“Of course,” Kitzmiller said. One corner of his mouth quirked in an ironic smile.
“We discovered, as you have, the full horror of these creatures, and the project was abandoned.”
Kitzmiller studied the chalkboard notations when the Russian stepped aside. He said, “Very well, I can see that you might have achieved the same result as we did. What is it you want, my congratulations?”
“I want you to listen to me, you stubborn sausage head!”
Kitzmiller’s eyes snapped wide.
“My colleague now waiting in front of your factory would have us flying back to Moscow, leaving your capitalist country to be consumed by your damned parasites.”
“Why should you feel differently from Raslov?”
“Why should I not? Our personal codes of honor are not issued by the Politburo, regardless of what you may read in the American press.”
“I was exposed to your Russian code of honor in 1945.”
Kuryakin leaned down and glared, his face close to Kitzmiller’s. “I have no more love for Germans than you have for my people. However, I do not waste emotion on atrocities of a long-dead war. I have come to share with you the second stage of my work. If you choose not to accept it, the tragedy will be on your head.”
“Second stage?” Kitzmiller was stunned by the Russian’s sudden vehemence.
“After I had brought the brain eaters to life, I did not stop my experiments. I also discovered how to kill them.”
Chapter 31
The wind-driven rain slashed against the windshield, leaving greasy streaks where the wipers failed to clear it away. Lou Zachry sat hunched forward in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel, peering into the storm.
He almost drove past the weed-grown dirt road that angled off into the trees. The hand-lettered sign Park Place was obscured by blowing brush, and Zachry saw it only as he came abreast. He hit the brakes and skidded several yards beyond the road before he could get the car under control.
He drove carefully, avoiding the tree roots that reached up like crooked fingers from the road. Overhead, the trees thrashed in the wind.
As he rounded a sharp bend, he came suddenly upon the house. It was almost too cute, with its overhanging roof, rounded edges, gaily painted shutters, and lacy curtains. A warm light shone from inside. Pale smoke curled out into the wet night from a stone fireplace chimney. Zachry was reminded of the gingerbread house from Hansel and Gretel.
He brought the car to a stop on a muddy patch of grass in front of the house. From the glove compartment he took a short-barreled.38 Chiefs Special. He left the car and walked cautiously across the mud toward the front door with its little shingled portico.
In his haste Zachry had not bothered with a coat. His shoes squished with every sodden step. The oxford cloth shirt was soaked through and plastered to his skin. The short blond hair was flattened wet against his skull.
When he reached the front door, he pressed his ear to the panel, listening. The rising wind and slash of the rain outside damped any sounds that might come from within. He released the latch and pushed the door open.
Inside he crouched for a moment, tense, pistol ready. When nothing moved, he gradually relaxed.
The living room had a warm, cozy look. The furniture was mismatched, but somehow it all went together. Everything was comfortably cushioned and done in soothing earth tones. Birch logs crackled in the fireplace. A cold portable television set in the corner looked out of place in the homespun room.
Placing his feet cautiously and soundlessly, Zachry passed the kitchen, which was empty and smelled of herbs, and moved on to an open door to the lighted bedroom. From beyond it he could hear rustling sounds and a soft, feminine humming. He stepped into the doorway, gun in hand, and for a moment he just stood there watching.
The girl had milky blonde hair and a supple figure that was not concealed by the bulky sweater and faded jeans. She moved with unconscious grace as she transferred clothing from the drawers of the room’s single bureau to the double bed. Open on the bed was a hiker’s backpack that looked as though it had been well used.
Although Zachry made no sound, some instinct of the girl’s made her straighten up and turn toward him. She gasped when she saw him standing there with the gun. Her face was clear and beautifully boned. Her eyes were a shade of blue that could not be bought.
“Roanne Tesla?” he said, embarrassed at the hoarseness in his voice. He had not expected her to be so beautiful. But there was more … something in the vulnerability of her that caused a tightness in his throat.
The girl recovered quickly. The pale pink lips curved into a smile that held no warmth.
“I might have known you’d find me.”
Zachry made his voice hard. “You’d better come with me. Eddie Gault is loose, and I expect he’ll be looking for you.”
“You people didn’t kill him?”
The casual way she tossed off the question chilled the government man. He said, “No, we didn’t. Now let’s go.”
“Am I under arrest or something?”
“Not officially, but if you don’t come willingly, I’ll take you.” He stopped and looked closely at the girl. “Do I know you?”
The blue eyes narrowed. “No, but I know you. Your type. Mr. Macho. John Wayne. Win the war, salute the flag, take care of the rich, and to hell with the people. Build bigger weapons; kill more babies.”
He knew now who the girl reminded him of. Jenny, the daughter he’d lost. The words that came from Roanne’s soft pink mouth were the same Jenny had used to damn him the last time he’d tried to see her. They hurt him almost as much now.
For a moment, as the pain showed in his eyes, Roanne’s expression softened. She almost moved toward him, then caught herself.
“Let’s go.” Zachry bit the words off. “Eddie got away from us not far from here. He killed one man and badly injured another. He was not in a good mood.”
“No, I suppose he wasn’t.”
Roanne continued to fold the clothes on the bed and fit them efficiently into the backpack.
“Damn it, there isn’t time for that.”
“I’ll be ready in a minute.” She frowned at the gun, which was still in his hand. “Why don’t you put that somewhere?”
“I might need it.”
“What for, to make you feel like a real man?”
His face burned. He felt foolishly ashamed to show any weakness in front of the girl.
“Please,” she said in a gentler tone. “Guns make me very nervous.”
He laid the pistol on a low bookcase, keeping it within easy reach.
“All right?”
Roanne gave him a smile that seemed almost real. Zachry fought off memories of the laughing little girl named Jenny.
She packed the last of her things. Jeans, T-shirts, rough-woven sweaters, sneakers, a worn old panda bear. She shrugged into a red quilted jacket, hefted the backpack, and looked up at him.
“Okay, I’m — ”
Her eyes widened suddenly.
A strong gust of wind rattled the windows. Zachry sensed a movement behind him an instant too late.
It felt like a baseball bat slammed across his shoulder blades. The breath was driven from his lungs, and Zachry stumbled all the way across the room and into the wall next to the window. There he slid to the floor, numb. For the next few moments Zachry saw the scene in the bedroom as though it were happening underwater.
The figure in the door was recognizably human and probably male, but beyond that nothing was certain. The face was a mass of oozing sores. The clothes were soaked from the rain and torn in a hundred places. Irregular dark splotches on the chest and upper abdomen looked like gunshot wounds.