John Saul - Creature

Five minutes after Collins left his office, Marty Ames glanced at his watch, winced at the lateness of the hour, then shrugged indifferently: If Jerry Harris didn't want to wait for him, that was his problem. After all, Ames was in the driver's seat now, at least as far asTarrenTech was concerned. They'd covered up so much, allowed themselves to become so deeply entangled in Ames's research, that they would never be able to extricate themselves. From now on, Jerry Harris-and Ted Thornton, too-would do exactly as Marty Ames told them.

As he left the building and slid behind the wheel of one of the station wagons with rocky mountain high emblazoned on its side, he smiled to himself. He was, indeed, the man who knew too much, and it was his own knowledge-his own brilliance-that made his position withinTarrenTech impregnable.

He pulled through the gates, raising only a single finger from the steering wheel as an acknowledgment of the guard's presence, then stepped on the accelerator, his whole body responding to the surge of power from the car's engine. The car was still gaining speed as it passed Phil Collins a minute later. Ames, if he noticed the coach at all, didn't bother even to wave to him, let alone offer him a lift.

Ten minutes later he was on the west side of Silverdale, speeding toward theTarrenTech building. His mind was only partly concentrating on the road, for most of his attention was focused, as always, on his research. A new family was arriving in Silverdale next week, and the medical records for their son had been placed on Ames's desk only that morning. Already his mind was at work on the boy's treatment and how he might avoid the failures he had experienced with Mark Tanner, JeffLaConner, and Randy Stevens.

When the headlights of the station wagon first picked up the oddly hulking shape that stood frozen in the middle of the road a hundred yards ahead, Ames didn't even see it.

And when he did see it a couple of seconds later, his first thought was that it must be a deer, for all he could truly see in the glare of the headlights was the bright glow of a pair of eyes shining out from the dark shape.

Large, animal eyes.

Then, as the car sped closer, Ames realized that it was not a deer in the road at all. It was another sort of creature entirely.

A creature of his own creation.

He gasped as he stared at Mark Tanner.

It wasn't possible-the boy should have been dead by now-should have been dead at least a week ago! Ames's hands froze on the wheel as he stared, transfixed, at the creature that now seemed to be hypnotized by the glare of the lights.

The car was only a few yards away from Mark when Ames suddenly realized that the boy wasn't going to move out of the path of the speeding vehicle, that he was only going to stare dumbly into the headlights until the car overtook him, and crushed him.

Ames was going to kill his own creation.

At the last second, he knew he couldn't do it.

He jerked his right foot off the accelerator and smashed it down on the brake, at the same time twisting the wheel violently to the right.

The tires screeched angrily as they lost their traction on the pavement, and the station wagon slewed off the road, shooting across the shallow ditch beyond the shoulder only to smash head-on into a boulder on the other side.

Marty Ames experienced an odd sensation of detached surprise as the frame of the station wagon crumpled beneath the force of the impact, and the engine block moved back, jamming the steering wheel and the twisted wreckage of the dashboard into Ames's chest. At the same moment that the wheel crushed his chest, his head flew forward, snapping his neck and shattering the windshield.

He was dead even before the brief moment of surprise had faded away.

Mark Tanner gazed curiously at the wreckage of the car, then crouched low to the ground. His eyes-the wary, canny eyes of an animal-remained fixed on the ruins of the station wagon as he crept close. He paused a few feet away, sniffing cautiously at the air, then reached out and touched the twisted metal of the driver's door, which was attached to the body of the car by only a single broken hinge.

The metal felt cold to his touch. He moved his finger away and touched the neck of the man inside the car.

Though the man's face was covered with blood and totally unrecognizable, Mark knew who he was.

For a moment he had an urge to wrench Martin Ames loose from the wreckage and tear his body limb from limb, leaving the remains wherever they fell.

But then the urge passed, and he turned away, silently disappearing into the night.

The wind was rising now, and Phil Collins tugged his jacket collar up around his neck, hunching his shoulders, resisting the urge to turn around and look up toward the mountains that rose around him.

He came to the corner of Aspen Street and turned right. He paused then, and his skin crawled with the uneasy sensation that he was being watched.

Now he did turn around, shading his eyes against the glare of the streetlamp that glowed overhead, but seeing nothing in the inky darkness; only a silent blackness that seemed to close in around him, a suffocating, strangely malignant stillness.

He told himself he was imagining things, but once more his pace quickened.

His house was dark as he approached it, and he had a fleeting moment of uncertainty as he tried to remember if he'd turned the porch light on or not. But of course he hadn't-it had still been broad daylight when he'd left the place a couple of hours before. He took the steps to the front porch in two quick bounds, then reached up to the ledge under the eaves for the key that he always left there.

A moment later he stepped through the front door and groped for the wall switch. The overhead light came on, washing the shadows from the living room.

Collins hesitated.

Something was wrong. His big German shepherd, who was invariably waiting for him by the door, was nowhere to be seen.

"Sparks?" he called out. "Where are you, boy?"

He heard a quick bark, followed by an eager whimpering, but the dog still didn't appear. Frowning deeply and with an odd prickling sensation running over the back of his neck, Collins moved through the living room into the small kitchen.

Sparks was crouched down by the door to the cellar, his muzzle pressed to the crack between the door and the floor.

He looked up as Collins came into the room and his tail wagged, but then he went back to his eager snuffling of the gap below the door.

Collins's frown deepened. There couldn't be anyone down there. He'd trained Sparks as a watchdog himself, and he knew the animal wouldn't let anyone into the house without his permission. He'd even had some complaints from the neighbors about the dog's fierceness; complaints he'd totally ignored.

"What is it, boy?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

The animal got to his feet, his tail wagging, and scratched eagerly at the closed door.

"Okay," Collins said, pulling the door open. "Go on down and get it, whatever it is."

The dog dashed down the steep flight of stairs and disappeared into the darkness.

Collins waited for a moment, listening. He could hear the shepherd whimpering eagerly, but there were no other sounds. Finally he reached for the light switch by the door and flipped it.

Nothing happened.

Cursing softly, Collins rummaged in the top drawer by the kitchen sink and found a flashlight. Its batteries were weak, but it glowed dimly when he pressed the switch. From another drawer he took a large butcher knife.

With the light held firmly in his left hand and the knife in his right, he started down the stairs.

When he came to the bottom, he stood in the darkness for a moment, listening. He could still hear Sparks, off to the right, making the eager whimpering noises that always emerged from his throat when Collins scratched him behind the ears.