by Jeff Rovin
“Pardon?”
Halsey retrieved his bifocals and rested them on his nose. “Your silence is answer enough.” In his most official tones, he said, “Tomorrow morning you will submit to me a written apology for this entire affair. These experiments”—he spat out the word—“were clearly beyond the scope of your legitimate studies, and, judging from your presence here instead of in Dr. Hill’s class, they’ve obviously interfered with your ability to do your classwork. If any equipment from the hospital or from the laboratories of Miskatonic University were involved in any of this unauthorized activity, criminal charges may be pressed. You will in any case have your student loan rescinded.”
The young man stared in shock. “My loan? But—sir, I won’t be able to continue school.”
“As for Mr. West,” Halsey went on, “he need submit no apology. Last night at dinner, Dr. Hill told me what transpired in class. You may tell your brash roommate that he may continue his research without the impediment of an education. As of now, he is no longer a student at this university.”
“But that’s ridiculous—he’s worked a scientific miracle!” Halsey’s face grew ruddy, but Cain didn’t care; whatever the outcome, he had to see this through. “Please, can we just discuss this? I think you’re being blinded by your emotions.”
“And you’re being impertinent!”
Cain stared past Halsey and tried to compose himself. He regarded all the framed degrees, the honors, the parchments; they were meaningless. Halsey was revealing himself to be as narrow and vindictive a man as ever lived.
“Sir—”
“That will be all, Mr. Cain.”
“All? All for what, this auto-da-fé? Megan tried to warn me, but I didn’t believe you’d really come down on me just because I was seeing her!”
“Mr. Cain!”
“I’m sorry, but you’re making a terrible mistake—”
“I think not!” Halsey rose, his barrel chest inflating beneath his three-piece suit. “The only mistakes I seem to have made of late were admitting Mr. West to our school . . . and allowing you to see my daughter.” He sat heavily, resumed his writing. “Good morning, young man.”
Cain stood slowly and looked down at the desk, at the brass scales of justice; they were filled with paper clips and the odd rubber band. “Don’t take this out on Meg,” he said quietly. “She tried to stop me.”
Halsey yanked off his glasses and flagged them at Cain. “I said that will be all—unless you care to join Mr. West looking for a new place to further your studies.”
“No, sir.”
His eyes on the centuries-old Persian rug, Cain left the dean’s office, ignoring the covert stare of the secretary as he passed. He didn’t know which troubled him more, losing his tuition or having to face West with the bad news. Over breakfast, West had been buoyed by his progress and didn’t see how Halsey could fail to give them financing and laboratory space. For that matter, neither did Cain.
“Being angry about someone dating his baby,” Cain reflected. “That’s how.”
West was still at the house, having skipped Hill’s class; he took all the news without comment, though his jaw tensed noticeably when he learned of his expulsion. For Cain’s part, he was disappointed by the morning’s events, though not as much as he thought he’d be. On entering the house, he’d seen a huge spider he could have sworn he’d sprayed the day before. West’s work, compounded by his queer manner, were making him paranoid.
West shut himself in his room while Cain had some coffee, changed the bandages on his clawed upper back, reviewed his finances—he had two weeks to come up with a battle plan before his tuition was due—and made ready to go on his rounds with Dr. Harrod. Bundled in an old leather jacket, his battered medical kit under his arm, he was about to leave when West came up to him.
“Daniel,” he said, “do you intend to take this lying down?”
Cain jammed his hands into his pockets. “No. But first I want to talk to Megan about it, see what she thinks.”
West’s smile was pinched. “Of course. Tell me, when are you through with your rounds?”
“Around half past eleven. Why?”
“Fine. Can you meet me”—West touched his nose thoughtfully—“at the service elevator, in the basement?”
“I guess so.” Cain shrugged once. “But why?”
West laid a hand on his shoulder. “Because, Daniel, unlike you, I fully intend to take my next step lying down. See you at eleven-thirty.”
His step unusually buoyant, West returned to his room. Walking out into the brisk October breeze, Cain had a feeling he wouldn’t be taking Professor Streaman’s exam that afternoon, which was just as well. He never had finished reading about spirochetal jaundice . . .
The creak of the wheels was unusually loud—or was it just his imagination?—as Cain pushed the table down the corridor. Was it also his imagination that the table seemed heavier, that the orderlies he passed were eyeing it—and him—with suspicion? Was Dr. Hill just tired when they passed him, or had there been something else in his gaze, something ominous?
He cursed West for ever having entered his life. Genius or not, this was no longer the era of Jennings and Curie. Researchers had to play the game, had to be politicians and diplomats as well as geniuses. At worst, they had to obey public laws, which meant that they didn’t go skulking down university corridors disguised as corpses.
He glared at the bare feet of the corpse, at the toe tag which read “L. A. Zarus.” The name had been West’s touch, a bit of defiance. It was insane, he knew, just as the entire undertaking was mad; but West was right. Seeing is believing, and right now their options were few.
Cain wondered if Mace would notice the sweat collecting on his upper lip.
The guard waved once and stood. “They keep on coming, don’t they?” he said around his fat cigar.
“Oh yeah. They’re just dyin’ to get in.”
Dan wiped his palms on his hospital greens and waited while the big man unlocked the door. Pocketing the key ring, he came over and lifted the top of the sheet.
“Say, Cain, you ain’t got my dinner under there, have ya?”
Dan hastily pushed the sheet back down. “Yeah, Mace. One meatball run over by a semi.”
Mace’s brow knit tightly above his nose. “Oooooh . . . I think I lost my appetite.”
“You, Mace?”
As much as he wanted to get in and out of the morgue, Cain also wanted to keep up the conversation, create an air of normalcy. He rolled the cart in slowly; he was about to tap “L. A. Zarus” on the shoulder when Mace swung in.
“Say, you gonna be around for a while?”
“Yeah, sure.” He choked, but Mace didn’t seem to notice.
“Mind keepin’ an eye on the store while I get some coffee?”
“Not at all. Take your time.”
Mace thanked him and ambled down the corridor. When he was gone, Cain locked the double doors; hearing the telltale click, the body on the table rose and threw off the sheet.
“Meatball?”
“Just put your shoes on, Herbert, it was nothing personal.”
While West tugged on his socks, Cain reached under his smock and pulled a flashlight from his hip pocket. Turning on the lights, he headed for the metal door to the morgue. Hearing footfalls in the hallway, Cain froze, motioning West to do likewise; when the footsteps passed, Cain let out a tremulous breath.
“Damn! We can still get caught!”
West was tying his shoes. “And what will they do? Embalm us?”
Cain stretched to relieve the tacky discomfort under his arms. “Only if they’re feeling merciful. Herbert, will you come on.”
West rolled down the sleeves of his blue shirt and hopped from the table. He followed Cain into the morgue, then pulled out his own penlight and darted to the nearest body. It was Christmastime again, Cain reflected, and he tried hard to remain aloof.
West read from the toe tag. “Burn victim. She may fall apart on us.”
/> “Spare me the critiques.”
West snorted. “Some doctor you’ll make.”
“I’ll be a fine doctor,” Cain rejoined. “I just wasn’t cut out to be a graverobber.”
West was already bending over the next body in line, the toes of which were charred stubs. “Here’s your meatball,” he snickered, then scuttled over to the third. “Shotgun wound to the head. Even a bath of formula wouldn’t work on this one.”
Shivering from the cold of the dark, refrigerated room, Cain had slipped around to the fourth. “Oh, God—rotten!”
“Must be the old lady they found in the marsh. I read about it in the obituaries.” West examined another. “Malpractice. Let’s leave this one, in case it’s Hill.”
Cain glanced toward the outer doors. “C’mon, Herbert, the clock’s running!”
West stood, tapping his toe impatiently, casting his light anxiously about. “Wait!” He dashed toward the back of the room, Cain in tow. West studied the tag. “Yes, I think you! I read about him as well. He arrived early this morning. John Doe. Apparently just dropped dead.” West plucked off the sheet and dropped it to the floor. He quickly examined the scalp and then the chest. “No record of any damage. Almost perfect!”
Cain looked on. “Why ‘almost’?”
“He’s got a cracked rib, probably broken when he fell. There could be heart damage.”
“Then let’s find another one. We can’t afford to blow this.”
“No! We do not have time, you said so yourself!” He fished the vial from one pocket, the hypodermic from another. “Besides, almost perfect is good enough. All we need tonight is a specific, conscious reaction. He’s been dead for hours. Any evidence of reanimated consciousness will justify proceeding.” He began filling the instrument barrel. “Start the recorder.”
Cain’s pulse was throbbing under his chin.
“Start the damn recorder! Make the entry.”
The young man snapped out of his stupor. They wouldn’t get caught, and even if they did, what was the worst that could happen? If the body remained dead, no one could prove a thing. If it moved, there was no way Dean Halsey would carry out his threats.
He gulped down his anxiety and wet his lips. “October—”
“Tenth!” West snapped.
“October tenth. Subject: male.”
“Age?”
“Age—uh, early twenties.”
“Physical condition?” West prompted impatiently.
Cain dragged his flashlight across the body. “Subject appears to have been in excellent physical condition. Apparent cause of death—” His teeth began to chatter, not entirely from the cold. “Uh, what was it?”
“Heart failure!”
“Right. Heart failure.”
“Time,” West glanced at his watch, “ten thirty-three P.M.”
Cain swallowed hard again, repeated the time into the micro-recorder.
“Dosage,” said West, as he lifted the head and jabbed the needle into the base of the skull, “15 cc’s.”
Curiosity was again taking over, and Cain felt his queasiness subsiding. “Fifteen cc’s of reagent being administered.”
There were footsteps along the corridor, only this time they seemed far away. All that mattered was what was happening on the table before them.
“Time elapsed?”
Cain checked his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”
“Something should have happened by now.”
The footsteps faded. “It’s not working! Let’s get out of here!”
West sucked on his upper lip. “Obviously, the human dosage factor is unknown. It worked on Gruber only because he had just died.”
“It what?! West, you—murdered him?”
“Don’t be naïve, Daniel. Gruber took his life for the express purpose of testing the formula, just as I would have done for him. Unlike the people at this institution, he was a true scientist!” He snatched up the vial. “Obviously there is a geometric correlation between the dosage and the length of time the subject has been dead. This will help us to find that ratio.” He poked the needle into the stopper. “Increasing the dosage . . . 20 cc’s of reagent.”
“Herbert, you’re scatter-shooting. Let’s go!”
“No! We need the data!”
Cain shook his head and reluctantly kept his light on the body while West administered the serum. Both men looked anxiously for a sign of life, shining their beams on the subject’s lips, eyes, fingers.
After nearly a full minute, West greeted the continued stillness with a heartfelt oath.
Dean Halsey guided the Lincoln Continental down Kadath. Traffic was heavy because of the changing shifts at the Ogan plant. He punched the wheel when he got stuck behind a Rambler, then again when he was caught at a four-way light.
“I knew we should have sent for an ambulance. Remember how you loved to drive in them when we first came here?”
Beside him, Megan said nothing. She wiped away the mascara running down her tear-streaked cheeks and continued staring into her lap. Ordinarily, Halsey would have been unable to resist Megan’s tears. But this was different. He had given Hill his assurance that the “matter” of Cain and West had been taken care of, and he’d been compromised. He hated to look like a fool, but he hated even more to have his grant magnet disturbed.
He squeezed the wheel. Why did she have to fall in love with a student instead of one of the young professors? He always invited them over for dinner—with Hill, to make it look like business—and she resisted every one of them. Cain was a well-intentioned young man but naïve; he would never make money, he’d end up in research, or in some Third World sewer like Megan’s mother.
He didn’t blame himself for Diana’s leaving. A fellow professor, she’d walked out at the height of the campus protests in the sixties, offended by her husband’s conservatism and feeling that needy Vietnamese children were more important than her own daughter. The last he’d heard, Diana had founded her own version of the Peace Corps in Afghanistan, helping the beleaguered rebels.
He didn’t blame himself, but he knew what hardship the situation had caused for Megan. She’d lost her mother to activism, her friends in a succession of moves, her childhood because she’d willingly shouldered the role of housekeeper and hostess.
The intersection was blocked by an Ogan truck, so they sat out the green light where they were.
Halsey refused to look at Megan. She hadn’t cried like this for so long, and her tears brought back memories. In his mind’s eye she was seven again, and he was still teaching medicine at Conanicut University in Denver. She’d wanted a pony, and because he couldn’t afford one he’d sold his coin collection in order to buy it. She’d been so excited that she named the animal Al in his honor. He could also see her clearly when she was nine and the delivery crew had wheeled the piano in. At the teacher’s conference, Miss Ackerman had said that Megan showed musical aptitude, so he free-lanced at night proofreading medical textbooks in order to purchase a piano. It had been his own mother’s favorite instrument, and, though he could only afford a used upright, Megan made it sound like a Steinway. She titled her first composition “Al’s Song.”
Today, very little gave Halsey more pleasure than to watch Megan ride or listen to her play. Making these things possible were the right sacrifices to have made.
Their lives together had been give and take, but this time Megan would have to give. It hurt to deny her anything, but he couldn’t let her make a mistake of this magnitude. Cain was merely adequate for her before; he was dead wrong for her now. His medical career was finished, and Halsey would not have his daughter marry a nobody.
The traffic began to move, and Halsey cut out around the Rambler.
“Daddy, why can’t you understand that he loves me?”
“I do understand,” he said calmly, “but you have to understand that Daniel Cain is wrong for you.”
“Why? Because he isn’t one of those asshole snob professors you keep trying to push o
n me?”
“Megan—”
“Don’t baby me, Daddy! Even if you throw him out, I’ll go with him. We’re going to get married!”
Halsey felt his neck muscles tense, but he refused to yell. Megan was distraught, and, besides, he had the upper hand. He had to show magnanimity in victory.
“You’re doing no such thing. These other suitors may be . . . snobs, some of them, but they’re all stable, intelligent men.”
“They’re all little Dean Halseys, which may be what you want for me, but it isn’t what I want for me!”
“Stop it, Megan! We’re not talking about a pony now, we’re talking about a lifetime commitment.”
“Exactly! And I want Dan. Whatever his faults, he’ll grow up. We’ll grow together.”
Halsey shook his head. “I’m afraid you won’t have the chance. Mr. Cain is facing more than expulsion. He may be facing criminal charges as well. Carl says he heard Cain and Mr. West in the morgue.”
“That’s because they’re scientists, Daddy. You should sympathize with that! Whatever Dan is doing, I’m sure he has a good reason—”
“The reason, honey, is that Daniel Cain is mad. I’ve seen this happen to medical students before—good ones! Too much pressure and they crack!”
Megan pounded the dashboard. “Don’t you see, Daddy, it’s West! He’s the one who’s mad.”
“Then it’s contagious, because after what I heard this afternoon—”
“You mean Rufus?” she demanded.
“I mean that rubbish about the cat. Not only has Cain seen dead cats come back to life, he’s convinced you that you saw them too.”
“But I did! Rufus was dead, and then he was alive!”
Halsey swung the car into the employees’ parking lot and pulled into his spot. He punched a button, unlocking the doors, then regarded his daughter.
“You only thought the cat was alive. West tricked you, just as he tricked Daniel. Carl’s right. He did it so the college would give him money and resources. But he’s not getting them, and Daniel Cain is not getting them either. What’s more, Daniel Cain also is not getting you.”
“He’s already had me,” she pouted.
Halsey froze. Megan had wanted to hurt him, but she was unprepared for the utter desolation that filled his eyes. Numbly, he opened the door and stepped out, padding slowly toward the entrance, oblivious to the greeting of the guard and the orderlies he passed.