“—of interest. You can study—"
Dissolving on the words of Dr. Norman as he completes the ritual of repetition and reassurance.
The brain implant appears to have been successful, but Dr. Norman wonders how things will go with Daniel. His affection for the beast is deep. He wonders if Daniel has bonded to him as well. Yes. Surely he has.
The dossier has been prepared by him. When Daniel wakens he will be shown the electronic display. General content, purview, presentation, and tone have all been carefully shaped. He knows precisely what it will take to engage that mind, pull him out of repose, enrage and motivate him into the cold kill fury that will allow him to function.
He has studied it himself innumerable times, and can quote content verbatim: “Police removed nine pit bulls from an establishment on Willow River Road, following a series of complaints regarding organized pit bull dogfights. Authorities said animals had been abused ... were being kept for so-called death matches ... Humane/society ... put the dogs to sleep ... Allegations of other animal cruelties ... Sutter family."
Norman could see the photos of the dogs. Then the ads of the animal auction and the pictures they had to go with it. “The Genneret Gun Show and Exotic Animal Auction ... dog ‘bunchers’ ... Virgil Watlow ... left strays that the lab wouldn't take ... Seventeen were found tied to a tree, starved to death."
It built like a hot romance novel heading for a breathless climax, or a symphony building to a timpani-filled crescendo. There was a certain undeniable aesthetic to it. He could imagine the rage that would flood Daniel's mind when it reached the report about “The Mutilator ... John Wayne Vodrey ... private collection of cat tails, paws, and other anatomical mementos.” Dr. Norman shuddered as he imagined the retribution in store for the targets of the dossier.
They wanted a “handle” on “occupant.” They used the word “control” again and again. They were the ultimate control freaks. He recognized it and played to it.
No, he was frank to tell them. There is no control for occupant. There is only understanding. Understanding and manipulation. But Dr. Norman had found the secret control handle.
Most towns have their share of animal abusers, but this one—simply by luck of the draw—had some of the most flagrant and heinous cases one could find. It had been a simple matter to investigate these, magnify them, and prepare an illustrated presentation designed to engage, enrage, manipulate, and motivate the occupant of D Seg's infamous Cell Ten. One more terrible coincidence with an upside.
“Can you hear me all right?” No response. Nothing. “Daniel, it's Dr. Norman. I won't let any harm come to you. You know you can trust me. I'm your friend.” One more time. The briefing period would mark his last hours of incarceration. Then Alpha Group II would work its magic and the subject would be inserted into the observation zone. “Can you hear me?” The lion coughed.
“Good. Just relax. Dr. Norman is your friend. Anything that I do is for your protection. Always remember that, Daniel."
The power of the experimental wonder drug had left its mark on the beast's face.
“You must remain within twenty-five miles of the killing zone. That is for your safety, my friend. As long as you stay there, you will have your freedom. Your old weapons are restored to operational condition and will be turned over to you. I got your weapons for you, Daniel. Your tools. After all, would we ask a master carpenter to build a house for us without his favorite tools? Everything is exactly as it was when you ... were returned to us three years ago.” The beast had been in Marion for two years and ten months.
“Do you understand what I'm telling you, Daniel?” There was a slackness to the features that reminded Dr. Norman of the face of a retarded child. But deep under the drugs, the lion managed another growl. “Your own beloved tools, Daniel! Think of that. Everything will be as you left it, your clothing, your special equipment—just the way you assembled it. We've even upgraded the things that had gone bad over time: you'll have new ammunition.” He glanced at his notes. “The explosives—the munitions—all brand-new."
“They didn't like that part, my dear friend. But I made them give you hand grenades and mines. They said, ‘Let him resupply himself in the field,’ but I reminded them that there were no armories or munitions stockpiles within a twenty-five-mile radius of your operating zone. We couldn't have you wasting valuable time accumulating tools, could we?” The look on the slack features was that of a brain-damaged baby, smiling.
“One last thing before the targets are presented to you. As I've told you, and this is important for you to always remember: Everything I've done has been in your best interests. The drugs are extremely powerful. But even though you cannot respond, you will register and retain this information. Do not be confused by the odd feelings you may experience when you come back to a state of what seems like full consciousness.
“It's likely that the chemicals in your system will have a secondary effect, and there will be a period in which you feel much the same as you ordinarily do, but perhaps your actions will be somewhat erratic or—” he purposely did not use the word “normal"—"unusually low-key. For example, you may find yourself interacting with others in odd ways, or you may notice other behavioristic ... lapses. Do not be alarmed. Because of your great strength, a particularly strong dosage of the drug must be used, but in time you'll be back to your old self. A day or two, at most.” The doctor shrugged. “There will be no further need for such drugs, so you'll soon find yourself completely restored and refreshed. Do you understand?” There was no response. Dr. Norman drew near the huge, bound figure.
“I'll miss you, Daniel. I shall genuinely miss you.” He reached out and touched the rock-hard muscle of a tree-trunk leg. “Will you miss your friend Dr. Norman?"
The slack-jawed look of the autistic child's empty smile was unchanged, but deep inside came a low, rumbling animal sound.
9
WATERTON, MISSOURI
“Aw—,” he said, the moment she came to the door.
“Hi,” she said, almost before she got the door open, and they were in each other's arms, hugging on the porch. “Thanks for coming,” she said gratefully, into his shoulder and neck. “Come in.” Her voice was softer as they broke the clench and moved inside the house.
“I must have sounded like an idiot when you phoned."
“No."
“You threw me. It doesn't take much,” she told him. When she answered the phone, he had said—"Does the name Quasimodo ring a bell?” Part of their old banter. He'd told her she was supposed to reply, “I can't place the face, but I still remember the bad hump.” One of their old faves. But the strange voice and wacky opening line had thrown her into abject silence. He'd had to pry conversation out of her.
“I had no idea—you know—about Sam."
“That floors me, Royce. A town like Waterton. I was so sure everybody would know by now."
“I might as well have been on another planet.” He gestured in the vague direction of Waterworks Hill. “I'm up there in my own little world. I haven't read a paper or heard any news for three or four weeks. I wouldn't know if war had been declared."
“I don't know what to do. I'm not sure why I'm picking on you, but—"
“That's okay. I'm glad you did. I don't know what I can do, but if you need some help—you know—um...” He spread his hands.
“I just thought maybe you'd have some ideas. Something we hadn't thought of. I can't sit here doing nothing. I've talked to everybody. Marty Kerns says nobody saw Sam. He just ... disappeared.” Royce nodded grimly.