Re-Animator (10 page)

It had been a long day, and he was exhausted. Setting his wristwatch to wake him in two hours, West knew there was only one way to resolve the matter of the troublesome Megan Halsey. Either her father would cooperate willingly, or he’d cooperate unwillingly. But cooperate he would, providing West with the resources and autonomy he required.

West fell asleep just as the trashbag, too, stopped shaking. Outside, the birds welcomed the morning, and traffic began to collect on Hazard Weeden Boulevard; it was the start of another ordinary weekday in sleepy Arkham, Massachusetts.

CHAPTER

7

“S
ir, Herbert West has effected reanimation in dead animal tissue.”

Seated in a plush armchair beside Dean Halsey’s desk, Cain did not quite believe the words as they passed from his own lips. Halsey’s expression showed that he didn’t believe them either, his mouth drooping at the edges, brow furrowing painfully beneath the neatly brushed white hair. But there was something else in his expression, in his reserve—something dark and unpleasant.

“Mr. Cain, I’m surprised. In the three years I’ve known you, I thought you were above juvenile pranks.”

“Dean Halsey, this isn’t a prank. I’ve
seen
it! He brought back a dead animal, a cat—brought it back to life!”

Halsey continued signing correspondence as if he hadn’t heard Cain speak. “No, I hadn’t expected such nonsense from you, Mr. Cain, but I should have guessed it when you took up with Mr. West.”

Cain leaned across the desk. “Look, I know he’s unstable, but I’ve seen the results! For that matter, so has your daughter.”

Damn!
He’d said it without thinking and braced himself for the inevitable. The dean tossed his glasses aside.

“Did she? Which brings up an interesting question, young man. Just what have you been doing with my daughter?”

“Studying, sir.”

“Is that all? You haven’t involved Megan in your insanity?”

“No, sir. Well, not exactly involved. She forgot her book and came by this morning . . . she walked in on an experiment. I never
intended
to involve her.”

Halsey folded his hands and stared at them, his fingers white around the knuckles. “Tell me, then. In what way
are
you involved with her?”

Cain swallowed hard. “As you know, sir, we . . . study together.”

“Medicine or each other?”

The young man ached to answer truthfully, to say that his daughter was a woman of twenty, that they were in love and intended to marry, that what they did in private was their business and not his. But he also wanted to retain his membership in the student body, and, remembering Megan’s words, “the last of the Puritans,” he said nothing.

“As I thought,” the older man snorted.

“Pardon?”

Halsey retrieved his bifocals and rested them on his nose. “Your silence is answer enough.” In his most official tones, he said, “Tomorrow morning you will submit to me a written apology for this entire affair. These
experiments”
—he spat out the word—“were clearly beyond the scope of your legitimate studies, and, judging from your presence here instead of in Dr. Hill’s class, they’ve obviously interfered with your ability to do your classwork. If any equipment from the hospital or from the laboratories of Miskatonic University were involved in any of this unauthorized activity, criminal charges may be pressed. You will in any case have your student loan rescinded.”

The young man stared in shock. “My loan? But—sir, I won’t be able to continue school.”

“As for Mr. West,” Halsey went on, “he need submit no apology. Last night at dinner, Dr. Hill told me what transpired in class. You may tell your brash roommate that he may continue his research without the impediment of an education. As of now, he is no longer a student at this university.”

“But that’s ridiculous—he’s worked a scientific miracle!” Halsey’s face grew ruddy, but Cain didn’t care; whatever the outcome, he had to see this through. “Please, can we just discuss this? I think you’re being blinded by your emotions.”

“And
you’re
being impertinent!”

Cain stared past Halsey and tried to compose himself. He regarded all the framed degrees, the honors, the parchments; they were meaningless. Halsey was revealing himself to be as narrow and vindictive a man as ever lived.

“Sir—”

“That will be all, Mr. Cain.”

“All? All for what, this auto-da-fé? Megan tried to warn me, but I didn’t believe you’d really come down on me just because I was seeing her!”

“Mr.
Cain!”

“I’m sorry, but you’re making a terrible mistake—”

“I think not!” Halsey rose, his barrel chest inflating beneath his three-piece suit. “The only mistakes I seem to have made of late were admitting Mr. West to our school . . . and allowing you to see my daughter.” He sat heavily, resumed his writing. “Good morning, young man.”

Cain stood slowly and looked down at the desk, at the brass scales of justice; they were filled with paper clips and the odd rubber band. “Don’t take this out on Meg,” he said quietly. “She tried to stop me.”

Halsey yanked off his glasses and flagged them at Cain. “I
said
that will be all—unless you care to join Mr. West looking for a new place to further your studies.”

“No, sir.”

His eyes on the centuries-old Persian rug, Cain left the dean’s office, ignoring the covert stare of the secretary as he passed. He didn’t know which troubled him more, losing his tuition or having to face West with the bad news. Over breakfast, West had been buoyed by his progress and didn’t see how Halsey could fail to give them financing and laboratory space. For that matter, neither did Cain.

“Being angry about someone dating his baby,” Cain reflected. “That’s how.”

West was still at the house, having skipped Hill’s class; he took all the news without comment, though his jaw tensed noticeably when he learned of his expulsion. For Cain’s part, he was disappointed by the morning’s events, though not as much as he thought he’d be. On entering the house, he’d seen a huge spider he could have sworn he’d sprayed the day before. West’s work, compounded by his queer manner, were making him paranoid.

West shut himself in his room while Cain had some coffee, changed the bandages on his clawed upper back, reviewed his finances—he had two weeks to come up with a battle plan before his tuition was due—and made ready to go on his rounds with Dr. Harrod. Bundled in an old leather jacket, his battered medical kit under his arm, he was about to leave when West came up to him.

“Daniel,” he said, “do you intend to take this lying down?”

Cain jammed his hands into his pockets. “No. But first I want to talk to Megan about it, see what she thinks.”

West’s smile was pinched. “Of course. Tell me, when are you through with your rounds?”

“Around half past eleven. Why?”

“Fine. Can you meet me”—West touched his nose thoughtfully—“at the service elevator, in the basement?”

“I guess so.” Cain shrugged once. “But why?”

West laid a hand on his shoulder. “Because, Daniel, unlike you, I fully intend to take
my
next step lying down. See you at eleven-thirty.”

His step unusually buoyant, West returned to his room. Walking out into the brisk October breeze, Cain had a feeling he wouldn’t be taking Professor Streaman’s exam that afternoon, which was just as well. He never
had
finished reading about spirochetal jaundice . . .

The creak of the wheels was unusually loud—or was it just his imagination?—as Cain pushed the table down the corridor. Was it also his imagination that the table seemed heavier, that the orderlies he passed were eyeing it—and him—with suspicion? Was Dr. Hill just tired when they passed him, or had there been something else in his gaze, something ominous?

He cursed West for ever having entered his life. Genius or not, this was no longer the era of Jennings and Curie. Researchers had to play the game, had to be politicians and diplomats as well as geniuses. At worst, they had to obey public laws, which meant that they didn’t go skulking down university corridors disguised as corpses.

He glared at the bare feet of the corpse, at the toe tag which read “L. A. Zarus.” The name had been West’s touch, a bit of defiance. It was insane, he knew, just as the entire undertaking was mad; but West was right. Seeing is believing, and right now their options were few.

Cain wondered if Mace would notice the sweat collecting on his upper lip.

The guard waved once and stood. “They keep on coming, don’t they?” he said around his fat cigar.

“Oh yeah. They’re just dyin’ to get in.”

Dan wiped his palms on his hospital greens and waited while the big man unlocked the door. Pocketing the key ring, he came over and lifted the top of the sheet.

“Say, Cain, you ain’t got my dinner under there, have ya?”

Dan hastily pushed the sheet back down. “Yeah, Mace. One meatball run over by a semi.”

Mace’s brow knit tightly above his nose. “Oooooh . . . I think I lost my appetite.”

“You, Mace?”

As much as he wanted to get in and out of the morgue, Cain also wanted to keep up the conversation, create an air of normalcy. He rolled the cart in slowly; he was about to tap “L. A. Zarus” on the shoulder when Mace swung in.

“Say, you gonna be around for a while?”

“Yeah, sure.” He choked, but Mace didn’t seem to notice.

“Mind keepin’ an eye on the store while I get some coffee?”

“Not at all. Take your time.”

Mace thanked him and ambled down the corridor. When he was gone, Cain locked the double doors; hearing the telltale click, the body on the table rose and threw off the sheet.

“Meatball?”

“Just put your shoes on, Herbert, it was nothing personal.”

While West tugged on his socks, Cain reached under his smock and pulled a flashlight from his hip pocket. Turning on the lights, he headed for the metal door to the morgue. Hearing footfalls in the hallway, Cain froze, motioning West to do likewise; when the footsteps passed, Cain let out a tremulous breath.

“Damn! We can
still
get caught!”

West was tying his shoes. “And what will they do? Embalm us?”

Cain stretched to relieve the tacky discomfort under his arms. “Only if they’re feeling merciful. Herbert, will you come
on.”

West rolled down the sleeves of his blue shirt and hopped from the table. He followed Cain into the morgue, then pulled out his own penlight and darted to the nearest body. It was Christmastime again, Cain reflected, and he tried hard to remain aloof.

West read from the toe tag. “Burn victim. She may fall apart on us.”

“Spare me the critiques.”

West snorted. “Some doctor you’ll make.”

“I’ll be a fine doctor,” Cain rejoined. “I just wasn’t cut out to be a graverobber.”

West was already bending over the next body in line, the toes of which were charred stubs. “Here’s your meatball,” he snickered, then scuttled over to the third. “Shotgun wound to the head. Even a bath of formula wouldn’t work on this one.”

Shivering from the cold of the dark, refrigerated room, Cain had slipped around to the fourth. “Oh, God—rotten!”

“Must be the old lady they found in the marsh. I read about it in the obituaries.” West examined another. “Malpractice. Let’s leave this one, in case it’s Hill.”

Cain glanced toward the outer doors. “C’mon, Herbert, the clock’s running!”

West stood, tapping his toe impatiently, casting his light anxiously about. “Wait!” He dashed toward the back of the room, Cain in tow. West studied the tag. “Yes, I think you! I read about him as well. He arrived early this morning. John Doe. Apparently just dropped dead.” West plucked off the sheet and dropped it to the floor. He quickly examined the scalp and then the chest. “No record of any damage. Almost perfect!”

Cain looked on. “Why ‘almost’?”

“He’s got a cracked rib, probably broken when he fell. There could be heart damage.”

“Then let’s find another one. We can’t afford to blow this.”

“No! We do not have time, you said so yourself!” He fished the vial from one pocket, the hypodermic from another. “Besides,
almost
perfect is good enough. All we need tonight is a specific, conscious reaction. He’s been dead for hours.
Any
evidence of reanimated consciousness will justify proceeding.” He began filling the instrument barrel. “Start the recorder.”

Cain’s pulse was throbbing under his chin.

“Start the damn recorder! Make the entry.”

The young man snapped out of his stupor. They wouldn’t get caught, and even if they did, what was the worst that could happen? If the body remained dead, no one could prove a thing. If it moved, there was no way Dean Halsey would carry out his threats.

He gulped down his anxiety and wet his lips. “October—”

“Tenth!” West snapped.

“October tenth. Subject: male.”

“Age?”

“Age—uh, early twenties.”

“Physical condition?” West prompted impatiently.

Cain dragged his flashlight across the body. “Subject appears to have been in excellent physical condition. Apparent cause of death—” His teeth began to chatter, not entirely from the cold. “Uh, what was it?”

“Heart failure!”

“Right. Heart failure.”

“Time,” West glanced at his watch, “ten thirty-three
P.M.
”

Cain swallowed hard again, repeated the time into the micro-recorder.

“Dosage,” said West, as he lifted the head and jabbed the needle into the base of the skull, “15 cc’s.”

Curiosity was again taking over, and Cain felt his queasiness subsiding. “Fifteen cc’s of reagent being administered.”

There were footsteps along the corridor, only this time they seemed far away. All that mattered was what was happening on the table before them.

“Time elapsed?”

Cain checked his watch. “Fifteen seconds.”

“Something should have happened by now.”

The footsteps faded. “It’s not working! Let’s get out of here!”

West sucked on his upper lip. “Obviously, the human dosage factor is unknown. It worked on Gruber only because he had just died.”