He was bushed. He undressed and explored the cramped bathroom, took a long hot bath in the equally cramped tub, and even though he could barely get his legs to stretch out, his body and mind welcomed the respite it offered.
He was thinking about Lynn Bishop. Something that had been pecking at him like an angry crow since last night. Had he felt the Sense? He couldn’t be sure. Her parents showed no sign of it, but her? That damn static again. It was driving him crazy. Losing his ability to detect it was like losing both arms. Both legs. He felt vulnerable, something he hadn’t felt in a long time, and it was more than a little unsettling. Still, getting worked up about it was doing more harm than good. He would have to deal with it. Besides, he didn’t plan on Turning any time soon, and certainly not around Lynn or her parents. And certainly not near the dog or the cats.
What about the scars? Lynn had regarded them with perfectly subtle glances; he had almost missed them. It was only when he had started in with his mock sales pitch had she taken a more discerning look. She’d been laughing heartily, but had managed to check them out as he spieled. If she’d wanted to ask, he couldn’t tell. But it would eventually come up. It always did.
The steaming bath drained him, and he was nearly asleep when he heard a vehicle roll up the drive. He got out of the tub and toweled off (Lynn, bless her, had provided him with ample towels and other toiletries), then slipped the towel round his waist. He went to the window and saw her heading up the steps to the house. She turned, lingered in her glance, and saw him through the glass web. She waved. He waved back. She went inside then, and after a time, all the lights went black. He stayed up a while longer, writing in his diary about the good people he’d met.
~
Later, he woke around three, screaming out of a nightmare. He thought he heard the rains, but when he rose to the window in a cold sweat, all he saw were stars.
~ 11
The week slipped away, his long labors consuming the hours, and Kain spent the fine Sunday morning taking in a walk, exploring a trail through a patch of woods that led to the river. When he returned, the morning history, he was pleasantly surprised to find Lynn Bishop on the veranda watering her flowers. He hadn’t seen her since Tuesday night. Hadn’t seen a soul here since then.
She looked up as she leveled the watering can. He waved from the drive, and in return was greeted by that picture-perfect pin-up. Even the unflattering midday sun could not steal her youthful vibrancy. She really was lovely. And those eyes.
He found more spring in his stride and made his way to the steps. He was thankful her pets were nowhere in sight.
“Hey, stranger,” she said brightly. “Have a nice walk?”
“Uh huh. Found a trail that leads right to the river.”
“I know it,” she said, finishing the last of her watering. “Dad used to take me down there all the time when I was little. He’d drop a line while I skipped stones. I drove the fish away and drove him crazy at the same time.” She set the can near the steps. “Care for some lunch?”
“Love some.” Although he wondered where the dog was.
She led him inside, and he followed her down a short corridor, into a homey kitchen teasing with the sweet aroma of freshly baked blueberry pie. Kitty Wells sang low on a radio. He sat at the table, and she fixed them some sandwiches and a salad. Lee-Anne joined them shortly after, dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved shirt. The house was uncomfortably warm, just a hint of a breeze easing in from the window. He couldn’t fathom how the girl could stand it.
There were brief introductions. The girl had a smallish voice, too smallish, he thought. And he also thought they could be twins. Save slight differences in their skin, a small line here or there on Lynn and not on Lee-Anne, they were nearly identical.
Lynn gave him a subtle smile.
“Sorry,” he said, embarrassed, catching himself staring. Static was jamming his brain; it had been since he’d met Lynn on the steps. Whether it was coming from both, he couldn’t know.
“It’s genetics,” the girl said matter-of-factly, clearly used to his reaction. She bit into her sandwich. “We took it in science class.”
“Honey, don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Sorry.” It came out sawree. The girl swallowed and took some milk. “Mr. Kimball says that someday, people are going to copy other people.”
“Mr. Kimball,” Lynn lamented, rolling her eyes.
“It’s true, Ma. He says they’ll copy a mouse or a rat at first. Then maybe a horse or a sheep.”
“Copy … what do you mean, ‘copy’?”
“It’s like this. Let’s say they take—”
“‘They’?”
“Scientists, Ma. Like Mr. Kimball. The real ones, anyway. I wasn’t really listening, but he says they’ll take some skin or some hair from an animal—blood, maybe—and make another one. Exactly the same.”
“Blood? You can’t make a person from that.”
“I know, Ma. It’s sex.”
“Lee-Anne Bishop!”
Kain couldn’t hide his grin.
“Well, that’s what Mr. Kimball says.”
“Sounds like he’s been reading too many science fiction stories again. And telling too many.”
“But think about it,” Lee said. “They could take Beaks and make another one just like him.”
Lynn shuddered. “That’s a horrible thought. Awful.”
She called her son for lunch, but there was no reply.
“What’s so bad? We could have Beaks around forever.”
“Even if they could do such a horrible thing,” Lynn said, “they shouldn’t. It’s not … well, it’s not natural, that’s all. Besides, I wouldn’t want him around forever.”
“Well, I w—”
“And neither would you, young lady.”
“You sound like Gramma, Ma.”
“You bet I do. It’s genetic.”
Playfully, the girl stuck out her tongue.
“Anyway, Mr. Kimball says someday, they’ll be able to make another me.”
“Lee—”
“Or another you, Ma. Or another Mr. Richards.”
“Lee!”
“What do you think, Mr. Richards?”
“I don’t think it’s natural either,” Kain said, after some hesitation, turning from Lynn to her daughter. He wasn’t about to take sides on the issue, did not, in fact, desire to discuss it at all, but the question had been asked. “But who knows? Fifty years ago, who would have dreamed we’d have the atom bomb? And the President thinks we’ll be landing on the Moon by 1970.”
“I don’t think they’ll do that,” the teenager said. “I mean, it’s so far away.”
“They’ll do it.” And They would. Whether They were the Good Old Boys down at Cape Canaveral or the Bad Old Boys up in Baikonur, They would. If the Project had taught him anything, it was that throwing endless amounts of money at something eventually bought you what you paid for. You didn’t always get what you expected, of course, sometimes you got less, sometimes you got more—ask that Good Old Boy Oppenheimer, he’d tell you all about more—but you got something. And something, according to those spending all those tax dollars, was always better than nothing.
“What about this copying thing? Do you think they could ever do something like that?”
He turned to Lynn, who had asked, Lynn, who seemed ready to pop over the whole issue. “As I said, you never know. But I wouldn’t think in our lifetimes. Probably not in your grandchildren’s, either.” He winked at the girl, and she flushed.
“I hope it never happens,” she said. “It’s like playing God with life.”
Kain nodded agreement. From her sudden pallor, she had very likely imagined a world with another Ray Bishop—maybe three or four running loose—and for her, that had to be just about as awful as awful got.
“I think it’s neat,” Lee said. “I could send my double to school and let her figure out trig!”
They all shared in the laughter, but i
nside, Kain was screaming. The very idea of duplicating human beings incensed him. At the moment he first heard that cold, almost alien, word—Cloning, Brikker had boasted, a new science for a new world, Number Three—something hot and sickly stirred within him. It held a dreadful ring, smacked of labs and rats and aborted fetuses of horror. But what had sickened him most, what had driven him to endure and to fight for his freedom, was that he had finally understood the true goal of the Project … and its devastating consequences for mankind. He doubted Brikker’s bosses even suspected; but then again, perhaps they did.
Lee-Anne finished barely half of her sandwich and pushed her plate away. She drank a little.
“Full?” Lynn said.
“It’s too hot.” The girl gazed toward the window. The thin drapes were barely moving. “I wish it would cool off.”
“I know, honey. The radio says it’s supposed to break by Tuesday or Wednesday. Maybe we’ll get some rain.”
“How about short sleeves?” Kain said. “Or shorts?”
The girl didn’t answer. She seemed to shrink.
“It’s the sun,” Lynn said quickly. “Lee’s got sensitive skin.”
“Oh,” he said, apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
The girl nodded dimly.
Lynn called out to her son again. There were footfalls, and then the muffled closing of a door.
“He’s getting worse, Ma.”
“He’s going through a rough time, that’s all.”
“He barely talks to anyone anymore. And when he does, he’s just so rude.”
“That’s enough, Lee.”
“He’s just like Pa now.”
You could see the hurt in Lynn’s eyes. The guilt. As if the words had rung true. As if she were responsible.
“I said that’s enough.” It came weakly as she toyed with her salad.
“What happened to your truck?” Kain said anxiously, after a long, brutal silence. “The bumper, I mean.”
“I hit a tree,” Lee-Anne confessed.
Kain assumed it was that big oak in the gully, the one with the tire hanging from it. The girl confirmed it.
“She can’t tell the brake from the gas,” Lynn said.
“Ma!”
“I’m just teasing. I’m not the best driver myself. Or the best teacher. Maybe you should ask Mr. Kimball.”
“No thanks. He’s got B.O.”
“That’s not nice, Lee.”
“He does! Pee-yew.” The girl pinched her nose.
“I could teach you.”
They both looked at him, nonplussed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lynn said hesitantly.
“I’d be glad to. What do you say?”
The girl shrugged. “It’s up to you, Ma.”
“It’s not up to me, honey.”
Lee considered a moment. “Would you really?”
“Sure.”
“Ma?”
“… Just don’t hit any trees again, okay?”
“Ma!” The girl was bursting. “Can we do it today, Mr. Richards? Can we?”
“Well … on one condition.”
Again that dual look of bewilderment.
“Drop the ‘mister’ stuff. Makes me sound like your science teacher.” He pinched his nose. “Pee-yew.”
The girl giggled. “He does have B.O., Ma.”
“I know,” Lynn said, and she burst out laughing with her daughter. Kain laughed with them.
~
They finished lunch with a slice of pie and mild conversation (Lee’s poor math grades, in which the source of her trigonometry problems lay with Those stupid Greeks, Lynn’s gardening woes, the never-ending heat), and when one o’clock rolled around, Lee-Anne excused herself. The girl almost sprang from her chair.
“Call me when you’re ready,” she said. They watched her go and heard her skirt up the stairs.
Lynn put a hand on his. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“It’s nice to see her smile,” she said. “It’s been a long time since she’s been excited about anything. But I have to tell you, you’ve got your hands full.”
“Oh?”
“Got a crash helmet?”
“That bad?”
“The worst. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The sound of sluggish steps came from the stairs, and then Ryan Bishop joined them. He was dressed in wrinkled jeans and a white shirt badly in need of ironing. He regarded the drifter dully and opened the fridge. He poured a glass of milk and stood at the counter, sipping.
“Is that the same shirt as yesterday?”
“No, Ma.”
“Well, change it. It looks like you slept in it.” He didn’t reply. “Ryan, this is—”
It was clear the boy wasn’t listening.
“—Kain Richards.”
Kain stood up and offered a hand.
The boy drank.
“Ryan!”
“It’s all right,” Kain said, and he sat back down.
“It is not all right. Ryan … Ryan.”
The teenager looked up. His eyes were empty and cold. He shifted uncomfortably, and then finally put out his hand.
Kain rose and took it. He shook solidly, but the boy’s grip simply wasn’t in it. They exchanged no words. Kain eased into his chair.
“You slept late again,” Lynn said. “Do you want me to fix you something?”
Ryan shook his head.
“A ham sandwich maybe?”
No reply.
Lynn shied away as if pretending none of this bothered her, but her gaze drifted back to her son as he checked the window above the sink. “Is Ben coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you going to practice? Did he talk to the coach?”
The boy could only grimace.
“You really should eat before you go.”
“I don’t want anything! I’m just waiting for Ben.”
A calico lumbered in from the corridor and stopped dead. The cat arched, its hair standing on end, and it squealed a hiss that could have come from a pit of snakes. Mother and son both turned toward the disturbing sound, and when Kain did, the cat bared its fangs and took a swipe at his leg.
“Shoo!” Lynn clapped her hands twice before the thing scampered off. She looked to her guest with wide eyes, clearly perplexed.
“That was weird,” Ryan said.
“Must be the long hair,” Kain joked, hoping the notion was ridiculous enough to turn attention away from him.
Lynn gave him a look.
“I think that’s Ben.” Ryan had turned to the window again, completely disinterested already. Kain was thankful for small favors.
“Can you let Beaks out on your way out?”
The teen responded to Lynn with a nod, then left abruptly and entered the corridor. He called for Beaks, and the big shepherd, snoring soundly behind a chair in the living room, rose from its slumber and labored across the floor to greet him. The boy scratched it behind an ear, and it angled its head in that Oh-that-feels-good manner of dogs. But when it became aware of the threat, it stiffened straight and taut and started to growl.
“What now?” Lynn said to no one in particular. She looked right at Kain, and he knew right off that she already knew What now.
The shepherd dropped its head menacingly. It kept its old eyes fixed on Kain.
The drifter sat perfectly still. He knew enough not to spook the dog any more than he had. In the shepherd’s mind, he had crossed the uncrossable—he was now in the master’s castle. And he should have known better.
“What’s with Beaks, Ma?”
Either Lynn Bishop didn’t hear the question or chose to ignore it. She put herself between Kain and the dog and scolded the shepherd. It would not back down.
“Hold him,” she said. “Hold him, Ryan.”
The boy took the dog by the collar. Beakers tried to break free, but Ryan restrained him.
Kain acknowledged Lynn, who had turned and was staring at him, by draw
ing a slight nod to the screen door that led out back. He should leave that way.
“This is ridiculous,” she stammered, clearly exasperated by the rising growls. “Beakers!”
Lee called from upstairs. She started to come down.
Kain started to rise. Slowly.
“No,” Lynn said, “you don’t have to—”
The dog lunged, ripping its collar free of Ryan’s grasp. It charged down the corridor in heavy thumps.
“Beaks!” It was Ryan this time.
Kain stood and stood firm. It was a gamble, but suddenly he had no choice; it was too late to make a dash for the back door. He could only pray that the beast would back down from his posturing.
The dice rolled in his favor. The dog stuck out its front paws and leaned into a skid on the hardwood. It stopped a few feet from Lynn, snarling at the intruder. It moved back just a little.
“Take him outside, Ryan.” It almost came as one long word.
“Come on, boy!”
The thing wouldn’t come. Ryan opened the front door and called again. You could hear the rising throttle of an engine outside.
Lynn stabbed a finger to the door. “BEAKERS. GO.”
Ryan backed out to the veranda, still holding the door. “Come on, Beaks! Come on!”
The animal held its ground. It kept its head low and its jaws ready, its growl ever meaner.
“GO,” Lynn repeated, almost screaming, her expression almost shock.
Lee stood at the bottom. “What’s going on, Ma?”
“I’ll slip out the back,” Kain said.
“Wait. Do you really think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t see a choice.”
Kain stepped back slowly, but it was enough to set the shepherd off. It snarled, baring its ample choppers, and as Lynn scolded it again, the thing turned and bolted for the front door. It almost bowled Ryan over in its terror, and kept on going in a full leap down the steps and into the yard. Lynn and Kain drew sighs of relief and, without a word, simply followed onto the veranda. Lee-Anne joined them. The dog kept running, crazed in fear, and when Kain realized what was happening next, he called out to the shepherd at the top of his lungs.
Lynn Bishop screamed. So did Lee-Anne.
“Beaks!” Ryan cried. “BEAKS, NO!”
Velvet Rain - A Dark Thriller Page 9
