Re-Animator (7 page)

When Hill finished, he laid the saw aside and, with a hand on either side of the skull, gently tugged off its top. He set it on the instrument tray and picked up a pair of scissors, carefully snipping away sinew inside the braincase. This done, he gently inserted his fingers and withdrew the contents. He stood erect, cradling the brain in his hands.

“There you have it, ladies and gentlemen: the human brain. Once the brainstem of an individual—I’m talking about the reticular activating system, heart regulation, respiratory system—once these activities cease, the brain can only survive an additional six to twelve minutes.”

His eyes came to rest on Herbert West, who was seated in the front row.

“I repeat: six to twelve minutes.”

West looked away with mild disgust and began drumming the eraser of his pencil on the desk. Hill ignored him.

“Brain death is true death, at least for those of us who don’t believe in religious dogma. Brain death brings about an irreversible conclusion to life, a—”

West snapped his pencil in two and let both halves fall to the floor. The silence grew heavy as Hill glowered at him. West met his gaze, making a point of picking up another pencil and holding it tightly between both fists.

The surgeon briefly considered giving West the floor. He would let him rave so that the others would see how unbalanced he was, and it would put an end to his little disruptions. But Gruber had been too sharp a judge of talent to ally himself with a fool; if West’s intent were to get under his skin, he would find another way of doing it. Against the instincts crying out inside, Hill ignored the challenge by turning and laying the brain on the instrument tray.

“We all want to retain our personalities in some idyllic afterlife,” Hill went on evenly. “We all pray for some miracle, some drug, potion, pill. Perhaps, though, it takes something more than that, something
internal.
We achieve our goals in life by being obsessed with them. Perhaps it takes that same kind of desire to transcend death—a supreme effort, an incredible surge of will, to keep alive and as a unified whole the electricity of the brain, what we colloquially call the soul. I believe this is true; I believe it is the only means by which humans can become immortal.”

West broke a second pencil, and Hill snapped stiffly to attention. Cain looked from the surgeon to West. He felt his own pulse race; he could imagine what Hill was going through.

The lanky man stared out through hooded eyes. “Is there a problem,
Mr.
West?”

“There is indeed,
Dr.
Hill.”

“One that cannot wait until after class?”

West’s upper lip curled with disdain. “Class? This isn’t a class, it’s nothing more than a primer on the dark ages of medicine. Come into the twentieth century!”

The doctor’s patience evaporated. His forehead reddened, the veins pulsing; his arms hung straight down, the fists like rock. “I think we’ve heard quite enough from you, my impudent young
colleague.”

“I’d rather be impudent than ignorant.”

“In my judgment, you are both!”

Cain replied slowly, “In that case, your judgment is faulty . . . like your theories.”

Hill grabbed a beaker and was a moment away from throwing it when he saw the disbelieving looks on the faces of his students. Looking out at them, he realized that he had lost this round, that West had made
him
look unbalanced. There was nothing to do now but retreat and regroup.

Clearing his throat, he set the beaker back on the counter and took a moment to collect himself. “The fact is, Mr. West, what you think is not important. Whether
you
like it or not, it is you who must please
me,
and not vice versa. Therefore, I strongly suggest that you leave here and acquire a much-improved
attitude.”
He noticed the litter around West’s chair and said snidely, “And while you’re at it, I also suggest you get yourself a pen. Both will be necessary before I allow you to return here tomorrow.” He turned back to the counter, saying over his shoulder, “That will be all for today. Class dismissed.”

West jumped up. “No, Doctor, it is
you
who should be dismissed!”

Hill felt his control slipping again. He came around slowly. “What did you say?”

“Isn’t it bad enough you left Switzerland in disgrace? Must you compound your sins by standing up there and teaching such . . . drivel? These people are here to learn, and you’re closing their minds before they even have a chance!”

Hill tugged off his gloves. “And what are
you
here for, Mr. West? Certainly not to learn!”

“There
is
nothing I can learn from you! In fact, you should have stolen
more
of Gruber’s ideas. Then at least you’d
have
ideas!”

From the corner of his eye, Hill saw that the class was filing out much too slowly. They were hanging on every word, which only added to his displeasure. Throwing his apron aside, he strode to West’s side. Although he towered over the diminutive youth, West stood his ground defiantly.

“Whether it’s merely a misconception under which you labor, or whether you suffer from complete dementia, I promise you this: it is going to be a singular pleasure to fail you!”

Hill turned and stalked from the classroom, the other students shaking their heads as they followed. Their manner belied their sympathies, whispered conversation and uneasy backward glances charging West with crimes ranging from disrespect to lunacy. West ignored them and also Cain, who was the last to leave. He’d been hovering by the door, deciding whether to have a long chat with his roommate or back off. He finally opted for the latter, seeing only hostility in West’s small eyes.

When everyone was gone, West parted his lips slightly. He’d been sucking air through his nose, which caused his nostrils to flare and gave him a bat-like look. He took a calming breath.

“We shall see,” he uttered coldly, “just who will fail, you silly little man.”

Collecting his books, West noticed the brain in the tray and went to it. After casting a furtive glance toward the corridor, the young man casually tore a fistful of paper towels from a roll and wrapped the organ inside, slipping it into the folds of his overcoat. A quick check of the toe tag revealed what Cain had mentioned earlier, as they had moved some of the larger pieces of furniture from the basement to the attic: this was the girl who had died of a heart attack the day before. A cruel smile played about his lips as he headed for the corridor, the hem of his coat trailing an occasional drop of blood.

We shall see, Carl Hill,
he thought exultantly.
You, Miss Grant, and I . . . shall see!

Chopin peppered the air; the music, the wine, and the events of the day lulled Dean Halsey into a state of relaxed satisfaction. Seated beneath the crystal chandelier of his spacious dining room, he leaned to his side and thanked his daughter for an excellent meal, then regarded Dr. Hill.

“An excellent meal for a scientist who excels.” He raised his nearly empty wineglass. “A half-million dollars, Carl, and not in small monthly doses. Half of it now, half of it when you or any member of your team publishes the particulars about the drill.”

Hill smiled, but his mind was not on the grant. Having the money to refine the drill and build more than their one prototype was important, but Scott and the others could do most of the programming and engineering. The technology itself was merely a sideline to the main event, his continuing search for the seat of the will and the soul.

Yet, at the moment, his mind was not on that either. Nor was it on Megan Halsey. Ordinarily, he could not keep his eyes from her. Whether the stately young woman was in a striking pants-suit, as now, or in a bathing suit as she swam at the university pool, or in tight shorts as she played tennis in the park, he savored the sight of her flesh and form, his mind swept up in how he would worship it and her, if given the chance.

The fingers of one hand worked lightly along the baroque handle of his steak knife. Though his eyes were on Megan Halsey’s breasts, tonight he didn’t see them. Nor were his ears attuned to the droning of Dean Halsey.

Tonight he was consumed with Herbert West.

He couldn’t fathom what West wanted from him. Money? He didn’t seem the type. Retribution? That made sense, but whom was he avenging?

He’d worked with Gruber, so that was the likely choice.

Hill considered the possibility. Much depended on how much West knew about what had gone on in Switzerland. The young man was aware that he’d worked with Gruber, that he’d used the late scientist’s ideas as a springboard. But in his single-minded devotion to Gruber, did he know how much farther he’d gone with those ideas? Did West know of the computer program he and Scott had written to scan the human brain and ignore all electrical activity save that generated by the cerebral cortex? Was he aware of the surges he’d measured whenever the subjects were presented with a moral dilemma? Did he know that he’d spent years on his own expanding on Gruber’s very simplistic notions?

Probably not. West wasn’t the type to see gray areas. His world was black and white.

He wondered, though, if West might also be here for Nancy.

West had to know about her dying when the program had shut down her brain instead of merely ignoring superfluous readings. Gruber or someone else at the school had to have mentioned it. But did he also know that the brain death of Nancy Joseph had not been the sole reason for his dismissal? That his problems did not stem from that or from literally having burned the student’s brain inside her skull while he had hastily tried to write a program to reactivate it? That he was dismissed
not
for his experiments, for she’d signed all the appropriate releases, but because it was expressly against school policy for professors and students to be lovers?

Perhaps one of Nancy’s relatives had gotten to him. Perhaps they’d seen, in West, an ideal means to strike back.

Perhaps.

Or maybe it was Willett who had sent West here. Although Hill had gone to Switzerland in 1978 with a title equal to Gruber’s, it was understood that he was technically the elder scientist’s assistant. That relationship had ended when Gruber petitioned Dr. Willett to prevent Hill from conducting research on humans. Willett delighted in playing scientists against one another in an endless quest for greater productivity and more Nobel winners, and saw the friction as healthy. That philosophy dissipated when Nancy died. He was sent packing, Gruber was given all the power—the trustees had demanded both—and normalcy was restored.

Now that Gruber was gone, Willett had no one to collect honors . . . or grants. He might very well have encouraged West to seek him out.

Hill considered it all, then asked himself if it mattered. Short of satisfying his curiosity, would the knowledge help to forestall another confrontation? Would it leave him calm enough so that West’s taunts would roll off his back?

“Planning to operate on my Drexel, Carl?”

The scientist looked up. Dean Halsey was smiling stupidly, pointing toward his plate. Hill glanced down. The knife handle was gripped tightly in his fist, the tip of the blade pressed to the tablecloth. Chuckling uncomfortably, Hill lay the knife aside.

“Sorry, Allan. Unwillingness to see the meal ended, you know.”

Halsey laughed. “I understand. My daughter
is
a superb cook.”

Hill held her bright eyes with his. “She is indeed . . . superb.”

Megan shifted uneasily in her seat as her father lifted his glass.

“Before the others arrive for the meeting—and I know how this sort of thing embarrasses you, Carl, but, dammit, you’re going to sit through it—I would like to propose a toast: to the National Science Foundation, for recognizing the genius of Dr. Carl Hill and for awarding the Miskatonic Medical School its largest grant
ever.
Carl, your new laser drill is going to revolutionize neurosurgery.”

Megan looked down, and Hill’s eyes rolled from hers to those of her father.

“To the Foundation. And to Miskatonic.”

The men drank deeply, but Megan took only a sip, then played absently with the stem of her glass. Her father smiled benignly.

“That’s all right, sweetheart, you can drink up. We’re celebrating.”

“I know, Daddy, but I have to go soon.”

Hill’s brows arched sympathetically. “After preparing such a feast? You must be tired.”

“Of course she is. You know, Carl, my baby didn’t microwave a thing. Everything came out of the oven.”

“And tasted it.” Hill dipped his glass toward her.

“It was nothing, really. The stove did most of the work. Besides, I have a study date with Dan.”

Hill’s features clouded. “Dan? Daniel Cain?” Megan nodded, and Hill stared into his glass. “Herbert West has moved in with him, hasn’t he?”

“For the time being. I—I’m not sure they’re really going to be happy with each other.”

“Are they too alike?”

The doorbell chimed, and Megan rose. “Hardly. I’m not even sure Mr. West has any interests outside his work.”

“Precisely my point.”

Megan stiffened and said sweetly, pointedly, “I assure you, Dr. Hill, Dan has an interest in other things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, that must be him at the door.”

After she’d gone, Hill peered thoughtfully at Halsey. “So . . . your daughter is seeing Cain. Do you think that’s wise, Allan?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just that Cain is an ambitious young man without much money. I’d hate to think that he was seeing your daughter simply to try and use her to influence you.”

“A modern-day Pocahontas and Powhatan, eh? You know me better than that, Carl. All that matters to me is making Miskatonic the top medical school in the nation, and that means kowtowing to my professors, not my students.”

The young couple entered then, and Halsey rose to shake the young man’s hand.

“Good to see you relaxing, Dan!”

“It’s only a short break, sir. We’ve both got some reading to do on spirochetal jaundice.”

“Spirochetosis icterohaemorrhagica,” Hill noted dryly.