The window beside them looked out over an enclosed courtyard. On the well-tended grounds, men and women jumped and cavorted happily. Two bounced up and down on an overturned bench. Some screeched angrily at others, baring gums and pounding their chests. A few swung from trees.
One woman had defecated in her hand. Standing under a tree, she cupped the waste in one hand while waving a fist at the leaves and shouting "ahn-ahn" over and over.
"We tried to talk to them when we first got here, but they're way too far gone. They threw sticks and dirt at us. We finally shut off all the doors and sealed them out there. It's like they're not even human anymore."
The older FBI agent was probably some sort of consultant. He was too old to be an active agent. As they observed the strange behavior of the men and women who had, until the previous day, been the most brilliant minds of Genetic Futures, Inc., the older man offered a troubled nod.
"Whatever they were working on is lost." The younger one said nothing.
"According to the rest of the staff, the labs had shifts on around the clock waiting for something," the detective said. "It got delivered the other night, I guess, 'cause that's when they kicked into high gear. But just what, the higher-ups don't know. The records seem to be lost, along with the stolen computers. The geneticist in charge might have been able to tell us, but..."
The detective led them from the window. They walked a little farther down the hall.
"Only one body," he said as they walked. "But it's a big mess, so prepare yourselves."
They came to an open door.
Inside the small office, one of the scientists had been butchered like a cow. His mauled body lay sprawled across his desk. The silver name tag on his blood-soaked lab coat identified the deceased as Dr. Emil Kowalski. For some reason a bale of fresh-cut hay stood upright in the corner near a file cabinet.
"So what do you think?" the detective said worriedly. "Maybe we got an epidemic on our hands. You think something dangerous got loose?"
The young FBI man didn't say a word. He turned away from the office, heading back down the hall. The older man followed close behind him, deep in thought.
"Wait," the cop said. "What do we do about the ones outside?"
"Fill a paddy wagon with bananas and drive them to the monkey house," called back the FBI agent, who in the end wasn't really quite as helpful as the SDPD captain had originally hoped.
Chapter 38
Mark Howard switched on the light in his small office in Folcroft's administrative wing.
It was his first day back in three weeks.
After Remo had brought him back from Maine, Mark had spent nearly two weeks in the special security corridor in the basement. The effects of Judith White's genetic tampering had worn off near the twelve-day mark. Then came the chills, sweats, vomiting. And the nightmares.
Once he had regained enough strength and was able to keep down solid foods, he'd been released. Mark ordinarily came to work earlier than nine o'clock. But Dr. Smith had insisted that he take it easy at first. Half days only for the next few days. He still felt weak. Thanks to heavy sedatives and an intravenous diet, Mark had lost sixteen pounds in the past twenty-two days. He had always been thin, with a broad face. But his face had now lost its fleshiness. A strong jaw and angular cheekbones had emerged from the lost layer of fat.
Setting his briefcase to the floor, he took his seat at his desk. The chair felt strange. As did the desk, the office, Folcroft. All of it. Everything felt wrong.
He didn't turn on his computer. He just sat in his chair. Staring.
When he heard the sound of a clearing throat nearby, Mark didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He looked to the door.
Harold Smith stood in the doorway. There was a hint of concern on his face.
"How are you feeling, Mark?" the CURE director asked.
"Fine," Mark said. "Good morning, Dr. Smith. I was going to check in with you in a little- I'm fine."
Smith nodded. "I made an appointment for you this afternoon with one of our staff physicians. Just a routine physical. They'll be taking some blood just to be sure. According to your last tests, everything is normal."
At another time in his life Mark might have laughed at Smith's ludicrous use of the word normal. But the world had become so strange and wrong. He merely nodded.
"How's Mrs. Mikulka doing?" Mark asked.
"Very well," Smith said. "Given her age and physical condition, her recovery has been slower than yours. As you might know, she has a son who lives with her who is looking after her. I spoke with him yesterday, and he told me she hopes to return to work next week. Until then I've rotated in a woman, Kathleen Purvish, from the regular sanitarium staff to fill in. She used to work as my secretary years ago and has sometimes filled in during Mrs. Mikulka's vacations, so things should run smoothly."
"Good," Mark Howard said. "That's all ...good."
Smith hesitated. For an awkward moment, he seemed to be wrestling with some inner dilemma. He finally seemed to reach a decision.
"Mark, what was done to you was horrific," he said. "But it was not your fault. None of it."
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. Checking the hallway, the CURE director shut the door with a quiet click.
He spoke without preamble and without inflection. "Back during the Second World War, I was captured by German forces on the island of Usedom," Smith began. "There was a Gestapo officer there, one Josef Menk. I'm not sure why he tortured me. I think he was insane, but then so many were in those days. The war was coming to an end. There wasn't much information that any one OSS agent could have had to turn the tide. Yet, for days-day after day-he had his man beat me, cut me, whip me. They hung me from a rafter. No food, no water. It was unspeakably brutal. To this day when the weather changes I feel the results of what they did to me in my joints and bones. Except for my superiors in the OSS, I never told anyone this before. Not my wife, not Remo or Chiun. It is of a personal nature and not something that I feel is appropriate to share."
Smith took a deep breath before continuing. "Years later, an enemy here in America learned of CURE. I was kidnapped and tortured then, as well. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say I was older then and felt the effects far more severely." Before Smith had begun to speak, Mark Howard had gone back to staring blankly at the wall. But now the older man could see that he had drawn his young assistant out.
"I have heard of others who revolve their lives around the worst things that have ever happened to them. I don't see the use. These things that happened to me were merely days out of my life-they were not my whole life. For the most part I put those events out of my mind. But I am glad at other times to have those memories. You should be, too. Don't forget what happened to you, Mark. Use it. Use it when you need focus or in those moments of doubt. Remember what was done to you. Remember the evil that it represents and use it to understand why it is we do what we do."
Mark absorbed the CURE director's words. Slowly his head began to nod. When he looked up, his eyes were moist.
"Thanks, Dr. Smith." His voice was soft.
Smith gave a crisp nod. "There is one other thing," he said. He reached into his pocket.
When his hand reappeared, he was holding a small, flat tin case. It was smaller around than a half dollar and less than a quarter-inch thick. He handed the container to Mark.
"I told you of Conrad MacCleary, my old associate who died not long after Remo came aboard CURE," Smith said. "After his death, his personal effects were sent here. He had no family and this was his last known address. He had a cover as a former Folcroft patient. There are only a few small items in a strongbox in the records room downstairs. That was included in the items returned by the hospital."