Tom held up his hand. “Doctor Hutchinson hasn’t been briefed because of the need for haste,” he said. Sarah blinked. The riposte was deadly. Now Hutch must remain silent. He had been neatly exposed as being among the uninformed. A figurehead of department. Tom took his blood in drops, but each one counted. “We’ll get our first report from Doctor Geoffrey Williams, who did the blood grouping and analysis on the patient.”
Geoff rattled papers, pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Put simply, the woman’s blood is completely mutated, to the extent that she might well be a varietal species and not a member of genus homo at all.” The few preoccupied faces came to attention.
“It could be a genetic defect,” Hutch said. He had leaned forward in his chair, his face full of interest and concern. Sarah realized a truth — he did not view the clinic as a possession, but himself as the property of the clinic. Of course he would continue to talk, he saw no humiliation in being relieved of the captaincy as long as he remained in the group.
“It isn’t a defect, the blood —”
“You don’t have a chromosomal yet, you couldn’t. I think you’re being quite hasty —”
“Hush up, Walter,” a deep voice said from the back of the room. All eyes turned. Sam Rush, Riverside Medical Center’s Chief of Research Staffs, leaned against the door, his arms folded before him. Sarah raised her eyebrows. He counted for more than the entire board. Considerably more.
Geoff cleared his throat. “Mutation, even parallel evolution, are the appropriate concepts. The kicker is in cellular detail. First, the erythrocytes are off color, practically purple. Yet there is no indication that the patient is suffering from any oxygen-uptake problems. The cells are also less than half-normal size. Second and perhaps most important, we observe seven varieties of leukocytes instead of five as in a human body. The two new ones are among the most extraordinary cellular structures I’ve had the pleasure of observing. As a first guess, I’d say that the purpose of number six is heightened control of invasive organisms. It is active against all test cultures so far, including E. Coli and salmonella. And it shares a totally unexpected property with number seven in that it resists death even in a saline solution.
“Now, the number seven. This is the reason I mentioned the possibility of a parallel evolution. It is literally a factory, consuming dead blood cells of all kinds and birthing new ones, including its own type.”
The room was silent for some time. Finally, Dr. Weintraub, the cellular biologist, spoke. “Doctor what kind of breakdown process occurs?”
“This blood sample is exceptionally resistant to morbidity. I suspect it would even cause such diseases as virally induced cancer to be self-limiting and transient events in the life of the organism. If this blood was flowing in the veins of a mortal being, subject to time and accident, it might itself be immortal.
“Structural detail of the seventh leukocyte?” Weintraub’s eyes were tightly closed, he was deep in concentration.
“Complex tripartite nuclei. The structure appears to change according to the type of cell being consumed and reproduced. They birth living versions of the other types as fast as the originals die. The blood is in the lab now, six hours old, still as fresh as the moment it was taken.”
“Doctor, surely that’s a side effect of preservation —”
“Doctor Hutchinson, the sample I am referring to is being held at a temperature of fifteen degrees Celsius. It ought to be dead and decaying by now. But in fact we could reintroduce it into the donor’s veins if we wanted to. It’s quite self-maintaining.”
Sarah could hear the rustle of suppressed movements. She looked around the table and was at first perplexed by the uniform woodenness of the faces. Then she understood that they were all holding themselves in, restraining every outward manifestation of their excitement. All except Hutch, who was beginning to look like a little boy attending a carnival. Tom’s power play seemed more and more superfluous. Sarah suspected that Hutch’s type was that most dangerous of opponents for the Tom Havers of the world: a truly committed man — or truly clever — or both.
A face appeared in the doorway behind Dr. Rush. Sarah excused herself; the resident she had detailed to hold Mrs. Blaylock looked upset.
“She left,” he said with a squeak. “I waited a few minutes for her to dress and when I went to the cubicle she was gone.”
Sarah restrained her first impulse, which was to shake him. “Did reception see her go? Try to stop her?”
“She never went through the reception area.”
“Then how did she leave?” He said nothing. Riverside was a labyrinth of nineteenth- and twentieth-century buildings all thrown together, she could have gone in any number of directions. Sarah clutched at a possibility. “Maybe she’s gotten herself lost.”
“Her stuff is gone. She intended to leave.”
Sarah closed her eyes. This was going to embarrass Tom. She thought of Hutch and found she wasn’t exactly displeased by that. “Call me out of here if there are any developments.” The resident turned and hurried away. As Sarah went back to her seat she contemplated whether or not to interrupt the proceedings with the bad news.
“To my way of thinking, the first order of business is tissue sampling,” Weintraub was saying. “I really can’t go very far without some cellular material, and I don’t think genetics can either.” Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. “Between us I think we’ll be able to examine the larger questions pretty thoroughly.”
Bob Hodder, geneticist and one of Riverside’s young Turks, spoke up. “Obviously, a chromosomal analysis will give us a definitive answer as to whether or not this is a human organism we’re dealing with.” He was almost handsome, Bob was. Sarah could remember his big tan body, his rippling muscles . . . he had been one of her more miserable affairs, prior to Tom. A good lay and a good date, but a man barricaded in a fortress of unfeeling. He knew genetics and sex and could order well at a restaurant. But he was as cold as death itself. Not nearly the breadth of old Tom, who sat leaning tautly into the conference, his glasses down his nose, his cigar now clamped between his teeth but unlit.
She took a deep breath and delivered her news. “The patient left.”
Hutch reared back, seizing his opportunity with an almost audible chomp. “That was stupid.”
“It’s nobody’s fault,” Tom yammered. “We’re not equipped to hold people. This isn’t a secure facility.”
“Who the hell was in charge?” Hutch’s voice was strident. He intended to use the mistake to embarrass Tom in front of Rush. He knew how to score when he had the opportunity. Neither he nor Tom so much as glanced at the impassive face of Sam Rush. If he hadn’t been there, however, Sarah doubted there would have been more between Hutch and Tom than a mutual glare.
“That’s not the point! They followed procedures — did more than that, as a matter of fact. But she slipped out. You know what this place is like. You can exit Sleep Research in a dozen different directions. Anybody who wants to can get out no matter how careful we are.”
Sam Rush spoke. “Doctor Haver, you’ll have to locate your patient at once. I really do think it’s essential that we get her into confinement.” Tom’s eyes sought Sarah. The message was clear: ‘You let her go, you get her back.’
Sarah shook her head. She wouldn’t take the responsibility. Her own attitude toward Miriam Blaylock was not quite clear to her: the woman — thing — was frightening and dangerously seductive. She had the power to call up desires best left sleeping. Sarah wanted no part of her.
“I’ve got to ask you, Sarah. You know her best.”
She looked down at the table. There was no way to refuse such an open request.
“I don’t know how to go about it.”
“Call her,” Tom said.
“Visit her. Don’t risk a call. Bring her back.” Hutch’s voice was full of sincerity and concern.
“Your director is right,” Sam Rush said. Tom looked down at his papers.
“I do
n’t know where she lives,” Sarah muttered desperately.
“We have her address — don’t we, Tom?” Hutch sounded almost as if he hoped “we” didn’t.
“Of course,” Tom snapped.
Sarah fought to control herself. Her hands twined and twined together, until she snatched them from the table. All eyes were now on her. “Yes,” she heard a small, unfamiliar version of herself say, “we’ve got to get her back. I’ll go at once.”
Miriam Blaylock’s home was unexpectedly charming. Sarah got out of the cab before the compact red-brick row house with its white marble trim and window boxes full of flowers. It was so fresh and light. The windows were open and cheerful rooms could be seen beyond them. Private house on Sutton Place, Lanvin suits — Miriam Blaylock’s genus certainly had no difficulty coping with the human milieu.
Sarah mounted the steps and pressed the doorbell. From within she heard a chime. A policeman strolled past whistling. Across the street a group of children huddled together talking quietly.
The door swung open on Miriam Blaylock. She wore a pink-and-white dress. When she smiled, any thought other than that of being welcomed into a lovely home by its charming owner instantly left Sarah’s mind.
“May I come in?”
Miriam stepped aside.
“Oh, I love pomander,” Sarah found herself saying. “It reminds me of my childhood.” The richly antique scent evoked an image of her grandmother’s front hall, of sun slanting in the windows on just such a day as this. She inhaled. “That really does take me back.”
“Would you like to sit down?”
Sarah followed her into a marvelous living room. Morning light poured in the windows, which overlooked a garden. The room was furnished with Regency antiques, lightly graceful chairs and couches. On the floor was a silk carpet from China, depicting many of the very flowers that bloomed in the garden. Blue silk curtains hung at the windows and the ceiling was a trompe l’oeil rendering of a summer’s sky. It was the kind of room that almost made you laugh with delight. Sarah stood in the doorway, her hands folded under her chin. She knew she was smiling like a little girl. Miriam turned, met her eyes and burst out laughing. Her eyes sparkled with true and unrestrained warmth.
Sarah came into the room and sat on one of the two facing love seats.
“May I give you a cup of coffee? I’ve just made some.”
“That would be lovely.”
Miriam’s voice floated back as she went to the kitchen. “I’ll bet you didn’t get a wink of sleep. It’s lucky I just happened to be making some coffee.”
She handed Sarah a cup. It was rich and smooth, altogether extraordinary. Its taste was all the aroma promised. “This is nice,” Sarah said.
Miriam sat beside Sarah, placing her own cup on the mosaic-covered coffee table. Sarah’s eyes were attracted to the mosaic’s delicate beauty. It portrayed a goddess standing on a rainbow with sickle moon above her head. “Lamia,” Miriam said as Sarah’s fingers caressed the tiny stones. “Her food is youth. Her symbol is the rainbow because of her beauty and elusiveness. She is one of the immortals. The mosaic is from the lost city of Palmyra.”
“What happened to it?”
“Greed. Like the rest of the Empire. It was a Roman city.”
“This must be worth —” She stopped, embarrassed. How crass to gush about the value of somebody’s art objects.
“I’ll never sell it. Can you see why?” With loving grace Miriam ran her finger along the outline of the face.
The resemblance was amazing. “I certainly can! It could be your twin.”
Miriam looked suddenly toward the windows, her mind seemingly drawn to something outside. Dropping the conversation, she got up and went over to them. Sarah had conflicting impressions: Miriam had seemed delighted to see her at first, but all at once had apparently lost interest. Sarah began to want to get it over with. It was as if Miriam were waiting for somebody else. This place, so ruthlessly pleasant, began to contain the suggestion of nasty shadows.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Sarah announced in her most cheerful tone.
“You drink it. I had a cup before you came.”
“I won’t turn you down on that. It’s so incredibly good. I mean, I know it’s just coffee, but —” She was gushing again. Calm down, girl. Bring up Riverside and get thyself gone. “Listen, if you’re busy I’ll get right to the point. Obviously, I came here for a reason. Riverside —”
“It’s such a beautiful day. We get the nicest breeze when the wind is off the river.”
“Your garden is wonderful. We at Riverside —”
“I have over ten thousand plants. The roses are my real prize.”
Sarah went over and stood beside her. There wasn’t a rose to be seen. “Where are they?” Obviously Riverside would have to wait until the damnable garden was praised.
“Behind the stand of snapdragons.” She became very still. “Good gods, why can’t we see them?” Sarah noticed that she was glaring like the rhesus did when you surprised them. Miriam went out the French doors and across the brick porch. Sarah walked behind her. The whole garden was redolent of flowers. The invisible roses could certainly be smelled. Beyond the garden could be seen the glimmering water of the East River. A sailboat passed, its white canvas flapping in the sun. The full roar of the FDR Drive rose as an undertone. Miriam swept down a winding garden path and past the stand of snapdragons. When Sarah caught up with her she was squatting on the ground, her fingers clutching torn flowers. “My ROSES!” she shrieked. Sarah was amazed. Before her was a horrible sight, a vandalized flowerbed. Even the petals of the destroyed plants had been ground into the earth. The leaves had been stripped off and the stems split. Some of the smaller plants were uprooted. There was a powerful attar, the blood of the flowers.
Miriam stiffened, slowly standing up, facing Sarah. It was somehow a terrifying gesture, one that made her step back. Then Miriam was past her, crouching down again, her hands flitting over a hole in the earth. When she shouted down it Sarah heard a deep echo. Slowly Miriam got to her feet. Her lips were moving and Sarah strained to hear.
She said, “He’s out!” and whirled like a tiger in a cage.
Her head snapped toward the house. With a sharp intake of breath she was off, racing up the garden path, toward the open French doors. “Come on,” she shouted, “hurry!”
Her obvious fear infected Sarah. She began running as in a nightmare toward the door. It seemed more and more distant, the flowers spreading for acres and miles.
Miriam’s eyes were bulging with fear more raw than anything one saw in a human face. Her arms stretched out, the hands clutching and opening like those of an infant seeking help. “Sarah, hurry!”
Sarah’s progress was dreamlike. She felt heavy, she thought of sleep. Every detail of the flowerbeds she was passing stood out. There were daisies bobbing, zinnias spreading to the sun, snapdragons and many more exotic varieties. She saw a bee standing on the stipule of a pansy, its pollen sacs dusted gold. Behind her there arose a great crackling, like a bear coming forth.
Miriam’s arms twined about her, the French doors closed with a bang. With a snap of her wrist Miriam locked them, then pulled the curtains. She opened a box on the coffee table and began to press buttons inside it. The row of red lights that winked on suggested it was a burglar alarm.
Of all things, Sarah found herself getting woozy. The lack of sleep was really hitting hard, despite the coffee.
She let Miriam hold her, watched fascinated as the woman’s expression shifted to absolute calm. That was iron control, considering the fear. “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
Miriam looked away as if struck by some new realization. “Mine were the best roses in all the world. Did you know that? Do you know roses?”
“I’m sorry, Miriam. They must have been beautiful.” Sarah wanted to calm the woman, wanted also to sit down. She was really quite tired.
“There is no word in this language to des
cribe them. They were — amoenum. It’s Latin, it refers to the heartbreaking beauty of nature. Vergilius Maro used it to describe Aeneas’ last vision of Ilium. Such flowers are like that. A last vision, the hurting beauty of a rainbow.”
“I see.” Sarah knew some Latin, mostly as a professional language. “Why don’t we sit down? I feel a little off.” She smiled. “The excitement.” Nervously, she touched Miriam’s shoulder — and snapped her hand back in surprise. The skin was as hard as stone, for God’s sake. Was it an artificial limb?
“Get some more coffee,” Miriam said. “It’s in the kitchen.” Wishing Miriam would get it for her, but wanting it badly, Sarah found her way through a dining room that had been made over into a den. The kitchen told why; it was completely empty. Nobody ate in this house, not ever. Sarah checked a couple of cabinets. Absolutely pristine. Stove, ancient but perfectly clean. The only litter was on the counter — an open half-pound bag of coffee beans, a grinder and a Melitta pot containing the cooling coffee.
This wasn’t a home.
She didn’t have a chance to think about it, she had noticed a shadow on the curtains of the kitchen window. It moved away, then appeared again before the door, sharply outlined against the white chintz that covered the glass. There was a whisper, but Sarah was too startled to reply. When the doorknob began to rattle she found her voice and called out.
Instantly, Miriam was beside her. She stepped right up to the door. “It’s locked,” she shouted, “locked and set!”
The shadow disappeared.
Sarah began to want very badly to get out of here. But she couldn’t just leave the woman, not like this. “Call the police,” she said. Her speech was actually slurred. Despite the obvious danger she felt curiously calm.
“No!” Miriam grabbed her shoulders and shook them. It rattled her teeth in her head, it was like being gripped by a powerful machine.
Remember, she is not human. Not human! Whatever might be going on here, it could be very different from appearance. Sarah must not allow herself to forget that. And for the love of heaven she must not fall asleep. What was the matter with her?
The Hunger Page 17
