Creature (24 page)

The tremors increased. Abruptly, the dreamy look on Mark’s face was replaced with a grimace of fear and pain.

The convulsions began then, Mark’s body jerking spasmodically as he went into the third phase of insulin shock. Only when he had finally fallen unconscious and his body relaxed did Ames nod.

“All right,” he said. “Take him in and get him dressed. By the time he wakes up, he won’t remember a thing.” A sardonic smile twisted his lips. “In fact,” he added, “he’ll probably feel better than he’s ever felt before in his life.”

* * *

At first Sharon Tanner wasn’t certain she’d come to the right place. She’d driven the two miles out of town almost unconsciously, simply following the road as her anger—most of it directed toward Blake—grew within her. Why would he have done such a thing without asking her? It wasn’t like him; wasn’t like him at all. But even as her anger built, the rational part of her mind answered her own question. Had he sought her agreement, she’d have simply assumed it was one more step in his ongoing campaign to get Mark involved in sports, and automatically objected.

And she would have been right.

She braked the car suddenly and stared at the building off to the right. The sports center appeared more like a campus than a clinic, completely surrounded by well-kept lawns. But then, as she drew nearer, she realized that these weren’t just lawns: they were playing fields, acres and acres of them. At least two football fields, a baseball diamond, and a hockey field. There was a track, too, with an infield that boasted an array of both high and low hurdles, a broad-jump track, and a high jump, as well as various exercise bars.

In the center of all this was what looked like a lodge, but between her and the building were a pair of closed gates. She pulled the car up to the gates, rolled down the window and pressed a button on a large metal box mounted on an iron post. A moment later a male voice scratched from a speaker within the box: “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Dr. Ames,” Sharon said, her voice a little louder than she’d intended. “My name is Sharon Tanner. I’m Mark Tanner’s mother.”

“One moment, please,” the voice replied. The speaker went dead. The seconds ticked by, and after nearly a minute, Sharon wondered if she was, indeed, at the right place. She was considering what to do when the speaker came to life again; at the same time, the gates began to swing open.

“Just park in front of the building and come in the front door, Mrs. Tanner,” the disembodied voice instructed her.

She took her foot off the brake and drove slowly down the drive, impressed with what she saw, even in spite of her anger. It was a graceful building, fitting well into the surroundings of the rising mountains, and whatever it was all about, it was obviously successful. She parked the car, hurried up the front steps and across the wide veranda, pushing through the heavy glass door into the lobby. A smiling woman who wore a lab coat open over a tailored dress was waiting for her.

“Mrs. Tanner?” the woman asked, then went on without waiting for a reply. “I’m Marjorie Jackson, Dr. Ames’s assistant. Everyone calls me Marge. Won’t you come with me?”

Sharon’s lips tightened, but despite her urge to vent the anger that had been building inside her, she found herself obediently following Marge Jackson through the lobby and what was apparently a dining room, then down a hall into one of the building’s large wings. “It seems awfully empty, doesn’t it?” Marge asked, glancing back at Sharon. “But you should see it during the season. Last summer we had to feed the boys in two shifts!”

A minute later Sharon found herself being led into a suite of offices. Marge Jackson seated herself behind a desk. “I assume you’re here to see”—she paused to glance down at a file on the desk in front of her—“Mark, isn’t it?”

“I’m here for a lot more than that,” Sharon replied, her voice cool. She was pleased to see Marjorie Jackson’s smile fade uncertainly away.

“I beg your pardon?” she said. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—is something wrong?”

“Wrong?” Sharon repeated, making no attempt to veil her anger. “Why should anything be wrong? I left my son in County Hospital this morning, and by lunchtime I find he’s been moved. Nobody asked me—nobody even told me! And you want to know if something’s wrong?”

Marge Jackson’s uncertain expression gave way to one of
genuine concern, and suddenly Sharon felt foolish. Whatever had happened, it obviously wasn’t this woman’s fault. Letting out her breath in an explosive sigh, she sank into a chair and apologized. As briefly as she could, she explained exactly what had happened. By the time she was done, Marge Jackson was nodding sympathetically.

“But how terrible for you,” she said. “If my husband had done something like that, I think I’d kill him. But I’m sure it was just a mix-up, and I can tell you that everything’s just fine.”

“But why was Mark brought here?” Sharon asked. “It all seems so, well, so unnecessary.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to Dr. Ames about that,” Marge replied. Her expression brightened and she nodded toward someone who had just come through the door. “Here he is now. Dr. Ames, this is Sharon Tanner, Mark’s mother.”

Sharon rose to her feet, surprised to find a genial-looking man in his mid-forties—with gray eyes that fairly twinkled as he smiled at her—extending his hand. She automatically accepted the greeting, only then realizing that subconsciously she had expected some sort of Machiavellian monster who had coldly abducted her son and would now make smooth excuses for what he’d done.

Ames ushered her into his office, offered her a cup of coffee, and after listening to her story, assured her it was his own fault. “I should have had Marge call you myself, just to make sure you knew what was going on. And call me Marty,” he added. “Everybody else does, even a lot of the kids.” He smiled, then leaned back in his chair. “Anyway,” he went on, “you’ll be glad to know that there’s nothing wrong with Mark.”

“I already knew that,” Sharon told him. “Dr. MacCallum worked on him most of the night, you know.”

Ames looked abashed. “I know, and I certainly didn’t mean to imply that there’s anything wrong with Mac. There isn’t. In fact, he’s a damned good doctor.”

“Then why did my husband want you to see Mark, Dr. Ames?” Sharon asked, not yet won over.

Ames shrugged. “I suppose he just wanted a second opinion,” he said. “And I assume Jerry Harris told him that my specialty is working with kids who have had physical and developmental problems.”

Sharon was startled. So she’d been right, at least partially. Blake was, indeed, still looking for a way to overcome the residual effects of Mark’s rheumatic fever. “And do you have an opinion?” she asked, doing her best to keep her voice neutral.

Marty Ames spread his hands noncommittally. “It’s hard to say, really. But I’ve given him a complete examination, and I’m pleased to be able to tell you that there’s nothing seriously the matter with him. In fact, given his early medical history, he’s remarkably healthy.”

Sharon felt herself relax, “Then when can I take him home?” she asked.

“No reason you can’t take him home now,” Ames said pleasantly. “I’ve given him some codeine to keep the pain in his ribs from bothering him. In a couple of days he should be as good as new.”

Sharon stared at Ames. This was it? She’d built herself into such a fury, been so certain that somehow Blake and this doctor had cooked up some sort of scheme. And now …

“Tell you what,” Ames said, standing. “Why don’t I give you a tour of the place, show you what we’re doing out here. By the time we’re done, Mark should be all set to go.”

“I don’t really think I need a tour,” Sharon began, but Ames held up a protesting hand.

“We kidnapped your son, remember?” he asked. “The least we can do is set your mind at ease.”

To her own surprise, Sharon found herself obediently following Ames out of his office and listening intently as he gave her a tour of the facility and spoke about the summer program.

“What I try to do,” he said as they entered a gym filled
with equipment the like of which Sharon had never seen before, “is treat each of the kids as an individual. It’s always seemed to me that to claim there’s a single diet, or exercise regimen, or even medication that will work for every kid, is just plain nuts. And since almost every kid who comes here has a special problem of one sort or another, I try never to view them as simply kids. They’re individuals, and have to be treated as such.”

Sharon paused, staring at a stationary exercise bicycle that had a large screen curved around its front, “What on earth is that for?” she asked, pointing to the screen.

Ames grinned. “Ever used one of those things?” he asked.

Sharon nodded. “I tried one a few years ago. Bought the bike, used it about three times, and sold it. It was the most boring thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

“Try this one,” Ames suggested. Sharon hesitated, but then, curious, mounted the bike. To her surprise, she found that the handlebars were not stationary, but moved easily both left and right. Ames crossed to a small computer console and switched it on. “Like San Francisco?” he asked.

Sharon’s brows arched. “Who doesn’t?”

A moment later the lights dimmed in the gymnasium and the screen in front of Sharon lit up with a bright image of Market Street. She felt as if she were on the right side of the street, facing Twin Peaks, and cars were streaming in both directions. “Start pedaling,” she heard Ames tell her.

Her feet began slowly turning the pedals, and to her surprise, the picture on the screen changed.

It was as if she were moving along the street itself.

“Speed up a little and move out into traffic,” Ames instructed her. Frowning, Sharon increased the speed of her pedaling, then twisted the handlebars to the left.

The picture shifted, and she felt as if she were in the center of the right lane. She kept pedaling, then heard Ames telling her to turn right up Van Ness Avenue. As the handlebars turned in her hands, the image swung around and she
could see the vista of the broad avenue stretching northward. She kept pedaling, watching the familiar scenery of the city unfold before her. She made several more turns, then finally brought the bike to a stop, feeling silly as she realized she had actually pulled it over to the curb again. When the screen went blank and the lights came up, she looked at Ames with awe.

“What is it?” she asked. “How does it work?”

“It’s all done with computers,” Ames explained. “Practically the whole city north of Market Street and east of Divisidero is on a laser disk, and the handlebars control it. You can ride all over San Francisco, looking at anything you want. And it simulates the hills, too, so you never have to change the tension on the wheel yourself.” He grinned at her. “Now I ask you, was that boring?”

Sharon shook her head. “It’s great. I could have kept at that for a couple of hours.”

“You and everybody else,” Ames observed wryly. “Out here, the problem isn’t getting the kids to exercise. It’s getting them to stop.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s about it. Let’s go see how Mark’s doing.”

They started back toward the offices, but as they came into the main lobby, Mark jumped up from a sofa he’d been sprawling on.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, grinning at her.

Sharon stared at him.

The bruises on his face looked much better, and where this morning his face had been pale, almost pasty, his cheeks were now tinged a healthy pink. His right eye was still a bit swollen, but he was able to open it, and the shiner glowing darkly beneath it seemed to be healing.

“Mark?” she breathed. “Honey, are you all right? Your chest—”

But Mark only grinned at her. When he’d bounded off the sofa, he hadn’t felt a thing in his chest. “I’m fine,” he said. “Marty gave me something for my ribs, and they don’t hurt at all.”

Sharon stared at him for almost a full minute. He looked better than she’d imagined possible.

It wasn’t until half an hour later, when they were driving back through the village, that a sudden thought came into her mind.

After his morning at Rocky Mountain High, Mark was almost like the town itself.

Perfect.

Too perfect.

15

“It doesn’t matter what you thought, or what Jerry Harris told you,” Sharon insisted. “I’m your wife, and I’m Mark’s mother. You had no right simply to make a decision about Mark without even telling me!”

They were in the small sitting room area of the master suite. On the hearth, a fire was slowly dying. Blake had lit it when they’d come upstairs an hour before, for that afternoon a cold front had moved in from the north and a light snow was falling outside. But Sharon was oblivious to both the snowfall and the fire, her eyes fixed angrily on her husband. “Don’t you even understand what I’m saying?”

Blake shrugged tiredly. It seemed to him that the argument had long ago become circular, but once more he reiterated what he’d already told her three times: “You’ve already admitted that nothing terrible happened to him out at the center. In fact, all things considered, he looks pretty damned good. And you were exhausted this morning—you’d been up all night and you wouldn’t have been thinking straight.”

“But you still—” Sharon began.

“Enough!” Blake said. He’d been pacing the room, finally pausing at the window to watch the snow float to the
ground outside. Now he turned to face her, his jaw set firmly in an expression that told her his patience had run out. “For Christ’s sake, Sharon, what do you think I intended? It’s not like I was trying to do something terrible! Jerry just suggested I have Ames look him over, and it sounded like a good idea! If I was wrong, I was wrong, and I apologize. But I wasn’t wrong!”

“Can’t you keep your voice down?” Sharon asked, her own dropping to a harsh whisper. “We don’t have to tell the whole neighborhood we’re having a fight, do we?”

It was a mistake. Sharon knew it was as soon as she’d uttered the words. Blake’s jaw tightened and his eyes glinted with anger. “No,” he said, “we certainly don’t. In fact, we don’t have to have a fight at all. I’ll see you later.”