Koontz, Dean R. - The Bad Place

by The Bad Place(Lit)

  controls to tilt the bed up.

  "Are these tests really necessary?"

  "Your amnesia might have a physical cause," said Julie. "You heard

  Doctor Freeborn. They'll look for cerebral abscesses, neoplasms, cysts,

  clots, all kinds of things."

  "I'm not sure about this Freeborn," Frank said.

  Sanford Freeborn was Bobby and Julie's friend, as well as their

  physician. A few years ago years ago they had helped him get his

  brother out of deep trouble.

  "Why? What's wrong with Sandy?"

  Frank said, "I don't know him."

  "You don't know anybody," Bobby said.

  "That's your line. Remember? You're an amnesiac."

  After accepting Frank as a client, they had taken him directly to Sandy

  Freeborn's office for a preliminary examination. All Sandy knew was

  that Frank could remember nothing but his name. They had not told him

  about the bags of money the blood, black sand, red gems, the weird

  insect, or any of the rest of it. Sandy didn't ask why Frank had come

  to them instead of the police or why they had accepted a case so far

  outside their usual purview; one of the things that made him a good

  friend was his reliable discretion.

  Nervously adjusting the sheets, Frank said, "You think a private room is

  really necessary?"

  Julie nodded.

  "You also want us to find out what you do at night, where you go, which

  means monitoring you, tight security."

  "A private room's expensive," Frank said.

  "You can afford the finest care," Bobby said.

  "The money in those bags might not be mine."

  Bobby shrugged.

  "Then you'll have to work off your hospital bill-change a few hundred

  beds, empty a few thousand bedpans, perform some brain surgery free of

  charge. You might be a brain surgeon. Who knows? With amnesia, it's

  just as likely you've forgotten that you're a surgeon as that you're a

  used-car salesman. Worth a try. Get a bone saw, cut off the top of

  some guy's head, have a peek in there, see if anything looks familiar."

  Leaning against the bed rail, Julie said, "When you're not in radiology

  or some other department, undergoing tests, we'll have a man with you,

  watching over you. Tonight it's Hal."

  Hal Yamataka had already taken his station. He was to one side of the

  bed, between Frank and the door, in a position to watch both his charge

  and, if Frank was in the mood, the wall-mounted television. Hal

  resembled a Japanese version of Clint Karaghiosis : about five foot

  seven or eight, broad in the shoulders and chest, as solid-looking as if

  he had been built by a mason who knew how to fit stones tight together

  and hide the mortar.

  In case nothing worth watching was on television and his charge proved

  to be a lousy conversationalist, he had brought a John D. MacDonald

  novel.

  Looking at the rain-washed window, Frank said, "I guess I'm just...

  scared."

  "No need to be scared," Bobby said.

  "Hal's not as dangerous as he looks. He's never killed anyone he

  liked."

  "Only once," Hal said.

  Bobby said, "You once killed someone you liked? Over what?"

  "He asked to borrow my comb."

  "There you go, Frank," Bobby said.

  "Just don't ask to his comb, and you're safe."

  Frank was in no mood to be kidded. "I can't stop thinking about waking

  up with blood on my hands. I'm afraid I've already hurt someone. I

  don't want to hurt anyone.

  "Oh, you can't hurt Hal," Bobby said. "He's an imputable-oriental."

  "Inscrutable," Hal said.

  "I'm an inscrutable oriental."

  "I don't want to hear about your sex problems, Hal.

  "Anyway, if you didn't eat so much sushi and didn't have raw breath,

  you'd get screwed as often as anyone."

  Reaching over the bed railing, Julie took one of Frank's hands.

  He smiled weakly.

  "Your husband always like this, Mrs. Dakota?"

  "Call me Julie. Do you mean, does he always act like a wise ass or a

  child? Not always, but most of the time, I'm afraid."

  "You hear that, Hal?" Bobby said.

  "Women and amtracs-they have no sense of humor."

  To Frank, Julie said, "My husband believes everything in life should be

  fun, even car accidents, even funerals-"

  "Even dental hygiene," Bobby said.

  "-and he'd probably be making jokes about fallout in the middle of a

  nuclear war. That's just the way he is. He could be cured-"

  "She's tried," Bobby said.

  "She sent me to a happiness detox center. They promised to knock some

  gloom into me, but they Couldn't."

  "You'll be safe here," Julie said, squeezing Frank's hand before letting

  go of it. "Hal will look after you."

  THE ENTOMOLOGIST's house was in the Turtle Rock development in Irvine,

  within easy driving distance of the university. Low, black,

  mushroom-shaped Malibu lamps threw circles of light on the rain-puddled

  walkway that led to the softly gleaming oak doors.

  Carrying one of Frank Pollard's leather flight bags, Clint stepped onto

  the small covered porch and rang the bell.

  A man spoke to him through an intercom set just below the bell push.

  "Who is it, please?"

  "Dr. Dyson Manfred? I'm Clint Karaghiosis. From Dakota and Dakota."

  Half a minute later, Manfred opened the door. He was at least ten

  inches taller than Clint, six feet five or six, and thin. He was

  wearing black slacks, a white shirt, and a green necktie; the top button

  of the shirt was undone, and the tie hung loose.

  "Good God, man, you're soaked."

  "Just damp."

  Manfred moved back, opening the door wide, and Clint stepped into the

  tile-floored foyer.

  As he closed the door, Manfred said, "Ought to have a raincoat or

  umbrella on a night like this."

  "It's invigorating."

  "What is?"

  "Bad weather," Clint said.

  Manfred looked at him as if he was strange, but in Clint's view it was

  Manfred himself who was strange. The guy was too thin, all bones. He

  could not fill his clothes; his trousers hung shapelessly on his knobby

  hips, and his shoulders poked at the fabric of his shirt as if only

  bare, sharp bones lay under there. Angular and graceless, he looked as

  if he had been assembled from a pile of dry sticks by an apprentice god.

  His face was long and narrow, with a high brow and a lantern and his

  well-tanned, leathery skin seemed to be stretched tight over his

  cheekbones that it might split. He had peculiar amber eyes that

  regarded Clint with an expression of curiosity no doubt familiar to the

  thousands of bugs he had picked to specimen boards.

  Manfred's gaze traveled down Clint to the floor,water was puddling

  around his running shoes.

  "Sorry," Clint said.

  "It'll dry. I was in my study. Come along."

  Glancing into the living room, to his right, Clint noted flowerless

  wallpaper, a thick Chinese rug, too many overstuffed chairs and sofas,

  antique English furniture, wine-red velvet drapes, and tables cluttered

  with bibles that glimmered the lamplight. It was a very Victorian room,r />
  not in harm with the California lines and layout of the house itself.

  He followed the entomologist past the living room, down a short hall to

  the study. Manfred had a singular, stilting Tall and sticklike as he

  was, with shoulders hunched and thrust forward slightly, he seemed as

  unevolved and prehistoric as a praying mantis.

  Clint had expected a university professor's study to be crammed full of

  books, but only forty or fifty volumes shelved in one case to the left

  of the desk. There were cabinets with wide, shallow drawers that

  probably were filled with creepy-crawlies, and on the walls were insects

  in special boxes, framed under glass.

  When he saw Clint staring at one collection in particular Manfred said,

  "Cockroaches. Beautiful creatures."

  Clint did not reply.

  borrow"The simplicity of their design and function, I mean."

  He would find them beautiful in appearance, of course." Clint couldn't

  shake the feeling that the bugs were not really alive.

  Manfred said, "What do you think of that big fellow in the corner of the

  collection?"

  "He's big, sir."

  "Madagascar hissing roach. The scientific name's Grod or

  rhinaportentosa. That one's over eight and a half centimeters long,

  about three and a half inches. Absolutely beautiful isn't he?"

  Clint said nothing.

  Settling into the chair behind his desk, Manfred somehow folded his long

  bony arms and legs into that compact space, the way a large spider could

  scrunch itself into a tiny ball.

  Clint did not sit down. Having put in a long day, he was eager to go

  home.

  Manfred said, "I received a call from the university chancellor. He

  asked me to cooperate with your Mr. Dakota in any way I could."

  UCI-the University of California at Irvine-had long been striving to

  become one of the country's premier universities. The current

  chancellor and the one before him had sought to attain that status by

  offering enormous salaries and generous fringe benefits to world-class

  professors and researchers at other institutions. Before committing

  substantial resources in the form of a well-upholstered job offer,

  however, the university hired Dakota & Dakota to conduct a background

  investigation on the prospective faculty remember. Even a brilliant

  physicist or biologist could have too great a thirst for whiskey, a nose

  for cocaine, or an unfortunate attraction to underage girls. UCI wanted

  to buy brainpower, respectability, and academic glory, not scandal;

  Dakota & Dakota served them well.

  Manfred propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his

  fingers, which were so long that they looked as if they must have at

  least one extra knuckle each.

  "What's the problem?" he asked.

  Clint opened the leather flight bag and removed the quartsize,

  wide-mouth mason jar. He put it on the entomologist's desk.

  The bug in the jar was at least twice as big as the Madagascar hissing

  roach on the wall.

  For a moment Dr. Dyson Manfred seemed to have been quick-frozen. He

  didn't move a finger; his eyes didn't blink. He stared intently at the

  creature in the jar. At last he said,

  "What is this-a hoax?"

  "It's real."

  Manfred leaned forward, hunching over the desk and lowering his head

  until his nose almost touched the thick glass behind which the insect

  crouched.

  "Alive?"

  "Dead."

  "Where did you find this-not here in southern California?"

  "Yes."

  "Impossible."

  "What is it?" Clint asked.

  Manfred looked up at him, scowling.

  "I've never seen anything like it. And if I haven't seen anything like

  it, neither has anyone else. It's of the phylum Arthropodan I'm

  sure,includes such things as spiders and scorpions, but whether can be

  classed an insect, I can't say, not until I've exam it. If it is an

  insect, it's of a new species. Where, exactly, you find it, and why on

  earth would it be of interest to private detectives?"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't tell you anything about it. I have to

  protect the client's privacy."

  Manfred carefully turned the jar around in his hands, staring at the

  resident from every side.

  "Just incredible. I must admit." He looked up, and his amber eyes were

  no longer cool appraising, but gleaming with excitement.

  "I must have specimen."

  "Well, I intended to leave it with you for examination Clint said.

  "But as to whether you can have permanent possession-"

  "Yes. Permanent."

  "That's up to my boss and the client. Meanwhile we need to know what it

  is, where it comes from, everything you can tell us about it."

  With exaggerated care, as if handling the finest crystal instead of

  ordinary glass, Manfred put the jar on the blotter.

  make a complete photographic and videotape record of specimen from every

  angle and in extreme close-up. Then be necessary to dissect it, though

  that'll be done with utmost care, I assure you."

  "Whatever."

  "Mr. Karaghiosis, you seem terribly blase about this.

  you fully understand what I've said? This would appear to be an

  entirely new species, which would be extraordinary.

  cause how could any such species, producing individual this size, be

  overlooked for so long? This is going to be big in the world of

  entomology, Mr. Karaghiosis, very big indeed. Clint looked at the bug

  in the bottle.

  He said, "Yeah, I figured."

  FROM THE hospital, Bobby and Julie drove a company Toyota into the

  county's western flatlands to Garden Grove, looking for 884 Serape Way,

  the address on the driver's license that Frank held in the name of

  George Farris.

  Julie peered through the rain-dappled side windows and forward between

  the thumping windshield wipers, checking house numbers.

  The street was lined with bright sodium-vapor lamps and thirty-year-old,

  single-story homes. They had been built in two basic, boxy models, but

  an illusion of individuality was provided by a variety of trim. This

  one was stucco with brick accents. That one was stucco with

  cedar-shingle panels-or Bouquet Canyon stone or desert bark or volcanic

  rock.

  California was not all Beverly Hills, Bel Air, and Newport Beach, not

  all mansions and seaside villas, which was the television image.

  Economies of home design had made the California dream accessible to the

  waves of immigrants that for decades had flooded in from back east, and

  now from farther shores-as was evident from Vietnamese- and Korean

  language bumper stickers on some cars parked along Serape.

  "Next block," Julie said.

  "My side."

  Some people said such neighborhoods were a blot on the land, but to

  Bobby they were the essence of democracy. He had been raised on a

  street like Serape Way, north in Anaheim instead of Garden Grove, and it

  had never seemed ugly. He remembered playing with other kids on long

  summer evenings, when the sun set with orange and crimson flares, and

  the feathery silhouettes of t
he backlit palms were as black as ink

  drawings against the sky; at twilight the air sometimes smelled of star

  jasmine and echoed with the cry of a lingering sea gull far to the west.

  He remembered what it meant to be a kid with a bicycle in California-the

  vistas for exploration, the great possibilities for adventure; every

  street of stucco homes, seeing for the first time and from the seat of a

  Schwinn, had seem exotic.

  Two coral trees dominated the yard at 884 Serape. The white blooms of

  the azalea bushes were softly radiant in the bleak night.

  Tinted by the sodium-vapor streetlamps, the falling raid looked like

  molten gold. But as Bobby hurried along the wall way behind Julie, the

  rain was almost as cold as sleet on his face and hands. He was wearing

  a warmly lined, nylon jacket with a hood, but he shivered.

  Julie rang the doorbell. The porch light came on, and Bob sensed