Deficiency (29 page)

Somehow, she thought, she would be an even better doctor because of all this.

Like some child hoping and searching for a rainbow, she closed her eyes and listened to the ambulance siren clearing their way toward home.

He closed the door of Unit 10 behind him, and rushed back to the office to gather up the money he had discovered in the motel owner's apartment. Before he had left Unit 10, he had taken all he could find on Charles Samuels as well. In his way of thinking, money was a sort of fuel, and every person he robbed was a fueling station. He favored cash over anything. He was fearful of using credit cards and leaving some sort of trail. Occasionally, he had taken some jewelry, but he had yet to pawn any of it. That, too, might leave tracks and he knew in his heart that his pursuer was a very sharp, capable, and effective predator, at least as able as he was. It was a frightening thought to envision himself hunting himself. That was a nightmare he recalled vividly. It was what gave him his all-knowing sixth sense.

But he was in a particular hurry now, fleeing with an intensity he had not experienced. Never before did he feel this degree of desperation. He hated it and didn't want to look at himself. He was ashamed of his fear. It made him weak, made him more like… them, his prey. If there was one thing that terrified him above anything else, it was the thought that he was someone else's prey. He was the hunted and not the hunter.

He was practically running now, running toward the motel office, blind to everything but the tasks at hand. Focused, intense, a projectile of raw determination, he charged through the door and into the apartment. He went right for the can of money he had left in front of the closet, filled his fist with the bills, and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he rose and walked slowly back to the living room, feeling more confident, feeling more in control of events. But when he stepped into the room, he paused. In his haste, he had run right past the motel owner. For a moment he was confused. The dead motel owner wasn't against the wall where he had left him. The man was in his easy chair, his head back, his eyes open, facing the television set that was on, the volume low.

Did I leave him that way? he wondered. Did I turn on the set? Was I having some fun?

"It's better this way," he heard himself say. "This way it looks more like he had a heart attack while watching television. I'll make sure of that."

Did he think aloud?

He turned very slowly and looked at himself and saw Garret Stanley.

"Boy, have you made a mess of things," he heard himself say. "You have no idea what I have gone through covering all this up. Some important people had to use big muscle."

He looked at the dead motel owner and then turned back to Garret.

"What else have you done here? What else do I have to clean up? Well?" Garret followed after a moment. "Are there any other bodies in the vicinity? Hello! Those two cars parked in front of the motel units?"

He nodded.

"Great." Garret stepped closer, moving more into the illumination. There was a nasty looking bruise on his forehead. He raised his hand to his own forehead and felt for it. "No, this is particularly my own trauma. Thank you for caring. Seems a local physician, a Dr. Terri Barnard, was a bit more resourceful than I imagined she would be. Did you know she had the pleasure of confronting two of your pieces of work, and eventually, might have made a lot of trouble for us? You don't read newspapers? You didn't see our face on the front page?

He nodded.

"Oh, you did. Great. Well, why are you still here then?"

"I'm leaving," he said.

"Yes, you're leaving. We're leaving. You can't continue like this. You understand that, don't you? Well? Don't you?

He nodded.

"Good. We'll get you back and help you."

There was something in Garret's face he recognized. People lie to themselves, but they know they're lying to themselves. They can't look into the mirror and not know the truth. They can put on a facade to hide the truth from others, but there is no mask thick enough or good enough to hide the truth from yourself.

He saw the deception in Garret's eyes. He saw the looming betrayal.

"You can't lie to me," he told Garret.

Garret's eyes widened.

"I'm your mirror and you're mine."

He saw that Garret understood. He saw the look of fear now. He reached for the pistol in pocket and brought it out, but just as he was doing so, he lunged at himself and grasped his wrist. They struggled and turned, a strangely beautiful dance of death, mirror images, each anticipating the other's steps, looking into the duplicated eyes, the duplicated twisted lips of effort, their arms equal in strength. The spinning grew faster, a little more awkward.

Garret's head trauma sang and shortened his ability to keep his balance.

Then, he did a surprising thing to Garret. Maybe he had to duplicate that head trauma. He brought his head back and snapped it forward so his forehead would strike Garret just at the bridge of his nose. The nose cracked and the pain was electric, shooting up in a dozen directions, tearing through Garret's eyes, into his brain where it exploded like a big lightbulb.

Darkness came rushing in. The grip Garret had on his hands loosened. His legs began to retract as if they were receding into his hips, the calves into the thighs, the thighs into his lower torso until they were completely gone and he was dangling in the air.

It felt like water rushing over him, a great wave washing him farther and farther down until he was too deep to ever come back up.

Garret died in little ways first, first losing all sensitivity in the tips of his fingers and toes, the tip of his nose, his lips, his ears, every extremity falling away, crumbling. It was truly as if his skin was peeling off. There was bone showing everywhere.

There was no sound possible, just the tremendous urge to make one.

How remarkable, Garret thought, is death.

What a fool I have been to avoid it.

Garret's body folded at his feet. He stood looking over him for a long moment. First, he felt relief. The organism felt relief. It had survived, but that was followed by a tremendous sense of sadness, of sorrow and desolation. He was literally mourning himself.

He dropped his head back and squeezed his eyes closed and then he howled like a wild animal that had lost its loving offspring. He was, after all, now truly alone, not connected to anything, floating out there. Prey needed its predators. He had no purpose. From what would he flee? After all, that was all he really existed to do: flee. Refuel, refurbish, and then flee.

He howled again and then he lowered himself to his knees and looked at Garret. What was more terrifying than looking at yourself in death? This was a nightmare come to life. He shook his shoulders and his head bobbed and swung about, those dead eyes like two glass marbles threatening to fall out of his skull.

Then he embraced him and held him, held himself and rocked back and forth for a while.

Afterward, maybe out of a need to deny what was true, he changed clothing, even down to underwear. He put on his watch, took his wallet and identification, slipped, as it were, into him, the way he had slipped into so many other identities. It gave him some consolation, some relief. He rose with a renewed energy, especially when he looked at him in his clothing.

The weaker part of me is dead, he thought. That's all. I go on. A sacrifice was made, nothing more.

"Thank you," he told the new corpse and turned to go.

Before he reached the lobby, he heard the car drive up and saw a tall man get out of a black automobile. There were two men alongside him, both looking rather aggressive, military, even though they were in suits. He stepped back as they came to the door.

"Dr. Stanley, are you all right?" the tall man asked as he entered.

"Yes," he said.

"What's happening?"

"It's over," he said. It just came to him to say that quickly.

"Oh good. What went on here?"

"I'm afraid a few more victims. You'll find them in the two units: a woman and her mother, and a couple. Both of the women are… depleted," he said.

The tall man nodded and turned to the two men.

"I suppose you're going to want to go check it out," he said.

"Right," the taller of the two said and turned to his partner. "I'll do that. You stay with Mr. Dennis and assist him and Doctor Stanley here."

Dennis turned back to him. "Where's…?"

"He's back there with the motel owner," he said quickly.

"Let's take a look," Dennis said and he and the other man followed him into the living room. "Christ, he looks exactly like you. Just as you described. Jesus," he added turning to him, "you both have a bruise on your foreheads, too. That's eerie. How's that?"

"We struggled. He knew why I had come. I didn't have a chance to shoot him. I hit him with the handle of the pistol. Just a coincidence," he added.

"Nevertheless, it's eerie. Anyway," he added while the other man checked out the motel manager, "we'll have a bit of a problem with that doctor, Dr. Barnard. I still don't understand what you were trying to do there, taking her and that bartender out to the old Feinberg property. I had her under control, had her believing I had taken her into my confidence. I don't know why you didn't trust what I told you from my interviews. Now that she has escaped…"

"Who's going to believe her after you speak to the press?" he asked Dennis.

"Well, I'll have a bit of a time with her. She did attend to two of his victims, remember? She is no fool, as you now know, and if she wants, she can contradict intelligently. I'll need a little more help," he added with a wry smile. "To pay for a complete coverup. I'm sure your people will understand the added costs."

He looked at the other man who looked at him and nodded.

"Whatever it takes," he said. "Just do it. This is your territory."

Dennis smiled.

"Good." He turned to the other man who stepped forward and looked at Garret Stanley's body.

"What do you want done with him?"

"Done? Oh. Send him back to the research center, of course."

"We'll see to it," Will Dennis said nodding.

"Good."

Mike returned.

"A mess," he said. "Ugly. Major cleanup, Doctor."

"Just do it," he said.

"At least it ends here," Will Dennis said nodding at Garret Stanley's body.

"Yes," he said. "It ends here."

"Let's get on the phone," Mike told his partner and they went out to the office.

"I guess my having that police sketch put in the paper wasn't a mistake after all, was it, Doctor?" Will asked, smiling with an annoying arrogance. "I guess we're not all country bumpkins after all."

"Apparently not."

"If I had done it earlier, using Dr. Barnard's description, all of this might have been avoided."

"Hindsight is always twenty-twenty," he said.

Dennis nodded.

"Well, I hope this is all going to be worth it someday, Dr. Stanley."

He smiled.

"Oh, it will be. I'm sure. In fact, it's already worth it in so many ways. I'd better get going. I have lots to do."

"I bet. Don't forget to put a good word in for me with those people in high places we discussed. I guess I'll have enough money now to launch a senatorial campaign and you'll be able to count on my vote when you need it."

"Absolutely," he said. "We both want the same things."

"Oh?" Will Dennis smiled. "What's that?"

"More. Always," he said as he started out. "You and I. We'll always want more."

He nodded at him and walked out of the motel.

The moment he did so, he felt like a man who had just been freed from a long prison sentence. Never had he experienced such a surge of elation. I'm gigantic, he thought. He did all he could to contain himself and not scream it at the night sky. I really will go on forever.

He watched the agents in the office behind him talking on the telephone, one on the land phone, one on a cellular, both working diligently to clean up the mess he had left behind. The whole world was working for him. At least for now, he thought as he made his way toward the vehicle he knew belonged to him, to Dr. Garret Stanley.

Finally, he didn't have to share his identity with any other living thing.

It was as if he had thrown off a heavy weight, taken off a shackle. He could breathe easier.

At least for now, he thought again.

He didn't like the sound of that.

There was some threat still looming. It was like a pebble in a shoe. He could feel it and he knew he had to get rid of it.

What was it?

He drove off, his forehead a bit bruised, but folded in deep thought as he struggled to determine the answer. It came, right from Will Dennis's lips.

All he knew at the moment was it was out there, waiting for him.

And once again, he could be the predator.

Terri had her head down on her folded arms. She was at Curt's bedside. He had been sleeping when she entered the room. An hour earlier, she had been with Darlene Stone in the emergency room. Except for emotional trauma and exhaustion, the woman was well enough to go home. Terri arranged for her to have some sedation and told her to just go home and rest. She would talk to her in the morning.

"Don't we have to speak to the police?" she asked.

"I'll take care of all that, Darlene. Just rest," Terri told her.

Darlene's mother and her mother's live-in boyfriend came to pick her up.

Terri did need a half dozen stitches. The bandage made the wound look much more serious than it was. Exhausted herself, she somehow garnered enough energy to go up to see Curt. First, she would assure him she was fine and then she would tell him the story, she thought. Finding him asleep, she made the mistake of lowering her head and closing her eyes.

A gentle nudge on her shoulder awoke her. For a long moment, she forgot where she was. Then it all came rushing back. She turned and looked up at Will Dennis. Instantly, her heart began to pound.