Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

“Did you hear the driver say anything?” Corey asked.

“Say anything? Hell, no. He was completely flipped out. High on something, sure as you’re born. Most of them are, you know.”

Corey put away the folded sheet of copy paper with his notes on it. “Well, thanks, Norm. I’m glad you came out of it as well as you did.”

“You and me both, pardner. It’s a wonder I didn’t get some kind of disease laying in that grubby New York street all scraped raw the way I was. Got off with just a little infection. Couple of days of fever. Come Friday, I’m flying my ass back to Dallas, and no way, nohow, is Norman Hastings ever coming back to this rotten town.”

“I don’t blame you,” Corey said. “Good luck.”

I like New York in June.

I’ll take Manhattan.

A helluva town.

The songs were back in Corey’s head as he caught a taxi to the Westside Terminal and a bus from there to JFK. Yes, something was definitely going on, and he, Corey Macklin, was sitting right on top of it. He grinned broadly out the window of the bus, ignoring the suspicious stares he got back from people on the streets of New York.

Eddie Gault lay back naked on the double bed, his arms spread, one hand clutching each of the bedposts. It was his favorite position, one Roanne had taught him. There were a number of things she could do to him in that position, all of which were terrific. Most times he had to concentrate like crazy to keep from coming in a few seconds once she started on him. That evening, though, it just wasn’t working out. Eddie’s thoughts kept straying back to his day at the plant.

Roanne could tell, of course. If a man’s mind wasn’t on it, there was no way he could fake it. Not like a woman. She gently pulled her head back, letting his half-erect penis slide out of her mouth. She held him for a moment, then eased herself up over his body, the long pale hair, giving him a silky caress all the way up.

“Tired, baby?”

That was one of the beautiful things about Roanne. She never asked “What’s wrong?” in that accusing tone women use. Nothing could make a man go limp faster than the good old “What’s wrong?”

Eddie shook his head, gazing up into the crystalline blue eyes. “A little worried, I guess.”

“What about?”

“You know. The canister business.”

“Has anything happened? Have they said anything more to you?”

“No, but they’re watching me. I think I’m being followed.”

“Bastards.” The word seemed especially harsh coming from the pink lips of the lovely girl. “It’s not enough that they poison our atmosphere and pollute the earth; they have to persecute a man who tries to do the right thing.” Then she said more softly, “Don’t worry about it, baby. They lost a few cows. They’ll get over it.”

“Maybe it’s more than the cows.”

Roanne eased herself to a sitting position beside him on the bed. She let her hand remain flat on his naked stomach. Her face was grave, but Eddie was not looking beyond the round little breasts.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s rumors. Just rumors.” He reached up and took hold of a breast, stroking it gently like a captive bird. Roanne did not try to take it away.

“Tell me about the rumors,” she said softly.

“It’s the pilots. The two who flew that day with the wrong canister.”

Eddie’s eyes drifted away. Roanne pressed his hand more firmly against her breast to regain his attention. “What about the pilots, baby?”

“They’re gone. Two new guys are taking their place.”

“Gone where?”

“Nobody knows.”

“What are people saying?” Roanne’s eyes had a hungry glitter.

“Nothing, actually. Just wondering how come the other guys left so sudden with no word to anybody.”

“Does anyone think it has something to do with their spraying the wrong canister?”

“Not that I know of,” Eddie said.

“It would serve them right if they were both poisoned.”

Eddie searched her face. “Why is this such a big thing with you, Roanne? I mean, I know about the environment and all that, and sure it’s important, but with you it’s like … life or death.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Roanne said. Her eyes ranged off to a corner of the ceiling as though looking into the past. “I never told you how my mother died.”

“No.”

“It was cancer. Cancer of the liver. It was a long, painful death.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie said.

“Sorry doesn’t get it. My mother was murdered.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She was working in a plant in Atlanta that made synthetic fabrics. They used chemicals that they didn’t tell the workers about. A lot of people got sick. My mother died. They poisoned her, but nobody ever paid for it. They’re still operating today. Still killing the workers. Somebody has to do something about it. That’s you and me, Eddie.”

“But those pilots — they didn’t do anything. They thought they were spraying purple dye.”

Roanne stiffened. “Just doing their duty. That’s the all-purpose excuse for poisoning the earth and making war. It sounds like my father. He was a pilot, too, dropping napalm and God knows what else on women and children in Vietnam. The bastard never came back.”

“He was killed?”

“Better if he had been. He just disappeared after the war. Let my mother die with a rotting liver and never even wrote a letter.”

“I wish you’d told me all this before,” Eddie said. “It helps me understand you better.” He started to rise. “But it doesn’t make this business any easier for me.”

Roanne gently pushed him back down on the bed. “Don’t worry about it, baby. It will be all right.”

She leaned forward, bringing the pink nipple of one breast to his lips. He took it eagerly into his mouth and began to suck.

In the small bedroom of her bungalow, Dena Falkner stared sleeplessly at the ceiling. There had been a tension in the air at Biotron that week like static electricity before a summer storm. The uneasiness lingered, keeping her awake.

She had not spoken to Dr. Kitzmiller since the unsatisfactory conversation on Monday, but she had the feeling he was watching her. Someone was sure as hell watching her. She could feel eyes on the back of her neck, but when she turned around, there were only innocent people engaged in innocent pursuits. Much too innocent.

She was not at all satisfied with the story of Stuart Anderson’s assignment to Brazil. Three times the day before she had tried to call his sister in California. There had been no answer. It was possible, of course, that Stu’s sister had simply been out at the time of the calls. Sure it was possible, but Dena did not believe it.

She sighed and snapped on the lamp on her bedside table. She picked up the book that lay there. The Last Days of Pompeii . A few pages of Bulwer-Lytton always had a soporific effect on her. She opened it to the place she had marked and began to read. Before she had finished a page, she heard the noise.

It was a soft bump from somewhere at the back of the house.

Another.

Dena killed the light and sat up in bed, staring into the dark. The absence of artificial lights to pollute the night had seemed a part of the charm of living in the country. Now she would have given much for the glow of a streetlight outside her window.

A scraping sound from the kitchen. It took a moment for Dena to recognize it. Someone was raising the window.

A burglar?

Not in Wheeler, Wisconsin. Everybody in town knew everybody else, and it was not a promising location for an out-of-town burglar to pick.