F. Paul Wilson - All the Rage

She could feel his hurt. "But your commission checks—"

"Inflated. Just like everyone else's."

"But that doesn't make sense!"

He sighed. "Tell me about it."

"So the company's in big trouble?"

His eyes fixed her again. "That's just it: the company's bottom line is fine. TriCef is a major hit overseas, doing gangbusters business. The dollar amounts are staggering."

"So much so that they can pay you commissions on antibiotics you haven't sold?"

"Apparently, yes. But why the discrepancies between the real and published sales figures? Why are Pharmaceutical Forum's figures so inflated?"

"Obviously, to hide the fact that TriCef is a flop in the U.S."

"But it's a monster overseas. What's the point?"

Nadia shrugged. 'To protect the stock price?"

"I don't see that. They're operating in the black."

"How about company pride?" Nadia knew Dr. Monnet was a very proud man. But would he involve himself in a deception of this magnitude? Surely he valued his personal reputation more than the company's.

"You might have something there," Doug said after a swallow of beer. He picked up a blue corn chip and dipped it in the salsa. "GEM started as a generic company. TriCef is their first time out competing against the big boys and they want to look like winners."

"I'm sure that's it."

"Well, I'm not that sure. I've still got a few questions that need answering." He grinned. "Let's go to my place when we're done. I'll make you into a hacker."

Nadia forced a smile. "OK."

She knew Doug would gnaw this bone till he was satisfied no morsel remained to be gleaned from it, and she had an uneasy feeling she should stick as close as possible to him on this.

14

The front section of Ozymandias Prather's trailer served as the business office for the Oddity Emporium. Luc Monnet sat inside and glanced at his watch. Almost time.

He'd been enormously relieved to learn that the creature was still alive.

He looked around the tiny office: a rickety desk, two chairs, and no room for much else. The rear section, Prather's living quarters, Luc presumed, was curtained off. Curiosity about the lifestyle of this strange man with an even stranger business nudged him to take a peek, but he resisted. He was not a snoop.

Nothing wrong with perusing the walls of the business office, though. It was papered with old posters and flyers, one particularly old one mentioning a Jacob Prather and his "Infernal Machine." Prather's father, perhaps? Behind the desk was a map of the U.S. with a planned route that circled the country.

"Find anything interesting?" said a deep voice behind him.

Luc jumped. He hadn't heard Prather come in. He moved quietly for such a big man. Luc didn't turn but continued looking at the map.

"You've played in all these places already this year?" Luc said.

"That is a future route card," Prather said. "A dream of mine… for when I've gathered the proper troupe—the ultimate troupe, one might say—of handpicked performers. That will be the tour to end all tours."

Something in his voice made Luc turn. Prather's eyes were bright under his lanky hair; his grin looked… hungry.

Luc glanced at his watch, as much to break contact with Prather's eyes as to check the time. The digits read 8:43. A minute past time.

"Have you. got the creature secured?" Luc said.

Prather nodded. "We are ready if you are."

"Let's go then."

"Payment first," Prather said, holding out a wide, long-fingered hand.

Luc hesitated. He'd always paid after he'd drawn the sample. "Is something wrong with the creature?"

"Yes. It is dying, as we both know. But do not fear—it is not yet dead."

Then, why did Prather want payment first? Luc stiffened at a terrifying thought—if the creature was near death, if this was to be the last sampling of its blood, then Luc was of no further value to Prather. If they would no longer be doing business, then Luc, a witness to murder, was… disposable.

He would never forget how casually Prather had disposed of Macintosh.

"You look frightened, Dr. Monnet," Prather said, baring his teeth in a yellowed grin. "As if you fear for your life."

"No, I—"

"Relax, Doctor. I am a man of my word, forthright in my dealings. I am so because I must set an example for my troupe." He extended his hand closer to Luc. "This is my business office; let us do business."

Luc pulled out the envelope and handed it to him. "I've included advance payment for three of your roustabouts as security when I test this batch."

Prather nodded as he counted the money. "Things got a little out of hand last time, you say?"

"A little."

More than a little. Luc had lost control of two of the test subjects. He chewed his upper lip at the memory. It had been quite nearly a disaster.

Prather sighed as he closed the envelope. "I don't like hiring them out, but attendance is off this tour. In good times people seem less inclined to go and stare at those less fortunate than they—at least those who appear less fortunate. So we must make ends meet any way we can." He stuffed the envelope into one of his own pockets. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if he were talking to himself. "Because I must keep the troupe together—by any means necessary."

Wondering at the hint of desperation in Prather's voice, Luc followed him out of the trailer and into the twilight. He caught the scent of the Long Island Sound as they followed a path of trampled marsh grass to the main tent.

"You're fairly isolated out here," Luc said, wondering why Prather had chosen this relatively well-off section of the North Shore to set up. "Do you do enough business in this area?"

"Not as much as we might in a more blue-collar location," Prather said. "But we do enough. The owner rents us the land for a reasonable fee, and the truth of it is, we like the town."

"Monroe? What so special about Monroe?"

"You wouldn't understand," Prather said.

Just then a young woman came running toward them across the grass, crying, "Oz! Oz!"

She was short, thin, with a long ponytail trailing from her undersized head. Luc could see that she was crying. She grabbed Prather's hand and pulled him aside. Between sobs she whispered in a high-pitched voice, her words tumbling out so quickly Luc couldn't catch their meaning beyond something about someone named Rena being "so mean."

He watched Prather nodding as he listened, saw him pat her shoulder and murmur in a reassuring tone. She smiled, giggled, then skipped away as if she hadn't care in the world.

"What was that all about?" Luc said when Prather rejoined him.

"A domestic squabble," the tall man said. "We are a family of sorts, and every family has them."

"And you're the father they come to as mediator?"

"Some of them do. Many in the troupe are quite adept at handling their own affairs and solving their own problems. Lena and her sister Rena, however, have a mental age of about six. Their petty disagreements seem momentous to them. I play Solomon."

"Ah. I thought she looked microcephalic."

Prather nodded. "They're called 'pinheads' in the trade. Lena and her sister are known as 'the Pin Twins' under my canvas."

Luc felt a twinge of revulsion that his face must have mirrored.

"Offended, Doctor?" Prather's mouth twisted into what might have been a smile. "Exploitation of the mentally retarded… that's what you're thinking, am I right?"

"Well…" That was exactly what he'd been thinking.

"But you know nothing of their life before I found them. Lena and Rena were living in a cardboard box in Dallas, vying with rats for scraps from restaurant garbage bins, being repeatedly raped and otherwise abused whenever it suited their fellow street dwellers."