Deadly Genes td-117

by Warren Murphy

  But this time was different than normal. There were none of the "stirring of passion" signals from Judith. Her porcelain skin wasn't flushed. No increased perspiration. Her heartbeat even remained constant.

  Remo took a step back, amazement giving way to annoyance.

  "Lady, whatever you're on, cut the dose," he groused.

  "Don't knock it till you've tried it," she replied. Briefly, Remo wondered if he shouldn't yell to the cops in the next room that there was an attempted rape in progress. It looked as if all the guns, Mace and billy clubs in town wouldn't quell Judith's animal lust.

  But just as he thought he'd have to take drastic steps, an anxious face suddenly poked through the doorway at the end of the hall.

  "Dr. White, come in here!" the man called urgently. The scientist ducked back inside the second lab.

  Judith stopped her advances.

  Just like that. Like flipping off a switch. Smoothing the wrinkles in her short skirt, Dr. White spun from Remo. Without a word, she stepped briskly down the hall to the adjoining lab. It was as if the previous three minutes had never happened.

  "So that's what it's like to be a White House intern," Remo commented to the lone BBQ.

  Not knowing what to make out of what had just occurred, he trailed Judith to the second lab.

  As he walked away, Remo failed to notice that the BBQ had backed to the rear of its stall. There was fear in the backs of its sad eyes.

  THE WINDOW THROUGH WHICH the HETA commandos had spirited the BBQs two nights before had been boarded up. It was scheduled to be replaced later that afternoon.

  Remo noted that the janitorial staff had neglected to pick up all of the traces of broken glass on the floor of the lab. Tiny shards sparkled in dusty corners beneath lab tables and heat registers.

  He found Judith and the rest of her white-coated team standing around a twenty-four-inch television that sat on the same shelf as a large coffeemaker. Half-filled mugs littered the shelf.

  Remo instantly recognized the man on TV. A bandage covered the letter-opener wound in his neck.

  Curt Tulle stood before a podium on which were arranged a dozen microphones, all bearing logos from various local and national news outlets.

  "...was not involved. I want to make that absolutely clear," Curt intoned, his expression grave. "Nor was the national HETA organization. This creature was entrusted to us by an anonymous individual after news of the BBQ deaths was made known."

  The camera shifted jerkily to one side. Remo spotted the familiar shape of a BBQ standing on a raised platform next to Curt. It chewed unconcernedly as a few camera flashes popped around it.

  "They've only got one?" Judith demanded of her staff.

  "That's all he's admitting to," said a woman in a white lab coat.

  The camera swept dizzyingly back to Curt Tulle. "Reports say these things are killers," a reporter shouted.

  "We are the killers," Curt said sadly. "Every helpless bunny, mouse or puppy that is killed in the name of so-called scientific research is the victim of government-sanctioned murder. If this creature before you kills, it is a fitting irony that it does. I wonder how many animals the butchers at BostonBio slaughtered in order to manufacture the very thing that might bring about their own end?"

  "What about those who say these things are monsters and should be destroyed?" another reporter called.

  "If they are monsters, they are our monsters," Curt said righteously. "If they need to feast on human flesh in order to survive, we should provide it to them."

  "Are you actually recommending we feed human beings to these things?" the reporter asked, amazed.

  "If it is necessary, yes." Curt nodded. "As I understand it, our nursing homes are overcrowded. Perhaps the BBQs would be satisfied with a diet of our elderly or infirm. At least until their ultimate release."

  "Release?"

  Curt nodded happily. "I have been in touch with Bryce Babcock, the secretary of the interior. He is quite keen on the idea of releasing them into Yellowstone or another national park. You recall he championed the wolf-release program of a few years ago."

  "Wouldn't that endanger park visitors?"

  "Again, a small price to pay. And if I am able to recommend an appetizer to Secretary Babcock, I will be certain to mention that Dr. Judith White of BostonBio would make a delicious meal. These are her babies, after all. She should share responsibility for feeding them." Absently, he touched the wound on his neck as he spoke.

  In the BostonBio lab, Dr. White lowered her head. "Shut it off," she ordered levelly.

  Her staff didn't move quickly enough. "Shut it off!" Judith roared.

  Someone nearby fumbled with the remote. Curt Tulle collapsed into a single pixel. The tiny spot of white faded to darkness.

  She stayed very still for a long time. Finally, she raised her head. Her eyes searched for Remo. She found that he was nowhere to be seen. He had slipped away while she was watching the conference.

  "HETA says they're going to fight for ownership with us in court," one of her staffers-braver than the rest-offered. "Until then, he promises they'll keep the BCW safe," he added weakly.

  Ever so slowly, Judith stared at the man, dead eyes locking on the nervous assistant, who suddenly looked like a hunter confronted by a grizzly.

  "Like hell," she muttered.

  Chapter 11

  The office had been shrouded in oppressive, lengthening shadows, seemingly for hours. At long last, day finally collapsed completely into night. When the gathering darkness became too consuming, Curt Tulle was forced to turn on his desk light.

  Pieces of the green glass shade were in the trash. The result of Judith White's attack. White light from the naked bulb spilled out across walls and ceiling.

  Curt's weak eyes avoided the bare bulb. The light was just another thing to fear. He'd been an absolute nervous wreck since before the press conference.

  If Mona Janner hadn't forced the lone BBQ on him, he would never have gotten involved in this. But she knew his Achilles' heel. The one thing that the HETA membership would have found completely unacceptable if it were to become public knowledge-his private passion.

  Lost in thought, he stroked the nutria fur choker that was clipped around his neck. It always soothed him.

  Until today.

  With the bandage beneath it, the choker didn't fit as snugly as usual. It bunched up awkwardly at the side of his neck, chafing slightly.

  Reminded once more of Dr. White, Curt shivered. It was all Mona's fault. Curt was content to quietly head up the Boston HETA office. He'd always protested the right things. Occasionally, he'd appeared on local television. All very quiet, very subdued.

  Not like Mona. She was a doer. One of the passionate loudmouths who had invaded the movement in recent years. She'd do and say anything to further their cause.

  Personally, Curt didn't like the new brand of activism that had flooded the movement. As far as yesterday's confrontation was concerned, Curt would have preferred to settle his differences with Dr. White and BostonBio in a court of law. Where there would be bailiffs with side arms to keep the halfcrazed scientist in line. Now Mona had even screwed that up. All for those stupid lab animals.

  The whole BBQ business made Curt intensely uncomfortable.

  The agitation he was feeling toward this whole sorry enterprise had clearly and distinctly cried out for the big guns. He had been forced to break into his personal store. Sitting alone in his Boston HETA office, Curt Tulle was decked out in full, glorious regalia.

  In addition to the nutria choker, he wore a pair of alligator boots. Although they made his ankles sweat, the feel was exquisite. Well worth the exorbitant cost.

  Specially made sealskin trousers gently caressed his thighs. He had insisted that his seamstress use the skins of baby seals. Everyone knew they made the best material.

  A suede belt held the pants up. Again, young lambs were the best choice for suede-at least as far as Curt was concerned. And he was paying the bills,
after all.

  He wasn't wearing his favorite mink coat, opting instead for the long black sable-which he broke out only on special occasions. A pillbox hat made of the gorgeous fur of the Arctic blue fox perched at a rakish angle atop his head.

  His ermine stole lay limp across his desk blotter. Curt stroked the fur carefully and evenly as he sat at his desk.

  The animal didn't respond, which was how he liked it. For although he was head of the Boston branch of the most famous animal-rights group in the nation, Curt Tulle absolutely detested animals. From a personal perspective, the only good animal was a dead, skinned and processed animal. Ideally, one that excited a powerful tactile response.

  The hypocrisy he displayed in his public and private attitudes was reconciled in his mind by the fact that he cared more deeply for the world than other people. Sure, he hated having living animals around him. But he fought tooth and nail to keep them everywhere else. And if a few random housewives were mauled by mountain lions while out jogging or a couple of kids were bitten by rattlesnakes while playing in the sandbox, Curt could live with it. Just as long as every last animal in his own backyard was caught, caged and crushed.

  Curt was stroking his ermine and thinking about how nice it would be to live in a giant animal-free bubble when he heard a loud thud from the hallway beyond his closed office door. Sadie.

  Curt exhaled. This was Sadie Mayer's second night this month to help out behind the front desk. The old woman was supposed to leave at nine.

  Curt didn't like Sadie. He much preferred the energetic young college girls with leftist political leanings who migrated to town every fall. They were certainly easier on the eyes. But Sadie and her ilk were necessary to keep around if only to cover the phones during the long summer months.

  Right now it was late September, the fall semester was well under way all around Boston and Curt Tulle absolutely did not need Sadie Mayer stomping around giving him a heart attack in the middle of the night.

  Frowning, Curt pulled off his fox-fur hat. He left it on his desk, stepping out into the hallway.

  It was cold in the hall. The alley door was open. Sadie.

  "Stupid old bat." Curt shivered. He went to close the door.

  He knew where she'd be. Ever since Mona and Huey Janner had dumped off the BBQ that morning, Sadie had been sneaking back to see the animal. He'd caught her a dozen times in the storeroom near his office, petting the dull-looking creature on its long snout.

  The thought of actually touching a living animal gave him a further chill. He shuddered beneath his sable as he walked past the rear storage room on his way to the alley exit.

  The storage room door was ajar. Of course he'd been right. Sadie had no sense of how valuable the BBQ was. To her, it was just another animal. She'd be knitting it a sweater next.

  Agitated, Curt pushed the door. Something blocked the way.

  The painted wood surface was rough to the touch as he pushed again. Harder.

  Whatever it was shifted clumsily. The door pushed the inert object farther into the room as Curt shoved his way inside. Grumbling, Curt stepped inside.

  He found Sadie instantly. She was the thing that had been blocking the door.

  Curt gasped.

  The old woman sprawled on her back in the shadowy room. Her eyes were open and milky. The bundles of slick, squishy organs that had-for the last seventy-six years-resided within the delicate shell of Sadie Mayer's abdomen were now spread haphazardly around the room. The wooden floor was awash in blood.

  Horrified, Curt staggered back into the wall. His heel caught part of Sadie's liver. He skittered sideways. Feet slipping out from beneath him, he crashed to his side on the sopped floor. The train of his sable coat rolled through pools of viscera as he clawed at the wall, trying desperately to get back to his feet.

  His alligator boots lost their footing again, and he fell once more, this time face first into the thick puddle of blood.

  Curt screamed. The noise caught in his throat, and he choked on the sound. Whimpering, crying, he pulled himself to his knees. Fumbling at the door, he dragged it through the half-congealed ooze. Like a baby, Curt crawled on his hands and knees out into the hall.

  Panting, heart pounding madly, he fell to the floor outside, hands coated with Sadie's blood.

  He was sobbing now, unable to hold back the panic and horror.

  The blood. So much blood.

  Sadie. Petting the BBQ. He remembered chasing her out of that room earlier in the day.

  Now she was dead. Alone in that room. And dead. In spite of the intensity of his hysterical attack, something significant dawned in the back of Curt Tulle's reeling, confused mind.

  Sadie. In that room. Alone.

  Alone.

  The BBQ was gone!

  The thing was a killer. Mona Janner had dumped a vicious monster in his lap and taken off.

  He cried, whimpered. Blood everywhere. It wasn't in the supply room.

  It was free.

  Somewhere else in the building. He needed to get away. To safety.

  The urge to flee swelled like a surging tidal wave in the mind of Curt Tulle, suppressing all other thoughts.

  He pushed himself back to his knees. Too late.

  He heard the footfalls-confident, focused. Felt the pressure on his back.

  It came from the direction of the alley door. The open door. Too late to run.

  A blow to the neck. No. Stronger than that.

  Blood erupted onto the floor beneath him. No longer that of poor Sadie. It poured as if from a running faucet from the open gash in his neck.

  Another blow. This one on his back. Clothes tearing. Claws ripping into flesh.

  The world slowed to a distant, lazy pace. Like a film run in slow motion.

  He felt himself being lifted from the floor. The ceiling came very close. Twisting, bleeding, he was flung like a rag doll down the corridor. He arced up to the ceiling, shattering a bare hanging bulb. He felt the pain from the broken glass in his cheek. More blood.

  The floor raced up quickly to meet him. He plummeted down, crashing in a bloodied ball into the corner near the bathroom.

  Footsteps padded closer again. Sniffing.

  Another noise. This one at the front door. Everything vague, hazy.

  A snort very close. Retreating footsteps.

  Weakly, Curt lifted his head. He saw the familiar black-spotted flanks of the BBQ vanishing into the shadows at the end of the corridor.

  Blood ran from his forehead into his eyes. He lost focus.

  "I hate animals," he wheezed.

  As the pain of death dragged slowly up his battered body, Curt allowed his head to thud back to the floor.

  Chapter 12

  Remo had to wait until the last of the straggling reporters had left before approaching HETA headquarters. Since he lived in the area, he didn't want to run the risk of being seen. It had been eight years since his last date with the plastic surgeon's scalpel, and he had no interest in going back.

  On the sidewalk, Remo tested the doorknob. Locked.

  With a tight twist and gentle shove, he popped the lock. Tiny shards of metal skittered across the floor as Remo stepped inside.

  The moment he entered the foyer, he was assaulted by the familiar, distinct smell of human death.

  Remo slipped around Sadie Mayer's desk. He found Curt Tulle's body in the hallway beyond. The HETA director lay twisted against one wall. A streak of blood lined the floor where he'd skidded to a final, fatal stop.

  At first glance, Curt didn't appear to be the victim of a BBQ attack. His stomach cavity was still intact. As he approached the body, Remo sensed a thready heartbeat. Curt coughed once, lightly. Foamy blood bubbled out between his lips. Crouching down beside the HETA director, Remo checked his pulse. Almost nonexistent. And his wounds were extensive. Curt hadn't much time left. The HETA man seemed to respond to the delicate touch of Remo's hand. His unseeing eyes rolled around. His head shifting slightly even as he stared blankly
at the ceiling.

  White lips parted.

  The word Curt repeated would have been inaudible to every human set of ears on Earth, save two. "...ona...Mona...Mona," Curt gasped.

  "Is that who did this to you?" Remo prodded gently.

  Curt coughed. A string of sticky dark blood dribbled down his chin.

  He seemed to want to shake his head but could not. "BBQ," he whispered. "Mona's...gonna kill me," he exhaled.

  Curt's head lolled to an awkward angle. A final trickle of blood gurgled up between his lips.

  Face severe, Remo left the body.

  There was more blood in front of the supply room. Inside he found the remains of Sadie Mayer. The old woman's wounds were consistent with the other BBQ attacks. She had been killed first and then methodically eaten. Curt looked more like the victim of a savage assault.

  Remo concluded that the BBQ had had its fill with Sadie. By the time it reached Curt, it was sated. The creature had been playing with its food. Farther down the hallway, Remo found the same tracks he had seen in the Concord cornfield. They led into the alley.

  He hurried outside.

  As before, the blood faded after only a few yards. This time the trail seemed to end more abruptly than before.

  The BBQ was gone.

  As he crouched to examine the final, bloody print, Remo wondered once more what kind of animal could change its footprint when it killed. It was baffling.

  The mark he looked at now was clearly a paw print. The BBQ left hoofprints.

  The creatures from BostonBio were deliberate genetic mutations, so anything was possible under the circumstances.

  Still...

  Privately, Remo hoped that Chiun would be done with his meditations soon. He'd hit a stone wall on his own. Maybe the Master of Sinanju could shed some light on this mystery.

  Remo turned away from the last print.

  As he headed from the alley out onto the street, Remo failed to notice that the alley door to the HETA headquarters had been wrenched open. From the outside.

  Chapter 13

  When word of the latest deaths attributed to the escaped BBQs broke on the eleven-o'clock local news, a palpable panic settled over Boston and its surrounding suburbs.