There was no light on the second floor other than what filtered past the window blinds. Dena did not take the time to search for a switch but continued in the direction of the child’s cries. She made her way cautiously down the dim hallway; then suddenly she stopped.
Someone was there.
A shadowy figure stood motionless ahead of her, outside a closed door. The paneling of the door was splintered and slick. Blood dripped from the hands of the standing figure. Fat red pustules broke out on the face as Dena watched. The face was contorted and swollen with the boils but still recognizable. Carol Denker.
Dena turned and started back for the stairs. Helping a child out of a room where he was trapped was one thing, but facing this wild wreck of a woman was something else. Bravery and cowardice were meaningless terms. Dena had only one thought — get the hell out of there.
She was not quick enough. Carol exploded away from the battered door and came at her like something out of a nightmare, her mouth gaping, uttering an incoherent growl. Dena stretched out for the railing at the top of the stairs, but she was hit in the back and knocked staggering against the far wall. She bounced off and hit the floor. Fireflies danced in the darkness before her eyes.
When her vision cleared, she saw Carol coming at her, hands extended, fingers bent into claws. Saliva oozed from her mouth and hung in a swaying, silvery thread from her chin as she advanced.
“No!” Dena cried. “Carol, don’t! It’s Dena!”
No flicker of comprehension showed on the mad face coming toward her.
Painfully, Dena pushed herself to her feet, back against the plaster wall. One elbow tingled where she had scraped it in her fall. She put out her hands defensively, knowing as she did so how impotent she was against the maniacal strength of the woman.
Carol was close enough for Dena to hear her wheezing breath and smell the stink of her sweat. Then a dark shape rose behind her in the stairwell. Dena stretched to look over the woman’s shoulder and was shocked to see Ken Denker coming up behind her.
The knife was still buried in Ken’s stomach. The front of his pants was glistening dark with blood. He walked unsteadily toward his wife, who was still reaching out for Dena.
“Carol!” Ken’s voice had a gargling sound as blood welled up in his throat.
In some recess of the woman’s tortured mind, the voice registered. Carol Denker turned away from Dena to face her husband. He took a lurching step toward her and grunted with the effort.
Carol suddenly clapped both hands to her head and screamed. The nails dug into her flesh and tore it away in bloody strips. Her cry was a banshee wail like nothing that should come from a human throat. Still screaming, she lunged at the stumbling, oncoming figure of her husband.
They came together with a thud. Carol’s body drove the knife still deeper into the man’s stomach. With their arms about each other in a bloody last embrace, they lurched together to the top of the stairs. Then, in grotesque slow motion, they toppled over and fell bumping and crashing down the uncarpeted steps to the hardwood floor in the hallway below.
For a long moment Dena continued to stand where she was, her back pressed against the wall. There was no sound from downstairs, only the whimpering of a child behind the door that had been battered by the mad mother.
When she got her breathing and heartbeat under control, Dena went to the stairs and slowly descended, one cautious step at a time. Ken and Carol Denker lay together in a tangle of limbs at the bottom. Mercifully, Carol’s face was turned away, hiding the ugly broken pustules. She might have been in repose, were it not for the unnatural angle at which her head lay on one shoulder.
Ken Denker’s eyes were open and unblinking. He seemed to look off to the corner of the ceiling and beyond. One arm lay over his wife’s back in a last cold caress.
Dena hurried back up the stairs. It took her several minutes to tear the broken paneling loose so she could reach in and open the bedroom door. Inside she found the children. They were huddled on the bed, the little girl crouched behind her brother. Tears rolled from the girl’s eyes; the boy stared. His narrow chest heaved with strangled sobs.
“It’s all right,” Dena said, keeping her voice soft. “Don’t be afraid of me.”
The children edged back away from her on the bed as she approached.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“Mommy will,” the boy said. “She hurt Daddy.”
“It’s all over now. Come, I’ll take you out of here.”
“She was trying to hurt us, too,” the boy said. “I wouldn’t let her in.”
Moving slowly as though approaching frightened wild animals, Dena reached out to the children. Cautiously, they let her take their hands. The boy looked around with frightened eyes as she led them into the hall. The little girl continued to cry without making a sound.
Dena led them to the back stairs and down to the kitchen.
“Where’s my mommy and daddy?” the boy said, looking around.
Dena’s throat closed, and she could not answer him. She led the two children out the back door and around to the front of the house. The boy kept looking back toward the blank windows and the open front door of his home. The little girl looked at nothing.
The commotion had finally roused a neighbor, a stout, gray-haired woman wearing an apron.
“What’s happened?” she said, her mouth tight with fear.
“Can you take the children?” Dena asked.
“Yes, of course. Where are the parents?”
“They’re inside.” Dena looked quickly down at the boy, who was watching her. “Please call the sheriff.”
“The sheriff? But what —?”
“Please.” Dena cut her off.
The woman looked down from the children to the open door, then back at Dena. She nodded her understanding. “Come along, kiddies,” she said. “I have some cookies over at my house. I think they’re still warm.”
Dena looked her thanks at the woman and hurried out to the car. She started it up and drove wildly back toward the Biotron facility. She wanted nothing so much at that moment as to be in the arms of Corey Macklin.
Chapter 22
Baldwin Edge took Corey into an office that was furnished in a manner designed to make it look comfortable, yet somehow it missed the mark. The tweedy sofa, the relaxing prints on the walls, the antique hat rack with the mirror, the flowers on the low table, all seemed too artfully arranged. Even more out of place than the furnishings was the thin, bony man seated behind the desk. There were no soft edges to him. He did not belong at all.
“Hello,” he said without getting up. “I am Dr. Frederich Kitzmiller.” He had just the trace of an accent.
Corey approached the desk. “Corey Macklin, Milwaukee Herald.”
“Yes, I know,” Kitzmiller said.
The man from the Department of Health stood uncomfortably behind Corey’s shoulder.
“I don’t think there is any need for you to stay, Mr. Edge,” said Kitzmiller.
“I should know about any action that is decided upon,” he said uncertainly.
“I will see that you are informed.”
“Yes, well, there are other things I should be attending to.” Baldwin Edge made an awkward exit, closing the office door behind him.
“I dislike dealing with government people,” Kitzmiller said, “but it seems unavoidable, no matter what field one is in. I suppose you have your own problems with the government, Mr. Macklin.”
“Some. Your friend Mr. Edge, for one.”
“How so?”
“He wanted to censor my stories.”