by John Saul
A couple of minutes later she slipped out the back door, holding a finger to her lips as she led him quickly back up the driveway to the street. “What’s wrong?” she asked when they were safely away from the house.
Mark tried to tell her what had happened, his voice choking as he recounted how he’d strangled Chivas.
She turned to stare at him. “You killed Chivas?”
Mark nodded mutely, his eyes flooding with tears. “I didn’t want to,” he sobbed. “And I didn’t want to hurt Mom, either. But I was going to! I know I was going to!”
At his words, an unbidden image of Jeff LaConner flashed into Linda’s mind, and she remembered the night he had put his hands on her arms, squeezing her so hard that it hurt. She’d slapped him, and then he looked surprised, almost as if he didn’t realize what he’d done.
And she was almost certain he’d begun crying as he turned away from her and ran off into the night.
“Wh-What are you going to do?” Linda asked.
Mark shook his head helplessly.
Linda reached out to take his hand, but Mark pulled away from her. “D-Don’t do that,” he said, his voice shaking. “That’s what my mom did. All she did was touch me, and I almost went crazy!”
Linda withdrew her hand, then met Mark’s eyes. “It’s like Jeff, isn’t it?” she asked. “Like the night he beat you up. You didn’t do anything to him, or say anything to him, or anything. He just came after you.”
Mark stared at Linda in the darkness.
“M-Maybe it’s Dr. Ames,” Linda said finally. “Maybe he did something to Jeff, and now he’s done something to you.”
“But he’s helping me,” Mark protested. “Hell, I even made the football team this afternoon.”
“You what?” Linda asked, staring at him blankly.
“I made the football team,” Mark repeated. “I was going to tell my folks tonight, before …”His voice trailed off.
“But you don’t even like football,” Linda protested.
Mark shook his head. “I—I guess maybe I’ve changed.”
A faint glow from a streetlamp down the block barely illuminated Mark’s face, but even in the dim light, Linda could now see that Mark had, indeed, changed.
His face looked heavier, and his gentle features seemed to have become harder. His eyes, sunken deep in his sockets, had a wild look to them, and his mouth—the full lips that had always looked so soft—had a harshness about it now.
Once again the image of Jeff LaConner came into her mind.
“I’m going to talk to my father,” she said suddenly. “Tomorrow morning I’m going to tell him everything that happened, and he’ll know what to do. Okay?”
Mark looked at Linda uncertainly for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” he said.
They turned and began walking back toward the Harrises’. When they were in front of the house, Mark put his arms around Linda and held her close. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, burying his face in her hair. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“And you won’t,” Linda told him. “You’re not like Jeff, and you won’t hurt anyone.”
She stepped back then, and for a moment thought she felt Mark’s grip on her tighten. But he abruptly released her and turned away. She almost called out to him, but changed her mind as she remembered Jeff LaConner once more.
She waited until he’d turned the corner and disappeared, then hurried back into the house. Tomorrow, after she told her father what was happening to Mark, everything would be all right.
After all, her father ran TarrenTech, didn’t he?
If anyone could help Mark, surely he could.
22
When she woke up the next morning, Sharon thought for a moment that it had all been a bad dream. She would reach out to Blake, as she did every morning, and slip her arms around him for a moment, snuggling close to him before slipping out of bed to begin the day. Mark would already be up, and she would hear Chivas snuffling at his door as she passed it on her way down to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
But then she reached out to Blake, and he wasn’t there, and she realized that it hadn’t been a dream.
She was exhausted this morning, as if she hadn’t slept a wink, but when she finally forced herself to peer groggily at the clock on her nightstand, she saw that she’d not only slept—she’d overslept. It was almost eight o’clock. She started to haul herself out of bed, then flopped back on the pillow, a wave of despair washing over her.
For a few moments last night, after Mark had left, she thought the rift between her and Blake might heal, and for a little while it had, as the two of them waited in the den for their son to come home. Her first instinct had been to call the police, but Blake convinced her to wait, at least for an hour.
“He’s not going to get into trouble,” he’d told her. “He’s just upset. When he calms down, he’ll come home.”
Of course, Blake had been right—it was a little less than an hour later that they heard the back door open quietly, then close again. Mark had appeared in the hall, and started up the stairs. It wasn’t until Blake spoke to him that he’d realized they were both there, sitting in the near darkness of the living room, waiting for him.
He hadn’t come in, but had instead remained in the shadows of the hall. His voice strained, he’d apologized once more for what had happened earlier. When Blake asked him where he’d gone, he hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “Nowhere,” he said. “I just walked around for a while, then came home.”
He’d gone upstairs, and for a moment neither Blake nor Sharon had spoken. Then Blake uttered the words that started the argument all over again: “You see? He’s fine, honey. He just had to be by himself.”
It had gone back and forth for almost another hour until Sharon had finally come upstairs again, leaving Blake to sleep in the den, and crawled into bed, her body exhausted but her mind still whirling with conflicting thoughts. At some point she’d drifted into a restless sleep.
Now she got up, slipped into a robe, and went downstairs. The house was quiet, and for a split-second she found herself wondering where Chivas was. She wandered into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot Blake had left for her, then glanced at the note he’d written. It was a strange note, sounding like nothing so much as a quick report from a husband who had simply decided to let his wife sleep late one morning. He’d fixed the kids breakfast, he had scrawled, and sent them off to school:
P.S. Mark seems fine this morning. He made the football team yesterday! Isn’t that great?
Mark seems fine. That was it, after all that had happened yesterday? Mark seems fine! She crushed the note into a ball and hurled it across the kitchen. If Mark was so fine, how did Blake account for the condition of his room? She’d glanced into it on her way downstairs this morning, then quickly turned away from the mess, as if by ignoring it, she could pretend the episode had never happened.
She glanced at the clock, wondering if it was too early to call Dr. MacCallum at the hospital, and told herself that it was. If he had anything to report, he’d have called her.
She cleared the dishes off the table where her family had left them—at least that was normal—and began scraping the remains into the sink. Automatically, her eyes roamed out to the backyard, falling on the rabbit hutch.
The rabbits, too, looked perfectly normal, huddled together as always in the corner of the cage.
Then she saw a layer of frost still on the ground from last night—even the sky itself looked cold—and she frowned. What were the rabbits doing outside? For the last few days they’d come out only to eat, then scurried back into the warmth of their shelter.
She stopped what she was doing and stared out the window, a dripping plate held immobile in her left hand.
The rabbits weren’t moving.
Her hand started to tremble. She quickly put the plate on the sink, pulled her robe tighter, and stepped out the back door into the icy chill of the m
orning.
The grass crunched under her slippers as she hurried across the lawn to the hutch, and her teeth began to chatter as the cold quickly penetrated her thin robe.
She stared at the rabbits for a moment, then her eyes shifted to their food dish.
It was full, and there was fresh water in the bowl next to the food.
And the rabbits still weren’t moving. They had frozen to death.
But even as the thought came into her mind, she knew it wasn’t true. They were not huddled together as they normally were. They were simply piled up in the corner, two of them lying on their backs, the others looking as if they’d been tossed there like so many rags.
With shaking hands she opened the hutch door and reached inside to pick up one of the little creatures.
Its head rolled, dropping back so that it rested along the little animal’s spine.
Its neck had been broken.
Numbly, she checked the other four rabbits.
All of them had died the same way.
Unbidden, an image of Chivas came into her mind, a vision of his body suspended limply above the floor with Mark’s hands clenched tight around his throat. The rabbit dropped from her hands. A tiny cry erupted from her throat as she turned and stumbled back to the house.
She lowered herself onto one of the kitchen chairs, struggling to regain control of her emotions. Mark couldn’t have killed the rabbits—he couldn’t have! He loved them!
But he’d killed Chivas.
No! she shouted to herself. Something inside him killed Chivas. Something inside him over which he had no control!
She fumbled with the phone book for a moment, then punched the number of the county hospital.
She knew as soon as the voice came on the line at the other end that something was wrong.
“Th-This is Sharon Tanner,” she said. “Is Dr. MacCallum available?”
There was a momentary silence, then the voice replied, “Oh, Mrs. Tanner, haven’t you heard? Dr. MacCallum—” The voice broke, and Sharon could hear the woman taking a breath. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tanner,” the voice went on. “He’s dead. He—He was in an automobile accident yesterday.”
Sharon barely heard Susan Aldrich explain what had happened, for in her own mind she could still hear the soft click and the hollow sound that had made her think someone had been listening to her conversation with him yesterday.
Someone had been listening, and now Mac MacCallum was dead.
She didn’t care what Susan Aldrich had said—she knew that whatever had happened to Andrew MacCallum had been no accident.
Charlotte LaConner knew she was insane.
It was the only possible answer, for only insanity could have explained the nightmare world she was in.
She couldn’t move at all.
Her limbs felt heavy, her body immobilized by a lethargy she had never experienced before. The most she could do was roll her head slightly from side to side.
She’d been drifting in and out of sleep, but had long since lost any ability to discern which condition was sleep, which was wakefulness.
Around her the muffled howlings of the nightmares went on, low moans of despair punctuated every now and then by sharp cries of agony, or perhaps fury.
She didn’t know which, didn’t really care—for by now her spirit was becoming inured to the terrible sounds and her mind had almost given up trying to conjure the reality behind them.
They were worse during sleep, for then the horrible sounds lent hideous life to her dreams. There were shapes attached to them, bizarre creatures that circled her in the darkness, only allowing her faint glimpses of their horrible countenances before retreating back into the blackness, leaving her alone with her dread of what might be coming next.
The creatures were going to kill her sooner or later, of that she was certain. And she could do nothing about it except wait in the cloying darkness for the final moment to come.
But each time the creatures crept close—so close she could smell their fetid breath and hear their rasping between the terrifying bursts of sound—each time she felt them draw near again, and began to pray that at last they would close on her and end the misery in which she lived, they would slink away once more, back into the darkness whence they had come, and Charlotte would sob silently, craving even the release of death if only it would free her from the torturous hell of her life.
Now she was swimming back up into a state of semiconsciousness. It was like being underwater and slowly coming to the realization that if she didn’t do something, she would die. Although she often wished for death, in those strange half-rational moments when she felt she could wish at all, she still found herself pulling back at the last moment, fighting down the urge to take a deep breath and feel the cool oblivion of limpid water flooding into her lungs.
She moaned softly and once again moved her head to the side. The darkness seemed at last to be washing away, and then a shaft of light struck her eyes. With a muted yelp she tried to twist away from the pain it brought.
Once again she tried to move her limbs, arid again she could not. She lay still for a moment, then slowly became aware of herself.
This time, she knew, she was truly awake. She tried to move her tongue within her mouth, but it felt thick and numb, and her mouth was dry.
A second later she began coughing. As the spasms seized her body, she for the first time felt the restraints that bound her to the bed.
So she truly couldn’t move at all.
She wanted to open her eyes now, but even that effort was too much for her to accomplish. At last, as the coughing eased and she felt her breathing return to normal, she managed to force her lids to open a crack.
She was in a room lined with white tile. Overhead, a bright globe of light seemed suspended in midair.
But the sounds of the nightmare continued. And then there was a lull in the din and she heard a voice.
“She’s awake, Dr. Ames.”
She closed her eyes again, a feeling of hopelessness overwhelming her. She didn’t know how long she lay there then, nor did she care, for even though this time she was certain she was awake, she was equally certain the nightmare was not about to end. Then she heard another voice.
“Charlotte? I know you’re awake, Charlotte. Can you speak to me?”
Her eyes flicked open again. The light was softer now. To one side of her she could make out a face.
Marty Ames’s face.
She tried to speak, but the words choked on her palate.
“Give her a little water,” she heard Ames say. “Not much—just enough to rinse her mouth.”
She felt a hand raise her head, then felt the touch of a glass against her lips. She sucked thirstily at the water, sloshing it into the corners of her mouth, then swallowing it as she tried to suck in yet more.
“That’s enough,” she heard Ames say. Then he was looking down at her once again.
“Wh-Where am I?” Charlotte gasped, barely able to recognize the croaking sound that was her own voice.
“In my clinic,” Ames told her. “You had a breakdown, Charlotte. You’ve been asleep.”
“H-How long?”
“A few days,” Ames replied. Charlotte groaned softly and closed her eyes again. And then, dimly, she remembered what had happened just before the darkness had settled over her.
“Jeff …” she whispered. “Where’s Jeff?”
“He’s here, too,” Ames told her.
Charlotte’s features moved slightly, as if she were trying to frown but couldn’t find the strength. “Here? But I thought—”
“He’s sick, Charlotte,” Ames told her. “He’s very ill, and we’re trying to find a cure for him.”
“Sick?” Charlotte echoed. “I thought—” She faltered then, unable to formulate the words that seemed to hover just beyond her grasp. “See him,” she breathed. “I want to see him. Please …”
For a long time she heard nothing, but the effort to speak was too much for he
r. Then, once more, she heard Ames’s voice. “He’s very sick, Charlotte.”
Charlotte struggled again, forcing herself to find the right words. “I—I’m his mother,” she gasped. “I can help him.” She blinked her eyes open again and stared up into Ames’s face. “Please,” she begged, “let me see him … let me help him.”
Slowly, a smile spread across Martin Ames’s face. “Yes,” he said. “I think maybe you can help him. And there isn’t really any reason why you shouldn’t see him, if you really want to.” He disappeared for a moment. When he came back, he was pushing a wheelchair in front of him. He released the restraints from Charlotte’s body, then gently helped her off the table. Her entire body felt exhausted from the slight effort required to get into the chair, and though she tried to keep her eyes open, tried to watch as Ames pushed the chair out of the room and into a corridor, the effort was too much. She let her eyes close again. She could feel sleep overtaking her once more. She tried to fight it, tried to concentrate on the words Ames was speaking as they moved slowly through the building. She could only catch snatches of it, though, and her fogged mind couldn’t make sense of even the little she heard: “… tried to correct the imbalance … hormones … something … out of control … have to try something else …”
Then his words were drowned out as suddenly the air was filled with the nightmare sounds that had plagued her sleep and her consciousness for so long. But the sounds were clear now, no longer muffled. They pierced the air and swept away the mists that had settled over her mind.
She stiffened in the chair and her eyes came open to see at last the source of the screams that had haunted her.
It was a room very much like the one in which she’d awakened, except that in this room there was a series of cages—large cages, built of heavy-gauge wire mesh supported by iron posts. Most of them were empty.
Two were not.
In one of them a creature huddled in the far corner, its legs drawn up against its massive chest, its head dropped down as it stared out at the world through burning eyes that glinted from beneath a jutting brow. The creature’s jaw, hanging slack, exposed a row of massive teeth, and from the depths of its throat an unending series of low moans was rising and falling, as if it were in some kind of unutterable pain.