Wild Thing, Page 2

  "The creature?" she echoed, faintly horrified.

  Hunnicutt shrugged. "McDonough called him Tarzan. I don't know what Droggan and Brown call him. I rather fancy something like the Lost Man, though in Latin or Greek. You can call him what you like, though perhaps a code name might come in handy. Let me think about it and I'll let you know."

  He rose. Clearly the interview was at an end, but Libby just stared up at him in annoyance. "You haven't answered half my questions…"

  "Dr. McDonough's research will take care of that. In the meantime, I really do have to leave. Droggan!"

  He must have been lurking just out of sight. "Yes, sir?" A big, surprisingly normal-looking man appeared. One arm was in a cast, and he had a sweet, innocent round face.

  "This is Dr. Holden. I expect you and Brown to take good care of her while I'm away, assist her in any way possible. She'll be in charge of our little project, with you in charge of security. I'm sure you'll manage to be as helpful to her as you are to me.

  "We'll do our best, sir." Cockney accent, Libby noticed.

  "I'm not sure when I'll be back. It shouldn't be too long. You know how to get in touch with me if need be, but I don't expect any such need to arise. I do make myself clear, Droggan?"

  "Like crystal, Mr. Hunnicutt. Have a good trip."

  Libby still hadn't moved from her chair, staring up at the two of them in mute dismay.

  "Don't worry about anything, Dr. Holden. A few hours' sleep, a good meal, and everything will be right as rain. Mr. Droggan's associate, Mr. Brown, happens to be an excellent cook. The two of them will see to your every need."

  Dismay changed to outright alarm. "Are we the only ones here?"

  "The smaller the operation the better, don't you think? I don't want reporters catching wind of my little enterprise. We don't want to tip our hand, now, do we, hmm?"

  "Come along, Dr. Holden," Droggan said in his kindly voice. "We'll get you all settled."

  She followed him out into the barren hallway, then turned to ask one more question of Hunnicutt. The man had disappeared without a sound, without a trace.

  Libby stared at the empty room, momentarily unnerved. And then she squared her shoulders in determination. "I'll need to call the States and tell them I've arrived," she said briskly.

  "Mr. Hunnicutt will see to it," Droggan said calmly, starting down the corridor, the lights automatically preceding him.

  "I'd like to talk to my colleagues…"

  "No outside communication, I'm afraid. Mr. Hunnicutt won't allow it. There's no phone, no computer modem, nothing."

  Again that strange feeling of being trapped. "But I have people I need to call…"

  "Mr. Hunnicutt chose you because you had no family, miss. All the other qualified candidates had connections, responsibilities."

  "You mean the others had a life," she said bitterly.

  "Lucky you, miss. You get the chance the others missed."

  "Lucky me," she echoed.

  "You'll like your rooms, Dr. Holden. Old Ed spared no expense."

  "Old Ed?" she echoed, aghast.

  "That's what Mick and I call him. The man was born old, don't you think?"

  "Mr. Droggan—"

  "Call me Alf. We might as well be chummy."

  The last thing she wanted was to get chummy with someone like Alf Droggan. For all his sweet face, there was something in his eyes that made her uneasy.

  "I'm really tired, Mr. Droggan

  "Of course you are, love," he said. "And here you are." The handleless door opened, like something out of Star Trek, and Libby looked inside.

  "See," Alf said, sounding pleased. "Just the way you like it. Do you want to eat first or have a nap?"

  "I'm not hungry," Libby said dazedly.

  "Well, when you decide you are just press the call button on the intercom, and either Mick or I will answer. Welcome to Ghost Island, Dr. Holden."

  He was gone before she could respond, the door swooshing shut. It was a good thing—she wasn't sure what she'd be able to say.

  She took a few steps forward, set the computer on the floor and collapsed into the oak mission chair with the leather seat cushion. She glanced at the oak armrest. No, it wasn't hers—there was a scar in the wood of the right arm of her chair, made long before she'd bought it at a flea market. This arm was unblemished.

  She looked up, at the round oak table that was a duplicate to the one in her apartment. The Oriental carpet beneath her feet was newer than hers, less worn, but a perfect match. The prints on the walls, the vase filled with dried flowers, the stereo system were all duplicates. And she knew if she rose and went into the adjoining room she'd find a copy of her bedroom furniture, down to the same Laura Ashley sheets.

  A cold sweat covered her body. Someone had been in her apartment, carefully cataloged her possessions. There was probably even a copy of Great Expectations on the side table. She'd made it her New Year's resolution to try to appreciate Charles Dickens, but so far it had been a losing battle.

  No telephone. She reached down and opened her briefcase, pulling out the tiny cell phone she always kept with her. She turned it on, staring at the ominous Out of Range message on the screen. They were deep in some sort of bunker—that didn't mean it wouldn't work if she could ever find her way outside of this air-conditioned prison. It would probably be better if Alf and the unseen Mick didn't know she had it. One never knew when something like this might come in handy.

  She rose, peering inside the bedroom at the copies of her familiar furniture. She used the bathroom, with the thick cotton towels just a faint shade off from her lavender ones, and opened the medicine chest. Everything a girl might need, including condoms. Who did they think she was going to use them with? She slammed it shut again.

  She ran a hand through her short, curly blond hair. She looked just like she usually looked after a nineteen-hour plane ride. Pale, exhausted, circles under her blue eyes, no lipstick on her full mouth. Richard had always told her she could be very pretty if she put a little effort into it. Such flattery didn't do much to endear him to her.

  She was pretty enough. Too short, too flat-chested, with five pounds she could do without, but then, what woman didn't want to get rid of five pounds? She had good skin, good teeth, pretty eyes and average features. Her parents had thought she was beautiful, but then, that's what parents were for. Once they died there was no one to tell her she was clever and pretty and wonderful. And she'd almost forgotten anyone ever thought it.

  The files lay on the oak table, beckoning. She was too tired to think, too tired to sleep. In the windowless rooms she felt claustrophobic, and she knew the only cure for that sense of panic was work.

  She sat down and opened the folder, staring in disbelief at the black-and-white photo of Dr. McDonough's Tarzan.

  Alf walked into the observation room and sat down beside Mick, breathing a heavy sigh. "What's up, then?" he asked, nodding toward the two-way mirror.

  "He's out like a lamb, as always. It's been dead boring, sitting here staring at him. I was thinking we might poke him a bit, see if he responded…"

  "You aren't being paid to think, Mick," Alf said.

  "Good thing, too," said Mick cheerfully. That was one good thing about Mick—he had no delusions about his mental processes, Alf thought. "So tell me about the new doctor. What's she look like? Think she'll be better than McDonough?"

  "Couldn't be much worse," Alf observed. "Depends on what you mean, though. I think Old Ed might have made a mistake this time."

  "Why do you always call him Old Ed? He's younger than we are."

  "I like to," Alf said.

  Mick wisely decided not to question him further on that. "So what about Dr. Holden? Why would it be a mistake?"

  Alf shook his head. "I dunno. Call me superstitious," he said, knowing perfectly well Mick would never be impertinent enough to do so. "I just think she's going to be her own brand of trouble. And I have to admit, laddie, that I'm not in the mood for that kind of
trouble." He shook his head. "Not in the mood at all."

  Chapter Two

  « ^ »

  He dreamed. There wasn't much else he could do, trapped in his motionless body. The memories flew by, tangled like the vines surrounding him, wrapping him tightly, too tightly to move. He was choking, the vines wrapped around his throat, and he couldn't fight back, couldn't rip them away. He tried to call out, but there was only silence, the words stolen from him on a whirlwind, and his breath followed after them, so that he was struggling, clawing for air.

  Even opening his eyes required too much effort. He was lost in a thick black fog, and every time he thought it might be lifting he could hear the voices, feel the sharp sting against his skin, and he'd sink back into oblivion.

  Every now and then he could remember bits and pieces, tumbled together, but the days and weeks and years blurred together. He remembered the men coming out of nowhere, the bite of the rope around his neck, the words he couldn't understand as he tried to fight back. He remembered other things as well, things he didn't want to dwell on. Burying the bodies with his bare hands, listening to the sound of the jungle all around him, warning him, watching him.

  He had no idea who he was, where he was, when he was. He was lost, trapped in a fog created by strange men, and he couldn't escape.

  Libby woke suddenly, ripped from sleep with a violence that left her trembling, disoriented, and it took her countless moments to realize where she was.

  She'd fallen asleep at the table in her creepily replicated cell, her face pressed against the stacks of paper and photos that the late Dr. McDonough had left behind. She had no idea how long she'd slept, only that her body felt cramped and stiff and someone was knocking at the door.

  With a stifled moan she pushed back from the table, rising on unsteady legs. The photos lay scattered on the table, and for some odd reason she quickly shuffled them back together, tucking them inside the folder, before she went to the door.

  Fat lot of good that it did here. There was no handle, doorknob, no visible way to open it. "Who's there?" she called out.

  "Mick Brown, Dr. Holden. I've brought you something to eat. May I come in?"

  Another Cockney accent, like his associate's, Mr. Droggan. "I don't have any idea how to open the door," she said.

  Immediately the white door slid open, not improving Libby's sense of security one whit. Standing in front of her was a small, ferret-faced man with clever, malicious eyes and an unlikely smile. "There's a button hidden in the casement, miss," he said. "To the left there."

  She ran her hand along the side of the door until she found it. She pushed, and the door slid shut in the man's face. A moment later he opened it again.

  "See," he said cheerfully. "Simple as pie."

  "Is there any way to lock it?"

  The man looked oddly stricken. "Why would you want to do that, miss? It's safe as houses around here. We've got the ape-man locked up all tight and proper, and there's only me and me mate Alf here. No one here to harm you."

  For some reason the villainous-looking man's feelings were hurt. "I just like a sense of privacy," she said in an apologetic tone.

  "No place more private. Alf and me live on the lower level, beneath the observation area, and you're alone on this floor. You can walk around starkers for all the notice anyone would pay you."

  "That's not the point. I find it difficult to concentrate on my work if I think I might be interrupted."

  "But we wouldn't…"

  "I need a lock, Mr. Brown," she said firmly.

  He shrugged, defeated. "No problem, Dr. Holden. Alf can adjust it on the computer that runs the household. It'll just take him a minute."

  "That relieves my mind," Libby said dryly, but Mick Brown didn't even notice her sarcasm.

  "You must be hungry, miss. I brought you some chicken soup and a sandwich, just a little something to tide you over. I don't know if Alf told you, but you've got a refrigerator filled with juices and energy drinks. Dr. McDonough didn't usually bother with food at all—the protein and vitamin shakes got him through."

  "I like food," Libby said firmly, taking the tray from him. He wasn't much taller than she was, though a little taller than Edward J. Hunnicutt. "What time is it? I forgot to change my watch."

  "I don't think you're going to want to bother with that, miss. After all, time is relative out here…"

  "Part of scientific observation is to keep accurate records, and I can hardly do that without a watch, now, can I?"

  "It's half past three, miss."

  "That's not too bad," she said. "Er…is that morning or afternoon?"

  "Middle of the night, miss. But don't you worry—you'll get used to it soon enough."

  She had her doubts about that. "When can I see my subject?"

  "No hurry, miss. He's been waiting this long. He'll keep a few hours longer, just while you get a chance to eat something and tidy up a bit."

  "I'll be ready to inspect the facilities in fifteen minutes," she said firmly.

  "Now, miss, we just gave George his shot. He won't even be moving for hours now."

  "Shot?"

  "A very special concoction of cutting-edge tranquilizers. They keep him sedated without interfering with his blood. He gets it every four hours. Keeps 'im nice and docile. Dr. McDonough was having us cut back when Alf had his little accident, so we thought it best to up the dosage again. Safer all around."

  "Safer?" she echoed.

  "He gets a bit too frisky if we don't dope him up. Broke Alf's arm in three places. The bruises are just starting to heal."

  "Mr. Droggan didn't look bruised."

  "No, on the ape-man, miss. Alf's got a nasty streak when he's crossed, and he took it out on old Tarzan, he did."

  "His name isn't Tarzan."

  "Well, that's as good a name as any. Sometimes we call 'im George of the Jungle, especially after Alf got through with him. Looked like he'd gone splat into a tree. Old Ed calls him the Creature, but that makes me think of the Black Lagoon movie, and this thing didn't come from no swamp."

  "We'll find a name for him. In the meantime, I'll be ready to see the…subject in half an hour. Why don't you see if you can do something about the lock?" She kept her tone firm.

  Mick shrugged. "Anything you say, Doc. I'll be back in a jiff."

  The door slid shut behind him, and Libby stayed where she was, holding the tray in her hands. Belatedly she realized the steaming soup smelled delicious, and she set the tray down on the table, away from the folder that someone had titled Project: Missing Link.

  She ate quickly, efficiently, took a fast shower and put on fresh clothes: khakis, a polo shirt and a white lab coat. She didn't usually wear a lab coat, but right now she wanted the security of it. Her hair was still wet when she heard the rapping on her door, but it was so short she just shook it dry as she went to answer it.

  She followed Mick down the long, spotless hallways, listening to his chatter with only half a brain as she tried to pick out almost nonexistent landmarks. She'd find her way back to her room, but not without a bit of trouble. "How long has this place been here?" she asked.

  Mick grinned at her. "You wouldn't believe it. Not much more than a couple of months. Old Ed can get what he wants, when he wants, with the kind of money he has. Before that this island belonged to a group of multinational ecological organizations, but once they found Tarzan old Ed swooped in and bought it, lock, stock and rain forest. Had this place erected in record time, he did, and we've been here ever since, keeping an eye on things, so to speak."

  "Is there anyone else on the island?"

  "Nope. It was supposedly uninhabited, until Tarzan… er, the subject was discovered. Then Hunnicutt took over, and the rest is history."

  "Actually I'd say the rest is top secret, considering there isn't even a telephone line out here," Libby said. "What's he so paranoid about?"

  "Afraid someone will scoop him when it comes to his big discovery. Old Ed's a determined man, and he doesn'
t like coming in second. I think he's looking for the Nobel Prize."

  "Bankers aren't usually the ones who get the prizes," she said dryly. "Just because he's funding the research doesn't mean he's earned the award."

  "Ed has a way of getting what he wants. And dangling the right sort of rewards in front of those he needs to help him. You'd like to be involved in a prize-winning scientific discovery, now, wouldn't you? It would make your career—you could write your own ticket."

  "Yes," she said, always honest.

  "Everyone's got a price," Mick said cheerfully, pausing before a double door. "And Ed's willing to meet it"

  The doors slid open, exposing a huge room that looked like a white-painted mission control from the NASA space center. Rows of desks, computer screens and technical instruments, beeping noises, formed a semicircle around a huge screen. The main difference was the almost total lack of manpower. Only Alf Droggan was in the room, leaning against one of the desks as he stared into the screen.

  He stood up, slowly, with just a trace of hesitation, and nodded his balding head. "Welcome to the fish tank, Dr. Holden. Did you have a nice nap?"

  Lying facedown on an oak table was not Libby's idea of a nice nap, but she nodded. "Who was responsible for my rooms?"

  "Something wrong with them?" Mick asked anxiously.

  "No, they're fine. They're just a little too…familiar."

  Alf laughed, a hearty, booming sound that belied his cool, watching eyes. "It's a mistake to underestimate Hunnicutt, Dr. Holden. He can do anything he wants. I presume he somehow managed to make your rooms here look like your current apartment."

  "How'd you guess?"

  "He gave us that choice. Considering that our digs here are a hell of a lot nicer than the ones we were used to, we said no thanks. But he must have decided to just go ahead and have yours done, anyway."