Dr. Rogers turned to Z.Z. 'Could you please excuse me for a moment?'
Z.Z. couldn't speak. She nodded dumbly and watched her approach the child.
'Hello, Stephen,' Dr. Rogers said in a friendly voice. She squatted down so that her face was level with his. 'Where are you going?'
He stared at her. When he spoke, his words sounded thick and labored, and his mouth twisted into a kind of smile. 'I'm going to the craft shop.'
Z.Z. forced herself to shut her eyes. What kind of monsters did they keep in this place? Oh, God, why had she come? Why hadn't she just let sleeping dogs lie? Why?
But she knew why. It was because the battle for HJII—for the destruction of Hélène Junot—reopened all the old wounds. It was because she had to see what Hélène had put her through. What she had made her suffer alone, without Sigi.
'. . . and you be a good boy.' Dr. Rogers tousled the child's straight black hair. Then she came back to Z.Z. 'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting.' She smiled. 'But Stephen needs a little love every now and then.'
Z.Z. nodded wordlessly.
Dr. Roger's office was off the main hall. It was a small low-ceilinged room with an enormous stone fireplace and more dark paneling. The metal filing cabinets and the teak-and-chrome desk looked out of place.
Dr. Rogers gestured for Z.Z. to take a seat in an armchair. Then she went behind her desk and sat in the swivel chair. 'I must admit that your appointment to see Wilfred came as a surprise, Mrs. Bavier. Wilfred has been here for ten years, and this is your first visit.' Dr. Rogers paused.
Wordlessly Z.Z. snapped open her purse and lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking.
Dr. Rogers continued. 'Your request for a visit specifically stated that you do not wish your son to know your identity. We will respect that wish.' She looked at Z.Z. rather queerly. 'You know, in a way, he rather looks like you.'
Z.Z. stiffened. Rigidly she put her splayed fingers on the arms of her chair and started to rise.
'Please, Mrs. Bavier,' Dr. Rogers said. 'Do stay. I assure you that Wilfred is quite normal physically. Except for the unfortunate fact that his brain is damaged, he is quite like any other boy his age. It would be unfortunate if you did not at least see him.'
Slowly Z.Z. nodded. 'Where is he right now?'
'In the craft shop.'
'You mean with that. . . that. . .' Z.Z.'s voice cracked.
Dr. Rogers folded her hands on the desktop. 'You mean, with Stephen?' she asked in a soothing voice.
Z.Z. nodded.
'Yes, with Stephen and quite a few of our other residents. Crafts are very popular here at Spruce Point. Stephen and Wilfred are good friends, actually. There is nothing wrong with Stephen except that he had the misfortune to be born a mongoloid.'
Z.Z. smoked in silence.
'Do not worry about the residents intermingling. They do so constantly. Indeed, we encourage it. However, there is always a member of our trained staff on hand. You see, the residents are all quite harmless. To them, Spruce Point is not only their home, it is their world. Very few of them have ever been to the 'outside' as we call it. Their world consists entirely of the fifteen acres that comprise Spruce Point. Most of our residents have no desire to leave here. They feel safe inside these walls. In fact, the majority of them would be terrified at the prospect of going 'outside.''
'And Wilfred?' Z.Z.'s voice was a whisper.
'Wilfred is slow but quite normal,' Dr. Rogers said carefully. 'He has expressed a desire for adventure.'
Z.Z. leaned forward and stubbed out her cigarette. 'I think I'd just better—'
'Please, Mrs. Bavier. I am not trying to put you on the spot. Just because you have expressed a desire to see your son doesn't obligate you to take him home with you.'
'Does he. . .know who he is?'
'He knows nothing about his family,' Dr. Rogers said gently.
'Has he. . .?'
'Asked? Yes. Many of our residents are naturally curious. But your instructions were to keep his identity a secret.' Dr. Rogers smiled warmly. 'Shall we go and see him?'
Z.Z. nodded and slowly rose. She was glad that she was wearing sunglasses. They hid the moistness in her eyes.
Dr. Rogers led the way to the craft shop. When they got there, she opened the door and motioned for one of the supervisors to come out into the hall. A pretty young woman with fair hair appeared. She was wearing a smock. Z.Z took off her sunglasses and tried to see past her into the room, but the door closed quickly.
Dr. Rogers introduced the pretty young woman as Janet Kovacs, the arts-and-crafts teacher. As soon as she saw Z.Z., a flicker of recognition showed in her eyes. Z.Z. noticed it. 'Is something the matter?' she asked.
Quickly Janet Kovacs recovered. She shook her head. 'No, it's nothing,' she said softly. 'I'm sorry.'
On an impulse, Z.Z. put her sunglasses back on. For some reason, Dr. Rogers seemed to view this gesture with approval. Then she cleared her throat and turned to the teacher. 'Would it be possible for us to observe the class without attracting undue attention?'
Janet Kovacs glanced at Z.Z. and thought for a moment. 'I don't see why not,' she said finally. 'The residents are quite wrapped up in their projects. I doubt they'll pay much attention to you other than showing natural signs of curiosity. I do suggest that you stay near the door. That way, they'll be less likely to be distracted.'
Dr. Rogers nodded. 'Very well.' Then she turned to Z.Z. and gave her a reassuring smile. 'Let's go in.'
Janet Kovacs opened the door and they followed her inside. Z.Z. looked around the noisy room in horror. She was suddenly dizzy. To her, this room looked like the devil's workshop. Painting, needlecraft, macramé, pottery; arts and crafts of every sort were being worked on. But it was not the projects that made her feel faint. It was the people doing them.
They were of all sizes and ages. Some were mentally retarded, some were mongoloids, some had birth defects, others had been struck down by accidents or disease. One small girl in a corner had no arms or legs, only a head and torso. Studiously she was drawing with a felt-tipped pen clenched between her teeth. Next to her, Stephen was sitting at the potter's wheel laboriously working on a piece of clay, and his already contorted face was screwed up even more in concentration. By the window overlooking the Hudson sat an old man in a wheelchair. He had multiple sclerosis. His body was as twisted out of shape as the wreckage of an automobile. For a moment Z.Z. could only stare at him.
These were some of the nameless residents of Spruce Point. They all went by their first names; their surnames were kept secret even from themselves. Only the older ones who had been struck down by disease knew who they were. The rest did not. Neither did Z.Z. She only knew that they all came from the 'best' families. Their last names were those of people who moved in lofty circles, people listed in the Social Register or the Celebrity Register. People who owned Fortune 500 corporations or who made it big in politics or in the performing arts. It was ironic that the residents of Spruce Point were the would-be heirs to some of the largest fortunes in America. But they would never claim these fortunes. Spruce Point was their prison.
Suddenly Z.Z. noticed that the man in the wheelchair was modeling for a painting. She glanced over at the canvas and winced. For a long time she couldn't take her eyes off it. It was a horrible painting and yet it was beautiful. Its depiction of the twisted, crumpled body looked abstract in its very realism. Somehow it managed to convey raw power in the useless, tortured limbs. But more than just power; there was a fierce anger, and compassion, too. Tears sprang to her eyes. Then she caught her breath. She saw the artist.
He had his back to her. In his right hand he held a paintbrush. His hair was honey-colored—just like hers! My God! she thought. Wilfred! For a moment she felt a surge of maternal love. She wanted to rush toward him and throw her arms around him. Beg for his forgiveness. Promise to take him home. But she was frozen.
Suddenly he turned around. For an instant she felt the floor beginning to spin. She caught h
erself on the door frame.
Wilfred's retardation wasn't the worst part. The worst was his perfect face. Now she understood why Janet Kovacs had been so startled, why Dr. Rogers thought her wearing sunglasses was a good idea.
Dr. Rogers had been right. Wilfred looked absolutely normal. But the cruelest irony of all was that he looked like Z.Z. She had been prepared to come face-to-face with a horribly misshapen mutant like Stephen, or someone contorted like the man in the wheelchair. But instead, it seemed that nature had compensated for Wilfred's brain damage by giving him an extraordinarily beautiful face. He was by far the most handsome boy she had ever seen.
For a moment he stared at her. The sudden pain in his intelligent eyes seemed to burn straight through her.
Z.Z. clutched Dr. Rogers. 'Get me out of here!' she whispered hoarsely. 'For God's sake, get me out!'
2
The Chameleon had no trouble finding the place he was looking for. It was located in Westchester County, just a short drive north from Mount Kisco. When he reached it, he pulled his rented black Ford over on the shoulder, rolled down the window, and looked out. Here a narrow private drive branched off from the road. It led up to a white house set a quarter of a mile back behind some bare old oaks. At the entrance to the drive stood a big painted sign: 'PAUL ROEBUCK, Master Trainer/Kennels.'
A twisted smile crossed the Chameleon's lips. Yes, this was the place. Expertly he put the car in reverse, then made a left turn, forward into the drive, and drove up to the house. It was one of those colonial-style wooden buildings with a porch running all the way around it. Parked up front were a station wagon and a white van with the legend 'PAUL ROEBUCK KENNELS' painted on the side. He pulled in behind the van, got out, and approached the house. When he stepped up on the porch, he found a huge German shepherd guarding the front door. Its watchful dark eyes were oddly hostile. It didn't move, but it let out a low, menacing growl. It smelled danger.
The Chameleon smiled with contempt. He never could understand what people saw in dogs. They were noisy and dumb and dirty. Still, they had their uses, he supposed. Just like he had a use for one now.
Giving the dog no more than a cursory glance, the Chameleon lit a cigarette and pressed the bell. Melodious chimes tinkled somewhere inside the house.
A tall, heavy-set blond man opened the door. 'Mr. Samuels?' he said easily.
The Chameleon smiled and nodded as they shook hands.
As he had expected, the man's grip was strong and firm. 'I'm Erik Roebuck,' he said.
The Chameleon still smiled, but he was silent for a moment. Erik Roebuck? This was something his research had overlooked. He felt like kicking himself for being so sloppy. Not that it made any difference. But in the future he'd have to be more careful. One silly mistake like that, and in the wrong situation, could mean curtains. He laughed softly. 'I'm sorry,' he said apologetically. 'You just threw me. I was under the impression you were Paul Roebuck.'
'So are many people. Paul Roebuck is my father. He founded this place twenty-five years ago. Last spring he decided to retire, and I took over for him. I hope you're not disappointed.'
The Chameleon puckered his lips thoughtfully. 'I was counting on getting one of his dogs.'
Roebuck smiled warmly, showing straight white teeth. 'Have no fears, Mr. Samuels,' he said reassuringly. 'My father did not restrict his training to canines. He personally trained every man who works here. That includes me.'
The Chameleon smiled. 'Good. Your word is enough. Now, let me explain a few things to you, if I may.'
'Certainly,' Roebuck said as he went behind the desk. 'Won't you have a seat?'
The Chameleon sat down in the vinyl chair and made himself comfortable. He took out another cigarette and lit it. Then he looked Roebuck straight in the eye and began to recite the cover story he had come up with. 'Let me be frank with you, Mr. Roebuck. My wife and I recently moved here from California, and we live near Port Washington. In a rather secluded neighborhood, I might add. I'm a businessman, and unfortunately, my work requires that I travel a great deal of the time. Sometimes for weeks on end. And my wife is frightened when she's left alone.' He smiled sadly and spread his hands apart. 'So I'm here.'
'And you want a watchdog?'
'Precisely. Something that has both a bark and a bite.'
Roebuck folded his hands and looked down at his cuticles. 'Tell me something, Mr. Samuels,' he said. 'Do you like dogs?'
Better to play this one straight, the Chameleon decided. The animal would instinctively sense his dislike and give him away. He shook his head. 'I'm afraid I really don't care much for them.'
Roebuck nodded. 'You'd be surprised to find out how many people lie when I ask that question.' He smiled. 'Exactly what kind of dog is it that you're looking for?'
The Chameleon shrugged and pretended to think. He wanted a black Great Dane, or maybe a Doberman, but he wasn't about to say so. Let Roebuck suggest the breed, and he would think it was his own idea. 'Oh. . .just something mean-looking and big. Size is no problem, since the dog will have a lot of running-around space. We have a large property, fenced in I might add. Probably short-haired. . .yes, Amanda would like that.' Good touch, that 'Amanda.' Now his wife had a name.
Roebuck frowned. 'We have quite a few short-haired breeds to choose from.' He waved at the pictures on the wall. 'Why don't you take a look and tell me what appeals to you?'
The Chameleon got to his feet and made a pretense of studying the photos. Finally he smiled helplessly. 'It's really not my line. What do you suggest?'
'Either a Doberman or a Great Dane. Both are short-haired and fast.' Roebuck smiled and got to his feet. 'Would you like to go down to the kennels and see one in action? Then I'll let you decide.'
A moment later they left the house and went outside. In silence Roebuck led the way and they started down a frozen dirt path to the base of the hill where the kennels were located. As they approached, the wind brought their scent toward the dogs, and suddenly they all jumped up and began to claw excitedly at the fences. The cacophony of howling and barking filled the air.
'They can smell us coming,' Roebuck explained.
When they reached the nearest building, a man was there waiting for them, smiling brightly. 'This is Edward,' Roebuck told the Chameleon. 'He's the best trainer here.' Then he looked at Edward. 'Bring Rufus out into the pen.'
Edward's smile faded. 'Rufus?'
Roebuck nodded curtly. There was no mistaking the authority in that gesture.
Edward shook his head and shrugged. Without another word he went inside the building.
Roebuck put his hands in his pockets and smiled at the Chameleon. 'The pen is on the other side of the building.' He led the way around the corner to the far side of the kennels. Here was the huge three-sided pen. One side of it was actually the wall of the building; the other three sides were ten-foot- high, heavy-duty mesh wire attached to sturdy steel posts. Roebuck opened a gate and they went in.
'It won't take Edward but a minute,' Roebuck promised.
The Chameleon nodded patiently. He looked at Roebuck with interest. 'This Rufus,' he said slowly. 'What's so special about him?'
Roebuck's voice was soft. 'Rufus is no ordinary dog, Mr. Samuels. He's quite intelligent. He's also big and well-trained. Depending on what you instruct, he can either be gentle or mean.' He paused. 'He's also capable of killing a man.'
The Chameleon stared at him. He was digesting this welcome piece of news in silence when Edward came out of the building leading a black Great Dane. The Chameleon studied the animal closely. Little as he knew about dogs, he could tell that this one was exceptional. Rufus looked as big as a horse but moved with the lithe grace of a swan. His bulging, taut muscles stood out clearly under gleaming short hair.
Roebuck reached into his pocket and took out a small object.
The Chameleon glanced at it. 'What's that?'
Roebuck held it out. 'This is a sonic dog whistle,' he explained. 'You and I can't hear it because
our ears can't catch certain high-pitched decibels. But Rufus can. When I give two short blows, Rufus attacks. When I give a long, drawn-out one, he retreats. Watch closely.' He raised the whistle to his lips, inflated his cheeks, and blew.
Rufus suddenly perked up. For a split second his ears quivered; then he trotted complacently over to them, his tail wagging.
'Sit!' Roebuck commanded in a stern voice.
The dog immediately sat, looking up at Roebuck with a questioning look in his shiny black eyes. He was an alert dog, all right, the Chameleon noticed. Then he looked over at Edward. The trainer was going back inside the building. A few minutes later, he came out again, thick, bulky padding strapped around his arms, chest, and legs. Suddenly Rufus was emitting a low, steady growl, his alert eyes concentrated on Edward, but he remained obediently seated.
'Ready?' Roebuck called out.
'Ready!' Edward shouted back.
With quickening interest the Chameleon watched the dog as Roebuck blew twice into the silent whistle. Then it happened. Rufus sprang forward and went flying down the length of the pen toward Edward. Instinctively the trainer held up his padded arms to cover his face. Seconds later, the beast collided with him, attacking in a frenzy and knocking him to the ground. The fierce snarls were carried away by the wind and sounded strangely distant, almost too quiet. For a moment the Chameleon winced. The Great Dane was sinking its teeth into the trainer's padding. Edward went rolling around, trying to protect himself, but it was impossible. Rufus was a powerful brute. He was trying to rip the padding to shreds.
The Chameleon shook his head. God help that dog's victims, he thought with new respect. Even a pro wrestler would be no match for him. And a woman? A woman would be finished off in a minute. Maybe less.
Once again Roebuck raised the whistle to his lips and blew deeply. Rufus immediately froze in his tracks. Then he looked in their direction and came trotting obediently back to them, his tail wagging. His mouth was lolling open and he was panting from the exertion, his breath making clouds of vapor as saliva dripped to the ground. For an instant the Chameleon caught sight of long white fangs.
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