It's Alive! (11 page)

“One thing, captain.” Perkins bit off the end of his cigar and spit it away. “It’s also got a brain. Remember that. That’s why it can slip around like it does. And, at a distance of a few feet, it’s quicker than we are. Keep a tight rein on your men. You let one of your men drift off by himself, you’re gonna lose a cop.”

Dr. Norten and Professor Eckstein of the U.C.L.A. Medical Center sat on the sofa in the Davis living room. Frank paced impatiently back and forth in front of them.

“Mrs. Davis seems to be progressing very nicely,” Norten said. “I’m terribly sorry about that nurse. Frightful woman. Can’t understand what got into her. You must be handling the nursing job very well yourself.”

“Not much to do,” Frank admitted. “Well then, I guess there’s nothing else to talk about.”

“Actually, I and Professor Eckstein here were really hoping we could discuss a related matter with you for a few minutes.”

“About what?”

Professor Eckstein fidgeted with his briefcase. “You must understand, Mr. Davis, that I’m acting on behalf of the scientific community in the interests of increasing knowledge in the field of genetics.”

Frank furrowed his brow. “Come on, professor, you don’t have to put it to music. What is it you want?”

“I have here several forms upon which we would appreciate your signature. We are simply anticipating the complicated legalities which might intrude upon a study of this nature.”

“Let me see the papers.”

Eckstein handed him the documents. “I might mention that already in excess of one hundred thousand dollars has been allocated by the university for examination of this phenomenon. We have some of the leading men in the field prepared to associate in this project, and it is hoped that their research might lead to a breakthrough in the understanding of why mutations occur.”

“What you want to do,” Frank said, slapping down the documents on the table, “is experiment on it.”

“ ‘Experiment’ is not a word I would use,” Dr. Norten put in.

“Undoubtedly it is dangerous,” said Professor Eckstein, “and will—and must—be killed. It is our hope that the brain will not be damaged. My department has already sent a memo to the authorities urging them to restrain themselves from excessive violence. If it can be dispatched by a single bullet, or preferably with a gas of some kind—”

“You want me to sign away the body.”

“In a nutshell. It’s your right. After all, it’s your child.”

“It’s not
my
child!”

“As you wish. It’s not for me or anyone else to judge you.”

“In any event,” Dr. Norten said, “an autopsy would be desirable—probably required, in fact, in such a case. But I don’t imagine that you’ll want to have a funeral for the child. I mean, a formal burial. All of that wouldn’t be good for yourself or your wife, in her current mental state . . .”

Lenore stood silently, unseen, on the stairs, listening and clutching her robe tight around her neck, her knuckles white and trembling. Tears glistened on her cheeks. She turned and disappeared upstairs.

“. . . The Medical Center,” Professor Eckstein went on, “is simply willing to relieve you of this depressing responsibility. Now,” he held out a pen, “if you will just sign each copy, above where your name is typed . . .”

“Christ.”

Norten stood and raised his index finger. “It seems that out of every tragedy, every evil, some good can come, if we can conquer our—”

“Shut up, will you, doctor?” Frank snatched the pen from the professor, sat down at the table, and began scribbling his name on the documents. “Here. I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”

“That’s very wise of you,” the professor said, “to dissociate yourself emotionally.”

Frank completed the signing and looked up from the table, his eyes softened. “I suppose it will be in all the medical journals, all the history books. ‘The Davis Child,’ or ‘The Davis Monster.’ Like Frankenstein.”

“I would say it is very likely that this will be remembered,” Dr. Norten said, “long after all of us are forgotten.”

Frank stood and faced the wall across the table. He chuckled sadly. “You know, when I was a kid I always thought the monster was Frankenstein. Karloff, walking around with his big iron shoes, grunting. I thought he was Frankenstein. It wasn’t until I was in high school and read the book that I realized that Frankenstein was the doctor who created him, not the monster itself. Somehow, the identities get all mixed up, don’t they?”

“Well, perhaps, but I don’t think that’s really—”

“So I wonder if people will think of the monster as ‘Davis.’ But you’re right,” he turned toward the men, smiling slightly, “it doesn’t matter. It won’t be forgotten. Never.”

Lenore came down the stairs with a sprightly step, smiling brightly, hair combed, makeup on. “Oh, hello, you two gentlemen still here? How nice.”

“Actually we were just preparing to leave,” Professor Eckstein said. “I believe these,” he reached for the signed documents and tucked them into his briefcase, “are mine.” He closed the case and patted it.

Dr. Norten put a hand on Lenore’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ve been taking those pills as you’re supposed to.” He smiled benevolently. “You really should, you know.”

Lenore smiled back and spoke softly. “Maybe it’s all the pills I’ve taken over the years that brought this on.”

“Oh, now, pshaw. You know Dr. Francis wouldn’t have prescribed anything he thought harmful. Nor would I. You really shouldn’t be downstairs, should you?”

“Nonsense.” Lenore brushed past him and went to the picture window and pulled open the drapes. It was growing dark outside. “It’s time I was back on my feet.” She turned to face them, her hands clasped together over her chest. “Why don’t you gentlemen stay for dinner?”

“Oh no, we couldn’t have you—”

“I believe we have some nice lamb chops in the freezer,” she counted off menu items on her fingers, “and mint jelly, and a fresh green salad, and I’ll make a very light angel-food cake for dessert—that’s Frank’s favorite.”

“Truly we can’t stay,” Dr. Norten insisted.

Lenore bustled around the room emptying ashtrays into a waste basket, straightening pillows on the sofa, adjusting lampshades. “This place is a mess,” she smiled as she moved around the room, “lots to do. But I always feel better when I’m busy. Frank,” she didn’t bother to look at him, “be a dear and go down to the basement and get us a bottle of Beaujolais. That will be good with the chops.” She beamed over at Dr. Norten. “We keep quite an extensive wine cellar. You should see it. It’s one of Frank’s many hobbies. He can do so many things, a many-faceted man.”

“I’m sure . . .”

“I’ll see you to the door,” Frank said quietly to the two medical men.

Lenore continued tidying up, humming as she worked.

The three men went outside.

“Her spirits seem surprisingly high,” Norten said.

Frank didn’t answer.

The doctor took a deep breath and looked off across the neighborhood. “Lovely evening. Southern California is truly so delightful, so pleasant for an old man like me. Such a nice, even temperature. Rarely too cold . . .”

His voice trailed off. He averted his face.

Never too cold. Frank suspected that the doctor was thinking the same thing. Never too cold. “That’s part of our problem, isn’t it, doctor?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“It doesn’t get cold enough at night. Not cold enough to kill a baby animal out of its den and away from its mother.”

“Yes.”

“Good night, gentlemen.”

Frank stepped back inside and closed the door. He watched out the window as the two men walked toward their car, talking animatedly and nodding their heads.

“They couldn’t stay,” Lenore said matter-of-factly, moving an armchair a couple of feet away from the wall. “That’s a pity.”

Frank watched them drive away and remained staring out the window.

“A nice meal, that’s what you need.” Lenore headed for the kitchen. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten in a couple of days. Lamb chops and wine, candlelight . . .”

Frank frowned. “I’ll get the wine.”

He went through the kitchen to the cellar door, flipped up the hook, stepped in to the top of the stairs, and without thinking shut the door behind him.

He hated these stairs. Black. You would think that somebody building a modern house like this would put a light switch right at the door. He would wire one up one day soon, he’d always told himself.

He let his eyes adjust to the darkness for a few moments, then started down the creaking wooden steps.

At the bottom of the stairs he turned to his right, into the main basement area. Dim twilight filtered in through the small window near the ceiling, just above ground level. Shadowy shapes of storage items, piled high, lined the walls: old tricycles, cartons of clothing he kept forgetting to dump in the Salvation Army bin, sporting equipment and fishing gear tangled together, boxes of books he never would read but could not bear to throw away.

He shuffled slowly toward where the bare light bulb was hanging from the ceiling. He pulled the chain. Nothing. Pulled the chain twice more. He reached up to tighten the bulb, but it was firmly screwed into the socket. Then he unscrewed it and stuck it in his shirt pocket.

The wine rack was against the far wall. Starting toward it, he brushed between some storage stacks.

From the top of one of the stacks, a small shape wavered back and forth, then dropped, smacking Frank’s shoulder. He gasped, and flailed at it It fell to the floor. Old stuffed teddy bear.

Frank stared down at it, gasping for wind, angry at his fright. He kicked it aside and proceeded to the wine rack.

Squinting closely, he searched through the dark bottles, all lying on their sides in the tall rack. He turned them in their cubbyholes to see the labels, and finally found the Beaujolais. He held it up to the light from the small window. Good wine. Damn window. The latch had long since rusted off. Another thing he had to fix. A good wind would always blow it open.

He started for the stairs, then glanced over at the outside cellar door, a big planked door canted in above the stone steps. He walked up the steps and pushed at the door.

Padlocked from the outside, just as he knew it would be.

Entering the kitchen, he dropped the hook into its eye on the cellar door behind him, put the wine bottle down on the table, and tossed the dead bulb into the wastebasket. Then he slid open the lowest drawer in the floor cabinet and rummaged through the small tools, fuses, candles, match boxes, bits of wire, rolls of scotch tape.

“Lenore?” No answer. “Lenore, we got any more light bulbs?”

He shut that drawer and pulled open each of the others in turn.

“What is it, Frank?” Lenore walked into the kitchen, wearing a long dress, her hair freshly combed.

“Damn bulb blew in the basement. I guess I gotta go get another one.”

“Not now, Frank. Pick some up tomorrow. I’m fixing dinner now.”

“Okay. Listen, honey.” He took her by the shoulders. She smiled up at him. “Lenore, I’m sorry that those guys came over. They just wanted to talk about some stuff. You okay?”

“Of course.” She cocked her head and chuckled. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I think you gotta take it easy, for a few days.”

“Oh, Frank silly, I’m not an invalid.” She turned away and went to the refrigerator and began pulling out items for dinner.

“I know how tough this has been on you.”

“It
was
tough. Frank. But everything’s fine now. Everything’s in good hands.”

“I think it’s bothering you more than you know, or more than you’re willing to admit.”

“Sssh!” She put a finger to her lips. “This is going to be very romantic. Just the two of us, by candlelight It’ll be just like—” She turned quickly away again to the refrigerator.

“Like what, honey?”

She hummed softly as she put the frozen lamb chops on a plate on the table.

“Lenore, like what?”

She stopped and bit her lip. “Normal.”

“Are you . . .” He was going to say “afraid?”

“Am I what, dear?”

“Taking your medicine?”

“I don’t need that anymore.”

He looked at her, then turned toward the front door. “I’m going out for a few minutes, just outside, get some air.”

“Fine. I’ll get everything ready—surprise you, it’ll be so nice.”