by Pete Rawlik
That afternoon, with her father’s permission, I had Otto drive us into town. I had told him I was taking her shopping for some undergarments, something Xavier seemed relieved to not have to do himself. After Otto had left I rushed her through the purchase of a few pieces and then whisked her away to a small country store filled with various supplies needed for extended visits to the wilds. There I bought a small handgun, and in the range behind the store showed her how to properly use it. She was a natural, although a bit stiff. She had a habit of closing one eye while she aimed, but I soon broke her of that. It may have seemed irresponsible of me, to give a child like that a deadly weapon, but I saw little recourse. Her father was oblivious to the situation of his daughter growing up, and was marching a literal platoon of men through his house, leaving her entirely unsupervised. Something was bound to happen and I wanted Joanne to have a fighting chance when it did.
We returned home in time for a rather inspired dinner of grilled swordfish surrounded by spring vegetables and a soup of roasted squash. Xavier was particularly proud that all of the food had come from local farms, with a professional angler named Quint supplying the fish. The meal and drinks created a quite intoxicating atmosphere; and the conversation amongst learned men and their equally intelligent wives lasted for several hours. Why some men married women who were not their intellectual equal struck me as an exercise in masochism; as that night bore witness. Women and men who hold similar levels of intellect make the most excellent of partners. It was nearly midnight when our host finally rose and announced that he was retiring for the evening. In moments, many of his guests made similar pronouncements and slowly drifted away.
I, however, was invigorated, and by the light of the full moon took a stroll to the edge of the cliff to watch the sea crash on the beach below. There I watched as a lone and furtive figure dashed along the shoreline of West Egg. That figure was plainly Doctor Herbert West, easily recognizable from his blond hair, which caught and reflected the moonlight like a beacon in the night. Intrigued, I careened down the stairs and chased after him. This was not as easy as it sounds. No longer viewing the landscape from above, I could not see my quarry, but he had left clear tracks in the sand. These, however, were rapidly vanishing, being systematically washed away by the waves that were a constant eraser on the metaphoric blackboard of the sandy strip of land. This, I supposed, was why West had run so close to the waterline, so that any evidence of his passage might be quickly washed away. Faced with the potential of losing the trail, I removed my heels and in bare feet broke into a run, splashing through the surf as I stalked the enigmatic Doctor West.
We did not go far, in fact it seemed as if I had traveled only a little more than a mile before West’s sandy prints suddenly turned and headed up past the high water mark and onto a vast and ornate patio that lay in the shadow of a house that made Cliff Manor look miniscule in comparison. It had been a magnificent thing once, all too ostentatious for my tastes, but someone had built it as a kind of bauble, a show-place for wealth and power. But as the empty pools, still fountains, and crumbling masonry testified, that wealth and power had faded, leaving their Ozymandian trappings to succumb to devouring time.
Even here West’s path was easy to follow, for sandy clumps led from the patio through an open door and into the great hall of the crumbling palace. I followed those sandy breadcrumbs, leaving my own trail of damp footprints. Inevitably, I was led from the hall and into one of the side rooms, which revealed itself to be an immense library with twelve-foot ceilings lined with bookcases that were still filled with shelf after shelf of gilt-edge books. Huge ladders meant to slide around the shelves provided access to the upper levels of the collection. I was dazzled by the enormity of it all and in stunned silence wandered in, my neck craned up, taking it all in. A huge mural of the sun, the light of knowledge, had been painted on the ceiling, and care had been taken to integrate the rays of the sun with the light fixtures that had been embedded within. I found it odd that in a home that was clearly abandoned the lights still worked, but was grateful for the amazing display they revealed. I spun about, taking it all in, reveling in the obvious joy that someone had taken in creating this monument to literature and knowledge. For one instant I forgot what had brought me here, and that brief lapse was enough to turn the tables and change me from hunter to the one being caught.
“It is a grand facade is it not, Miss Halsey?” Herbert West’s voice echoed in the vast chamber. He was perched on one of the ladders, his glasses on the tip of his nose, a fat volume bound in leather in his hand.
My pirouette disturbed, I tumbled clumsily to the floor and laughed at my own lack of grace and discretion. I had been caught stalking Doctor Herbert West, but whom would he tell, he had no more business here than I did. “A facade, Doctor West?”
He waved the book in his arm in a wide arch. “All of this. Oh, it’s pleasant enough to look at, but it’s not made to last. The wood is substandard, the craftsmanship poor, even the floors are the cheapest of marble polished to a high gloss. These books,” he dropped the one he held in his hand and it crashed to the floor, falling open as it split almost in two. “Cheap bindings, and only the lower shelves have actual books. The upper levels are all dummies, bindings filled with cheap unprinted pages. It is, as I have said, a facade, there is nothing of value or substance here. In a decade, maybe two, this grand edifice shall likely collapse in on itself, leaving nothing but rotting timbers and crumbling masonry to mark its passing.”
“Then why are you here, Doctor?”
“I could ask the same of you, Miss Halsey, but if you must know I want to know the truth. I’ve done the research, seen the permits and the invoices. The man who built this place spent a fortune to create it, but where did the money go? This monstrosity could have been built for a fraction of what they said was spent.” With careful steps he descended to the floor.
“Why do you care?” I lifted myself up and brushed the dust off my dress.
He strolled over casually. “Once something was stolen from me, and I found it necessary to exact terrible revenge on the thief. I thought the matter closed, but learned too late that my work had been taken once more. It was used, refined, sold on secret markets as if it were some illicit distillation of opium. My life’s work was taken from me and used to help fund this man’s lavish lifestyle and this decadent and decaying mausoleum. I want to know what he really did with all those riches.”
“Does it matter that much to you?” I put a hand on his shoulder.
“It does.” He put a hand on my waist. “There is nothing I loathe more than seeing my work stolen and perverted.”
I brought my lips close to his ear and whispered. “What do you know about perversion?”
His hand reached down and pulled my dress up. “Let me show you.” He found me ready and eager, and I spread myself wide and let him plunge his fingers inside me.
As he did, I let my mouth come to rest on his throat, and with practiced control let my teeth and lips tease the tender flesh of his neck. I heard him moan as I tore open his shirt and raked my hand across his back. He lifted me up, sliding his hand deeper inside and spinning me about. I wrapped a leg around his waist and bit down deep. Aroused and unstable, we stumbled forward and I twisted our entwined bodies so that his back hit the shelf and absorbed the brunt of the impact.
That collision was softer than expected, for the shelf and the books that resided there collapsed under our weight. As Herbert had said, the library was merely a facade, and this section more so than others. The balsa wood shelves and painted-on books splintered and deposited us at the top of a set of stone stairs that overlooked a vast stone chamber, the lights of which flickered and sputtered to life at our mere presence.
I was on top of him now, and we both craned our necks in opposite directions to look out over what was before us. “I think we’ve found where that money was spent.” I announced with a laugh in my voice.
“Indeed.” His hands withdrew and he
made to move me off him, but I shoved him back down.
“We’ll explore what’s down there in a few minutes. Right now, there are things that I’ve been waiting years to do to you.” He lay back and let my hands snake down between his legs. “It’s your lucky day, Doctor West, in more ways than one.”
A half hour later, still sweating from our passions, we were wandering through the cavernous cellars that had been carved out beneath the house. It was a lab of sorts, with the trappings and equipment spanning a number of fields. Some areas were clearly chemical, while others seemed to focus on electricity, and yet others allowed for the examination of biological specimens. Both Herbert and I were stunned; neither of us had ever seen anything like it, and West muttered that it was plain to him that this was where the money had gone.
While it was clear that the funds to create such a place must have been immense, its exact purpose remained unclear. That was until we found the room full of rabbits. They were dead, of course, and had been for a long time; that in itself wasn’t unusual, and rabbits were often used as test subjects in experiments. What was odd was the way the animals had been preserved in jars. Hundreds of them lined the shelves and each jar bore a small dated note detailing some defect or the other. Earlier dates bore horrific defects such as the lack of eyes or other organs, or some other congenital deformity. As I proceeded, the gross defects faded and became replaced with lesser and lesser flaws, until at last the unknown author was left criticizing the pattern and size of the markings on the fur, markings that were astonishingly similar despite the noted difference. Finally, on the last three specimens dated in late 1921, the unknown critic had written the word perfect each time.
“Herbert,” I called out. “Have you heard of a man named Webber, a professor of experimental plant biology at Cornell?” There was no answer. “He coined a term for organisms derived asexually from a single progenitor, he called them clones. I think someone has been using this lab to create clones of rabbits. Why would you clone rabbits?”
Suddenly the far wall was shaking, a lever was thrown, and it slid to the side, revealing Herbert standing there in front of a vastly larger room still unlit. “You wouldn’t,” he announced. “Rabbits were just the beginning.” The electric lights sputtered to life and disclosed row after row of much larger glass jars, each with a tag, and each containing a human embryo. At least, those closer to me did—in the distance I could see even larger containers. “This is what he was trying to do, this is what he spent the money on. He was trying to clone a human being.”
We walked the rows. The embryos gave way to infants, and in time infants gave way to children. It was clear to me that the process had been tested on humans first—well, human cells. As problems in the development of the clone developed, the potential solutions were explored and then refined using rabbits. This process was repeated, until at last perfection in the form of flawless clones was achieved. This had occurred with the rabbits, and as we stood looking at the last glass container, it was clear from the label that success had been had with a human subject as well; but that subject was missing, the tube was empty, and the label with that triumphant word had been slashed through with a bold and defiant line of ink. There were two other containers, both the same size, or at least they had been. The glass had been shattered, the bodies that were presumably once inside were gone, and the paper labels lay stained amidst the glass, decaying into dust.
“A magnificent triumph occurred here,” concluded Herbert West.
I nodded. “But then why destroy it?” I wondered.
The answer came from behind us, in a voice that was ancient and cracked as it spoke. “Because a man is not a rabbit.” The figure that tottered out of the darkness was frail and small. Age had taken its toll. The man’s spine was bent, his hair reduced to a few scraggly wisps. His hands and legs shook with palsy, and even from a distance I could see that his skin was as thin as paper.
I wanted to ask him who he was, but West cut me off. “Mr. Jay Gats—”
“That man is dead!” cried the old man. “A victim of his own childish and wanton desires; I will not honor his memory by taking his name.” He paused to take a breath. “If you must, call me James. He may have rejected our birth name, but I shall gladly embrace it.”
I waved my hand around. “You did all this?”
He sighed, exasperated. “My predecessor did. Not alone, of course, he had help, the brightest and most advanced minds he could buy. He had a gift for seeing how things might work together, how they might benefit each other. His Kilaree Foundation continues this work to this very day.”
“That’s the group sponsoring Xavier’s work on the surgical academy.” I reminded West.
James nodded painfully. “Surgery is just the start. By the time we finish there will be a dozen such institutes; one for each field, researching the various causes of disease and congenital defects and bringing mankind, all of mankind, into a paradise free from infirmity and death. In time, if I last long enough, we might even be able to reverse this travesty that has afflicted me.”
West walked over to him and with permission began a cursory examination. “A form of Hutchinson-Gilford syndrome, I presume.”
“Premature and accelerated aging,” responded James. “Onset after about one year from being decanted. Most likely a side effect of the rapid forced growth needed to bring the body to adulthood.”
“Who decanted you?”
“It was automatic. There was a timer that had to be reset every month or so. When my predecessor was killed the mechanism was triggered.”
“And the memories, you retained them?”
“Everything from the day the cells were harvested for cultivation.”
“And the other two?”
“Destroyed in a fit of depression. Impulsive, I know, but that is one of the dangers of experimenting on one’s own self. At least I spared them the horror of being trapped in a body that slowly betrays itself.”
West looked around the lab and found a small scalpel and a petri dish. “I just want to take a small skin sample.” He scraped some flesh from behind the old man’s ear. ‘The good news is that I think I can reverse this. I’ve been experimenting along these lines, and I have had a startling amount of success.”
I was surprised, startled, really. “Really?” He nodded, never taking his eyes off his patient.
“What’s the bad news?” croaked James.
West lifted the scalpel back to the man’s neck. “You won’t live to see it.” The scalpel cut deep and left a red line across the front of his throat. Blood bubbled up like an overflowing sewer spilling down the front of his shirt in great gouts. I screamed as he crumpled to the ground like a doll discarded by a petulant child. He was clawing at his throat, and horrific gurgling noises were echoing across the floor as blood pooled around the body.
The word “Why?!” filled the room, and it took me a moment to realize that the sound was coming out of my mouth.
He spun around and I could see the madness that had welled up from inside him boiling through his eyes. “My research! Mine! How dare he steal from me. For that alone he deserved to die, but that he took it from me and twisted it for his own devices . . . for that he deserves to suffer.” He turned and plunged the scalpel into the back of the already dying man.
“You’re a madman!”
“You presume to judge me!” Spittle flew from his lips. “Without me you wouldn’t even exist. I made you! What god would humble himself before his own creation?”
I was flabbergasted but eventually stuttered out a coherent sentence. “What do you mean, you made me?”
The madness magnified his arrogance. “Your father was dead, your mother barren. It was I that brought him back, I and my reagent, which acted to return your father from beyond the grave. Without me your mother would never have had the opportunity to couple with your father once more, and she would never have been impregnated.” He stalked forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, his lip
s coming close to mine, close enough to feel his breath as he spoke. “You’re as much my creation, my daughter, as you are your father’s, or your mother’s.”
I screamed at such a suggestion and reached for my gun, but it wasn’t there. I hadn’t worn it to dinner, I had seen no need, and now that I needed it I was without. He threw me to the ground and stood over me. I think that perhaps, if I hadn’t just finished sating him an hour earlier, he surely would have taken me by force. Instead he stared at me with those mad eyes and that unkempt hair, as if he were looking into my very soul, as if my physical body wasn’t even there. “You would be wise, Miss Halsey, not to contradict me in the future.” With that, he left me lying there, surrounded by the fantastic laboratory and the man, or at least the clone of the man, who had built it.
What I did next was perhaps the wisest of all things I had ever done, and perhaps the most foolish as well. It was certainly the most dangerous. I wasn’t as arrogant or mad as Doctor Herbert West, I had not come here seeking vengeance, and thus I was more rational. I knew that somewhere in this vast research facility there was a notebook, a manual, something that documented the work that had been done here. It did not take me long to find such papers, and after I bundled them together I left the house that sat empty in West Egg, but not before assuring that its secret basement and the bodies that were hidden within were all consumed in a blazing inferno, fed by the faux library that resided above.