Mark was used to the dream by now. It had started the first week he'd come to work at Folcroft. For months it was a nightmare, but he'd had it so frequently now that he had built up a callus in his mind.
When he passed the same window at the end of the hall, the same owl sat in the same branch of the same tree. Its eyes glowed the same color as the sky and the land. He saw for the first time that the swollen moon was gone.
Mark was looking out the window when, with a loud hoot, the owl suddenly flapped its big wings. His heart tripped when the night bird took flight. It vanished in the pale darkness of early morning.
That was new, too. He had gotten used to everything being the same. The changes in the dream this time were bringing back some of the earliest feelings of dread.
He pulled his gaze from the window.
Mark could see now that the hallway was not as misshapen as it usually was. The angles were normal, not twisted. The lines of ceiling and floor led straight to a single door at the far end of the dusty corridor.
It was like any other hospital door at Folcroft. Wires crisscrossed the off-center Plexiglas window. The Beast lived beyond that door. For a year now Mark had almost glimpsed it in his dreams. It was a thing that lived on fear and in shadow. It played at the fringes of his unconscious mind, never stepping into the light, never taking a form that Mark Howard could fully understand.
He was only happy that the Beast was trapped. The door was a prison that kept it locked away.
As Mark approached the heavy door, he expected to feel the chill that always came at this point in his dream. Along with it, the same inhuman rasping voice he always heard.
They never came.
More changes. A corruption of the familiar that made all of the old terrors seem as fresh as that very first dream all those months ago. His steps growing more cautious, Mark approached the door.
Before he even reached it, he saw that it was ajar. Another first. A small security chain hung slack in the space between door and frame. So fragile. Not enough to hold the monster within.
His heart thudding, Mark reached the door. Hands framing the small window, he leaned in close. Most of the familiar shadows had fled. He saw now that the room was tidy, like the rooms of all Folcroft patients. A thin sheet draped a plain hospital bed. And on the bed was an emaciated figure with a face as pale as the crisp white linens under which it lay. Mark blinked. There was no sign of the Beast. And when the voice spoke, it came not from the figure in the bed but from Mark Howard's own mind. The time is nearly here....
Something stabbed into Mark's shoulder. He jumped, grabbing for whatever had touched him. His fingers wrapped around something cold and dry.
Nearly here... nearly here. .. nearly here...
"MARK, WAKE UP. "
The voice spoke with crisp irritation. The dream fled and Mark Howard's tired eyes blinked open. He was sitting in the office of Dr. Harold W. Smith. The CURE director stood over him, shaking Mark with one arthritic hand. Smith's lemony face was drawn tight with annoyance.
"Dr. Smith," Mark said, embarrassed. He suddenly realized that the thing he had grabbed on to in his dream was Smith's gnarled hand. He released it, his face flushing.
Smith straightened. "We were in the middle of our morning meeting," he said. "I had taken a moment to retrieve something from the mainframes. When I looked up, you were asleep."
"Oh." Mark cleared his throat. "I'm sorry. I've been having a problem with..." His voice trailed off. "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith," he repeated.
A notch formed on Smith's gray brow. "Is there something that you wish to tell me?" he asked. When Mark looked up, he found Smith peering intently down at him. The look of accusation of a moment before had begun to change to one of concern. There was almost a paternal glint in those cold eyes.
"It's something-" Mark shook his head. "I can't really describe it right now. It's something strange."
"I see," Smith said slowly. "Does it have anything to do with your, er-" he hesitated "-ability?" Although the CURE director chose not to discuss it much, he was aware that his assistant was possessed of a unique intuitive sense. In the past Howard's gift had given them foresight into some CURE-related matters.
"I don't think so," Mark said. "If it is, it's not in any way I'm familiar with."
Smith nodded. "Very well," he said. He began to turn away when he abruptly paused. "Mark, you've been working nonstop since you started here. Perhaps it might be a good idea for you to take a few days off."
Howard seemed surprised at the offer. Before he could respond, they were both interrupted by the jangling of one of Smith's desktop telephones. The CURE director noted that it was the blue contact phone.
"That will be all for now, Mark," Smith said. Howard was grateful to be dismissed. As he hurried from the room, Smith rounded the desk. Howard was shutting the door as Smith settled into his cracked leather chair.
"Smith," the CURE director announced into the phone.
"Hey, Smitty," Remo said. "I'll give you three guesses who just escaped certain death by the skin of his teeth, and the first two don't count."
Smith leaned forward in his chair. "Did something go wrong?" he asked.
"Depends on your perspective," Remo said. "Since I'm not a French fry right now, that Humbert Humbert guy who runs the show around here probably thinks so."
Smith raised an eyebrow. "Remo, are you saying Hubert St. Clair tried to kill you?" he asked.
In the Geneva headquarters of the Congress of Concerned Scientists, Remo leaned back against Amanda Lifton's desk. Chiun and Amanda had left him alone while he placed the call. He looked down at his tattered clothes.
"Technically, kill," Remo said. "Specifically, acid dip. Six of one, half dozen of the other. I think he was just going after that dingbat lady scientist, and me and Chiun got caught in the cross fire. And speaking of her, the Ivy League must have started passing out diplomas with every bikini wax."
"Dr. Lifton is supposed to be quite gifted," Smith said.
"She's a flaky debutante with boobs till Tuesday," Remo replied. "I doubt she could invent her way out of a bra with both hands." He tipped his head, reconsidering. "Actually, that's probably how she got the job here."
Remo quickly briefed Smith on the events in the CCS greenhouse, including the destruction of all the C. dioxas.
"You said St. Clair was on the phone before the attack against you began?" Smith asked once Remo was finished.
"Yeah, but I wasn't listening to what he was saying," Remo said. "Could have been calling his bookie. It sure as hell wasn't his dry cleaner."
As he spoke, he picked up a framed photograph from Amanda's desk. Dr. Lifton was posing with Hubert St. Clair and a half-dozen others. Although he could have picked her chests out of a lineup blindfolded, in this picture it wasn't hard to tell which one was Amanda. The rest of them were all dressed like St. Clair. They all wore bell-bottoms and corduroy jackets. Remo frowned at the picture.
"Must be the office Halloween party," he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing, Smitty," Remo said, putting the photo down. "I don't know what the what is here right now, but I searched the place and came up empty. That Dilbert guy flew the coop. I need you to track him down."
He heard the sound of Smith typing rapidly at his computer. "There is an executive committee that oversees the CCS," the CURE director explained as he worked. "While the current director is Dr. St. Clair, he is answerable to the rest of the leadership. They could be involved." The typing stopped. "The CCS owns a home for St. Clair's use when he is in Geneva," Smith said. He gave Remo the address.
"Thanks, Smitty." He started to hang up.
"Remo," the CURE director said. "Are you certain all the trees were destroyed?"