"I am not. And I won't waste a lot of time arguing with you about whether there's such things as ghosts and vampires and werewolves. I have my own beliefs, but I'm not interested in convincing anybody else. I saw the way some of those people died in Drago, and I don't want to see any more. You can take these bullets or not, whatever you want. I happen to think they might save your life, and maybe some others, too."
Ramsay looked closely at the man and decided he was not drunk or crazy or a fool. He hefted the box of bullets and dropped it into a side pocket of his uniform jacket.
"Thanks, Ken. I'll take them."
Dowd nodded soberly. "I don't think you'll be sorry, Sheriff." He fired the Volkswagen engine and drove back to the road.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
It was impossible for Malcolm to tell how long he rode inside the van. There were moments when he was almost awake and he could see Dr. Pastory sitting close by, watching him. There were heavy curtains across the rear window, and the only illumination came from up front in the cab, where the other man was driving. Malcolm did not have the strength to turn and look up there, and he soon lapsed back into unconsciousness.
He had only vague sensations of when the ride ended. First the vibration of the engine stopped, then there were the metallic sounds of doors opening and closing and the voices of the two men. The chill of outdoor air was on his face briefly, then it was warm again. He felt the familiar touch of sheets on his body and the slight give of a mattress under him. To his drugged brain that meant he was back in the hospital. Safe. Holly would be here soon. He slept.
When finally his brain cleared and he came fully awake, Malcolm saw at once he was not in the hospital. The bed was similar, and the room had the same kind of medicinal smell, but there was a coldness here. Not in the temperature, for the room was quite warm, but in the atmosphere. Malcolm had no idea where he was; he only knew it was a bad place.
The room was very plain. There was his narrow bed, a four-drawer bureau, a little nightstand, and a straight wooden chair. The room had one door, no window. In a corner was a white enameled sink with a mirrored cabinet above it. On one wall hung a picture of a dog on a hillock overlooking a flock of grazing sheep. The picture showed storm clouds building on the horizon.
Malcolm peeled back the covers and swung his feet out of the bed onto the floor. He was dizzy for a moment and had to shut his eyes. When he opened them he felt a little better. He looked down and saw that he was still wearing the foolish little garment they had given him at the hospital.
He stood up, walked carefully the few steps to the door. He tried the knob. Locked. Malcolm was not surprised. He prowled around the room touching things, feeling their surfaces.
He ran some water over his hands at the sink and splashed it on his face. He looked at himself in the mirror. The young face that looked back at him was very sad. Dark half-moons shadowed the eyes.
The bureau was unfinished wood of some kind. Malcolm pulled out the drawers one by one. Three of them were empty, but the top drawer contained clothes. There was underwear, jeans, t-shirts, sweaters, socks, tennis shoes.
"Well, hello, Malcolm. How are you feeling?"
The voice startled him so that he spun away from the bureau and almost lost his balance. Dr. Pastory stood in the doorway. He had opened it without making a sound.
"I see you found the clothes. It's all right; they're for you. I hope they fit. I'm not used to buying clothes for a boy. Young man, I should say."
Malcolm shrugged.
"I thought you'd be tired of wearing that hospital gown. I don't blame you."
Pastory was trying hard to make his voice friendly, but it was still oily and cold to Malcolm. The doctor came over and took his arm to guide him back to the bed. His touch was as unpleasant as his voice. He had an antiseptic smell to him. Malcolm sat down on the bed. Pastory took the chair and hitched it over close.
"Now then, how do you feel?" he said again.
"Sick to my stomach," Malcolm told him.
"Well, that's not unusual. The drug does that sometimes. It's nothing to worry about. We'll get some food into you and you'll feel tip-top again."
"Where are we?"
"It's a little place of mine where we can get you all well again."
"I'm not sick."
"That's a matter of opinion, Malcolm. Definitely a matter of opinion."
Dr. Pastory was looking at him in a strange, piercing way, but then he put on the fake oily smile again. "Why don't you put on some of your new clothes? Are they what boys are wearing today?"
"They're okay."
"Good. You just get dressed now and I'll show you where we're going to work together."
"Work?"
"In a matter of speaking. You're an unusual young man, Malcolm. I'm going to give you a few tests - oh, nothing that will hurt or anything like that - and see if we can find out what makes you so unusual."
"I don't think I want to take tests."
Pastory's little eyes glittered. "I told you before, Malcolm, in this life it doesn't always matter what we want. Now will you get yourself dressed, or should I bring in somebody to do it for you?"
"I'll do it."
"Good. That's the spirit I like to hear." The doctor went out. The door closed soundlessly behind him. There was a whispered click of the lock. Malcolm turned the knob just to be sure. It was locked, all right.
He tried on some of the clothes from the bureau. Everything was a size or so too big, but not so much that it mattered. And it did feel good to be wearing real clothes again.
When he was dressed Malcolm sat down on the bed and waited. In a few minutes Pastory came back in bringing a mug of some hot brown liquid. There was another man with him. The other man was big, with a barrel chest and thick neck and bristly black hair. His lips were thick and set in a permanent sneer. He smelled bad. Malcolm recognized the smell from the morning he was taken from the hospital. Was it only this morning? Whatever they shot him up with had messed up his sense of time.
Pastory handed him the mug. "Drink this. It's full of vitamins and other good things."
Malcolm drank. It tasted like a heavy beef broth. Not too bad.
"Later on you can have solid food, but I think for now we'd better stick to liquids."
"How long am I going to be here?"
"That depends." He pulled the door all the way open. "Come along now."
"What are you going to do?"
Pastory dropped the fake pleasant expression he'd been wearing. "I haven't time to explain every little thing to you. Kruger, bring him along."
The big man grabbed Malcolm by the shoulder and dug his thumb into a nerve there.
"Hey!" the boy protested.
"The doctor wants you to come along." Kruger had a high singsong voice that did not fit with his size. He pulled Malcolm to his feet and propelled him out the door.
He was taken along a short hallway and into another room, larger than the one where he had awakened. A skylight in the ceiling made it very bright. There were shelves on the walls holding all manner of bottles, vials, beakers, and jars. Some of them contained liquids or powders; others were empty. Along one side of the room was a counter with a stainless steel sink and a little gas burner. All along the counter there was a cluster of instruments and equipment that meant nothing to Malcolm.
In the center of the room was a high, narrow table, padded, with tough leather straps riveted to the sides. Under the table was a complicated system of gears so it could be tilted in any direction.
"This is a laboratory," Malcolm said.
"Very good," Pastory said, as though to an apt pupil. "Would you like to jump up on the table there?"
"No."