"Which way do you want them? Pressed or done in sections?"
"The sections take too long. Just do impressions. What we're looking for will show up just as well."
So the medical examiner, instead of placing tissue from that portion of the brain into fixing fluid and embedding it within paraffin, a process that took several hours, simply pressed a bit of tissue on the slide and smeared it evenly, then looked around to find a microscope.
"Over by that cabinet."
The microscope had ajar of Seller's stain beside it. The medical examiner put stain across the specimen to make sure that what he was looking for would stand out in contrast. He arranged the slide and peered down through the lenses.
"Can you see them?" Owens asked.
The medical examiner kept peering.
"What's the matter? You should see them."
But the medical examiner just turned to him and shook his head. "I think you'd better look."
"You mean you didn't see them, and we have to do the other tests?"
"I mean that you should have a look."
Now Owens frowned as he peered down through the lenses.
What the medical examiner had looked for was some evidence of Negri bodies. Negri was a scientist in Italy who first identified them in the early 1900s. They were tiny, round, and sometimes oval bodies in the protoplasm of the nerve cells in that portion of the brain called Ammon's horn. No one knew exactly what they were. In current theories, they were either rabies virus particles, or else degenerative matter from the cells affected by the virus. Maybe both. But seeing them was certain proof that rabies was at work here. And the medical examiner had seen them. On the other hand, he maybe hadn't.
"I don't get it," Owens said. "Something's wrong here. These things shouldn't look like that."
The medical examiner understood. He watched as Owens peered down through the microscope again. Because the things he'd seen were neither round nor oval. They were oblong with an indentation on one side.
"They look like god-damned peanuts," Owens said. "What's going on here?"
"This could be some related virus."
"What? You tell me what."
"I just don't know."
"You bet you don't, and I don't either. Rabies is something I'd recognize, and you can bet there's nothing in the books about these things we're looking at."
"We'll have to do the antibody test."
"It takes a couple of hours, and the mouse test takes at least a week. I want to know what this thing is."
"We have to guess for now it's rabies. Or a virus that has all its symptoms."
"Which is fine if no one were exposed to it," Owens said. "But what about that owner? And yourself? If this is rabies, you'll have to take the serum shots, but we don't know if they'd do any good."
They studied one another, and the medical examiner reached up to touch his mask, the swollen lip beneath it. He'd forgotten. Or more truthfully, he'd tried to keep from thinking of those shots. "I'll take them anyway."
"But what if they don't work well with the virus? What if there's a bad reaction?"
"Hell, if I've already got it, I'll be dead soon anyway. What difference does it make?"
The medical examiner suddenly remembered something that the owner had first told him, that he'd let slip by in the excitement, something that the rabies serum shots reminded him about.
"He said his dog had been inoculated."
"What?"
"The owner. He mentioned that the dog had received its shots."
"What's his name?"
The medical examiner told him.
"Okay, there isn't any other animal clinic, so his file will have to be here. Try some other slides. Make sure we didn't do them wrong. I'll come back in a minute." Owens hurried toward the door that led down to the offices in front.
The medical examiner obeyed the instructions he'd been given. His legs were shaking as he stumbled toward the microscope. He peered at all the slides, and each one was the same, and he was really scared now.
Owens pushed the door open so forcefully that the medical examiner flinched.
"He was right." Owens had a file in one hand, raising it. "That dog is five years old. It had its puppy shots, its boosters every year."
"Well, could the boosters be the cause of this? Contamination in the vaccine?"
"I don't know, but sure as hell I'm going to learn."
"Even if the vaccine were prepared correctly, could it have been so strong that it caused the virus?"
"In the case of rabies, maybe. With a weak dog. One chance in a hundred thousand. But I don't know how the vaccine would produce the thing we're looking at."
"One chance might be all this thing might need."
They frowned at each other.
"Look, I've got to make a call." The medical examiner grabbed the phone and dialed. Marge was answering. "I've got to talk to Slaughter."
"He's been looking everywhere for you," she said. "He's at the Baynard mansion."
"What?"
Then she told him the rest, and he felt sicker.
"I'm on my way."
He hung up, turning to Owens. "Run the antibody test, the fluoroscope. I'll get back as soon as I can manage."
"But what's wrong?"
There wasn't time to explain. The medical examiner tugged off his gloves and face mask. Urgent, he yanked at the door to meet the darkness.
TEN
It kept howling.
"Jesus. Lord, I wish that thing would stop."
The policemen stood in the glare of the headlights, a net spread out before them. Rettig had come back a little while ago. He'd looked everywhere to find a net, the sporting-goods stores, the zoo down in the park as Slaughter had suggested, but he hadn't seen one. He'd been frantic since the stores had all been closed, and he'd been forced to call the owners, but they hadn't been home. Then as he had given up and started back to Slaughter, he had slammed his brakes on, staring at the restaurant across the street. It hadn't done well, and the business had been sold. A seafood place in cattle country. Why had anyone put money in it? But the decorations still were in there, and he saw the heavy sea nets hanging in the window. He had run across. The doors were locked. He didn't know the owners. He finally pulled out his gun and smashed the back-door window.
Slaughter hadn't liked that, but he didn't want to say so. After all, the man had tried. At least they had the net now, and that really was what mattered. He told his men how they would have to do this as the howling kept on from the upper stories, and they clearly didn't want to go in. For that matter, Slaughter didn't want to go himself. "The main thing is, don't hurt the boy." He glanced to see if Dunlap heard that. If this thing turned sour, he wanted to avoid accusations about police brutality. He wanted all his men to know without a doubt that they were only to restrain the boy.
"But what if he attacks us?"
"Just don't hurt him. Keep the net between you and the boy. We'll get him tangled in it. After that, we shouldn't have much problem."
Slaughter looked at Dunlap again, hoping that Dunlap understood how clear and cautious every order had been. He squinted from the headlights aimed toward the porch. He saw the mother and the father, and they still weren't in their car. He saw the woman from the Potter's Field Historical Society, the other cruisers that had gotten here not long ago, the headlights of another cruiser speeding up the gravel driveway.
"Well, we've got enough men. Let's do it."
But the headlights weren't another cruiser. Slaughter recognized the car. It was the medical examiner's, and Slaughter told them, "Wait a second," as he stepped from the porch.
The medical examiner got out of his car and rushed forward.
"Where have you been? I've been looking-" Slaughter stopped talking when he saw the blood across the man's shirt, the mangled lips. "What happened to your face?"
"There isn't time to explain. I know this thing's a virus, but I'm not sure if it's rabies."
"Is i
t just as bad?"
"It's maybe worse. It seems to work much faster. There's a dog that passed through one stage of the virus sooner than it should have. We're still doing tests."
"Well, what about this boy up there?"
The medical examiner winced as he heard the howling from the upper stories. "That's a boy who's doing that?" His face was twisted with the shock of disbelief.
"I have to think it is. There could be some stray dog up there, but we don't have a reason to believe that."
"God, I once heard someone sound like that."
"A case of rabies?"
"Back in med school. But the other symptoms weren't the same as this. A victim of rabies might get vicious, even bark and snap at someone."
"Bark?"
"The muscles in the neck constrict. The person tries to talk, but all the words come out like barking."
"This is howling."
"That's exactly what I mean. The symptoms aren't the same. It sounds more like an animal. Besides, I never heard of anyone with rabies who had actually attacked someone. Oh, I read cases in the medical books but never met a doctor who'd actually seen it happen."
"Then we don't know any more than when we started."
"That's not true. We know there's something, and we're fairly certain it's contagious."
"But the parents claim the boy was never bitten."
"Sure, and I just saw a dog that had its shots, and now it's dead back at the vet's."
The howling started again.
"Damn. I should have thought. The moon," the medical examiner said.
"Now you've lost me."
"Look at it." He pointed toward the almost full moon that was shining toward the mansion. 'That symptom is at least consistent. Victims of rabies are enraged by light. Their eyes are sensitive. They seek out darkness. When the moon rises, they start reacting to it."
"Howling?"
"Rapid dogs will, and in this case one small boy."
"They say he cut his hand on glass this morning."
"That's too soon. It takes about a week before the rabies virus starts to show symptoms. But if this thing is quicker than the normal virus, if the glass had been licked by an infected animal, that would be enough to transmit it. When you catch the boy, the first thing I want to do is see that cut."
The howls were rising.
"It's like something, someone, crazy," Slaughter told him.
"Lunacy, they used to call it. Madness from the moon."
Slaughter didn't want to talk about this anymore. "I've got to go in after him."
"I'll bring my bag."
"We'll need it." Slaughter hurried up the stone steps to his men. "Is everybody ready?"
They nodded tensely.
"Keep your gloves on. Rettig, hold the net at that end. You three hold it at the other end and in the middle. Just remember. No one hurt him."
Slaughter looked at Dunlap again to make sure he'd heard, and they started in.
Dunlap followed.
"No, you stay out here," Slaughter told him.
"But I want to see the end of this."
"I don't have time to keep you safe from trouble. I've got plenty as it is to think about."
"I'll stay back out of danger."
"You're damned right you will. You'll stay there on the porch."
"You're hiding something, Slaughter."
For the first time, Slaughter felt enraged by him. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard what I said. You're not sure you can keep your men controlled. You don't want someone like me up there to see trouble."
"I've had just about enough from-"
"Parsons told you to cooperate."
"About the commune but not this. He doesn't even know about this."
"But he'll be damned mad if you screw up his p.r. tactics. Look, you need as many witnesses as you can get. I've handled this about as well as anybody. I've been helping."
Slaughter couldn't stand here arguing. He squinted at the headlights, at the medical examiner approaching, and abruptly made his choice. "All right, I'm going to take a chance on you. The first time you get in the way, you'll find your ass out on the porch."
"That's what I figured."
"Then we understand each other." Slaughter turned to the medical examiner. "You'll need these gloves."
"Hey, I will too," Dunlap said.
"You won't be close enough to need them."
They crossed the long, wide hallway toward the curving staircase. Men were spread out at the bottom, the net before them.
"Ready with your flashlights?" Slaughter asked.
They nodded, turning on the flashlights, beams arcing up the stairs. He heard their breathing and smelled their sweat.
"Okay, let's do it."
Footsteps shuffling, scraping, they started, the net spread out before them, up the staircase.
ELEVEN
It was waiting for them. It had scurried to the final landing. Now it heard their footsteps and their whispers, saw their sweeping flashlight beams. They still were quite a distance down there, but in time they would be up here, and it hissed as it swung in search of cover.
But there weren't any rooms behind it, just this one big open space that stretched from end to end. It didn't understand, although it did retain a far off memory of someone who'd explained this. There were slight projections from each corner, spaces behind, but these would be too obvious. It needed something else. And then it saw what it was looking for. A perfect hiding place and one it could attack from if it had to.
It was scurrying to reach the place, and all the while, it kept glancing at the glow that swept in through the window and spread cold and pale across the floor. It started howling again. It couldn't stop itself, was powerless to fight the urge, just crouched there, head up, howling long and high, its throat constricted painfully, and then the urge had been relieved, and it was scurrying.
The darkness in this hiding place was wonderful, the blackness soothing and secure. It closed its eyes to rest them after all the strain of squinting at that cold pale glow that spilled in through the windows. It was breathing quickly, nervous even though the hiding place was comforting. It licked its lips and tasted yet again the scabs of blood that clung in specks against its mouth. That salt taste that it now had grown accustomed to and even had begun to crave. But the salt taste had been liquid, and that recollection made it gag again. Nonetheless it wanted that warm sweetly salted liquid. It was caught in oppositions, both attracted and repelled, and without conscious effort, it was howling even more fiercely.
TWELVE
They stopped down on the second landing.
"It's up on the third floor."
"Maybe," Slaughter told them.
"But you heard it howling."
"We don't know if there's a dog in here as well. I say we do this as we planned it. Dunlap, you're so anxious to be helpful. Shine that flashlight up the stairs. Don't wait to yell if you see movement."
"Oh, don't worry. If there's anything on those stairs, I'll yell my god-damned head off."
"Are you sorry that you came now?"
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
"You must want that story bad."
"You have no idea."
But then Slaughter saw the way the flashlight beam was shaking, and he took the light away from him. "I don't know if it's booze or nerves, but I don't want my life depending on you. Here, you'd better take this." And he gave the flashlight to the medical examiner. "You do it just the way I told him." He turned to his men. "Okay, we work along this big hall up here, checking all the rooms. I don't expect to find him on this level, but I can't depend on expectation."
With the net spread before them, they moved through the darkness. When they reached the first doors on each side, they stopped and looked at Slaughter.
"Try the left side. I'll stay here and watch the other."
Breathing hoarsely, they went slowly in. But there was nothing. They shone flashlights in the cor
ners and the closets, just an old-time bedroom with a canopy above the bed, a net that came down to keep out mosquitoes. They looked underneath the bed, and they came out, checking all the other rooms along the hallway. Other beds, a playroom, and a study, all rigged out as if a hundred years ago, maps and photographs and guns up on the walls, a chair that looked as if old Baynard had risen from it only a moment ago, but nobody was in there, and they came out, staring down the hall toward where the medical examiner was aiming the flashlight up the stairs.
"I guess we know he's up there," Slaughter said.
They faced the stairs and started up. Their flashlight beams were making crazy angles on the walls and ceiling. The men shuffled as if at any moment they expected some small figure to come hurtling toward them, but instead they reached the final landing, and they swung their beams across the big top-story room.
"Well, I don't get it," Slaughter said. "What is this place?" His voice echoed.
"You've never been here?" Rettig asked.
"Always meant to. Never took the time."
"The ballroom," Rettig told him. "Baynard's wife was Southern, and she didn't like the people out here. She was used to parties, dances, fancy dinners. Baynard built this place to suit her, and the ballroom was his special effort. Once a month at least he had a celebration. Ranchers, those with money, used to come from miles around, better people from the town, congressmen and senators. He paid their way. They'd come up from the railroad in carriages he sent for them. He even brought an orchestra from Denver. They would dance and eat and-"
"What's the matter?" Slaughter asked him.
In the dark, the flashlight beams angling across the ballroom, Slaughter felt his stomach burning.
"Well, I used to hear about it from my father's father, but I never knew if it was true or not. He said the parties sometimes got a little out of hand."
"I don't know what you mean."
Rettig continued, "You can see the way the balcony juts out from that end. Well, the orchestra played up there. With that solid wooden railing, the musicians couldn't see too much of what went on below them. In the corners and the sides there, you can see the slight partitions that come out."
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