by Bill Myers
“That’s enough!” she shouted.
But Coleman continued to hit him. Blood covered the boy’s face and stained Coleman’s shirt.
“Coleman!”
And still he hit him. Rage had erupted inside him like a volcano, directing all of his fury at this boy.
“Stop it!” Katherine tried to pull him off. “Stop!”
Sounds came from Coleman’s throat, grunts maybe, or whimperings, she couldn’t tell. She dropped to her knees, pushing against him with all of her weight, crying “Stop it! Stop hitting him!” until she finally got his attention.
His eyes locked onto hers. For a moment, his rage was redirected at her.
Color drained from her face. She felt herself growing numb. She had never experienced such anger, never seen such raw hatred. And the eyes — almost satanic, full of malevolence and fury. But then she saw something else, deeper. Underneath. A flicker. Just a glimmer, way down, deep inside. The Coleman she knew was still there, fighting to resurface and take charge.
His glare softened, then faltered. He blinked once, then again. He looked back down at the boy, at the blood, the pulverized muscle, the broken bone.
“That’s enough,” she repeated firmly.
His eyes darted back to her.
“That’s enough.”
Coleman wiped the sweat from his face and rose unsteadily. He looked lost, staring first at the boy, then at Katherine, then back at the boy.
She leaned over and checked the guard. He was still breathing. He had probably lost an eye, and he would definitely need reconstructive surgery.
Coleman coughed. “We’ve…”
She looked up. He was steadying himself against the wall, still staring, still looking confused and frightened. “We’ve got to get him some help.”
She nodded. “How long will it take to destroy all the test tubes?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s over.”
“What are you talking about?”
Coleman looked at the blood on his hands. “I can’t —”
She slowly rose to her feet. “Yes, you can.”
“I almost killed him.”
“I know, but —”
“I was killing him.”
“But you didn’t. You were able to stop.”
He closed his eyes. She knew that the war inside his head was excruciating.
“You can control this thing,” she insisted. “I know you can.”
“No.”
“Yes, you can. I saw it, just now.”
“No, I was —”
“You have to control it!” she demanded. “This isn’t just about you. This is about all of us. You, me, Eric, everybody! You have to control it!”
Her outburst seemed to confuse him. Maybe she was getting through. She couldn’t tell.
“Now stay here with this boy. All I have to do is plug in that extension cord, and those disks are history. That only leaves the lab samples and the animals. Then we’re out of here. All right?”
Coleman just looked at her. He was starting to shiver again, his face wet with perspiration.
“All right?” she repeated.
He still gave no answer. But no answer was better than a negative one. She picked up the extension cord and headed for the stove outlet in the lunchroom.
The dog raced into the woods, streaks of black and gold in the night. It headed toward Tisha, but Eric knew that it would change course as soon as it spotted him.
He looked at the nearest tree, a huge fir with branches low enough for climbing. But then what? Be treed like some animal? There had to be another way.
He looked back at the driveway. He’d been circling around, moving parallel with it as Tisha had gone deeper into the woods. Three cars were parked there: a van, the car he had been kidnapped in, and the idling Mercedes.
There was no time to think. The dog was already at Tisha’s side.
Eric sprang forward. He crashed through the undergrowth, snapping sticks, twigs, and anything else in his path. He no longer cared about the noise. He had only one objective — to reach that idling Mercedes before the dog reached him.
The animal heard him and immediately spun and lunged in pursuit.
Voices shouted.
The car lay twenty feet ahead.
Branches slapped into the boy’s face, stinging his eyes, making them blur with tears, but he kept running. He looked over his shoulder. The dog shot through the brush after him — a flash of gold, then shadows, then black and gold, then more shadows. It was huge, bigger than Eric.
The car was fifteen feet away.
He could hear the dog breathing now. Quick grunting gasps with each powerful stride.
Eric flew out of the woods and onto the driveway.
Ten feet to go.
He heard the dog’s claws digging into the driveway’s gravel.
Six feet.
He reached toward the door handle — just as his left foot caught a chuckhole, buckling his leg and sending him sprawling into the loose gravel. He put out his hands, sliding on them and on his elbows and knees.
He looked over his shoulder. The dog was two strides behind, fangs bared, eyes white and crazed. There was no time to reach up and open the door. Before the slide slowed Eric flattened out and kicked himself forward, continuing the momentum, until he was slipping under the car.
He would have made it if the dog hadn’t caught his left leg, sinking its teeth hard into the ankle. Eric screamed and jerked his foot away. He felt the tendons and muscles rip as he heard the thud of the animal’s head striking the side of the car.
The impact made the dog release its grip, and Eric scrambled on his belly toward the other side. The animal tried to follow underneath, but could only reach in as far as its chest. Its barks thundered and roared under the car. It gnashed and snapped, fangs just feet from the boy. But the dog was too big to reach him. It pulled out and raced to the other side.
Seeing the move, Eric reversed direction and slid back across the gravel toward the passenger side. He crawled out, scrambled to his knees, and opened the door.
The dog spun around and came back at him.
Eric leaped into the car. But as he reached for the handle to slam the door, the dog lunged for his arm. Eric pulled the door with all of his might. He felt the animal’s hot breath against his wrist — just as the car door smashed its head against the car’s body. The animal yelped, and Eric opened the door just far enough for it to escape, then slammed it shut. He spun around and hit the locks, gasping for breath, frantically checking for bites. Suddenly there was a pounding on the driver’s window.
“Eric!” It was Tisha pounding and shouting. “Eric, open up! Nobody’s going to hurt you. Come on now, open up.”
It was a lie. Not only could he tell by her voice, but he could see it in her eyes as well. She could not be trusted.
He looked to the ignition. Yes, the keys were there. He was safe. No one could get him. At least for now.
Murkoski had remained just outside the front door of the cabin, watching. The other young man, the kidnapper, joined Tisha at the passenger side of the Mercedes, pounding and pleading. But Eric wouldn’t give in. Murkoski knew he was too frightened. The boy would simply stay there in the car until they busted out a window and dragged him out.
Murkoski scowled. The thought of a busted window in his Mercedes SL 600 gave him little pleasure. But what choice did he have? After all, the kid had the keys, so —
Slowly, Murkoski smiled. Well, the kid had one set of keys, anyway.
He turned back toward the cabin, colliding with the older kidnapper, who had just ambled outside. “What’s going on?” the man mumbled through his swollen nose.
“Stay here,” Murkoski ordered.
Murkoski headed into the house and up the stairs to his office. He pulled open the top desk drawer, and there they were — the spare set of keys.
He scooped them up and started out of the room, then hesitated. Someone had left th
e computer on. He turned back and looked at the glowing screen. There was a message on it. From the Internet. He slowly approached the monitor and read:
>ERIC: WE ARE GOING INTO GENODYNE. IF YOU ARE THERE, LET US KNOW WHERE. DON’T LET THEM CATCH YOU READING THEIR FILES. YOU ARE IN DANGER. TRUST NO ONE. I LOVE YOU, MOM.
So the kid had been doing more than playing computer games. Grudgingly, Murkoski nodded in admiration, then reread the message. Suddenly he understood the break-in call from Security. It hadn’t been a prank or some unknown intruder. It had been the boy’s mom, and probably Coleman as well.
Murkoski paused, running through the possible courses of action. If he wasn’t careful, things could quickly get out of hand. Gradually, a plan took shape. He would have to beat them to the punch. He would be the one to call the police, to play the victim. After all, Coleman and Katherine were the ones breaking and entering. As for the kid, children wander off all the time. It was their word against his. A broken-down alcoholic and a convicted killer against a world-famous Ph.D.? Not much competition there.
Of course, the boy would have to be disposed of. But Kenneth Murkoski was getting better at that sort of thing all the time.
CHAPTER 16
MORE WINDOW POUNDING. THIS time from the passenger side. Eric spun around to see the younger kidnapper beating on the glass so hard that he thought it would break. Meanwhile, Tisha continued pleading and pounding on the driver’s side.
Eric’s eyes darted back to the keys in the ignition. He knew that the engine was running, that the car was ready to go. But he also knew he’d never driven before. Still, there was TV and all those movies, and hadn’t he seen his mother drive a million times before?
He scooted behind the wheel, which didn’t seem to make Tisha and the kidnapper any happier.
The shouting and pounding grew louder. Eric reached his foot down as far as he could and pressed the pedal.
Nothing happened.
Maybe it was the wrong pedal. He stretched until he was able to touch the other pedal with his toe.
The engine revved loudly, but the car still didn’t move. He stretched and pushed harder. The car roared even louder, but it didn’t budge.
Suddenly the pounding on the passenger window turned to loud, sharp crackings. The man was beating on the glass with the butt of his gun.
In a panic, Eric searched the dash board, then looked to the gearshift. It was on “P.” He wasn’t sure what that meant but remembered that his mother always fiddled with her gearshift before taking off. Still pushing the accelerator with his toe, making the engine roar, Eric strained to see over the dash. The older kidnapper was walking toward him, shaking his head, saying something that Eric couldn’t make out over the revving engine, the barking dog, and all the pounding and yelling.
The passenger window exploded. Eric screamed as fragments of glass showered over him. The younger man reached inside, fumbling for the lock. Eric pushed the accelerator as far as he could reach. Still nothing. In desperation, he grabbed the gearshift and shoved it hard.
The car lunged forward. The man reaching inside had to run to keep up. “Stop the car!” he yelled. “Stop it!”
Eric watched him, terrified.
“Stop the car!” The man began swearing. “Stop the car, stop the —” Suddenly his eyes went wide. “Look out!”
Eric turned forward just in time to see a giant evergreen coming at them. He jerked the wheel hard to the left and the car swerved, barely missing the tree. The man wasn’t so lucky. Inertia broke his grip on the car and threw him forward directly into the tree. He gave a loud OOF! then dropped from sight.
Eric thought he’d killed him. He let up on the accelerator and craned his neck over the backseat to look out the window. He saw Tisha running over and helping the man to his feet.
He wasn’t dead. Good.
Then, before Eric could turn around, headlights of the second car blazed on, blinding him as they glared through the back window.
He spun forward and pushed hard on the accelerator. The car threw gravel and slid as he fought to keep it on the road.
The security guard had regained consciousness. Coleman and Katherine carefully helped him to his feet. They eased him down the hall and into the elevator. They had been able to stop the bleeding, but it was likely that he’d sustained a concussion — perhaps a bad one.
“We’ll get you some help,” Coleman assured him. “Real soon. Just hang in there.”
Katherine could see the kid watching Coleman suspiciously. It may have been their recent history together, or the fact that Coleman was now in possession of his gun. In either case, she understood why the boy might be a bit skeptical of Coleman’s goodwill.
The elevator came to a stop on the main floor. They stepped off and headed down the hallway toward the lab division.
“Listen,” Katherine asked, as she helped the guard along, “did you happen to see a little boy?”
“Sorry?” The guard’s speech was thick from his swollen tongue and broken teeth.
“A little boy. Eight, blondish hair, U of W sweatshirt? Did you see anybody bring a little boy in here?”
The guard shook his head. He talked, but it was obvious that his pain was severe. “FDA forbids children entering a lab.”
“What about the offices, could he be in —”
He shook his head. “Every visit recorded.”
“And there’s nothing on the record in the past twenty-four hours?”
Again he shook his head.
Katherine’s disappointment was heavy. Where was her boy? Was he hurt? Was he even alive?
They reached a set of doors. Coleman shoved O’Brien’s mag card against the black box and entered his PIN. Katherine noticed his hands were wet and trembling as he hit the numbers. The door buzzed and he pushed it open. They moved through the atrium, walking beside the trickling stream and under the large palm trees until they reached the other elevator. They entered, and Coleman pressed the button to the third floor.
O’Brien had said that the experiment was confined to the third floor. They would have to go through each of the eight laboratories on that floor and clear out all samples of the DNA. It would be an arduous task. She glanced at Coleman, wondering what he was thinking. Did he plan on taking the guard wherever they went? They would be able to move faster without him, but she knew it would be impossible to convince Coleman to leave this kid behind in his battered condition.
It was frustrating — which Coleman was she dealing with, killer or saint? And, as the battle raged inside his head, he seemed to change from minute to minute. Only one thing remained constant: his deterioration. With every passing minute, he seemed to be losing ground.
The elevator doors opened, and to her surprise she saw half a dozen technicians crossing back and forth between labs. Coleman leaned toward her and said, “Must be the shipment. Murkoski has them working overtime to make the morning shipment.”
Katherine nodded as technicians noticed the open elevator and slowly ground to a halt. She figured that their shocked expressions had something to do with the guard’s bloody face or the way Coleman held the gun or both. She stood watching them, unsure of the next step.
Not Coleman. He quickly moved into action. Brandishing the gun with one hand and motioning to the gym bag with the other, he shouted, “All right everyone, listen up!” He locked the elevator door open and stepped out, pushing the battered guard ahead of him.
He definitely had their attention.
“You’ve got exactly three-and-a-half minutes to clear the building!”
No one moved.
“I’ve planted a bomb. It’s going off in exactly —” He looked at his watch. “In exactly three minutes and twenty-four seconds.”
People stood, stunned. Mouths dropped. Most of all Katherine’s.
“If I were you,” he continued, voice rising, “I’d quit standing around and get out of here! Do you hear me?” He waved the gun some more. “Get out of here! Now! Move it
! Move it!”
Panic swept through the hall. Some of the technicians raced into the labs to warn colleagues, others started for the stairs.
“Three minutes and ten seconds! Move! Let’s go, let’s go! Three minutes and five!”
Katherine stepped off the elevator, amazed at his performance. Coleman was doing a very convincing imitation of a madman — though she was no longer sure how much of it was imitation.
“Three minutes!”
Coleman motioned the gun toward a couple heading for the stairs. “You,” he shouted. “And you!”
They froze.
“Go to the other floors. If there’s any other workers, clear them out. Check everywhere, the offices, the johns, everywhere.”
They hesitated.
He pointed the gun. “Go!”
They didn’t wait to be told again.
“Here!” He shoved the guard at another passing technician. “Take him and get him out of here.”
The technician obeyed. “What about the woman?” he asked.
Coleman reached out and grabbed Katherine’s arm. He pulled her to him hard. “She’s my hostage.”
“But —”
“Get out of here before I decide to take more!”
He scurried off, rushing the guard ahead of him.
“Hostage?” Katherine said, angrily ripping her arm free of his grasp.
But with lightning speed he grabbed it again, this time twisting it behind her back. She started to fight, but he yanked it up so hard she cried out. He hissed into her ear, “You want to share the blame for this?”
Again she struggled, and he pulled so hard tears came to her eyes.
“This way they’ll only come after me.”
“Hey, man, come on —”
Katherine looked up to see a freckle-faced kid protesting.
“Can’t you see you’re hurting her?”
Katherine heard a pistol cocking and turned to see Coleman leveling it directly at the kid. Suddenly she feared that Coleman was no longer acting.
“All right, all right,” the kid said as he backed away. “Just take it easy, take it easy.”