The Brain Eaters

Chapter 14

The name of the motel was the Beddie-Bye. That was the kind of thing that normally made Dena Falkner want to throw up. That night she did not give a damn. She had not, as a matter of fact, even noticed the name. The red Vacancy sign was lit, and that was all she cared about.

Her room had the usual motel furnishings: queen-size bed, bureau, writing desk with no stationery, bathroom with glasses in waxed Baggies, toilet with a “sanitary” paper strip across the seat, bolted-down television set. On the wall, also bolted, were prints of peaceful landscapes that existed only in the imagination of the uncredited artist.

Dena dropped her bag on the aluminum-tube luggage rack and left the motel to find something to eat. There was a coffee shop adjoining the office, but by that time Dena was aware of the name and was not going to eat in anything called Beddie-Bye.

She drove a mile to a place called Harvey’s that looked less offensive than the other eateries along the highway. At least there were no pickup trucks in the parking lot. Inside, it proved to be quiet and unpretentious, with real woodwork and subdued lighting. Dena ordered prime rib and a half bottle of California Burgundy. She was grateful when the waitress left her alone to finish the meal in her own time and think about what she was going to do the next day.

It was still early when she left the restaurant, but the excitement of the day and the half bottle of wine had made her sleepy. She paid the bill with her American Express card and drove back to the motel. Back in her room she got out of her clothes, took a shower, put on a pair of shorty pajamas, and lay down in the bed. Instantly, she was wide awake.

She snapped on the television set but found that it was afflicted with vertical roll. After watching a succession of Merv Griffins slide up and off the top of the screen, she snapped off the set and lit a Carlton. She wished she had bought a paperback to read. A mystery or a good horror story. The only reading material in the hotel room was the Gideon Bible, and Dena was not in the mood for that.

She lay back on the bed smoking, listening to the muffled sounds of traffic outside on the highway. She felt herself sinking into one of those depressed what-am-I-doing-here moods. Definitely counterproductive.

To snap herself out of it, Dena examined her motives in coming to Milwaukee specifically to see Corey Macklin. He was really not a very likable man. She had no way of knowing how capable he was other than to recognize that he was the only one who early on seemed to realize the importance of what happened to Hank Stransky and the others. Even so, Dena suspected him of using the story of the seizures for his own enrichment. Or hoping to do so.

But where else was there to go? Dr. Kitzmiller, whom she had always respected, was too deeply involved himself, in one way or another, to be of any help to her. And as for the police, she had already come to the same conclusion as Macklin had — they were not going to get involved unless there was a crime. As far as Dena was concerned, there assuredly was a crime here somewhere, but she would need more solid evidence before she considered going to the police.

There was nobody else. Oh, given time, she might convince someone that all was not kosher at the Biotron plant, but how much time did she have? Dena had a feeling there was not much, and she needed action now, not words.

So she was left with Corey Macklin. Not exactly a knight in shining armor, but all she had. And maybe, after all, he was not as shallow as he seemed on first meeting. Underneath the sophomoric cynicism, maybe there was a man hidden somewhere. Dena could only hope so. She would watch him closely the next day when they went together to the local office of the EPA.

Dena snubbed out her cigarette and lay back, using auto-relaxation techniques to will herself to sleep. Sleeping had seldom been a problem for her. There had been some restless nights during her affair with the doctor in Chicago, but nothing serious. However, during the past two weeks, since Stu Anderson disappeared and especially since Lloyd Bratz showed up at her house, she had slept only fitfully.

She concentrated on thinking about her work. Not the new conflict with Dr. Kitzmiller about the accidental spraying but about her regular assignment on developing a pesticide for the gypsy moth. That project had languished as Dena’s concern grew over Stu and the violent fate of disparate people who had had the misfortune to be on the old county road outside Biotron at the wrong time. She wondered who was working on the gypsy moth now. She wondered if anyone cared. She imagined huge gypsy moths gobbling up everything green in sight, then starting on the people. On that fantasy she drifted into a troubled sleep.

While Dena was settling in at the Beddie-Bye Motel, Corey Macklin was preparing the turndown speech he was going to give Nathan Eichorn on the Houston job offer. He had worked himself into a fine righteous indignation when a telephone call informed him that Mr. Eichorn had been called back to Houston on an urgent personal matter. His business with Mr. Macklin would have to wait.

Corey went home to bed with a profound sense of relief. He took comfort in the thought that even if his reasons were partly selfish, he had been prepared to do the noble thing.

In the tenth-floor suite of the San Francisco hotel Anton Kuryakin sat at a writing desk poring over a stack of American newspapers. He had marked several stories with a felt-tipped pen. Viktor Raslov sat on the opposite side of the room talking in low tones into the telephone. The two thick-bodied men sat at a small table playing chess.

When Raslov hung up the telephone, he came over to where Kuryakin was sitting.

“You are very busy, Anton.”

Kuryakin spread out the newspapers before him. “Look here,” he said. “I have marked the stories. Here … here … and here. Stories of sudden, unexplained violence. Random violence directed against anyone at hand. These attacks have spread rapidly in diverse parts of the country.” He looked up at Raslov. “There can no longer be any question of what has happened.”

“Good. Our assignment here is finished.”

“Our assignment was to learn what progress the Americans have made in their version of Project Romanov.”

“I know our job as well as you, Anton, and I say we are finished here. Our local consulate and the embassy in Washington concur.”

“In the name of humanity, can we remain silent?”

“Humanity was not mentioned in our new orders.”

“What new orders?”

“To return home.”

“Comrade, knowing what will happen here, how can we go?”

Raslov put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Anton, my friend, knowing what will happen, how could we stay?”

Kuryakin grew thoughtful. “How soon must we leave?”

“As soon as practicable. I should say within the week. Aeroflot will have transportation ready for us in Washington. I should not have to remind you that we will be closely watched until then.”

“No,” said Kuryakin. “You do not have to remind me.”