Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms

by J. Price Higgins

  Munoz once more timed the rising of George's chest. The sedative was wearing off. "We'd better hurry. He's coming up pretty fast," he said.

  Together, the four men shoved and tugged until the creature rolled onto the tarp, its upper torso hanging precariously over the front edge.

  Dane jumped onto the winch platform. "No time to reposition. I'll take it up, Harvey. You three keep the sling steady as long as you can reach it. If anything happens, get the hell out of here."

  Halfway up the container side, the body twitched and slipped another inch forward. Faces taut with fear, the three below tried to keep the sling from swinging.

  "It's going to fall, Mr. Wyland. It's going to fall!" Harvey shrieked as the tarp rose beyond their reach. Amory Ryan stood like a block of carved ice.

  "I can't stop now. He's regaining consciousness." Sweat trickled down the side of Dane's face as he gently swung the tarp toward the open top.

  A baleful yellow eye snapped open—stared in his direction.

  "Oh, shit!" Dane shoved the power lever forward. As the sling lurched over the edge of the container, he released the holding ring and the creature pitched forward.

  One clawed arm and a hooked foot grasped the edge of the container. With its opposite arm and leg flailing against the smooth glass, the beast hung suspended in the seven foot space between sand and freedom. The hooked foot slipped free and, slowly, the arm lost its grip; what was once George Kayman hit the sand level and disappeared.

  Dane slammed down the cover and snapped it securely. "Throw me that can." He pointed to the table. "The blue one."

  Munoz tossed it into the waiting hands as if he tossed a ball into a waiting net. With one fluid motion, Dane flipped the can top open and began to spray.

  Below him, sand mounded.

  He froze.

  The mound exploded outward. With nose flaps waving and snout almost touching the glass top, the creature stopped its upward blast. Yellow eyes glowed for one quick instant then it was gone.

  "Jeezus! Did you ever see anything so fast?" Amory Ryan said. "It moves through that sand like a damned fish in water."

  "I didn't even see it move," Harvey gulped. "All I know is, one second it was there and the next it wasn't. I'm out of here." Without a backward look, both men barreled from the laboratory.

  Hands shaking, Dane finished sealing. He climbed back onto the winch platform and lowered himself to the floor. Turning to Munoz, he said, "We better see to Bianca."

  Sefura looked up as they entered the front lab. "I called the house doctor. He said not to move her." She looked back down at her sister's pale face. "She's going to be okay, isn't she?"

  "If Doctor Upman can't take care of her wounds, he'll contact San Francisco," Munoz replied. "All we can do right now is wait."

  He turned toward Dane. "Bianca's in good hands," he said, nodding toward Sefura. "While we're waiting, you and I will talk." Ignoring the look on Dane's face, he continued, "Mace Williams will be back tomorrow. You will start his training as soon as possible. It's imperative that he understand the in-vaulting equipment, especially the freezing constants."

  "I hope he has three or four years to spend studying, Sir," Dane said wryly. "Otherwise, about all he's going to learn is how to read dial settings."

  "He's got the time. He's also an intelligent scientist. I think you'll be surprised."

  "Then let me put it this way, Sir," Dane said. "I don't want anything more to do with Pelican Island. I'd rather be back in the desert."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Wyland," Munoz said with a silken voice. "We need you here not there. Need I remind you that you're still under contract?"

  "As a designer and engineer," Dane said stubbornly. "Not as a teacher. I believe the contract specifies that if the Church has no further need of my engineering skills, I will be released from said contract."

  Munoz leaned back in Bianca's chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin. "So it does. I see you are one of the rare few who not only reads what he signs, but understands what it says. That pleases me." He dropped his hands to the desk top, pressing his palms flat. "Your skills are required for more cases such as you've built in there," his head jerked toward the paneled wall. "Considerably smaller, however. I'll give you the dimensions when we're ready. In addition to the cases, you will design the new quarters for Tartarus. We are relocating the Foundation to South America—near Brasilia."

  "Why are you moving the Foundation?"

  Munoz knew he had piqued the young man's interest. "Take a good look at the water line around this island. If a rising ocean doesn't answer your question, I have an environmental report which clearly explains why this area will, in the not too distant future, experience a plate shift of such catastrophic proportions that a sea way is bound to be opened. When that happens, the Sierras themselves will be nothing more than green tipped islands. I would prefer that this organization be as protected as possible when that time comes." Munoz paused to let the tension build. "As for our third project, you will design a tree that will not only support the central building of our new quarters, but will also serve a useful purpose for our new population control program," Munoz smiled. "This tree will carry a leaf for every inhabitant on the planet. You will be provided with a blueprint specifying the exact placement of such."

  Wyland was hooked. Munoz could see his mind racing with the possibilities of design, the engineering problems to be overcome, and the complexity of incorporating such a design into a building's esthetics. He must have a thousand questions.

  "How did you come up with the idea of a tree?" Dane said.

  "I can't stand monitor printouts. They hurt my eyes and are difficult to decipher. Visual imagery, that's what I want. In between, you will school Mace Williams on the finer points of freezing."

  He thumbed the pages of the leather bound volume lying on Bianca's desk. "Speaking of deciphering, I see you're working on volume twelve, Sefura. Anything interesting surface?"

  "Same as the others, Holiness. I've never seen genealogies set out like this before. Pages and pages of dates, names, and places with a number thrown in every now and then." Sefura rubbed a finger across her eyelid. "Tiny little writing, I might add. I'll probably go blind before I'm finished." She glanced toward the door. "When is that doctor getting here?"

  "She's comfortable. Stop fretting. Have you determined what the numbers stand for, yet?" He studied her face intently.

  "Just numbers as far as I can tell. Aside from being consecutive, there doesn't seem to be any reason for them and I haven't found any explanation for them either. When you translated the first book, was there anything in it that would give some kind of clue?"

  "Pages and pages of tiny little writing." He chuckled.

  "Sef?" Dane squatted beside her, rubbed her cheek with the side of his hand. "I'm afraid for you to be here any longer with that monstrosity in there. I want to take you some place safe."

  "No," she said. Her face and her voice were set with determination. "Bianca needs me. Especially now." Her hands smoothed her sister's dark hair. "Who knows how long it will be before she can be up and around? Also, that monstrosity, as you call him, has a name. It's George Kayman."

  "My God, Sefura. That thing in there isn't your friend—it's a dangerous animal. A killer. Let me take you somewhere safe."

  Her eyes flashed. "Stop it! He's not a killer. Yes—he went out of control in there, but Bianca shouldn't have used the rod. He doesn't need it, has never needed it. Like I've said before, Dane, George will never harm me. He loves me and depends on me. He has for a long time. I'm not going anywhere, so stop pestering me about it." Her head bent to watch her unconscious sister.

  He rose and stood with hands in pockets. "I'll let it go for now, but don't think you've heard the last of it. If nothing else, you'll come with me just to get rid of my carping." When she made no response, he added, "I will do whatever it takes to protect you. With or without your cooperation."

  A loud bangin
g echoed down the outer corridor.

  "That must be the doctor," Munoz said. "Give me the key, Sefura."

  A moment later, he strode back into the room with Doctor Upman close behind.

  "Your fast work applying the healer saved your sister a lot of blood loss, young lady," he said when he had finished his examination. "The side wound is deep, but nothing vital's been injured. That ankle cut is a different matter." He traced the gash that circled round the back of Bianca's foot. "The tendon's hanging by a thread—if not severed completely. I won't be able to tell how serious it really is until I get her cleaned up."

  Munoz paled. "If it's severed?"

  The doctor rose. "Modern medicine can heal a lot of things, Holiness, including severed tendons. She'll walk with a limp, but at least she'll walk."

  Dane casually edged sideways until he reached the paneled wall. "You tried, didn't you, George," he muttered to the door. "You didn't kill her, but you may have crippled her. For a woman like Bianca, I think that's worse." He listened to the silence. There came no answering chuck or howl and he returned to the group bent over the Foundation's director.

  No one saw George Kayman grin.

  Chapter 59

  Ellery

  Ellery awoke with a start.

  The sound came again from downstairs.

  Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed down the stairs, and stood quietly in the dark, listening. Someone tapped at the French doors, light and quick. A memory stirred. That was Dane's old signal! She had heard it often when he and Vickie were children. She moved quickly to the doors.

  "Dane?" she whispered.

  "Yes."

  She unlocked the door and he entered with a swirl of fog.

  "What's wrong?" Her glance flew to the sideboard clock. "My good heavens—it's three o'clock in the morning!"

  "Sorry, Ellery. I had to be sure that I wasn't seen."

  "Those two parked in front? By two o'clock, they're usually nowhere to be found. Guess they think I'm too old to get up once I'm down for the night." She chuckled. "Most of the time, they're right."

  "How long before they return?"

  "Another couple of hours."

  "Good. I'll be long gone before then. My plane leaves at five."

  "Plane?" Her hand went to her chest. "You're leaving?"

  "Munoz has scheduled another engineering project—a new research center."

  "How long will you be gone?"

  "I don't know. A couple of years I suspect. It all depends on the labor pool."

  "They're setting up another lab?"

  He shook his head. "They're moving the Foundation to Brazil. Munoz says it's for safety reasons. Something about a seaway being opened and this entire area washing away. I find that hard to believe, but he claims to have a full report that guarantees such a catastrophe's going to happen. I think there's more than safety involved, but I can't figure out what."

  Matthew's environmental report! she thought.

  She remembered his tirade, his anger at the committee members for not listening. No wonder the committee refused to listen, goading her son into such anger. That projection was for Munoz all along. It was never meant to be discussed. Then she remembered something else. That's when I lost it, Matthew had said. I proceeded to tell Gorban . . .

  The stocky image of Dewitt Halloran, the environmental Committee Chairman and Munoz's pocket Senator, flashed into her mind. He would have checked her son's statements, would have known Matthew's words were absolutely correct. That's how Munoz found out about the memory.

  ". . . nearly killed her."

  Ellery brought her wandering attention back to Dane. "Start again. I missed some of that." She listened intently as Dane described the fight, described the flashing creature in its sand container and Munoz's later proposals.

  "Then there's Sefura."

  "Bianca's sister?" Her face paled.

  He nodded, his face glum. "I think I'm in love with her, Ellery. You'd like her, too. She's bright and witty and gentle. Sometimes a little too stubborn. Sometimes a little too—bouncy as you would call it." He looked up. "Like Vickie, I guess."

  A lot like Vickie, Ellery thought. She said, "Does this girl return your affection?"

  Again he nodded. "The problem is, she thinks she owes her life to Bianca. In her mind, Doctor Raborman is perfect, incapable of wrongdoing. Even when it's right in front of her eyes. She still insists that the injections George Kayman received were a mistake. She refuses to accept the fact that he's not human anymore, that he's a danger to her."

  "He may not be, Dane. His hate is for Bianca, not Sefura. She has been his nurse and companion for many years. Even vicious animals remember love and affection, will fight to the death to protect the one who gave it to them."

  Ellery hesitated then said, "Bianca. She doesn't know about our relationship, does she?" She could feel the flush creeping up her neck at his look. "Sorry, Dane. I know better."

  "No need to apologize. I've been tempted. Many times. You were right to ask." He glanced at his watch. "I don't have much time left. The main reason I woke you so early was not only to let you know about Brazil, but to also tell you that Bianca's working on a vaccine to block the BH gene."

  "Oh, my God. How long?"

  "I don't know. A while, I suspect. Late yesterday afternoon, Sef was concentrating on a book while I put the finishing touches on that lab monstrosity's new quarters. When I asked her what she was studying, she said it was a project she'd been working on for His Holiness in-between organizing her sister's notes on a new vaccine. One that would block the Dakotan gene."

  He dug in his pocket, removed a piece of paper. "Later, I found this in Bianca's shredder basket, all wadded up. I figured if she wanted it destroyed, it might be important."

  Her gaze dropped to the folded sheet of paper he held in his hand; he thrust it forward.

  "Thank you," Ellery said, taking the proffered sheet.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I have to go. Take care." He slipped back out into the dense fog.

  Ellery slumped against the door. Would this relentless pursuit never end? The killing, the sterilizing—was it not enough to satisfy the woman?

  She knew it wasn't.

  If she would save the gene, she knew what she had to do.

  She climbed the stairs with leaden steps, her mind in turmoil. The sick churning in her stomach threatened to overpower her repeated swallowing. Could she do this? Could she enter deep into that micro-world of life and twist its beauty into shapes foreign, into theories and formulas and deadness? Could she do what Papa Victor did? She looked down at the paper clutched in her hand. Her eyes filled with tears. If only Dane hadn't brought her this she could have stayed in her safe little world where the likes of Bianca Raborman did not exist and the name Dakota held honor.

  Ah, but she does exist, her mind chided, and sooner or later, she will destroy the Dakotan gift. Unless . . .

  "I won't let that happen," she muttered. No matter how deep she had to go, how much she had to twist, the gene would survive.

  Sitting at her console, Ellery fed the cryptic numbers on Bianca's paper into the machine. Because there weren't many, it was obvious that this was only a fragment of the entire equation, but it might give her a clue to the path the scientist was taking. Bianca has grown overconfident, she thought. Slipping into old habits. Knowing everything in the basket would be sent to the furnace, she just tossed this away, too careless to run it through the shredder.

  She sat back. There were many ways Bianca could send a destroyer, but she would have to first find what she sought to attack. If the geneticist had located the BH gene, a hunt-and-destroy code should be found in these formulas. Otherwise, perhaps a clue would surface that would point to where in the genome she was searching.

  "Decipher and project all probabilities," Ellery said.

  The machine whirred, the screen filled with formulas labeled in consecutive order. They strongly suggested that Bianca was sifting. She quickl
y scanned the first set, then the second—M13, tincture of gold, dATP, cysteine and others. DNA probes or keys to gene location? This was not going to be easy.

  The human genome had three billion code letters. That number could increase considerably if some of the spacer regions actually played the role of creative governor as Doctor Yang postulated in his report to the National Genetics Institute. The thought made her head spin.

  Ellery frowned with concentration. Somewhere in those billions of code letters was an amino acid sequence for the protein encoded by the BH gene; with that sequence, she could prepare a linker, an oligonucleotide to locate the gene. But where and what was the protein? So far, with all of her chromosome walking, she had found no footprints to follow.

  She focused her attention back on the formulas displayed on her screen. Forty seven probabilities, each going in a different direction. Which one was Raborman's? There was no way to tell for sure. What if she fed her own information into Bianca's and started from there? Huh-uh, she thought. Won't work. The number of resultant paths could take years to untangle and she didn't have that kind of time.

  An image of the old willow tree in her garden on Concentration Point came to the forefront of her mind—and Charles Lakeland explaining how he kept the beauty. "Every year, you start at the center of the tree and work outward," he'd said. "If new growth doesn't fit what you got up here," he tapped a finger to temple, "get rid of it. No matter how pretty it looks. Don't compromise—it'll only slow you down. One day, you look at your tree and what do you see? Only beauty, Ellery. Perfect in every way." She remembered the warmth of the sun on that day and the quiet contentment on Charles's face as he gazed at the willow.

  Okay, she thought. Let's plant a tree. We'll start with the trunk. My information will go there. Her lips formed into a half smile. You're a spindly little tree, but you will grow.

  In the corner of her mind, a familiar song began to play: Beware ye sailors in the night when a siren sings her song of delight. With it a different memory, a forgotten memory. Not the laboratory or Papa's face. A child's voice: "What does it mean, Papa? The words."