It's Alive! (8 page)

Sergeant Whipple wadded the newspaper into a ball and threw it at the ceiling. “This rag has been out to get us for years!” he bellowed. “And who the hell is Pinkins?”

“Perkins, sir,” said a patrolman nearby. “After twenty years, they still never get it right.”

“Hogwash! They make it sound like we’re doing nothing! We got twenty guys out all night on this one case, risking their damn lives, and they make it sound like we don’t know our assignment from a hole in the ground!”

“You call me, sergeant?”

“Oh, Lieutenant Perkins. No sir. Just this story in the paper got me so upset.”

“Live with it, sergeant. That’s cause we can’t give ’em any of the true facts at this point in time. We’re trying to play it low key. But don’t worry, we’ll get this kid. We’ll solve this like we solve most tough cases.”

“Sir?”

“Informants. Sooner or later somebody’ll spot this kid, or mutant, or whatever, and tip us off.”

“I sure hope so, lieutenant. My wife is scared to death.”

“Everybody’s scared. Six deaths already.”

“Six?”

“Yeah. Musician on his way home early this morning. Kid caught him in an alley. We think it was the kid. It’s alleged to be the kid. Same wounds—throat ripped out. We’re saying it was a dog. Playing it low key.”

“Whew!”

“Yeah. Whatever it is, it really gets around—fast. We’re trying to get some triangulation on its movements now, see what direction it’s headed in.”

“Any clues?”

“Nothing solid yet. We got people calling in from everywhere. They see a shadow, they call in. They hear footsteps, they call. My guess is it’ll try and get out of town.”

“So the thing is still alive.”

“Oh it’s alive, all right. It got through one night, it’ll get through more. Let me look at those reports.”

“This whole thing’s got me damn wrought up.”

“I don’t blame you, sergeant. Monster baby on the loose. But we’ll get it. I won’t sleep until we do.”

“Nobody will, sir.”

Frank pushed his way through a mob of shouting newsmen at the door to his office building. Photographers’ flashes went off in his face.

“Mr. Davis, can you just tell us . . .”

“What’s your reaction to . . .”

“How’s your wife taking all this . . .”

He shoved and elbowed reporters away. “Leave me alone! I’ve got nothing to say!”

Building security guards kept the press back as Frank at last reached the elevator and rode up to his floor.

As he stepped out, the heads of both the receptionist and the assistant secretary turned toward him, their conversation ceased. Then quickly they looked away. He walked quickly to his office, straightening his tie as he went.

His secretary followed him into the inner office. “Oh, good morning, Mary. I can only stay a few minutes. I have to pick up my wife at the hospital at eleven. Can you reschedule my appointments for the rest of the day?” He thumbed through his desk calendar without sitting down.

“Sir, I think Mr. Clayton wants to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow. Now, about that meeting with Marcus—maybe we could make it for cocktails at 6:30 at the Hilton. I know he wants to approve the campaign by the end of the week.”

“Excuse me; sir, but I think you better see Mr. Clayton now. He said it’s urgent.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be right in. Take care of my schedule, will you?”

“Surely.”

Clayton smiled broadly as he met Frank at the door. “Come on in, Frank, good to see you.” He clapped him on the back. “Come on, sit down. You look exhausted.”

Frank dropped into the leather chair.

Clayton stood behind his desk. “You eaten anything, Frank?”

“No.”

“Sylvia.” His secretary appeared at the door. “Get Mr. Davis a couple of poached eggs on English muffins and a side of Canadian bacon. And a tall glass of fresh-squeezed O.J. That oughta do the trick for you, Frank. Can’t have you collapsing on us, right?”

“Look, Buck, I can’t eat anything—”

“Go ahead, Sylvia, scoot.” She bowed and left. Buck leaned forward over his desk, planting his square hands on several file folders. “You can’t let this get you down, Frank. It could happen to anyone. That’s what they say.”

“They?”

“I spoke to the hospital.”

“They tell you anything?”

“Well,” he smiled, “I’m very well connected over there. Vice-president of the fund-raising committee and so forth. They were very helpful. Listen, any little thing I can do for you, just . . .”

“No, nothing, thanks. We’re getting Lenore out of there today. This morning, in fact.”

Buck raised his eyebrows. “You think that’s wise, health-wise?”

“Mary said you needed to talk to me.”

“Yeah.” Buck nodded thoughtfully, turned to stare out the window for a few seconds, then looked back at Frank. He folded his arms across his chest. “Look, Frank, you’ve got three weeks’ vacation coming, and I think it would be a good idea if you took it now.”

“But Buck, I can’t. The Marcus account. The Sturbridge campaign. I’m up to my ears in work. These things can’t wait, you know—especially Marcus, because he wants to approve by the end of the week. Besides, the truth is I need to work, Buck. It’s something to take my mind off things.”

Buck smiled and waved his hand. “Hey, fella, everything’s gonna be fine. We’ll take care of everything for you.” His gaze hardened slightly. “Frank, our business is public relations. Images. You’re so good at that, you know all about it. The best. You know what goes into it, what a good position for us is, PR-wise. And right now the fact is you’re too . . . well . . . controversial. Just for the time being, of course—no fault of yours. But our clients want their PR men to be, well . . .”

“Anonymous.”

Buck grinned and slapped a fist into his palm. “Right! You got it. I knew you’d understand. Nobody’s got a better grip on this stuff than you. So the idea is, until you become a little less of a, a celebrity—”

“You’re not taking the accounts away from me? Not now, at the last minute? Hunh, Buck?”

He waved his hand. “Oh, I know how you feel, Frank baby, but you and your wife need a vacation—more than ever. Perfect time for it.” He leaned across the desk and smiled. “I’ve got this little place near St. Thomas in the Virgin Islands—you’ve heard me talk about it: exquisite spot, gorgeous, nothing but sun and sand, no phone, no newspapers. I’ll let you have the key. And you can stay as long as you like. How’s that? Hunh?” He spread his arms, beaming.

“Whatever happened wasn’t my fault,” Frank said softly, eyes on the floor, his hands damp with perspiration. “It had nothing to do with me.”

“Well, about that, unh . . . course not, Frank. Nobody’s talking about fault around here. Nobody’s to blame. That’s not the name of the game in our business, right, Frank? Only results. That’s all we care about. You’re top-notch in results. But these things happen, Frank. You know O’Connor, down in accounting? He’s got a retarded kid. Insisted on keeping him right in his own home too. And nobody thinks about that. Nobody blames him.”

“We’re not talking about a retarded kid, Buck, and you know it. We’re talking about a monstrosity of some kind.”

“Well, sure, I just meant that your baby is—”

“Not my baby, for chrissake!” Frank was suddenly on his feet, his fists clenched. “It’s not my baby! And it’s not a baby at all!”

“Hey, hey, calm down.” Buck came around the desk and put his arm across Frank’s shoulders, pushing him back down into his chair. “Maybe we’d better not talk about it right now.”

“Buck, I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy.” He looked up, his eyes moist, his voice pleading. “I just don’t know how to behave. Everybody saying awful things, asking nasty questions. People sticking microphones in my face, calling me up . . .”

Clayton laughed weakly. “What you need is a good public-relations firm to handle this for you.”

“Yeah,” Frank tried a smile, “but you know as well as I do, this matter won’t be cleared away until that—whatever it is—is dead.”

“Yeah.” Buck went over to the window and stared out. “Frank, on your way down, why don’t you take the service elevator so you won’t have to face all those media jerks, okay?”

Frank numbly hoisted himself from the chair and started out. He bumped into Buck’s secretary, arriving with the tray of food. Frank nodded to her and left.

She stood uneasily with the tray.

“Sylvia,” Buck said, “dump that stuff. And have them clear out Frank’s desk and send all his personal belongings to his home. He won’t be coming back.”

A young woman with long, bleached-blond hair, wearing a tight green miniskirt and a waitress’s apron, stepped out of her back door. She squinted into the sunset that baked the low brown hills—really little more than scrub-covered mounds—that began some fifty or sixty feet behind her house, stretched, sighed, and headed for her Mustang.

She heard a sound from the tangled mass of scrub growth on the nearest rise, and stopped. She heard it again, a low crying.

She shook her hair back and walked slowly toward the sound, climbing into the brush. As she dipped over the top of the little hill a minute later, there came a sudden howl, and dust.

A neighbor coming out of her house moments after saw only the dust cloud drifting away in the light breeze, and what looked like a single high-heeled shoe sitting alone at the top of the hill.

“Darned neighborhood kids,” she muttered.

Lenore sat in the front seat of the car, alongside Frank, resting her head back against a pillow. She blinked sleepily and yawned.

Frank patted her knee. “We’ll be home in just a few minutes, honey.”

“I feel better already, being out of that place. I’m not going to need any more of those shots, am I? I don’t like being made to sleep. I’m sure I’ll get along all right if they’ll just let me alone.”

“I’ve hired a nurse for you. She’ll be there every day, until this—until you’re back to strength.”

“I don’t need a nurse, I just—”

“It’s best for you, believe me.”

“It’s just that I—I don’t know about having somebody around the house, just now . . . somebody strange, staring at me.”

“No, no,” he smiled at her, “it won’t be like that. She’ll be a really good nurse, professional.”

“I’m surprised anyone would
want
to come to work for us, under these circumstances.”

“Dr. Norten took care of it. Underneath that stiff exterior, he’s really a nice guy. He cares about you. And listen, I’ve got a surprise.” He pulled her over gently and hugged her.
“I’m
going to be with you all the time too. I told Clayton that I’m going to have to take my three weeks’ vacation now. I insisted.”

“But, Frank, what about the Marcus account?”

“Buck’ll just have to take care of it himself. He needs to work on accounts more. He’s getting too dependent on me.”

“But wasn’t it important to you, to do it yourself, after all you’ve put into it?”

“Just another account. It’s all set up now, anyway. Buck can just run with it. Probably be a stack of new accounts when I get back. Bigger ones. I’ve been angling for an airline. Anyway, you’re more important than any of that.”

“Do you think Chris knows?”

“I spoke to Charley this morning. He kept him home from school. He hasn’t told him about anything, just that you’re okay. But sooner or later he’ll switch on the television. There’s only so long you can keep all this secret from him. Charley said he’d do his best.”