God Project (30 page)

For the third time, her hands manipulated the keyboard, and once more the screen went blank for a few seconds. As before, the screen began to fill with numbers, but Ulis time there were names attached to them. As Sally stared at the names, her eyes brimmed with tears.

“I told it to find Julie’s case number, then list all the names and numbers of the rest of that group,” she explained.

All the names were on the list.

Randy Corliss.

Adam Rogers.

Julie Montgomery.

Eden Ransom.

Jason Montgomery.

In all, there were forty-six names. Sally Montgomery and Mark Malone stared at the list for several seconds, each deep in his own thoughts.

“We’d better print it out,” Malone said at last.

Sally nodded silently, and her fingers once more began moving over the keyboard, but slowly this time, as if by committing the list to paper she would somehow seal whatever fates awaited the children whose names appeared on it.

   Fifty feet away, Arthur Wiseman sat in his office listening
quietly while Steve Montgomery once again described Jason’s misadventures.

“And that’s it?” he asked when Steve had finished his recital.

“That’s it.”

Wiseman turned to Jason.

“And what about you, son? Did it happen the way your father told it?”

“I—I guess so,” Jason faltered. “I mean, the fight happened, and I was bleeding.”

“Well, why don’t we just have a look at you and see what we can find, all right?”

Jason frowned. He hated it when Dr. Malone poked and prodded at him, and stuck the ice cream stick in his mouth and made him say
aaahhh
. It wasn’t as if he was ever sick, or anything was wrong with him. “I’m okay,” he said.

“And who said you weren’t?” Wiseman countered with mock severity. “All I want to do is take a peek. I haven’t seen you since the day you were born, and it seems to me it’s only fair if you let me admire my work.”

“Were you the doctor who delivered me?” Jason asked. He’d always thought it was Dr. Malone.

“Sure was. Popped you a good one on the bottom, then handed you over to Ehr. Malone. You were a scrappy little critter, as I recall. Nearly tore the roof off this place with the screaming and yelling.”

Still talking, Wiseman led Jason into the examining room and boosted him up onto the table.

“What are those?” the little boy asked, staring curiously at the stirrups that rose from one end of the table.

“Just something I use now and then. Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

Obediently, Jason stripped to the waist, then waited to see what would happen. A moment later he felt the cold chill of the stethoscope as the doctor listened to his heartbeat and his breathing. Then he looked from side to side while Dr. Wiseman carefully watched his eyes.

“Which one got the fist?”

“This one” Jason replied, holding his hand up to his right eye.

Wiseman compared the boy’s eyes carefully, and saw no evidence of a bruise. “Couldn’t have been much of a punch.”

“I guess it wasn’t,” Jason admitted. “It only hurt for a second.”

“And what about the other day, when you spilled the fudge on your arm. Did that hurt?”

“Not much,” Jason said, scratching his head while he tried to remember. “I guess it did at first, but not very long. Like the day I cut my finger.”

“Your finger?” Wiseman asked.

Jason nodded. “I was making a fort and I cut myself.”

“Badly?”

“Nah. It bled for a minute, and I was going to put a Band-Aid on it, but then it healed up.”

Now it was Wiseman who scratched his head. “Healed up? Before you put a Band-Aid on it?”

“Sure.”

Wiseman thought for a moment, then spoke again. “How would you like to have your blood tested?” he asked.

“What for?”

“Just to find out something,” Wiseman replied.

“Okay.”

A moment later, while Jason watched, Wiseman plunged a needle into the boy’s arm and drew out five cc’s of blood. With a single practiced motion, he drew out the needle, placed an alcohol-soaked wad of cotton on the point where the needle had pierced Jason’s skin, then folded the boy’s arm so that the cotton was held in place. “Just hold your arm like that for a few minutes,” he said. Taking the blood sample with him, he returned to his office and picked up the phone. He issued a series of orders, then, putting the receiver bade on the hook, he turned to Steve Montgomery.

“Is something wrong?” Steve asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Wiseman replied. “At the moment it doesn’t look like it, but I want some tests run on his
blood. Also, it appears that Jason may have an unusual ability, which I’m testing right now.” He glanced at his watch. Two minutes had elapsed since he had withdrawn the needle from Jason’s arm. “Just sit tight a minute.”

He returned to the examining room and smiled at the boy. “All right,” he said. “Let’s have a look and see if you’re bleeding.”

Jason unfolded his arm, and Wiseman removed the cotton wad from the small wound.

Except that there was no wound there.

He examined the skin very closely, but nowhere could he find so much as a mark indicating that the skin had recently been punctured.

Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Wiseman led Jason back to the office, then sent him on out to the waiting room. “I want to talk to your father for a few minutes. Okay?”

Jason, glad that the examination was over, grinned happily. “Okay” Then something occurred to him. “I always get a sucker from Dr. Malone.”

“Well, I’m afraid I don’t have any,” Wiseman told him. “But maybe, if you’re a good boy, I can go down to Dr. Malone’s office in a few minutes and find one. How’s that?”

“Okay.”

Jason disappeared into the waiting room, and Wiseman closed the door behind him.

“Well?” Steve asked.

“Well,” Wiseman said softly, “I just don’t know. It appears to me that Jason heals at an abnormally fast rate.”

“What does that mean?”

Wiseman shrugged helplessly. “I can’t tell you. It would seem to me that it means Jason has some kind of abnormality in his body, and it’s manifesting itself in an accelerated regeneration of tissue. But I can’t be sure what else it might be doing.”

Steve frowned. “I don’t follow you.”

Wiseman wondered what to say, and finally decided to say as little as possible. His fingers began their habitual drumming on the desk top.

“I think perhaps it might be wise to keep Jason here for a day or two,” he began. “Jason seems to have some kind of abnormality, and until we find out just what it is and just what its effects are, I’d like to keep him under observation.”

“You mean here?” Steve asked. If nothing was wrong with Jason, why should he stay in the hospital?

“Here,” Wiseman agreed. Then, after a slight hesitation, he added, “Or perhaps in a diagnostic clinic.” He began carefully explaining to Steve exactly what he had in mind.

As he listened to the older man, Steve began to feel as if he had lost control over his life and the lives of his family. First Julie, then Sally, now Jason. What had happened? What
was
happening? He could understand none of it, and as Wiseman continued talking, it all began to sound more and more unreal. By the time Wiseman had finished, Steve’s resistance to the idea of putting an apparently healthy child in the hospital had begun to erode. Perhaps, he had begun to think, Jason
should
be put under observation. At least for a while …

   Randy Corliss stood uncertainly outside the fence. The howling of the dogs grew louder. He wondered how many of them there were.

He’d never heard them before, or seen them. Had they been there all the time? But where? Maybe they’d been kept locked up in the basement. But what did it mean that they were loose now? Did they already know he had escaped, or were they loose every night, guarding the grounds. And then he saw them—three of them—moving steadily along his trail to the point where he’d gone into the water. They paused there; their baying stopped suddenly while they sniffed curiously around, first at the ground, then at the air. And then they turned and began moving toward him. Randy stood still, fascinated by the huge beasts, his fear eased by the high fence that separated him from them.

As he watched they discovered the fourth dog, lying dead near the fence, and suddenly their snuffling and
sniffing gave way to whining. They poked at the corpse, pawing at it almost as if they were uncertain of what it was. And then, as one, they caught Randy’s scent. Their dead companion suddenly forgotten, they turned toward the fence, fangs bared, and began snarling. The ugly sound grew until the night was once again filled with their terrifying voices.

Randy fled into the woods.

For the first few minutes he simply ran, but then, as the baying of the dogs faded slightly, he paused. He had to think.

If they knew he was gone, they would turn the dogs loose in the forest. Not only that, but they would find the dead dog and know exactly where to let the live ones hunt. And as soon as they caught his scent, he wouldn’t have a chance.

And then an image of the dogs at the edge of the stream came to his mind.

His trail had ended there, and they hadn’t known what to do.

He must get back to the stream.

It was off to the right somewhere.

Or was it?

He’d been so frightened, he hadn’t paid much attention to where he was going. He thought he’d run in a straight line, at least as straight as he could while still threading his way through the trees, but had he really?

He stood still. The blackness seemed to close in around him, shutting out everything—even the howling dogs—and he felt the first ragged edges of panic reaching out for him. It was like when he was learning to swim, and he’d gotten into deep water for the first time. His mother had been there with him, only a couple of feet away, but still he had begun thrashing at the water, terrified that he was going to die.

And then he’d heard his mother’s voice calmly telling him not to panic, to let himself float. And now, as that strange sense of terror began flooding over him, he repeated his mother’s words.

“Don’t panic,” he said out loud. Then, again, “Don’t panic.”

And it worked. The terror eased. The rushing sound in his head that had momentarily blocked out the sounds of the night disappeared, and once more he could hear the dogs. He turned, so the sound seemed to be coming from behind him. And then, slowly and deliberately, he turned to the right and began walking through the woods. He moved slowly, pausing every few minutes to listen.

Finally, he heard it. Ahead of him was the soft, gurgling sound of running water. He began to run.

He came to the brook and waded in, turning left to begin making his way upstream. The bottom was covered with water-smoothed rocks, and even the rubber soles of his sneakers failed to find a firm purchase on them. Randy found himself slipping and sliding, falling into the water, only to pick himself up and keep going.

He waded on and on, with no idea of the direction in which the stream was leading him or what his goal might be. All he knew was that he had to get away from the Academy, or he would die. And in order to get away, he must stay in the water, where the dogs couldn’t follow him.

Suddenly the noise of the water increased. Randy searched the darkness ahead. Vaguely he could see that he was approaching a fork; the brook he had been wading in was only an offshoot of a larger stream. What if it was too deep, or the current was too fast? And yet he knew he had no choice. Doggedly, he made his way into the larger stream, and began battling against the current. The water was over his knees now.

He came to a small waterfall, and his path was suddenly blocked. He stopped, staring at the four-foot cascade, and wondered what to do.

To the left there seemed to be a path.

Should he leave the stream?

But what if the dogs came this way and found his scent on the path? ‘

He stayed in the water and began groping for a hand
hold that would allow him to pull himself up directly through the torrent At last his right hand found the slippery surface of a branch that had lodged in the rocks. He clung to it while his feet battled the current to find a toehold. And then, for just a moment, his right foot caught and he hauled himself over the ledge to lie gasping and choking in the stream. He looked up. Just ahead of him a large rock rose out of the water. He heaved himself back to his feet and struggled toward it, not sure he had the strength to get to it, but unwilling to sink back into the cold water.

And then he was there. He sank down onto the rock, his breath coming in a series of heaving gasps. He was soaked through, and cold, and his teeth were chattering.

But, for the moment, he was safe.

He had no way of knowing how long he sat on the rock, but it seemed like hours. And then, finally, his teeth stopped chattering, and his breath came easily and evenly. He listened, straining to hear the baying of the dogs, but if it was there, the rushing water made it indistinguishable from any other sound.

At last he got to his feet and continued wading. The stream leveled out, and the rocky bottom was replaced by sand. The wading became easier, and Randy was no longer even tempted to leave the stream.

Ahead a light flashed.

Randy stopped and stood stock-still, staring into the darkness.

Was someone out there with a light, looking for him?

Once again the light flashed. Suddenly, Randy knew what it was.

Ahead of him there was a road, and the flashes of light were cars. He redoubled his efforts and forged ahead, splashing through the water, his mind filled with the memories of the previous summer, when he had been alone in the dark, then seen lights, and finally come to a road. Maybe it would happen like that again, and someone would find him and take him home.

He came to the bridge that carried the road over the stream. He was about to scramble up the bank to wave
at the first car that came along, when he suddenly stopped.

What if Dr. Hamlin was out there in a car looking for him? Or Miss Bowen? Or any of them?