The Brain Eaters

Chapter 26

All the way back through the littered streets to the Dorchester Apartments, Corey had a sense of foreboding, like a cold, moist hand clamped on the back of his neck. He repeatedly told himself to snap out of it, that there could be any number of reasons why Doc had not answered his telephone. But the cold grip would not loosen.

He left the Cutlass out in front of the building in a no-parking zone. Interesting, he thought, how insignificant our minor laws become in a time of mortal danger. He would have given a lot to know he would come back and find a cop ticketing his car, just as though it still mattered where anybody parked. He irritably pushed the thought away. The cops had other worries, and so did he.

The woman somewhere on the first floor was still sobbing. She seemed to have been frozen in her lament since the beginning of time.

As Corey topped the second flight of stairs, he detected another smell mixed with the stale cooking odor. It was the old Fourth of July smell of exploded gunpowder.

He quickened his step down the hallway and knocked at the door to Doc’s apartment. There was no response. In his heart Corey had not expected there would be one. He tried the door. It was unlocked. Somehow he had expected that, too.

Corey stepped inside. The gunpowder smell was sharpest in there, cutting through the memory of a thousand cigarettes. A layer of blue haze hung in the room at eye level.

Doc lay with the lower part of his body on the bed, the upper sprawled down to the floor. Beneath his head the rug was soaked with dark, drying blood.

Corey knelt beside his friend. He saw the revolver still gripped in Doc’s hand. He saw the beginning of the red welts on the old reporter’s sallow face. Welts that would now not erupt to blow out the eggs of the brain eaters.

He stood up quickly and walked into the bathroom. There he braced his hands on the edges of the porcelain sink and leaned his head over it while his stomach lurched. In a few seconds the churning in his gut eased, and Corey looked up into the mirror over the sink. What did Doc see in this glass, he wondered, before he ate the bullet? Corey looked into his own eyes and did not much like what he saw there.

“This is it, hotshot. The Big Story,” he told his warped reflection. “The one you’ve been waiting for. Now that you’ve got it, how do you like it?”

He turned away from the unanswering image in the glass and went back into the living room — bedroom. He walked over and eased Doc’s feet down off the bed and arranged them so he was lying on the floor. Making the corpse more comfortable. Doc would have laughed at that.

He spread a blanket over his friend and walked to the refrigerator. He popped the top of a can of Heileman’s and raised it in the direction of the body.

“So long, Doc,” he said. “Rest easy.”

He drained half the can of beer, set the rest down on the table, and walked out of the apartment. Downstairs the woman was still crying.

“I wish I could join you, lady,” Corey whispered, and continued out of the building.

On the street a teenager with a scraggly moustache was trying to break into the Cutlass.

“What the hell are you doing?” Corey yelled at him.

“Fuck you, old man.”

That was exactly what Corey needed. With an open-mouthed cry of pent-up rage, he started to run at the would-be car thief. The youth stared for a moment, then turned to flee. Corey caught him with a punishing tackle at the knees and brought him down hard on the pavement.

“Hey, don’t, mister …” the teenager protested.

But Corey could not stop. He rolled the boy over onto his back and drove his fist again and again into the frightened face. The boy’s nose broke, his teeth gave, he blubbered through the blood that filled his mouth.

With his fist drawn back for one more blow, Corey suddenly stopped. The black rage drained away, and he relaxed, unclenching his hand. He rose and walked back to the car, paying no attention to the whimpering boy, who still lay on the sidewalk. His thoughts were somber as he started the car and headed north, but the terrible anger was gone.

Dr. Kitzmiller leaned forward across the desk in his Spartan office adjacent to the laboratories. His cheeks were sunken, and there were purple shadows under his eyes. Fatigue lay heavy upon him, but his eyes blazed with the bright blue light of a Bunsen burner.

“I am tired of carrying on the pretense,” he told the man standing across the desk from him. “It takes time and energy that I should be giving to finding the antidote.”

“You’re exhausted,” the other man said. “You should get some sleep.”

“Who is the doctor here?” Kitzmiller asked with grim humor.

“I can tell by looking at you.”

“It is only because you are not accustomed to seeing me up close like this,” Kitzmiller said. “Usually with us it has been through a glass darkly.”

“The one-way mirror was a necessary device. It would have been awkward to explain my presence in the room.”

“Yes, awkward to say the least.”

“You really should try to sleep,” the man said again.

“There is no time. Even when I do lie down, there is no rest. I cannot forget what I have done. Do you know what they have called me in the press? ‘Father of the Brain Eaters.’ How would you like to live with that?”

“You’re getting too thin-skinned. The brain eaters were an accident.”

Kitzmiller half rose from his chair. “Ah, were they? Were they indeed an accident?”

“You know they were.”

“I know what we are telling the people. That the whole thing was the unfortunate result of an experimental pesticide that was unfortunately not properly disposed of. At best a half-truth. There is no comfort for me in it.”

“Are you talking to me about conscience?”

Kitzmiller subsided. “It is somewhat late for that, isn’t it. Nevertheless, it becomes more difficult every day for me to sustain the lie.”

“You don’t have to talk to anybody.”

“I know. Young Corey Macklin does all the talking for me. Nevertheless, the reporters are here. I see them outside the fence. I read in their eyes that they do not believe all that we are telling them.”

“It’s not important whether they believe or not. You know how vital it is that no rumors get started.”

“By rumors do you mean the true story of the brain eaters? Who the real father is?” Kitzmiller’s mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“It is vital,” the other man repeated.

“So you say.” He let several seconds go by, then sighed. “Very well. I will say nothing … for now.” He pushed himself up out of the chair. “I must get back to the laboratories.”

The other man stayed in his chair, frowning, and watched him go.

During the drive from Milwaukee back to the Biotron plant, Corey came to a decision. He saw the absurdity of charting a new direction for his future at a time when he had no assurance there would be a future. All the same, it was a decision, and he felt better having made it.

He flashed his identification at the gate and was waved through by the armed security man. Only half a dozen cars were parked now in the executives’ lot. Corey wondered grimly how many of the names still painted on the unused spaces belonged to dead men.

He entered the building and walked into the office used by Lou Zachry. The government man was talking on the telephone. He held up a hand signaling Corey to wait while he concluded the conversation.

“You’re sure of your facts?” Zachry said into the mouthpiece. Then, after a pause, he asked, “And what makes you think this Karloff is our man? … Description fits, eh? … And Raslov knows? … I see. I guess all we can do is try to head him off at this end.”

Zachry hung up the phone wearily and exhaled between clenched teeth.

“Lou,” Corey began, “I want to talk to you.”

“Sit down. How was Milwaukee?”

Corey remained standing. “Milwaukee was depressing. Lou, I want out.”

“Yeah, don’t we all. The press conference was a little sticky this afternoon without you here. I tried to work up a handout for the pool people, but I don’t have your knack. Better try to come up with a fresh angle for them next time.”

“Lou, hear me. I want out of the job. Now.”

Zachry looked at him. The square, all-American face sagged with weariness. “You can’t mean that. You’re upset about something.”

“I’m upset, all right, but I mean it like I never meant anything else. I quit. I’m through. I don’t want to do this chicken-shit job anymore.”

“Do you know what kind of a bind that leaves me in, Corey?”

“I’m sorry, but — ”

“It’s not like I can go out and hire somebody else. We all signed on here for the duration — however long or short a time that may be.”

“I don’t remember signing anything,” Corey said.

“A figure of speech.”

“I don’t feel bound by a figure of speech.”

Zachry pinched his eyes shut and massaged them with thumb and middle finger. “No, you’re right. There’s no contract. I’ve no right to keep you if you don’t want to stay.”

“Lou, don’t do a Knute Rockne number on me. The important work here is being done in the laboratories. That will get done, or it won’t, regardless of whether I’m here to hand-hold a bunch of reporters. I don’t know how much time I’ve got left, but I don’t want to spend it making up phony press releases.”

Zachry gave him a shrewd look. “What happened in Milwaukee? Did you decide to take one of the book contracts?”

“Hell, no. I don’t give a damn about writing the brain-eaters story anymore. Anyway, in a little while there might be nobody left to read it.”

“What is it, then?” Zachry asked. “I know you’re frustrated with your role here, but — ”

“It’s more than that, Lou. I’m not sure what happened to me. Maybe I got religion.”

Zachry leaned back in the chair. “Okay. Whatever it is you feel you’ve got to do, I wish you luck. You were a big help to me here. I’ll make some arrangements, but it won’t be easy. Especially now.” He inclined his head toward the telephone. “Do you know what that call was?”

Corey shook his head.

“Those Russians who came through here last month — the so-called agricultural delegation — it seems they lost one of them in San Francisco.”

“What do you mean lost?”

“The FBI botched a routine surveillance. Thought they were supposed to detain the people. Everything got confused, and by the time it was straightened out, one of them, Anton Kuryakin, was missing.”

“What of it?”

“Kuryakin is probably the Soviet Union’s top man in biochemistry. They’ve traced him to a flight out of San Francisco for Chicago. To me that means he’s coming here.”

“Isn’t that kind of a jump in logic?”

“Not really. The man is an Iron Curtain version of Kitzmiller. He tried to talk to Kitzmiller while they were here, but you know our Dr. K and his Commiephobia.”

“It sounds like you’ve got a touch of that yourself.”

“Maybe. But I’m as sure as I sit here that Kuryakin is on his way. Worse, Viktor Raslov and the two goons aren’t far behind. Just one more thing for me to worry about” — he paused for a beat — “in addition to writing handouts to keep the media pool off my back.” He looked up at Corey through knitted brows. “But none of this is your worry anymore, is it.”

“I’ll write the goddam handouts,” Corey said.

“You’re staying?”

“Gimme the ball, coach.”

Zachry came around the desk and wrung Corey’s hand. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me.” He glanced at his watch. “And just in time. I promised the pool an extra briefing this evening when you got back from Milwaukee. Told them you were checking out some important new leads.”

“You son of a bitch,” Corey said.

“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.” He gave Corey the old all-American grin.

Corey found Dr. Kitzmiller in the laboratory, huddling with his associates. Dena cocked a questioning eyebrow at him. He gave her a tell-you-later look and managed to separate Kitzmiller from the others momentarily.

“I have a briefing scheduled with the reporters in a little while,” he said, “and I need some help from you.”

“I don’t care what you tell those dummkopfs, Mr. Macklin. Just keep them out of my hair.”

“Dr. Kitzmiller, I can’t go on feeding them the same baloney. These people are not stupid. If they seem intrusive, that’s their job. This is a terrible time for our country, but the people still have a right to know what’s going on. And we have a duty to tell them something.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I want to tell them about the blood test to detect presence of the parasite.”

“I have already explained to you that we have only preliminary data. Any announcement would be premature.”

“The old rules don’t apply anymore, doctor,” Corey said heatedly. “What might have been premature last year is damn near too late now. The people out there are waiting to hear what we’re doing to try to save them. I want to tell them.”

Kitzmiller took a step back as though to have a better look at Corey. “You sound different, young man.”

“Maybe I’m thinking different.”

“Very well. If you feel it is so important, tell the people about the blood test. Make it clear, however, that this is not a cure, nor will it necessarily lead to a cure.”

“I’d like to have the specialists themselves tell the reporters about it. It was Dr. Pena and Dr. Knight who developed the test, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was, but I could not possibly spare them for — ”

“Half an hour,” Corey said. “If we give the pool reporters half an hour of real news coming from somebody with real credentials, they’ll be a lot easier to live with.”

Dr. Kitzmiller sighed heavily. “Everywhere I turn today I meet with opposition. Very well, take my doctors, but not one minute more than your half hour, or I swear I will bar you from the laboratories, too.”

“It’s a deal.”

Corey put out a hand, but Kitzmiller ignored it and hurried back to his teammates.

Drs. Pena and Knight proved to be an unqualified hit with the reporters. Marcus Pena was relaxed and friendly, with the unlined face of a teenager and a respect for the intelligence of his audience. Dorothea Knight said little, but she had a sensational chest, which was more than enough for the news-starved media. At last television had something to show pictures of.

After the briefing was over, Corey returned the two doctors to Kitzmiller’s care and retired to his cramped little room. He turned the lamp to the wall, sat down on the bed, and pulled off his shoes. Then he lay back with his hands clasped behind his head and stared at the ceiling. A spider that had somehow gotten into the pesticide palace was optimistically spinning a web up in one corner. While Corey’s eyes followed the progress of the little creature, his mind was many miles away.

A knock at the door.

“Enter.”

The door opened, and Dena Falkner stood there. Her caramel-colored hair was down and was given a soft halo effect by the brighter light out in the hall.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“Want to talk about it?”

He hesitated, then said, “Not really.”

“Okay.” She turned to leave.

“No, wait, Dena. I guess I do want to talk.”

She came back in and closed the door.

“How did you know?” he asked.

“You’re different somehow.”

“Lou Zachry said almost the same thing to me. Even Kitzmiller. I must be easy to read.”

“You’re not so tough.”

“In more ways than one,” he said. “I wish I’d thought to pick up some bourbon while I was in Milwaukee.”

Dena pulled a flask from her laboratory smock and held it up for his inspection. “Is Canadian all right?”

“What’s that, a specimen bottle?”

“It’s Canadian Club. But if you’re squeamish — ”

“No,” he said quickly. “Canadian is terrific. And you must be clairvoyant.”

“Sympatico,” she corrected.

Corey produced two tumblers. They poured the whiskey, sat down side by side on the bed, and toasted each other silently.

“Doc Ingersoll’s dead,” he said.

Dena touched his hand.

“He shot himself today when he knew the brain eaters were in him.”

“Oh, Corey, I’m so sorry.”

“I was with him this morning. I was right there in Doc’s apartment when those little bastards were eating him up. The pain he felt must have been unspeakable. And I didn’t even notice.”

He paused for a swallow. Dena watched him silently.

“I was too wrapped up in my own miserable little complaints to notice that my best friend was in agony. How’s that for sensitive?”

“We’re all kind of unfocused these days,” she said.

“I can’t blame it on ‘these troubled times,’” he said. “It’s me. It’s the way I’ve always been. I’ve spent the better part of my life looking for the Big Story. Not because I gave a damn for the story but because it was going to make Corey Macklin rich and famous. A celebrity. Doc told me I was going to be a celebrity. That’s all the brain eaters meant to me. They were my Big Story. So a few people died. I couldn’t help that. So then a lot of people died. I still didn’t understand. Then Doc died. The one man in the world who was my friend. He damn near died in front of my eyes, and I didn’t see it. Some friend.”

Dena poured more whiskey into their tumblers. She said, “Okay, so you were a bastard. What are you going to do about it?”

“When I came back here, I was going to quit.”

“That’s no answer.”

“I see that now. I guess I’ll hang around and do whatever I can to be useful. Who knows? We might beat this thing yet.”

“Who knows.” She grinned at him.

“You sure don’t allow a guy much time for self-pity.”

“Not on my booze.”

“What time do you have to be back?”

Dena’s smile softened. “There’s no bed check tonight.”

He took the glass from her hand, set it down along with his on the night table, and drew her into his arms.