothing’s wrong with Mark at all, and I don’t want you to worry about it.”
“B-But he killed Chivas,” the little girl whimpered.
This tim
e it was Sharon who responded to their daughter.
“It wasn’t Mark, darling,” she said. “Whatever happens, I don’t want you to think Mark killed Chivas. He wouldn’t do that, honey. Not your brother. Not Mark.”
“Then who did?” Kelly asked, cocking her head as she tried to puzzle out her mother’s words.
“I don’t know,” Sharon admitted. “But it wasn’t Mark!”
Mark hurried through the dark streets, uncertain of where he was going or why. His mind was whirling, trying to sort out what had happened.
Why had the rage swept over him again? He’d been okay when his mother came in. He’d finished crying and was lying there, trying to figure out what had happened.
And his mother had wanted to help him.
She hadn’t been mad at him, hadn’t yelled at him, hadn’t even mentioned the way he’d wrecked his room! All she’d wanted to do was help him.
And then the fury had come over him again. He’d rolled over and looked at her, and all of a sudden the flame inside him had ignited once more and he’d wanted to reach out, put his fingers around her throat, and squeeze and squeeze.…
Squeeze like he’d squeezed Chivas, until she stopped talking, stopped breathing, even stopped writhing in his grip.
And he’d have done it, if he’d stayed another minute.
He slowed down and looked around. Across the street was the Harrises’ house, and he suddenly knew what he had to do. He glanced up and down the street, then darted across it, slipping between the houses into the Harrises’ backyard.
The house was dark, as was the house behind it, and the one next door.
He tapped softly at the window of Linda’s room, then a little harder. From inside he heard a sound, then the curtains parted a fraction of an inch and Linda peered out, squinting into the darkness.
“It’s me,” Mark whispered. “Come out.”
“Mark?” Linda asked. She opened the window. “What are you doing out there?”
“I have to talk to you,” Mark whispered. “Please?”
Linda hesitated, but the urgency in his voice made up her mind. “Just a minute,” she said. “I have to get dressed.”